Karaoke Queen

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

I USED TO LOVE GOING TO KARAOKE BARS.

I’m Filipino, after all. And when you’re Filipino, singing is just a basic fact of life. In the shower, in the car, at church. And at some point during every party, the karaoke machine gets dragged out of storage, and everyone sings—from the oldest lolas all the way down to the youngest kids.

I was that kid once: the one who started singing as soon as I could start forming sentences. Even before I could say anything that made sense, I was babbling along to any songs I heard on TV. As I got older, if there was a microphone anywhere in sight, you can bet I was grasping for it, wanting to pour all my young heart into the thing. My mom attributed that to being her child. She was on a teleserye—a Filipino soap opera—for two whole episodes. So, of course, I was destined to be a star in the making.

Every now and then, I still feel that pull to perform. In fact, as I watch the person currently taking his turn during Pink Unicorn’s karaoke night, all I want to do is take the mic away from him.

Although the main reason for that is because he’s absolutely terrible.

“He does know that ‘Hips Don’t Lie’ has more than one note in it, right?” Kat Sniegowski, my co-worker and best friend, asks as she leans in to be heard over the music. Her curly hair, smelling of apples and honey, tickles my cheek.

I laugh. “And if his hips are supposed to be talking, they’re not saying much.”

“Hmm.” Kat focuses on the singer. “It’s too bad he’s just standing there like a rock. He’s got a pretty sweet ass.”

“He’s, like, twenty years older than you are, Kat.”

“Don’t be so judgy. You’re supposed to be encouraging me to get out there again. I’m nursing a broken heart.”

Kat’s just gotten dumped by her most current boyfriend, a slam poet named Sal. And unlike most of the other guys she’s dated, this one lasted a long time, at least for her. They dated for almost three whole months before they broke up.

“I’m here to listen to you sing,” I say. “Not help you find another boyfriend.”

“I thought you were going to sing with me.”

“I said I’d come with you, not sing with you. I’m just here for moral support. I told you, I don’t do karaoke.” I look down at the table and mumble to myself, “Not anymore, at least.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” My eyes close as I try to block the Shakira-drone out for a bit.

I’m surprised I let Kat convince me to go out with her. I generally tend not to set foot in karaoke bars anymore. Not since high school, when a really bad experience made me wary of ever finding myself in any sort of performance-like venue again. Places like this just bring back all the memories I’d rather forget.

Not that I have anything against the Pink Unicorn itself, which is actually a cultural landmark. It’s been around since the 1940s, making it the oldest gay bar not only in Oakland, but in the entire Bay Area. A metal sculpture of the eponymous unicorn hangs outside the front door. It’s so old now that the pink color has faded and the horn has fallen off, so it’s basically just an off-white horse.

Inside, the décor has stayed unchanged for decades. Posters touting old bands from the eighties and nineties hang on the walls, a scuffed-up pool table and vintage Pac-Man arcade game show years of use, and a jukebox in the corner still carries classics like Wham! and Nirvana. Adjoining the bar area is a room with a floor large enough for dancing. On karaoke nights, tables and chairs are set out for people to sit and watch others step onto the raised platform stage to sing. Just like we’re doing now, along with the few other people with us in the bar.

Hips-Are-Not-Fly-Guy finally finishes the Shakira selection and, for some reason, decides to end his performance with one massive pelvic thrust before getting offstage.

“There it is,” Kat says. “Hot.”

I snort and take another sip of my beer.

She flips through the threadbare binder on our table. “What should I do for my song? No Jefferson Starship in here. I could sing some Fleetwood Mac, maybe. Or Janis Joplin? What do you think?”

“You really want to know what I think? That we should ditch this place soon and get pie at Denny’s.”

A microphone whines as it’s turned back on by the karaoke host. “Okay, next up is Jenny. Is Jenny here? Singing Nicki Minaj?”

Jenny, a tiny East Asian woman wearing a purple hoodie, goes up to the stage. She struggles for what seems like a very long time to get the mic down to her height. I keep expecting the karaoke host to help her, but it looks like he’s not paying attention to what’s going on. I can’t tell because I can’t see him very well. The multicolored strobe lights keep shining into my eyes anytime I look toward that part of the room. It’s making me a little dizzy.

