Rivington Was Ours

by Brendan Jay Sullivan

  In the slow-passing cabs, young couples snuggled together in assumed darkness, their eyes lit up by the jarred lightning of a taxi TV screen. With the promise of an enchanted city just above the trees, anything was possible right then. In its silence it had taken away the chatter, taken away the doubt. Am I going to make it on time? Is the subway running? What time is it? Is my girlfriend leaving me? What did the boss mean, “We’ll talk on Monday”? Do I look fat in this? How much longer do I have to work here? How much longer can I work here? Does she even want to be dating me? Where is the train? Wh—? New York City asks too many questions. And sometimes Central Park feels like the right answer.

  “It’s happening,” Gaga piped up from behind me, her voice rising over the wind and the engine noise. “It’s all happening.”

  “I knew it would.”

  “I didn’t. Not until today.”

  “You know what’s funny? You didn’t have to do anything differently. You still would have played those shows and written all of those songs. You still hustled all those years and brought your demo tape all over town. You still would have done all of that by now. The only difference is that somebody noticed. It’s like what we talk about playing to an empty room.”

  “I can’t think of a better way to celebrate this day than to play a show with you in front of all our friends tonight.”

  “I’m glad.” I could feel it too. We had so many false starts since we’d met. Now it felt like we had to take this chance, before anyone noticed they’d given it to us.

  The Vespa pulled us onward with the gathering acceleration of the tiny engine as it descended a small hill. The one way of Sixty-Sixth Street merged into the eastbound Sixty-Fifth Street as we headed west through the park. Gaga held tight as the two lanes converged around a neat point—no traffic lights, no intersections, no commercial traffic. Walls grew higher around us as we got swallowed by the park. Around the next bend we slipped under the stone arch of the East Drive overpass as the fingers of bushes and trees gripped the edge. The mixing board of building lights flickered in the distance. Together we leaned into the curve and came out through the tunnel.

  This is the moment. You could have your success and your shows and your tech problems and be tired. You could have a bad photo come out of you in the papers. You could miss a note, be late for a gig. You could fight with you ex and dwell on the past. You could hold a grudge against yourself. But no one could ever take away a moment like this. A moment where everything seemed possible and you realized that it always was.

  THE TEMPTATION WILL ALWAYS BEG you to return to this moment. To remember what it felt like to find that feeling and know it for the first time. I could stay there forever. But at that moment I just wanted to go on and on. I gripped the throttle. We had waited for a brighter day to reveal itself and now we were chasing it down together.

  “I just love New York so much. I miss it when I’m in LA. I miss you guys.”

  “We’re always here for you,” I said. “Central Park will be here when you get back.”

  “This looks like a video right here.” She glanced over the wall. And I knew what she meant. The combined news of the afternoon had fit so perfectly into what was once only a vision. How could we even believe it true? The Time Warner Center hid off in the background trying to stay invisible. The Central Park South hotels checked in for the night, lights coming on in lonely rooms. “They’re talking about doing the video in LA.”

  “Hm. That’s weird.”

  “I guess. But I don’t mind. I used to hear record labels say I was ‘too downtown’ or that they didn’t know how I’d play in the rest of the country.”

  “And now it’s like you’re their interpreter.”

  “They think I’m exotic. They’re like, ‘Ohmygod, so in New York you work as a go-go dancer?’ And I’m like, ‘Yeah. For only like six months.”

  “That’s part of fiction. You’ve created a character for them. We all do it. Makes things easier. When you do the video you’re going to have to create a character. You’re going to have to introduce that character. You can do it. You know theater.”

  “I should have them fly people out. I need you guys to be there.”

  “I’ll go. I’ll definitely go.”

  “Who else would come? Colleen?” She invoked Starlight’s real name. “I could fly you and Colleen out.”

  “That would be fun. We should get Semi Precious Weapons into it. You know they’d love it.”

  I could feel her smiling as she bounced on the back like a little girl. “Yay!”

