Tempo Change Page 6

  It was your typical New Agey incense store with crystals and Buddhas and selections of tea. It was called Sanctuary Tide, which seemed like two words that didn’t belong together, but it conjured images of all your dreams coming true and stuff so we went in.

  There were wind chimes and candles and everything smelled like church and there was some distant flute playing. Buddhas were everywhere, side by side with African masks and some Shiva the destroyers, and that Hindu elephant god with extra arms. I felt nervous. My mother was always dragging me into stores like that when I was little, on her search for whatever was going to save her, and she changed religions or spiritual disciplines the way most people changed their hairstyles.

  This was in the beginning of the program when she felt she needed some kind of concrete image of God in order to surrender to Him. She went through every imaginable icon on her altar before giving up and deciding He was the Energy that picked up where hers ran out. He was, she said, doing all the things we only thought we were doing. She said things like “It’s not your will that makes everything work, Blanche. It just isn’t.”

  But in Sanctuary Tide, the other girls were poking around and laughing and smelling things while the woman behind the counter with dreadlocks and nineteen piercings and tattoos on her neck glared at them in a way that wasn’t very bodhisattva. I was ready to leave.

  “Come on, you guys,” I said.

  They didn’t hear me. They were intrigued with something over in the corner.

  I could feel the eyes of Dreds bearing down on us.

  “Guys, we’re going to be late,” I insisted.

  The others were lifting the top off an ornate wooden and brass canister. It had wire mesh at the top with a little piggy-bank type slit and you could look through and see little pieces of paper piling up at the bottom.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Fancy trash can, I guess,” Gigi said.

  It had some kind of hieroglyphic writing on it, which meant it was especially holy. God spoke Chinese or Egyptian or Latin, never English.

  From across the room, Dreds said, “It’s a prayer box.”

  “What’s that?” Viv asked.

  “It’s a thing you put prayers in, genius,” Ella said.

  “Why would you put prayers in something?” Gigi asked.

  By now Dreds had flip-flopped her way over to us.

  “It’s my favorite thing in the store,” she said in a serious tone. She reeked of clove cigarettes and she had Chinese symbols tattooed across both hands to match the ones on her neck. “What you do is you offer your most sacred prayer and the box contains it for you.”

  “Why would you want a prayer to be contained?” Ella asked. “Wouldn’t you want it to go to heaven?”

  “Why would you need to write it down?” said Gigi. “God can’t hear?”

  “Writing something down impresses the unconscious,” Dreds said a little impatiently, “and the unconscious communicates directly with Spirit. So it’s a faster process.”

  “So it’s like the FedEx of praying,” Viv said.

  I laughed. “Good one. You are coming along, grasshopper. You’re getting the hang of relentless sarcasm.”

  “Mocking the Spirit doesn’t make it less real,” said Dreds in a serious tone.

  “A prayer box doesn’t make it more real,” Viv said with a degree of haughtiness. “My father’s a physicist and my mother’s a biologist and they say there’s no empirical evidence of anything but a random and indifferent universe.” (She said this like it was something she memorized because she didn’t understand what it meant but it carried a lot of weight at her house. The way, ironically, some people memorize prayers.)

  “Here’s what you do,” Dreds said, deciding that Viv wasn’t worth arguing with. “You take a piece of paper, you write your prayer on it, you put it in the prayer box. You don’t think about the prayer again. If you think about it again, it takes the power away from it because it exhibits a lack of faith. The universe, see, is very literal and if you offer something to it, it will provide what you want but it can’t connect as powerfully if you keep doubting it. It interferes with the energetic communion.”

  “Well, we wouldn’t want to do that,” Ella said.

  “It’s the way you don’t talk about a wish that you make.” Dreds powered on. “Everything leaks energy when you transfer it or translate it.”

  “Does it cost anything to give it a shot?” Gigi asked.

  “No.”

  “Then I’m game.”

