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The Speech of Angels
Bzzzzz..
"Ugh." I open my eyes just enough to glance at my alarm clock - 5:45 P.M. "Damn, it's late. That's what I get for being nocturnal," I mutter, dragging myself out of bed from my traditional after-class nap.
I'm meeting with Ashley at six, aren't I? God, I've haven't seen her in forever - we've talked online, sure, but I haven't seen her since early summer, and it's late October now. It's the fault of her summer internship and her stupid Harvard schedule, having their breaks at the weirdest times.
I guess that's the thing I miss the most here at NYU - my high school friends. It's been a over a year - where did it go? We had the oddest little group, an oasis of weirdness in the middle of cultural black-hole suburbia, where Ashley and I were the only girls in the all-boys club. No one understood how we could be such good friends, being so different from each other. But we were both different from everyone else - too smart, too imaginative, too weird to fit in with the "normal" girls. We bonded over pain and hot chocolate.
It's the first time she's visited me here, so I'm bringing her to see my band play. Not anything big, it's just a Battle of the Bands thing, a short set, but I thought it would be nice. She hasn't seen me play since high school, and my act has definitely changed. What was bad and dangerous and punk in suburban, safe, high school doesn't cut it here. You're an automatically an innovator in high school. But to be different here, you've got to have an act, you've got to have a catch, you've got to be extreme.
I brush my newly dyed hair vigorously - black with purple braids this time - and throw on my Trinity outfit. It's black leather pants, a black tank top, leather jacket, and huge black boots, like the character in The Matrix, ready to kick ass.
I run down the stairs, past the other dorm rooms, some quiet, some with music blaring, some with passionate moans slipping through the door cracks.
The night is cool and crisp; perfect Halloween weather - only a few days away. I still have to finish my costume: a fallen angel, complete with huge wings. But nothing will top the time in high school I dressed completely in Abercrombie and Fitch, preppy tank top, short skirt and all, and wrote "Kill me, I'm trendy," on my face. Too bad the administration noticed by third period and made me wash it off. But I managed to make my point. You should have seen the looks I got.
Ashley is waiting for me already, oddly enough. Despite how responsible she is most of the time, she's always at least ten minutes late to everything.
We smile at each other and hug even before saying anything. It's funny. She's so shy about sex, but she's always been hopelessly touchy-feely.
I step back and look at her. She's wearing hip-hugger jeans and sparkly top with a gorgeous picture of an angel on it. Not exactly club wear, but it will do.
"So how have you been? What's new with you?" she asks, her eyes wide, taking everything in.
"Ah, everything and nothing, as usual. School, avoiding work, music, music, as always," I reply easily. "And you?"
"Oh, not much. School, work, newspaper, all of the traditionally boring crap I do. Far too busy as usual, but hey, it's self-imposed, so it's not like I can complain. I see you've gone full-out with the clothes tonight," she says, giving me a half-grin.
"Not really, this is what I usually wear out," I say, shrugging my shoulders. "And I like your shirt."
"Oh," she replied, and paused. "Yeah, thanks. So what are we doing tonight in this big city?"
"Well, we're going to get completely drunk and stoned and high on every drug you can think of and then go to a big orgy and get naked with everyone there," I reply, with as straight a face as I can manage.
"Really?" she says, giving me her patented "Skeptical Look."
"Well, maybe," I reply, and we laugh. "Well, right this way, for the grand tour of the Big City," I gesture, and we start out.
The Village is a swirling chaos for the senses, everything strange and weird and beautiful wrapped up into a bite-size chunk of the city. I smell food, alcohol, cigarettes, and pot smoke, combining into some wonderful elixir. I hear people laughing, singing, music beating out of stereos, stores, clubs. People of all shapes and colors and sizes wandering down the street, looking confused, looking happy, looking angry, looking horny, looking stoned. Tourists in preppy clothes staring at the locals in leather and club wear, shaky platforms and spiked hair of unnatural colors, odd t-shirts and beat jeans. Some of the locals in preppy clothes even, eating at the nicer restaurants, the jazz clubs, looking around to make sure they're being seen. It's all about being seen, who you present yourself as, who you look like for the night.
I've been here barely a year, but I feel like this is truly home for me. Here I can sing my music and be loved for it, here I can be weird and dark and be accepted. Here I can be myself - for the most part, at least.
