Dear B——,
Excuse me, interrupts the teenager, and you look up from your burger. —You’re famous, right?
The teenager is wearing capris, a long-sleeved blouse, her tall hair trussed up with a ribbon. Every step she takes toward you feels somehow like she’s fighting the clothes she’s in, some kind of werewolf imperfectly masquerading as human. Her eyes are fixed on yours, her arms crossed, her stance wide. She makes you afraid.
No, I’m not famous, you say. —I mean, we work hard.
She narrows her eyes. —You’ve got that radio single about the hovercar race, she says. —And you played at the drive-in contest. You and your band won it, right?
Oh, well, we were featured, you say. —They paid us to play it. So we weren’t really in competition.
That just means you won the competition before it even started, she said.
You find yourself laughing at this, but cautiously: it sounds like a compliment, but it doesn’t feel like one. Why is this girl talking to you, B——? This is something that happens to you sometimes, now, since your father has started to organize small gigs for you, your brothers, and your cousin Tom to perform the songs you and Tom have started to write, at Tom’s insistence. You should study better how to handle it. But you’re grateful: the obligation of speaking to girls first has gone away. Now you can just focus on what’s good in those interactions without the need for emotional risks.
So what’d you think of the other bands, she asks. —Did you have any favorites? Did any of them stand out?
Uh, I liked all of them, you say. —They all worked hard. —You squint at her then, trying to work out whether this was the correct response. She looks back at you, as if she’s waiting for something. From a booth, two other teenagers are peering back at you: one tall and gaunt, her bouffant crown of blond hair making her taller still; the other shorter, the line of her nose surprisingly close to your fan’s own (a sister?) The girl speaking to you notices you looking at them. She steps slightly closer.
Want to come say hi to my friends? she asks. —They’d love to meet a famous person.
She can’t keep a straight face while she says it, breaks into a smirk: one that reminds you of your father’s. This is what makes you stand up to accept her invitation, picking up your cheeseburger and bearing it before you, like an offering, as you join them.
Your fan’s name is Mona Slinks. She makes introductions: her sister, Sherry, the tall girl, Wendy. Wendy blushes behind freckles. You blush as well, uncertain why.
Your name’s B——, isn’t it? asks Sherry. —You’re tall. You’re even taller than Wendy.
I don’t know how tall anyone is relative to anyone else, you say.
Mona bares her teeth.
Like an inch or two taller, Sherry says. —Wendy’s a giantess!
And you’re just a giant ass, Mona says; Sherry laughs. But Wendy turns up her smile.
The waiter comes, and Mona orders a clean ashtray and half a tomato for herself, disco fries for the table. She points to you.
He’ll take the check, she says. —He’s famous.
Then she lights a cigarette from her pack and holds it in place, the ash growing, while she eats a tomato slice with the other hand.
Not into your burger? Mona asks you after a moment. —Want a cig to go with it?
No thanks, you say.
Afraid you’re gonna scar your little pink lungs? She snickers; you blush. —I wouldn’t want to do that. You’ve got a very pretty falsetto.
When Mona laughs, the laughter collects like raw pearls in the oyster shell of her thin nostrils, and then each one drops in shrill nasal HAs, like jewelry breaking.
Mona, scolds Sherry, —you’re going to give poor B—— a complex. —She turns to you and smiles in apology. —Your voice isn’t pretty at all. It’s very muscular, very big and strong.
You laugh nervously, and Mona snorts, then coughs, then blows a chunk of tomato onto a napkin that she wads up in front of her. You watch, enraptured. Wendy blushes and looks at you apologetically; you’re not sure why.
After a safe pause, Mona’s friends start to ask you questions about the music business, whether or not it’s exciting, and you answer as best as you can while Mona smokes and presides.
It isn’t that much, you say. —We know some songs and people ask us to play at parties. My dad wants to take us on a tour this summer, once my brothers are out of school. Some different cities up and down the coast.
But you have a record, Mona says. —That’s what the host said at the drive-in show we saw you at.
Oh, well, sure, you say. —My dad heard us playing and, I dunno. He thought he could sell us. —You feel something tighten in your chest when you say this; suppress it; the girls will think you’re weird if you feel.
How do you get a record, though? Mona asks. —Who do you have to ask? Do you have to pay for it? Is there a way to arrange it so that you pay on the back end instead of the front?
You don’t want to admit that you don’t know these answers: your dad is taking care of all of it. —I mean, you need a song first, you say, remembering to laugh: sometimes Tom does that, laughs to show girls that he is at ease.
