"How could you say that to me? I've seen every show you've done in the past 2 years!" The shriek came from a woman, especially thin and brittle. Her voice was sudden violent microphone feedback, the sonic boom of a speaker getting too close. She was dressed somewhat like a pinata, and hovered, debating her position.
He was sometimes cruel to the fans. Very cruel.
He kept sitting in the rock star seat, looking down and saying, "It's the truth". He had a smile on his face, an evil grin that appeared only when he let the friendly mask fall. He knew or imagined the other fans in line would protect him, as would the male bodyguard/sound guy. But it was like staring down the barrel of a gun.
There was a somewhat regular, somewhat devoted and determined group of fans, who were "regulars". If the road were a local bar, you could walk in and have everyone know your name. But these would show up in ANY town. East Coast, West Coast. He long ago learned not to be surprised.
The pinata woman was lately a faithful fan, bringing friends, bringing money to their pitiful tour. Her larger life narrative was being built, moment by moment, something about getting stronger. Left her abusive husband. No job. Not enough money to go on vacation AND her 3 kids, but she came to every show on the weekends.
The woman wouldn't be consoled, and was still ready to fight. He looked around sheepishly, hoping to be rescued. His Sound man had deserted him. The other fans were dropping out of line. It had the potential to turn into a riot. He let the woman scream; her spittle flying through the air like a Shakespearean actor's.
The girl put down her long longed for tuna sandwich. On that hot summer night, she became a witness again. A familiar scene, him flipping out in his quiet way. Not quite ending in violence. Daring to piss off the people who loved him. To reject them, just because he could. Kicking a puppy, tearing off the wings of a butterfly, tough love, maybe. Shaking off the hangers on. Renouncing his position of idol. Of fetish object, the cheshire smile in every photograph. The empty cipher. It made her stomach churn when he renounced character.
She abandoned him as well.
She ran.
Took a set of stairs, and then another. Saw access to a rooftop, jumped up the metal stairs, careful to place the brick in the doorway. Just in case the door locked. The kind of detail he'd be clueless about. He never pays attention to the details. To the people. He was smooth onstage tonight, which meant that he didn't take his meds. He gets strangely centered and ego-centric. Textbook case of a victim of fame. Feeds the ego. He's normally cautious and nervous, overcareful and slightly clumsy. He usually takes care with the fans. Similar mental illness diagnoses.
She literally couldn't stomach this behavior. Standing at the back edge of the roof, she leaned over and heaved the half sandwich she had eaten. She had been starving and was sorry to lose her day's only meal. But nothing about the situation was appetizing anymore. Her car was in the parking lot, she'd have to go back into the performance space to get to her bag and keys, but she could just drive off. And not look back.
She couldn't take it anymore. Sick of being an apologist for a mentally ill, mean, mean mean old man. Her last argument, when he doesn't take his meds, he may talk smoother, he may look more composed, but his music loses the light. The Glow. She was along for the ride because of that one delicate True Thing. She should have predicted. Tonight was smoother, he knew the crowd would be smaller. A sell-out show the day before, then barely enough asses to cover the front section. All his music was terrible tonight. No magic, he forgot lyrics, but there was no generosity coming from the audience to help him. Was it bad that she preferred him honest, weak, vulnerable, caring, sensitive and less of a performer? His secret.
She heard someone coming up the stairs and a loud bang as the door shut behind. The figure lit a cigarette in the distance. She knew it was him by his thin outline against the neon in front of the hall. She snuck up on him out of revenge. A desire to be evil. She punched him on the shoulder.
"Shit! You scared the...."
She began punching him harder, slapping, hitting. He held his arms up for protection but didn't try to hit back.
They ended the fight when she was tired. He offered her his cigarette, once he found the glowing ember on the macadam. She shrugged. Sat down. He did too. They sat for a while, not saying anything.
"I hate it when you turn on people
"She was getting to like this a little too much, she said . . ."
"You didn't have to be an asshole,"
"Maybe not, but if you give them a reality check, every now and then they force themselves to move on. Don't underestimate the power of revenge,"
"She has a history. This is all she has; you're a figure to . . . "
"She fixated on me because its easy. Because it feels safe. Sometimes you have to let the kid burn themselves on the hot stove so they'll stay away from real fire in the future,"
She began to laugh, "That's the sickest thing I've ever heard,"
They laughed together. A good, silly long laugh.
"You ready to go back down?"
"I'd love to finish my sandwich, but they probably bussed the table by now"
"C'mon"
"Wait, when you came up, did you happen to see the brick that was-- oh never mind. You go down and I'll meet you in a minute,"
He shrugged and left.
He circled back a moment later.
"We're locked out up here," he sat back in his spot.
She lay back, looking up at the dark blue sky. There was a moon and more stars than you'd expect with all the neon around them.