  The West Drive overpass swallowed another taxi. We entered into it like a wormhole, with the damp and echoing walls birthing us onto the West Side and into the future. Behind me she sang out into the reverb of the tunnel; it rang with delight the way church bells do when they get to play Christmas music. You have moments like this. Everything after this would change forever. But wherever you go for the rest of your life you will go there with this moment tucked into your back pocket, reminding you that things happen. And being there while they happen matters more than whatever happens.

  You have moments like this. And you have them to keep for the rest of your life.

  WE PARKED IN FRONT OF an imposing doorman-building on West Seventieth Street. Gaga marched into the unlocked door. She waved and greeted the two uniformed doormen by name as we padded across the loose, trafficked carpet of the entryway. She made a determined left and came to a ground floor door and knocked. When no one came at first, she jiggled the knob and found it locked. “Argh,” she grumbled at this momentary interruption of her perfect preshow plan—sound check, shopping, quick tea, ride home. She knocked again.

  A teenage girl answered the door. “Hello,” she said, greeting the surprised stranger. Me.

  “Hi.” I must have looked lost. In addition to never belonging anywhere, I also have an ongoing curiosity with the rest of the world. I had never seen the inside of a luxury building, or any owner-occupied building in New York City. The way that the glossed-over details of Gaga’s life could exist so plainly fascinated me. The same way that I grew up thinking everyone had a driveway and a rusty basketball hoop, she grew up waving to these same doormen and letting herself into this first-floor apartment.

  We walked into a large entry room with tongue-and-groove floors. Everything looked bright and open, with a modest dining room and an open kitchen. A stark, black baby-grand piano sat over by the large floor-to-ceiling windows. Their apartment included the courtyard of the building. I looked into the white stone backyard and saw a tree branch. Was that the tree her sister fell out of in the story?

  The stairs were open all the way to the second floor. From there a voice called out in midconversation, “I’ll wear it if it works but I don’t want to look silly—” Halfway down the stairs a woman wearing a creased white Lady Gaga t-shirt over a more age-appropriate long-sleeved shirt stopped herself. She wore it like a mom, as if Lady Gaga were a college where her kid had been accepted.

  “Oh, hello,” Gaga’s mother, Cynthia, said to me.

  It was hard to recall the last time I’d gone to a friend’s parents’ house. High school? Must have been. Because somehow I got stuck in high school mode. My first words were, “Gaga, I didn’t know you had two sisters.”

  The woman smiled.

  Gaga smirked at my lame joke. “Mom. This is my DJ.”

  “Hi.” I shook her hand.

  She didn’t look like the moms I’d met. She had a striking figure and healthy blond hair, and the air of a countess about her. The only proof I had that she was a mom was she kept saying mom things: “Sorry the place is such a mess. We’re remodeling.”

  “I like the shirt on you.”

  “Do I look silly?”

  “No. You look like a mom.”

  “That’s what I’m going for.”

  “The scenester rule is you don’t want to look like you bought the shirt on the way into the show just to wear it. But I think because you’re a mom yo
u can get away with it,” I said, smiling.

  She nodded her head, happy to have someone on her side. “See? That’s exactly what I was just saying.”

  “But then again you’re the mom. You get to be supportive with or without wearing the shirt. But you can be a mom wearing it at the grocery store and everything.”

  “Maybe I’ll just do that.” She went upstairs to change.

  A man emerged on the other side of the kitchen in a baseball cap that had the outline of a woman with teardrop breasts. “Bada Bing!” it read, after the real-life strip club from HBO’s mafia-family TV show The Sopranos. I noticed of course that I was under scrutiny and a big part of me rose to the challenge. Fortunately or unfortunately I get underestimated and I always enjoy it because I don’t particularly mind getting a chance to prove myself.

  “That’s not him!” Gaga called out from behind me. I soon discovered that she meant Guy. “You’ll meet him tonight, Dad. Like I told you. This is my DJ.”

  He said my real name, which surprised me. Then he handed me a long business check with the name Mermaid Management LLC and their home address.

  “Dad, the dancers said they didn’t get your check from the show at Slipper Room.”

