Summer in the Land of Skin. Jody Gehrman
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I say. “I don’t wear makeup.”
“That’s exactly the point,” she says. “You have to start doing the things you don’t do.” She snatches the lipstick from me and holds it close to my face, staring at my mouth.
“But—” I protest.
“Hold still, for God’s sake.” She scowls with concentration. “You’ve got to reinvent yourself, or there’s no point.”
“Playing dress-up?” I look up to see the blond singer staring down at us. He is sweaty, and his eyes are lit up from the inside, like lanterns.
Lucinda finishes painting my lips and looks over her shoulder at him. “Hey, Danny. This is Anna. Try not to scare her off.”
“Lovely introduction,” he says. He reaches over, takes my drink in his damp-looking palm and downs it.
“That was hers,” Lucy says.
“I know,” he says. “I’m about to get her a fresh one. She needed a clean slate. Gin and tonic?” I nod. “Lucy? You ready for another round?”
“I’m always ready,” she says. “You know that. Be sure it’s Tanqueray, though—none of that well shit.”
He disappears in the direction of the bar. The place is filling up now. There are swarms of barely-legal types milling around; the girls wear short skirts, the boys wear baseball caps. The air is getting thick with cigarette smoke and a headache-inducing mélange of designer scents. I recall seeing signs in town for a university, and its evidence is here; the girls are pretty, with traces of confidence. They laugh loudly and touch their hair often. The boys drink with grim determination, avoiding eye contact. Fanny’s Barbecue Palace, only minutes ago all ours, is now bristling with the chatty, neurotic electricity of kids recently released from the grip of their parents.
Danny returns with three gin and tonics, sets them down, and remains standing, surveying the room. Soon Arlan and Bill come over and join us, too, lighting cigarettes and carrying glasses of whiskey. Sparky comes over last, whacking his sticks restlessly against his thighs, an empty chair, anything within reach. Finally, Danny sits down. I’m glad; someone that tall is distracting when he’s towering over you. He looks right at me, and I see that Lucy wasn’t kidding about his eyes. The right one is a light hazel, the left is a gray-blue. He just sits there staring, so I start to speak out of nervousness.
“What’s your band called?”
Danny doesn’t answer. He just goes on staring.
Bill says, “Called Buddhist Monkeys. My name’s Bill, by the way.” He thrusts a hand across the drinks for me to shake, which I do. His fingers feel clammy, but his grip is fierce.
“Anna,” I say.
“I’m Sparky,” the drummer tells me. His voice is high-pitched and irritating. He rubs his sticks together like he plans to start a fire right in his lap.
Arlan sits there drinking his whiskey and staring around the room in silence.
“Place is really filling up,” I say. “You going to play another set?” Even before I’ve finished my sentence, Danny’s eyes narrow.
“They’re done for the night,” Lucy says. “There’s another band starting in a few minutes.”
“Really?” I say, trying to suppress my relief. “What kind of—”
“Pussy rock,” Danny says.
“I’m sorry?” I say.
“You like pussy rock?”
“Danny,” Lucy says. “‘Pussy’ is not an adjective, okay?”
At this Arlan chuckles, though he’s shown no signs that he’s been listening until now.
“I just asked her a civil question,” Danny says. He has a faint accent—Canadian, I would guess—and he speaks so loudly, I can hear him perfectly in spite of the adolescent commotion swelling all around us.
“Define ‘pussy rock,’” I say.
“Apolitical, inarticulate ass-wipe. Feel-good, cunt-worshiping cereal jingles. Answer your question?”
“Danny,” Lucy says, whipping around to face him. “If you didn’t bombard every woman with fucked-up pejoratives for her anatomical parts, maybe you’d actually get some.”
“Where you from, Anna?” Bill asks. He has a nervous twitch in his cheek.
“San Francisco.”
“So you’re visiting Lucy?”
“She’s living with us,” Lucy announces, her eyes locked on Arlan across the table. Bill looks from her to him to me with confusion. Arlan just keeps sizing up the room, smoking his cigarette. “I’ve adopted her,” she adds, and smiles at me. Her tiny, adorable teeth seem to glow in the dark.
“Mother Lucy,” Danny says, his voice filled with sarcasm.
“Motherfucker,” she spits out.
“Arlan!” Danny calls. “You want to keep your woman in line?”
Finally, Arlan ends his contemplation of the room and turns in our direction. He looks first at Danny—a quick, dismissive glance—and then at Lucy. His eyes rest on her face and fill with a tenderness so visible I could swear they actually change color. “She keeps me in line,” he says without a trace of apology, “and she knows it.”
Within an hour, Danny is asleep in his seat. His chin tucks into his throat, and his head, with its shock of white-blond hair, sways side to side every now and then, like there’s a breeze nudging it. I can see the very beginnings of balding at the crown—a hairless spot no bigger than a quarter.
He awakens occasionally and disappears for several long trips to the john, and each time he gets up, the other guys shoot each other glances. I wonder if he has severe digestive problems or narcolepsy or something.
“Danny’s a junkie,” Lucy whispers, as we cross the bar toward the bathroom. “In case you haven’t noticed.”
“I wondered what was wrong with him.”
“Pisses Arlan off,” she says. “Sometimes he’s so fucked up he can barely play.”
“How’d Arlan end up in this band, anyway?”
“He’s not a self-promoter. He’s an artist—way more than these shitheads—but Danny’s the one with enough ego to get gigs.” She closes herself into a stall. “You should hear Arlan play alone. He’s a genius.”
“Yeah,” I say, studying my deep red mouth in the mirror.
She flushes the toilet and reappears. “What do you mean, ‘yeah’?”
“I mean, yeah, I bet he is.”
She looks at me for a moment before washing her hands.
Later, when we’ve had too much to drink again, and the pussy rock band plays a song with a beat that echoes through your chest, a song that makes you feel foolish and alive, Lucy drags me out on the dance floor. The place is now packed with sweaty students, wriggling and rubbing up against each other like frenzied fish. At first I just sort of wobble from one foot to the other, painfully self-conscious. But then I close my eyes, forget about the room and find the rhythm with my hips. I move without thinking to a night one summer when my parents threw a party; I can taste the air, heavy with the smell of grass, and I can hear their instruments coming together magically. My little-girl body flings itself from side to side, caught up in the waves of their frantic laughter, their strumming and banging and singing.
“You dance like you’re on Ecstasy,” Lucy says into my ear.
My eyes open, and the room is back, with its pool players leaning against the walls, coolly appraising. I see Arlan sitting at the table,