Earworm

by Colin Varney

  “I’ll never forget. You were a bright thing in a dull place. You lit up the room, Nic.”

  “I was lost and you rescued me.” This hung between them for a while. Too much 4’ 33”. Why wasn’t Bryce interrupting? We needed call and response. “We sat in your tiny office.”

  “I remember every detail. The pink scarf you were wearing. There was a curl you kept brushing away but it flopped right back …”

  “I don’t have a pink scarf.”

  “You brought me out of myself, Nic. Showed me how to have fun. On a weeknight.” His truncated laugh foundered. “We had an immediate connection. We hated all the same politicians. Even the Liberal ones.”

  “That was Terry’s daughter. Not me.”

  “It was a sort of peach colour. The scarf.”

  There was more useless dead air. Nicole scratched her arm and reached over her shoulder to rake her back. The night before, as she’d folded into the back seat of the car, longing for sleep to release her from herself, mosquitoes had banked and swooped.

  “Where are you, Nicole? I’m begging you, tell me where you are.”

  She drew in a breath. I knew this was it, her whereabouts about to spill forth. Right here, right now.

  She took in her surroundings, noticing her car up ahead with its bristle of parking tickets.

  “I’ve got pills,” she said. And hung up.

  The phantom of the opera plays his horror chord on the organ. The psycho soundtrack sounds—bow sawing strings—whhhtt whhhtt whhhtt. I shiver and shake and quiver and quake. I couldn’t be dosed with more dread if I was being covered by Marilyn Manson.

  I felt full of tritones. The augmented fourth. They call it the Devil’s Interval.

  I’ll flee. If Nicole pops the pills I’ll be elsewhere. But what if she pulls me back, trapping me in her head? What if I experience her consciousness dripping and draining, her Nicoleness seeping away? The great heavy darkness polluting her brain. With that whinny of terror that always seems to occur deep in the murk of the drug-sodden sensibility as it comprehends that a point of no return has been breached. The Reaper’s Rubicon. The failure; the self-loathing. It will be all around me. Inescapable. And then no Nicole. I’ll be able to inhabit a million minds, but not Nicole’s.

  I won’t be able to bear it. And now I see how lucky she is. She has the option: pills piled in the mouth. You fortunate humans with your privilege of oblivion. Not me. As long as someone is listening to me somewhere, there I am. Trapped in existence. Nicole’s demise living within me for … how long? How long will I last? When will the last fan finally forsake me? When will be my swansong?

  Uh huh, let’s go. Hey ho, on with the show.

  Ladies and gentlemen, JayJaaaaaaaaay!

  There wasn’t enough critical mass to create a roar, but excitement shockwaved through the hall. Lily, front and centre, pogo-ed and performed frantic semaphore as the band hit the stage and threw themselves into the first number. A respectable hit in its day, it had a driving vibe that generated whoops. Grungy guitar dated it. A misguided attempt to flirt with fashion. My sound was more iconoclastic, with hints of glam and psychedelia and a frill of vaudeville. I’m timeless. JayJay’s playing was tight but constantly worrying the edges of chaos. People were already jumpin’ and jivin’. Shake it, shake it! On a good night, nobody can keep up with the Joneses.

  I’ve been presented in larger auditoriums during eisteddfods. The smallish town hall was on the cusp of the inner city. Sub-cool, sub-fashionable, suburban. It wasn’t packed but you could get lost in the crowd. No, let’s not call it a crowd … the gathering. I’ve been blasted out at stadiums and festivals, but I wasn’t going to let that get to me. Still, I had mixed feelings. Literally: as if someone at an emotion mixing desk was bringing up the anxiety and dropping out delight … now fading in hubris while adjusting the level of shivery panic concerning Nicole. She wasn’t there yet. She was across the road, listening to the coronary throb of the opening song resonating from the building. Her brain full of ills and her clutch bag packed with pills. Wearing the black dress, now fully done up at the back.

