Beautiful Music for Ugly Children (8 page)

Harry Potter is the new Elvis
because They’re Both Magic

Friday afternoon. I go to John’s to get some music but also just to hang out. Paige is with Bobby X. Boring. And they don’t want me around anyway.

When John opens the door, he’s beaming. “I was hoping you’d come by. Got a surprise for you. Consider it a graduation gift.” Graduation is next week. John tries to look mysterious, but mostly he looks goofy as he brings me a slip of paper. It’s got a name and a phone number on it. “Want a job at a music store?”

“You’re kidding.” My parents will flip if it’s true.

John’s got his hands on his hips. “If you’ve got this big new plan for a new life, saving money would help. You know Professor McSwingy’s?”

“How’d anybody ever come up with that name?”

“Ask Chris sometime. He’s the guy who runs McSwingy’s and he needs someone for evenings, so I told him I have a friend who knows about music. It’s not guaranteed, but I’m pretty sure it’s yours if you want it.”

I love Professor McSwingy’s. It’s very vintage in its approach to music, which is to say you can go there and find almost any recording from any musician from the last half of the twentieth century, not to mention stuff from this century. Plus, high school kids don’t go there—it’s not hip like the Best Buy in the mall, ha ha.

“Did you … um … tell him about me?”

John rolls his eyes. “He won’t care if you’re a potbellied pig as long as you know music.”

“It can’t be this easy.”

“Why not?”

“My parents bitch me out for not having a job, and one falls into my lap? No way.” Then reality crashes in. “If people stare at me instead of buying Radiohead CDs, there’s no way I can do it.”

He moves toward the phone. “I’ll call him and tell him I lied about that friend.”

“Don’t you dare!” I can’t bear to think about this kind of job slipping through my fingers. It’s too perfect.

He dials anyway. “How about I call him and tell him you’re coming by?” Then someone answers. “Hi, it’s John. I’m sending over my friend right now—do you have time? Good. Thanks.” He hangs up and grins at me. “He’s a bigger music dork than you are.”

“Yeah, but who’d I learn it from?”

He waves me away. “You’re welcome. Now scram.”

I owe him. Whenever he’s sick, I bring him my mom’s soup, and I mow his lawn sometimes. But a radio show and a job are bigger than that.

Professor McSwingy’s is in a little storefront in the older part of town, close to one of the pawnshops and the Coffee Hag. The bell above the door announces my presence. Promo posters and album flats are all over the walls and windows, and not just Kanye West or Jay-Z but people like the Clash, Steely Dan, early Bruce Springsteen. All sorts of old gold. I walk to the counter and see a list by the cash register titled
THE BEST BAND NAMES IN THE WORLD
, with five names: Trulio Disgracias, The Sacred Heart of Elvis, The Garden Hos, Honest Bob and the Factory to Dealer Incentives, and Quiet Time and the Whisper Kids.

Chris is an older version of Beck—tall and stringy, with hair to match. “You John’s friend?”

“His neighbor.” My voice is too high, so I pull it down. “And friend.”

“You interested in working nights? It’d be three or four nights a week, depending on what I need.”

“Sure.” It comes out better this time.

“What’s your name?”

I open my mouth. Shut it. Open it again. “Gabe.”

Chris checks me out again, which I expected. He’s been doing it since I came in. I know sometimes people read me as a girl, but I really want him to believe my name is Gabe.

He finally looks at my face again. “Who’s your favorite artist of all time?”

My mind flips through album covers. “No way to pick just one. Stevie Wonder. Adele, if she’s not too mopey. David Byrne. Lyle Lovett. Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings.”

“Odd combo.” Chris gives me another serious look. “Top five one-hit wonders.”

John wasn’t kidding—total music dork. “Number one: ‘Hot Pants’ by Salvage.”

“It’s the Holy Grail.” He nods, very solemnly, impressed that I know my stuff. “What else?”

