Vanni: A Prequel (Groupie Book 4) Page 8

  Call me impatient, but I need more. Something is missing and I don’t know what it is.

  I figure it out late January, when I can’t stop staring at the faded outline against the far wall in the living room. What’s missing is music, which has become a painful reminder for all I’ve lost. I avoid it purposefully, which is completely unlike me. I’ve never gone this long without it before. But these past few weeks have been torture. Thinking about music reminds me that I have nothing left to dream about, which depresses me way down deep in my core.

  I had never wanted a regular life. I wanted my name up on a marquee, with thousands of screaming fans in the front row. I wanted the thunder of a band behind me and the impossible dream set forth before me, right within my reach.

  “Then make it happen,” Aunt Susan’s ghost whispers in my ear. I have to smile because that’s just what she would have said, despite it all. It gets me thinking. Why can’t I have the life of my dreams? I think I’ve forgotten the answer.

  Since I have a rare night off, I stay in Manhattan. There’s no need to rush home; Lori is working the late shift, and suddenly I want to be a part of the big world outside my tiny brownstone in Bensonhurst.

  It’s hard to deny music in New York City. Many popular genres have taken root there, so it is a veritable stroll through time from jazz and doo-wop to disco and hip-hop. And there’s no shortage of live music venues to explore. I don’t need one drop of alcohol as I hit some of my old haunts, clubs that cater to my passion for rock. Just being a part of the crowd is a high in and of itself. Is it a surprise, really, that I want to do this and this only for the rest of my life? It’s like one of those machines where you can self-dose heavy pain medication whenever you feel down or hopeless. That’s what art does. It takes what life is and makes it better. It takes hope and makes it a tangible thing that you can see, hear or touch.

  With music, it takes pain and makes it something beautiful. A guy can sing about heartbreak or a girl can sing about an unrequited love, and the swell of empathy from the audience helps lift the shadows so you can once again see the sun.

  I can’t see the sun in any florescent-lit mail room.

  Returning to the club scene invigorates me. That night, when I surprise Lori at work and we take the train home, I practically finger-fuck her as we make out on the deserted subway car. I thrill her with my newly charged passion, though she has no idea why I’m so fucking happy for once. But if we’re both happy, does it really matter why?

  The next day I cut my hours back at Cynzia’s. I don’t tell Lori because I don’t want the lecture. And what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. It’s not like I’m auditioning to be in a band. I just need to be a part of the music in some way, otherwise I’ll disappear entirely. It’s my only anchor now.

  I hide my alternative life until the end of February. It starts with a horrible day at the office, where I’m late to work. This means my day starts with being reamed by Stu. He’s in a mood most days, and I’m his favorite whipping boy. Days that start with an ass-chewing usually means shit will roll downhill all day long.

  And of course, it does. He spots streaks on our incoming correspondence, which is printed by our massive printers that cost thousands of dollars. I don’t know much about them, other than how to change the ink or refill the paper. That doesn’t seem to matter to Stu. “Clean it up, Carnevale. Show some professionalism.”

  “How am I supposed to clean them?” I ask, because I’ve never had to clean a big printing machine before.

  “It’s not my job to figure that out,” he tells me with that know-it-all smirk that makes my fists clench. “It’s yours. So get it done.”

  I spend most of the morning going through endless files to find the operator’s manual for the printer, in order to figure out how to clean the glass panel. Finally I find it. It says to wipe the pane down with isopropyl alcohol.

  I head down to the lobby of our high-rise, to the quickie store. The only alcohol on the shelf is rubbing alcohol. I just know if I buy this alcohol and try it on the expensive printer, I’ll ruin it. Not only will I get yet another lecture, but I’ll likely have to pay for it too. I take a deep breath before I call Stu on my cell. “Yeah, Stu. It’s Vanni. I found a manual that said to use isopropyl alcohol on the printer to clean it. I’m downstairs at the quickie mart, but all they have is rubbing alcohol.”