***
Seems like you've changed
For the worse, of course
As anything ever does
It's just not worth it anymore
I wonder what I'm doing it for
You obviously don't care
You couldn't understand
Even if you wanted to
Even if I wanted you to
Do what you want - it's up to you
Because I just don't care
And I don't think I ever have
***
"You've got to be kidding me," Ashley says, as she peers in the storefront window of the sex shop, full of costumes and sex toys with so many parts I don't know where you could put them all. She keeps turning away, but looking back in, despite herself. "There's no way you're dragging me in there."
"What, are you chicken?" I taunt. She always laughed at our sex jokes in high school. This place can't be that bad.
"No," she says, giving me a defiant look.
Smiling a Cheshire grin, I wave my hand toward the door. "Well then, come one, come all, come inside," I beckon, opening the door and stepping inside.
She steps in cautiously, trying to avoid touching the door handle. I really can't blame her though - you never know what might be on those things.
I scan the room until my eyes land on a sign above a bookshelf that remarks: "Everything You've Ever Wanted to Know About Amazing Sex." Sounds like a bad Men's Health article. But judging from the covers - explicit photographs of very naked people - these books would make the author of the Kama Sutra blush.
I saunter over and pick up the first book I find, entitled "The World's Kinkiest Sexual Acts." On the cover, it has a couple doing God-knows-what and a sticker that proclaims, "What the Guinness Book of World Records Can't Print!"
I browse the table of contents: fetishes, records, positions - and a glossary!
Flipping to the back of the book, I say, "Hey, Ashley, do you know what Bukkake is?"
Turning away from her examination of a black leather catsuit, she looks at me with a raised eyebrow. "Umm….I don't think so," she says, now avoiding eye contact.
"I bet you'd enjoy it," I tease, as I read the definition loudly. "It's a Japanese sexual act when several men cum in - "
"Ack, stop it," she interrupts loudly. "I don't need to hear that! My God….ugh."
"But you want to, don't you," I say, grinning.
"No, I really don't," Ashley replies, looking me in the eye.
"Oh, just a few more minutes, it's fun, besides," I say, grinning, shrugging.
"No, it really isn't. I want to leave. It's making me uncomfortable."
"Oh, you've got to stay for a little longer. I mean, where else are you ever going to see half this stuff. I bet even Harvard Square isn't this daring," I smirk.
"No, it isn't. And I think I like it better, in fact. I'm going outside."
"Wuss!" I call after her. I don't really want be in here alone though, so I put the book back and leave.
Standing next to the door, Ashley's suddenly developed a great fascination with the sidewalk directly below her.
"What was that all about in there?" I ask.
"You made me uncomfortable on purpose so you could laugh at me. That's not right. Friends don't do that," she says, looking me right in the eye. She never gets angry - annoyed, frustrated, but not angry.
This time, I'm the one who turns away.
"You just have to lighten up, that's all," I say, turning back, trying to smile.
"I don't think so. You were never like that before - you joked about sex all of the time, but not like that, at the expense of others. At my expense."
"Yeah, well, who says I can't have a little fun?" I reply.
"No one. You can do what you want," she says, turning away.
I follow after her.
***
You say you're all different
But there's no difference I see
In fact, you all just look the same to me
In your black lace and combat boots
Making fun of the pricks in suits
It's not worth trying to change
You'll always be the same
You hide behind it all
Just hiding from a reality
That you don't deserve
You're all just worthless in the end
Nothing's worth it in the end
***
Backstage hustles and bustles with activity as usual, as everyone tunes up and organizes their equipment and band members. After tuning with my base player and drummer, we head out on stage.
Screaming into the microphone, blaring on my guitar, I condemn society, the President, my audience, everything. Questioning love, hope, everything and anything good and pure and beautiful, I spit cynicism, anger, antagonism, even hatred. And I love it all, all of the love, the attention, the praise, and especially the audience, the audience calling for more abuse, more doubt, more of everything dark and ugly.
Starting with "Worthless," we play five of our original songs, and end with a punk cover of Pink Floyd's "In the Flesh." I strut across the stage, spitting out Roger Waters' spiteful lyrics:
"We're gonna find out where you fans really stand. Are there any queers in the theatre tonight? Get 'em up against the wall. -- 'Gainst the wall! And that one in the spotlight, he don't look right to me. Get him up against the wall. -- 'Gainst the wall! And that one looks Jewish, and that one's a coon. Who let all this riffraff into the room?"
I stop at "room" and look across the audience. Locking eyes with Ashley, I realize she's almost crying. She gives me a look of stubborn anger, disappointment and condemnation all in one. My heart stops.
I swallow and continue singing, but even when I look away, I can't get the image out of my head. I go through the rest of the song half-heartedly, and the crowd responds in kind. We finish the set and shuffle offstage.