Mona has lots of songs, Sherry says. —We played a couple of them at the drive-in. Did you like them?
You flush and turn to Mona, who’s smiling, her eyes narrowing in satisfaction. She rests her arm on the edge of the booth behind you.
Don’t worry about it, she says. —We enjoyed playing with you. We’re the Pin Up Dollies, if you don’t remember our name.
She goes on to talk about her band: her ideas for songs, the arc of albums she intends to write, her opinions about the male producers who control the industry, John Black Zero (who recorded the Diadems record you love, you elect not to mention) being the most diabolical example. She speaks for a long time, sometimes punctuating herself with little jabs of eye contact, literal jabs of her finger, you understand? While she talks, the others finish their food: Wendy hastily, as if at any moment she’ll be interrupted again, Mona’s sister very precisely, tiny bites that move around the circumference of her burger, leaving only a final core bite of meat and cheese at the end in a great burger crescendo. And you try to remember, B——: there was a girl band there, wasn’t there, guitar, bass, and drums, their music angry, loud, the guitarist screaming at the MC when he tried to cut their power and remove them from the stage. You liked the idea of a girl band, you thought: you remembered Tom and Eddie trying to think of which one they would prefer to fuck. You remember thinking you should train yourself to ask those questions: the more known you are, the greater scrutiny you’ll fall under, and someone might notice if you don’t join in.
Mona’s still talking to you about her band. —We’re really good, she’s saying, —and we’d be perfect as your opening act, you know, if you want to introduce us to your dad, and—
And suddenly an older woman is standing at the booth, a finger folded into a paperback book to mark her place.
Is everything all right, girls? she asks, looking not at them but at you with a wide smile. —Who’s your friend?
Go away, Mona snarls, and Sherry giggles. Wendy looks at you with apology in her eyes. Is this Mona’s mother? You’re startled at this concept.
Uh, my name is B——, ma’am, you say. —It’s a real honor to meet you.
What a polite young man, Mona’s mother replies. —I think your young man is very nice, Mona.
He’s not a young man, Mona says, which makes you start for a moment. —He’s a potential business partner. Would you go back and read your book, please? Would you leave us alone?
Mona, Sherry says. Wendy’ eyes are lowered, now. The fact that you are substantially older than these girls—two years? three?—occurs to you, and you worry, but Mona’s mother doesn’t seem to mind your sitting there with her daughters and their friend. She beams at you. You’re the solution to something.
It’s truly a pleasure to meet you, B——, she says, and she departs to her paperback and her tea. She’s sitting in a booth not far away, and from time to time you can see her peeping over at you, feel her writing you into a story she’s telling herself. Half of you wants to stand up and rush over to her—it isn’t true; everything you think is wrong—and half of you, listening to your father’s advice, listening to Tom’s, insists you stay put.
Mona’s mother offers to give you a ride home from the diner as compensation for buying a meal for her daughters and their friend. You glance at your Impala (once your father’s, now yours, an early inheritance) floating in its parking space, you glance at Mona, and then you say yes. And like that you’re in a sedan with the three members of the Pin-Up Dollies, bound again for Hawthorne. Mrs. Slinks insists that you ride in the front seat, tall as you are; Mona is displaced to the rear, crushing Wendy in the middle between herself and her sister.
Just say the word if you’re uncomfortable in any way, B——, Mrs. Slinks says to you, anxiously.
The word, Mona growls, but her mother ignores her.
After that, no one speaks; Mrs. Slinks hums along to a Liberace concert that’s on the radio; you listen along, imagining it with voices. You’re convinced the girls are all staring at you.
Uh, Mona, what’s your favorite dessert? you finally ask.
She pulls a cigarette out of her purse, lights it, holds it up.
When I was a girl, we didn’t have our dessert in the car, Mrs. Slinks says.
Times are changing, Mona says.
At some point it becomes clear that Mrs. Slinks intends to bring you home with Mona and Sherry.
For a quick snack, she says. —He’s clearly a hungry young man. And your father would love to meet him.
You’re not sure if Mona notices the way you suddenly hang your head; you feel even guiltier, realizing that you want her to. But Mona’s suddenly leaning forward, alarmed by something else.
Wendy and I were hanging out tonight, though, she says. —We were doing homework. You said you just wanted us to go out for a quick bite.
And we got a quick bite, says Mrs. Slinks. —Courtesy of your young man! And we should bring him over to our house, to thank him. You should spend some time together.