  He heaves a dramatic sigh, one he often utilizes when he has to explain anything to a mere high school graduate like me. He loves to throw my lack of education in my face, something Lori uses to motivate me to go to school.

  All it really motivates me to do is shove a stapler up his ass.

  “Rubbing alcohol is isopropyl alcohol,” he says with a heaping helping of derision. “How the hell can you get to your age without knowing that?”

  I gulp back any retort, end the call and purchase the clear bottle of magic fluid. It works like a charm, erasing the offending ink blob on the glass.

  The fucker doesn’t even say thank you.

  I fume about Stu the rest of the afternoon. I clock out three minutes early, just because I can’t face this asshole again before the end of the day. I’ve held back smashing his arrogant face in as best as I could, but I’m at my limit.

  I take a longer walk than usual. I don’t want to deal with the subway in my state of mind. I’m wound tight as a drum. New York City is a great place to get lost among the crowd, to window shop and see how the other half lives, with no interference from strangers who have better things to worry about than some guy they don’t even know. I take my time, strolling slow. I pass the jewelry window, full of sparkling diamonds that generate rainbows under the light. I pass the clothing store, with the super thin mannequins, both male and female, shrunken under tiny designer clothes meant to entice the elite.

  I just walk on by.

  And then it happens. I happen upon a music store. A white baby grand piano sits in the window. It gleams under the spotlight, its keys inviting tender fingers to touch and explore, like a lover. A beautiful, sexy, inviting lover.

  I walk inside the store without even realizing it. I’m drawn to that piano. The salesman greets me with a smile. He must think I have enough money to buy anything in his store. He’s sadly mistaken, but I don’t tell him that just yet.

  I have to get closer to that piano.

  “Do you play?” he asks as we approach it.

  “Some,” I say. “I’d love to have one at home so I can learn more.”

  He nods. “Well, this one is a beauty.” He starts to prattle off a ton of specifics that mean nothing to me.

  My fingers land on the keys. Music wafts in the air.

  By then I know that I’m hopelessly addicted with no possible cure. There’s something in me that demands to be expressed. Watching music is a watered-down substitute. I want to create music. I know this the minute I hit that middle C.

  When I finally settle on the bus heading home, words clutter my brain, stacking one on top of the other. The words don’t fit together at first. I have to rearrange them to convey what I want to say. Aunt Susan’s voice keeps whispering in my ear. “Make it happen.” Make a dream happen. Chase the rainbow. Reach for the stars…it’s all trite and derivative, which frustrates me. It’s bubbling up in my spirit, uncontained, yet I can’t find the proper channels to release it.

  If I magically come up with a combination of words I like, I hum a little melody behind them so I won’t forget them, singing them over and over in my head. Everyone around me likely thinks I’m nuts, but it’s New York, so they’re probably used to it.

  When I get back to the neighborhood, I can’t even go home. I head to my local haunt, Fritz’s, for a beer. The cute black waitress is there, as is a heavier girl with a shock of red hair and tattoos along her chest and arms. She wears black-framed glasses, and when she smiles it makes me smile too.

  As different as she is from her bartender, I find this other girl just as cute. Of course, that’s usually how it
is with me. Call me a romantic, but I’ve always found women fascinating, like mysterious puzzles that are so much fun to unlock. I’m an Italian, for fuck’s sake. This is what we do. We appreciate the finer things in life, those beautiful things that make life worth living. For me that has always been wine, women and song.

  Like ol’ George Thorogood, I like ‘em all. Tall girls. Skinny girls. Curvy girls. Blondes, brunettes and redheads, and girls of every race. They can be tattooed or plain, serious or silly, but every single one of them shines like a diamond when they smile, or their eyes flash, or they walk by in a perfume-scented breeze. Their curves invite to be held. Their voices invite to be heard. Their skin begs to be touched. Far too many guys don’t get this. They see women as paper dolls to collect, pretty or perfect little badges of honor they wear with pride.

