For What It's Worth

by Janet Tashjian

  I tell her I don’t have a clue and quietly shove the small box across the desk.

  “Is this a present?”

  “From my mom—she wanted me to give it to you.”

  “So you’re just the messenger?” Caroline looks about to smile. It was easier talking to her when she was new at school and afraid of everything. I’m not sure I like this flirty new confidence.

  “Just the messenger,” I agree.

  “I’ll trade you.” She slides an eight-by-ten black-and-white photo across the desk. It’s the photo she took at my house last week. I’m near my stereo and smiling. Besides the smattering of freckles I still get embarrassed about, I almost look handsome.

  “You can keep it,” she says. “I made two.”

  “You can’t keep one!” I’m not sure why I sound so defiant because I’m actually flattered she wants one for herself.

  Caroline waits until Ms. Thompson—or whatever she calls herself—finishes giving instructions, then lowers the box behind her desk to open it. She can barely contain her excitement.

  “These are amazing,” she says. “Tell your mom thanks so much.” She raises her hand and asks if she can go to the restroom then returns minutes later with the blue and green feathers dangling from her ears.

  Willy shoots me a look that says, What is going on over there? I shoot one back that says, Nothing! We spend the next half hour making notes on the Roman Empire while Caroline gently caresses her latest treasured possession.

  When she gathers up her things after class, I spot the Kent State photo on her binder and ask her if she’s heard “Ohio” yet.

  She looks at me for a few moments and I’m shocked to see her eyes overflow with tears.

  “It’s okay if you haven’t listened to it,” I stammer. “Music isn’t the most important thing.” I CAN’T BELIEVE THAT SENTENCE JUST CAME OUT OF MY MOUTH.

  She looks around to make sure no one is watching then wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “Remember the draft in August?”

  I nod as if I do.

  “My brother’s birthday was one of the first days they picked. He tried to get out of it, but he’s getting inducted.”

  Of course she’s not crying over CSN&Y, you numbskull—her brother got DRAFTED. I’ve never had a prospective girlfriend before, let alone one who’s crying. What do I do? I reach across the desk for her hand, hoping that will comfort her in some simple way.

  “He’s shipping out next week,” she continues. “My father says if Billy hadn’t flunked out, this never would’ve happened. My mother doesn’t want him to get hurt.”

  I know the draft works on a lottery system—I guess I just never thought of how unlucky it is for the kids who get picked first. I wonder if Caroline’s brother has the same birthday as Soosie’s friend back in Boston.

  Caroline is obviously used to the role of good girl, because she composes herself and pulls her hand away from mine the instant the bell rings. “I’ll definitely listen to ‘Ohio.’ Maybe you’ll even let me borrow it.”

  I’m in awe of her memory too, picking up the conversation exactly where we left off. I tell her I hope her brother will be okay; I also tell her “Ohio” isn’t on an album yet but she can borrow the 45.

  Ryan overhears me on his way out of the classroom. “I see the lending library has reopened—I’ll be coming by for those Dead albums you wouldn’t let me borrow. I’ll tell Willy you’re back in business too.”

  Ryan has me over a barrel and knows it. I retaliate by telling him Jerry Garcia plays long, boring guitar solos, which sends him jumping over the desk to strangle me. Ms. Thompson tells him to calm down and I realize my anti-Dead comment probably means Ryan will try to borrow as many albums as he can carry tonight.

  There should be some kind of operating manual vis-à-vis friends and albums, am I right? I mean, just because you jump off tire swings into a lake with a kid doesn’t mean he gets to scratch your John Mayall, spill soda on the liner notes to Emerson Lake & Palmer, or warp your Pet Sounds by leaving it in the back seat of his parents’ car—right, Willy? He’s too cheap to buy a new needle, so when his records started skipping, Willy taped a dime to the arm of his turntable and when THAT didn’t work, he added a nickel.

  What’s a nickel weigh? I’m too lazy to go to the library and look it up, but whatever it is, I guarantee it’s too heavy for those delicate grooves.

