Be a girl. Be born sad. Be from a big family,
or be an only child. Either way, make sure your parents are distracted
and overwhelmed with life. They should hate your moodiness and scoff
at any discussion of fresh and freaky ways to wear your hair. Notice
that as your parents' arguments, debt, and beer bottles pile up on
the kitchen table at night, the volume on your radio dial rises.
Through process of elimination, rock and roll, loud, is the only
thing that drowns out the downstairs cacophony. You are twelve. You learn to stay out
of the way of what's going to happen.
Don't panic when lyrics to songs by Van
Halen, Aerosmith, Led Zeppelin and Journey fill the space in your
brain previously reserved for algebra problems, figure-skating schedules
and your dad's new phone number. Realize that you can memorize a
song after hearing it only three times. Trace a Rush album cover
onto the title page of your English composition binder. Ask your
mom if you can take guitar lessons. She tells you to dry the dishes,
and when you're done, to take the garbage out. Drag the flimsy
bag over the gravel, check to see if any neighbors are around, then
sing into the dark suburban sky: She's just a small-town girl
. . . She took the midnight train going anywhere . . . Wonder
if Steve Perry wrote that song after he peered behind your homemade
curtains into the 3-bdr, 2 bath, crpt, frplc, wtw shag, split-level
and watched you, alone at the kitchen table, illuminated by the light
over the stove, waiting for the avocado phone to ring.
promotion
Get a job at a jeans store in the mall.
Go to Faces for a free makeover on your lunch break. In between sips
of your Dairy Queen shake, watch as a twenty-one year old's face
is smeared atop your sixteen-year-old features. Notice how that girl
in the mirror looks old and young, wary and naive at the very same
time. Ask yourself, Where did she come from? Memorize the
combination of shading and shine before scrubbing it off in the washroom
after shift. Your mom's picking you up in front of the mall. It's
important that she recognizes you, for now.
Become best friends with Linda G., the
assistant manager of the jeans store, who is four years older and has
tits and money in spades. Plus a driver's license. Plus knowledge
of radio-station concerts and the names of doormen at the Alexander
Tavern and the Riviera by the expressway. Diamonds
Lounge is okay, she says, but you go there last, because it's the easiest
to get into. There, let an older man dance
with you. Make casual movie conversation. Ask him what he does
for a living. When he tells you he's an accountant, pretend you know
what that is. He asks you the same. You say student. What's your
major? You say English. He asks for your number. Give him
the wrong one. You mom's home all the time now, so it's likely she'd
answer. Plus, he's her age, and that creeps you out. You're not here
for the men; you're still here for the boys. But they have a hard
time getting into these places without the benefit of scaffolded hair and three-inch feather earrings, which brush your
collarbones and complement your Heart jersey perfectly.
Be certain that the first time the lead
singer from Hustler makes eye contact with you, he's addressing his
song to the sky-high blonde on your left. The CanAm Tavern is dark;
it's an easy mistake to make. Feel Linda nudge you in the ribs the second
time he finds your eyes. When she says he's looking right fucking
at you, there's only the tiniest bit of jealousy in her voice.
Because no one has searched you out or locked eyes with you so intently
in so long, return the gaze with the kind of intensity you're sure
will make the bar spontaneously combust. Feel joy and fear, like
you've done something beautifully bad. Then recoil your attention,
smack the love off your face, and enjoy the drinks he's sent to your
round, tippy table. Be unaware this is the last time you act coy
by accident.
Nod intently when Dale tells you that Hustler
is just a starter band. As soon as he gets his shit together and
buys a new amp, he's going to find a better band that will launch
him into the stratosphere. Realize that the fact that he has a plan for tomorrow
turns you on like nothing else. He puts his tongue in your ear and
his hand on your thigh, near your crotch. He tells you he writes
his own songs. Maybe one day, he'll write one about your brown eyes,
which now reflect blurry love. Suddenly you have a plan, too. You
will be the girl in his songs. That job will require you simply to
show up and satisfy his needs. This is easy, because you've never
really discovered any of your own. But showing up is something you've
mastered.
When Linda gives you a look that says your
fucking ride's leaving, say goodbye and promise to see him
tomorrow. Be careful to keep the word "curfew" out of your new
rock vernacular.
When the new doorman questions the veracity
of your fake ID, say I'm with the band. Demand that he get
Dale; Dale is expecting you. Dale makes it good with the guy, then
parts the sea, guiding you to a table by the stage. The drummer's
wife is there. She excuses herself to check with the babysitter,
respray her crimped hair and shove cheap coke up her French-Canadian
nose. Swear that she and the drummer are brother and sister. Dale
kisses you fiercely, gratefully, expertly, draping his skinny tattooed
arm around your bare shoulders like an owner. Feel marvelous to belong
to something. For the first time in your life, feel proud of yourself
and the things you do and the people you know.