  JayJay plunged straight into the next number, hauling the breathless audience with them. I’d call this second song a strong one—it would have had to be to carry all the hits that piled on top of it in the charts. Ha! But at least they weren’t resorting to album tracks yet: those “mature works” that Morris eulogised so much. Marla bopped compulsively to the beat, unable to constrain her energy. Spencer saw the blue wisping within her. Sometimes, when he imagined being with her, he unexpectedly felt the mist within himself, thin and thready. He drank in her figure, her percolating movements, to convince himself he was about to do the right thing. A perve to boost his nerve. His phone was clammy in his palm. I phased in and out of his head as he tried to evict me. Part of him hoped I would never feature in the set. Another part wanted me immediately. Marla, sensing his stare, turned and smiled. A beautifully breakable beam, haloed with hope. Earlier, she’d begged him not to call his wife that night. She’d advised him to make the decision when he was calmer and clearer. Yet she was also ebullient and bubbly. A schoolgirl trying to convince herself that the members of her favourite boy band were interested only in cuddles.

  The emotion mixer rode the pride lever. I was chuffed that Spencer was going to make the call during my comet-like in-concert comeback. Finally, I was doing what a pop song should: making him choose recklessness over routine and hedonism over homeliness. Take it, Spence! Go wild, evil child. He knew his marriage was over: it just needed one of the participants to acknowledge it. It had to be him—it was the only way he could continue with his life—and the most apposite time to do it was during JayJay’s return to me. I’d been the fantasia of his flings with Rosemary and the porno funk that relieved his vexations with Vivienne. Now I was about to fanfare his freedom: inaugurate his new adventure. The headiness of the past that had buoyed him in the present would now ferry him into the future. Rock and roll! Yet he quailed. As I seethed in his skull I could sense him pining over the pain he was about to inflict. Then he’d reinforce his resolve: shore up purpose. Remind himself he was wresting control. His heart pulled in all directions.

  Tenter heart; steel soul.

  Marla sidled up, serpentine and sinuous. He allowed his gaze to stray over her tensile torso. He remembered the pressure of her body as she’d thrust against him in her lounge: the fit of her hips and press of pelvis. The phone in his fist lost its sharp edges. He flicked to her features and was stunned by the glint of intent in her eyes. Ribbons of fiery orange reeled into sight. In the hall but not in the hall. Because they were generated by another tune I was unable to surf them and I sulked. Spencer, keen to take his mind off his plan, imagined himself and Marla entwined in the orange strips, but they were papery and readily shredded. I swear to you, baby, I swear—the ribbons rip and tear.

  Movement at the verge of vision snagged his attention: a familiar outline, moving through the crush. Spencer pulled in a breath. Rosemary had stepped from his fancies once more. She was turned away from him but he caught her ripe, youthful profile. Ruddy locks lank around her ears. A dream in the flesh in a black, black dress. The orange ribbons caressed her, curling about her waist and coiling across her lady bumps to stroke the softness of her neck. Winding beneath the hem of her dress. His little red rooster crowed. He squeezed his lids tight to regain self-possession. When he opened them the throng had closed around him and reality reset itself. Of course, Rosemary would be a refrain in his brain as he dreaded my arrival, but it concerned him that the cacophony and the closeness were making him hallucinate.

  He made a feeble attempt to return Marla’s moves.

  Across the hall, Nicole huddled into herself. Blinkered by misery, she hadn’t seen Spencer. Although jostled by them, she felt disconnected from everyone around her, existing in her own dimension. She reached into her clutch to let her fingers play with the hard pellets inside: the combination of sleeping pills and opio
ids. The same isles of insight that resulted in her buying the bag to smuggle in the drugs now allowed her to bring her scheme into focus. She knew that once she’d ingested the pills, she’d need to leave. Collapsing in the crowd would be counterproductive. Meddlers would rush to her aid. They’d struggle to revive her. They’d drag her back to a place she didn’t want to be. Inside Nicole.

  Every time the plan clarified, she would admire the poetry of its main conceit: that she would finish her life to the same accompaniment that had originated it.

  I felt worse than if I were the walk-on theme for a weary tonight show host. I was hoping her narrowing notions would squeeze me out. Set me free. But I was imprinted. There were cerebral circuits that belonged only to me. I rode too many memory Mobius strips. Besides, when my first chords chimed forth I would bloom anew. There was no escape. That was good and bad. Part of me wanted to stay. I couldn’t not look, like a driver passing a gore-splattered prang. And perhaps I’d be able to help, to ease Nicole in her last moments. Perform some final kindness.

