Читать книгу Maggot Brain Dreams - Cameron C. Duncan - Страница 4

“You have to give people something to dream on”- Jimi Hendrix

(Alarm clock rings) Damn! I’m still here. It’s six o’clock in the morning and I am woken by the horrible screech of an alarm clock, signaling it’s time to get up for work.

“I hate my existence,” I thought to myself as if it appeared in a cloud of text that you would see in a Sunday Morning comic strip.

For today would be another day that what I desperately wanted was tantalizingly within my reach but yet a world away. It was like reaching for Neptune under the aid of a powerful telescope only to see it fade away and become yet again indecipherable amongst the stars.

It was the biggest show of the season. Tonight the venue I labored at would welcome 20,000 adoring, screaming fans; anxious and melting in the anticipation of the first glimpse of the stunning Sunol. Hundreds of luminaries had walked these halls before but she was without an equal. She was a hometown hero who grew up a stone’s throw from here but left it all in her rearview, she had her reasons. A Michigan State drop out who became a household name by the age of 20.

Somehow numb to the usual mania that swirls in these dungeons on Saturday mornings of concert season. I admit I was bitten with a slight alacrity as I postulated what she was like; naked of the nimiety of make-up, the extravagance of jewelry, and the grandiose wardrobe of wanton hysteria as she just wandered comfortably casual through the backstage halls in search of dressing room 3. I wanted a flash of the real person. The one who had had to take ACT’s and scrape off her own car windows in the winter mornings. The girl who wrote poems, some of which she probably kept private some of which she shared, her audience at the time never fabricating who she would one day become.

The synopsis read sound check at 4:30. It would be the perfect opportunity for me to see her without her noticing me. For I could stand disguised in the cloak of the shadows, waiting for a sample of her voice, so I could store it in memory to complete the chorus of a song I had written for her next album. I hoped that someday we would cross paths, more than two years but hopefully less than 7 from now. For then she would still be her but I’d be more than me.

Yes 4:30 would be perfect. So at 3:13, I heard my name called.

John “They need another couch in dressing room 3. The words “dressing room 3” projected as if they were spoken in slow motion by my vertically challenged supervisor. His hair slicked back like a gang member Pony Boy from the film “Outsiders”. He was a high school dropout known for barking orders, and making enemies. But somehow we got along; he appreciated me for busting my ass, I respected him for his frankness.

“Sunol’s room?” I asked, knowing the answer but hoping I was wrong.

“Yup” he quipped with a sideways smirk on his face, like he was casting characters for his own comedy. He had walked past three of my co-workers playing cards to get to me. So I knew not only was it her room but she was likely already in it. He knew I was the only person in the room that would prevent talking to her at most costs, while most others would be looking for any excuse to shake her hand or stay a bit longer than she needed, just to grab an extra moment that they could embellish later.

I grabbed my coworker Eric to assist me on the task. I knew I could trust him not to bring any bad attention to us and he would at least create some zany subject to keep me from thinking too much and ease my nerves. I pulled my hat down to cover up as much of my face as possible and I flipped up my collar to reduce my profile.

4:17

Eric didn’t disappoint he was two questions into his wildly exaggerative hypothetical situations:

“OK OK OK, so would you go into the future 40 yrs. and do it with an old Stacy Dash so you could be with her how she is now?”

“Man no she’d be like 84 yrs. old.” I replied

“I would, Stacy Dash only ages 1 year per every 8 so she still will look like she’s in her late 40’s” he calculated.

“OK, Lucy Liu” he yelled with immense excitement as if he was going stump me.

“Would you screw a 275 LB version of Lucy Liu so you could sleep with her now?’

I admit I paused for a bit actually imagining how a butterball Lucy Liu might look.

“Maybe, is her face fat?” I inquired.

“Naw man her face is still regular!”

“Is it like the rolled up fat or the solid fat?” I dug deeper.

“Solid fat, like Loretta Devine in Waiting to Exhale” he added.

It became like a game I couldn’t let him win.

‘Hmmm how about 225?” I negotiated.

“No, she has to be 275!” he calmly insisted.

I had a crush on Lucy Liu since the movie “Gridlocked”

“Yea I’d do it,” I confessed. It was not one of my prouder moments in life.

He chuckled loudly enough to catch a strange glare from a hospitality worker.

As we turned the corner heading to Sunol’s room. I was somewhat relaxed and curious what the final questions would be.

“Would you make out with a chick who looked just like Rosario Dawson, as in her twin but she only had one lip, the bottom one?

“Why does it have to be the bottom one?” I questioned in disgust.

“Because the top one gets the most attention when you’re kissing so you would have to change your kissing style.”

In that second, I realized, He really put a lot of consideration into these questions.

“But her lips are her best feature!” I stated puzzled.

“I know! That’s the point!” he exclaimed.

