The crowd goes wild. Those who can leap to their feet, do. True Blue modestly averts her eyes, curtsies. When she looks up, she catches Lola’s eye, claps excitedly, and motions for her and Marcus to join the rest of the Tristate Chapter of the Barry Manilow International Fan Club at the front-and-center table before the stage. This table is trashed. There are glasses decorated with half-sucked orange halves and spiky crescents of pineapple. Glasses foamy with machine-mixed coladas, daiquiris, and margaritas. Glasses swishing with pink and white but never red wine. Glasses thick with the Barrytini (vodka, maraschino cherry liqueur, chocolate liqueur), the official cocktail of the Barry Manilow International Fan Club.
The Tristate Chapter of the Barry Manilow International Fan Club is getting shitfaced tonight.
“Drink up,” Lola says, handing Marcus a glass full of what looks like a chocolate milk shake. He takes a long pull. It tastes like a milk shake, too, but with a battery-acid afterburn.
“And now,” the DJ is saying, “we’ve got Barbara singing ‘Looks Like We Made It.’”
Barbara pushes herself up from the table, leaving a trail of FANILOW sweatshirt glitter in her slow-moving wake.
“This is a very sparkly crowd,” Marcus observes out loud, already feeling the loosey-goosey effects of the Barrytini.
Hands are extended, names are offered, but Marcus forgets them all as soon as he hears them. They are all pleasant middle-aged women with beauty parlor hair who look like they’ve recently retired from various careers in elementary education—teacher, librarian, nurse, lunch lady It is far easier to distinguish them through their homemade Barry Manilow–themed fashions than by their names he can’t remember.
“That’s today,” Marcus says, pointing at a T-shirt with 1/19/2010 across the chest.
“Yes,” says 1/19/2010. “That’s the … It’s his … I can’t even say it!” She drops her head on the table.
“Get over it!” snaps Worldwide Symphony Tour ′84. “The last show is tonight, and we’re gonna miss it! Hmph!”
Barbara has finally lumbered up onstage.
“Maybe it is time for Barry to end it once and for all,” says Lola.
The table gasps at this act of sedition. “Nononononono!”
The BMIFC respectfully settles down for the opening horns and the first line of Barbara’s ballad. “There you are, looking just the same as you did last time I touched you …”
But a few members will not stand for this kind of talk.
“He’s got another decade in him!” shouts True Blue with a raised fist.
“Maybe two!” chimes in Let It Shine, Let It Shine, Let It Shine.
“Sinatra kept it going into his eighties!” adds True Blue.
“I think we should just trust Barry to know what’s right,” Lola says. “Maybe he wants to go out while he’s still on top.”
“Hmph! If that were the case, he would’ve never sung another note after 1977. Hmph!”
More gasps.
“How can you say that?”
“I say trust Barry,” says Lola. “He’d never intentionally let us down. Maybe he’s got something even better up his sleeve. And even if he doesn’t, shouldn’t we be grateful for all the magic he’s made for us already?”
They all concede agreement on this point.
“All I could taste was love the way we made it …”
“You’re up next,” Lola says, pointing at Marcus. “If you can get up there and sing the chorus, I win the bet!”
“I don’t really sing,” Marcus says, slurping up the last of his Barrytini.
“Neither does Barbara, but that doesn’t stop her!”
The table earthquakes in laughter as Barbara painfully modulates between one chorus and the next.
“LOOKS LIKE WE MADE IT!”
“I haven’t sung in public in a very long time.” It’s a halfhearted protest. Whether it’s the Barrytini, or the strangeness of the situation, or rather, the strangeness of how this entire day has unfolded since he first heard Jessica Darling’s name over the Clear Sky Airlines public address system, Marcus is ready to take the stage and win this bet not just for Lola but for Barry Manilow fans the world over.
“We MAY-ee-YAY-ee-YAY-ee-DIT …”
Another standing ovation! Marcus has just learned a key lesson of Barry-oke: A spectacularly delivered last line can make up for the previous three minutes and thirty seconds of caterwauling, especially if it is spectacularly awful, as Barbara’s last line was, as opposed to just boring awful.