Stack your spare cans on Friday morning
to accommodate your new lifestyle. Find it difficult to remember
the last time you made it to afternoon gym and drama. Realize that being in a
classroom Monday to Thursday is like living between concrete brackets.
Exist only for Thursday, Friday and Ladies Nites when Dale's on stage,
when you can finally, fully look at him. Imagine how you would fit
into his big life, which is sure to get bigger than this tavern.
Between sets, when Dale sits with you, he eats up all the oxygen.
Find it hard to breathe, which has something to do with the fact
that his mouth is constantly smothering yours and the broom closet
in the backstage area of the Riv is only big enough to do it standing
up. Enjoy the furtive sex, but prefer this open-air affection, when
everyone in the room is reminded of who you really are.
Act positive that at some time or another
you probably told Dale pretty much exactly how old it is that you
were, or maybe that it never really came up. And whose fault is that?
Try to remember the last time Dale ever asked you questions about
yourself. Fucker doesn't even know your last name. Fucker never bought
you a burger or phoned you at home. True, you told him not to, but
fucker only ever reallyexpected you to show up where he was playing,
and to sit your sweet ass down on the vinyl chairs to watch. He didn't
know about your strep throat or that your mom's been crying more than usual. Fucker didn't even
write that song about your eyes, which are now brimming over with
Great Lash Ebony and Alice Coopering down your Maybelline cheeks.
You want to be in a song, but not this song. The last thing you
ever wanted to be was the girl who bawls drunkenly in public washrooms
because no one ever writes about her. Unless they're punk. And that's
not your bag yet.
Be fashionably late when Soldier, Stripes
and The Look are playing the RockFest bandshell. Know almost everyone
there. The drummer's wife, who is smoking and teetering on her heels
in the rain, lets you into the backstage area behind the Port-a-Pottis.
Fail to spot Dale, but catch a glimpse of Angelo from Soldier. He sees you
too. Feel his big hug as he pulls you into his skinny body and
fat bulge. Hear him tell you it's good to see you, that he's heard about you
and Dale. He tells you Dale's an asshole and his band's crap and
why don't you and Linda make yourselves comfortable on the picnic
table and watch their show from there. Feel the click of comfort,
of belonging to a place with these people, how things seem normal
again. See Dale with that redheaded bitch from the Riv, the
one who always hovered near the tippy table acting like she was total
friends with everyone. Don't let it bother you. She is older than
you by a lot, and Dale's totally fucking welcome to her.
Don't give a shit when Angelo ignores you
after their set, because the keyboardist doesn't. It feels like musical
sluts the way the two of you wound up side by side on the least crowded
picnic table. Have a deep discussion about horoscopes, dogs and divorce,
which makes you feel gorgeous about yourself. Watch as Jay Jr. circles
your nipple with the mouth of his sweaty Black Label.
Ignore your mother when she starts in on
you again as you're on your way out the fucking door. Run toward
the honking until her yelling disappears in the hum of Jay's I-Roc. At the club, smile as he whisks
you past the doorman, past the crowded stage area and into a real
greenroom. This is where you keep other bored girls company while
boys play. Some girls you know, the rest you don't really want to.
Get high. Watch Jay come backstage after a set you didn't bother to
watch. Be unimpressed with a few songs he wrote, all which seem a
bit gay. You knew which words were coming, even before you committed
the lyrics to memory. When Jay asks you to shove over on the ratty
couch, get up. Someone else's ex-girlfriend drives
you home in a dark-blue van.
Notice a guitar leaning up against the
console in the upstairs hallway. It's small and used and untuned.
Ask your mother whom it belongs to. She says you, if you want it.
Reply that you don't know how to play guitar. Try teaching yourself
something new for a change, she says. Try making up your own mind
about things instead of accommodating these fucking guys who keep
pulling up our goddamn driveway but never bother to come to our front
fucking door, she says.
Laugh secretly at the guy on the cover of How to
Play Guitar in Ten Easy Steps: a gaylord with a red, fuzzy
Afro who's smiling idiotically. Hide the book in your purple satin bag,
the one you made in Home Ec for which you received your first
A-. Learn a song, sitting cross-legged on the bathroom vanity.
It's Leaving on a Jet Plane. Picture what it must feel like to
do that. Realize you can't, because you've never been on an airplane. Consider
writing a song about that very real dilemma. When your brother
pounds on the bathroom door saying hurry up, that he has to use
the bathroom, tell him to fuck off and use the one downstairs,
because you've got the room right now. Tell him all eyes are on
you, and both of them are wide fucking open.n°
Originally published
on Nerve in Dec. 2002.
To buy The Best American Nonrequired Reading 2003, click
here.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Lisa Gabriele is the author of Tempting Faith DiNapoli. Her second
novel, The Almost Archer Sisters, will be published in the fall 2008.
She lives in Toronto.