==
"I couldn't have predicted this to be my life. I thought there were milestones, specific targets. Fame, fortune, money. But the whole road is bumpy. You are always making it up as you go along. I was her. I AM her."
"Yeah, but you haven't been diagnosed with Aspergers."
"Nope. Bipolar,"
"Right." Of course, always attracted to the crazies. Enough to make her feel crazy. Everything, the old patterns, clicked into place. Nice one day, mean the next. She was too forgiving.
She wanted her sandwich.
They looked up at the stars, he told her some story that she'd been dying to hear. She faded off into sleep, struggling to listen, letting his words turn surreal in her dream. Always a hint of danger. Wanting to love and be open, but knowing that she had to keep holding a fence up in front of her, not knowing the reason, only knowing the duty.
They both woke up with a start when they were nearly kicked in the face with the Sound guy's boot. He nearly tripped searching for them. They still needed to pack up.
==
And even though she prided herself on never looking shocked, she was amazed at the lengths people would go. Literally and figuratively.
She was always nice. He was sometimes . . . cruel. Crueler than he needed to be. Cruel because he was used to it, and knew they would bounce back-even if he offered some tough love. Enormously large women would offer the deepest secrets of their life. And he would laugh at them. Dangerously skinny girls with no social awareness would tell a story about their history of sexual abuse, and the next time he would see them, he would only respond, "I don't care,"
She tried to run crowd control, but overhearing some of these conversations, she'd abandon him to the masses. Her job was to help facilitate sales, to make sure that she was not identified as "The Girlfriend", to be the human side of the equation. But she couldn't help to scrape the fans up off the floor when he was tired and vicious.
FERRON: The greatest concert she had ever been to. Not his. A feminist from the 1970's, the butch queen of a generation. Had practically retired from performing, but did maybe 2 gigs a year. She produced the show, in a giant church. Immediate sell-out. Hordes of self empowered women came through the doors. Everyone wanted her to be Good. And she was. Everything was fine, but maybe 5 songs in, things started to crack. She lost the words. Just her and her guitar. Then it was just the guitar, and then that stopped. "I've forgotten this next line!" she said with a laugh. Someone called it out to her. Generous. She continued, but it happened again. And again. And for ANY other performer, you could have thrown in the towel. Declared them a has-been, not worthy of their attention. But this crowd was generous, giving, wanting to be supportive of her and each other. She had been there for them, giving them coming out words, her own belief in herself easily transferable to them. The single best concert ever.
Stars and the Moon Audra MacDonald
He was sometimes cruel to the fans. Very cruel.
He kept sitting in the rock star seat, looking down and saying, "It's the truth". He had a smile on his face, an evil grin that appeared only when he let the friendly mask fall. He knew or imagined the other fans in line would protect him, as would the male bodyguard/sound guy. But it was like staring down the barrel of a gun.
There was a somewhat regular, somewhat devoted and determined group of fans, who were "regulars". If the road were a local bar, you could walk in and have everyone know your name. But these would show up in ANY town. East Coast, West Coast. He long ago learned not to be surprised.
The pinata woman was lately a faithful fan, bringing friends, bringing money to their pitiful tour. Her larger life narrative was being built, moment by moment, something about getting stronger. Left her abusive husband. No job. Not enough money to go on vacation AND her 3 kids, but she came to every show on the weekends.
The woman wouldn't be consoled, and was still ready to fight. He looked around sheepishly, hoping to be rescued. His Sound man had deserted him. The other fans were dropping out of line. It had the potential to turn into a riot. He let the woman scream; her spittle flying through the air like a Shakespearean actor's.
The girl put down her long longed for tuna sandwich. On that hot summer night, she became a witness again. A familiar scene, him flipping out in his quiet way. Not quite ending in violence. Daring to piss off the people who loved him. To reject them, just because he could. Kicking a puppy, tearing off the wings of a butterfly, tough love, maybe. Shaking off the hangers on. Renouncing his position of idol. Of fetish object, the cheshire smile in every photograph. The empty cipher. It made her stomach churn when he renounced character.
She abandoned him as well.
She ran.
Took a set of stairs, and then another. Saw access to a rooftop, jumped up the metal stairs, careful to place the brick in the doorway. Just in case the door locked. The kind of detail he'd be clueless about. He never pays attention to the details. To the people. He was smooth onstage tonight, which meant that he didn't take his meds. He gets strangely centered and ego-centric. Textbook case of a victim of fame. Feeds the ego. He's normally cautious and nervous, overcareful and slightly clumsy. He usually takes care with the fans. Similar mental illness diagnoses.
She literally couldn't stomach this behavior. Standing at the back edge of the roof, she leaned over and heaved the half sandwich she had eaten. She had been starving and was sorry to lose her day's only meal. But nothing about the situation was appetizing anymore. Her car was in the parking lot, she'd have to go back into the performance space to get to her bag and keys, but she could just drive off. And not look back.