The mic stand finally plunges down to its lowest level with a thunk . Just the right height for Jenny. A familiar double-time bass line in the karaoke track sounds through the speakers, Jenny pulls back her hood, and— WHACK!

“Whoa!” Kat and I say simultaneously as Jenny slaps her own butt before rapping the lyrics to “Anaconda.”

Kat scribbles something onto one of the request slips from the plastic cup on our table. “Okay, I think I know what I want to sing. Could you bring this up to the KJ?”

“The what?”

“The karaoke jockey,” she says, pointing to the guy operating the equipment.

Behind a rectangular table up at the front and to the side, equipped with a laptop, a mixing console, and a microphone, sits the guy I can barely see. The KJ, apparently. I strain to look closer at him. He’s got medium-length, wavy black hair, glasses, and light brown skin. I can’t tell for sure, but if I had to bet on it, I’d say he’s Filipino, too.

“Do I have to?” I say. I’m already too close to the stage. My whole body resists any suggestion of getting closer, even if just to hand in a request slip.

Kat pushes me up and out of the banquette. “Just go give it to him.”

Her eyes widen as Jenny turns around on the stage, bends over, and continues the song from between her legs.

“And ask him how soon I can sing.”

Among Kat’s many impressive qualities—effortlessly lustrous hair, impeccable fashion sense, and a general lack of fear of anything or anyone—she’s also a bona fide pro vocalist, having graduated from the Berklee College of Music. She even fronted a popular local all-girl rock band for a while. It’s the main reason I allowed her to convince me to go out with her. I’m eager to watch her (or really anyone else besides Jenny) perform.

So I force myself to go up. If I make it fast, I won’t have to spend too much time on the stage.

At the table, the KJ looks oddly lost, indiscriminately poking at some keys on his laptop, pausing, scrunching up his face, and then doing it all over again.

“Hey. My friend over there would like to go next.” I nod my head in Kat’s direction.

The KJ looks up at me, flipping back a bang of black hair. “What?” He reminds me a little of Henry Golding. Particularly when he sees my face and smiles. I’m a bit dazzled by his pearly white teeth. Or maybe it’s just the whackadoodle lights shining in my eyes again.

“She wants to sing this.” I hand him the request slip.

He takes it from me and stares at it for a second, as if he has no idea what to do with it. Even though it’s literally his entire job.

My request slip isn’t the only thing that seems to be throwing him. I can see now that he’s working in some sort of DJ software platform that runs the music, sound, and lights, and I don’t think he’s quite gotten a handle yet on how to operate it. No wonder things seem a little out of control.

He looks at me for longer than I expect. Why, I don’t know. Whatever it is, it’s making me feel all tingly in the neck. I reach underneath my shirt collar and scratch haphazardly.

“I like your outfit,” he finally says, which catches me off guard. Even for me, these clothes are frumpy. I wanted to be as comfortable as I could be in what I knew was going to be an uncomfortable environment, so I’ve got on sweatpants, dirty sneakers, a yellow T-shirt, and a fleece jacket they gave to me for free at work.

“Company pride,” the KJ says, pointing to the sewed-on logo on my chest. “I love it.” I can’t sense a trace of sarcasm anywhere. No one ever compliments me on my clothes. Kat likes to call my style “helpless hetero meets rodeo clown.” It’s why I always needed assistance with my performance outfits, back in the day.

But that was years ago.

“Thank you?” I say. If it weren’t for the fact that the KJ himself is dressed quite nicely—designer skinny jeans and a navy-blue oxford with the sleeves rolled up—I might think that I’ve actually met someone with worse fashion sense than me.

“You’re welcome,” he replies. “Are you Pinoy?”

“I am.”

“Thought so. I’m Filipino, too.” He reaches out his hand to me. “Paolo.”

I grip his hand and shake. It feels nice. Not hot or sweaty, just pleasingly warm. My hands are always freezing, and his hold on mine makes the cold instantly evaporate. I hold on probably longer than I should. “I’m Rex.”

WHACK!

Both Paolo and I turn toward Jenny on the stage. Wow. She sure is getting a lot of mileage out of that song.

