I would have felt thoroughly awful if Adam wasn’t acting like a petulant brat that night. His arms were folded and he sulked as singers got up and worked their hardest to entertain us. I remember Vicki telling me once that, just as our teacher Tabitha promised, for every lap dance she hustled, she was rejected five times, and that it was a real ego drain. I couldn’t imagine how beautiful vivacious women like Vicki could even bank a nickel of their self-worth on what a bunch of average Joes thought of them, but when I saw her get up onstage and work the crowd so hard, I saw a well-concealed hunger, an aching for adoration. Sure, Vicki was in the game for the money, but there was a natural fallout from being rejected forty times a night. I felt like Adam, with his sour puss, and disengaged body language, was rejecting Vicki and Mike. And soon it was my turn.
“Excuse me, but could one of you ladies accompany me in a duet,” Ollie asked, approaching our table.
“Darlin’ I’m about to take these boots out a walkin’ if y’know what I mean, but maybe my friend here can help y’out?” Greta gestured toward me. Finally, she was a fully enlisted partner in crime.
“Oh no, I couldn’t,” I said, glancing at Adam to see if he’d encourage me.
“Go ahead, Mona,” Vicki said. “This is a very nice crowd.”
When you look like Vicki, every crowd is a nice one. Though this was planned and Ollie and I had been rehearsing for months, I was apprehensive. Terrified. Vicki was truly the worst singer I’d ever heard in my life. Mike was a little better. Greta who was sizing up the width of the bar to see whether she could prance across it with her boots that were made for walkin’—has a mediocre voice. Yet I was the one who was light-headed with terror because I actually cared. There was a part of me that was dying to get up on stage and have all eyes on me. Another part was frightened not just of what I wanted, but because I wanted it. I had always been quite satisfied being life’s wallpaper. That night, I wanted something more.
We waited another five songs, including Greta’s shameless version of Nancy Sinatra’s hit, complete with dance moves from the Vicki school of gyration. “Are y’ready boots?” she asked. “Start walking.”
Ollie and I had no dance moves. I shook with fear as they called our names for our duet. We sang “Cruisin’” like Gwyneth Paltrow and Huey Lewis in
Duets
. Ollie harmonized perfectly and I made it through the tough parts I’d practiced no less than a hundred times in the shower as the audience sat silently watching us. I thought we are either bombing or rocking, but in the glare of the stage lights, I couldn’t see a single face in the audience.
When we finished, the audience clapped politely but no wild cheering like they did for the theatrics of Vicki and Greta. I returned to the table and Adam looked downright angry, but before I could ask what was bothering him, the old Sinatra guy approached our table and asked if I could sing another song for him. “Can you do something contemporary, something more urban?” he asked.
Mike winked at me, and I realized he must’ve set this up for me to look cool in front of Adam like I had fans. Even though I knew it was staged, it was thrilling to have someone asking me to sing again. Or maybe it was just the prospect of singing again that was titillating. Six months ago, I would’ve picked Nelly Furtado’s “I’m Like a Bird” because when I heard her sing that she doesn’t know where her home is, or her soul is, I knew exactly what she meant. This night, I tried something different.
“Do you mind?” I asked Adam.
“Knock yourself out,” he said, letting me know he wasn’t at all pleased with me. It sounded like something he might say before my first boxing match.
I had another two glasses of red wine before it was my turn to go on stage. By then, all inhibitions vanished.
I winked at Vicki, who recognized the humming intro to Christina Aguilera’s “Beautiful.” We smiled, remembering Tabitha the stripping teacher telling us about how she sang this into the dressing room mirror before she started her shift. Before I could wonder how the rest of them were doing—how Bettie Page’s wedding went, if the Viagra prescription was filled, how the coffee table pole dancing was going—it was my turn. “‘Every day is so wonderful,’” I began.
Being on stage alone is possibly the most naked and vulnerable feeling I’d ever experienced. Still, naked and vulnerable had its advantages. There was a potential payoff from naked vulnerability that cloistered anonymity just did not offer. I squinted to see Mike, who gave me a thumbs-up. I don’t even remember singing the song. I just remember that when I finished, my group howled applause and the rest of the bar seemed to join in. Sinatra came back and handed me his card. “You got a great sound,” he said. “You working with anybody?”
