Chapter 2 #4
Jonny’s head is tilted to the side. He’s listening hard, his mouth starting to twitch into a smile. “Huh,” he says. “Unexpected.”
“Is this good, or am I having a stroke?”
Dead or alive / Dead or alive / Dead or alive. Ramona maintains that same vocal fry–heavy monotone, but somehow it’s working. The floor is heaving with bass and Susan can feel the rhythm tingling up her legs, her spine. Before she knows it, she’s mouthing the words. Dead or alive / Dead or alive.
All that is taking a back seat to Ramona’s real talent, though: It’s impossible to look away from her. The way she moves around the stage, the way her clothes cling to her.
“Let’s go to the front,” Jonny says, and they push their way to the stage.
For the rest of the set they dance as though bewitched: Ramona has cast a spell on them.
“I’m obsessed,” Susan says when it’s over.
The crowd seems antsy, as though unsure if they should leave or stay. Someone nearby lights up a joint and passes it around.
Jonny is nodding vigorously, jumping up and down with excitement. “Yes,” he says. “Their music is literally so weird, but I think they’re going to be a big deal.”
“Do you mind if I try to talk to her? I want to get her info for Ben.”
“That asshole,” Jonny says.
“He is an asshole, right?” She pauses. “I thought maybe I was just being sensitive.”
“Ben Kaplan invented assholery,” Jonny says, shaking his head. “If he didn’t pay for my albums, I’d never have anything to do with him.”
“Good to know,” Susan says.
“I did try to warn you,” Jonny offers.
“Did you?” Susan considers this, but comes up empty. “I can’t remember.”
“You were too excited about the job to listen to me,” he tells her, and she knows this is probably true. There’s likely nothing Jonny could have said that would have dissuaded her from the opportunity.
She takes a few deep breaths and then walks over to where the lead singer (rapper? Poet? Orator? She wonders) is unplugging things from an amp.
“Hi,” Susan says, trying to project loud enough that Ramona can hear her from the stage. “That was so great. I’m from a label called Rider Die Records, and I was wondering if you guys are signed?” While she’s talking, she thinks, Fuck. Don’t be so fucking weird. Just be chill for once.
Ramona turns, looks down at Susan, and smirks. Then she hops down off the stage so that she and Susan are eye to eye. “Did you say Rider?”
“Yeah,” Susan says. She feels herself blushing.
Ramona takes her hair down and shakes it out, a shiny curtain. Susan notices that Ramona’s bandmates are watching. She pretends she can’t see them. It’s too much pressure to have an audience.
“Cool,” Ramona says. “I read the blog every day. And no, we’re not signed.”
“Cool,” Susan echoes. She has forgotten how to make small talk.
Be normal be normal be normal. “Here is our info—” She digs around in her bag for one of Ben’s business cards.
“You should totally hit Ben up, like, ASAP. He’s going to be really excited about you.
I mean he already is. But…” She trails off.
Ramona takes the card and then, in a way that is so obvious Susan almost laughs, she looks Susan up and down. “Hope I see you again,” Ramona says, one eyebrow raised.
“Yeah, same,” Susan manages to say, though it comes out more high-pitched than she intended. She does an awkward little wave and then quickly turns, beet red. She can feel Ramona watching her walk away.
“Well?” Jonny says when Susan gets back to him. “Have you given them a record deal?”
“Better,” she says. “I think she was into me.”
Jonny squeals. “I feel like a proud mom.” And then he says, “Hey, you’re not trying to take the LIRR back tonight, are you?” He checks his watch. “It’s almost midnight.”
“I was,” she says. “It’s fine, really.”
“No no no. Come with me. You can sleep on a couch, right?”
“Oh, I can sleep on anything,” she says, which is not entirely true, but she’d never pass up the chance to get eyes on where Jonny lives. “But are you sure it’s okay?”
“Obviously,” he says. “It’s a twenty-minute walk from here, if you’re down for that. Just don’t judge my mess.”
Susan has to stop herself from skipping alongside Jonny on the walk to his apartment, which is dark and quiet but for the occasional distant siren or pulsing reggaeton from passing cars.
Jonny lives on the third floor of a sagging townhouse.
His apartment is not, in fact, messy, as he’d said.
It’s exactly as Susan pictured it: The walls are covered in framed black-and-white photos, the furniture is brown leather, the rugs look antique.
Succulents line the windowsills. It’s cozy and warm, a space that’s lived in and appreciated. Sacred.
“I just have to be up early,” he says, getting pillows from a linen closet. “I’m sorry in advance if I wake you up.”
