Perfect Fifths (31 page)

"Shhhhh ... He's working himself up to something big..."

The song is approaching the bridge, the apotheosis of cheesetastic pop. Marcus is totally committed to bringing it home.

"I'm finding it hard leaving your love behiiiiiiiiind meeeeeeee!"

There might even be some jazz hands involved.

In this climactic modulation at the end of middle-eight, Marcus plants his feet wide, flings his mike-free arm in the air, throws back his head, and closes his eyes.

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To the untrained eye, Marcus might appear to be just another hipster whose drunk logic convinces him that his ironic performance of this easy-listening easy target is waaaaaay funnier than it really is. Though such an observation would be accurate 99 percent of the time, his performance is the lonely 1 percent that is pure of heart.

Marcus is wholly immersed in this music, this moment. He's right here, right now, reveling in the freedom to be an unapologetic nerd, celebrating his emancipation from the poet/ addict manwhore so many still mistake him for. Marcus Flutie is letting his freak flag fly in the name of the Showman of Our Time! He's going balls-out for Barry Manilow! He's a true-blue spectacle, a worldwide symphony, letting it shine, shine, shine so bright that he can't see anything else, not the cheering ladies of the Barry Manilow International Fan Club, not the smirking DJ, not even the grinning fan-girl groupie sneaking up onstage to turn his solo into a duet.

sixteen

Marcus Flutie is singing "Can't Smile Without You" as if it is his religion. Not just any religion but one of his own invention. If Marcus were in the mood to doctor up a fake church a la L. Ron and pass himself off as a prophet teaching the Gospel of Barry ...

• He's been Alive Forever

• He wrote the very First Song

• He put the Words and Melody together

• He is Music

• He writes the Songs

... Jessica would renounce her vows made to the Universal Ministry of Secular Humanity and become his first converted congregant. His mesmerizing

performance—so much like the one in the dream she didn't remember until she saw him onstage, frozen in the famous toilet seat cover pose—has brought Jessica to her knees.

How did she come to arrive at this sacred place? (She rushed out of Room 2010 and took the elevator down to the lobby.) When did she first hear the Call? (As she raced through the hotel's front hall, searching for Marcus, through the walls, a few steps away from the entrance of PLAY Here.) Why did she make this pilgrimage in the first place? (She needed to see Marcus, to touch him, to confirm that everything that had happened between them today had in fact actually happened. The line between her dreamstate and wakestate had never been so porous.) None of this matters anymore. The spirit has moved her! She is reborn! She's the most repentant sinner at this revival meeting, and it's not enough for Jessica to be a passive spectator at the moment of her salvation. She is overcome by an evangelical desire to share her divine revelation (Marcus Flutie!). She raises up her cell phone to capture a few seconds of this holy vision. She says a silent prayer and sends proof of this miracle to Hope, Bridget, and Percy with a message: I'll miss the wedding but will be there for everything after. I promise to tell all tomorrow.

XOXO, J.

There's one last way for her to testify her devotion. She must unite with Marcus Flutie on the altar and sing praises to the Showman of Our Time. Thus empowered by her epiphany, Jessica grabs the spare
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microphone dangling from the side of the DJ's booth and switches it on. She opens her mouth to join Marcus on the bridge.

"I'm FinDInG iT HaRD lEaviNG yOur IOvE BeHinD meEeeEEeEeee!"

The submusical sounds could be confused with Pentecostal tongues. The Tristate BMIFC is baffled by the appearance of this girl onstage until Lola points and

shouts, "That's the mini-Maniloony from the customer service center!"

If Marcus is stunned by the sudden appearance of Jessica onstage, he doesn't let it show for long. His eyes startle, then quickly settle on the veins bulging in her forehead as she strains to hit even the easiest notes. He grins. He nods in encouragement. He even breaks into a chorus-style kick line in time with the

clap-along-cymbals-crashing coda.

"I jUst caN't sMiLe WitHouTyOoooOoooOOOooOOooooOoOooooo O00O0000000O0000000O00000U!"

