Music from Another World

by Robin Talley

  God, I was such a stupid kid.

  For the first part of tonight’s meeting, while Aunt Mandy droned on about how important our fucking pep rally was going to be, I kept my eyes on my lap. Until my aunt said the words I’d been dreading. “Tammy, as vice president of the youth group, I’d like you to take on a leadership role in planning this event. Brett’s very busy with his senior year starting.”

  At that moment, Brett, the president of our youth group, was sitting on the couch opposite me. He and the three guys next to him had walked in reeking of pot five minutes after the meeting started. Ever since, all four of them had been drifting off with vacant half smiles on their faces.

  Sure, Brett was obviously way too busy to organize the homosexuality festivities.

  There were a lot of things I wanted to say to my aunt. I wanted to tell her to shut up, first of all. I wanted to tell her that no, I didn’t have time to plan an anti-Harvey Milk pep rally, either, and by the way, I knew the truth behind all her lies.

  I wanted to tell her I wasn’t scared of her anymore. I wanted to stop being meek, secretive little Tammy Larson and turn into Patti Smith, fearless and angry and bold.

  I wanted to shout, “FUCK YOU AND YOUR FUCKING RALLY, AUNT MANDY!” and storm out of my parents’ house forever.

  And then my aunt smiled at me.

  Aunt Mandy’s smile is terrifying, Harvey. She does it surprisingly often, but there’s never any light in her eyes.

  Tonight her eyes were hard as steel, and when I looked at her, she tilted her head to the side—only a fraction of an inch, but it tightened the distance between us, somehow.

  Suddenly I was nine years old again, realizing all at once that my aunt could see right past the good girl who does as she’s told, straight to the screwed-up lesbian who hasn’t believed in God since kindergarten.

  I forgot everything I’d dreamed of saying. All I wanted was for her to stop looking at me.

  “Okay,” I mumbled. “Yeah.”

  “Lovely!” Aunt Mandy beamed, but that steely look never left her eyes. “We’ll show America that the young people in this state are better than what the press would have them believe. They’ve got everyone thinking those deviants up in San Francisco stand for us all, when the truth is, we’ve got far more decent people than we do, ah...”

  For once, she seemed lost for words. Probably because she’d already used “deviants” twice.

  “Junkies, Mrs. Dale?” Carolyn suggested. She was sitting on the floor across from me.

  “Certainly,” Aunt Mandy said, but she pursed her lips. She’d wanted to say something else altogether.

  “Ma’am?” Carolyn leaned forward in her seat. “Is it true that the reason the freaks are drawn to San Francisco is because it sits on the biggest earthquake fault line in the world?”

  Aunt Mandy smiled a little. “Did you hear that at school?”

  Carolyn nodded.

  “Well, the important thing for you to understand is that this is all part of God’s plan.” My aunt’s smile smoothed out, turning fake-warm. “He’s testing us. He’s sent his enemies, but he sent Anita Bryant, too. Soon, the avowed homosexuals and their fellow sinners will see God’s plan in action, and the Christians will rise again.”

  Every word she said made me shrink deeper into myself.

  Finally, Aunt Mandy stood up to lead us in a prayer. She asked God to give us the strength to save our generation from the heathen elements and secular culture and unclean music and all the rest. Finally, just when I was sure I couldn’t take one more second of this shit without tearing my hair out of my skull, it was over.

  Now I have a pep rally to plan. So I can shout with all my so-called friends about the evil dirty secular heathens. People like me.

  I’ve had so many dreams about San Francisco, Harvey. I went to the library and read a travel guide to Northern California, but it didn’t say anything about gay people. I found some articles about you in the San Francisco Chronicle, though. You keep saying the world will get better.

  It’s never seemed that way to me.

  Is my aunt right about San Francisco? Is it a whole city full of sinners? Are there enough to elect someone like you?

  I’m trying to have hope, Harvey, like you said. Even when it’s hard. But in the meantime, I’m hoping I’ll have one of those San Francisco dreams tonight.

  Peace, Tammy

  Wednesday, August 3, 1977

  Dear Tammy,

  I’ve been trying to figure out how to answer your question about having a boyfriend. It’s a way more interesting question than any of the ones on the official pen pal list!

  Here’s a story that might help answer it. One night a few months back, we were watching TV with my brother and my friend Rhonda, and out of nowhere Kevin—that’s my boyfriend—asked, “Hey, do you all believe in God?”

  Now, we’re all Catholic, and we take Religion every year at school, so the rest of us were kind of surprised he asked, but Kevin’s into thinking about that kind of thing.

  Rhonda said of course she believed in God, but she hated going to confession because Father Murphy smelled so bad she couldn’t focus on her sins. Peter thought about it for a few minutes and shrugged and said yeah, he believed, but I could tell from the way he said it that he wasn’t completely sure.

  Then Kevin half smiled at me, and I half smiled back, and we both nodded. We didn’t need to say anything more. I believe in God, for sure, but his question was too complicated to answer with a straight yes or no.

  Kevin must’ve known what I was thinking, because he didn’t ask again. We’ve been together long enough that we don’t have to say everything out loud.

