Chapter 2 #3
“You either die poor or live long enough to become a landlord,” she deadpans to her mom while they drag the last box of Susan’s childhood artwork to the curb, parroting something she’d heard in a lecture.
Her mom winces, though Susan was trying to be funny. “We’re not poor, sweetheart,” she says, and Susan lets it go, though she wonders: Are they not?
When Sunday night rolls around, she’s so excited to return to the world that she can’t sleep.
Instead, she watches pirated TV on her chunky Dell laptop, wishing she could afford one of the sleeker new Macs.
When she runs out of new episodes, she downloads music and listens to it while lying on the floor, lights dimmed, feet up in the air.
The following afternoon, Susan is at her desk scouring through LiveJournal, MySpace, Tumblr, and Facebook for artist mentions when she feels someone looming.
It’s Ben. She jumps, knocking over her coffee, and then scrambles to pick it up before it drenches her keyboard.
With him is Drew, who has messy brown hair and a puppy dog sort of charm.
Drew runs Rider’s blog and can’t be much older than Susan.
They wait for her to mop up the spill with tissues.
“We need you to check out an artist,” Ben says.
He’s got dark Ray-Bans on, even though they’re inside. He must be hungover or still high. She recently learned about a cocaine delivery service that her coworkers use.
“Me?” she says.
“No, my other assistant,” Ben says. “Yes, you.”
“Okay.” She balls up the coffee-soaked tissues and grabs a notepad and pen. Everything is sticky from her spill. “Who is it?”
“You’ll love them. New group out of Bushwick.
Girls. Mostly. I think. They’re hot. They’re called the Moans.
” He looks at his phone. “No. Sorry. The Monas. They’re getting some buzz and we really need new talent here.
The lead singer has real Cory Kennedy vibes.
Can you be at the Bog at ten PM? You’re already on the list plus one. ”
Susan is quickly realizing there is only one correct answer to this, and that’s “Great! I’ll be there.” It does sound like the kind of show she’d enjoy, but she resents being commanded to go like this. She forces a smile.
Around them, other people are packing up for the night, shoving their laptops into canvas tote bags and rinsing their coffee mugs out in the office sink. Susan sighs, realizing her day is about to feel very long.
“Find out if they’re any good,” he says, already walking away. When he’s gone, Susan slumps back in her chair, her fake smile no longer needed.
Drew lingers for a moment. “They are good,” he says, looking a little sheepish. “Find out if they’d want anything to do with us.” He gestures to the room around them, the piles of mail and the magazine shelves that are only neat because of Susan’s efforts. “Please.”
“I will,” Susan promises, and then turns back to her computer.
There are many hours in between the end of the workday and the start of the show. It’s not enough time to go home and change and too much time to loiter in a bar by herself. It’s too hot to go sit in a park.
From her desk, she calls Katie. “What are you doing tonight?” she asks when Katie picks up.
There’s commotion in the background—loud talking, dishes clattering, music.
“Jake and I have some friends over,” Katie shouts over the noise.
Thanks to her fancy new finance job, Katie already has her own apartment, a cute one-bedroom in the East Village with creaky hardwood floors.
Meanwhile, Jake has become a freelance photographer, and though he technically lives in a punk house in Ridgewood, he sleeps at Katie’s most nights of the week and treats her apartment like it’s his.
“Hang on, let me go into the bathroom.” Susan hears the door close and the noise subsides.
Katie says, “What are you doing? Do you want to come here?”
“Mmmm,” Susan says, noncommittally. “That’s okay. I have to go to a show for work and I wanted to see if you’d come.”
“Oh, damn,” Katie says. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, it’s fine.” Susan sighs. “I’ll figure it out.”
They get off the phone. Susan pulls up directions to the venue on MapQuest and prints them out. The directions take up several pages. Two trains and then a winding fifteen-minute walk into the depths of Bushwick.
She doesn’t want to go by herself, and this overrides her fear of being needy. She opens her phone again and this time she texts Jonny.
“Do you by any chance want to go to a show with me tonight? It’s in Bushwick. Ben asked me to check it out.”
She holds her breath as she hits send. She’s never asked him to hang out before.
To her surprise, he says, “Sure, yes, let’s do it. Just tell me where and when.”
She laughs in delight. “Amazing,” she replies. “Wow. Okay. Cool.” She realizes that this still doesn’t solve the problem of what to do for the next four hours. “Would you maybe want to get dinner also?” she asks.
“I would but I can’t,” he sends back. “I’m trying to find a husband. See you later.”
