Chapter 4 #2
Susan gets ready for Jonny’s show in the bright office bathroom, peeling off her jeans and throwing on a thrifted black slip dress, combat boots, and a leather motorcycle jacket, though she’ll also have to wear her long puffer coat over it, because it’s freezing out.
She uses a paper towel to blot the grease on her face and fluffs her hair with her fingers.
These days she settles for looking good enough. She’s not trying to impress anyone.
She gets to Bowery Ballroom a little after 8 PM.
The dimly lit lounge on the first floor of the venue is slowly filling up with people, many of whom she recognizes: Jonny’s fans, industry executives, musicians, bloggers.
She avoids making eye contact so she won’t have to talk to any of them.
She’s feeling less social these days in general.
She can’t be bothered to make small talk, especially not with people who want something from her.
The entrance to the venue itself is at the back of the lounge.
There’s a girl sitting at a desk in front of it.
She has radiant light brown skin and short, dark hair shaved on the sides, a carabiner keychain attached to the belt loop of her black jeans.
Short, plain fingernails, a few silver rings.
Definitely gay, Susan idly assesses, not that it matters.
Susan doesn’t care about meeting new gay women anymore. None of them are Eliza.
“Hey, we’re not letting people in yet,” the door girl says as Susan approaches her.
“Oh, I’m actually working,” Susan says. “I’m with Rider?”
“Oh, hi.” The door girl smiles. “Okay, let me just mark your hand.”
Susan holds her hand out and the door girl marks a gentle x on the inside of her wrist with a Sharpie.
“I’m Angie, by the way,” the door girl says. “You can leave your coat with me if you want.”
“Oh, fuck, thank you, that’s really nice,” Susan says, taking it off and balling it up. “I’m Susan.”
Angie stashes Susan’s coat under the table. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Actually, do you have the list?” Susan says. “Can I just make sure my friends are on there?”
Angie pushes a clipboard over the desk.
Susan scans it, seeing Katie and Jake’s names. “Okay, great, thanks,” she says. “Do you mind if I sneak inside?”
“Go for it,” Angie says.
Inside the venue, Susan goes up to the balcony, roped off with a handwritten VIP sign. She texts Katie: “Are you guys still coming?”
“We’re going to try our best,” Katie writes back, which sounds like a no.
Susan had invited Mia, too, though Mia doesn’t really like going to shows and the invite had been a stretch.
Heather definitely won’t come—she still boycotts Rider events even without Ben at the helm.
But that’s okay. Susan has other friends who might show up, music industry buddies she’s met over the years.
Just then, as though conjured from her thoughts, Jonny appears. “Oh, thank fuck you’re here,” he says.
He looks sadder than she’s ever seen him.
“My love,” she says.
“I think I’m going to have to call it.”
“Call … what, exactly?” she asks.
“This.” He gestures to the stage, the techies setting up his equipment. The house lights are still on. “The rock star life that wasn’t.”
“But, Jonny, you can’t quit now. This record is the most wonderful thing I’ve ever heard.”
“And then what happens?” he says. “It’s still not bringing in enough money to quit my day job. I can’t even do a proper tour. It’s just going to create more work for me. Not more money or more stability. I’m not as young as I used to be.”
“We can push it harder,” she says. “We can try to get it on, like, an Apple commercial. What’s the point of Tamara if she can’t make that happen for you?”
“Ha,” he says. “Tamara. What a fucking trip.”
“Oh, before I forget, she wants me to tell you she loves you.”
“Not Tamara thinking she loves me.” He laughs, incredulous. “Listen, I don’t want What-What to be in an Apple commercial or any of that nonsense. This band was always supposed to be for the people. Not the corporations. The corporations get the music I make during the day.”
“Noble,” she says.
He waves this away. “It was a passion project, and I’ve run out of passion. I’m doing this show because I want to go out with a bang. And because I can’t say no to your sweet little face.” He pinches her cheek. “After this, though, I don’t know.”
They let that hang in the air between them for a few moments. Susan doesn’t believe him. He’s prone to believing the worst-case scenario when it comes to his own career.
Before she can say anything else, Ramona walks up to them wearing a red boilersuit and steel-toed boots, her platinum hair in an aggressive ponytail.
The Monas are doing a favor for Rider by opening tonight.
They don’t really need to play shows like this anymore.
They’re doing arenas now, opening for pop stars.
Since American Apparel has declared bankruptcy, Ramona only models for niche luxury brands like Eckhaus Latta and Collina Strada, who put her on wheat paste campaigns that run beneath scaffolding in Bushwick.