  But here’s the worst—one of Soosie’s friends actually borrowed my Woodstock soundtrack, wrapped the cover in aluminum foil, and then tried to get a tan on her face IN MY BACKYARD by using it as a sun reflector. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? A record is FRAGILE. Show some respect.

  FOR WHAT IT’S WORTH

  10/71

  Jerry Garcia, famous for his ambitious--aka long--guitar solos, plays with only a partial middle finger on his right hand. He lost it when he was just four years old, while helping his brother chop wood and his brother lost control of the ax. A year later, Garcia watched from the shore as his father drowned while fly-fishing. And when he was eighteen, Garcia got into a car accident that killed one of his best friends. I hope that kind of cumulative tragedy isn’t a prerequisite to being a good guitarist.

  For the next week, my mother constantly talks about the “breakthrough” she made in her therapy session. Her psychoanalyst suggested keeping a dream journal and Mom now spends every morning before work either vigorously writing or talking intently on the kitchen phone with her friends. One of her dreams gave her insight as to why she and Grandma still fight about the same things over and over like some ancestral Möbius strip. I don’t think you need a dream to tell you that Grandma can be nasty; it seems to me that she picks fights with Mom on every one of our visits. But if some dream can help Mom deal with her ornery mother, I guess it’s better than fighting all the time.

  Several neighbors with younger kids get in the spirit of Halloween by decorating the front of their houses with pumpkins and scarecrows. Soosie and I used to love walking through the Canyon at night, carting around pillowcases stuffed with candy apples and popcorn. Last year Ryan, Willy, and I didn’t dress up but went around to people we knew for candy anyway.

  I finish my math homework, then dig out my fine black marker and notebook. I’ve wanted to transcribe the music to “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking” all week and can’t wait to start. How does Keith Richards come up with all these amazing opening riffs? My parents got me Sticky Fingers for my birthday; with the photo of the jeans and its real movable zipper, the album cover is one of my favorites. Soosie said Andy Warhol designed it. (The only reason I know Warhol’s name is because he designed the banana on the cover of The Velvet Underground & Nico, and the first time I saw his signature on the front of the album, I thought Andy Warhol was the name of the band.)

  I learned the song on guitar a few months ago but still feel more comfortable when I have sheet music in front of me. It’s not that I read the music when I’m playing—I just learn any song more quickly after I’ve transcribed it note for note. It’s a finicky habit that works for me.

  Using the ruler, I draw five lines across the page then make several more groupings till I hit the bottom of the notebook. Of course I didn’t compose any of the songs I transcribe, but listening to them carefully and writing down each note makes me feel closer to the creative process. Mom says I remind her of a monk in the Dark Ages hand-copying books to preserve them. Dad is just happy to see me at my desk.

  I draw the bar line, G clef, key and time signatures, then fill in the first several notes from memory. When I press the marker against the paper, the ink spreads and fills in the inside of each note. Then I put on the album and play the next few bars. G-D-G-D-G-B-D. It’s a tedious process to get through a whole song this way, but for some reason this is one of the only tasks where I have all the patience in the world. Forty-five minutes go by and I only look up when I hear someone at the back door.

  Caroline holds Blue in one hand and a plate of brownies with walnuts in the other. She wears
the earrings from my mom, and her ever-present camera is around her neck.

  I take the album out and examine it. (I don’t mention the fact that she’s had the record WAY too long.) “Well, you take better care of records than Willy, that’s for sure.”

  “Does that mean I get to borrow another one?” Caroline offers me a brownie. It might be a bribe, but I grab one anyway and invite her inside.

  In homage to Duane Allman, who just died—motorcycle accident, not drugs; age twenty-four, not twenty-seven—I grab my guitar and launch into an amateur version of “Midnight Rider.” When I finish, I give poor Duane an informal eulogy and am shocked at Caroline’s lack of knowledge of one of rock’s great guitarists.

  “You didn’t know he was one of the dueling guitars on Layla?” I ask incredulously.

  “I thought it was just Eric Clapton.”

  “Clapton was the FENDER; Allman was the GIBSON.” Sheesh. I thought Caroline could maybe become my first girlfriend, but her ignorance of the important things in life might be too big an obstacle to overcome.