“And now, singing ‘Can’t Smile Without You,’” the DJ booms, “we’ve got… Who do we got?”
“What’s your name?” asks Lola.
“Namesmarcus.” Marcus is slurring. He is teetering on the borderline between tipsy and shitfaced.
“Nieman Marcus? Like the department store?”
Without a formal introduction to the crowd, Marcus shakily pushes himself into an upright position and wobbles toward the stage. Marcus has not been onstage like this since prom night 2002, when he sang his song for Jessica. He had hoped it would be like the depictions of such heartwarming novice-takes-the-stage scenes in movies, when the bright spotlight blinds the nervous singer and he can’t see the audience so it’s easier to pretend that he isn’t onstage in front of a roomful of strangers, oh no, but that he’s really alone in his own bedroom, singing into a hairbrush microphone as he has so many times before, and this little delusion tricks him into being the show-stealing rock star he has always been but until now has been too shy to show the world. However, in Marcus’s case, (a) there is no difference between the lighting on the karaoke stage and the bar, so he can see the BMIFC’s every wrinkle, mole, and flesh roll, and (b) he has never, ever sung into a hairbrush microphone, even in the privacy of his own bedroom.
The song begins with piano and a lackadaisical whistle. Marcus puckers his lips, but something (vodka) about this gesture (maraschino cherry liqueur) strikes him as funny (chocolate liqueur). He spit-laughs into the microphone.
“Sing it, don’t spray it,” grouses Worldwide Symphony Tour ′84.
Marcus has just enough time to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand before singing. “You … know … I …”
It’s just like watching the wannabes on American Idol or any other talent competition. You can tell within the first few notes whether the performer has It or not. And while the standards that determine what It is and whether or not one has It vary greatly from show to show and judge to judge, the collective opinion of the stranded members of the Tristate Chapter of the Barry Manilow International Fan Club is unanimous: Neiman Marcus has It.
“Victory is mine!” boasts Lola.
The rest of the BMIFC shares her joy, always pleased for any opportunity to turn a neophyte Fanilow into an acolyte. They sway and snap their fingers along to the easy soft-shoe beat of the first chorus-verse-chorus. They whisper a digressive commentary about the performance.
“He’s got a nice voice, this Neiman Marcus …”
“It’s a bit deeper, more resonant, than the recording …”
“More of a baritone than a tenor…”
“Barry himself is more of a baritone than a tenor these days …”
“Hmph. He can’t sing it in the original key anymore. Hmph.”
“Hey! I like the way Neiman Marcus shakes his little butt!”
“He’s got a nice butt!”
“Barry has a nice butt!”
“Hmph. Barry never had a butt like that!”
“You didn’t see him back in seventy-seven!”
“Shhhhh … He’s working himself up to something big…”
The song is approaching the bridge, the apotheosis of cheesetastic pop. Marcus is totally committed to bringing it home.
“I’m finding it hard leaving your love behiiiiiiiiind meeeeeeee!”
There might even be some jazz hands involved.
In this climactic modulation at the end of middle-eight, Marcus plants his feet wide, fl
ings his mike-free arm in the air, throws back his head, and closes his eyes.
To the untrained eye, Marcus might appear to be just another hipster whose drunk logic convinces him that his ironic performance of this easy-listening easy target is waaaaaay funnier than it really is. Though such an observation would be accurate 99 percent of the time, his performance is the lonely 1 percent that is pure of heart. Marcus is wholly immersed in this music, this moment. He’s right here, right now, reveling in the freedom to be an unapologetic nerd, celebrating his emancipation from the poet/ addict manwhore so many still mistake him for. Marcus Flutie is letting his freak flag fly in the name of the Showman of Our Time! He’s going balls-out for Barry Manilow! He’s a true-blue spectacle, a worldwide symphony, letting it shine, shine, shine so bright that he can’t see anything else, not the cheering ladies of the Barry Manilow International Fan Club, not the smirking DJ, not even the grinning fan-girl groupie sneaking up onstage to turn his solo into a duet.
sixteen
Marcus Flutie is singing “Can’t Smile Without You” as if it is his religion. Not just any religion but one of his own invention. If Marcus were in the mood to doctor up a fake church à la L. Ron and pass himself off as a prophet teaching the Gospel of Barry …
He’s been Alive Forever
He wrote the very First Song
He put the Words and Melody together
He is Music
He writes the Songs
… Jessica would renounce her vows made to the Universal Ministry of Secular Humanity and become his first converted congregant. His mesmerizing performance—so much like the one in the dream she didn’t remember until she saw him onstage, frozen in the famous toilet seat cover pose—has brought Jessica to her knees.