“Nah I can’t do that one, maybe if she had the top lip, maybe.“

“Well, what if the real Rosario Dawson would go out with you, if you did?” he twisted.

“Well then, I suppose.” I admitted.

You may be asking yourself, do men really have these conversations. The answer is absolutely.

We were within 20 paces of the dressing room so he was running short on time to create new mindbenders.

“99 Halle Berry or 86 Appollonia?

“Tough choice but Halle”

“Jennifer Lopez or 98’Janet Jackson” he countered.

“Janet”

“Mya or Zoe Saldona?”

“Mya,” I answered.

“I thought you said Zoe was your favorite actress,” he barked curiously.

“She still is but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t like black guys, not that I’m her type even if she was, but even though you’re speaking hypothetically, if all things were equal she still doesn’t like black guys.” I explained.

“What’s wrong with that?” he asked, curiously as a young black man that dabbled in dating white women.

“Nothing is wrong with it, you love who you love, you like who you like, people have preferences, and it’s fair. I’m just saying, if I met two amazing women at a library’ Girl A and Girl B and you told me, Girl B doesn’t like black dudes, I would channel my energy towards Girl A. Get it?”

“Yea but then which girl would I get?” he asked in confusion.

“No that’s not what I meant. Fine then you would talk to Girl A,” I tried to clarify.

“No it’s Ok you can have her, if one girl is racist the other probably is too,” he exclaimed.

“Hey guys,”

We were greeted by Leslie, I wasn’t sure exactly what her job was but I had worked with her during shows before so I was comforted knowing that if she was going to tell us where to drop these couches off Sunol wasn’t around. A sense of relief came over me, like a college freshman that got assurance from a moderately unattractive girl he had unprotected sex with that her late period was a false alarm.

“You can just drop the big one in the back against the wall,” she instructed.

“And place the small one perpendicular to it on the left wall.”

Eric lifted his side and I hastily gathered my end, thinking that in three minutes this would be over and I could just stay under the radar until sound check.

Eric continued with his questions as he walked backward cautiously checking to make sure he didn’t trip over something and risk dropping Sunol’s custom ordered lavish white leather coach with gold legs.

The conversational subject matter had changed to a more G rated conversion in music, so not to offend the women working in earshot of us, preparing Sunol’s spread, and inspecting her wardrobe.

“Top 5 Rap albums” he blurted.

In no particular order, I replied

“Outkast ATliens 1996

Tupac Makaveli 1996

Tupac “Me Against the World.

The Eminem Show”

Hmmm (thinking) as we set the couch down

“One down, One to go, almost home free”

“I’ll leave 5 open otherwise I’ll leave somebody out” I said

“What about the Chronic?” Eric urged.

“It’s a classic but then I’d be leaving out NWA Straight Outta Compton, Wu Tang 36 chambers,”

I’d put Jay Z the black album on the list, and Ice cube “The Predator”

“Yeah those were good too and LL Cool J didn’t even get one in.,” he agreed.

“What about females?”

“Female rappers? You mean like Left Eye?” I assumed.

(Lifting the last love seat)

“No singers, female singers” he agreed.

“Best voice or performers?” I sought.

Eric looked over my shoulder and paused before he sat down the couch. His expression was peculiar but didn’t alarm me.

“Uhm singer I mean voice” he gathered himself.

“Well new breed you gotta put Christina Aguilera, in there, Mariah obviously, and”

“Whitney”

A woman’s voice spoke the name on my mind.

“Yeah Whitney is still the coldest, thought she hasn’t done much in a while” Eric added.

“Yeah Whitney would be #1” I added while sliding the couch into place. As I turned to address the female employee that had also become engaged in the discussion, time froze.

There she was in a baseball cap, wearing a short green jacket, and tight black jeans accessorized by sunglasses and an olive scarf. Her hair was black and snuggled into a bun. Her boots rose three inches below her knee. I could feel the cold wind jumping off of her from the freezing temperature outside. Her gaze was aimed at the food table searching for the first hot drink she could consume.

“I’d add Arethra Franklin” I thought, I had to quip quickly to prevent an awkward silence. But before I could get the words out, she tilted her glasses slightly off her eyes.

“Do you know where I can get some tea around here? I can’t feel my toes,” she added.

Anyone from a cold weather climate knows the feeling when you don’t wear enough socks and your toes feel like ice cubes.

There was no sense in trying to hide now; I just had to be as non-memorable as possible,

Well you can go down the hall to hospitality or you can wait a couple minutes because I heard the girls talking about going to get hot water.

I was relieved that I didn’t stumble over the word hospitality or you for that matter.

“Thank God” she puffed in relief, pulling off her scarf.

“I don’t miss this weather.” she mumbled as she made her way past us to sit on a love seat, where she painstakingly untied her left boot.

“So I’m curious, who was next on your list?” she spoke while attempting to restore the blood flow to her toes.

This conversation had gone on for about two responses too long.