  Mr. Germanotta—Joe, as I was later commanded to call him—looked befuddled for a moment. He had worked his life in telecommunications and eventually started his own company installing wi-fi in hotels. But now his toughest client came to him as the one person he couldn’t say no to. I found it adorable. Most of the kids in our scene acted like runaways, orphans working under assumed names who ate ramen on Christmas and drank Wild Turkey on Thanksgiving. I envied her for having a family uptown she could go to for strength and meatballs. “Damn,” he said. He had forgotten to bring them the checks at that show. “I’ll make up a check for them tonight. . . . How much did we say?”

  Gaga grumbled, “What does it say in the email I sent you?”

  “I’ll have to check.”

  “Dad.” Gaga put her foot down in her own dad voice. “What have you been doing?”

  He put on a very adorable voice, like he was one of his own brothers making fun of him, “Eyyy, I’m a big-time producer now. I’ve got three acts to manage and I—”

  “This isn’t even the right amount.” Gaga scowled at the numbers. “Did you even read the email?” Gaga guided her dad with the common impatience of family members arguing over directions to the mall. She was hard on him, honest in the way that only family can ever be with each other and each other’s expectations.

  “Fine. I’ll write another check for the money we owe them. Tell ’em to keep this and say there’s a little extra in there and we’re sorry for the delay. We don’t want to start upsetting people now that we’re this close.” He went into the other room to draw another check.

  Mom came back downstairs in her own clothes, no band T-shirt, and looked right at the look on Gaga’s face. Gaga hadn’t told her mother she was coming, but—as if by some mother-daughter telepathy—Cynthia seemed to know something big was up. “What did you say you had to tell us, honey?”

  “Remember Bert Padell? The management guy we had a meeting with years ago?”

  “Of course,” Mom said. “I still have his book of poetry.”

  “He called today. He wants to take over management. He heard the new song and he loves it. He wants to go into business.” Gaga’s news was met with blank stares. Parents, even showbiz parents, are sometimes the worst people to come to with good news.

  “But your father is your manager, honey.”

  Judiciously, Gaga explained herself: “Yes. But soon it is going to be a little too much to handle.” Gaga spoke patiently, but with a firm sense that she had to inform her parents that this wasn’t fun and games anymore. “And we don’t want Daddy to get overwhelmed. It’s about growth, not replacing him.”

  Joe walked back into the room with the two new checks. He stopped near the front door. “What?” Being the only man in a house with three girls meant always walking into a newly silent room and being told:

  “Nothing.”

  He took a breath and caught my eye. We shared a conspiratorial exhale. Women.

  GAGA’S SISTER, NATALI, SAT ON the couch, observing the flurry of action. She had the demure plain brown bangs of a girl who had yet to be informed of how beautiful she was. Natali liked to shy out of the way in these family conversations. Gaga was never around and always on their minds and lips and phone calls. No one was more proud of the older sister, and when Gaga flew home from LA that week she came straight over and crawled into bed with her sister, who awoke giddy with excitement.

  The truth: Natali and I had been talking on the phone in secret. I pulled her in to do a skit for the Gaga mixtape. Gaga didn’t know that, so we had to play it cool.

  “Do you go to Sacred Heart too?”

  “Mm hmm.” She smiled.

  “Are you coming to the show?”

  “I can’t.”

  Gaga made a cute wail from the other side of the room. “Oh no!”

  Natali nodded. It was true. “I have a French test tomorrow.”

  Gaga’s face fell.

  I interrupted, “Bring your flashcards to the show. We can work on them in the DJ booth.”

  Natali smiled.

  “What’d you get at the store?” Natali motioned to the shopping bag Gaga came in holding.

  “It’s my costume for the night.” After a few moments of garment appraisal, Gaga explained her outfit for the night. “I’m going to wear the yellow dress with the one shoulder to the show, and then right before I go on stage I’m going to emerge as Lady Gaga with just heels and panty hose and this.”

  She held up the scrap of underwear. A black bikini with leathered spandex connected to a single slit top by a single strap of fabric down the right side. I’d seen her wear racier things to Beauty Bar.

