Chapter Twenty-two
When the show’s over, I mingle with the audience, say hi to the people I know, say hi to people I don’t know. Soon the crowd thins. My sister and her husband have returned home; Owen and Jeremy are off in the corner deep in conversation. But I spot Matthew, looking cool and relaxed, drinking a beer, chatting it up with the club’s manager. I tap Matthew on the shoulder, greeting him with a huge, knowing grin. He pulls me against him so my back is pressed against his belly. Dom makes a gesture to offer me a drink, and I nod. He heads off and I lean into Matthew, resting my head against his shoulder. “Don’t think it’s gone unnoticed that you spoke like a Brit tonight,” he says softly.
I turn around so we’re face-to-face.
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re a lovely crowd tonight and I adore you all,” he imitates me. “That’s very English, Jane. Lovely and adore. Very English words.”
“Do the British have first right of refusal on those words?” I ask as Dom returns with a beer.
“Of course we do,” Matthew answers, as I take a drink.
“I do love the way you talk though. I love your accent, the way you say words like body with a slightly different emphasis than we do, and how you have these words all your own, like loads and rubbish and barking. Words we could never get away with.”
“Don’t forget knackered. That’s another. Then there’s brilliant, right, trainers, holiday, fancy. I could go on.”
“And here’s another thing. I’ve decided that British accents are far sexier than Australian accents. The Australian ones fool you. At first you think, ‘Oh, cool accent. Very sexy.’ But then the more you listen, they’re a little too twangy and you realize the British accents really are better.”
“As a nation, we really strive to have the sexiest accents,” he says, wrapping an arm around my waist.
“So can I objectify you for your nationality?”
He pulls me closer. “Objectify me all you want, Jane.”
“I plan to when I get you back to my place in a few minutes,” I say and I’m about to list off all the other parts of him that I can objectify when Jeremy ambles over. “Nicely done, Black,” Jeremy barks, then claps me on the back.
“Good to see you again, Matthew,” he says and shakes Matthew’s hand.
“And you as well, Jeremy.”
Then Jeremy turns back to me. “I need you to do something tomorrow. Just talked to the guys at Flint,” he says, referring to the music network that actually plays music videos rather than reality shows about hot, sweaty, young things living in a cramped box together. “You know they’re totally last minute, but a great opportunity just came up. Something that might bring you back to your Grammy-winning roots and knock some more inspiration into that head of yours,” he says, tapping my forehead. “Know what tomorrow is? April tenth?”
I roll my eyes. “What do you take me for? A kid?”
Jeremy looks at me expectantly, waiting for an answer.
“The day the Beatles broke up, Jeremy,” I say.
“Right you are. And you know how Flint wants to celebrate?”
“How does Flint want to celebrate?” I ask.
Jeremy points at me. “They want you to come on the Paul and Mike Morning Rock Show. Be a guest host and countdown with them your top ten breakup songs of all time. You get to pick ’em. Any ten. Jane Black’s ten songs for a broken heart. Leave it to Flint— any other network would countdown breakup songs on Valentine’s Day, as an antidote. But those guys, they’re doing it on the saddest day in rock ’n’ roll history. April 10, 1970 to be precise.”
He takes a beat, waiting for a response.
“That is awesome.” Then I ask, “But why me?”
“Because you are—this is direct from Paul—Queen of the Dumped.”
“Wow. Queen of the Dumped,” I say drily, glancing at Matthew, who’s taking another drink of his beer, trying to stay out of the conversation.
“So it’s a yes?”
Of course I’m not going to turn down a chance to guest host a whole show. Or to share my picks for the best breakup songs of all time. I have oodles upon heaps upon piles of sad songs on my iPod, in my playlists. I lived by them over the last year. I fell asleep to Lou Reed’s “Sweet Jane,” I woke up to Guns N’ Roses’ “Patience,” I cried at the kitchen sink in the middle of doing dishes to Pearl Jam’s “Black.” I remember scrubbing soy sauce off a dinner plate as Eddie Vedder’s beautiful baritone rang out, almost like his voice was breaking, almost like he was about to cry. And I did the same. I broke down right there at the sink, tears pouring out, shoulders quaking, head in my still-wet hands for minutes before I realized I had pressed the soapy, dirty sponge against my forehead and that my son had asked, “What’s wrong, Mommy?”
