Chapter 47 Florence
It’s time to get the fuck out of Dodge. Where the hell did that expression come from, anyway? What does it mean? My kid would know, smart like that.
I haven’t told Andrew my plan. It’s a surprise. My kid hates my surprises, my husband, my mom. But my fans looove them. Drop an unexpected single, play a secret show, make an unscheduled appearance. That’s the kind of thing that keeps fans on their toes, expecting you to give them more, more, more.
I always gave them more.
Until I gave them everything and they stopped asking. Like that book my mom gave my kid, The Giving Tree. She said it was a bedtime story, but it gave me fucking nightmares. I hid it away where my kid couldn’t find it.
Tonight, I pretend to go to bed early, then get dressed in the dark: my fur coat over a baby-doll white nightgown with a black bra and underwear, almost exactly what I wore the first time I went onstage.
My hair is greasy and unwashed, so I pull it into a tight bun on top of my head, dark roots glaring against the platinum tips.
I sling my guitar over my shoulder like I’m a one-woman traveling band.
It’s so easy to sneak out that I think maybe they want me to leave.
It’s fucking cold. Smells like snow, a scent I remember from my childhood in Yonkers, a scent my kid, California born, wouldn’t recognize.
I should’ve worn tights. A hat, a scarf.
If only I’d had my phone to look up the weather forecast before I left.
Not that you need a phone to know it’s cold in January, but fuck them for taking my phone anyway. At least I have my coat.
I hum a few bars of my new song as I hold out my thumb, hitchhiking like it’s 1967. There aren’t many cars on the road, but luckily it’s dark. It’s easy to spot the headlights that tell me someone’s coming.
The floor of the Shelter Shack is sticky with spilled beer and sawdust. The lights are turned down low, a single spotlight on a tiny stage in the corner.
It’s dingier than Andrew made it sound. The crowd isn’t big, and mostly old.
Everyone’s wearing some variation of the same outfit: jeans and work boots, plaid flannel shirt.
Mine is the only dress in the place. I don’t see anyone drinking anything other than beer.
Whatever. Beggars can’t be choosers. No, I’m not a beggar; I’m a beginner.
This summer, I’ll go on tour in a van, just like in the old days—no tricked-out tour bus and private plane.
My kid’ll come with me; she’s old enough now, she can help with my gear.
It’ll just be the two of us, a road trip across America with extra guitars in the back seat.
I’m not too big for my britches. Anyhow, I’d rather start over on my own terms than work with my ungrateful bandmates ever again.
The locals’ll go nuts when I take the stage. They’ll record me and release the video, drowning out Callie’s terrible statement. This will be so much louder.
They’ll remember me, won’t they?
Even if they don’t, the song is good enough to catch their attention.
Someone’s onstage already. The lighting’s so shitty I can’t see their face. A deep voice says, “This is something new I’ve been working on.”
Whoever’s up there is hardly an opening act, but I’ll let them sing one song—just one—and then I’ll take the stage.
I tune everything out to make a mental setlist: “Never Settle” first, to give them a taste of what they know and love.
Get them good and warmed up before I shift to the new material.
The chorus of dead musicians in my head will cheer me on for once.
Imposter all my life
Never belonged anywhere
Imposter all my life
Wandered round everywhere
Imposter all my life
Someday, I’m gonna get there.
Man, I can’t wait. I’m so excited I can already hear it.
I do hear it.
I am hearing it.
I take a step toward the stage, then another, then another, until I’m close enough to see the face of the person singing, even though there’s only one person on the entire planet it can be.
Andrew.
Andrew is singing.
Andrew is singing my fucking song.