Being a ghost was nothing like Maria had expected. When she was a child she had explored old houses whenever she had the chance, opening closets and looking under staircases for evidence of stranded spirits left behind in the world of the living. She found plenty of rodents and insects, but never any ghosts.
When she was finally able to become a ghost herself, she searched for a long time to find just the right place, a perfect match for her childhood imagination. She finally settled on an ancient, crumbling mansion on Mason Street, a house that numerous people had lived in over time but that had been standing empty for many years when she first walked through the door. Once she decided that she had found her perfect house, she wasted no time in settling into life as a ghost. She picked up rusted pots and pans from the kitchen and dragged them across the rotted hardwood floors, making as much racket as she could. She put on her wedding dress, by then a torn and shredded rag, and stood in the window moaning and wailing. She spent long hours of the night carrying pieces of broken furniture out onto the front lawn, arranging them carefully in strange and elaborate patterns. When she went out to look at them the next morning, her work was always ruined, stolen by the vagrants who wandered through the neighborhood or overturned by wind and rain.
She slept for long hours in the abandoned house, forgetting the pieces of the living world. What it had been like to speak to another person, what it was to taste a warm meal, what it was to walk outside and blink her eyes in the sunlight. Maria began to wonder how long she would stay there, if anyone would ever come for her. She sometimes thought about leaving, but a paralyzing dread came over her every time she approached the edge of the dying lawn that surrounded the house. She stood next to the edge of what little grass was left, her toes almost touching the sidewalk, and wrapped her arms around herself as the cold wind beat against her body. The strands of the decaying dress stretched out around her, twisting as she extended her arms and let the air take them. She screamed until her lungs burned, announcing that the ghost had emerged from the house, but no one answered. She stood there for what seemed a long time, peering through the darkness that enveloped the deserted street, and then turned to go back inside and lie in wait under the staircase.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Friday, March 28, 2008
Flash Fiction: Missing Someone
Another Flash Fiction prompt from absolutewrite.com. This one is "missing someone or something."
***
Sammy shook the spray can one more time and finished the "Y" at the end. It wasn't much, but he wanted it to be in big letters so everyone walking by would see it. He stepped back and looked down at the words he had painted on the sidewalk.
"I MISS YOU TERRIBLY"
That was all he could think to say. He had gone by Rosa's apartment every day for a week now, ringing the bell and pressing his face up against the iron gate that opened onto the stairway, but no one ever answered. He asked around the neighborhood, at the dollar store where she worked, at Chava's Taqueria where they used to go for lunch, at all the bars that they used to go to, but no one had seen her. It was only then that he realized how little he had known about her. He didn't remember her ever talking about her family back home, or about how exactly she had come to live in the little apartment on 18th street or to work at the Dollar Store. She had agreed to give him her phone number the second time he came into the store and got up the nerve to ask. After that, nothing else seemed to matter.
Now she didn't answer her phone, she didn't come to work, and no one was ever home at her apartment. He decided to go back to Chava's and sit at the table in the window where they had eaten lunch that first day, hoping she might come by. When he got there the windows were all boarded up and the outside walls were blackened and crumbling from the kitchen fire that had burned the place down the day before. Someone had spray-painted "Closed" on one of the boards nailed to the burned out window frame. Sammy stood for a long time looking at that word, wondering why it made him so sad. He wished he could call Rosa and tell her about it, but she was gone too. He went to the hardware store, bought a bottle of spray paint, and hoped that she would see what he had left for her.
***
Author's Note: There really was some graffiti like this painted on the sidewalk when I lived in San Francisco. It was on Alabama street, just down from 18th. It always struck me as one of the most poignant things I had ever seen scrawled onto the urban landscape, and to this day I regret never taking a picture of it even though I walked by hundreds of times. I don't know if it's still there, but if anyone with a camera happens to see it, I'd really appreciate it if you could take a picture and send it to me.
***
Sammy shook the spray can one more time and finished the "Y" at the end. It wasn't much, but he wanted it to be in big letters so everyone walking by would see it. He stepped back and looked down at the words he had painted on the sidewalk.
