I watched her light up a cigarette on the other side of the room. She looked out of the window, “My limo’s waiting.” She said.
“How do you know it’s yours?”
“Mine’s purple.”
“Purple?”
“Sure.” She took a drag of the cigarette. “It has, like, 13 speakers and a tape box of everything good. You just lose yourself in it, and before you know it you wake up at the airport.”
I sat up on the unmade bed and asked, “Don’t you find it strange riding in a limousine?”
She smiled a little, “Not really. I sit in the front seat.” She let out a small laugh, it was almost like a cackle.
“Isn’t that against the point?”
“I like looking out the window. See what’s going on.” The Southern twang in her voice reared its head every now and again; it was a little rough around the edges. It was already becoming soaked with whiskey and nicotine.
There was a silence for a few minutes in which we said nothing. She sat, looking out of the hotel window, silently working her way through a cigarette. I just observed her from the safe vantage point of the bed. At first I was just musing over what colour her messy hair was, but then I began just watched her. She was looking out of the window, with a sad but wistful look in her eye, as if her mind were a million miles away from the Chelsea Hotel. But there was nowhere she could go, she went where her manager told her to go, like a good girl. She was a robin with her wings clipped, looking out of the window only pretending she can fly. Once her cigarette had finished she turned her head towards me a little, with a grin said, “You going to be reading poetry to old ladies?”
“Why not?” I said. “As long as they pay me.”
She smiled again and said, “You know something? I normally go for handsome men.”
“Gee, thanks.” I murmured.
“I didn’t mean it like that, just… you know, you have the music. It makes up for it.”
I raised an eyebrow, “The music?”
“Yeah. You’ve got the music. I’ve got the music. Looks don’t matter as long when you have it.”
“But it helps.”
“Yeah to the narrow minded ones it does.” She moved over to the desk with a mirror on the wall. She began pouring herself a drink, the glass reflected the moonlight. There was a brief pause and then she said reflectively “We may be ugly, but we have the music. I mean people who have the music- they’re going to last forever. And the good-looking people… well they just come and go, you know what I’m saying?”
“That we’re immortal.”
“Maybe.” She lifted the glass to her lips, paused and added; “Only time can tell, right?”
“Right.” She gulped down the contents of the glass; I asked her softly, “Do you think you’re going to last forever?”
She looked away from me, avoiding my gaze. “Sure. Maybe… I don’t know.” She looked into her glass, “Guess it’d be nice.”
“What about Kris?”
That struck a nerve, “Of course he will. He’s got the music, man.”
“Oh course- the great Kris Kristoffsen.”
“He’s done some good records.”
I shrugged, “I never brought any of them.”
“You should.” She said. “You guys are kinda like each other.”
“Except he’s taller.”
“Is he?”
I looked confused, “I thought you and he…”
“No.” She paused. “Not yet, anyway.”
Great, I thought, I’m a substitute for a guy she hasn’t even met.
She continued, “His records… they just show he’s got the music, you know?”
“More than me?”
She shrugged, “You’ve both got the music. You’ve got it in your words.”
“He reads poetry to the old ladies too?”
“Not exactly.” She turned away from me and looked into the mirror, the tumbler in one hand and the whiskey bottle in another.
“Was it Kris you were looking for tonight?”
She shrugged, “Does it matter?”
“Well you certainly weren’t trying to find me.”
Her voice darkened, “I could say the same about you.” That was true. I didn’t reply back because we both knew that it was true. What had happened was of no importance. Our brief encounter was not out of passion- it was out of convenience. If I been looking for anyone it would have been Bridgette Bardot, but I’ve yet to find her. “If it’s not for the music, then what’s the point, you know?”
“Sorry?” I said.
“Why we do it- for the music.”
“Yeah. For the music.” I replied, although I believed she meant something else.
“I mean, money… it just comes and goes, doesn’t it, man? All the travelling and meeting people and all that crap… nobody does that because they want to. They do it because they have to. They do it just so they can get to the music.”
“Everything else is irrelevant.”
“Right! That’s right. You can forget all that other stuff, that aint worth anything- it’s the music that counts.”
“Or the words if you read poetry to old ladies.”
She began to pour another drink. “Yeah, but you say what you mean… you feel it. You get inside it. If you don’t… say what you mean, then what’s the point? It’s getting it all out, all those emotions and feelings that, you know, we’re not supposed to talk about in polite conversation, we do it through the music. We talk about this stuff through the music.” She took a gulp from her glass, “If we don’t talk about it then who will?”
