Based Upon Availability

by Alix Strauss

  We spot two other surprisingly well-dressed Unlimited Lous—from her Hit Me Harder days—who are more than thrilled to pose with the real one. Digital ready, I snap several photos while a stream of cells and other mini electronic devices make an appearance. Word spreads quickly that the real Unlimited Lou is here, and before Honor can do crowd control, forceful fans run us over in the hopes of touching and talking to her. More photos are taken, more people are pointing, several are shoving slips of paper and pens in her direction. One tall man dressed as Bowie undoes his shirt and exposes his chest while pushing a black Sharpie at her.

  Honor is already phoning the Post’s Page Six while telling me to call the Daily News and e-mail TMZ. Lou continues to dance and smile at fans as Honor calls more papers and TV news stations while BlackBerrying gossip Web sites.

  The begging and pleading for an impromptu performance happens within seconds. Lou and I look to Honor to see if this is part of the plan, the Sharpie now in Lou’s hand, the man’s chest in my face.

  “What do you think, Lou?” Honor says, while on hold with Page Six.

  She shrugs as the chanting of her name gets louder. “Yeah, what the fuck. I don’t have my guitar or anything and I’d have to sing without music.”

  “I’ve got your CD on me,” Honor adds.

  The music has gotten louder, I can feel it pulsating in my chest, and I can’t hear Honor. Too many people are standing too close to me. I’m having trouble breathing and would give anything to have my leather brace on right now. And I realize no one has reported it missing.

  “Lou, isn’t the last song on Neon Personality instrumental?” I yell, my mouth intolerably dry, the vodka tonic suddenly hitting me.

  Honor turns to Lou for confirmation, who nods. With that, Honor extracts the CD from her bag, walks to the edge of the stage, and beckons to the emcee, a man who’s dressed in an aqua feather boa, a peacock-colored robe, and a head ornament made out of fruit, to bend down and talk. Honor hands him the disc and the emcee looks over in our direction, a huge smile on his face. I look for Lou and find her by the bar, a once-filled shot glass emptying into her mouth with one hand, while her other is gripping a fresh drink. I’m standing in the middle of the dance floor, and like we’re in a fun house, Lou suddenly seems very far away. I try calling to her, a lost cause, and only hurt my vocal cords. I watch a third shot disappear and then Lou does the same. I look away for only a moment in the hope of catching Honor’s eye, which I fail at as well, and when I glance back at the bar, Lou is gone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, girls and boys, dragsters and stars of 1990, have we got a treat for you,” the emcee is saying. The fruit halo is teetering to the left and looks dangerously close to falling off. “You never know who’s going to show up at the Knitting Factory, but tonight’s a real zinger. You know her as Unlimited Lou, but I know her as music goddess to girls like me whose hearts were broken into millions of tiny pieces and the only way we got through it was listening to “Heartbreakers, Scene Suckers.” The mob claps and cheers. People are whipping off their wigs and shaking them high in the air. Others are jumping up and down. “So without further ado…Unlimited Lou.”

  Lou walks out timidly. Her soft eyes seem larger, her skin paler in the blaring stage lights and she holds a hand up to her forehead in order to shield the glare. She’s thin and lean and the pink fur vest and tight skirt give her a perfect shape.

  “This is kind of impromptu so bear with me. It’s been a few, and I’ve had a few, so, you know?” she says into the mike.

  More cheering ensues. Within seconds the room becomes jarringly quiet. Lou looks nervous. The fresh vodka tonic in her hand is raised defiantly to the audience, then downed.

  “For all of you,” she says. The music starts. First the guitar chords, simple but full-bodied, followed by the richness of the piano while drums blend in effortlessly. Leaning into the mike she begins to sing, her raspy, scratchy voice sounds suddenly soft as velvet, as comforting as warm soup.

  Hours later, the once slightly lubricated have been completely inebriated.

  The pudgy Madonna and short Cher, who fought earlier, now appear like found soul mates, swaying back and forth, holding each other to a Wilson Phillips song. As the clock ticked by the whole room seems to have changed. Strangers have morphed into a group of close friends. The world seems less vast and more manageable. I look at my watch: 2:56 a.m. The magic hour is nearing, too late to be called night, too early to be defined as morning. Everyone is drunk and stoned, costumes are now halfheartedly worn on many a tired and makeup-smeared face. Uncomfortable heels and boots have been kicked aside and lay in a mound in the corner next to purses and handbags. Wigs and jackets have been tossed in the middle of the floor, the owners too hot and sticky to wear them. Fake eyelashes barely hang on to sweaty lids.

