Beautiful Music for Ugly Children (6 page)

Barack Obama is the new Elvis because
He’s Lived in a Big White House, Too

Tuesday evening. My mom asks who I want at my graduation party, so she can send the invitations I told her not to get since they say Elizabeth. I tell her I’ll pay for some Gabe announcements, cheap postcard ones or the fancy kind, whatever she wants, but her glare tells me I’m outvoted. I go to my room without giving her any names.

Paige calls. “You are never, in a million years, going to believe what I saw.”

“An octopus walking down the street holding Elvis’s hand.”

“You fool, I saw your graffiti!”

“My what?”

She heaves a big sigh. “Remember? ‘Are you an A side or a B side,’ all that?”

“How do you know it’s mine?” She’s got to be kidding.

“Stuff like
MITCH’S B SIDE = SATAN
could have only come from your show.”

“Where are you?”

“Corner of Eighteenth Street and Third Avenue.”

“What are you doing out there?” It’s way out in the industrial section of town.

“Taking my dad to work so I can have the car later.”

“Don’t go anywhere.”

When I get there, I’m amazed. Seven feet high on an abandoned brick warehouse: pink, purple, blue, black, and yellow graffiti, signed by Becca, Mitch (Mitch = Satan!!), Jake, Sarah, and Maggie. The wall says this:

MITCH’S A SIDE = MITCH. MITCH’S B SIDE = SATAN!

JAKE LOVES TO JERK OFF TO HIS B SIDE

SARAH SAYS A SIDE ALL THE TIME

BECCA’S B SIDE: BOSS

MAGGIE = BOTH SIDES = EVERY DAY

The words
UGLY CHILDREN BRIGADE
are written at the top and
BE RADICAL—CLAIM YOUR GROOVE
is on the side of the mural. Everything is beautiful—swirls and pretty lines, flowers and colors everywhere. My mouth is hanging open.

Paige elbows me. “Looks like you’ve got fans.”

“How did anybody know to listen?”

“I Facebooked it.”

“Dammit!” I’m pissed. “You said you’d keep my secret!”

“You told me not to tell anybody about Gabe, not the actual show. I just said there was a cool radio show on at midnight on Fridays on KZUK and everyone should listen. If you were ever on Facebook, you could have yelled at me a week ago.”

Down at the bottom of the mural there’s a drawing of a trumpet and the words
PEP BAND FUCKING RAWKS! THE HORSE!

Paige goes to get in her car. “Coming to my house, Mr. Big Shot Radio DJ?”

“Sure thing, Ms. Loudmouth.” I cannot believe that wall. We go to her house and she chats at me about Bobby X and graduation and summer and college. All I want to do is run into Paige’s back yard and do cartwheels, but then she’d have to take me to the hospital.
MITCH’S A SIDE = MITCH. MITCH’S B SIDE = SATAN!
Somebody listened. Holy shit.

Paige catches me. “What are you smirking about?”

“Becca and her B side.” Maybe I could do a handstand.

“We didn’t need to know Jake jerks off to his B side.” She makes a face.

“And which Jake, not that I’m curious about who’s jerking off, and Mitch who? Get your Facebook page up.”

She checks. “I am friends with … two Mitches, seven Sarahs, ten Jakes, three Maggies, and one Becca. But I don’t know which of the ten Jakes are friends of Becca’s. Just so you know, I’m not spending my night cross-referencing friends on other friends’ pages.”

I check her numbers. She has 716 friends. There are 350 people in our class, and there’s another high school on the other side of town—Maxfield East—and she’s probably friends with half of them, too. And probably random people in Indonesia.

“Either way, dude, you have fans.” She pretends she doesn’t want to smile. “Don’t get a big head.”

“I’m cool.” But it’s too late.

When I leave Paige’s house, I call John. “You’ve got to come to the corner of Eighteenth Street and Third Avenue. Like now.”

“That’s a pretty dull part of town.”

“Just get here, will ya?”

I go back to the abandoned warehouse and look at it some more. It’s completely insane.

I take a bunch of pictures with my phone, breaking the wall into parts so I can get it all. Then John pulls up in his pimpmobile, which is a 1965 Cadillac Eldorado, just like Elvis drove.

“What’s so all-fired important that you had to drag me to this ugly part of town?” He’s laughing. “You got a hot date out here?”