One of the many reasons Susan hates going to Bushwick, aside from the fact that everyone who lives there looks eighteen.
“Goldstein.” Ramona nods at Susan, who forces a tight smile back, before giving Jonny a hug. “Congrats, man. We’re all stoked for you.”
Jonny is never anything but gracious to Ramona’s face, but the second she’s out of earshot, he says, “She looks like a fucking car mechanic.”
“I hate that she always looks good,” Susan says.
“She doesn’t,” he says. “You have your ex-goggles on. She’s just rich and mean. And besides, didn’t you say the sex was bad?”
“Yeah, but maybe I was the problem. Maybe I just didn’t know what I was doing,” she says.
He raises his eyebrows. “My friend, I highly, highly doubt that.”
“Thanks,” she says. “Too bad you and I can’t be together.”
“No, no, you don’t want that. I would make a terrible lesbian.”
“As if I make a good one?”
“You will,” he says. “You just need to get back out there. Get some more practice.”
Susan wonders how much more practice she could possibly need.
The room has filled up with people waiting to see the Monas.
Their fans are young and hip; Susan suspects many of them are using fake IDs.
She scans the crowd out of habit, her stare lingering on anyone with purple hair, or a shaved head, or hair that’s been dyed blond and straightened.
Not that she’d know what to say if Eliza was here.
She’s heard from Eliza only once since their breakup. It was 2 AM, right after the article about Ben came out, and she awoke from a sweaty, stoned sleep to the sound of her phone vibrating. Susan squinted at the screen in the darkness, her eyes having trouble focusing.
The text said: “hey, I’ve been following the news. hope it’s ok that I’m reaching out. just wanted to say I’m really proud of you. and fuck that guy.”
She turned her phone over, unable to write back. There was nothing she could say that would feel true other than I’m sorry for falling in love with you too soon.
In the morning, she forced herself to block Eliza’s number. She didn’t want to have to risk the shock of seeing that name on a screen again.
But she still spends a good deal of time wondering what she could have done differently, or if every road would have just led them away from one another. And she can’t break the habit of looking for her. Sometimes she even sees her, but then she looks closer and Eliza’s specter vanishes.
The Monas walk onstage to a roar of applause. Ramona shields her eyes from the light, grinning. “Hi, we’re the Monas,” she says into the mic, as though everyone there doesn’t know. “Cheers to What-What on the new album. It fucking rips.”
Jonny raises his beer and bows his head. He’s so good at being nice.
Ramona nods at the synth player behind her as she counts, “One, two, three,” and the air is filled with the grating dance-pop beat of their latest single.
Susan can barely conceal her grimace.
Jonny nudges her. “You don’t have to be here for this.”
Susan heads back out to the bar. It’s quieter here, though still full of people huddled at tables speaking at normal volumes to each other. It’s a nice break from the screaming crowd.
“Leaving so soon?” Angie says, from her perch by the door.
“No,” Susan says. “Hiding. My ex is performing.”
Angie makes a sound that’s halfway between a laugh and a groan. “Ramona?”
Susan pauses in front of Angie. “Oh no.”
“Oh, yeah. My ex, too.”
Susan gasps, putting her hands on either side of her face like the painting The Scream. “Oh my god,” she says. “Why are there only ten lesbians in this city?”
“It’s our curse,” Angie says, not looking the least bit surprised. “Can I buy you a drink about it? I can leave my post for a little bit.”
When she stands up, Susan notices that Angie is very tall. And cute.
At the bar, Susan orders another Pbr, but Angie stops her. “What would you drink if you could actually afford something good?”
Susan doesn’t know. She quickly eyes the line of beer cans behind the bar. “Uh, Stella?”
“Great,” Angie says. “Two Stellas, please.”
One sip in and Susan discovers that she absolutely cannot tell the difference in taste or quality between a Pbr and a Stella, but Angie seems pleased with her choice, so she tries not to second-guess it.
“So what did Ramona do to you?” Angie says.
She’s sitting with her knees pointed at Susan, hirsute skin poking through the rips in her jeans.
“She stole money from her sister and told her sister it was me,” Susan says, laughing at how ridiculous the story seems now.
“Sounds about right,” Angie says.
“And you?”
“Oh, you know, the usual dirtbag stuff. She told me she wasn’t seeing anyone else and was, like, dating half of Brooklyn. Well, North Brooklyn, at least.”
“She was probably doing that to me, too, now that I think about it,” Susan says.
“I don’t think she’s ever not doing that,” Angie says. “At least she doesn’t have dreadlocks anymore.”