  Almost like an unbreakable ring, devoted fans have enclosed Lou in a small circle, refusing to let their hero go. They offer up their drinks to her, liquid trophies for tonight’s radiant performance. Honor and I have been sitting at the bar for the past two hours watching and sipping watered-down cocktails.

  “It’s time,” she says. “Will you get her and let’s get going.”

  I slide off the stool and infiltrate the swarm. I take Lou by the hand as boos and obscenities are hollered at me: “You suck.” “Dude, it’s still early.” “Lou, man, we love you. Stay real.”

  The cold air from outside is sobering and once our feet hit the street, like a magic trick cigarettes appear at Honor and Lou’s lips. Honor extends her pack toward me and I take one. I don’t like smoking as much as I love the way a cigarette fits and feels in between my fingers, the calming effect it has as I take it out from its package, put it in my mouth, light it, and take a long, slow breath in. I love the slight burning sensation in my throat, the bitterness on my tongue, the way the smoke exits from my lips, and the way it lingers in the air as it envelops me.

  Lou is all smiles as she fights with the car door, unable to get it open. Frustrated, she starts laughing and sits down on the street.

  “Louise, come on. You’re too old for this.” Honor says, flicking her cigarette.

  “I’m just taking a little rest,” she slurs.

  Honor knocks on the window, waking the driver, who, snapping to attention, opens his door and helps Lou up and into the back seat. Honor and I follow.

  “Where to?” he asks, starting the car.

  “My house, for a nightcap,” Lou shouts. She’s rolled down the window and her head is dangling out like a dog.

  I look to Honor, assuming she’ll dismiss the idea, but Lou babbles something about sketches and T-shirt samples and the next thing I know we’re in front of her loft. We enter her building, enter the elevator, and try to enter her apartment.

  “I thought I left it unlocked,” she says, pulling at her doorknob and then emptying out much of her bag onto the floor in the hallway. Several lighters, a pack of Camels, a beat-up leather wallet, some white pills, a handful of loose change, a small vile of coke, her cell phone, some worn-looking makeup, and a sealed condom spill out.

  Honor watches Lou hunt for her keys. After a few minutes, I eventually find them in a zippered pocket of her purse, and rather than watch Lou struggle with the door, unlock it for her.

  She flips on a light, but is quick to dim it. The loft is massive. Huge posters of the Clash and Adam Ant hang in retro frames on the walls. A British flag covers most of the ceiling. Shag carpets, fifties-style furniture, and stained glass lamps add to the kitsch feel. A neon sign of a martini glass sits on top of her wall unit and a string of plastic colored lights shaped like guitars outline the windows. Ashtrays from restaurants and hotel rooms cover the coffee table as does an old Coca-Cola candy dish filled with chocolate Hershey’s Kisses.

  The California-style kitchen is painted a light purple and all of the shelves and cabinets are made out of metal. Four chairs, which resemble a zebralike motif, sit around a table of white and gray marble. On it sits a large
glass bowl that holds water, black rocks, and three large goldfish. The words “You Rotten Prick” are spelled out in colored letters nailed individually to the wall.

  Sprawled out on the glass dining room table, as promised, are several sketches and clothing samples. Honor and I flip through her work as Lou turns on the stereo and makes her way to the bar.

  “Just one drink, Louise,” Honor says, like a parent, full of warning. “It’s late and I’ve got the trainer and a massage in the morning.”

  On the table are several baby T’s in black, white, and gray. On the caps of the sleeves Lou’s glued mini silver and red rhinestones, which create the shape of a lit cigarette. On the back of the shirts are rhinestoned ashtrays with a skull inside, or a bottle of tequila and instead of the worm a skull with a lit cigarette hanging out of its mouth. I run my finger over the beads, feel the raised roughness, then feel the softness of the shirt. The sketches are of rings that double as mini ashtrays and what seems to be a line of wearable ashtray jewelry: necklaces with glass ashtrays and charm bracelets with different mini ashtrays dangling from them.