"I MISS YOU TERRIBLY"
That was all he could think to say. He had gone by Rosa's apartment every day for a week now, ringing the bell and pressing his face up against the iron gate that opened onto the stairway, but no one ever answered. He asked around the neighborhood, at the dollar store where she worked, at Chava's Taqueria where they used to go for lunch, at all the bars that they used to go to, but no one had seen her. It was only then that he realized how little he had known about her. He didn't remember her ever talking about her family back home, or about how exactly she had come to live in the little apartment on 18th street or to work at the Dollar Store. She had agreed to give him her phone number the second time he came into the store and got up the nerve to ask. After that, nothing else seemed to matter.
Now she didn't answer her phone, she didn't come to work, and no one was ever home at her apartment. He decided to go back to Chava's and sit at the table in the window where they had eaten lunch that first day, hoping she might come by. When he got there the windows were all boarded up and the outside walls were blackened and crumbling from the kitchen fire that had burned the place down the day before. Someone had spray-painted "Closed" on one of the boards nailed to the burned out window frame. Sammy stood for a long time looking at that word, wondering why it made him so sad. He wished he could call Rosa and tell her about it, but she was gone too. He went to the hardware store, bought a bottle of spray paint, and hoped that she would see what he had left for her.
***
Author's Note: There really was some graffiti like this painted on the sidewalk when I lived in San Francisco. It was on Alabama street, just down from 18th. It always struck me as one of the most poignant things I had ever seen scrawled onto the urban landscape, and to this day I regret never taking a picture of it even though I walked by hundreds of times. I don't know if it's still there, but if anyone with a camera happens to see it, I'd really appreciate it if you could take a picture and send it to me.
Friday, March 21, 2008
The Worst Busboy
I worked as a busboy at Luigi’s Cafe on Clover Street for two weeks when I was nineteen. I was terrible, the worst busboy they had ever seen. I know this because they told me so on my third day of work. The tablecloths were never straight after I made a table. I soon became convinced that there was some trick to it that I was missing and I watched the other busboys carefully to see if they were doing anything different. They weren't, or at least they weren’t doing anything that I could see. They would pick up the tablecloth, shake it out, lay it over the table, and start setting up the silverware. I did the same, but no matter how carefully I laid it out, my manager always told me it was crooked. And she was right.
I thought about my job all the time. I would see those tables spread out in front of me while I was lying in bed. I would move my hands up and down like I was taking one of the clean tablecloths from the big canvas bag in the storeroom and I would see myself laying it flat on the table. I would arrange it perfectly in my head, with all the plates, glasses, and silverware laid out for the next customer.
I came in late every day the last week I worked at Luigi’s. The first time nobody said anything, but the following day I barely made it in before we opened for dinner and one of the other busboys had to fill all the breadbaskets by himself. I told the manager that my cat had been hit by a car and that I wouldn't be late again. I spent the rest of the night thinking about my cat, wishing I was home watching him chase his little red ball around the living room instead of setting up the tables with crooked tablecloths and misplaced silverware.
On my last night, I made it to the restaurant right on time. The shades were still down on all the windows and the "Closed" sign was hanging on the front door. I walked around back to the employee entrance and looked at the door, wondering how long I could stand there before someone noticed me. I looked down at my watch and waited for two full minutes, counting the seconds as they ticked away one by one. Then I turned around and walked back down the street. I thought about taking off my apron as I turned the corner, but I decided to just leave it on since I would be coming right back. I turned another corner and kept going, looking around at a street I had never seen before. I kept walking.
Eventually my feet got tired and I decided to head back to my car. I was a little worried that I was lost, as I have always had a terrible sense of direction and I hadn’t been very careful about keeping track of all the street names as I wandered through the neighborhood. I felt a tiny hint of disappointment when I started recognizing cars and houses that I had seen as I walked away from Luigi’s, and finally I found myself back on Clover Street a couple of blocks down from where I started.
