Chapter 4 #3
Susan chokes on her Stella as she remembers seeing an old photo of a dreadlocked Ramona on Facebook. “Oh my god.” She wipes the beer from her chin. “How did she trick both of us into dating her?”
“Witchcraft, probably,” Angie says. “So what do you do at Rider? I’ve been reading the blog for, like, my whole life.”
“Social media.”
“Very cool,” Angie says. “How long have you been there for?”
“Forever. I started as an assistant and now they can’t get rid of me. What do you do when you’re not guarding a door?”
“I’m a nurse,” Angie says.
“Oh, wow,” says Susan. “So you’re, like, a real person.”
Angie laughs. “And you’re not?”
“Social media is definitely not real,” she says. “We’re all just making it up as we go along.”
“You’re funny,” Angie says.
Susan can hear Ramona playing faintly in the background and is glad to be removed from it.
“So why are you working here if you have a good job?”
“It’s fun.” Angie shrugs. “My friend is the bartender. And, you know. I like making extra cash to help my parents.”
Susan is touched by this commonality. Despite herself, she feels a tugging in her chest, like maybe she could open herself up to possibility again someday.
“So you totally have a girlfriend, right?” Angie says.
“What?” Susan isn’t sure she heard the question correctly.
“Dykes who look like you are never single.”
“Dykes who look like me?” Susan laughs, incredulous. “Have you seen yourself?”
Angie raises her eyebrows. “So you are single, then?”
“I’m the most single person in the entire world,” Susan says.
“We might be tied for that position.”
“How is that possible?” Susan imagines a line around the block of women waiting for a chance to date Angie.
“Lesbians are so messy,” she says. “I’ve become picky. I can’t deal with drama.”
“I get that,” Susan says.
“You’re not drama, are you?” Angie asks.
“Not usually.”
As they finish their beers, they talk about less important things: how the subways are so fucked right now, what new music they’re listening to, the ways the Lower East Side has changed so much recently.
When Susan speaks, Angie holds still, as though she doesn’t want to miss a single syllable.
By the end of their conversation, Susan has picked up what Angie is putting down.
Hard to miss, given that Angie’s hand ends up resting on Susan’s leg, where it feels comforting and warm.
Maybe not electrifying, but having someone hot and charming hit on her is more fun than she thought it would be.
Susan hasn’t tried to date anyone since Eliza.
She hasn’t wanted to. It’s felt safer just to keep moping, indefinitely.
Susan takes the last sip of her Stella, checks her watch. “I guess I have to go back in there,” Susan says. “You should come watch What-What. They’ll be on soon.”
“Aw, I love that band,” Angie says, as though there’s something uniquely cute about being a?? fan. “I’ll see you there.”
“Thanks for the drink,” Susan says.
“My pleasure,” says Angie. “I can see why Ramona liked you,” she adds.
“I can see why she liked you, too,” Susan says. “I guess she has good taste.”
The Monas are finishing their last song. From the applause and the screaming, Susan can tell it was a good set. She sees Jonny in the corner and rolls her eyes. He sticks a finger into his mouth, gagging on it.
She pulls up Twitter and writes what she hopes is a compelling tweet from the company account about how amazing the Monas were, even though doing so makes her teeth hurt. It’s her own fault that she has to promote her ex’s band. She could have chosen not to sleep with her.
She looks back up to find Jonny but he’s already gone, presumably to set up. Katie and Jake are still not here, which means they’re not coming.
She’s okay being alone at shows, though. In fact, these days, she prefers it.
Jonny walks out with his guitar to a roar of applause. Susan has left VIP and made a spot for herself directly in front of the stage.
“Hey, everyone, thank you so much for coming out on this fucking freezing night,” he says.
There are cheers. “We love you!” someone screams from the back.
Jonny looks down at Susan. “And thanks to my friends for supporting this album. Means the world.”
Susan blows him a kiss with both her hands.
The drummer hits her sticks together a few times and then they’re playing. Jonny’s voice fills the room like a ray of sunlight piercing through clouds.
He said he liked my face and so I gave him too much power.
They run through the new album from start to finish.
Halfway through, a pretty violinist in a black dress walks out.
Later, she’s joined by a trumpet player.
All Jonny’s musicians are women these days.
It’s magic. Susan sings every single word, dancing by herself, wanting to inject the music into her veins.
Jonny is so brilliant. She wishes the world knew.
It doesn’t make sense to her that people with less talent are more successful.
She wonders if it’s because he’s chosen to be open about being gay; he never became a heartthrob the way other men from the scene have over the years.