Now I’ve got them lined up in my head. “ ‘Relax,’ Frankie Goes to Hollywood. ‘Vehicle,’ Ides of March. ‘Rapper’s Delight,’ Sugar Hill Gang, and ‘Whip It,’ Devo.”

“No way is ‘Whip It’ a one-hit wonder.” Chris’s face is very serious.

“Devo never had another Top 40 hit, so it qualifies.” I’m smug in my righteousness.

“You like Devo?”

“I love Devo.” My hand is on my heart, so he knows I’m serious.

“When can you start?” He walks toward a door at the back of the store. “Let’s do the paperwork.”

“What?” The word squeaks out.

He notices I’ve stopped walking. “W-2s and all that?” He gives me a little wave to follow him.

In the back room, there’s a desk surrounded by stacks and stacks of boxes and paper, with one chair in front of the desk and one behind. Three enormous mounds of promotional posters and displays are behind the desk, and the rest of the room is full of CDs, albums, and cassettes.

Chris takes the chair behind the desk and digs in a drawer to find the forms. I sit in front and bite my nails. Cliché, but I can’t figure out what else to do. It’s choice time.

He slides the forms across the desk—a basic application and a W-2. I print slowly so my hand doesn’t shake. “Gabe Williams” goes in the blank for my name. There’s a spot at the bottom to list my favorite musical artists, so I put down Britney Spears, just to see what he’ll say. On the W-2 I put down Elizabeth Mary Williams and my social security number, then push the forms back over.

He reads the app and scowls, then stands up and sticks out his hand. “I can’t give you a job. Thanks for coming in.”

I stand up and shake his hand quick, head bowed low. “Thanks for the interview.”

His face is pained. “How can you love Stevie and her, too? I keep the Britney CDs behind a Tool display so I don’t have to see her.” The look on my face must say it all, and he laughs at me. “You weren’t serious?”

“Uh … no. You already asked me my favorites, remember? Devo, David Byrne?”

His face clears. “Right. Chalk it up to too many drugs. You start tomorrow.” We shake hands for real this time.

But I can’t leave without asking. “Did you read the W-2?” Elvis, be with me. Let it be all right.

Chris glances down at the form, pauses, then looks at me. “What you call yourself is no business of mine, as long as I can legally pay you with this social security number. Do you want to know your hourly wage?”

My heart slows down a little. Elvis, you helped. “Sure.” I’d do this job for free, so the money’s a bonus.

“It’s $8.50 an hour, plus a store discount of 30 percent.”

“Damn!” I’ll have no paycheck because I’ll put it all back into the store, but that’s okay.

He looks dismayed. “That’s not all right?”

“That’s great! Thank you!” We shake again. “What time do you want me?”

“Come by at four, and we’ll go over stuff. We close at nine, so four to nine will be your normal shift. After school gets out, I’ll give you more hours. I’ll stay with you tomorrow night so I’m sure you’ve got it all. Have you ever run a register?”

“No. Is that bad?”

Chris claps me on the back. “Easy enough to teach you. Don’t trip on the boxes on your way out. This room’s a mess.” He leads the way back into the store. “Maybe you can straighten it up sometime.”

“See you tomorrow.” I turn around to walk out, but turn back. “Do you have any other employees?”

“It’s just me right now.” He shakes my hand one more time. “Tomorrow at four.”

“See you then.” He goes back behind the counter to help a customer. I really want to skip to my car, but skipping is not manly.

My parents are so pleased about my job, they decide we should go out to celebrate the event, plus it’s Friday and nobody wants to cook. Paige and John come too. Things seem about 2 percent less tense, and nobody asks what name I’m using at McSwingy’s. After supper, John goes home, tipping me a wink since I’ll see him later, then Paige and I go buy Oreos and eat the entire package in her back yard. Then we almost heave because we haven’t done that in a long time and we’re out of practice.

When I leave, she pouts a little. “When are you going to take me to the station?” She knows John goes with me every week.

“Are you in a hurry?”

“No, but … I just want to go.” She gives me a quick hug and I want to hold on longer, but I don’t.

“You promise, right?” She pulls back and points at me.

