Even Case, whose endless stream of profanity would have not only made a sailor blush but rounded out his education besides, was starting to run out of patience with it. “Lots of mothers getting fucked around here lately,” she’d grumbled in practice one evening. John had missed the point or chosen to ignore it.
Little things, Danny kept reminding himself. Just little things. Even if John was taking up permanent residence in his stage persona, it wasn’t as though he was checking out from the real world. He still paid his bills—as much as he ever did. At any rate, he still asked Danny for occasional loans to, say, get his water turned back on. He hadn’t started studying auto repair or invested in a set of Craftsman wrenches or, God forbid, a switchblade. Yet, Danny couldn’t help adding. John had picked up the irritating habit of expounding on what Danny was starting to think of as The Legend of Johnny Tango (“Johnny got in a street fight over there once,” John would say as they drove by some abandoned lot. “Got two broken ribs out of the deal, but he put two motherfuckers in the hospital. One for each rib.” Or, “Johnny used to drag race down here, before there were so many cops.”). On balance, Danny couldn’t decide if The Legend was a good thing or a bad thing. It was obnoxious as all hell, but it was reassuring to hear John talking about Johnny in the third person. He hadn’t come unraveled—he was taking a fantasy a bit too seriously, that was all.
Thanks to Erin’s pushing and his steady paycheck, Danny became the de facto business manager for the band. The band needed a website, she insisted. How could she promote them if they didn’t have a website? Danny cobbled together a MySpace page and got it looking halfway decent over the course of a long weekend, only to be told that it was tacky, and they needed a real website. She was probably right, so Danny loaned the band a few hundred bucks and took care of hiring a web designer, setting up hosting, and all the other details. It looked all right when it was done. Next she wanted some mp3s to put up on the site, but they didn’t have anything worth a damn to give her. There would be a recording session in the not-too-distant future, Danny figured, and that wasn’t going to be cheap. He wouldn’t be fronting the cash for that exercise. Not all of it, anyway.
“And promo photos,” she said. “For your press kit.”
They were just the last item on a whole list of promotional items she had laid out. She had a whole plan put together—what they needed, when, in what order, who it was for. Danny shook his head as he read the list, amazed. “Have you done this before?” he asked.
“Nope.”
“How did you learn all this?”
“Research!” she’d said proudly.
“Plus you know three out of every five people in the entire damn Metroplex.”
“That’s what I said. Research.”
He thought she was jumping the gun; they hadn’t even played their first weekend show yet, and she was mapping out what looked like a ten-year promotional plan. Then again, what did he know? It was thanks to her efforts that they’d gotten the slot at all.
The actual show was almost anticlimactic after the effort that led up to it. No—that wasn’t quite true. It was a blast, and Danny thought they played well. Johnny came out in his full Johnny Tango regalia—white T-shirt, black leather jacket, boots, and jeans—and for the first time Danny wondered whether he was trying to be James Dean or the Fonz. Either way, the size of the crowd intimidated him at first, just like the last show, but he warmed up fast.
“Is it hot enough for you, motherfuckers?” he shouted in the quiet part of “Burn,” just like the last show, and Danny prayed that that wasn’t going to become some kind of catchphrase or motto. It was already old. But the crowd yelled.
And what a crowd! Erin had put her promotional machine in overdrive, and between the people that came to see Ragman and the people who had come for the other bands, there had to have been over two hundred people in the place. Danny found out later that forty-seven of them had been marked down for Ragman—at six bucks a head (the band’s share of the eight-dollar cover charge), they hauled in two hundred and eighty-two dollars.
Danny’s wife was not among the forty-seven. Johnny had asked after her a couple of times in the days before the show, and Danny had gotten a little pissed. “She’ll come if she wants to come, for Christ’s sake,” he’d snapped. “What’s it to you?” After that, Johnny had backed off.
In the final analysis, the band had played well, the crowd had been supportive, and Johnny had held his own—but Case had unquestionably been the star of the show. It was almost scary how much better she was at each show than she had been at the one before, and she’d been pretty good to start with. But as she got more comfortable with the material and got more confidence in the band (they had leaped a major hurdle once she felt like she didn’t need to lead Quentin through all the changes anymore), she loosened up onstage. Danny had briefly wondered if the size of the crowd would affect her as it had Johnny, but he needn’t have worried. She sucked in energy from the crowd, turned it into searing, soaring music, and threw it back at them. She strutted, preened, and dragged notes screaming from her guitar. Sweat soaked the white fabric of her tank top, and Danny found himself thanking God (and, to a tiny extent, cursing Him) that she was wearing a bra under it. There was a line of guys waiting to get her number afterward, all of whom went away disappointed. Erin circulated among the crowd, though, and the band got thirty-five new signups on the email list, probably half of whom were guys who wanted to catch Case at the next performance and try their chances again, or, failing that, hoped she’d skip the bra next time.
It was just after the show that Danny caught himself thinking, Man, I’m glad Gina wasn’t here. I’m not sure what she’d have made of all that.