  Mom went silent. When prompted she finally said, “Honey, do you think . . . don’t you want your music to—”

  “This is part of her character,” Stef said, using the uncharacteristic third person to discuss Lady Gaga. “And she dresses like this.” Gaga went off to the kitchen to go over some things with her dad.

  Mom and I got to talking about music and their excitement and how many of their family members could make it that night. And when Gaga was in the bathroom, Cynthia confessed how much she missed seeing the thick black hair on her beautiful daughter’s head.

  WITH THE GIRLS WORKING ON details, Joe and I started talking about guy stuff. Joe had planned on ripping up the floorboards the next day. The house had gone on too long, it was decided. New floors, new lights to replace the track lighting. “Don’t you think they’re too eighties?” Mom added when she heard us talking.

  A nice thing about coming from a big family was that you could slip into another big family. It wasn’t jealousy, but I did envy her for having parents in the city. Every time I got fired or dumped or got big news I had to get on a bus or a train and wait forever and that’s just not any fun. Also, this probably goes along with how I’m more comfortable with strangers than I am with people who know me, but I always have fun with other people’s families. They don’t judge you or criticize you. Here I came to the door in the same outfit I’d worn for a straight month and Mom told me how much she liked my sweater.

  I get caught up talking about home repair with Joe. We’re in the middle of talking about nails and different kinds of electric sanders. Mom orders pizza and Natali watches the entire scene, the patient observer.

  MY NEW GIRLFRIEND, LEIGH, WALKED up to me after the show. I wanted her to finally meet Gaga, for the two halves of my heart to come together. She had an angry look on her face.

  I couldn’t tell what was wrong. This used to happen with Nikki too. For some reason seeing your boyfriend at work bothers some people. I’d like to say that if I were in a play or something you wouldn’t expect to just come and talk to me on stage. But even saying that out loud just makes me sound like a huge as
s. I went over to make it up to her. “Hey, baby!”

  She handed me the camera. “I’m gonna leave now,” she said sternly. “Happy Valentine’s Day. Glad you two had a good time today when you were ignoring my texts.” She planted the camera in my hands.

  In the camera display was one of the many, many pictures I had taken earlier that afternoon of Gaga trying on lingerie.

  I suck at life.

  I tried to chase after her but the party wouldn’t let me. When I got outside she was gone. When I turned around I was eaten by monsters. “When is the next show?” “When can we get the record?” “Can you burn us a CD?” “When will that new song be up?” “Are you going to be in the video?”

  Gaga and her family fed them bags and bags of plain white T-shirts and wifebeaters.

  I stared down Seventh Avenue, wishing Leigh would come back. My phone had died somewhere around the five hundredth person I texted about the show.

  Little girl, I don’t care no more; I know this for sure

  On Ludlow Street, the cautious van drivers for out-of-town bands lined the block. Kids wrapped in scarves stood around in their small herds, smoking or watching their friends smoke. Each of them discussing some topic emphatically as if it were a great mystery of the universe that had yet to achieve clarification until just now. The girls smiled through wary eyes, idly checking their phones for a report from another bar. First-time bands loaded up gear into the vans they so cautiously guarded.

  At the corner of Rivington Street, I could hear its howl, as clear as the wolf that begins “Thriller.” The call of the wild sang out into the night. I had my fun. But I needed to get a job. I needed to grow up. It would take some time. But I got time. Luckily I knew that after a ten-minute walk in Chinatown I could catch the B and take it one stop to my house. I might even get home in time to—

  “CHEERS, BUDDY!” GUY AND I dropped our whiskey glasses on the bar at St. J’s five minutes later. He hit the button on the smoke machine. Between manning up when I got fired, watching out for Gaga when they broke up, and helping him when he finally decided he wanted her back, Guy and I were better friends than we’d ever been. Starlight danced in the corner, shaking her ass in the red light as the New York Dolls blared on the bar speakers. Even in the dead of winter nothing tasted sweeter than the ice cold Budweiser that lay flat in St. J’s refrigerator all day.