“I know you, Harry. You’re not all here today. And as far as jamming is concerned, you’re always all here.”
Nothing was a done deal yet. I was still in the middle of writing my college application opus and was still wavering about what to do with my life. But for the first time, when I looked into my future, instead of seeing Johnny, Chey, and Richie, I was seeing a dorm room where I could hang my Ramones poster, a quad where I could sit quietly and play an acoustic guitar under a tree, and a girl who would want to be with me just to be with me.
I know, it’s stupid.
It was too soon to share all that with anyone else, so I decided that the status quo would be best.
“No,” I told Johnny. “I’m all here, just like always.”
“Good,” he said. “Because right now this band is the world to me.” There was a note of urgency and sincerity, or maybe it was desperation, that underlined every word.
We went back inside to pick up the rehearsal again.
“Harry,” Johnny said, “let’s do that new song you played for us last week.”
He meant “Pleasant Sounds.” It made me feel awkward as hell, but what was I supposed to do? Johnny had been working on the keyboard part—a gentle line to counterbalance and punctuate the guitar riff—which, when added to the mix, made the song much more interesting.
When we were running through it for the third time and while I was playing the chorus, which has a couple of major seventh chords, Johnny stopped us and looked at Chey.
“That bass line isn’t working.”
“Sorry?”
“The bass line,” he repeated, a note of exasperation in his voice, “isn’t working. The notes are clashing with the chords Harry’s playing. You should be landing on the root note.”
Chey, who never liked being told what to do and who seemed out of sorts to begin with, folded her arms and rested them on her bass. “And now you’re an expert on bass guitars?”
“No,” Johnny snapped. “I’m an expert on what sounds good and on the crap that doesn’t.”
Whoa. While this was definitely a flash of the old Johnny, even the old Johnny would never have told Cheyenne she sounded like crap.
“Sorry,” he said, and hung his head. I could see the tension in his jaw. “But do me a favor and try it with a simpler line that focuses on the root notes.”
Chey was clearly pissed, but she nodded, said, “Fine,” and tried it Johnny’s way.
Of course, he was right. The tweak in the bass made the song a thousand times better. But that wasn’t the point.
Something was going on with Johnny, and it wasn’t good.
“Pleasant Sounds” turned out to be one of our best songs. It was quintessential Scar Boys. But at what cost?
“I talked to Carol at CB’s,” Johnny said matter-of-factly when we took our next break, “and they can fit us in the second Friday or second Saturday in December.”
“Better make it the Saturday,” Chey said.
We all looked at her, waiting for more.
“I got a job.” She waited for us to react, but honestly, I think we were too stunned. “I’m working Friday nights from now on.”
The times, they were a-changin’.
CHEYENNE BELLE
I think I was the first one of the Scar Boys to ever do an honest day’s work. But I was motivated. I felt like I had to take control of the few things that were actually in my control, you know? And paying Theresa and Agnes back became a priority. It was also something for me to focus on other than all the horrible stuff I was feeling.
Both girls were home when I was getting ready to go to the mall to look for a job, both of them watching my every move as I got dressed.
“What the hell are you doing?” Theresa asked.
It was only a few days after the D & C, and besides what I was feeling emotionally, I was still hurting physically, so I’d taken my meds. The painkillers the doctor had given me—Vicodin—were making everything numb, not just my belly. My feet felt numb, my arms felt numb, my tongue felt numb. Best of all, my brain felt numb. I’d taken one half an hour before I’d started trying on clothes, and I was feeling pretty good.
“I’m going out to look for work,” I answered Theresa, my voice something between tired and singsongy, “to pay you guys back. I want to look the part.” I was tossing each piece of clothing I owned onto a pile on my bed. Nothing seemed right.
I like to think that my style is my utter lack of style. Most days, I throw on whatever pair of shorts or pants happens to be lying around, and grab whichever T-shirt—washed or not—is within arm’s reach. The only time I ever bother to think about my appearance is at gigs. And even then, my approach to fashion is casual with a capital C.
For a job, I figured it was different.
Problem was, I didn’t own any interview clothes. I mean, I had some old Easter outfits that might still fit, but I didn’t think that a frilly white dress with white tights and Mary Janes were going to score me a gig at Sam Goody’s.
Luckily, Agnes is petite, too, and she came to the rescue. Sort of.
“Try these.”