  So I asked what he believed, and he started talking about an essay he’d read about Friedrich Nietzsche and Carl Jung. Rhonda and Peter stopped paying attention, but I listened to every word. Kevin never answered the question either, not directly, but I understood what he meant.

  Everything’s just simpler when I’m with him. I don’t have to worry about whether I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing, or what anyone else thinks. I don’t get frustrated or feel out of place. Being around Kevin is, well...easy.

  Also, he’s cute. Plus, your sister’s kind of right—it is nice not having to worry about getting asked to dances.

  Huh. That was fun to write. I don’t know about you, Tammy, but this pen pal assignment isn’t turning out the way I expected.

  And I guess we’re still doing the official questions, too, so:

  How do you plan to maintain your strong Christian morality this summer despite the temptations of modern society?

  This is a ridiculous question. Also, there are only a few weeks of summer left. I’ve probably already given in to the temptations of modern society by my teachers’ standards. I don’t think they’d approve of me going to punk shows on the weekends, or making out with Kevin in his car after he gets off work on Tuesday nights.

  Since none of that will help you with your report, you can use this instead: I plan to pray every day and go to confession every week to help me focus on my faith and resist temptation and blah, blah, blah—oh, my gosh I’m boring myself. I can’t imagine how much I’m boring you.

  Also, oh, my gosh again—I just realized what I wrote up there about God. Wow. It’s a good thing we already said we’d keep these letters between us, but this is a big deal, so could you please promise again you won’t tell anyone what I said, even your parents? Adults never understand this kind of thing.

  Yours truly, Sharon

  P.S. I just read this letter over again, and...could you please write back soon and promise me you won’t tell anyone? I’m going to mail this now, because I really do trust you, but... I don’t know. I worry about a lot of things lately.

  Friday, August 5, 1977

  Dear Harvey,

  There’s something I’
ve started thinking about. It’s probably ridiculous, but after I got Sharon’s letter today, I’m thinking about it more than ever.

  I don’t have long to decide, either. She sounded worried, so I want to write back to her today. If I drive to the post office my letter will get in the mail tonight, but it’ll still take two days to get to San Francisco.

  Obviously I’m not going to tell anyone what she wrote, but I like that she trusted me enough to write it. Sharon seems to trust me with things she wouldn’t tell a lot of people. I want to trust her, too.

  That’s dangerous, though—trusting someone. Especially someone I’ve never met.

  I want to send her the collage I’m working on. She’s the one person who might understand it. I don’t know if anyone would get what I’m trying to say, but that’s okay. Art isn’t supposed to be literal.

  And I... I want to tell her, Harvey.

  She lives in San Francisco, and it’s obvious she isn’t afraid to rebel. She’s so different from everyone I know.

  I think she might be okay with me being...you know.

  There have even been times when I wondered if she could be like us. If I could get to San Francisco somehow...

  Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I can’t get lost in some pointless fantasy. Besides, she has a boyfriend.

  I just want to tell someone, Harvey. So much. I don’t think I even realized it until this pen pal thing started, but suddenly it’s as if I’m desperate for someone to know who I really am. I’m spending every day now getting ready for this goddamn pep rally, and the truth’s ready to burst out of me.

  Could I tell her? Could I write her a letter and actually put in the words “I’m gay”?

  God, just writing that to you was terrifying.

  What if I tell her and she never wants to write to me again? Or worse—way worse—what if she tells someone?

  Her mom’s a teacher. What if she tells her? Or what if she leaves my letter out on a table and her mom or her brother sees it?

  Did you ever feel this way? I never thought I could tell anyone, Harvey.

  I want to be proud of who I am, the way you are, but how? How do you make yourself feel something when everyone around you believes the exact opposite?

  This is the kind of secret people like me take to their graves. If my family knew, my life would be over. Maybe literally.

  I’m sorry, Harvey. I can’t tell her. I know I’m letting you down, but I don’t have your courage.

  Tammy

  Friday, August 5, 1977

  Dear Sharon,

  I can’t write much tonight, I’m sorry. There’s a big event coming up on our first day of school and I’m sort of running it, so I have to work on it all weekend.

  But since you sounded so worried, I wanted to write back tonight and promise I won’t tell anyone what you said. Believe me, I understand about keeping things private. Way better than I can say.

  Could we...sorry, I know this sounds dorky, but could we make a pledge or something? I have to mail out pledge forms for my aunt’s campaigns, where people promise to vote a certain way, and I thought maybe we could both make a pledge to trust each other. I promise not to reveal anything you don’t want me to. I’ll start hiding your letters, too, so you won’t have to worry about anyone in my family finding them. I’m good at hiding things.

  Then we can write to each other about whatever we want. There are some things I definitely can’t tell any adults, or my friends at school either. But I have this feeling that I can tell you just about anything.

  Sometimes, writing to you is like working on a collage. I forget to worry about what I’m saying and I just...create.

  I worry that one day I’ll be so busy drawing or writing or laying out a new piece that I’ll slip up and forget to watch what I say. It gets hard to keep track of what I’m supposed to be thinking about. As if I’m constantly on stage, and I know I’m playing a role, but sometimes I forget which one.

