“Guess who?” Marianne felt soft clammy hands over her eyes and knew immediately who it was, pulling them off her face and turning.
“Hi, Todd.”
“I saw your mom in the health food store last week.”
“She lives on those bar things. Calling them healthy is a joke. They’re mostly sugar and fat.”
“She gave me your number,” Todd said, looking away, “but I didn’t want to call.”
“Why not?”
“Are you playing dumb or did you forget completely?” Todd shifted his weight from one leg to the other, an awkward dance. “I was expecting you. It was a good party, you know. I hired a DJ and everything. You would have enjoyed it.”
“Oh god, I’m sorry. Your eighteenth birthday party.” Marianne hit her hand against the side of her head. “I haven’t been well, Todd. Can you ever forgive me?”
Todd’s lower lip quivered and he scratched at a red place above his right eyebrow. “Hey, no biggie. It would have been nice to have you there, but it was a good day anyway.” His eyes were a hound dog’s – big and watery – and Marianne gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.
“I’ll get you a present though. I’m really sorry. Look I’ve got to go.”
“Wait. Marianne, it’s okay, really. I’ll walk with you to school. ET is playing at the Odeon. You wanna come with me on Saturday? The alien looks just like my dog, Buster.”
“Yes, sure, oh wait, I can’t do Saturday. We’ll definitely get together though. I’m so sorry about the party. I’ll call you.”
“What about school? Aren’t you going?”
Marianne walked away so quickly she was nearly running. Todd was a nice boy and she’d been rotten. His drooping face stayed in her head as she headed past the Park Avenue shops towards the train station. She would surprise Miles. His apartment shouldn’t be too hard to find. She had to see him. It was gravity pulling her towards the Long Island Rail Road.
Miles had pointed out his building to Marianne a few times but she wasn’t sure which apartment was his. She found West Houston and Broadway and looked for a bolted metal door with tiny spaceship shaped rivets, set amidst art galleries, antiques, bread shops and hidden restaurants known only to the in crowd. One of the doors looked familiar and she decided to chance it. She knocked several times, pummeling to make a sound, but there was no response. She put her ear up against the door and could just make out music.
“You made me love you darlin’ … you made me leave my happy home …”
She banged again, harder. Finally Miles opened the door.
“Shit! What are you doing here, beautiful?”
“I found it,” she panted, as he took her coat.
“I didn’t even know you knew where I lived. We’re rehearsing. Come in. Did I tell you about the band?”
Miles’ place was a single open room with a sleeping loft above it. Instruments were scattered below the loft: electric guitars, amplifiers, a drum kit and two microphones. A short, red-haired girl stood next to the microphone, dressed in a gray sweatshirt with a jagged cut out neck and black leggings.
“This is Marianne. Marianne; Cath, Joe, Andy, Mike.” Miles rattled names like fire from a machine gun. Marianne said hello in a shaky voice. Her awkwardness and youth felt a burden as the band continued to play through the introduction.
“Sit down, Mari. We won’t be long.”
Marianne sat on an old wooden fruit crate. The singer, Cath, stood close to the microphone, her body gyrating with the music. She had a gritty, bluesy voice, full of pain; a life lived hard. Her hair was hennaed. Marianne recognized the shade from the time her friend Cheryl talked her into henna in the hope that a few gentle highlights would liven her frizzy mop, but she ended up with almost the same electric shade of red. Luckily it faded quickly. Cath’s hair looked deliberate, her small neck circled by a studded dog collar. The punk effect didn’t fit the bluesy singing, but it matched the double fisted dancing, running mascara, pale lips and angry facial expressions.
While Cath did most of the singing, the others twitched their shoulders, kicked their feet and flapped long hair in time.
The drummer opened his eyes, looked at her and winked, while his large arms pounded on the drum kit, reminding her of the school band she quit towards the end of last year. She still remembered Mr Springwood’s hurt face as she told him she wouldn’t be coming back in senior year. He took band seriously and her departure felt like betrayal. He was probably right. She couldn’t even remember why she left now. It was part of a gradual sloughing of roles, shedding electives in preparation for an academic future.
Miles stood in the midst of the sound. The harmonica he played was high-pitched and tinny, circled by the percussion and smoky vocals. Marianne felt a lump in her throat as he increased the tempo. It was as if someone sat next to her, crying. She wanted to comfort him, easing the sorrow that sat just between his lips and his instrument. The other musicians were little more than adjuncts to Miles’ playing once he started, and she lost interest in Cath, singing “If I ever mistreated you darlin’, I’m so sorry that I did …”
Miles looked straight at Marianne while he blew alternatively into the harmonicas, his green cat’s eyes a pair of disengaged marbles. She wondered for a moment why she was here. Then the five repetitive chords of the music began to take on the contours of her body, reducing her to something primal, a mass of moving atoms, forming and reforming while Miles’ music barked and moaned, playing inside her, snaking round her brain.
Miles was now singing “blue bird when you get to Jackson …” while Cath shook a tambourine, looking at him with a similar expression to Marianne’s. Marianne shivered, wondering whether Cath had some kind of musical power that she didn’t. The song finished abruptly, breaking the spell, and Marianne stood, knocking over a coffee cup left lying on the floor. Cold coffee spilled over her jeans and she stumbled as she tried to clean it up with her arm, apologizing.
“Hey, it’s no big deal, let me help,” said the drummer, shaking his long curly hair. Marianne looked over at Miles, packing away his harmonicas.
“Enough for today guys,” Miles said definitively.
“That was nice,” she said, and it was obvious from the faces of the band that ‘nice’ was the wrong word to use.
“Not just a pretty face, eh?” the drummer leered.
“Not exactly enthusiastic, is she, Sonny Boy,” said Cath in a nasal voice that contrasted with the deep voice she sang in. Her chewing gum cracked as she waited for a response. Marianne wondered how she could sing with gum in her mouth; while Cath glared at her, her hair the red of the melting clock in Marianne’s nightmares.
“How old are you, honey? Hope you don’t mind me asking.”
“Um, nineteen,” Marianne said in a timid voice.
“Yeah right, nineteen my ass. C’mon Miles, you hanging around high schools or something? She’s a little young for you.”
“Give her a break, Cath. It ain’t your fucking business. Now get going everyone. I’ve gotta practice,” he said grinning his crooked smile. Miles didn’t have to be eloquent. His body spoke its own language.
Cath grabbed Miles’ arm, leaning into his face. “Yeah sure, sweetie. It’s your life. But watch out for the cops. You just give me a call if you get lonely for a grown up, okay?”
Marianne’s mouth dropped as she tried to maintain eye contact with both Cath and Miles, but it was impossible. Miles laughed, his body moving even more than usual, and Cath opened the door.
“Hey, don’t take offence, honey. I’m just teasing. You can take a joke can’t you? Later folks.”
Marianne felt the hard words aimed at her from Cath’s gun of a mouth. Marianne didn’t fire any bullets back. Embarrassed as she was, she knew she had the upper hand. Miles was hers now and the others would have to go somewhere else in the impersonal New York City afternoon.
The four band members left in a clatter of instruments and then she was alone with Miles in the empty studio.
“Hungry?” he asked her.
“Not really.” Marianne’s stomach growled, but she liked the empty feeling as he pulled her towards him, his rough hand on the smooth of her back.