Beautiful Music for Ugly Children (4 page)

Adam Lambert is
the New Elvis But With Eyeliner

Friday after school, driving home, and I’m listening to the Vibe, 89.1, Your Twin Cities Station for the Cool Sound. It’s commercial but way more hip, and they play everything from college rock to alt country to James Brown, with only tiny slices of Top 40 stuff. It’s more like KZUK than any other station on the dial.

I’m thinking about my show later on, not really paying attention, thinking how I need to get Mara’s request. Then an announcement cuts through my fog: “Want a chance to create our sound? Post your name and the titles of your top five coolest summer songs on our blog, and win a chance to compete for five thousand dollars and a seven-to-midnight weekly guest spot here at the Vibe. But here’s the twist—no songs from after 1985. We want to make it hard on you. Deadline to enter is May 1. See our website for more details.”

I almost wreck. Today is April 30.

Everyone wants me to go to college, of course, but I need to focus on Gabe, and a job I like ninety miles away “in the greater Minneapolis/Saint Paul metro area,” as the news always says, would be perfect. Nobody would care what my name used to be, and I could start saving money for everything. My parents would kill me, but so what? They’d already like to, so one more nail in the coffin is no problem.

Someone Up There is smiling on me. Or it’s way too good to be true. I don’t know which.

I’m frantic when I knock on John’s door. He can’t ignore the pounding for very long. “Hey, Liz! Time to work on your show?”

“Not yet, but I have a question, O God of Music.” My hands are shaking, and I keep hearing Paige in my ear:
You have to tell him!
Not right now.

“Lay it on me.” I see the grin flickering around the corners of his mouth. He knows he’s a god but he doesn’t like to admit it. It’s the humble thing, just like not telling me he was the first to play Elvis.

“Have you listened to the Vibe lately?”

“Sure have.” A bit of a smirk.

“Did you hear about the contest they’re running—for the guest spot?”

“Sure did.” Now the smirk is a smile. “You’re telling me this is the first you’ve heard of it?”

“I’ve been on a Jay-Z binge. Can you help me enter it?”

“No.” Bigger smile.

“Why not?” Now I’m panicking.

“You’re already entered.” He’s pulling me toward his computer. “I took the liberty of doing it for you last week, but I forgot to tell you. I’m old.” He opens a browser and pulls up the website. “There you are.”

There are 247 entries, and I’m number 222. The songs he’s listed for me are “Summer Nights” by John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John, “School’s Out” by Alice Cooper, “Wipeout” by the Surfaris, “Cruel Summer” by Bananarama, and “In the Summertime” by Mungo Jerry.

Which reminds me. “Changing the subject for just a second, I don’t suppose you have a copy of ‘In the Summertime,’ do you?”

“Of course.”

“Can I have one?”

“Of course.” He motions me inside. “Not on iTunes?”

“Nope.” I have no desire to explain about Mara, who I now think of as
Mara Who Goes to My School Isn’t That Craptastic
, but that’s not what matters now.

John goes from room to room, digging through boxes and bins. “So do you like what I picked for you?”

“The only one I would have switched out is ‘Vacation’ for ‘Cruel Summer,’ just because I like the Go-Go’s better than Bananarama.”

John shows me Mungo Jerry on eight-track. “Do you have time to wait while I make this into a CD?”

“Sure.”

“In that case, let me put some other one-hit wonders on there, to balance it out. ‘In the Summertime’ isn’t very good.” He goes off to make the CD and I follow along. Maybe he’ll let me touch something, or read some liner notes. John doesn’t allow unsupervised browsing.

While he works, I carefully examine the stuff in the crate labeled
BEST SOUL SINGERS OF ALL TIME.
There’s Aretha, Al Green, Alicia Keys, and John Legend—all carefully alphabetized—plus about twenty more.

“Be gentle with those.” He sees what I’m doing. When the CD is done, he pops it out. “All sorts of things for you: Mungo Jerry, ‘In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida,’ that stupid Soulja Boy song. Why not do a one-hit wonder show tonight? Those are always good.”