How did she come to arrive at this sacred place? (She rushed out of Room 2010 and took the elevator down to the lobby.) When did she first hear the Call? (As she raced through the hotel’s front hall, searching for Marcus, through the walls, a few steps away from the entrance of PLAY Here.) Why did she make this pilgrimage in the first place? (She needed to see Marcus, to touch him, to confirm that everything that had happened between them today had in fact actually happened. The line between her dreamstate and wakestate had never been so porous.)
None of this matters anymore. The spirit has moved her! She is reborn! She’s the most repentant sinner at this revival meeting, and it’s not enough for Jessica to be a passive spectator at the moment of her salvation. She is overcome by an evangelical desire to share her divine revelation (Marcus Flutie!). She raises up her cell phone to capture a few seconds of this holy vision. She says a silent prayer and sends proof of this miracle to Hope, Bridget, and Percy with a message: I’ll miss the wedding but will be there for everything after. I promise to tell all tomorrow. XOXO, J.
There’s one last way for her to testify her devotion. She must unite with Marcus Flutie on the altar and sing praises to the Showman of Our Time. Thus empowered by her epiphany, Jessica grabs the spare microphone dangling from the side of the DJ’s booth and switches it on. She opens her mouth to join Marcus on the bridge.
“I’m FinDInG iT HaRD lEaviNG yOur lOvE BeHinD meEeeEEeEeee!”
The submusical sounds could be confused with Pentecostal tongues. The Tristate BMIFC is baffled by the appearance of this girl onstage until Lola points and shouts, “That’s the mini-Maniloony from the customer service center!”
If Marcus is stunned by the sudden appearance of Jessica onstage, he doesn’t let it show for long. His eyes startle, then quickly settle on the veins bulging in her forehead as she strains to hit even the easiest notes. He grins. He nods in encouragement. He even breaks into a chorus-style kick line in time with the clap-along-cymbals-crashing coda.
“I jUst caN’t sMiLe WitHouT yOoooOoooOOOooOOooooOoOooooo OooOoooooooOoooooooOoooooU!”
Now Jessica and Marcus are smiling so broadly that they could be accused of overselling the song’s message for the most literal-minded audience members. Wait. You say you can’t smile WITHOUT each other … So does that mean you CAN smile WITH each other? Holy cow! I never saw it that way before. I totally get it now …
The moment the track ends, Jessica and Marcus nearly fall off the stage in incredulous laughter. Did we just do that? Did we just sing “Can’t Smile Without You” in front of a roomful of strangers? Are we really still here together? Did this strange-but-true story just get even stranger? Like, off-the-charts strange?
Meanwhile, the BMIFC is whooping and whistling and banging cutlery against their emptied drink glasses. The sight of two young Fanilows in love makes up for missing the Final Show in Las Vegas. Well, almost.
When Jessica has finally caught her breath, she says pointedly, “You know, I can smile without you.”
“I know that,” Marcus replies, matching her tone. “I can smile without you, too.”
“I can laugh …”
“… but you sure as hell can’t sing!” shouts Lola, which is when Jessica and Marcus realize they are still holding the microphones close to their mouths. They drop the mikes to their sides.
Marcus turns to Jessica, leans in close, and whispers over the din. “Jessica?”
She can’t speak. She can only part her lips in anticipation. Because Marcus Flutie is going to kiss me, Jessica thinks. Marcus Flutie is going to kiss me, and I am going to pass out right on his stage and hit my head and fall into my own coma dream.
He gently squeezes her cheeks with his thumb and forefinger, pushing her lips into an exaggerated pucker. “You are the worst singer I have ever heard.”