“Take a look.” I point to the wall. It’s corny as hell to say, but every time I look, it feels like someone put a glow stick in my chest.

John turns where I’m pointing. “Holy goddamn smokes. Look at that. Somebody’s listening. Even to the sports show.” After he looks for a bit, he turns back to me. “Ugly Children Brigade? That’s pretty catchy.”

“I know.”

“So what’re you gonna do now? Give ’em new directions next week?”

“Probably.” I can’t stop smiling.

He holds up his hand for a high five. “Gimme some skin, Liz … Gabe … sorry.”

I slap him five.

“Your show this week has to be extra good.” He’s walking to his car, pointing at me so I’ll get in mine. “Or they’ll quit listening.”

“So let’s go practice.” I slide in and put on “Rubberneckin’ ” by Elvis, then follow John as he pulls out.

Stop, look, and listen, world, just like Elvis says. Gabe is comin’ at you, right here, right now, on KZUK, the Z that Sucks, rockin’ and sockin’ and blockin’ your cocks off!

Maybe not quite like that.

Conan O’ Brien is the
new Elvis and He Has the Hair to Prove It

Friday afternoon. At 2:17 John leaves a message on my phone: “Get your butt over here after school, pronto!” I get the message at 3:12 and have to wait until 3:35 to bolt out of my seat, but I hurry my ass to John’s house. Either someone’s died or there’s news from the Vibe.

I screech into my driveway and barely get the car door open before running across the lawn to John’s.

“You don’t have to break the door down, you know. The email’s not going anywhere.” He moves aside to let me in.

“You have no idea what this means to me.”

“Oh, I might.” He grins. “This is your career, Liz—Gabe—sorry. Your career, starting right here and now.”

“Where’s your computer?” I’m walking from music room to music room, looking for his laptop.

“On the table.”

I almost don’t want to read it. But I do.

Dear Elizabeth (entered by John Burrows):

Congratulations! You’ve made it to the final round
of the Vibe’s DJ Talent Scout contest. Your five-song summer set was quite engaging, and we’re anxious to have you compete for the grand prize: $5,000 and a weekly guest spot (seven p.m. to midnight) at the Vibe.

The competition will be July 12 at 7 p.m. at Summer Mondays in the Cities, an outdoor street festival held each Monday evening in Loring Park in Minneapolis. Each contestant (there are five of you) will have approximately thirty minutes to show us your strengths. The theme for your thirty minutes is radio songs: songs about anything that relates to the business of radio. You may also include one song that doesn’t relate to our theme—a “secret song,” so to speak.

Please let us know if you’re still interested in competing. We’ll hold your spot for five days.

Sincerely,

Thad Rosenbloom, Station Manager,
The Vibe 89.1

Holy shit.

I read it again.

Holy
fucking
shit.

“So what do you think?” John is absolutely beaming. “And a secret song to boot. I’ve got a million ideas already.”

“I can’t believe it.” My whole body’s tingling. It would be too perfect. I could get a place in the Cities somewhere, and a job, do the guest spot every week and meet a bunch of radio people. I’d have a parking space and an apartment that belonged to me, and I could cook food that belonged to me. I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone who knew me as Liz except Paige. Maybe my family. Gabe 24/7. All of it would belong to me.

“What about … Elizabeth?” John asks. “Will the Vibe …
can you … are you gonna do it as her? I didn’t know, when I entered you. I’m sorry.” He looks like he expects a scolding.

Oh my god. Of course.

“Yeah. No. It’s okay.” My body’s all tingly again, but not from excitement. Shit. How will the Vibe pay me? They can’t pay Gabe, because he’s not legal. And Gabe can’t rent an apartment or have a checking account. Shit.

“Why not just tell them you changed your name?” He points at the laptop.

“That’s a pretty big name change.” I could throw up.

“This is your career lookin’ you in the face.” His accent is creeping in again. “Professional experience, a way to make it to other stations. You owe it to yourself to ask.” John is almost stern, and this is a new stance for him. We don’t get crabby with each other. “Email them. Right now.” He gives the laptop to me. “I’m not letting you go home until you ask.” I’ve never seen him this serious.

“Yes, sir.” I take a few deep breaths while he stands over me, watching.

Gabe 24/7. That’s what I want.

Hello, Mr. Rosenbloom:

I’m no longer Elizabeth, but I am Gabe. Can I still compete?