“Isn’t ‘In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida’ that metal song that sounds like a serial killer’s chasing you?”

“The very same. Scary metal was big in the late sixties.”

“Did you know, according to VH1 Classic, ‘Come on Eileen’ was the number one one-hit wonder of the eighties?”

“Give me another minute and it can be yours.”

Then I realize something. “Can I see the blog again?”

“It’s still up.” He gestures to the computer. “Did anybody else pick Alice Cooper? The Vibe won’t be able to resist that one.”

“Um … I don’t know.” I’m not skimming song titles—I’m looking at names. And, of course, it’s there. Elizabeth. He wouldn’t know to enter me as Gabe because he doesn’t know me as Gabe. Which means exactly what Paige said—it’s time to tell him.

“So … are you coming with me to the station tonight?” Might as well start there.

“
Not this time. I’d rather stay home and listen.” He grins. “Find out how talented you really are. By the way, did you know you didn’t introduce yourself on the air last week?”

“Yeah, well … ” I grab the edge of the computer table to stop my hands from vibrating off my body. “My name, um, isn’t Liz. So saying it is kind of tricky.”

John’s expression is a mixture of confusion and incredulity, with a small dose of
this person is crazy
. “Your name … isn’t Liz? Have I been calling you the wrong thing for eight years?”

“No … it’s just … well … I’m trans. Transsexual. Hormones, operations, all that.”

His face clears. “You’re a triangle?”

“What?” Maybe he needs hearing aids.

“You just said you’re a triangle, didn’t you?” Now there’s a smile where there was a frown. “I knew someone who was a triangle.”

Might as well follow along. “You did?” What the hell is he talking about?

He starts digging through a box of albums under the table where the computer sits. “Sure. Billy Tipton. Well, I’m not sure he was entirely a triangle, or if he just knew he needed to be a guy to make it in jazz.” Flip, flip, flip. “Here.” He hands me an album and points to the guy on the front. “Billy Tipton. Incredible piano player, used to go to his shows all the time. His real name was Dorothy, and nobody knew he was a woman until the paramedics tried to resuscitate him after his heart attack. When they took off his clothes, bam. A coochie snorcher.”

“A what?”

“You know.” John’s blushing, just a little. “A … bearded clam. Don’t make me say the real word, huh?”

Now I’m laughing. “So he had a coochie snorcher but he lived as a guy. I can imagine that.” I imagine it all the time.

John’s giving me his thinking look. “Have you been a triangle all your life?”

“Transsexual. Trans man.”

“Triangle, transsexual, trans man, it all starts with T. Have you been one all your life?”

“In kindergarten I remember wondering why I had to line up with the girls when I knew I was a boy.”

“That says triangle to me.” John’s digging again in the box on the floor. Finally he stands up and hands me a K-Tel album,
Eighties One Hit Wonders
. “Here we go. Do you want more than ‘Come On Eileen’? The album’s digitized already. I just needed the track list to see what else I had.”

“Uh … sure.” This can’t be the end of it. “What I said … it doesn’t bother you?”

He fiddles with the computer a while, then puts in a CD. “You’re you, and that’s what matters.” Click, click. “I’m sad you felt like you couldn’t tell me, but I understand. It’s a big thing to tell.” Click and drag. “So what should I call you, getting back to saying your name on the air?”

“My name is … Gabe.” It’s a relief to say it out loud. It’s a bigger relief to know I can trust John. Then it hits me. “I can’t do my show anymore, can I?” My heart is preparing to leap out of my body. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it.

“Why not?” More clicks.

“Because you told them there was a girl doing it, and now there’s not.” The tears are close, and I hate that. Tears are the one thing about me that’s Liz.

His face is a mix again, curiosity and confusion. “I’ll just tell them Liz decided not to do it, and this guy I know stepped in instead. No big deal.”

“Really?” Thank god.

“And just so you know, it may take a while for the Gabe thing to sink in. I’ve known you as Elizabeth for a long time.” Then it dawns on him. “So this is why Sunday suppers are so tense.”