I had to pass by Luigi’s to get to the parking lot where I had left my car. It was dark by the time I got back and the restaurant was all lit up. The warm, yellow light reflecting off the hardwood floors, the sound of clanging silverware and the customers’ voices, and the smell of the roasted meats from the open kitchen all drifted out over the street where I was standing. Of course my manager was furious when she spotted me out the window. She ran to the front door and started yelling, the giant mole on her left cheek bobbing up and down every time she opened her mouth. She told me that I was an irresponsible young man and that I was the worst busboy she had ever seen.
“You told me that already,” I said as I handed her my apron. “You told me on the third day I worked here.”
I thought about my job all the time. I would see those tables spread out in front of me while I was lying in bed. I would move my hands up and down like I was taking one of the clean tablecloths from the big canvas bag in the storeroom and I would see myself laying it flat on the table. I would arrange it perfectly in my head, with all the plates, glasses, and silverware laid out for the next customer.
I came in late every day the last week I worked at Luigi’s. The first time nobody said anything, but the following day I barely made it in before we opened for dinner and one of the other busboys had to fill all the breadbaskets by himself. I told the manager that my cat had been hit by a car and that I wouldn't be late again. I spent the rest of the night thinking about my cat, wishing I was home watching him chase his little red ball around the living room instead of setting up the tables with crooked tablecloths and misplaced silverware.
On my last night, I made it to the restaurant right on time. The shades were still down on all the windows and the "Closed" sign was hanging on the front door. I walked around back to the employee entrance and looked at the door, wondering how long I could stand there before someone noticed me. I looked down at my watch and waited for two full minutes, counting the seconds as they ticked away one by one. Then I turned around and walked back down the street. I thought about taking off my apron as I turned the corner, but I decided to just leave it on since I would be coming right back. I turned another corner and kept going, looking around at a street I had never seen before. I kept walking.
Eventually my feet got tired and I decided to head back to my car. I was a little worried that I was lost, as I have always had a terrible sense of direction and I hadn’t been very careful about keeping track of all the street names as I wandered through the neighborhood. I felt a tiny hint of disappointment when I started recognizing cars and houses that I had seen as I walked away from Luigi’s, and finally I found myself back on Clover Street a couple of blocks down from where I started.
I had to pass by Luigi’s to get to the parking lot where I had left my car. It was dark by the time I got back and the restaurant was all lit up. The warm, yellow light reflecting off the hardwood floors, the sound of clanging silverware and the customers’ voices, and the smell of the roasted meats from the open kitchen all drifted out over the street where I was standing. Of course my manager was furious when she spotted me out the window. She ran to the front door and started yelling, the giant mole on her left cheek bobbing up and down every time she opened her mouth. She told me that I was an irresponsible young man and that I was the worst busboy she had ever seen.
“You told me that already,” I said as I handed her my apron. “You told me on the third day I worked here.”
Monday, March 17, 2008
Looking for Heather Sampson
The opening notes of Billy Idol's "White Wedding" filled the room while Stuart laid his money on the bar and picked up his drink. It was horrible. The whole place was horrible. He looked around the Big River Tavern and said a silent prayer that no one he knew would walk in and see him drinking in a tourist trap, a place where families from Idaho and frat boys from Alabama came to get giant daiquiris and T Shirts that said "New Orleans Drinking Team." It wasn't the sort of place he would normally have been, but he couldn't find anywhere else within easy walking distance of the theater. The movie was starting in half an hour, just enough time for a drink. A quick one, he thought. Something to pass the time.
Stuart flinched when he heard a familiar voice call his name. He looked around the bar and spotted Paula, the last person on Earth who should have been there, sitting by herself at a corner table. He hadn't seen Paula for weeks, not since the day they had gone to the race track together. They had finished a bottle of Jack Daniels before the third race and had been kicked out for fighting with one of the ushers by the fifth. Then they fought with each other in the parking lot when they couldn't find the car. The fight had ended when Stuart's nose began to bleed and they had both started laughing hysterically. It had hurt like hell, but Stuart couldn't help himself.
Stuart walked over to the table where Paula was sitting. She was alone, with a row of three empty beer bottles lined up meticulously in front of her. She looked up at him and smiled.
"How's the nose, Stuart?"