Her second boot was now off and she covered her cold feet with a blue quilt from the end table.

“Why would she even bother to small talk with two peons in black shirts?” I thought.

But I inferred she’d been on the road for months, same people, same show every day, she had to be irritated with talking to the same people, I know I would be.

“What about Big Mama Thornton” I suggested.

“Who is that?” Eric asked with a bedazzled look.

“Wow, clearly you don’t like Blues, she wrote the songs that other people made more famous, like Hound Dog made famous by Elvis, and Ball and Chain, which is synonymous with Janis Joplin. If you ask me, only Janis Joplin did her songs any justice.”

Though no one did ask me, I continued.

“Babe I’m gonna leave you is epic, not to be confused with a similar Led Zeppelin title”

I thought she might make a suggestion, I thought she’d agree or oppose.

She tilted her head in consideration like a scientist slightly intrigued by the results generated by her research subjects. I took it as the perfect cue to leave the room to avoid overstaying our welcome.

We may have walked three steps outside of the door when I realized that her non-descript gesture may have meant that she was expecting us to mention her name amongst the four.

“Nah she wouldn’t do that, she wouldn’t care, what we thought. Besides she had to hear us say vocalist and performers, right?” nah she wouldn’t.

Nevertheless, I was just glad to have escaped, I was sure she’d never recall this brief interaction. I was in the clear.

4:28 lazily arrived; I walked into the dark arena, and found a shadow where I could witness her true voice without engineering, without lights, without an audience, just like it was church choir practice in the mid 90’s. She walked onto the stage with bottled water in her hand, now escorted by a slightly burly bodyguard. Her hair was down, slightly wavy extended past her scapula. The left side of her locks was pulled behind her left ear. She wore a long black dress, possibly navy, with a long slit up the right side, exposing her leg covered by a flesh colored stocking. I saw but one piece of jewelry, a shiny anklet that laid mid ankle on her high heeled suede boot, also either black or navy. She turned her head to say a few words to a grey haired man behind her sitting at a piano; they shared a laugh before she walked to the microphone as she had done countless times before. Her left hand smoothed any out of place strands of hair.

“Tony, have you tested the levels already?” she asked a tall dark gentleman.

The microphone was on and adjusted.

She warmed her voice stretching a note from low to mid to high, as if she went from humming a lullaby to her newborn child, to singing along in a car, to polishing off an audition.

She turned back to the grey haired man and he nodded in approval.

I recognized the first few keys, they seemed so familiar like a beautiful face you’d seen a thousand times, but the owners name escapes you for two winks.

“It was so simple I know that…”

“Whooooooooaaa, one day I’m goooonna leave you, I know you think I won’t,”

She was belting out the classic blues tune by Big Mama Thornton in a way that would make Janis Joplin blush. It was effortless, it was smooth it was passionate like it meant something to her.

Who did she leave? What had she left behind, that she revisits every time those notes are played?

I had seen something in her for a moment that could not be purchased from a box office. It wasn’t a performance it was truth, it was vulnerability, it was sorrow, it was bliss, a hard slap followed by a long kiss.

For a moment time stood still, until darkness fell around me when patrons filled the arena and the show lights came up.

The crowd filled the ambient silence full of applause, joy and laughter. The clean aisles became sticky with spilled beer and popcorn. The all to familiar scent of warm pretzels and mustard, triggered something inside of me that night. It was time to go, a dream without direction is a wish and a path without progress is merely a view.

The course of my life was changing as I stood stoutly on the grandconcourse, watching the flashing lights of an encore, feeling the rumbling of a pleased crowd under my feet, the last summer night of the season slips away. This was my last hour at this place. Right now would one day be a fond memory of change. Why would I leave all that I know behind, and abandon the privilege to rub shoulders with the very people I aspire to collaborate with? The answer is insanity. Not the insanity that is thought of when I answer my own questions. Not the idea of insanity that leads me to walk around nude and contemplate my method of death but rather the true definition “Insanity is extreme folly; senselessness foolhardiness”. Like the woman who stays with a man who batters her, or the man who stays at the company that continuously ignores his contributions and passes him over for promotions. I would be a fool to do the same thing in life and expect for things to change, just as it is senseless to expect a perfect body when you consume fried foods, sugary snacks and never leave your couch. I didn’t know if I was making the right decision, but I knew that staying and rotting in Michigan was the wrong decision. Don’t get me wrong it was home and I had every intention of coming back, but on my own terms, with my life firmly in my grasp and my head held high walking with the bravado of a 17^th century tyrant. I couldn’t come back the way I left, far from nothing but barely anyone. I honestly did not know how I would get to that point. All I had were a few dollars and a prayer that I would find whatever pieces I was missing to become complete, whatever inspiration I needed to become a better artist. It would be me against the world and maybe I would get my ass kicked some but I felt there would be a new world to conquer.