Nope.

I’m becoming a guy. Gabe. Can I still be a part of your talent search?

Not that, either.

John reads each line I write and then erase. “Will you please just get it over with? How many more ways can you put it?”

“You have no idea.” I try one more time.

I’m transitioning from Elizabeth to Gabriel, but I’d still love to compete.

“That’s exactly right.” John nods. “Finish it up and call it good.”

I add a couple niceties and include my email address instead of John’s. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely type, but I finally hit
send
.

If the greatest opportunity I’ve ever had slips through my fingers because of my weirdness, I am going to lose it.

John pats me on the shoulder. “Are you ready for tonight? You’d better have something for the Ugly Children Brigade to do—you don’t want them to get bored.”

“All done, Chief.” Tonight’s show is songs about moms, since Mother’s Day was last week. Dumb idea, maybe, but we’ll see. They’re not all country songs, either. At least I was smart enough to think about it before now, because I’m not sure I could come up with anything in the next six hours.

He gives me one more pat. “It’s not so unusual to be a triangle these days. Look at Chaz Bono. He was even on
Dancing with the Stars.
” John shakes his head. “Hope he doesn’t do to his face what his mother’s done to hers.”

In spite of the shakes, I laugh. “Cher is gross.”

“Go get in the DJ mindset.” John’s walking me to the door. “A person shouldn’t be so scared of a wrinkle that they look like a plastic doll.” He winks. “I like my women soft and round, not hard and brittle.”

There are plenty of women who come and go from here, late at night. He thinks I don’t see them, but I do. John’s a bit of a catch, as my mom says, and there seems to be no shortage of older ladies trying to reel him in. According to Mom, he’s got just the right amount of laugh lines, and his bald head lends him an “air of mystery.” I think his best feature is his smile. It’s cheerful, but kind of charming and sexy. Maybe he’ll teach me to smile like that.

“Considering I’ve never felt a woman, I guess I’ll just have to wait and see.”

He looks startled for a second, then he laughs. “So you’re a straight guy?”

Even though I don’t want to, I blush. “Far as I can tell.”

“Just don’t ever choose a lady that looks like Cher, okay?”

“I promise.” I head down the steps and across the lawn.

He calls after me. “You did the right thing, and it’ll get easier every day. Not like I know anything about it, but it will.”

There’s a faint echo in my head, and I’m not sure if it’s John or Elvis:
It’s all right, Gabe.

When I walk by the garage, my dad’s in there staring at all his tools. The radio’s blasting classic rock. It’s usually that or public radio, the talk part of it. He turns his head toward me, but he’s looking at the ground.

“Hey, Liz, I know I’m a little late on this, but what do you think I should make Mom for Mother’s Day?” He fancies himself a woodworker, and he’s not bad, but some of the stuff he makes doesn’t work.

I ignore the fact that he didn’t call me Gabe. “How about a clock? Maybe a simple one?” The last clock was so crazy it looked like Dr. Seuss made it.

“How about a jewelry box? It doesn’t have moving parts.”

“Sure. She’s got a ton of jewelry.”

“Then it’s settled. What were you doing over at John’s?”

They don’t know about my show, and I’m not going to tell them about the contest. “Hanging out and talking music.”

“Have you thought about a job? Not that it’s bad to chat with John, but a job might be a better use of your time.” Dad turns back to his tools.

“I … um … it’s hard to imagine working as Liz when that’s not me.”

The storm clouds close over his face in an instant. “Getting a job is the primary issue, not what your name is.”

“You have no idea what the primary issue is!” Whoops, but there it is.

“Elizabeth Mary Williams, you do NOT talk to your father like that!” My mother is there, all of a sudden, and acting like I tried to murder him with a hammer. She goes over to my dad.

Forget being nice. They’re already permanently disappointed in me, so who cares? “First of all, my name is Gabe, so get used to it. Gabriel Joseph. And my name matters BECAUSE I’M A GUY. Get it right!”

Dad slams down the piece of wood he’s holding and glares at it. “Listen here, young lady, having one’s daughter suddenly declare she’s a man is pretty mind-blowing, so just give us a goddamn chance. You may think you know who you are and what you want, but you’re also young and maybe a little foolish. Besides that, it’s time for you to go to college, so if you had a job, your college fund would look a hell of a lot better.” He’s angrier than I’ve ever seen him.