Chapter 11
From the Dallas Observer, September 22, 2009:
. . . Opening the night were newcomers to the local scene, Ragman, thrashing out a set of greasy rock and roll in the vein of Appetite-era Guns N’ Roses. Derivative, sure, but they played it like they meant it, and guitarist Case (she sports a one-word name, naturally) pulled out some of the wickedest licks in town. If you’re burned out on the shoegazer scene and in the mood for something trashy and mean, they’re well worth checking out. . . .
***
“Woohoo! Your first press clipping!” Erin waved the paper at Case, grinning madly. She read the brief review aloud. “This goes right into the scrapbook.”
For once, they had met for lunch rather than serving it or raising bruises on each other’s extremities. The day was unseasonably warm, and they had decided to take advantage of the café’s patio. Case poked at the remaining half of her sandwich, thinking maybe she’d give it to the birds rather than try to choke it down. Erin had insisted on meeting early—11 a.m.—and Case’s stomach hadn’t woken up yet.
Erin’s comment about her scrapbook struck Case as odd. When she heard the word “scrapbook,” she thought of a dusty old photo album where your grandmother put pictures of you from the third-grade spelling bee. “You have a scrapbook?” she asked.
“More or less. I keep all this stuff, anyway—all part of building your unstoppable publicity machine.”
Erin moved to put the newspaper in her bag, but Case stopped her. “Let me see that,” she said. Case read it twice and then handed it back. “Oh, good. That’ll make Johnny real happy.” She had been tired before, but reading the review had pulled out the stopper on her internal reservoir of energy, leaving her suddenly weary. She dreaded the next practice already.
“He still driving you nuts?”
Case shrugged and threw one of her chips at the beady-eyed black bird hopping around by the next table. It jumped away, and a tiny brown bird darted in and stole the chip. “Yeah. Still suffering from little-dick syndrome, thinks I get too much attention and he doesn’t get enough. He’s been trying to gut the solo or the instrumental section out of every song he can, like that’s not obvious or anything. Somehow I don’t think our very first review is going to help improve the situa
tion.”
“Fun. It’s just like my house at Thanksgiving. My uncle Bob and my uncle Dave take turns all day trying to impress my grandfather with how much money they made last year or where they traveled, or whatever. Are all bands like dysfunctional families?”
“All bands are like families,” Case said, “and all families are dysfunctional, so I’d have to say yes.”
“At least it’s a family.”
“I guess. Plus, Johnny’s actually starting to get pretty good, but that just makes him more of a dick. Weirder, too. I think he’s started talking to himself. It’s a little creepy.”
Erin didn’t seem to know what to say about that, so there was a long moment of awkward silence—a rarity around Erin, who usually filled that sort of dead air without effort. Across the patio, a couple left their table. It was immediately swarmed by hungry, fat birds. Case watched two of the birds fight over a scrap of bread with a pile of uneaten chips a few inches away.
“Are you up for training tonight?” Case asked.
“One second.” Erin finished doing something with her phone—probably sending a text message; she seemed to send about a thousand a day—and put it away. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Training. Tonight. Are you up for it?”
Erin made an overly dramatic sad noise. “Awww, I can’t. I have plans.”
“Oh, well,” Case said. She tried to hide a disappointment that was greater than it ought to have been.
“Hmmm.” Erin stared at Case long enough to make her uncomfortable, then rummaged in her bag, coming up with her phone a moment later. She got busy tapping out another message. When it was done, she smiled at Case. “Oh, look! Tonight seems to be wide open.”
“Hey, you didn’t have to—”
“How often do you actually ask to hang out with somebody? It’s like a lunar eclipse or something. I’m so there.” She brushed a stray lock of windblown hair out of her face and fixed Case with a look of concern. “Are you okay?”
“I’m not dying or anything.”
“Ooh, you’re so tough. Seriously, though. Anything you want to talk about?”
Case looked away. “No,” she said. “It’s nothing a little exertion won’t fix.”
“And a beating at the lightning hands of Mistress Erin.” Erin held her hands up in what Case presumed was supposed to be a kung-fu pose.
“Mistress Erin? Are you a kung-fu master or a dominatrix for hire?”
“What, I can’t be both?”
***
Erin left to go to her next appointment, but Case stayed at the table, drinking water and watching the birds hassle the customers. She had no doubt that Erin would be happy to listen to her outpouring of misery and woe, no doubt at all that Erin would be sympathetic and supportive and listen without judging or laughing—and no doubt whatsoever that she herself would feel completely pathetic by the end of her little ad hoc therapy session.
The show had been great, and afterward there had been the usual flood of interested male parties anxious to get acquainted. That was old news. She’d started thinking of them, probably owing to her own sporadic and flagging job hunt, as applicants, short for Applicants for the Position. (“What position?” “All of them.” Erin had laughed herself silly when Case had explained the term.) Most times the applicants aggravated her, trying her patience with dim pickup lines and effusive, ignorant praise. Some nights, though, the attention really was flattering; to be perfectly, nauseatingly honest about it, it made her feel sexy. Some of that was a feeling of sexual power, as if she could simply point at any man she wanted and say, “You. Over here,” and he would comply, willingly and enthusiastically. The control was intoxicating. Some of it, though—a tiny sliver, she assured herself—was a simple feeling of being desired. Just feeling sexy.