  When Caroline asks about the open notebook on the desk, I tell her about the transcribing. Then she sits down on the floor with my albums and asks if I have any Laura Nyro.

  “You should listen to Eli and the Thirteenth Confession. You’ll recognize a lot of the songs. My sister almost wore her copy straight through.”

  She finds the album and takes it out of the cover. “What’s that smell?”

  “Nyro begged the record company to let her have perfumed liner notes. The album’s a few years old, but you can still smell it.”

  Caroline presses the album liner to her face and inhales. I roll my eyes and tell her the songs are good too.

  Last time I tried to expand my conversational skills with Caroline, I ended up making her cry. But I’ve thought about her brother’s bad luck several times since she told me, so I ask how he’s doing. It doesn’t take long for me to realize I might have made the same mistake again.

  “He doesn’t want to go to war,” she finally says. “My father’s really mad. It’s been a nightmare. My mother’s afraid Billy’s going to run away to Canada.”

  It’s probably not the best time to reach for another brownie, but that’s what I do.

  Caroline stares at me blankly then puts on the happy face she wears at school.

  “No, I want to hear more,” I say through a mouth of chocolate. “Tell me everything.”

  She shakes her head and tells me it’ll all work out. I feel like a moron letting my sweet tooth get in the way of being there for a potential girlfriend, even one whose musical knowledge is woefully incomplete to make her qualify as one.

  When we hear a screech outside, I’m secretly relieved. As the familiar dune buggy zooms into the driveway, I tell Caroline it’s my mother and one of her friends.

  “I love your mom.”

  “You’re going to love her friend too.” I don’t tell Caroline that when Mom was growing up in Baltimore, one of her family’s friends was a little girl named Ellen Naomi Cohen. Little did Mom know as she helped put on plays in the backyard that Ellen would grow up to have an incredible voice, a soaring alto that would rocket the Mamas and the Papas to fame. Now almost everyone calls her Cass Elliot or Mama Cass, but my mother still calls her Ellen. Cass and my mother pretty much run the Canyon scene, which is great for hearing demo tapes and sitting backstage for concerts but not so good for things like clean clothes or prepared dinners. Not that I’m complaining—even with my appetite, I’d take a Ry Cooder session tape over a cheeseburger anytime.

  “Quinn! I’m home!” When my mother and Cass enter the kitchen, it’s as if the house has been empty all afternoon just waiting for them to burst inside. Between Cass’s weight, my mom’s hundred-pound frame, and their Indian caftans, they bustle around the kitchen like a batik Laurel and Hardy.

  The look on Caroline’s face is one of utter shock. She stammers through an introduction, hiding the Laura Nyro album behind her back as if listening to another artist would be cheating on the entire lineup of the Mamas and Papas.

  Cass reaches behind Caroline for the album. “This is one of my favorites. Quinnie, can you put it on?”

  Cass and my mom put the groceries away as Cass sings along to the Laura Nyro record. Caroline pulls me into my room.

  “You didn’t tell me you knew Mama Cass!”

  I put my finger to my lips and tell her Cass hates to be called Mama. “I’ve known her my whole life. My sister used to babysit for her daughter, Owen. She’s great—you should talk to her.” I pull out one of Cass’s solo albums and guide Caroline slowly back to the kitchen. When Cass picks up Caroline’s discomfort, she gives her a big smile and points to her album.

  “See that pink edging all around the cover? That’s bubble gum.” Cass tells Caroline how Gary Burden was doing work on her house and after he finished, she told him he’d probably be good at designing album covers too. “He and a bunch of our friends chewed a lot of gum which he rolled with a rolling pin, then laid out in this fancy lace pattern. It looks good, doesn’t it?”

  This is typical Cass—just by noticing Caroline’s camera, her intuition tells her the best way to connect with her is through a photograph. Caroline seems to open up and ask more questions. While she thanks my mom for the earrings, I run to my room, take a folder from my desk, and hand it to Cass.