There are so many songs to choose from. How can I even begin to narrow it down to ten for my appearance as Queen of the Dumped tomorrow morning?
I nod to Jeremy. “Yes, it’s a yes.”
“Good. And maybe while you’re at it, you can write some breakup songs. You do those really well,” he suggests.
“You want me to write more breakup tunes?”
“Sure. Why not? Maybe that’s your true niche, Black.” He smacks his sternum, then leans in to speak in a low voice. “Tap into the angst. The turmoil. Maybe even have a fight with your new man. See where that gets you. Or better yet, call it off for a few days, and see if you can write.”
Then he leaves.
His suggestion smacks me hard in the chest. I can’t get air for a minute; I can barely breathe. There is a truck on my chest, the wheels are spinning, and I’m pinned. There’s no way out, there’s nothing I can do, and I’m being crushed by a stark realization.
Because I am stuck.
Absolutely and unequivocally stuck.
I press my palm against my forehead, digging my fingers into my temples, as if I can excavate a song that way. As if I can exhume all the bits and pieces of music that are buried so far and so deep in me. But if I can just grab them, then I won’t have to do the horrible thing he’s suggesting.
The horrible, awful, and also completely true and reasonable thing he’s suggesting.
It’s the only answer if I ever want to make music again.
Because it’s come down to love. Or music.
I’ve been fooling myself that I could write from love. I’ve tried and I’ve tried these last few months, and I’ve come up empty every time. There are no love songs in me; there are no sexy songs in me. Falling in love hasn’t made me want to sing. Holding out hasn’t inspired any music, but the best sex of my life has left me tuneless, too. Even stepping out of the past, letting go of all my self-doubt hasn’t freed the roadblock in my brain. Take away my pain, take away my hurt, and I am a goose egg of creativity, a gigantic ball of nothingness.
The Gods of Music gave me breakup material, that’s all. Who am I to challenge the Gods of Music? To them I am eternally indebted for finally giving me inspiration last year, for turning my career around, for letting me make good music. They giveth and they taketh away and it is not up to me to defy the order of the universe.
I am nothing, nobody, just a little indie rock singer. But I can’t give up music. Because I am an adult. I have a mortgage, a child, a deadline, a career. I have responsibilities. I am between a rock and a very hard place.
If I ever want to write again, there’s only one surefire way I can do it.
Break up with Matthew.
I take a deep, painful breath as I watch Jeremy leave. I turn to Matthew. He quirks up his eyebrows, worry etched in his features. “Jane?”
It’s as if I’ve been caught red-handed. He heard.
“Are you going to break it off?” He looks as shaken as I feel. I swallow back the lump in my threat, the pit in my stomach.
“No,” I say, wrapping my arms around him. “I would never do that.”
At least, I won’t do that tonight. I’ll give myself the weekend. Besides, I need to spend the next few hours selecting the top-ten breakup songs of all time. That should really get me in the mood to slice a knife through my own stupid heart.
…
As I enter Flint’s studio on the fifth floor of a midtown building, I’m greeted by a Goth Girl.
“You must be Jane Black. I’m Savron Woods and I’m Paul’s assistant and I’m so excited you’re here!” She’s pumping my hand. She’s not letting go and I am shocked someone wearing so much black—black boots, jeans, T-shirt, blazer, headband, bangles, and those big onyx circular earrings that plug a big hole in the earlobe—could speak in exclamatory sentences, let alone use the word “excited” and mean it. But she’s gleaming with happiness, as if Kurt Cobain himself had stepped off the elevator, resurrected.
“Thanks, Savron. I really appreciate that,” I say, doing my best to feign happiness, though each step I take brings me closer to the inevitable.
She guides me to the show’s green room, pointing her two fingers to this curve in the hallway, then that one, like a stewardess. All the while she heaps praise on me that I barely deserve right now. “Your album is the bomb, Ms. Black. It really helped me through my breakup.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your relationship ending.”
She emits a pshaw. “It was really for the best; he was a dick and I am so over him. Thanks to you!” She looks up at me, flashing her pearly whites, every single one of them. She does have white in her wardrobe, permanent white. Her teeth are blinding.
“And I want you to know your breakup list rocks beyond words!”
I e-mailed my list to the show producer late last night. Savron continues, “It was my job to pull all the videos from our archives. I felt like I was communing with the patron saint of broken hearts.”
