Scar Girl (13 page)

Problem is, we had no idea what to play. We hadn't planned for this, and as a general rule—really, Johnny's rule—the Scar Boys was a pretty well-scripted act.

“What do we do?” Richie asked as we stood on the side of the stage, a thunderstorm of claps and hollers making it hard to hear one another.

“I have something,” Johnny said. “A song I've been working on.”

“Something new?” Harry sounded freaked out. “We can't play something new.”

“I don't know, seems like a pretty rock-and-roll thing to do, if you ask me.” Johnny knew Harry's weak spot. As soon as Harry thinks he's not being rock-and-roll enough, like there's some giant rock meter measuring his life, he needs to find a way to fix it. Richie nodded.

The adrenaline high of the set was fading, and the aftereffect of the beer was making me a bit loopy.

“So how do we play along?” I asked. I think I might've slurred my words because Johnny looked at me funny.

“It's simple. It's the same riff over and over again. The song is all about the dynamics, about how loud and soft we play the riff. Kind of like ‘Heroin' by the Velvet Underground. Harry, give me your guitar.” Harry did, and Johnny showed him what really was a very easy riff. “It's that, over and over again. Just follow me for how loud and soft to get. Chey, can you follow?”

I'm guessing Johnny singled me out because he could see that I wasn't quite right. The room was spinning a bit, and I really had no idea what he'd just played, but I nodded anyway.

“Richie,” Johnny said, “let us get through the first verse or two, then come in big, okay?”

“Got it.”

The crowd had organized itself into a steady, rhythmic clap and chant of “Scar Boys, Scar Boys,” and when we walked back onstage, they erupted into a frenzy.

There was one guy—a good-looking older guy—sitting at a table in the front row, who wasn't clapping or chanting or even standing. I didn't remember seeing him there before, so he must've snuck up front during the break between songs. He had a big smile on his face, and when he saw me catch his eye, he nodded.

“Thank you, thank you,” Johnny said into the mic, sitting down at the piano as the crowd settled down. “We're going to do something kind of crazy.”

A few isolated whoops and hoots.

“We're going to play a song that we've never ever played before. Not that we've never played in public, but that we've never played as a band before. In fact, Harry, Cheyenne, and Richie have never even heard it before.” Louder whoops and hollers. “It's a song I've been working on, and I thought,
Let's see what these fine people think of it.
Would that be okay with you?”

The room absolutely exploded into a wall of noise and positive energy. Johnny nodded to Harry, and Harry started playing the riff Johnny showed him. He played it perfectly, which brought a smile to Johnny's face, which was good to see. I mean, it's not that Johnny didn't smile; it's that lately he hadn't seemed to mean it. This time, he did.

Against the backdrop of Harry playing that lonely guitar riff, Johnny started to sing:

I am only what I seem

When I hear my mirror confess

That I live in American dreams

And that's useless.

Cracked cement trains of thought

Going off the tracks.

What's the difference if no one's on board?

It's useless.

That's where Richie and I came in big, and Johnny, as if he knew what we were going to do, added a beautiful organ line.

But I was off, a hair late with everything. And my bass line was too simple. My fingers weren't able to do any of the stuff they would normally do. It was hard enough to land on the root notes and just follow along. My performance was, what's the word,
uninspired
. Johnny shot me a look that was half annoyed and half concerned, and sang the next verse.

Writers spend hours staring out windows,

Watching it rain minutes,

Yet still never a word written

That's useless.

I'll find the girl who cries in the street,

I'll follow her trail of tears.

When I reach the puddles at her feet,

I'll see her washed-out fears

In a puddle of tears,

Drained over the years.

It's useless.

At this point, Johnny held up his hand to have us dial it back and then slashed the air to tell Richie and me to stop.

We did. And again, I was late.

The only sound was Harry's guitar echoing through the room.

With my head in my hands, confused,

Nothing is what it seems.

And just when I thought nothing had use,

I find the only truth

Is in dreams.

Harry played the riff four more times, each one slower than the one before, until he ended on a bright but sad-sounding E chord.

The room was dead quiet for just long enough to make me wonder if I'd really messed up. Then the audience went nuts. And I mean, seriously nuts! I couldn't hear myself think as we leaped off the stage.

Richie high-fived Harry, me, and Johnny, but when I went to hug Johnny, he looked like he was going to kill me.

“What the fuck was that?” He was yelling at me. Harry and Richie looked as surprised as I did.

“What?” I said in full defender mode. “I've never heard the fucking song before.”

“Bullshit.”

“What do you mean? I've never heard—”

“That's not what I mean, and you know it.” Johnny was as pissed as I'd ever seen him. “You played the whole set high or drunk or something, didn't you?”

I had no response, but I didn't break eye contact with him.

“Maybe you don't need this band, Cheyenne,” he said, using my full name, which he almost never did, “but Harry and I do.”

Harry looked up like he'd been slapped, like he wanted no part of whatever was happening between me and Johnny, like he didn't want to be dragged into the middle.

“Yeah, I'm the first bass player in the fucking history of fucking rock and roll that had a couple of beers before playing a set. You're out of your mind, John.” I always shortened his name to
John
when I was being serious with him.

“However many beers Dee Dee Ramone or Paul Simonon had before a set, they never messed up the music.”

“I'd never heard the fucking song before!” Now I was shouting.

“Fuck you, Cheyenne.” He may as well have punched me in the stomach.
Fuck you, Cheyenne?
For this?

“Whatever,” I mumbled, and I walked off to the bathroom.

But even with that big scene, it wasn't the awful thing he'd said that was echoing in my ears as I stomped away. It was his new song.

“Useless.” I couldn't get it out of my head.