Now Jessica and Marcus are smiling so broadly that they could be accused of overselling the song's message for the most literal-minded audience members. Wait You say you can 1 smile WITHOUT each other ... So does that mean you CAN smile WITH each other? Holy cow! I never saw it that way before. I totally get it now ...

The moment the track ends, Jessica and Marcus nearly fall off the stage in incredulous laughter. Did we just do that? Did we just sing "Can't Smile Without You" in front of a roomful of strangers? Are we really still here together? Did this strange-but-true story just get even stranger? Like, off-the-charts strange?

Meanwhile, the BMIFC is whooping and whistling and banging cutlery against their emptied drink glasses. The sight of two young Fanilows in love makes up for missing the Final Show in Las Vegas.

Well, almost.

When Jessica has finally caught her breath, she says pointedly, "You know, I can smile without you."

"I know that," Marcus replies, matching her tone. "I can smile without you, too."

"I can laugh ..."

"... but you sure as hell can't sing!" shouts Lola, which is when Jessica and Marcus realize they are still holding the microphones close to their mouths. They drop the mikes to their sides.

Marcus turns to Jessica, leans in close, and whispers over the din. "Jessica?"

She can't speak. She can only part her lips in anticipation. Because Marcus Flutie is going to kiss me, Jessica thinks. Marcus Flutie is going to kiss me, and I am going to pass out right on his stage and hit my head and fall into my own coma dream.

He gently squeezes her cheeks with his thumb and forefinger, pushing her lips into an exaggerated pucker. "You are the worst singer I have ever heard."

This is their second touch all day. Another shock passes between them, and this time there's no question that it isn't a case of static electricity caused by feet

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shuffling across the carpet.

seventeen

essica and Marcus have parted ways with the Tristate Chapter of the Barry Manilow International Fan Club. They head toward the elevators, his gait noticeably less sure-footed than hers.

"Was it my imagination, or did they recognize you?" Marcus asks.

Jessica slows her pace as she contemplates how to answer this question. "Strange but true," she begins.

"A woman crashes into her ex-boyfriend at an airport. She hasn't seen him in three years. This woman once received a decoupage Barry Manilow toilet seat cover from this ex-boyfriend right before their last attempt at

reconciliation. Soon after the crash, the woman gets on line at an airport's customer service center. In front of her are twenty furious members of the Tristate Chapter of the Barry Manilow International Fan Club who have missed their flight to Las Vegas to see the one and only Barry Manilow, the Showman of Our Time, in his final performance of his Final Farewell Tour..."

"Aha." It dawns on Marcus that he saw them, too, from afar.

"Aha. And wait, there's more. As she is waiting, she receives a phone call. Her ring tone? 'I Can't Smile Without You,' by the one and only Barry Manilow, the

Showman of Our Time. The twenty members of the Barry Manilow International Fan Club immediately embrace her as one of their own."

Jessica doesn't even bother telling Marcus about the Barry Flutie dream because this story is already strange enough, true enough without it.

"Do you believe me?" she asks.

"Of course I believe you," Marcus says. "Why wouldn't I believe you?"

Jessica doesn't answer. Without saying it, each knows what the other is thinking: If Marcus hadn't chosen His Greatest Hits eight-track to play in the Caddie as he drove Jessica to their first "nondate" at Helga's Diner ten years ago, would He have served as the cheesy leitmotif throughout their relationship, starting with the eight-track, peaking with the toilet seat cover, and culminating with tonight's performance of one of His songs in front of an audience consisting solely of rabid members of His fan club? If Marcus had chosen another eight-track in the stack left behind by the Caddie's octogenarian pre-owner, say, Dolly Parton's Greatest Hits, would Jessica and Marcus have found themselves—through predestined fate disguised as random happenstance—duetting on "Here You Come Again" in front of an audience of crazed Dollywoodies?

Jessica and Marcus simultaneously slide uneasy smiles in each other's direction because there is no way of answering any of these questions.

The empty elevator opens up to receive them, and Jessica breaks the silence by asking a question Marcus can answer. "So what's in the bag?"