I stifle a wince when she says that. But yet, it’s the cold, hard truth. It’s who I am. It’s all I will ever be.
“That’s sweet,” I manage to say, holding back the tears of self-loathing that threaten me.
“You just have such a sixth sense for this, you know. Not only can you pick the best breakup songs of all time, you also deliver your own. I mean, this is your mark, Jane. This is what you do. After all, Crushed is the essential breakup album for the modern age.” She shrugs, then admits sheepishly, “I didn’t actually make that up. Matthew Harrigan said it in Beat. But it’s so true.”
I want to tell her I know that line. I keep it in my purse. But right now, for the first time ever, there’s a part of me that wants to rip that review in half.
“Here we are!” Like Vanna White presenting the letters on Wheel of Fortune, she waves to the green room. “You can just make yourself comfy on this couch. Makeup will be with you in a minute.”
I drape my coat, hat, and scarf on the couch. A minute later, Paul, one of the cohosts, pops into the green room. “So great to see you again, Jane.” He plants a kiss on my right cheek. “First of all, love your list. Thank you for doing this last minute. We’ll go right to the list and you’ll introduce all the videos, chat a little about each one. Then a short wrap-up, maybe spend thirty seconds on the outro talking about your new album. Jeremy said you’re releasing some singles in advance, a video on iTunes.”
Paul’s producer pokes his head into the green room. “You’re back on, Paul.”
Paul jumps up and disappears behind the door to the studio, leaving me alone for about a nanosecond. Then he pushes the door back open, whispering and pointing to his producer who’s tucked inside. “He loved Crushed. Said it helped him get over his wife leaving him. And Savron, the receptionist, loved it too!”
He’s gone again, taking his manic energy with him. And I’m alone in the green room, Queen of the Dumped. Yep, that’s me. Patron Saint for the Unhappy. Guardian of Broken Hearts. Defender of the loveless.
…
“And that’s it for today, all you rockers,” Mike says as the closing music floats through the chilly studio.
“We’ll see you again tomorrow and we’ll rock on some more,” Paul adds. “Give a big hand for our guest host and Guardian of Broken Hearts, Jane Black.”
The teleprompter operator silently counts three, two, one with his fingers and then points to the exit.
“And that’s a wrap,” Paul declares to me.
“Awesome list,” Mike adds.
I say good-bye to Mike, to Paul, to the wounded producer, to Savron, and leave, like a prisoner walking heavily toward her dire fate.
Paul and Mike are right. It was an awesome list. Not because I compiled it, but because music borne of pain has a way of working you over. We started with “Something I Can Never Have” from Nine Inch Nails, then dipped into the angriest breakup song I know, L7’s “Shitlist,” the song you need when you feel like slashing your ex’s tires. I went with “You Broke My Heart” next from the London punk rock band The Vibrators, then turned to The Police’s “Every Breath You Take.”
“You almost think it’s a love song, most people do, some even use it as their wedding song,” I said during the show. “But listen to the lyrics again and you’ll know why it should be your divorce anthem instead.”
The king of gloom, Morrissey, came next. I went for “I Know It’s Over” by The Smiths because nothing beats this song when it comes to the resignation that you’ve reached the end. We bumped over to U2’s “One,” the band’s unequivocally greatest song, an ambiguous tale about two people who want to connect but can’t. Then we jumped on to Sinead O’Connor’s big hit, “Nothing Compares 2 U.” We went to Dionne Warwick’s “Walk On By,” my nod to soul.
“Just let me grieve, the woman begs. Who hasn’t felt that?” I said when we cued up the R&B tune. I switched gears next, going for Bonnie Tyler’s monster hit “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” I argued passionately for this song with Paul and Mike, who called it a “mullet tune.” I extolled its virtues, saying, “I defy anyone, anyone, who has ever been dumped to look me in the eyes and tell me they have not played this song and belted out these lyrics.”
Finally, to round out Jane’s Black’s breakup songs, I easily picked the one that left me powerless to notice a dirty, soapy sponge on my face—Pearl Jam’s “Black.”
I feel like I’ve just been through hours of intensive therapy. I feel spent, drained, exhausted. I’ve been through the ringer, my emotions churned up again by the power of music. Matthew was right in his review. The best songs do come from broken hearts.
The best songs I’ve written came from my broken heart.
Now I’ll have to break it again.
I call Matthew and invite him over tonight. I want one last night with him.