We’re going to spend lots of time together, Mona insists. —As his band’s opening act. As business partners. —No one responds to this, though, and she sits back. —Bring Wendy along as well. Wendy loves coming over. C’mon, let’s not split up this party.
Wendy wants to go home, I’m sure, Mrs. Slinks says, and Wendy doesn’t dispute.
I’ll pick up my books from you at school, Mona, she says. Her voice is higher than you’d expected: this makes you realize she hasn’t spoken all evening. She has only looked at Mona, and at you.
Mona opens her mouth to rebut, but then closes it and lights another cigarette. You look back at her, wanting to apologize, although this time you’re not sure for what, but she looks out the window, away from you. She looks like she’s thinking very hard about something. Once she notices you looking back at her.
What, she says, and you turn away.
On reaching Wendy’s house, Wendy stands on the sidewalk as Mona blows a kiss goodbye and rolls up the window. She stares through the windshield, waving as the car glides away, visible first through the front window, and then the rear windows, and then she is gone. Mona ashes on the floor of the back seat where her feet had been.
At the Slinks house you’re served macaroons and almonds in a dish. Mr. Slinks is a tall, stout man who works in aerospace somewhere down the highway, and he cracks your fingers in his handshake. Mona smokes, curled in an armchair at the outer edge of the coffee table, her denim-wrapped legs pulled under her. Here, away from the diner, Mona keeps quiet.
Just off the living room there’s a staircase. Family photos hang along the railing of it, tobacco clouds at the corners of their frames. The staircase, you are certain, is the one from your dream.
In your stomach, the macaroon filling churns against the gravy fries, and Sherry tells her father about your virtues, gazing the whole time at her sister.
Mr. Slinks insists you come to see his garage, his other pride and joy, he asserts, gesturing toward his daughters, half of whom roll their eyes. The Slinks garage smells like oil and aging paint thinner; the work area is immaculate, free of sawdust and stains. A C-clamp on the edge of the bench has dug a quarter-inch into the pine wood. You have no sense that any work has ever been done here.
I have a real nice book collection out here, B——, Mr. Slinks announces. —You a book lover, B——?
Gee, some, you say.
Everything in moderation, he replies. He pulls a glossy magazine from between two volumes of Winston Churchill’s war memoirs and hands the magazine to you. It opens easily to a photo of a naked woman sitting on the deck of a yacht.
Any interest in this? Mr. Slinks asks.
She looks sad, you say.
Huh, says Mr. Slinks, taking the magazine back and inspecting the eyes of the woman in the picture. —That’s fine.
He replaces the magazine and gestures at different things around the garage, pretty much at random. You feel embarrassed and low.
So this is everything, he says. —Books. Cars. I don’t get out here as much as I should. Very busy. The curse of Cain. You’re a young man. You probably have all kinds of energy that I’ll never have anymore. Never waste it.
He squats down and takes a rifle from the drawer beneath the workbench. Putting it to his shoulder, he sights the door to the kitchen, and then he pivots in place until he’s brought the barrel to a degree short of your face. Politely, he brings the gun down, its line of fire tracing your body like a watchman’s warm flashlight.
Brilliant craftsmanship, he says. —Winchester. Home defense. Do you own guns?
I’ve never seen a gun, you say. —It’s pretty intense.
Fortunately I haven’t needed it yet, he says. —Hold it. Take it out for a spin.
You take the gun and copy his position, shouldering the rifle and pointing it at the garage door. It’s hard to focus your eyes in the right way to see clearly through the sight.
How’s it feel? he asks. —Feels powerful?
Kinda, you say.
Give me back the gun, he commands, and you obey. He holds the gun in front of him in both hands. —It’s very important to experience that feeling at least once in your life, he says distantly. —You should experience it as often as you can.
He lets the gun stock balance against his foot, the barrel pointing roughly toward his face, as he takes a cigarette from a box on the workbench and lights it.
Which of my daughters do you find more attractive? he asks. —Mona or Sherry?
Oh, gee, you say. —I’m not sure I could you know judge them based on just that kind of—
Of course you can, Mr. Slinks laughs. —Come on. Quit being afraid of me. I’m their father. I’m asking you. You’re a red-blooded young man. I know you have feelings in this regard. I’ve got a right to know their nature.
You take a breath and look at your feet.
Mona, you say after a minute.
Mona. —Mr. Slinks nods. —She knows how to take care of herself, that one. Nothing but trouble. It would take an extremely strong man to handle her. Are you up to that challenge, B——?