“You got it.” Suddenly my whole body’s shaking. “Uh … I need to sit down for a sec.” John rolls me the office chair he’s standing next to and I land on it with a whump that almost sends it sliding into a stack of music crates.

John clicks the CD out of the computer. “I know you know this, but I think of your family as my family.” John always says nobody will claim him—radio and alcohol chased away his wife and kids. He finds a Sharpie and writes
one-hit wonders
on the CD. “So I’m with you all the way. Are you gonna do one-hit wonders tonight?”

“Don’t know. Lately I’ve been stuck on the idea of A sides with successful B sides.”

He rubs his hands together like a mad scientist. “Oooh, that’s a good one. Let me think.” He starts taking things from various crates and boxes, leaving the room and coming back with more. “Let’s be sure you do Rod Stewart, and probably you should do Hank Williams … ” We’re in our music world again, just like always.

We sort and pick for a while, flipping through boxes and crates, but I have to ask again because I really want to know. “How can you just … accept it like that?”

“I’ve seen a lotta things, done a lotta things, and known a lotta people.” His accent is back. “The strangest person I ever met was a sword-swallower. A guy with a coochie snorcher is nothing compared to a dude who puts sharp metal in his guts. Who’d want to do that?” His face tells me that he’s utterly, utterly serious. “You are you. That’s all there is to it.”

Nobody’s ever said it like that. Not my family, not even Paige. But John is right.

I am me.

It’s midnight. Between my collection and John’s, I’m set.

I’m so freaked I could puke.

“Welcome, ladies and germs, to Beautiful Music for Ugly Children. I’m—uh … ”

It’s all right, Gabe
.
Now or never
. It’s
Elvis, in my head.
You are you, remember?

“ … Well, I’m Gabe, and this week’s theme is A sides and B sides. Here’s a requested A side—actually a one-hit wonder—for Mara’s listening pleasure: ‘In The Summertime’
by Mungo Jerry, right here on 90.3, community radio KZUK.”

There may be three people out there, but you want each one to cheer when you put on their favorite song. “In the Summertime” is a little too midday sunshine for the midnight hour, in my opinion, but it’s all about the listeners. And even bad music is good. Mostly.

The phone rings about halfway through the song.

I concentrate. My voice is stuffed. “KZUK, the Z that sucks.”

“You brought me my song! What about ‘You Know My Name’?”

“Coming up. It fits with the show, so I would have played it anyway.”

“You’re the best! Nobody ever plays my requests, not even when they’re easy.”

“I oblige loyal listeners.”

The smile in her voice is obvious. “Can I ask for another request?”

“Sure.”

“How about ‘I Wanna Be Sedated’ by the Ramones?”

“For that one I’ve got live recordings, studio recordings, and recordings by about ten other artists. Any preference?”

“Live. You are sooooo cool! Bye!”

I miss my cue again, because I’m hanging up, but “Let it Be” solemnly proceeds into the air, followed by “You Know My Name,” one of the coolest, funniest B sides ever. Then two more—Hank Williams and U2—and then I think about what John said. Tell a story with the music. It’s now or never.

When the song’s finished, I take a deep breath.

“So tell me, listeners … are you an A side or a B side? Are you a Top Forty hit, or an equally good yet potentially undiscovered gem?” I can’t believe I’m saying this. “Some of you might be right up there in the top ten, but if you’re listening to this show, I’d bet you’re more on the funky side.” Dorky. “Then again, I think all of us have our A and B sides, even though digital music has kind of wrecked that idea.”

Another deep breath.

“Personally, I like my B side, which is tough, because everybody else likes my A side. But I’m sticking to it.” I feel and hear my voice shake, but hopefully it’s not noticeable on the air. “And I played my B side for someone yesterday, and he was okay with it. No complaints, nothing. Can you imagine? Along the lines of loving on the B sides, here’s ‘Don’t Worry Baby,’ the B side of the hit single ‘I Get Around’ by the Beach Boys.”