  The way I see it, every single woman is pretty if you know where to look, and I don’t mind looking. Nothing has ever meant more to me than finding that treasure everyone else forgot. I was the kid who would send anonymous valentine’s cards to the girls in my class I knew wouldn’t get any otherwise. Their smile was often reward enough. A girl is always prettiest when she knows she’s appreciated.

  This new girl takes my order as I perch on one of the barstools. I get the feeling she hasn’t been appreciated for a long, long time. “You’re new here,” I say, still wearing my smile from before.

  I can tell from the sparkle in her eye that she likes what she sees. “Not so new. It’s my dad’s bar. He’s finally decided I’m old enough to work in it. Happy thirtieth birthday to me.”

  I laugh as I reach across the bar. “Nice to meet you. I’m Giovanni. Friends call me Vanni.”

  “Pam,” she says. I like the way that sounds. Sweet and simple, like swinging on a hammock on a perfect summer afternoon. “What can I get you?”

  I lean forward, my arms crossed over each other. “Let’s test your muster behind the bar. Guess.”

  She laughs. It’s a hearty, robust sound. Like music. “Challenge accepted.” She turns her back for a moment and then returns with my favorite beer on tap.

  I take a sip. It’s right on the money. “Okay, I was kidding. How did you do that?”

  She shrugs with another smile. “No big deal. That’s our most popular beer with the regulars. Local brewery and all that.”

  “And here I thought you were psychic,” I say as I bestow a cocky smirk. “I was going to ask you what to do with my future and everything.”

  “Oh yeah?” she says as she leans across the bar to face me. “Life got you down, gorgeous?”

  I shrug. “Torn by what I want to do and what I need to do.”

  She laughs. “I know what that’s like,” she says.

  “Oh yeah?” I echo. She nods. I rest my chin on my hand. “So what did little Pam want to be when she grew up?”

  She laughs more. I love the sound. It makes me happier just to hear it. “First of all, I’ve never been little. Secondly, I’m not telling you because it’s silly.”

  “Well, now I gotta hear it.” She shakes her head, giggling to herself. “Tell me.”

  She leans towards me, to whisper as loud as she can over the jukebox in the corner. “Fine. But if you laugh, I’ll charge you double.” I lock my lips with an imaginary key and toss it over my shoulder. She glances both ways before she leans even closer. She smells like peonies. “I wanted to be a Rockette.”

  I immediately purse my lips so that I don’t laugh. She reaches for her water nozzle and sprays me. I laugh as I reach for a stack of napkins to dry myself.

  “Okay, hot shot. What did you want to be?”

  I smile. I’m having a good time. The best time I’ve had in quite a while, in fact. “Guess.”

  Her big green eyes travel over me. “Well, lemme see. You’re dressed like a corporate flunkie, but you have hair straight out of the 1980s. Those soulful brown eyes tell me you’re generally up to no good.” I can’t help but chuckle. “And that mouth is pure sex. I can so see it just behind a microphone.”

  My eyes widen. “Okay, you’re kind of freaking me out a little, Pam.”

  “Come on, dude. Look at you. Who would you be if it wasn’t a rock star?”

  I sigh and take another swig of beer. “That’s what I keep asking myself.”

  “So what’s stopping you?”

  I shake my head. I can’t even remember anymore. I open my mouth to talk about my aunt, but I can’t yet. The pain is too fresh. “I’m twenty-six. I have a house. I have two jobs. I have a girlfriend.”

  She nods. She gets it now. “Let me guess. Your girl doesn’t want to share you with the world.”

  “My girl doesn’t think I’ll get that far.”

  “Well, that’s kind of shitty.”

  My eyes dart to hers. I’m surprised by her reaction. “She just wants us to be practical. It’s really hard to make it. I mean, when did you give up on your dream to be a dancer?”

  She shrugs. “I’m not sure that I ever gave it up entirely. It’d be a sad existence if we give up hope in our dreams.” I continue to stare at her, waiting for her answer. “I don’t know,” she finally says. “It just ceased being a priority, I guess. It just fell further and further down the list until it slipped off of it entirely. I don’t think I even noticed. In fact, I kind of forgot about it until you asked.”