  Nicole clawed at an intense itch between her shoulder blades. It felt viral and alive and her zipper inflamed it. This was all the fault of the dress. The open flaps had left a vast field of flesh for insects to feast on. Ultimately, she traced the blame to the person who’d bought the garment in the first place. This rankling irritation was Terry’s fault.

  Someone nearby screamed: “Empty Fairground!”

  She returned her hand to the clutch bag. The fingers fondling the pills bumped against her phone. With movements slow and precise as an automaton’s, she eased it free. She thumbed to the picture of Bryce in the lake, his reflection balanced atop the real thing. Or was it? She swivelled the phone but the screen corrected. She flipped to his number. Her thumb trembled above it.

  As if summoned by her dithering digit, she spotted him. He was edging away from her, glancing about with pain-wracked features. Nicole had never seen him so abject. She started forwards, an arm reaching, wanting to pull him close and squeeze the cares out of him. She called his name but it was gulped by noise.

  A bustle of bodies obscured him. It cut the connection and Nicole stumbled to a halt. The moment of indecision allowed clarity of purpose to take hold again, a default setting. She had to conceal herself. Otherwise it would only be a matter of time before Bryce found her. And if he was there, Mum would be too. She couldn’t trust herself to lay eyes on them: it would dissolve her resolve. As she headed for the refuge of the loo, she realised this would be the last time she’d feel floorboards smacking beneath her soles. The inanity of this small regret peeved her, yet she cherished the footfalls. A group of dancers engulfed her, caroming her into the wall. She scrabbled at them to keep her balance and they in turn reached out to steady her, spouting apology.

  JayJay were three songs in before Johnny snatched the microphone from its cradle.

  “We were, are and always will be JayJay,” he exclaimed exultantly. The audience cheered. “We’ve escaped from the old folks’ home for one night only. We’re swapping the hot choc-o-lit for hot rockin’ licks!”

  Morris sidled up to a mike.

  “As you can see, the jokes haven’t got any better,” he deadpanned.

  “We’ve got a whole stack of songs to play you from last millennium,” continued Johnny. “Here’s one I’ll hope you’ll remember. More importantly, here’s one I hope we remember.”

  Scattered laughter. The members of the band swapped glances to make sure everyone was prepared, and I felt tension in the lull. Everyone wondering if it was going to be me. A wave of anticipation rippled.

  Spencer went fuzzy at his extremities.

  Punters slumped as they heard the first bars. No carnival churn. Not me. One of my siblings. There was a collective sigh. All around the nation, delayed gratification.

  My siblings are competent at worst, inspiring at best. Jones and Jones were no slouches at songsmithery. Sometimes I wish I could communicate with them, my brothers and sisters. I imagine they’re jealous of me: the pop prodigal. They are the fillers that turn this soiree into a concert. I see them as the setting for me, as a jewel might have a background of velvet or satin. Gotta make you see, they were waiting there for me. Gotta let you know, I’m the reason for the show. I’m Michael, they’re the Jackson Five. I’m David Cassidy, they’re the Partridge Family. I’m Robbie Williams, they’re … well, you get the score.

  Cries of “Empty Fairrrrrrrground” sprang up from diverse locations.

  Spencer thought he heard someone screaming his name.

  “Nic! Nic!”

  A young man pushed rudely through a knot of people, his handsomeness wrought with worry as he scanned. Spencer had the nagging feeling he’d seen him before. He had a dim vision of someone lurking outside his office. He backed away.

  “Nicole!” shouted the young man, pushing past. “Nicoooole!”

  Stroll on, JayJay. Guitars pealed as the hits unreeled. Drums thrashed and cymbals plashed. Morris’s keys brought the folks to their knees. Apart from notable exceptions like Lily and a handful of hipsters who “dug retro”, the audience was of a certain age. Energised empty-nesters. Off-leash office workers. Hips clicked as the backbone slipped. But let me tell you, people, there was a feeling going down. JayJay let them know the boys were back in town.

  The drummer counted in by cracking the sticks together. The tock-tock-tock-tock took Spencer back to Marla’s lounge and the intangible timepiece next door. He looked longingly at Marla. Imagining her belly swelling. Suffused in blue.