…
The light is low in my room, the music soft, and my heart feels heavy. I loop my arms around Matthew’s neck and pull him close to me, wrapping my legs around him. I let go of that hurt for a few moments, and it’s a reprieve, a terribly temporary one. But I will take it, this one last time with him, as he makes love to me. I try to memorize everything. The way the closeness with him touches me, deep in my bones. The way the sensations flood every corner of my body. How he kisses me tenderly. How he breathes and sighs, how he whispers my name, and most of all, how I feel with him. As if this never has to end.
He moves in me, in the dark, under the covers, sending me soaring as I clasp his shoulders, never wanting to let go.
But knowing I’ll have to.
Wishing this didn’t have to be the last time.
When it’s over, he wraps his arms around me, holds me tight, brushes my hair from my neck with his fingers.
“You okay? You haven’t seemed like yourself since the club.”
Like yourself.
I don’t seem like myself. Because this isn’t me. This isn’t something I’d ever do.
I nod against his chest. “I’m fine,” I manage to say, and I’ll have to find a way to be fine.
I can’t do it. I can’t go through with it. I can’t let this man go. I don’t want to be the chronicler of broken hearts. I’d rather be mediocre again than be without love.
…
I wake up in the middle of the night with a start, Matthew’s words from Friday night at the club hovering on the fringes of my waking mind.
Objectify me all you want.
I press my hands over my eyes, trying to pull the idea, the words back out of my dreaming mind. They were there, the start of a song. Maybe even two songs. My words from the dressing room. Then his words too. I can’t remember now. They were circling each other in a dream, in that twilight state of sleep. I kept telling myself I’d remember them, reassuring my sleepy mind not to worry. But I don’t keep a Moleskin notebook in my brain and now the song is escaping me, a faint, shimmering outline fading away.
But I can’t let it go. I need to chase that evasive little bastard with everything I have. I jump out of bed and race into the living room, grabbing an envelope on my coffee table. A pen. Now I need a pen. Where the hell is a pen? I hunt around for one in the dark, until I find a pencil that tumbled onto the floor beneath the table.
I kneel and write.
Objectify me. Objectify you. I’ll objectify you.
I start humming, a low, moody sexy beat, to those words.
“I’ll objectify you, I’ll objectify you,” I sing to myself, then something bursts inside of me, and tears fall. Holy f*ck. It’s the start of a song. A real song. It’s only the chorus, it’s only a line, but it’s there, it exists, it has sound, and rhythm, and a beat. I fall to the floor, drop my head in my hands, and say a silent thank-you to the Gods of Music.
Yes!
This is the start of something, and it came from happiness; it was inspired from a moment with Matthew.
I sit up again, and jot down more words. Desire, falling, floating, racing, heat, sun, diving. I grip the paper tightly, as if it’s a precious jewel I uncovered deep within Aladdin’s cave. Somehow, some way, I will make music of this. I will be in love, and I will sing. I won’t have to choose. I won’t have to make an untenable choice.
I rush back to my room, my eyes adjusting to the dark. Matthew is snoozing peacefully, lying on his stomach, the covers down to his waist, his smooth back exposed. The faintest bit of light streams across his back. I follow the ray of light to the window, and look out to see snow drifting down. I touch his back briefly; he stirs slightly, but stays asleep. I tap Matthew on the shoulder, the strong outline of his deltoid.
“Mmm…”
“Hey there…”
His eyes flutter open for a moment. I tap him again. This time he rolls over and rubs his eyes. “Hi.”
“It’s snowing.”
He pushes onto his elbows, half sitting up in bed. I reach for his hand and bring him to the window. You can hear the quiet, feel the stillness of the white flakes drifting down. They calm the city, they soothe the night, they turn all of New York into a hamlet of peace.
“It is snowing, indeed,” he says, gazing out the window, mesmerized by the same siren song—falling snow, falling hearts.
I place a hand on his cheek and gently turn his face to me. “I started to write.”
His eyes light. His face breaks into a grin. “You did?” He can’t mask his enthusiasm.
“It’s a little something, but it’s something,” I tell him, and I can’t hide my happiness either.
He cups my cheeks, and kisses me. “Nothing could make me happier than you writing music again.”
“Me, too,” I whisper.
Then we turn and look out the window. We stay like that for a while, tangled up in each other, watching the sidewalks, the streets, and the spaces in between fill in with white.