  Gigi took the pad of paper and pencil that were sitting by the prayer box. She scribbled on a piece of the paper and dropped it in the canister.

  “Do I have to chant or anything now?” she asked Dreds.

  “No.”

  “Awesome.”

  To my surprise, Ella followed suit and dropped in a prayer. Viv scoffed and then said she was going to do it just to prove it didn’t work. That left me as the holdout and I had to go for it because I didn’t feel we had time for an argument. I scribbled something quickly and dropped it in and then, at last, we could leave.

  Dreds was happy to see us go. We ran back to school and we missed the second bell and we all got demerit slips.

  The No-Talent Show

  THE FIRST THING THAT WENT WRONG: THE IDEA CAUGHT ON.

  Every day when I walked past the talent roster, I saw another new act, until there were almost twenty acts signed up. This up from four when the roster first appeared.

  Some of the Chelseas from choir decided they would sing an a cappella song, and one of the computer Joshes revealed that he could play the accordion. There were a flute player and a stand-up comedian, three jugglers, one combo Hula Hoop routine/magic act, and some pet tricks.

  “No competition,” Gigi said. “We’re going to sweep.”

  I wasn’t so sure anymore. Especially when I witnessed the second thing that went wrong. We were setting up inside the Art Deco auditorium—it had been a supper club when the school was a hotel, so it had a round stage and tapestry chairs and booths along the walls. I was looking around to see how the tiles and the carpet were going to affect the acoustics when I saw my mother walking in. That was bad enough but she had brought Ed the Guitar Guy. I couldn’t remember how to breathe.

  Viv saw my expression. “Dude, is that your mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, my God, why did you invite your mom?” Gigi asked. “Nobody lets parents in on this stuff.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “How’d she find out?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Ed the Guitar Guy saw my approach before my mother did and I had to give him credit, he read my body language correctly. His smile vanished and he started tapping my mother on the arm. Mom looked at me and she didn’t bat an eye at my demeanor.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I asked.

  “I wanted to see.”

  “This is not for you.”

  She just smiled.

  “Mom, seriously, don’t you realize you’re embarrassing me?”

  “I’m always embarrassing you. But I wanted to see you play.”

  “How did you even find out?”

  “The school sends me e-mails, Blanche. I do know how to read e-mails.”

  “I think it’s my fault,” Ed the Guitar Guy said. “I suggested coming. Your mom said you’d hate it.”

  “Stop being noble, Ed,” my mother said. “It was completely my idea and I asked him to come with me. I intended to sneak in the back and you’d never know I was here. I guess we were early.”

  “I don’t care whose idea it was because I have a brand-new idea. You go home now.”

  “You can’t blame your mom for wanting to see this,” said Ed the Guitar Guy. “She’s proud of you. She is being quite nice especially since you never told her.”

  I looked at him. “I’m sorry. Have we barely met?”

  Mr. Carmichael, who was running the whole show, chose that moment to come
over and say hello so I had to introduce them and then he showed them where the best place to sit was so that they could see and hear perfectly.

  At that point, I had lost the battle.

  “So at least sit in the back where I can’t see you?” I asked.

  “Well, we’re here now and I wouldn’t want to hurt your teacher’s feelings,” Mom said. She smiled at me.

  When I made my way back over to the Fringers they had all the equipment set up and were pretending like they hadn’t been staring.

  “Who’s the guy?” Viv asked.

  “Ed the Guitar Guy. Just act like it’s not happening.”

  I could feel tears pushing their way up and I didn’t want anyone to see it. I couldn’t admit to them what was really bothering me. Playing in front of a bunch of kids who went to the worst private school in L.A. wasn’t all that intimidating. But the woman who was married to Duncan Kelly and her new boyfriend who’d gone to Berklee was something I wasn’t ready for. Plus I’d been so sure we were going to win and now, with all the new competition piling up, and my confidence shaken, I wasn’t sure we could even place. What if we lost to jugglers or someone in a Hula Hoop? How would one walk away from that, head held high?