“I promise.”

Paige smiles, and that luscious mouth works its magic on me. I’m glad it’s getting dark, because I don’t want her to see me blush.

Before I get John so we can go to the station, I check my email, hoping for something from the Vibe. Even a no would be better than all this stupid-ass waiting.

Nothing.

My show tonight is about guitar solos—dumb, but it works all right. Some of it is heavy metal hair-band bullshit, of course, but it’s still useful for getting out the jams, and I’m not above an air guitar solo or two. I manage to plug in some Zeppelin and Pink Floyd, so that’s worth it. My chatter is good, too. Or better, at least.

I don’t say anything about the job. But the nice Facebook page deserves a mention.

“All right, Ugly Children Brigade, I found your Facebook fan page, and wow. Just wow. I still don’t understand why you do it, but you rock, ha ha I made a pun, and talking to you is the best part of my week. And I think you’ll like tonight’s task. Ready? Find as many garden creatures as you can—gnomes especially—and create a party for them somewhere in town. Just make sure you put everyone back in their gardens when you’re finished taking pictures, all right? No stealing.”

John likes heavy metal, so he plays some pretty impressive air guitar. I find his hair-band appreciation very strange, considering his age, but whatever turns your turntable.

Saturday afternoon at 3:45. I can barely drive to McSwingy’s.

I’ve done everything I can to make sure I look good. But what if I look like a freak? What if I’ve always looked like a freak? Wouldn’t Paige have told me? I think about going home and trying again, but if I do, I’ll be late.

What if people laugh at me?

As I walk up to the front door, I discreetly check out my clothes in the window. They don’t say “girl.” They say “this person needs a better wardrobe.” And that’s true.

It’s daytime, and I’m not just a voice. Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to Gabe’s first truly public performance.

When I walk in, the bell above the door jingles and Chris looks up. “Gabe! Hey! Ready to learn the ropes?”

I nod.

He chuckles after he looks at my face. “Please don’t crap your pants if a customer talks to you. It’s not that scary.” He can see I don’t believe him. “Seriously. It’s okay.”

I swallow. “Then let’s go.”

Chris hands me a nametag that says
GABE
. “Pin this on, and I’ll show you around.”

It’s a piece of my future, right here in my hand. The future is now. The tears are close, so I blink fast. There’s no way I can cry right now.

“You all right?”

“Yup. Right behind you.” I pin the nametag on and take a deep breath. Now or never.
Right, Elvis?

The job is easy. The register pretty much does what you tell it to do, and how hard is it to stack up CDs in a spot on a rack? Chris and I talk music—he used to be a roadie for the Replacements—and I tell him about John and his enormous collection. He shows me all the different stacks of LPs and 45s in the back, and we talk about a plan to sell them cheap. Then he shows me how to clean the bathroom, which will also be my job. Gross. But it’s a small price to pay.

I also talk to four people. That’s not a lot, but it’s still four more who can put the name Gabe to my face. Three of them barely look at me, which is fine, because I barely look at them. The fourth one is stoned, and he keeps trying to stare deeply into my eyes, so I just play along while I help him find his Bob Marley CDs. Every so often he says, “Whoa.” I just say, “Damn straight.” By tomorrow he’ll think I’m a hallucination.

Suddenly it’s nine p.m. I’m tired, but I’m not. I could do this job for twenty-four hours straight.

“Feel okay about it?” Chris makes sure the front door is locked and he shuts off the lights. Then he takes me out the back door.

“I’m solid.”

Chris locks the final lock on the back door, then turns to me. “You did well, Gabe. Thanks for a good night.”

“No, thank you! Really! You … um … yeah. Thanks.” It takes a second to get the gushing under control.

“See you on Monday, all right? Then we’ll talk about what nights you can work next week. The nights will vary, but we’ll schedule around whatever else you need to do.”

“Sure thing.”

He turns to walk away, but not before he gives me a salute. I give him one back, then walk around the corner to where my car is parked.

I just laid down another B side groove.