Shit, now I’m going to have to reveal that I have been taking voice lessons.
“You mean, like a voice teacher?”
He laughed. “I mean an agent.”
Mike winked again, and I realized that I’d recruited a true believer in the art of public relations. How sweet of him to stage this for me. I grinned and winked back.
“No. I just sing in the shower,” I told Sinatra.
“That’s a waste. Give me a call this week. We’re looking for a cute young thing with your kind of sound to front a new girl band we’re putting together. You may be a good fit. No promises, but who knows.”
Classic!
“Oh, okay.” I winked at Sinatra.
As we all walked toward our cars, I sidled up to Mike and whispered “thank you” in his ear.
“For what?”
“For that. Back at the bar.”
“For singing?”
“No, stupid! For Sinatra. He was perfect. I don’t think Adam was too impressed by it, but it was sweet of you to set up.”
“Mona Lisa, you’re drunk.”
“This is true, but it’s also true that you’re a total sweetheart.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m into the sweet talk, and if you ditch Grumpy over there, I’ll give you something to really thank me for, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That Sinatra guy!” I reminded him by drawing out the sentence. “The way he came over and asked me to sing, then gave me his card for his chick band. That was your doing.” Mike stared blankly. “Wasn’t it?” He said nothing. “Wasn’t it?!”
“Mona Lisa, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I am so on to you, Mr. Navy sticker putter-oner,” I slurred.
“Mona, listen to me. I put the sticker on your car. I didn’t put that guy up to approaching you.”
Really? Someone really and truly thought I might be good enough to sing in a band? Ahhhhhhh! I silently screamed with elation. Ahhhhhhhhh!
“Oh.” I smiled. “That could be fun.”
As it turned out, Adam had no particular affinity for music. Every article I’d found in my Google search, which quoted him loving opera and theatre, and contributing to the chamber orchestra, was actually written about his father—Adam P. Ziegler. Further, Adam explained on the drive home that evening, he didn’t like seeing me sing with another man.
“First of all, you were pouting waaaaay before I sang, and secondly I was just singing. It wasn’t like, like we were ... I can’t even believe I’m explaining this to you! Who cares if I sang with someone else?”
“I care!” he shouted. “And if you cared about me, you’d care, too. Mona, I am starting to have very real feelings for you, and it seems as though I’m in this alone!”
And suddenly all of my righteous indignation evaporated. Adam was right. I had been using him to fill a void all along, and it was patently unfair to him. He wasn’t the E ticket to the wonderful life I’d hoped for, but he was a kind and decent person who deserved better than what he was getting from me. That night I vowed, I would absolutely, positively put an end to this scam of a relationship. And yet, when he dropped me off, I told him I’d see him soon.
* * *
For the next few days, I avoided calling Adam and screened my answering machine messages, picking up only for Greta and Mike. Finally, Friday night I heard his voice on the answering machine and realized my cowardice was bordering on cruelty.
“Hi, Adam.” I picked up the phone breathless, hoping he’d think I just walked in the door.
“Hi, Mona.” Awkward silence. “I want to apologize for the other night.”
Nooooooo! Please don’t apologize to me.
He continued. “I was out of line being jealous over your singing with another guy. You were fantastic, by the way. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if that band wanted you to be its lead singer.”
“Oh, um, thanks, Adam. You really shouldn’t be the one apologizing, though. I could see you were having a bad time and I should’ve suggested we leave.”
“No, you shouldn’t have. I should have snapped out of my mood. People in relationships need to focus on their partner’s needs before their own. That’s what I believe. Anyway, I was hoping we could get together Saturday night.”
“Oh, thanks,” I hesitated. “I’m going to the theater with Vicki, Greta, Mike, and two women from the Kickin’ Chicks. How ‘bout midweek?”
“What are you guys seeing?” Adam asked.
“I’m not sure. Vicki’s going to pick up tickets at the half-price kiosk downtown tomorrow. Whatever they have six tickets for that night is what we’ll end up seeing.”
“Oh, in that case, do you mind if I come along?”
Adam, we need to talk.
Adam, it’s not you, it’s me.
This relationship has run its course.
“Okay!” I said with too much enthusiasm. I sounded like the head cheerleader getting the squad ready for the halftime show.