  When Mom looks over my shoulder and asks what it is, I tell her it’s a belated birthday present. Cass opens the folder and sees my gift: handwritten sheet music for “California Dreamin’.” Cass has distanced herself a little from the Mamas and the Papas since she went solo, but it’s still the song that reminds me most of her.

  She jumps up from the couch. “You took the time to do this for me? Thank you, Quinn!”

  She pulls me in for one of her earth-mother hugs while Mom and Caroline examine the pages.

  “You took a lot of care with this,” Mom says. “It’s beautiful.”

  Caroline also seems impressed. She starts reading the music and singing the familiar song. The rest of us look on in silence; Caroline is as off-key and flat as a singer can possibly be. Really, really BAD. Which for some inexplicable reason makes me like her even more.

  When Caroline looks up and sees us, she blushes. “I get carried away sometimes. I’m sure I’m not doing the song justice.”

  Cass sits back down next to Caroline. “Nonsense—never apologize for singing.” She holds up the handwritten sheet music and continues where Caroline left off. They finish the song, Cass’s perfect pitch alongside Caroline’s flat harmonies. When they’re done, my mother gives me a wink and the two of us applaud. Caroline is beaming.

  My mother and Cass settle onto the porch with wine and cheese. Caroline runs to the other side of the house and returns with the brownies, an instant hit. She even gets up the nerve to ask if she can take a photo; my mom and Cass happily oblige. I grab us two cans of orange soda from the fridge and we head back to my room, where Caroline helps put my albums back. Somewhere between the C’s and D’s, our hands accidentally touch. Caroline gives my hand a squeeze.

  “Thanks so much for today,” she says. “It took my mind off all the stuff going on at home.”

  She closes her eyes and takes a deep inhale of the Laura Nyro liner notes one more time. It’s the perfect moment to reach over and kiss her, so I do. When she pulls her head back to look at me, her look is not of displeasure but surprise.

  “Is that okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah, fine,” Caroline says. “I just didn’t expect it, that’s all.”

  My mind immediately goes into overdrive: I did it wrong. I should’ve asked. Most guys know what to do—what is wrong with me? Does she hate me now? How are you supposed to know when to try? The loop of doubt plays over and over like a broken reel-to-reel until Caroline reaches over and kisses me again. I’m just as surprised as she was a moment ago, but unlike her, I don’t pull away.

  When we finally part, I can taste the oran
ge Fanta of her lips on mine. She brushes her hair behind her ear and tells me she’ll see me tomorrow at school. I take a sip of the orange soda, which I’ll never be able to drink again without being reminded of this day. I don’t give a second thought to Caroline’s lack of musical knowledge. Duane Allman—what instrument does he play again?

  Caroline waves goodbye to Mom and Cass and when she runs down the driveway, her feet barely touch the ground.

  Does this mean I have a girlfriend?

  As much as my mind replays that first kiss a hundred times, I also can’t stop thinking about how clueless I was when Caroline was talking about her brother. What is my problem? I spend half my time listening to music—is it that much harder to listen to a real person sitting in front of me? If you’re thinking Caroline’s too good for me, you may be right.

  FOR WHAT IT’S WORTH

  11/71

  Everybody talks about Cass Elliot’s voice, but she’s also amazing at fixing people up--not in a romantic way, but musically. She knew Graham Nash from the Hollies and when he was in L.A., she told him he had to meet Stephen Stills and David Crosby. She also told him that he should leave the Hollies and sing with them instead. The first time they sang together--in Joni Mitchell’s living room--they harmonized on “You Don’t Have to Cry” and immediately knew they had to start a band. CSN never would’ve happened without Cass.

  Love Songs I Can Now Legitimately Sing

  “Two of Us”—The Beatles

  “I Got You Babe”—Sonny & Cher

  “I Want You”—The Beatles

  “Wouldn’t It Be Nice”—The Beach Boys

  “You Really Got Me”—The Kinks

  “Love Has Brought Me Around”—James Taylor

  “Be My Baby”—The Ronettes

  “Crazy Love”—Van Morrison

  “All You Need Is Love”—The Beatles

  “Never Ending Song of Love”—Delaney & Bonnie and Friends