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"If I tell you, it won't be a surprise."

"Like there haven't been enough surprises today already?"

"Oh, you can handle a few more."

Jessica honestly doesn't know if this is true. The doors close, cutting them off from the outside world.

Marcus is humming to himself. It's a familiar tune, yet Jessica can't quite place it. She's about to ask Marcus about it when he stops humming.

"You really are a terrible singer."

"Oh, that again?"

"But there's a certain magic to your tone deafness," Marcus explains. "You were singing an imperfect fifth."

The elevator stops on the tenth floor. Jessica and Marcus take a step backward in anticipation of a crowd. When the doors open, no one is waiting to get inside.

"Clearly, I know nothing about music," she replies, jabbing the close-door button. "What's an imperfect fifth?" She presses it again and again until the doors finally shut. The elevator resumes its ascent.

"A perfect fifth is an interval between a note and seven semitones above it." Jessica nods, her eyes on the up arrow because she's too nervous to look him in the

eye. "The first two notes in the theme to Star Wars are a perfect fifth." He clears his throat, then sings,

"Staaaaar Waaaars ..."

"Oh my God," she honks. "When did you become such a nerd?"

Marcus sighs. "I was always a nerd, Jessica," he says. "I just hid it better than most nerds."

"Too well?"

Marcus purses his lips, nods. Jessica is only now beginning to understand just how much of Marcus's cock-first confidence is subterfuge for deep-seated ...

nerdiness.

"There's another example I could give you, but I'm not sure if I should."

Jessica gives him a measured look. "It's already out there. You might as well."

Marcus takes a deep breath, clasps a clenched fist to his heart, and in a spot-on imitation of a certain geeksta performer they both know well, sings two words from the chorus of the eighty-seventh most popular song on iTunes.

"My ... SONG ..."

Jessica gasps in instant recognition. "So you do know about Len's song!"

"Of course I know about Len's song!" Marcus clears his throat, then launches into the chorus.

"You have stopped the arrow of time ... There's no meaning to this rhyme ... Because my SONG will never mean as much as the one ... He once sang ... For you, yes, you n

Marcus had known about Len's song all along, just as Jessica suspected. Therefore, he also knows
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about how she fucked Len after refusing Marcus's marriage

proposal, knows as much as there is to know on the subject of Jessica and Len. He knows, he knows, he knows, and he doesn't care. He doesn't care in the same way that Jessica suddenly realizes that she no longer cares about the ex-lover who gave him the gorgeous cashmere sweater, or any of the girls who came before her, for that matter. She doesn't care, and he doesn't care, because none of those other people are in this elevator right now. It's just Jessica and Marcus, oxymoronically alone together.

Jessica applauds, and Marcus takes an operatic bow. She wants to tell him that Len was right about his song never meaning as much, that is, until Marcus just sang it for her in the elevator. But she can't. Not yet.

They take another anticipatory step backward as the elevator stops on the fifteenth floor. But, as before, no one gets on. There are still just the two of them in this elevator, and Jessica is both aching for and aching from this realization.

"When you started singing with me," Marcus continues, "I was singing the note as it should have been sung. You were singing an imperfect—or, if you want to be

technical, bare, open, or empty—fifth above it. Together, we created a vocal spark that sounded like a perfect fifth, the most stable of all harmonies."

A vocal spark? Is that the explanation behind the evangelical fervor she felt onstage? Jessica can tell that Marcus is being totally sincere about this, but she can't

allow herself to agree to it, nor follow up in the obvious way. In other words, Marcus, we were perfect in our imperfection.

Instead, Jessica blurts, "You once called me sloppy firsts."

"What?!" He snaps to attention, quickly sobered by this statement.

"You did."

"That's offensive," he says with a frown. "And it doesn't even make sense. I mean, I've heard of sloppy seconds, but sloppy firsts? I guess I didn't know what to say to you, so I just said something stupid to fill the void. Something like Blame Byron!"

They both laugh at this very recent memory.

"Sloppy firsts," Marcus says, rubbing his temples. "What does that even mean?"