  Suddenly I thought about putting one foot in front of the other. Jeff told me that. Seeing his face only made things worse. At least it was only in my imagination, unlike other faces I knew. My stomach was hurting and I didn’t think I could remember how to make a G chord and I wished with everything in my body that I hadn’t started this. I missed my life of a recluse and my music column and being someone who had opinions instead of trying to take action.

  But it was too late for any of that.

  I stood backstage with the Fringers and watched all the acts. The Chelseas were pretty good and they had thought about wearing matching outfits. We were just wearing our uniforms—it hadn’t occurred to me that we could break dress code for this. One juggler was good and the Hula Hoop magic act wasn’t terrible and the comedian got three big laughs.

  When we took the stage, I could see all the faces. I thought they would blur and run together but they didn’t. I could see eyes and expressions and body language. People were waiting.

  But mostly I saw my mother and Ed the Guitar Guy. They were actually trying to hunker down in their seats but they might as well have been standing right in front of me.

  My guitar buzzed when I first turned on the amp but I quickly adjusted, and as I heard Ella count us in and I was staring at the expectant faces, this idea raced through my brain:

  I’m up here and you’re not. I’m willing.

  Yep, my dad’s idea. The difference between us and them was willingness.

  No one could blame me for being willing. I concentrated.

  The music was playing and I remembered all the chords and I was able to do some tricks I didn’t even think I knew. The applause and the whooping started before we even got to the bridge and Viv was singing as if her whole life depended on it. My eyes roamed around the room and I saw Dr. Bonny, in a purple suit, chomping Altoids and smiling. Next to her, Dr. Morleymower was openmouthed, and next to him Mr. Carmichael couldn’t resist bobbing his head.

  It was over before I wanted it to be. We wrapped it up and I messed up this fancy ending I had learned but it didn’t matter because people were on their feet and the Fringers were really born.

  Dr. Bonny gave us the trophy, handing it to Viv, who promptly handed it over to me, and it seemed like the applause went on for half a day.

  I saw my mother and Ed the Guitar Guy beaming and suddenly their presence didn’t bug me so much.

  I imagined my father watching and smiling.

  I was convinced that wherever he was he could feel it happening.

  And suddenly, for the first time, I was starting to understand who he was and what he became and why he wanted to be that guy.

  When we were leaving the auditorium—stopping every two seconds, it seemed, to accept congratulations and even to sign some autographs—Gigi leaned over to me and said, “It’s really weird.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what I put in the prayer box. That we would win the talent show.”

  “Gigi, odds were great that we were going to win the talent show. Us or the Hula Hoop act.”

  “I know, it’s just a little weird.”

  “It’s not even a little weird. It’s common sense. We earned it.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “Hang in there,” I said. “Don’t wig. We have a long road ahead. And besides, we have Ella to supply all our needs for weird.”

  The Whisky A Go Go

  HERE ARE THE PEOPLE WHO’VE PLAYED THERE SINCE IT WAS established in 1964: the Byrds, Alice Cooper, Buffalo Springfield, Love, the Doors, Jimi Hendrix, Sam and Dave, the Turtles, the Kinks, the Who, Cream, Led Zeppelin, Roxy Music, Oasis, X, M?tley Crüe, Van Halen, Van Morrison, the Ramones, the Misfits, Blondie, Talking Heads, Elvis Costello.

  And Duncan Kelly.

  My parents used to tell stories about it when I was little. I didn’t pay much attention because of two things. I didn’t know he was going to leave and I didn’t know I was going to be a musician myself. The main story I remembered was that it was supposed to be haunted. I remembered being at the table when my father was telling stories about people who had experienced sightings and my mom said, “Duncan, they’re musicians, they’re haunted wherever they go.” And they laughed. I wasn’t old enough to know what that meant. But I knew they had some kind of secret language. It was the moment I realized my parents had a life that predated me. It was a thought that cheered me and that I conjured whenever I got worried about them. Whenever they fought. When my father stayed in the studios for days. When he didn’t have time for us. When he was cranky. When he was drinking. When she was drinking about his drinking. It drove my mother crazy, his moodiness and his creative attacks, but I always wondered why it surprised her. Didn’t she know he was a musician? Didn’t she know there was a price to pay for that?