"The nose is fine." He looked around the room, checking to make sure that no one else was watching him. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm looking for Heather Sampson."
"Heather Sampson? The girl from the news?"
"Of course. I'm so worried about her."
Stuart let out a small, stifled laugh. Paula had said it all with a straight face, so he decided to play along. He cast a slow, meaningful glance around the bar, then looked back at Paula and whispered, "I don't see her."
"Not now," said Paula. "But you never know. She might come in."
Stuart felt a little guilty for making jokes about this. He had seen Heather Sampson on the news the night before; in fact she had been on most nights for the past week. She was an adorable little girl - blonde pigtails, pink sweater, the whole bit - who lived uptown and went to one of the expensive private schools. She had left for school a few days ago but, somewhere in the half mile between her house and the school, she had disappeared. They found her backpack in the bushes a few blocks away.
"You know, it's really not funny," he said. "I'm very scared for that girl."
Paula looked at him as if he had said the most obvious, ridiculous thing imaginable, like pointing out that the sky sure was blue or gravity certainly seemed to be working that day. "Well, yeah." She said back. "I mean, what the hell do you think I'm doing here?"
"Paula, you're in a bar. Not just in a bar, you're sitting in a goddamn tourist trap. The... what is this, the River Tavern?"
"Big River Tavern," she corrected him.
"Yeah, OK, the Big River Tavern. Do you really think that whoever took that girl is going to come in here?"
"Maybe not here," she said. "But there are a lot of other places. I've got a whole list, lots to cover. I already went to every bar in my neighborhood."
"You went to every... OK, wait. Your plan, then, is to just wander around town going to every bar you can find looking for this girl."
Paula nodded her head vigorously and said "That's right."
"But the girl was kidnapped. Or, probably kidnapped anyway. She's probably tied up in some creepy guy's shed. Or else her body is decomposing in a swamp somewhere."
"Maybe," said Paula. "But we need to keep looking for her. I'm very worried."
"I'm worried too but, come on. Look where you're sitting. Look around you! Do you really think that whoever took Heather Sampson is just going to walk in here and order a couple of daqueris and a plate of deep-fried jalapenos."
"He might."
Stuart slapped his hands down on the table and stared into Paula's face. He made an effort to hold her gaze a couple of beats longer than was strictly necessary.
"Look, Paula. The police are after her, her picture is on the news, and I'm sure there's some kind of hot line or something that you can call if you really want to help out. The odds of you finding a missing nine-year-old in a tourist bar across the street from the movie theater are about a billion to one."
Paula nodded patiently, giving the impression of someone listening to a speech she had heard many times before. She took a short breath and stared squarely at Stuart.
"Look Stuart, here's how this works. Of course the cops are out dragging the swamps and looking in crack houses or wherever. And yeah, there's a good chance that she's in one of those places. But I don't know anything about swamps or crack houses. The way I see it, I need to cover the territory that I do know. And I know a lot of bars. I know about bars that nobody else knows about, especially in my neighborhood. So I'm going to go to all of them. It seems like the right thing to do. I mean, like, if all the chefs go to all the restaurants and all the plumbers go to all the plumbing supply places and all the gardeners go to the parks, and ... well, you see what I mean? Pretty soon, it's all covered. So I'm just doing my own part."
Stuart was dumbfounded. Paula was actually serious. She was going to stumble around town, going to every bar she knew, until she either found the kidnapped girl or ended up blind drunk and passed out on someone's lawn. He eyed her suspiciously once more, but he couldn't see any cracks in the armor. Stuart shook his head, sighed, and said the only thing he could think of.
"I'm really worried about that little girl."
"Yeah," said Paula. "Me too."
Stuart looked down at his watch. The movie was starting in a few minutes, but he wasn't sure he still wanted to see it.
"Look," he said. "I think you've got things pretty well covered here so, um, I think I'm just going to cross the street and check the movie theater."
"Good idea," said Paula. "Let me know if you find her."