Instead of storming out, which is my first impulse, I close my eyes and breathe because he’s right: this is hard on them. I may be young and stupid, like he said, but they’re confused and hurt. Because of me.

I keep my voice calm. “Getting a job as Liz would be going backwards. I’ll work on it, all right?”

I leave the garage and head straight for my room. I have seven hours until my show, so I resolve to lie on my bed and breathe until it’s time to leave.

When my mom calls me for supper, I go, against my better judgment. The silence is ice cold.

Dad: “Liz, would you pass the ketchup?” Not looking at me. It’s burgers and bratwurst, with baked beans and chips.

Pete: “I need a bun, Liz.” Hand out, expecting me to fill it with bread. Not looking at me.

Mom: “Liz, have you made any college decisions?” Not looking at me, and apparently unaware that the deadline for all that has passed.

Me: “Nope.” I was accepted at three places. They think I’m going to one of them. I’m not. College as Elizabeth would be even worse than work as Elizabeth.

Silence. Everyone contemplates their supper.

Me: “Could someone please fucking look at me?” No raised voice, just a question. Then I’m the center of attention, and their mouths are wide open.

Pete: “You’re a fucking freak.”

Mom: “Elizabeth and Peter! We do not use that kind of language!” No mention of the fact that Pete called me a freak, so she must agree.

Dad: “What’s wrong with your head? How long have you had that haircut?”

Me: “May I be excused?” I don’t wait for an answer.

I make a quick check of my email, then lie on my bed until eleven and listen to tons of metal: Megadeth, Black Sabbath, and Anthrax, with a little Motörhead for variety and that punk influence. Then I call John and ask if he wants to go to the station.

Then it’s midnight, and it’s my time, and I swallow. “Welcome, welcome, friends. It’s Beautiful Music for Ugly Children time, right here on 90.3, KZUK. Tonight’s a Mother’s Day show, since it just came around—are you being nice to your mom? Getting her gifts, doing what she asks you to? Or are you making your mother crazy? And speaking of crazy, here’s your first song, an old country classic—‘Mama Tried,’ by Merle Haggard. He turned twenty-one in prison and made his mama cry.” I click off the mic. I’m flat.

“Not a lot of fire in your belly tonight.” John looks concerned. “You sick?”

“Just … my family.” I really, really, really don’t want it to matter. But it does.

He pats my arm. “Just be happy you have one.”

“Whatever.”

He glares and gestures at the mike. If I don’t get the next song ready, I’ll have dead air.

“So, Ugly Children, how about those parents? Like ’em or hate ’em? I can’t decide these days. They take care of me, feed me, and let me sleep in their house, but they’re seriously clueless, you know? Don’t you ever just want to stand in front of them and yell, ‘THIS IS ME—WHY DON’T YOU LIKE ME?’ Is there a Bureau of Parents? Can I get another set? But enough of that. We’re here to focus on those lovely, kind, sweet women who are our mothers. Or at least someone else’s mothers. How about a little Frank Zappa, something catchy but messed up? Here’s ‘My Guitar Wants to Kill Your Mama.’ ”

John looks like I slapped somebody.

“Yes, I’m crabby.” I glare, and he doesn’t say a word.

Songs go on and come off. I keep getting angry so John shuts off the mic, and eventually I give up and just play music.

I try one last time before everything’s over. “Maybe, friends, our moms could remember their own crappy teenage lives. That would help. Back when they were stuck doing what someone else wanted them to do.”

John’s reaching for the mic to shut it off again, but I grab it. “Before I go, Ugly Children, your task for this show is to decorate the statue of our local founding father, Merriweather Maxfield, since he’s also kind of the mother of our town. He’s a uniparent! And he’s bronze and pretty ugly, so he could use some sprucing up. Remember the side seam in his crotch? Make sure you restock the condoms, but see what else you can do to it. And thank you for the B side wall. It’s … it’s just … wow. Thank you. It’s awesome.” I can’t say any more, and they’ll probably paint over it after this show, but I have to thank them before it’s gone. “I’m Gabe, this is Beautiful Music for Ugly Children on 90.3 KZUK, and for our benediction, here’s ‘Stacy’s Mom’ from Fountains of Wayne. She’s the ultimate MILF. See you next week.”