  That instantly depresses me to hear it. “So what are you going to do about it?”

  “Depends. What are you going to do about it?”

  I smile. She reminds me a lot of my aunt, but for once it doesn’t hurt. I hold up a finger, indicating I need a minute. I reach into my pocket and pull out some money for the jukebox. She watches as I peruse the selection, and then Queen’s ode to fat, luscious bottoms blasts from the speakers. She laughs as she realizes what I pick. I wear a smile as I walk back to the bar, my hand outstretched. “I’m going to ask you to dance.”

  She only thinks about it for a moment before she wads up her towel and tosses it on the bar. She takes my hand and I lead her to the small, deserted dance floor. I grab her by the waist and lead her through some sexy moves to the pulsating beat. Her hips undulate under my palms to the music with natural grace. How could she ever think her dream was silly? I lean forward to tell her in her ear, “You really can dance.”

  Her eyebrow cocks. “Can you really sing?”

  I hold her close and pick up on the next verse. I can feel her practically swoon against me, which makes me feel like the most powerful man on the planet. That’s not a rush I get delivering mail to scowling businessmen in stuffy suits. It emboldens me. She reaches up to say in my ear, “You should never give that up. You have a gift.”

  God, I hadn’t heard that in so long. I realize now it’s all I’ve ever wanted to hear, ever since my aunt passed. “And you shouldn’t give up dancing,” I tell her. “You can really move.”

  “For a fat girl,” she fills in but I shake my head.

  “For anyone.” I hold her closer, unafraid of those full curves. They’re sensual. Womanly. “You don’t see me complaining, do you?”

  She shakes her head and laughs, as if I’ve told her a funny joke. “You are a shameless flirt, Giovanni Carnevale. Maybe you should take some of that charm home for your girlfriend.”

  I pout. I’m not ready to leave. For the first time in months, I feel like someone actually gets me. But she has a point. The dance and flirting have been fun up till now, but it can’t go anywhere.

  I’m a lot of things but I’m not a cheat.

  After the dance is over, we return to the bar where she tends to more customers. I fish my pen out of my jacket and grab some extra napkins from the tray. I jot down all the lyrics I had memorized on the ride home.

  I come up with a solid chorus, which I copy onto another napkin. I take ten dollars out of my wallet and place it on top of the folded napkin. On the top I write, “See you at Rockefeller Center.”

  The next day I call in sick to work. It’s the first time I’ve done t
his ever in my working life, but I can’t face Stu. I know if he says one nasty thing to me, I’ll strangle him with his designer tie. And I’ve been going non-stop for months. It’s time to take a mental health day.

  I take my checkbook and head out for one of the most important purchases of my life. I figure it’s the only way to get the monkey off my back.

  “Why did you get this?” Lori asks me in a small, angry voice as she stares at the second-hand upright piano that I bought. I spent a little money on it, but it was worth it. That wall had never looked complete without Susan’s piano, and the new one fits perfectly in the outline on the wallpaper left by the last one. It’s like sliding the last piece of the puzzle into place. “You don’t even know how to play,” she finally says, as if reason or practicality had anything to do with my purchase.

  “I’ll learn,” I say as I pull her to me. “You’ll teach me.”

  She stands rigid in my arms. She’s livid. “I thought you gave all this up.”

  “I did,” I reassure. “I do. I just… I just need to do this, Lori.”

  Her eyes meet mine. “And you didn’t think to ask me about it?”

  I bristle immediately. It’s my money, why can’t I spend it on what I want–something I would have never given away in the first place?

  More importantly, why is it that ever since I got the house and the savings in my bank account, I immediately went from me to us? Without even being asked, I had to start thinking for two, which was something I never thought I’d do. Relationships are fun, but I learned my lesson about happy endings when I was just a toddler. I finally shrug at this person I now have to account to, though I’m not entirely sure why. “I knew what you’d say.”