Stuart flinched when he heard a familiar voice call his name. He looked around the bar and spotted Paula, the last person on Earth who should have been there, sitting by herself at a corner table. He hadn't seen Paula for weeks, not since the day they had gone to the race track together. They had finished a bottle of Jack Daniels before the third race and had been kicked out for fighting with one of the ushers by the fifth. Then they fought with each other in the parking lot when they couldn't find the car. The fight had ended when Stuart's nose began to bleed and they had both started laughing hysterically. It had hurt like hell, but Stuart couldn't help himself.
Stuart walked over to the table where Paula was sitting. She was alone, with a row of three empty beer bottles lined up meticulously in front of her. She looked up at him and smiled.
"How's the nose, Stuart?"
"The nose is fine." He looked around the room, checking to make sure that no one else was watching him. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm looking for Heather Sampson."
"Heather Sampson? The girl from the news?"
"Of course. I'm so worried about her."
Stuart let out a small, stifled laugh. Paula had said it all with a straight face, so he decided to play along. He cast a slow, meaningful glance around the bar, then looked back at Paula and whispered, "I don't see her."
"Not now," said Paula. "But you never know. She might come in."
Stuart felt a little guilty for making jokes about this. He had seen Heather Sampson on the news the night before; in fact she had been on most nights for the past week. She was an adorable little girl - blonde pigtails, pink sweater, the whole bit - who lived uptown and went to one of the expensive private schools. She had left for school a few days ago but, somewhere in the half mile between her house and the school, she had disappeared. They found her backpack in the bushes a few blocks away.
"You know, it's really not funny," he said. "I'm very scared for that girl."
Paula looked at him as if he had said the most obvious, ridiculous thing imaginable, like pointing out that the sky sure was blue or gravity certainly seemed to be working that day. "Well, yeah." She said back. "I mean, what the hell do you think I'm doing here?"
"Paula, you're in a bar. Not just in a bar, you're sitting in a goddamn tourist trap. The... what is this, the River Tavern?"
"Big River Tavern," she corrected him.
"Yeah, OK, the Big River Tavern. Do you really think that whoever took that girl is going to come in here?"
"Maybe not here," she said. "But there are a lot of other places. I've got a whole list, lots to cover. I already went to every bar in my neighborhood."
"You went to every... OK, wait. Your plan, then, is to just wander around town going to every bar you can find looking for this girl."
Paula nodded her head vigorously and said "That's right."
"But the girl was kidnapped. Or, probably kidnapped anyway. She's probably tied up in some creepy guy's shed. Or else her body is decomposing in a swamp somewhere."
"Maybe," said Paula. "But we need to keep looking for her. I'm very worried."
"I'm worried too but, come on. Look where you're sitting. Look around you! Do you really think that whoever took Heather Sampson is just going to walk in here and order a couple of daqueris and a plate of deep-fried jalapenos."
"He might."
Stuart slapped his hands down on the table and stared into Paula's face. He made an effort to hold her gaze a couple of beats longer than was strictly necessary.
"Look, Paula. The police are after her, her picture is on the news, and I'm sure there's some kind of hot line or something that you can call if you really want to help out. The odds of you finding a missing nine-year-old in a tourist bar across the street from the movie theater are about a billion to one."
Paula nodded patiently, giving the impression of someone listening to a speech she had heard many times before. She took a short breath and stared squarely at Stuart.
"Look Stuart, here's how this works. Of course the cops are out dragging the swamps and looking in crack houses or wherever. And yeah, there's a good chance that she's in one of those places. But I don't know anything about swamps or crack houses. The way I see it, I need to cover the territory that I do know. And I know a lot of bars. I know about bars that nobody else knows about, especially in my neighborhood. So I'm going to go to all of them. It seems like the right thing to do. I mean, like, if all the chefs go to all the restaurants and all the plumbers go to all the plumbing supply places and all the gardeners go to the parks, and ... well, you see what I mean? Pretty soon, it's all covered. So I'm just doing my own part."
Stuart was dumbfounded. Paula was actually serious. She was going to stumble around town, going to every bar she knew, until she either found the kidnapped girl or ended up blind drunk and passed out on someone's lawn. He eyed her suspiciously once more, but he couldn't see any cracks in the armor. Stuart shook his head, sighed, and said the only thing he could think of.