I think it’d be interesting to be in a band with her, but her band is for girls, you say. —So I can’t be in it.
He frowns and smokes, thinking. Then he nods and begins to put the gun away.
I approve of you, he announces. —You’re strange around the edges. But I work in engineering, and eccentricity is not a problem for me. You have my blessing to court Mona, tentatively. But I want you to remember everything we’ve discussed today. I also want you to start seriously considering the question of your income and your future. Do you understand? Do you agree?
Yes, sir, you say.
Smoke? he asks.
No, sir, you say.
Good man, he says. —Let’s rejoin the women.
On your return, the living room is silent. Mona, in the corner, is smoking with her eyes turned inward. Sherry reads a movie magazine. Mrs. Slinks sits with her hands folded, smiling. When you return from the basement, she cranks to life.
It’s time for us to go to bed, Mr. Slinks announces. —Leave the children to be children. B——.
He motions you closer, and then he takes your hand and crushes your fingers a second time. You bite your lip; you must not show emotion at physical pain.
I’ve enjoyed meeting you, he says. —Please don’t let me down.
He and his wife walk to the back of the house, flip off the light in the hallway as they go. You stand beside the door to the kitchen a while, and then you sit on the couch next to Sherry. As soon as you sit down, she stands up.
I think I’m going to bed too, she announces. —Mona, that means there’s room over here on the couch, with B——.
I’m good here, Mona says.
Mona, says Sherry.
Mona shoots her sister a dirty look. Then she stands up and walks across the room, as smoothly and elegantly as possible. She stands in front of you, her hands on her hips; you arc your neck back hard to look her in the eyes.
Do you want me to sit on the couch with you? she asks sharply.
Uh, if you want to, it’s okay, you say.
See? Mona says to her sister. —He doesn’t want me to.
She goes into the kitchen; cabinet doors begin to open and close; she clicks her raspy throat at the cat. Sherry shakes her head and looks at you.
B——, I hope we see a lot more of you, all right? she says. —You seem like a really solid kind of guy. And you know we’re all worried about Mona.
Is she okay? you ask.
She will be, I think, Sherry says, looking at you.
On returning, Mona finishes her cigarette and leans across to the case on the table, takes another, and lights it. After a moment of smoking, she looks at you.
Move over, she says.
You do so, and she sits down next to you, leaning against the opposite armrest, a canyon of air between.
I’m sorry about my sister, she says.
Gee, why? you ask. —She seemed really nice.
Mona snorts, drawing on her cigarette. —Sherry’s not nice, she says. —She’s worried about me.
What’s she worried about? you ask.
My future, she says, but you can tell somehow that this is a falsehood, B——: there is a more specific concern in play. —I don’t know. That I’ll end up living on Skid Row, out of a box. That I won’t have any future to speak of.
You frown at your legs. —I guess I worry about that too, you say.
She straightens up, looks you in the face. —Do you?
All the time, you say. —I guess it wouldn’t be so bad. I mean, I guess I could live out on the street if I needed to. I’d get by.
You wouldn’t miss people, she says.
What people? you ask.
What people, she says, imitating your voice. —I don’t know. Your band?
You’re unsure of how to answer this, whether this is a trick question: what does she want you to say? That you’ll miss your brothers and cousin? What is it that people miss about other people? Now her whole body is turned to face you, curled up with her back against the armrest, watching.
I mean, I don’t think I’d miss people either, she says after a while.
Sure, you say, relieved that you agree on something. —It’s nice when people go away.
She laughs, delighted, and then you both lapse into silence. She stubs out her cigarette and lights another, and you breathe her secondhand air. What’s she thinking? Your own thoughts, independent of her, seem to have stopped. Suddenly you’re compelled by the idea that everything outside this living room has disappeared: Mona’s family, your family. You find yourself liking the idea of that, as if the room is a snow globe that surrounds you both, a protection. A melody forms, aeolian snow flakes; you and your brothers’ voices rising to catch them on your tongues.
She knows what you’re expected to do, you realize: what Tom and your father expect you to do. She’s waiting for you to try it. The air is thick, as if you’re breathing syrup instead of oxygen; she looks tired, already tired of waiting for this. And seeing that, you know you can’t do it. You are an infant; you are worse than an infant: a girl, and you’ve missed your chance and Tom Happy will never respect you ever again. You exhale, a pearl diver washed up exhausted on the beach, white lungs at the limit of their endurance.
Leaning over, Mona takes two cigarettes from the case, lights them both, and offers you one.