We force our gaze away from her and look at each other, mouths rigid from trying not to laugh.

“So what do you want to sing?” Paolo asks me.

A tightness in my chest pulls everything inward. “Me? Nothing. This is just for Kat. I don’t sing in public.” My heart feels hemmed in, making my pulse beat faster.

Paolo’s eyes dim. “Oh. That’s too bad.”

“I mean, I used to. ‘All By Myself’ was my go-to back in the day.”

I have no idea why I tell him this. It’s strictly part of my past, never to be resurrected. I just met the guy. Why am I suddenly not wanting to disappoint him?

“I love that song!” Paolo clicks some keys on the laptop, searching through the database. “I know it’s in here somewhere…”

“Hey,” I say, “I don’t actually want to sing. My friend does, though. Like, really badly. So can she go up next?”

“Oh.” Paolo picks up Kat’s request slip and glances at it. “It’s supposed to be first come, first served,” he says, setting it down and scooting it over to a small pile of other request slips. “There are other people ahead of her who’ve been waiting for a while.”

I take out my wallet and root around. Twenty? Too much. But a single dollar bill isn’t enough.

My fingers take out a crisp five-dollar bill. “How about I grease the wheels a bit?”

“You don’t have to—”

“Too late!” I throw the bill down, aiming to get it on top of the request slips, but the bill is flat and I have horrible aim and it ends up floating off to the side and down onto the floor.

“Oops, let me—” I reach down to pick it up off the floor.

When I look up, I find myself staring straight at Jenny’s tiny, purple derriere.

She’s decided to end the song by throwing one of her legs on top of the karaoke console table and slaps her own behind several more times in beat with the last cracks of the whip— whack, whack, whipACKK !

“Let’s hear it for Jenny!” Paolo says into his mic. “Next up… is…” He looks down to where I am on the floor, still gripping the five-dollar bill and unable to move after having experienced Jenny’s fanny finale up close and personal.

“Next up is Kat!” he says, smiling at me. “Come on up, Kat.”

I mouth thank you to him and then decide the best thing to do is just reach up, place the five-dollar bill on the table, and gracefully slide away.

Except I’m in a painful crouched position and end up half-crawling, half-slithering across the now super-wide expanse of the stage, aware that things have ground to a halt as everyone watches my awkward exit. Kat just stands there and sighs, waiting as I slowly make my way back to our table.

She takes her place onstage confidently, like she’s lived forever in that very spot. The plunky synth intro to “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” begins to bop, and I smile. Early eighties pop is not really Kat’s thing. I expected her to do one of her classic rock faves. But once she starts singing, I realize that it doesn’t matter that she hasn’t chosen something in her wheelhouse. Kat could sing the phone book and make it sound amazing.

As she sings, she stretches out the last syllables of the words want and fun —not with Cyndi Lauper’s poppy melismas but with her own rock growl, making the song seem less whiny and more like a power anthem. Somehow, Kat does the unthinkable. She makes me forget how an iconic song was originally performed.

When she’s done, the few people in the room applaud enthusiastically, especially me. Kat’s brought me back to happier days, when karaoke used to fill me with so much joy. For the first time tonight, I don’t regret agreeing to come with her.

“Fantastic!” Paolo says. “Great job, Kat!”

She throws a fist up in the air.

“Next up is a surprise singer,” Paolo announces. In a rare moment when the strobe lights aren’t piercing my sight, I lock eyes with him. He’s staring straight at me.

My stomach drops. I know what’s coming next.

“Rex?” he says. “Can I have Rex up onstage? Singing ‘All By Myself.’”

Paolo repositions the spotlight and shines it on me. My face burns with heat. An ember in my stomach, one that’s never truly gone out over all these years, flares up. The edges of its flames rip into the sides of my stomach, sizzling.

I’m only vaguely aware that Kat has come back to sit down at our table. She grabs on to one of my cold hands. “Rex, are you okay?”

I’m unable to look back at her. “I…”

The light shines so brightly.

I pull my hand away from Kat and stand up from my seat. Beyond the glare of the spotlight, Paolo sits and waits, watching me. They’re all watching me.

I hurry toward the front door and exit into the night.