"I'm really worried about that little girl."
"Yeah," said Paula. "Me too."
Stuart looked down at his watch. The movie was starting in a few minutes, but he wasn't sure he still wanted to see it.
"Look," he said. "I think you've got things pretty well covered here so, um, I think I'm just going to cross the street and check the movie theater."
"Good idea," said Paula. "Let me know if you find her."
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
It's time, Ms. Kirsner
Karen performed the same ritual she had been going through for seventeen years while she waited for someone to come and tell her it was time. Left pocket: two extra picks. Tap three times on the guitar case, but don't open it. The guitar had been perfectly tuned fifteen minutes ago and there was no reason to take it out again. She'd done it once, four years ago in Eugene, OR, and a string had snapped with such ferocity during the first song that she had spent the rest of the set wiping blood from the cut on her wrist. Someone had shouted "Punk rock!" when they saw it, but it had really hurt and she knew she had played terribly. So don't open the case. It's OK to tap on it and shift it around, but don't open it. The rest of the ritual: two bottles of water tucked carefully in her gig bag and a shot of Jameson's held tightly in her left hand. She would down it in one go when they came to get her, then open one of the water bottles and take a swig to cut the burn. Timmy, her old bass player, had told her she should just get it on the rocks to cut it down a bit. She did one night, and then after the show she found Timmy and her soon-to-be-ex husband naked in the dressing room. So, no more Jameson's on the rocks. The water bottle is just fine.
No more bass player either. Just her these days, bringing her guitar along and playing the old songs that everyone still cheered for and the new ones they mostly clapped politely for. She thought about getting a band together - maybe even getting the old band back - but this was so much easier. She could play wherever she wanted; she toured by herself in her little Toyota stuffed with her guitar, a week's worth of luggage, and a few boxes filled with copies of the new CD she had recorded in the garage. Her mom liked to tease her about that - "You never did a garage band when you were a kid, so now you have to do one when you're an old lady." Old lady. She rolled those words around in her head and thought how strange it was to get that from her mother. Like they were sisters now, like Karen had passed some kind of threshold when she turned forty and they were all the same, growing old and breaking down together.
There was a knock on the dressing room door and Karen got up off the stained, creaking couch. A kid who didn't look old enough to be working in a bar gave her a bored, hipper-than-thou look when she opened the door. "It's time, Ms. Kirsner," he said. He didn't even wait for her to say anything, just cocked his head in the direction of the stage and walked back down the hall.
Fuck you, thought Karen. "Ms. Kirsner" my ass. Like I'm your algebra teacher or something. She threw back her shot of Jameson's and tossed the glass onto the floor. It bounced a few times and rattled around, but it didn't break. Karen wondered if that was a good sign. She picked up her guitar case off the couch and walked out toward the stage, wondering, as she always did, about whether she'd picked the right songs for the set. The kid who had unceremoniously summoned her to the stage barely looked up as she walked by. Karen wanted to show him something, to give them all the best thing they'd ever seen on a stage. She had vague notions of a furious set that left the crowd stunned and speechless, and then a triumphant march past him on the way back to the dressing room. She wanted to slap his face and say, "listen, asshole, I toured with Nirvana so don't you give me any of this shit about being old and broken down."
She walked out onto the stage, squinting at the lights that beat down on her as soon as she came around the corner. There was more applause than she had expected as she popped open the case and took out her guitar. It made her smile, in spite of herself. She couldn't help it. One minute ago she had wanted to tear it all down just to give that dumb hipster kid something to think about, but now she was standing alone on stage with an acoustic guitar and a room full of a lot more people than she had expected. They were watching her, wanting her to give them what they came for. She felt like she should say something to them, something better than "Hi, I'm Karen." She had her guitar around her neck and was fiddling idly with the strings, pretending to be checking the tuning but mostly just enjoying the feeling of standing in front of a room full of people with a guitar.