Chains hooked to a whole fleet of tractors couldn’t have dragged that admission out of her, though she thought that if she talked to Erin long enough, Erin would somehow summon it forth in that insidious, chipper way she had. Erin would probably understand, too, and she’d likely be smart enough to know that this was not an area where even gentle mockery would be welcome.
Case threw a chip at one of the birds. The wind caught it and spun it past the bird. She threw another, harder. It, too, missed.
The line of applicants had looked especially promising after the show, and it had been one of those nights where she’d felt desirable, felt like she wanted to be desired. She’d gotten off the stage, flushed, sweaty, and overcharged, practically humming with energy, and a small crowd had already been waiting for her. It had been all she could do to plow a path through them and get her gear stowed. She had even felt talkative, and she’d culled a couple of the most promising applicants for further evaluation.
And then, in the middle of conversation (Emerson was the smart, funny one, but Greg claimed to be a personal trainer and certainly looked the part—oh, decisions, decisions), she saw Danny, clear across the room, darting glances her way despite himself. He looked miserable, and it seemed he was trying to self-medicate with copious amounts of alcohol. He downed two shots between furtive glances in her direction. The luster of a post-show hookup and sweaty, frantic, no-strings-attached sex until the small hours of the morning dimmed, faded, and was gone in the time it took to turn her head back to the conversation. Just like that, Emerson became the lame one who was trying too hard, and Greg turned into the King of the Narcissists. The light was suddenly flat and harsh, her mouth tasted like she’d swallowed something dead, and everything was too loud.
She left them without even excusing herself (Erin, she noted, swooped in behind her and attacked the two rejected applicants with the mailing list), threw her shit in the car, and went home straightaway.
That had been two nights ago, and she’d been frustrated and pissed off ever since.
Maybe I really should try to talk about it with Erin, she thought as she threw another chip. But, really, what was Erin going to tell her? Danny—Danny the drummer, Danny the peacemaker, Danny the big oaf who had somehow, through the music experience, pheromones, or some kind of clandestine voodoo he practiced in the dead of night, wrapped up her head so thoroughly that she was actively turning away attractive, available men in favor of going home and doing something that looked suspiciously like pining for God’s sake, fucking married Danny—was, well, fucking married.
She had told Erin that, a year ago, it wouldn’t have mattered. She’d have done what she wanted to do anyway. She thought that was true. But now there was the band, which she really did care about, no matter what Johnny might think, and which was delicately balanced enough. And there was Danny, who—again, Erin had seen this in her uncanny way—she also cared about.
And, maybe most important, maybe she didn’t want to be—as Erin had so aptly put it—a stone-cold bitch anymore.
So, she could talk about all this with Erin, but it would be humiliating, and what would Erin say? What could she say? Case wasn’t looking for permission to do whatever she wanted, and she doubted Erin would give it to her. She was stuck.
No, that wasn’t strictly true, she realized. She could see Erin grinning and laughing. You want to get over this thing with Danny, Erin was saying in her mind, then you need to accept an applicant.
Alone at the table, Case nodded. Of course. A smile came to her lips.
Thanks, Erin!
***
Johnny threw the Observer in the trash with disgust. Then he dug it out again, leafed through until he found the snippet of a review, and read it again.
There were no customers in the Starbucks, so he decided he’d stretch his break just a few more minutes. He got out his phone and dialed his brother’s cell number.
“Danny?”
“Everything okay?”
“No. Did you see the review of our show in the Observer?”
“What? No, I’ve been working.”
“Well then, listen to this bullshit.”
“Later. I’ve got a meeting in five min
utes.”
“It’s short,” Johnny said, making no attempt to hide the bitterness in his voice.
“Yeah, okay.” Danny’s sigh sounded like static over the phone. “Go.”
Johnny read the short review. By the end of it, his voice was clipped, almost strangled-sounding. “How do you like that?” he said.
He could hear the shrug in Danny’s voice. “Sounds okay. They said to come check us out.”
“Sounds okay? Motherfuckers called us trashy and derivative!” Johnny was standing now, pacing the floor outside the bathroom in quick, jerky steps.
“Come on, man. You know what they say—any publicity is good publicity. And they did say to come check us out.”
“They said Case is worth checking out.”
“They did not.”
“Well, we got three fucking sentences, and one of them is all about her. The rest of us might as well have been spectators, as far as they’re concerned.”
“It’s not that bad,” Danny insisted in that infuriatingly calm voice.
“Do you have no fucking pride? Or maybe you’d take this more personally if you hadn’t spent the whole night looking morose and making cow-eyes at her.”
“Cool it,” Danny said. He was still calm, though. Probably thinking something like, Oh, there goes Johnny again. I’ll have to have a little talk with him later and make him feel better, and then everything will be fine.
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