At dinner Saturday night, I gasped with horror that I’d forgotten to tell Adam where to meet us for the play. Vicki held up her hand as she finished chewing her grilled salmon. “Mmmmm, not a problem,” she said. “He called this morning while you were at the gym, and I gave him the details. He’ll meet us there. I told him to look for Mike and Greta if we weren’t there right at seven-thirty.”
“What are we seeing anyway?” I asked Vicki.
“Oh, you’ll love it. It’s a musical adaptation of
It’s a Wonderful Life
. One of the girls from the team saw it last weekend and said it was wild. One of those ‘different’ theatre companies, you know.”
“
It’s a Wonderful Life
in June? Hmmm, weird.”
“Very weird,” she said. “It got written up by the
San Diego Reader
as the most bizarre production to come out of San Diego since Sledgehammer did
Faust on Ice
in 1992.”
I wish I could report whether or not the musical adaptation of
It’s a Wonderful Life
was weird, but I only saw the first ten minutes of the play. Adam sat on my right side wearing a fresh pressed canary yellow oxford shirt and khaki pants, fidgeting with his program. Mike was seated to my immediate left with a denim shirt and jeans staring straight at the closed velvet curtain. “How’s it going?” I tapped him on the knee.
“It’s going.” He shrugged. The lights dimmed. I heard the familiar opening of Billy Joel’s “Allentown.” A chorus of townspeople marched on the stage with Christmas ornaments in hand and began singing,
“Well we’re living here in Bedford Falls, and George Bailey thinks the time just crawls. And his life has made no difference, but he is wrong, shows angel Clarence. And it’s really been a wonderful life. And George Bailey’s got a wonderful wife. And his kids are happy he’s their dad, if he jumped off that bridge they’d be so sad. And so would all the folks of Bedford Falls.”
Mike looked at me in terror as if to say he couldn’t bear another hour and a half of such shameless corniness. The scene changed to the Bailey living room where George enters after he learns his uncle misplaced eight thousand dollars.
Adam whispered as George Bailey appeared on stage, “He looks exactly like your ex-boyfriend, Poison.”
Shiiiiit!
Bailey’s adoring wife wrapped her black-and-white dress sleeves around his waist. “Oh honey, it’s Christmas Eve, try not to think about that mean old Potter anymore.”
Adam squinted at the actress. “Is that the lady who passed out at the zoo?”
Oh my God! Soon he’s going to see Potter, who—
Knock, knock, knock on the set door. Julie opened the door and held her hand to her head. “Potter!” she yelped. “Can’t you leave us alone on Christmas Eve, you mean and greedy old man?!”
“What the—” Adam said louder than he should have in a theatre.
“Shhh,” I rested my hand on his leg. “I’ll explain later.”
“That’s the guy you sang with last week at the bar!” Adam shouted and stood. “What the hell is going on here?” The actors were startled into silence by the irate audience member, but soon continued with the show.
“Sit down, Adam,” I whispered. “I’ll explain this all to you later.”
“You will explain it to me now!” he shouted and stood. I looked up at the stage to apologize, but caught Ollie directing his lighting crew to turn the spot on Adam. The rest stood agape, completely out of character and engrossed in what I would say or do to explain myself. I expected someone in the audience to speak up and urge Adam to sit down, but all eyes were on him—and me. Suddenly, I was in the spotlight, too, and everyone was waiting for an answer. “Who are these people?” Adam demanded.
“They’re actors, Adam,” I said, hushing him.
“But George Bailey is your ex-boyfriend from a heavy metal band!” Adam snapped. The audience looked as though they were watching a tennis match. Every head simultaneously turned to me for the answer, though they were all thoroughly confused by the question.
“Adam, can we talk about this later?” I begged.
“Why were you singing karaoke with Potter at a bar last weekend?” Adam shouted.
I heard a woman three rows back whisper, “This is such an original production.” I realized about half of the people in the audience probably assumed that Adam’s outburst was part of the show because of the spotlight on us. At that point, Toby peeked his head out from behind the curtain.
“Mona, you were mugged by that angel!” Adam shouted when he saw Toby in his Clarence regalia. “And isn’t that woman in the feathered hat your former lesbian lover?! I absolutely demand to know what’s going on here!”