She closed her eyes and started playing. She sang the songs she knew they wanted and they clapped and shouted. Someone screamed out a request for a song she hadn't played in eight years and didn't remember the words to. She said she was sorry and made a joke about only being able to play that song after a good fuck. They laughed like they always did. She did another old one, a couple of covers, and threw in a few songs from the new CD. It felt like a good set. An hour came and went. She looked down at the set list and saw that she was coming to the last song. She told them so and a few people shouted for more. Always good, she thought. They should always want more. She smiled for them one more time as the song ended. They clapped and stomped their feet and she told them she loved them.
What Karen was really thinking about, while the lights shone on her and the people, the people who were left, clapped and shouted, was where her car was parked, how far back to the hotel, how far to the next town, how much sleep, how many shows, how much longer. You're an old lady now, she thought. Even your mom says so. This is where you've come to and this is what you've done with your life. So smile at them. Smile and play and tell them that you love them.
No more bass player either. Just her these days, bringing her guitar along and playing the old songs that everyone still cheered for and the new ones they mostly clapped politely for. She thought about getting a band together - maybe even getting the old band back - but this was so much easier. She could play wherever she wanted; she toured by herself in her little Toyota stuffed with her guitar, a week's worth of luggage, and a few boxes filled with copies of the new CD she had recorded in the garage. Her mom liked to tease her about that - "You never did a garage band when you were a kid, so now you have to do one when you're an old lady." Old lady. She rolled those words around in her head and thought how strange it was to get that from her mother. Like they were sisters now, like Karen had passed some kind of threshold when she turned forty and they were all the same, growing old and breaking down together.
There was a knock on the dressing room door and Karen got up off the stained, creaking couch. A kid who didn't look old enough to be working in a bar gave her a bored, hipper-than-thou look when she opened the door. "It's time, Ms. Kirsner," he said. He didn't even wait for her to say anything, just cocked his head in the direction of the stage and walked back down the hall.
Fuck you, thought Karen. "Ms. Kirsner" my ass. Like I'm your algebra teacher or something. She threw back her shot of Jameson's and tossed the glass onto the floor. It bounced a few times and rattled around, but it didn't break. Karen wondered if that was a good sign. She picked up her guitar case off the couch and walked out toward the stage, wondering, as she always did, about whether she'd picked the right songs for the set. The kid who had unceremoniously summoned her to the stage barely looked up as she walked by. Karen wanted to show him something, to give them all the best thing they'd ever seen on a stage. She had vague notions of a furious set that left the crowd stunned and speechless, and then a triumphant march past him on the way back to the dressing room. She wanted to slap his face and say, "listen, asshole, I toured with Nirvana so don't you give me any of this shit about being old and broken down."
She walked out onto the stage, squinting at the lights that beat down on her as soon as she came around the corner. There was more applause than she had expected as she popped open the case and took out her guitar. It made her smile, in spite of herself. She couldn't help it. One minute ago she had wanted to tear it all down just to give that dumb hipster kid something to think about, but now she was standing alone on stage with an acoustic guitar and a room full of a lot more people than she had expected. They were watching her, wanting her to give them what they came for. She felt like she should say something to them, something better than "Hi, I'm Karen." She had her guitar around her neck and was fiddling idly with the strings, pretending to be checking the tuning but mostly just enjoying the feeling of standing in front of a room full of people with a guitar.
She closed her eyes and started playing. She sang the songs she knew they wanted and they clapped and shouted. Someone screamed out a request for a song she hadn't played in eight years and didn't remember the words to. She said she was sorry and made a joke about only being able to play that song after a good fuck. They laughed like they always did. She did another old one, a couple of covers, and threw in a few songs from the new CD. It felt like a good set. An hour came and went. She looked down at the set list and saw that she was coming to the last song. She told them so and a few people shouted for more. Always good, she thought. They should always want more. She smiled for them one more time as the song ended. They clapped and stomped their feet and she told them she loved them.
What Karen was really thinking about, while the lights shone on her and the people, the people who were left, clapped and shouted, was where her car was parked, how far back to the hotel, how far to the next town, how much sleep, how many shows, how much longer. You're an old lady now, she thought. Even your mom says so. This is where you've come to and this is what you've done with your life. So smile at them. Smile and play and tell them that you love them.
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