  Honor holds up a black T. “Honestly, I didn’t know what the hell to expect, but I’ve got to give her credit. These are actually—”

  “Hip and edgy in a commercial way,” I say, cutting her off.

  Before Honor can answer, Dusty Springfield starts cooing from Lou’s speakers. “Hey,” Lou shouts, motioning us to the couch. “Put those down and let’s fucking relax.”

  The dimmed lights, soft music, and leather couch make me feel like I’ve left one VIP room and entered into a more exclusive one. Lou sits next to me and Honor takes a chair across from us, her makeup perfectly intact, her legs crossed.

  I close my eyes for a moment and when I open them, a lit joint has materialized in Lou’s hand. I smell the familiar odor of pot, hear a soft sucking noise, see the stream of smoke exit Lou’s lips. She hands the joint to Honor, who I’m sure will push her hand away, but doesn’t. Instead she discreetly places the paper so that it barely touches her lips and delicately inhales. A second later smoke shoots out of her mouth. They both look to me. I take the joint realizing I haven’t been stoned since ’93, my last year of college. The paper is slightly wet and I pray I don’t cough and make an ass out of myself. I inhale slowly, feel the smoke inhabit my chest, expand inside, filling up the emptiness. I exhale. My chest feels hot and light. All of me does. I ask where the restroom is and once there, stare into my flushed reflection. My makeup has disappeared without permission. My eyeliner is almost down to my nose, my lips look dry. I reapply everything as quickly as possible and pee. The sound of the toilet flushing gives me the opportunity to open Lou’s medicine cabinet without anyone hearing. I don’t know what I’m looking for. I guess I expect to find several bottles of prescription pain relievers, but none are here. Just makeup that looks past due, a box of Band-Aids, bottles of nail polish that seem older than the makeup, Lancôme moisturizer, undereye cream, toner, a bottle of aspirin, Advil, and NyQuil.

  When I return, Dusty’s voice is hauntingly familiar and torch song–like. Lou has her hand around Honor’s neck and the two woman are swaying to the sad, soulful music. There’s something so real and raw about them it hurts to look. I can’t look away either though, because I fear the very act of blinking might cause them to stop. At this moment, I almost don’t exist. I’m a blanket or pillow, blending into the furniture, a support item to lean upon. Forgotten until needed.

  Lou glances in my direction, slinks over to me, a hand offered, her index finger curling, beckoning. I don’t want to move and break the moment; I don’t want to dance with them because I feel as though I’m watching a movie, but I don’t want to feel left out and alone either. Lou’s hand reaches for mine. She swings it, girly-like, innocently, while pulling me toward Honor, who winks. And then I’m dancing. My hips are moving to Dusty’s faraway voice and I’m in between two icons. I’m living a moment I’ve been dreaming of since I was ten. A lost member of Heart or Fleetwood Mac, the stereo would blast and I would air guitar on my bed, positioned perfectly in front of the large round mirror that hung on the wall in my bedroom. I’d belt out the songs, give knowing nods to my bandmates, make eye contact with the audience, flirt with the invisible roadies. Other times, I’d pretend I was accepting a Grammy. I’d look surprised when my name was called. I’d wave to the fans in the bleachers, say my rehearsed speech, and thank all the appropriate people: my acupuncturist, drug dealer, agent, and Jesus—Jewish or not, you can’t forget him. But this is reality. I’m not at home reading a magazine and watching reruns of Law & Order with Bernard breathing heavily, sitting too close to me on the couch. And for the first time in a long time, I feel utterly alive. Part of something whole and special. My mother doesn’t matter. That I’ve broken up with Bernard. That I’m single. That I’ll never know the children my sister would have had. That I’m an only child now with parents who never mention the dead one we, as a family, never visit. That there’s a stolen leather brace in my closet that I wish I was wearing now. That Anne has been fired. That I can’t breathe most mornings. That I wake up crying. That I often fight the urge to crawl into the corner of my apartment with nothing but a photo of Dale to help pass the next minute, and the next, and the one after that. That I’m turning thirty-three in a month and feel as though I haven’t made anything out of my life. It all disappears.