Instead, it’s like he’s indie rock’s best-kept secret.
Not one single radio hit, despite his devoted fan base and everything Susan has done throughout her twenties to get his music out there.
“Hey, guys,” Jonny says amid the screams and the cheers. “This is probably our last show as What-What.”
Someone in the audience screams, “NO!!!” Everyone laughs, but the room quiets.
“It’s been a long, wonderful adventure,” he says. “I’m so thankful to everyone who made it possible. This last one’s for Susan. I love you.”
I love you too, Susan mouths.
I was born in the shadows under your eyes.
She’s overwhelmed with the happy-sadness of the moment; teenage Susan would have never believed that she’d be standing here, a song dedicated to her at the band’s supposed final performance.
I remember pink days, pit stains, heat waves, baby / I remember bite marks, false starts, damp in the dark.
She loves him so much she thinks her heart might explode in her chest, though it’s harder to hear this song these days; it makes her ache in a way it didn’t when she first heard it. She absentmindedly rubs the place on her thumb where Eliza’s teeth once pierced her.
Before she knows it, the song is over. She’ll never hear it played live again. She feels like she’s waking up from a dream she won’t be able to get back to.
Jonny says, “Thank you, Bowery!” and walks off the stage. The lights come back on. He’s not going to do an encore. That was it.
Just then, Susan notices Angie standing next to her. “That was really sweet,” she says. “I didn’t realize you’re actually friends with him.”
“I can’t believe he’s quitting,” Susan says, turning to her. “I feel like he was only just beginning.” A tear escapes her eye and she quickly wipes it away before Angie can see.
Angie doesn’t seem to have noticed. Instead, she shakes her head. “They’ve been around for a long time. It’s an exhausting life.”
“I guess so,” she says.
“I’m off soon,” Angie says. “Maybe you and I could go get another drink somewhere?”
If Susan says yes, she can easily see where the night would go; they’d get drunker and drunker and end up back at someone’s apartment, fumbling sloppily through medium-fine sex, then go to work tomorrow feeling like shit and probably never speak again, avoiding each other at the Wednesday night lesbian party at the Woods in Williamsburg for the rest of eternity.
It wouldn’t be worth it. Besides, what she really wants is not an impersonal orgasm from someone who finds her attractive but a hug from someone who loves her. Susan feels too vulnerable, like she’s been flipped inside out.
“I need to find Jonny,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
“Okay,” Angie says. If she’s disappointed, her face gives nothing away. “Bye. It was nice to meet you.”
Susan wonders if she needs to ask for Angie’s number, or say something kind to her, but she simply says, “Yeah, same.”
Jonny is sitting on the curb of Delancey Street alone, smoking a cigarette.
“What are you doing out here without a coat?” he says when she sits next to him.
“I left it with the door girl,” she says.
“So go get it. It’s zero degrees.”
“Well, she was flirting with me and then I bolted, so I think I’ll take my chances without it.”
“Angie, that gorgeous Filipina lesbian?” He laughs and puts an arm around her. “I’ve met her a few times. She’s amazing. Why did you bolt, babe?”
Susan leans her head into his warm shoulder. “I think I’m just not in the mood. Plus, she dated Ramona. Too weird.”
What she doesn’t say: She’s not who I want.
He laughs again. “Sorry, buddy, but you’re gay in New York City. This has happened before and will happen again.”
“I hate it here,” she says.
“No, you don’t,” he says. “You wouldn’t have it any other way and neither would I.”
Jonny is still sweating from the performance, and he smells like his deodorant is working overtime. She looks at his beautiful face and notices how drawn it is. The stubble that used to make him seem edgy now gives him a kind of unkempt, wild look.
A group of people emerges from the venue. “Great show, man,” they call to Jonny as they walk past.
“Can I try your cigarette?” Susan asks him.
“Absolutely not.”
She sighs. “I can’t believe you’re giving up.”
“It’s time for new things. I’m drunk and exhausted.”
“But critically acclaimed and respected,” she sings in response, though she’s not sure if he was quoting that Hold Steady song or just being honest.
Still, he smiles. “Anyone can write a song about anything,” he says. “Sometimes it makes you rich, sometimes it doesn’t. It’s a crapshoot.”
“Speaking of which, thank you so much for the song for me,” she says. “I think it was the best thing that’s happened in my whole life.”
“What are you now, twenty-nine?” he asks, and she nods. He says, “I promise you there will be better things in your life than some song written by an aging queen.”
She’s not so sure.