Susan perches on the leather couch. “What do you have to get up for? I thought the life of a musician happened at night.”
Jonny throws his head back and laughs as though it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Oh, babe,” he cries. “You don’t think I pay for this gorgeous apartment with indie record sales, do you?”
Susan is confused. “What do you mean?”
“I have, ahem, a day job.” Jonny shakes his head in disbelief. “Art don’t pay the bills, girlfriend. At least not since kids like you started downloading songs for free. And I like to live well. In case you couldn’t tell.”
“What’s your day job?” Susan’s mind is being blown.
“I compose jingles,” he says, looking a little embarrassed but also proud, like there’s something funny about it.
“Oh my god.” Susan is, for some reason, delighted by this.
Perhaps because it makes him seem human.
At the same time, she realizes how little she’s bothered to learn about him, blushing as she considers the fact that she’s somehow made their relationship all about her and that she assumed that because she’s familiar with his music, she’s familiar with his life.
But then curiosity supersedes her embarrassment and she asks, “Can I hear one?”
“You probably already have. My most recent ad for Tylenol is playing in every Duane Reade in the city.”
She has heard the Tylenol song. It’s often stuck in her head. “That’s amazing,” she says, and means it, resisting the urge to sing his own jingle to him.
He smiles, shrugs, and gestures for her to move so he can make up the couch.
As he adjusts the linen sheet, she asks, “Hey, why are you always so nice to me?”
“It’s selfish,” he says. “Helping you makes me feel better about myself.”
She can’t tell if he’s kidding or not. There is nothing selfish about the way he takes care of her.
“Can I ask you one more question?”
He nods. “It doesn’t have to be just one.”
“How did you convince him to hire me?”
“I gave him a thinly veiled ultimatum.” Jonny pauses, a small, sheepish smile playing across his face, like he feels guilty. “I told him that Sub Pop is trying to poach me.”
She gasps. “But why don’t you just go to Sub Pop?”
“Because they’re not actually trying to poach me.” He grins.
Susan laughs with delight. He’d lied for her. He is a real friend.
“Sleep well,” he says. “Let me know if you need anything. I gotta pass out.”
Still vibrating with glee from her friend and the show and how the front woman of the band looked at her, Susan doesn’t sleep for one second.
Ramona and her bandmates come to the office the next Wednesday afternoon.
Susan meets them in the front and brings them over to where Ben, Heather, and Drew are sitting on the couches in the back.
She’s trying hard not to look at Ramona, but she feels Ramona watching her and finally she turns around and smiles.
“How’s it going?” Susan says.
Ramona smirks.
Before she can say anything, Ben is on his feet and overwhelming them with his enthusiasm. “Assistant, go get water for our guests,” he shouts at her.
Susan slinks away, embarrassed to not be invited to the artist meeting she secured and to instead be treated like the help.
Later, when the band is leaving, Ramona stops at Susan’s desk. Without saying a word, she takes a pen and writes a phone number on a Post-it note, followed by a smiley face. She doesn’t look at Susan as she turns to leave.
Before Susan can really react, she catches Heather watching her.
“Please don’t do anything that would compromise our business,” Heather says.
“I’d never,” Susan says, but she’s already wondering what would count as something compromising.
As per the advice she gets when she googles “how long do you wait to call a girl when she gives you her number,” Susan commits to giving it exactly three days before calling Ramona.
She doesn’t want to seem desperate, but she also knows if she waits too long, Ramona will likely have forgotten all about her.
In the meantime, she looks Ramona up on YouTube and listens to every song she’s ever put out into the world.
The music is just okay, Susan realizes, now that she’s not caught up in the mesmerizing glow of the live performance.
But it doesn’t really matter. Ramona is attractive in a way that makes her seem destined for success.
Writing better music could be learned, Susan thinks, or someone could be hired to write it for her.
It seems rare to be both talented and hot enough to be famous.
On the third day, standing on the corner outside the office on her lunch break while groups of tiny summer campers in matching T-shirts are led toward the water by stressed-out-looking teen counselors, Susan calls Ramona.
“Hey, this is Susan, from Rider,” she says. It occurs to her that Ramona probably doesn’t know her name. “You left your number on my desk?”
“Hey,” Ramona says in her ear, and it sounds like she’s smiling. “You finally called me.”
“Yeah,” Susan says, trying to be casual. “Thought I might give you a ring.” Fuck, she thinks. She sounds downright middle-aged.
“What are you doing tonight?” Ramona asks.
“Tonight?” Susan repeats. She begins to pace in a circle.
Ramona laughs. “Tonight.”