Backstage, I silently put my guitar in its case and descend into the club's audience. Between back patting and compliments from strangers, I weave my way through the crowd, looking for Ashley. Relying on intuition, I head to the bathroom.
I push my way through the line. Ashley's at the mirror, splashing water on her face, biting her lip. Her big brown eyes are red and puffy, and her brown hair falls down around her face, half-wet with tears and the sludgy water from the sink. She keeps touching her face, her eyes, as if that will keep in her control. I walk over to her, but she sees me in the mirror before I can say anything.
"I just don't get you sometimes," she says, turning around and shaking her head at me.
"Me?" I ask. She's the one who's as confusing as all hell.
"Yes, you," she says, taking a step toward me. I want to step back, but instead just lean away from her a bit. What happened? She's always been the calm one, the responsible one, the one to know just what's going on, just what to do, keeping everything under control.
"How can you do this? First, you greet me by embarrassing me in public. Yeah, I probably did overreact, sure, I probably should lighten up, be more sexually liberated. But I'm not, and I'm okay with that. Obviously, you aren't," she says, her eyes fiery and fierce, her breathing quick.
"I just thought it was funny, that's all," I say, struggling for words.
"Yeah, funny, right. And was all that on stage funny? Do you enjoy hurting people; do you enjoy making people hate each other? I can't think that you actually believe any of the garbage you were spewing on stage - that's not the Anna I know. God, you've changed," she says, shaking her head.
In usual New York City fashion, no one else in the bathroom pays any attention. They just go about their business, leaving me to deal with this emotional wreck.
"No, I've always been weird, I've always been different, you know that, of all people," I say, my voice stumbling.
"Not like this. You've never been like this. You were you. I looked up to you - you were unique and could be yourself, and didn't take crap from anyone. You refused to be like everyone else. What happened to that?"
"Nothing happened to it. It's just an act, that's all. I play a character. It's not me at all, really, it isn't," I say, trying to console her, calm her, something, anything.
"But why? Why play this character? I mean, think about the bands, the musicians you idolize, you love. They were making a point. But you? You just made it into this shapeless hate and anger. You condemn people for caring what other people think. But that's all you seem to care about," she spits out, looking at me with this look of pity and disgust and rage.
"I am making a point. It's philosophy, it's all that intellectual stuff you like," I plead with her, my voice breaking.
"Yeah, whatever you want to call it. Either way, we deserve better than that. You deserve better than that. Or maybe you don't. Maybe I've been wrong all this time," she rants. Ashley starts to collapse into a kind of desperate sobbing, but barely controls herself. She closes her eyes for a second and clenches her teeth.
"Just let me know you're who I thought you were all of these years," she says, and walks out of the bathroom, still wiping her face with her hands.
I stand there silently, thoughts swirling through my mind, too many to pick from, to concentrate on. I lean my elbows on the sink and put my head in my hands. All the sudden, it's pounding like crazy.
Is that all I really care about? Is that what I'm really like? Her words just keep running over and over in my mind.
I shake my head and shudder, like I can shake off her words, like I can get her voice, her tears, her eyes out of my mind.
She always has to be right, doesn't she? She always has to be perfect Miss-Know-It all, doesn't she? Of course she does.
I pound the cracking ceramic of the sink with my fist, almost enjoying the resulting pain. My heart is racing and my breathing is out of control. I look in the mirror. Through the film of nicotine, I see I'm just as disheveled as Ashley was when I walked in here - tear stained cheeks, wide crazy eyes.
I didn't even know I was crying.
My eyes stare back at me, custom flame contacts, eyes that aren't my own. Of course, my makeup is running, black mascara and purple eye shadow running together, forming black-and-blue bruises on my cheeks. I try to breathe evenly, but it just comes out in shudders.
God, she is right, isn't she? Who the hell am I anyway? Has it all been a show, has this whole thing been a show for a laughing audience since the beginning?
I start laughing quietly, a laugh somewhere between relief and insanity. I can't stop shaking my head, I can't stop laughing, I can't stop crying, I can't stop any of it.
I can only stare at myself in the mirror.
I just stand there for who knows how long, people moving in and out, people moving around, none of them having anything to do with me, none of them caring.
Finally, I begin breathing normally again. In and out, in and out, slowly, filling myself with air, with breath. I gaze at myself in the mirror again - a stranger to everyone, especially myself.
Can I choose who I am?
I breathe deeply and leave the bathroom. Spotting Ashley, I push my way through the mass of people to get to her, to where she stands at the edge of the crowd.
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