This is their second touch all day. Another shock passes between them, and this time there’s no question that it isn’t a case of static electricity caused by feet shuffling across the carpet.
seventeen
Jessica and Marcus have parted ways with the Tristate Chapter of the Barry Manilow International Fan Club. They head toward the elevators, his gait noticeably less sure-footed than hers.
“Was it my imagination, or did they recognize you?” Marcus asks.
Jessica slows her pace as she contemplates how to answer this question. “Strange but true,” she begins. “A woman crashes into her ex-boyfriend at an airport. She hasn’t seen him in three years. This woman once received a decoupage Barry Manilow toilet seat cover from this ex-boyfriend right before their last attempt at reconciliation. Soon after the crash, the woman gets on line at an airport’s customer service center. In front of her are twenty furious members of the Tristate Chapter of the Barry Manilow International Fan Club who have missed their flight to Las Vegas to see the one and only Barry Manilow, the Showman of Our Time, in his final performance of his Final Farewell Tour …”
“Aha.” It dawns on Marcus that he saw them, too, from afar.
“Aha. And wait, there’s more. As she is waiting, she receives a phone call. Her ring tone? ‘I Can’t Smile Without You,’ by the one and only Barry Manilow, the Showman of Our Time. The twenty members of the Barry Manilow International Fan Club immediately embrace her as one of their own.”
Jessica doesn’t even bother telling Marcus about the Barry Flutie dream because this story is already strange enough, true enough without it.
“Do you believe me?” she asks.
“Of course I believe you,” Marcus says. “Why wouldn’t I believe you?”
Jessica doesn’t answer. Without saying it, each knows what the other is thinking:
If Marcus hadn’t chosen His Greatest Hits eight-track to play in the Caddie as he drove Jessica to their first “nondate” at Helga’s Diner ten years ago, would He have served as the cheesy leitmotif throughout their relationship, starting with the eight-track, peaking with the toilet seat cover, and culminating with tonight’s performance of one of His songs in front of an audience consisting solely of rabid members of His fan club? If Marcus had chosen another eight-track in the stack left behind by the Caddie’s octogenarian pre-owner, say, Dolly Parton’s Greatest Hits, would Jessica and Marcus ha
ve found themselves—through predestined fate disguised as random happenstance—duetting on “Here You Come Again” in front of an audience of crazed Dollywoodies?
Jessica and Marcus simultaneously slide uneasy smiles in each other’s direction because there is no way of answering any of these questions.
The empty elevator opens up to receive them, and Jessica breaks the silence by asking a question Marcus can answer. “So what’s in the bag?”
“If I tell you, it won’t be a surprise.”
“Like there haven’t been enough surprises today already?”
“Oh, you can handle a few more.”
Jessica honestly doesn’t know if this is true. The doors close, cutting them off from the outside world.
Marcus is humming to himself. It’s a familiar tune, yet Jessica can’t quite place it. She’s about to ask Marcus about it when he stops humming.
“You really are a terrible singer.”
“Oh, that again?”
“But there’s a certain magic to your tone deafness,” Marcus explains. “You were singing an imperfect fifth.”
The elevator stops on the tenth floor. Jessica and Marcus take a step backward in anticipation of a crowd. When the doors open, no one is waiting to get inside.
“Clearly, I know nothing about music,” she replies, jabbing the close-door button. “What’s an imperfect fifth?” She presses it again and again until the doors finally shut. The elevator resumes its ascent.
“A perfect fifth is an interval between a note and seven semitones above it.” Jessica nods, her eyes on the up arrow because she’s too nervous to look him in the eye. “The first two notes in the theme to Star Wars are a perfect fifth.” He clears his throat, then sings, “Staaaaar Waaaars …”
“Oh my God,” she honks. “When did you become such a nerd?”
Marcus sighs. “I was always a nerd, Jessica,” he says. “I just hid it better than most nerds.”
“Too well?”
Marcus purses his lips, nods. Jessica is only now beginning to understand just how much of Marcus’s cock-first confidence is subterfuge for deep-seated … nerdiness.
Perfect Fifths Page 23