You seem like you’re getting a cold or something, she explains. —It’s best to knock out the bacteria early, I’ve found.
You take the cigarette from her. Its filter is covered in lipstick. You roll it back and forth on your lower lip, wondering if the stain rubs off in a way that you’ll have to take the time to erase.
She invites you up to her room to listen to records with her. She climbs the stairs and you follow, up the dark carpeted hall. You imagine the song from your dream suddenly playing, almost tangible somewhere outside of your skull. She makes you wait outside the door for a moment; you can hear drawers open, close. Then she cracks the door: into the dark hallway spills brilliant light.
Her bedroom has two nails pounded into its pink walls, just wide enough for a guitar neck to hang. There’s a desk piled with textbooks, stationery in all colors, a fountain pen. No clutter on the floor. Norman Rockwell prints on the walls, a wide calendar. A candy apple red alarm clock. A shelf lined with carnival prizes: stuffed bears, ducks, cats, straw hats. Each of them has been damaged somehow. A photo of Marilyn Monroe by a vanity mirror laden with compacts, cracked brushes, lipsticks and blushes made out of raw poison lead. A mobile hanging over a bed with pale pink sheets. A window, shut to the street. And a record player with a stack of 45s and LPs—her own record player, in her room. You marvel at that a little. She closes the door behind you, takes a glass ashtray from the desk, goes to sit on the bed. There’s a backpack full of books there; she sets it aside.
Wendy’s, she explains. —We were studying earlier. Or she was studying—I was cheating off of her. —She laughs a different laugh than usual; it is fond.
Gee, uh, won’t your parents care that I’m up here, you whisper.
Of course they know you’re up here, she whispers back. —I’m doing them such a favor right now. Sit down—you always make me nervous. You never sit.
The only place to sit is the bed, so you sit on the floor, at her feet. She laughs, lights her next cigarette.
Do you like these walls? she asks after a few drags.
They’re okay, you say.
One day I’m going to have black walls, she muses. —Black sheets, black clothes, windows painted black. It’s the color that absorbs all the other colors. It’s the color with the most energy.
That sounds scary, you say.
You’d prefer white, she announces. And then, looking at the smoke: —You know, I don’t want to be with anybody. So we understand one another. I want to turn into an old hag immediately. I’m sixteen; I want to jump straight to seventy-five, and then I’d just stay seventy-five forever. I’d have joint pains and I’d pack my hips in mud to feel good again.
Oh, you say, considering this: what does she mean, she doesn’t want to marry anyone? Everyone is supposed to marry someone.
She watches you for a moment, tapping her cigarette in the ashtray. Then she folds her feet up underneath her on the bed, scoots herself back to rest on the pillow. She wants to lie down, you think, to rest, but she doesn’t have that power because you’re here. You distort everything with your presence; you should leave; you don’t.
Do you want to listen to a record, Mona asks suddenly.
It’s late to do that, isn’t it? you say. —I mean, won’t your parents wake up?
She makes a disgusted face, again like your father. —It’s a very long record—multiple records, she says, ignoring your question. —It’s about the devil. Wendy and I are into it; it’s something I want our music to do. We can sit here and listen to it here in my room, you on the floor, and me up here. If that’s what you want.
Okay, you say, nodding.
What do you want? she asks.
You don’t know the answer to that question, and you need to think of it. So you just stare into the negative space formed by your folded knees.
I don’t know, you say after a while.
She nods, almost, leaning back on her pillow. —Okay.
What do you want me to do? you ask her.
I think you should go home, she says.
You don’t move, and after a while she stands up and stubs her cigarette, taps her foot. You count the ticks of the alarm clock. Finally you get to your feet, pulling yourself up with your hands on the mattress. You push against it, pink sheets, pink springs; you feel it push back against you.
And when she turns her back for a moment to empty her ashtray into the tiny trash can, you grab a lead lipstick from her dresser and put it in your pocket.
Good night, she says to you downstairs, on the porch. —Thanks for hiring us as your opening band.
Uh, thank you, you say. And, in a panic, clutching the stolen thing: —Gee, I had a really nice time. I think maybe we could see a movie, if you wanted.
Her mouth twists to one side, a kind of laugh spreading like an internal bleed beneath her skin.
That sounds really nice, she says, and then she shoves the door shut with both hands, as if she’s sealing a tomb.
The Impala you left floating in the lot of Sal’s Famous looks weak as you approach it, hours of walking later, painted in laughter and date-night light.
Love, Gala