  Shoot, my sister’s banging on my door. She said she’d help me with the flyers. I promise I’ll write more next time!

  Yours truly, Tammy

  P.S. Can I steal your answer for the question about how I’ll resist temptation? It was a good answer. That’s what I’ll do, too. Except for going to confession, obviously.

  P.P.S. My sister keeps yelling at me to hurry up, but I kind of want to keep writing anyway to annoy her.

  P.P.P.S. Shit Shoot, she’s out for blood. Write back when you can!

  Monday, August 8, 1977

  Dear Tammy,

  Thanks. For promising not to tell anyone, and also for that pledge idea. I promise not to tell anyone anything you don’t want me to, and I’ll hide your letters, too. Not that it matters much in my house, since my mom never comes inside my room and my brother’s never home anymore, but all the same.

  I got your letter this afternoon, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I went out tonight, to the same club on Valencia Street where I saw my first punk show, and I kept thinking about your letters while the bands were playing—about how you said we could write to each other about whatever we want. I kept thinking of things I wanted to tell you. The show itself, for one thing. It isn’t fair that you like this kind of music as much as I do but you’ve never gotten to see a show.

  Now that I’m back home, normally I’d write in my diary about what happened, but I thought this time I’d put it in a letter to you instead. I hope you don’t mind, this might be longer than usual, but here goes...

  My birthday’s tomorrow. I’ll be sixteen years old, but I feel about nine. I’ve always done what people tell me—my mom, the nuns at school, the priests at church—as though I’m not capable of thinking for myself. They see me as a little kid who needs other people to do everything for me. They don’t know me at all.

  I guess that’s part of why I went out alone again tonight. To prove to myself that I could.

  I got to the club early, and for the first hour, everything was exactly the way I wanted it. I was in the middle of the crowd, my body thrumming to the music, not paying attention to anyone else. I was dancing with my eyes shut, in my own world, enjoying the anger that pulsed through the music and the air.

  Then the pain came, and everything turned upside down.

  At first, all I knew was that something had slammed into my back, jamming me right between the shoulder blades and knocking the breath out of my chest. I stumbled forward, and my face crashed into the back of the tall girl in front of me. She stumbled, her high heels wobbling, and turned to scowl at me from under a thick layer of jet-black mascara.

  “I’M SORRY!” I whipped up my hands, shouting so she’d hear me over the pounding music. My nose was throbbing and I was seconds away from keeling over.

  “FUCK YOU!” a guy shouted behind us. It had to be the same one who’d shoved me. I steadied myself and craned my neck around to scowl at him, but he wasn’t looking at me. He’d turned to the side, and he was pulling back his fist, snarling at a shorter guy who was wearing a dog collar and snarling right back at him. I dodged fast to avoid getting an elbow in the face.

  “Shit!” The tall girl grabbed my wrist. “This way!”

  I followed her into the crowd, my heart thudding. I’ve seen fights before, but never this close.

  The music from the stage never faltered even as the crowd surged, some people moving toward the fight and some running away. The tall girl let go of my wrist after a minute, but I kept following her and her friends until there was enough distance between us and the fight. I sagged against a wall that smelled of old beer and something worse, trying to catch my breath.

  “You okay?” The tall girl leaned down with her mouth set into a thin, worried line. She reminded me of a younger version of my mom, if my mom wore liquid eyeliner and fishnet gloves. “Fuck, did he hit you?”

  “I’m fine.” The band’s music k
ept thumping away, and all I wanted was to get lost in it all over again. The point of coming to shows is not having to think, but between almost getting knocked down and your letter running through my head, tonight was turning out to be unlike any other show I’d ever been to. “Sorry I bumped you.”

  “All right, if you’re sure...” The tall girl nodded, not looking especially sure herself, and went back to her friends.

  I nodded at her retreating back—and that was when I noticed Midge Spelling standing a few feet away.

  Have I told you about Midge? She’s the singer for the Prudes, the first band I ever saw live. You should check to see if your store has any of their records. Their music’s just okay, but Midge is amazing. I’ve seen her perform a couple of times now, and she’s got—I don’t know if it’s what my English teacher calls “stage presence” or something more, but she’s amazing when she sings. It’s impossible to look anywhere in the room but at her.

  I met her once, weeks ago, but I figured she wouldn’t remember me. So it was a total shock when she walked right up to where I was standing against that beer-smelling wall and asked, “You got a light?”

  She was wearing a fitted denim jacket over an even more fitted blue, green, and yellow striped dress with a red belt. She had red tights on, too, and matching red lipstick. I don’t know how I hadn’t spotted her in the crowd before.

  “Sorry. No.”

  “S’okay.” Midge motioned wordlessly toward a guy across from us. He smiled, leaned over, and lit the cigarette dangling from her lips. I expected her to start talking to him, or at least walk away from this gross wall, but she turned back to me instead.

  My face was getting warm. Having her stare right at me was unsettling. As though she could tell everything about me, just by looking. “I met you that one time, right?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” I figured she wouldn’t remember my name, so I added, “I’m Sharon.”