At 6 PM, one by one, everyone else leaves.
Heather is the last one out. “Will you lock up?” she asks, and Susan nods.
The office is creepy at night, especially as it starts to get dark outside and Susan can no longer see out the windows. There’s something claustrophobic about it.
She has pizza delivered and shovels it into her mouth while reading the music blogs, careful not to get grease on her keyboard. Then she paces around, looking at other peoples’ desks, but not too closely in case anyone walks in.
No one does. It’s just her and her smudged reflection in the windows. Susan can’t believe they trust her to be here alone. It feels like an enormous responsibility.
Outside the subway in Bushwick, Jonny greets her with a tight hug.
Susan feels the narrowness of his waist as the stubble on his neck exfoliates her cheek.
He smells like sandalwood. She still can’t believe he’s real, or at least really in her life like this, a mentor who is becoming—she hopes—a friend.
Together they walk to the Bog. It’s a warm, muggy night, and Susan’s skin feels damp with humidity, her hair sticking to her face.
This part of Bushwick is still quiet and empty in a spooky way, with a few bodegas here and there.
Many of the blocks are poorly lit. She’s glad she has someone with her.
“How was your date?” she asks.
“He’s not the one.” Jonny sighs. “Zero chemistry.” Susan has to take two steps for every one that Jonny takes with his long legs.
“Wait. Whatever happened to the guy you were with when we first met?”
“Who?” Jonny says, and winks.
“You guys seemed so happy,” Susan says.
“I think we were.” He shrugs. “But I tend to be wrong about these sorts of things.” He sounds sad, and she doesn’t press it. “We’re here,” Jonny says, though Susan doesn’t know how he can tell.
The Bog has no signage. Just the side door of a large industrial building propped open with a brick. It leads to a hallway that takes them to a loft apartment where wall-to-wall people are waiting in front of a stage. And though Ben had said they’d be on the list, there isn’t one.
“How quaint,” Jonny says, grinning at her.
It smells like body odor and mildew in the Bog, but Susan likes it.
Most DIY spaces she’s been to double as homes, this one included, and she wonders what it would be like to live here—where people might put their stuff when they turn their apartment into a music venue, if they mind the strangers in their space or if it’s part of the thrill.
She can’t think of anything that sounds better than having access to live music whenever you want.
Three girls walk out onstage and begin setting up: a drummer, a synth player, and a guitarist. As if in uniform, they all have short hair, wearing black tank tops and combat boots.
Jonny says, “You didn’t tell me it was a dyke band.”
“I didn’t know,” she says. “Ben just told me to come see if they’re any good.”
“Let’s fucking hope so,” Jonny says. “It’s so embarrassing when gays don’t have talent.”
Susan looks around and observes that the crowd that has assembled is mostly queer people, too.
It’s a very different scene from the parties she usually goes to with Katie and Jake, neither of whom seem aware of how resoundingly straight their social circles are.
They support her, but she’d never ask them to go to a queer party with her. She’s not even sure what they’d say.
She should have worn something cuter for tonight, Susan thinks. She’s just in black jeans and a roomy vintage T-shirt.
A girl who is presumably the lead singer walks onstage and everyone around them claps and screams. She has long, straight brown hair and is wearing a zip-up hoodie and large, brightly colored sneakers.
She says, “Hey, we’re the Monas. Thanks so much for coming. I’m Ramona.”
The music starts. It’s more dance-y than Susan is used to, more pop. A strobe light begins flashing.
And then the girl named Ramona starts speaking into the microphone.
One, two, three, four / I like you, but you like me more.
It’s not quite rap and not quite spoken word poetry—it’s too robotic. She could be reciting a grocery list. There’s no soul to it.
“Oh, fuck no,” Jonny groans, laughing. “I can’t. Susan, why?”
Five, six, seven, eight / When we met, you said you were straight.
Susan holds her hands over her face. “I want to pass away.”
“White gays in Bushwick always make me want to fucking kill myself,” Jonny says.
“Are you not … also a white gay in Bushwick?”
“Shh,” he says. “Self-awareness makes a big difference.”
Four, three, two, one
All I wanted was to have some fun.
Eight, seven, six, five
You’ll take me dead or alive.
Dead or alive.
Dead or alive.
The music hits a crescendo, filling the Bog with pulsing notes that seem to shimmer in the air. Something shifts in the room. The strobe light turns pink.
Dead or alive / Dead or alive.
“Wait,” Susan says.