In the next room, the 65 year old boys exchange the intricacies of guitar playing, the details of their toys which such imagined exactitude. They speak numbers like a secret language, narrowing it down until they can figure out the exact secret code; letting them into the good graces of the Rock Star like the right knock for the speakeasy.
The tumbler will slide into the right combination, the gates will open and he will offer them a smile of recognition. Open Sesame. And the funny thing about his smile. It is magic. He’s an old man, just another one, and then he gets on stage and smiles. He evokes himself in the younger magic days, when good luck gets taken for granted.
Another guy of his generation fell into his luck. Raised by a record store owner, already heir to the Hip trends and with music swimming around him like delicious food in an Italian kitchen. He knows nothing of negativity or depression, the same way that some people are honestly ignorant of religion-and the spectrum of emotions which run alongside it.
“I had hard times, sure, but I asked my Dad, and he said, “Anything is possible” and I believed him.
This man causes people to love and hate him at the same time. His philosophy runs knee deep, like a kiddie pool. Instinctively, she begins to respect her Rock Star. For all the drowning he’s done in life, he’s at least aware of it-the highs and lows- and doesn’t succumb to this ethical amnesia and denial.
“Relax, I told her. I mean, yes, I said I LOVE you, but that doesn’t mean I want to fuck you. She got VERY uptight about the whole deal”
Somehow the more he talked, the more he tried to diffuse this random story, the more one could tell that he did make an appropriate remark. Perhaps LOTS of them.
When he played his coronet (??) /fluglehorn he tried to ride the wave of jazz. Somehow he always seemed to be off on some notes. Granted, Jazz is a very flexible medium, but here, somehow, he stood out like a bad dancer. Glide, glide, trip, rhythm, rhythm, fall. She held her smile perfectly, like the waiters who effortlessly carry their trays of champagne over the crowd’s heads.
Here was a perfectly nice, if fuzzy character. If she were smart, she’d switch alliances and ride off with this guy tonight. He seemed to have all the money and the fortune that by all rights should have accrued to her Rock Star. Their paths had diverged in the woods, and he had figured out how to sell out early and well.
Buoyed up by his brother and record store parents, he’d gotten a backup singing spot on a TV Show. Flown to New York for a car commercial, everyone seemed to want to open doors for him. Learned how to manage a Sound Board, made just the right friends. Could hang in head in sorrow like Gielgud when a pop hit from the 80’s came on. Tear in his eye-”Man, that kid was so young, only 50. I still can’t believe it,” What do you call it when someone seems to be acting in a bad made-for-tv movie, but it is their real life? Sure, you were best friends with your Rock Star, but don’t expect me to console you at this party in a rooftop bar.
And then there was that NY1 Movie Reviewer, who loved the mileage he got out of reducing weekly Hollywood releases to a 30 second synopsis. He hated everything she loved, which turned out to be the ones he couldn’t stay awake for. She watched him for the sheer spite of flipping his advice on its head. She met him at a party hosted by a former “would-be politician” (ran for Governor of NY on a ticket for a party that didn’t even survive the election). It was one of those nights when she had decided to wear something especially low cut so that she could hate every man who ogled her.
“NICE BREASTS!” was the first greeting she got when she stepped off the elevator. This came from a woman who, slightly drunk and possibly coming from the same strategic viewpoint as she, was immediately (if briefly) her comrade in arms. Literally.
“YOU HAVE LOVELY CLEAVAGE AS WELL!” At a party with this soundtrack, remarks were exchanged at a scream over the music, but everyone acted as if it were all completely normal.
Two men had been hanging onto the woman, one of whom was the former politician. And somehow, their conversation had turned into a group hug in which large breasts seemed to form the central motif. The former politician was laughing, as was the other man. The former politician might have been wise to steer away from politics, for his proclivities towards exactly these sort of parties. Not because sexual scandals were commonplace, or even commonly competing for highest shick value. She knew him to be an extremely closeted gay man, to the point where she was almost eager to let him continue to flirt with her to gain his confidence. If he couldn’t come out of the closet to another man, straight or gay, maybe he needed sisterly shoulder to cry on. Or even a fag hag. She knew that it wouldn’t do for a politician to be closeted (or even worse, in denial to even himself). New York could stand to have its politicians lie, but it would eat them alive if they were discovered to be in denial.
Written 11/24/13