HARBINGER JONES

The truth is, I'd heard “Useless” before. Johnny had played the song for me a few days earlier, and we'd even worked on it a little bit. I nailed the guitar part at the Bitter End because I'd already played it. That's something I've never told Cheyenne and Richie.

I didn't know why Johnny was making it seem like I'd never heard it, but I figured he had a reason, so I played along.

I asked him about it later.

“Did you know,” he answered, “that when Alfred Hitchcock filmed the shower scene in
Psycho
, he used warm water for all the rehearsals? But when it came time for the actual take, he used cold water, only he didn't tell Janet Leigh.”

“Who?” I asked.

“She's the woman who gets stabbed in the shower.”

“Oh.” I'd never seen
Psycho
before, but I knew better than to interrupt Johnny when he got going on something.

“So when they started filming and they needed her to scream, they doused her with the ice-cold water and she gave the performance of her life.”

“John,” I said, both exasperated and confused, “what does that have to do with ‘Useless'?”

He rolled his eyes like I was the biggest idiot in the world for not following his train of thought. “I figured that, if the other guys thought it was a totally new song, it would give the band extra focus.”

Johnny was like that. Always looking for a way to push us harder, make us better. He was like our own David Lee Roth. It drove the three of us crazy sometimes, but for the most part, it worked. Whether or not it was his
Psycho
stunt—pun intentional—or something else, “Useless” worked that night, it really did. It was a totally magic moment. At least I thought so.

Only, as soon as we walked offstage, Johnny bit Chey's head off, accusing her of playing drunk. She had been a little off during the set, but I wasn't really sure where his level of anger was coming from. It ruined the whole good vibe we had going.

I started coiling my guitar cords and packing up my effects pedals in silence while Richie took apart his drum gear. Johnny, who looked really tired, was leaning against the wall; his blond curls, which he was growing out like Roger Daltrey, were matted against a concert poster for when Peter Frampton had played the club. Chey had stormed off to the bathroom.

“You kids were amazing,” this guy said as he walked up to us. I'm not sure why older people like to call younger people
kids
. Do they think it endears them to us? It doesn't. It's condescending. You don't need to remind us that you're older, wiser, and in control. We know that every waking minute of every day. It was especially aggravating on that night, because, really,
we
were supposed to be in control.

“Thanks,” Richie said. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I'm your fucking future,” the guy said. I liked his answer. It made me forget about the
kids
thing for a minute.

“You mean,” Richie responded, “like, you're Johnny, but from the future?” He cackled at his own moronic joke, and I went back to coiling my guitar cords while the guy talked.

“Not quite. I manage rock bands, and I'd like to get the Scar Boys into the studio to cut a demo. I think you guys have something here, and I'd like to get a closer look.”

We all stopped what we were doing. He had our full attention now. He was a scrawny man with a big nose and yellow teeth, but also with a certain kind of charisma. He was holding business cards, fanned like a hand of poker.

“Jeff Evans,” he said, by way of introduction. We each shook his hand and took a card.

Jeff, seeing how completely dumbfounded we were, just stood there, taking it all in, grinning like he knew something we didn't. Like he knew a lot of things that we didn't.

RICHIE MCGILL

Jeff tried to come on all strong, like he was this wise older dude and we were just a bunch of dumb young punks.

He told us that he managed bands and gave us this whole song and dance about how he was gonna get us to the big time. I was still coming down off the high of the set, and I didn't really know what to make of the dude. At first it sounded like a lot of bullshit.

“So listen up, Scar Boys and Scar Girl,” he said, nodding to Chey, who had just walked back up from taking a leak—wait, do girls say
taking a leak
? Anyways, Jeff said, “You're doing great on your own. But you're good enough for bigger venues. I saw you a couple of weeks ago at CBGB's, when you opened for Chemicals Made of Mud. You shouldn't be opening for wankers like that.” Jeff loved to say shit like
wanker,
tosser,
and
punter
. He was one of those dudes who thought it was cooler to be British than American. I guess when he was younger the cooler bands and better music were coming out of the UK. That's not true anymore. The crap coming out of London in the last few years flat-out sucks. I mean, Kajagoogoo? “If you're going to be an opening act, then you should open for bands playing theaters and small arenas.”

“Arenas?” Johnny asked.

“Yes, arenas. Look, I have your single,
‘The Girl Next Door.' It's great. The raw emotion on it sucks you right in. But it needs a bit more of a professional touch.”

“You mean, make us slick.” It was Johnny again. I don't know if he didn't trust Jeff or if he was just still pissed at Chey and acting all cranky because of it.

“No, no. Not slick. But the EQ on the snare drum isn't crisp enough. The whole mix has too much treble. And while I love the stereo tambourine”—I saw Johnny look at Harry and smile at that one—“your records can't live on whimsy alone.”

“So how does this work?” Johnny asked.

“Simple. You sign a contract with me, and I work to promote you, to get you better gigs, and to get you a record deal. No money up front, but I keep fifteen percent of whatever you earn.”

He said it was simple, but that's one thing I've learned about life: nothing, not one freaking thing, is ever simple.

CHEYENNE BELLE

The next day, we were sitting in a diner in Yonkers. It was a weird place because the building next door was . . . wait for it . . . a diner!

Two diners right next door to each other. I mean, really, what's the point? They were owned by two brothers who supposedly hated each other. After the first guy opened the Olympic Diner, his brother, just to spite him, opened the Five Star Diner thirty yards away. No one knows why they hated each other so much, but I'll bet one of them slept with the other one's wife.

Want to know the weirdest thing of all? Both diners thrived. The parking lots were always jammed, and the booths were always packed. Go figure. I guess people in Yonkers like their diners.

Anyway, we were sitting at a booth in the Five Star, all of us staring at Jeff's card, which Johnny had dropped in the middle of the table.