She couldn't take it anymore. Sick of being an apologist for a mentally ill, mean, mean mean old man. Her last argument, when he doesn't take his meds, he may talk smoother, he may look more composed, but his music loses the light. The Glow. She was along for the ride because of that one delicate True Thing. She should have predicted. Tonight was smoother, he knew the crowd would be smaller. A sell-out show the day before, then barely enough asses to cover the front section. All his music was terrible tonight. No magic, he forgot lyrics, but there was no generosity coming from the audience to help him. Was it bad that she preferred him honest, weak, vulnerable, caring, sensitive and less of a performer? His secret.
She heard someone coming up the stairs and a loud bang as the door shut behind. The figure lit a cigarette in the distance. She knew it was him by his thin outline against the neon in front of the hall. She snuck up on him out of revenge. A desire to be evil. She punched him on the shoulder.
"Shit! You scared the...."
She began punching him harder, slapping, hitting. He held his arms up for protection but didn't try to hit back.
They ended the fight when she was tired. He offered her his cigarette, once he found the glowing ember on the macadam. She shrugged. Sat down. He did too. They sat for a while, not saying anything.
"I hate it when you turn on people
"She was getting to like this a little too much, she said . . ."
"You didn't have to be an asshole,"
"Maybe not, but if you give them a reality check, every now and then they force themselves to move on. Don't underestimate the power of revenge,"
"She has a history. This is all she has; you're a figure to . . . "
"She fixated on me because its easy. Because it feels safe. Sometimes you have to let the kid burn themselves on the hot stove so they'll stay away from real fire in the future,"
She began to laugh, "That's the sickest thing I've ever heard,"
They laughed together. A good, silly long laugh.
"You ready to go back down?"
"I'd love to finish my sandwich, but they probably bussed the table by now"
"C'mon"
"Wait, when you came up, did you happen to see the brick that was-- oh never mind. You go down and I'll meet you in a minute,"
He shrugged and left.
He circled back a moment later.
"We're locked out up here," he sat back in his spot.
She lay back, looking up at the dark blue sky. There was a moon and more stars than you'd expect with all the neon around them.
==
"I couldn't have predicted this to be my life. I thought there were milestones, specific targets. Fame, fortune, money. But the whole road is bumpy. You are always making it up as you go along. I was her. I AM her."
"Yeah, but you haven't been diagnosed with Aspergers."
"Nope. Bipolar,"
"Right." Of course, always attracted to the crazies. Enough to make her feel crazy. Everything, the old patterns, clicked into place. Nice one day, mean the next. She was too forgiving.
She wanted her sandwich.
They looked up at the stars, he told her some story that she'd been dying to hear. She faded off into sleep, struggling to listen, letting his words turn surreal in her dream. Always a hint of danger. Wanting to love and be open, but knowing that she had to keep holding a fence up in front of her, not knowing the reason, only knowing the duty.
They both woke up with a start when they were nearly kicked in the face with the Sound guy's boot. He nearly tripped searching for them. They still needed to pack up.
==
And even though she prided herself on never looking shocked, she was amazed at the lengths people would go. Literally and figuratively.
She was always nice. He was sometimes . . . cruel. Crueler than he needed to be. Cruel because he was used to it, and knew they would bounce back-even if he offered some tough love. Enormously large women would offer the deepest secrets of their life. And he would laugh at them. Dangerously skinny girls with no social awareness would tell a story about their history of sexual abuse, and the next time he would see them, he would only respond, "I don't care,"
She tried to run crowd control, but overhearing some of these conversations, she'd abandon him to the masses. Her job was to help facilitate sales, to make sure that she was not identified as "The Girlfriend", to be the human side of the equation. But she couldn't help to scrape the fans up off the floor when he was tired and vicious.
FERRON: The greatest concert she had ever been to. Not his. A feminist from the 1970's, the butch queen of a generation. Had practically retired from performing, but did maybe 2 gigs a year. She produced the show, in a giant church. Immediate sell-out. Hordes of self empowered women came through the doors. Everyone wanted her to be Good. And she was. Everything was fine, but maybe 5 songs in, things started to crack. She lost the words. Just her and her guitar. Then it was just the guitar, and then that stopped. "I've forgotten this next line!" she said with a laugh. Someone called it out to her. Generous. She continued, but it happened again. And again. And for ANY other performer, you could have thrown in the towel. Declared them a has-been, not worthy of their attention. But this crowd was generous, giving, wanting to be supportive of her and each other. She had been there for them, giving them coming out words, her own belief in herself easily transferable to them. The single best concert ever.
Stars and the Moon Audra MacDonald
No comments:
Post a Comment