  The pot and cocktails have made me feel fluffy and loopy. The music is mellow, but a felt presence in the room; and Lou’s hand on my shoulder, her slow, gyrating body up against mine feels pure, her movements effortless. She and the music and Honor are all consuming. They’re all I care about. Them and this moment.

  The song ends and as I see Honor set down her drink, I know the evening is officially done.

  Lou turns to me. “You can sleep over in the office. There’s a pullout couch. I’ll make you eggs and the strongest coffee you’ve ever had in the morning,” she promises, her words still slurred, her face red.

  I want to. I want to stay here because the minute I step foot outside her loft door, the second the halogen light catches my face, this moment will be gone, replaced only by memory.

  “I wish I could, but I’ve got too much work. We’re announcing our new chef on Wednesday.”

  Honor is one step ahead of me. She’s grabbed her purse off of the coffee table and is dialing her driver, alerting him we’ll be down in a minute. Then her hand is on my arm, whooshing me out the door as if she owns me. As if I already work for her. And I wonder what my life would be like if I did. If I can keep Lou clean, save her even. One soul for another. One dead sister for a not-yet-dead rock star.

  Chapter 6

  Morgan

  Ashes, Ashes, All Fall Down

  There’s a terrible feeling I get as I walk into my parents’ home. Growing up, whenever I turned the key and pushed open the door, I never knew what to expect: my father in a good mood, all smiles; my father upset about a patient or hospital problem, yelling; my mother singing boldly to old sock-hop songs; my mother ranting about a decorating problem with the apartment.

  This time, however, my mother is a ghostly shade of white when I enter their apartment for our monthly dinner. A scotch on the rocks is in her hand and her bracelets clink against the glass. Ice knocks on the other side as she drops the arm that opened the door. Her eyes are red and I flash to Anne standing in the bathroom and think, Where is my father. Oh, God, something’s happened to him.

  “There’s been an accident at the office.”

  I steady myself. “Is he okay?”

  My mother shakes her head, and I watch tears slip into her scotch as she lifts the glass to her lips. “He’s not.”

  “What happened?”

  “He had a heart attack.”

  “Dad had a heart attack?”

  “Not your father, your uncle Marty.”

  Pressure fills my head as a throbbing starts in my chest. I feel like I’m underwater and I’m having trouble hear
ing my mother. “Do you want me to take you to the hospital? Where’s dad?” Why is my father never home?

  I can only make out what she’s saying by watching her lips move.

  “Honey, he’s not in the hospital.”

  I think of the last conversation I had with my uncle as I rest a deli platter on his and Faye’s dining room table. It was a few days after I’d seen him and Trish together. He’d asked if we could have a quick cup of coffee. When we met up, he told me he knew I knew about the women. That he loved Faye. That he was going to stop and break it off with everyone and start over. He ended our conversation by saying, “Though you’ve gone beyond the call of duty, I never should have put you in that situation.” He let me pay the bill, patted me on the shoulder, and told me how important I was in his life. When he got up I noticed one pant leg was caught in his sock.

  Today Marty and Faye’s apartment is filled with well-meaning guests, relatives I’ve not seen in a decade, some since Dale’s funeral twenty-five years ago, and some who I guess are his patients. A few lanky women with long flowing hair look vaguely familiar, a blur of perfume and freshly done faces who have come in and out of the hotel over the past two years.

  I watch Faye pace around her apartment, my mother at her heels, my father in another room. My mother and Marty’s strategy for getting through death and depression is to dress up for the occasion. Faye has accepted the torch and strides nervously through her apartment, her flawless skin and shiny blond hair, the Valentino dress and black high heels all translate to the casual onlooker, “Yes, my husband is dead, but I’ve got my shit together. No tears from me.”

  The memories I have in their home are few: a holiday, a birthday, a Sunday night dinner when I was younger. I remember Marty once chased me in a lame game of tag and I banged my head on the bookcase. That they used to have nice-smelling blue soap in the shape of dolphins. That their refrigerator was always filled with food, and when I was little Faye kept animal crackers in the bread basket for Dale and me. I decide to check there now, a glimmer of hope the red box with pictures of caged animals will be inside. I know there’s no reason she’d have them. I haven’t visited in years, let alone eaten them, but I suddenly need something from my past to prove I was here.