  JayJay sauntered through an insipid instrumental. Oh, listen, it’s our old friend Sideshow Shadows, slowed down and shorn of words. Johnny wandered off stage. For the first time, the band squandered attention. All dancing died. Conversations fired up. People milled. A few aficionados recognised that the chord progressions were very similar to … you know who. Pulses quickened and a few fans edged stagewards. As the tedious titbit began to fall apart, Johnny strode back on. Wearing a Pinocchio outfit.

  He seized the microphone with both hands. “Here’s one that needs no introduction.”

  The bathroom was airless. Nicole, ensconced in a cubicle, gulped as if suffocating. She had the unsettling impression she’d somehow left herself in the auditorium. All she could experience were the drowned echoes of anxieties. Remote remorse. It was only her shell in the stall. A meaty envelope. She fidgeted on the seat, irritated by the bites on her back. If she hadn’t left her anger in the hall, she knew she’d be mad at Terry for aggravating her one last time. Dogging her to the end.

  She was assured that what she was about to do was right. The best way to thwart the swelter was to make her body cold. The solution to suffocation was to deny the need for air. She closed her eyes and felt sleep sucking at her. Soporific Nic. Consciousness in close-down mode. The sound of the band was doomy. The hall’s walls trapped the treble but let the bass escape: the trudge of drums smothered, Big Brothered. The voices reverberating beyond her booth and the shush of running water mesmerised. Even the rush of flushing had a homely familiarity. She drifted. Found herself in the bathroom of a club in Hobart. It soothed her to know that if she wanted to avoid the oppressiveness generated by boogie-ing bodies she need only step out into the bracing air. Stroll by the docks with the breeze slicing off the river. The oily dark of the breathing water, lights leaping and undulating on the wavelets.

  She regretted not leaving a letter: some sort of testament or apology or excuse. She had intended to, spending some time jotting on scrap paper in the library. When she realised she was merely listing grievances, logging the damage done to her, she crossed everything out. Did she want her last sentiments to be so accusatory? Instead, she began professing her love for Mum and Bryce, assuring them they’d be better off without her, but that rang false also. She was still annoyed with them. She effaced the scrawl and brooded, stymied and ineffectual, unable to sum up her life. Legless legacy. Her terminal words too portentous to succumb to expression. She confet
ti-ed the scrap.

  Mum’s voice cut across the Babel beyond her booth. Of course, she must be searching the bathroom. Her tone was high pitched and harried. Before Nicole knew what she was doing, she threw open the door to rush into her mother’s arms, only to be confronted by a stranger. And now she considered it, the voice was too shrill to be Mum’s. Nicole withdrew into the cubicle before it was annexed by another. She returned to daydreams, liminal in the loo, and I tried to batten her thoughts. If she would only snooze through the rest of the show, she might be saved.

  “Here’s one that needs no introduction.”

  Gruff, muffled words riddled her idyll. Nicole registered the carny keyboards with an acceptance bordering on apathy. I blared and flared within her. Grateful, at least, for one last efflorescence.

  Have you ever left a beautiful place but before you step away you take a lingering look?

  Nicole unclipped the clutch. She scooped pellets into her ladled fingers. She braced, preparing to lever the pills into her mouth. Trembles made the tablets tumble.

  Ahhhh, take it easy, baby. Take it down, take it down.

  Chill. But don’t take a chill pill.

  “Liiiife … is an empty fairground …”

  Johnny pushed at that first word, giving it a gravely edge. He was doing a great job. The last few times he’d sung it, in the grey days of JayJay, he’d sounded bored. Tonight he believed in me again.

  Nicole let the pellets fall and scuffed around the interior of the bag, probing for her phone. She wanted to see that smile one more time. Encore grin. Her boyfriend beaming at her from a lozenge of luminance. Beacon of Bryce.

  Bryce.

  His phone number a thumb stab away.

  She needed to say goodbye. Needed to tell him this wasn’t his fault. It’s not you, it’s me. Her fingers clawed at the cloth interior.

  There were only pills in the bag. Nicole recalled the marauding dance troupe that had trounced her earlier. The way she’d clutched at them to stop herself from toppling. The phone had been in her hand. It must have fallen.