  I knew that I blamed my mother for giving up on him. I knew that I thought if she’d only been more patient, smarter, more creative herself, he would have stuck around. I also knew how completely wrong and unfair that was. I had made a little headway into changing my mind and then Ed the Guitar Guy. What’s a girl supposed to do?

  If Ed, now known to me as ETG, wasn’t evidence of a woman underachieving, honoring her lowest self, I didn’t know what was.

  I mean, this guy gave up on being a musician and settled for just selling stuff to other musicians. He must have wanted to do something great at one time. Where did that go? He had played in some L.A. bands (so he said, I had not heard of them), had toured the country and Europe once, had had some songs published and even recorded by other artists. And then one day, he chucked it all and opened a guitar store. What the hell was that?

  Ed only laughed when I asked him. (I asked him more politely.)

  Sometimes he’d say the thing about liking the tool more than the trade. This was clearly his stock answer he’d come up with for any time he was challenged on it, like Viv’s answer to God. Sometimes he’d say, “I didn’t like all the drama. You gotta like the drama a little bit.” Sometimes he’d say, “I saw too many friends die from it.” The last one he’d pull out when I got particularly belligerent.

  Mom seemed to think he was the greatest. She laughed at his lame jokes. She hung on his every word. She didn’t have to tell me any of that. I saw the way she looked at him.

  It wasn’t just that she was giving up on my dad ever coming back. It was that now I knew she made a lie out of ever wanting him or being with him. How could that woman want Duncan Kelly one minute, Ed the Guitar Guy the next? It made no sense.

  Unless she had given up on anything great or magical in life.

  When Thanksgiving came around, instead of ignoring it and taking me to In-N-Out and a movie the way she usually did—which might sound depressing but it was our thing and it was fun—sh
e made the traditional turkey-and-stuffing dinner and had ETG over and they both put on dressy clothes. He wore a sports jacket and a turtleneck and loafers. She put on a tight black dress and heels. I sat there in my jeans and Clash T-shirt and shook my head, watching them putter around the kitchen and make noises of satisfaction over the food.

  “We never do this, you know,” I told Ed. “We usually ignore Thanksgiving.”

  “Me too,” he said. “But it’s nice to have someone to celebrate it with.”

  “We had each other. Before you.”

  “Yeah, I know, I’m horning in.”

  “We could have all gone to a movie. I’m not saying you’re not welcome. I’m just saying it’s not clear why we had to change our whole tradition.”

  My mother smiled at me, but it was that oh-brother-what-have-I-created smile.

  She said, “We can still go to a movie later. Or you can go to one by yourself after our meal. The bus goes all over town.”

  “Kicked out. Awesome.”

  “You are being a pill,” she said. “Is that part of being in a rock band?”

  “No, it’s part of being—”

  I almost said your daughter but I knew that one would get me grounded.

  I didn’t really feel that way but I felt like I felt that way.

  I didn’t understand the complicated mess that was me.

  Later, after dinner, ETG explained it to me.

  Mom was washing dishes and I was fooling with my guitar and staring at a football game in the living room and he sat down next to me.

  “Football fan?” he asked.

  “No. Nor a talking-about-it fan.”

  He sighed and said, “Well, we’re going to talk about it.”

  I was surprised, and I had to admit, a little pleased to see a bit of spine on him.

  “Nervous about the Whisky show?” he asked.

  “No. Why do you say that?”

  “Because when I had shows coming up, I used to get nervous, but I didn’t know how to be nervous so I just got mean.”