“Somebody new and better looking.”
She finished off the contents of the glass of whiskey, “If you kept thinking like that then you’re going to get nowhere.”
“I thought music was about the journey, not the destination?” The question hung around like a stale smell in the atmosphere.
She turned around once again to face me, even in the darkness I could see it was like the light in her eyes had gone. “It gets lonely, though. Doesn’t it?”
“Sometimes.”
“People… people who haven’t got the music, they don’t understand that we put everything into it- we put our hearts into it.” Once again she turned to the desk and poured herself another drink.
I spoke up, “You know that might not be the best idea.”
“What- feelin’ lonely?”
“No the drink.”
“I aint got nothing else to do.” She polished it off in one. “Everybody’s always expectin’ you to be someone, you know.” She held the empty glass began her hands and rolled it around a little. “Like Bob Dylan,” She carried on, “All he wants to do is make music, but all people want for him is to sing protest songs. You know what I mean?”
“Sure.”
“I bet people always want you to be sad just because you write sad songs?”
I sighed, “My songs aren‘t sad. They aren’t cynical, either. They’re just hopeless.”
She didn’t respond for a few songs, then nodded and said, “That’s deep, man… anyway, you’d kill yourself if you were sad all the time.”
“Good thing I’m not sad all the time. Just when I sing.” I then added as an afterthought, “Or read poetry to old ladies.”
She looked down and said, “It’s like… I don’t want to be anyone else. I just want to be me. It’s the only thing I’ve got.”
“Apart from the music?”
“The music’s a part of me. Like it’s apart of you too. You can’t get one with out the other.”
I said, “So when you’re 80 and can’t sing in tune you’ll still be making music.”She smiled, “I think so. Unless I find I’m really good at something else. Like… knitting.” She laughed.
I smiled a little, “I can see you at 80, sitting in a big chair next to a fire…. Knitting away…”
“You can really see me like that?”
I shook me head, “Don’t think growing old respectfully would suit you.”
“Don’t think I’d be able to sit still long enough.” She turned away from me and began fixing herself another drink, I guessed that in her head she was trying to dream up what she would be like at 80. I think she would have been a grouchy 80 year old, with big round glasses like magnifying glasses. I could see her bitter at the young ones who waste their youth. She’d not be quiet, that was for certain. She’d probably spit at people too. She turned back to face me and asked, “You at Chelsea often?”
“Not often enough.” I said. I liked this place. It was the sort of place where you could stumble in at 3 in the morning with a crate of beer, 4 women and a dwarf and no one would care. “You?” I said.
“When I’m this neck of the woods.” Then was another of those long pauses where neither of us could decide what to say. She broke it with, “Boy, I’m hungry. You hungry?”
“Not really.”
“Oh.” She licked her lips and said, “There’s a good burger joint across the street. It’s real nice there. They’ve got a good jukebox. Even got some of mine on there”
At this time in the morning I was in no mood for a burger at that early hour in the morning. “Why don’t you go and get one then?”
“You comin’?”
“No. I’m not hungry.”
She laughed, “You want me to sit in there all on my own? No way, man!”
“Isn’t there someone else you could go with?”
“And this hour in the morning? I don’t think so…” She finished off another drink, I had lost count of how many she had had. Either way, it didn‘t seem as if it were affecting her to much. And that was her. The woman whose heart was a legend, sitting across from me in my room in the Chelsea Hotel working her way through a bottle of Southern Comfort. Like everyone else I’d seen her perform- she was magnificent. It was if she exploded on the stage into a tidal wave of emotion and put her heart and soul on show. She was like a flower in the sun- beautiful and delicate to the touch. And very easy to break.
She said,“I’m supposed to be going to… somewhere. I forget. Maybe somewhere nice. With a lake.
“A lake?”
“Yeah. It’s been about 8 years since I last saw a lake.”
“A long time, huh?”
She sighed, “Yeah. Don’t get much chance to do stuff, like seeing lakes.” There was a silence. We paused. We had nothing much of worth to say.
I asked, to make conversation, “Will I be seeing you around?”
“Sure. You got a TV, don’t you?” She lit up another cigarette.
“How do you know it’s yours?”
“Mine’s purple.”
“Purple?”
“Sure.” She took a drag of the cigarette. “It has, like, 13 speakers and a tape box of everything good. You just lose yourself in it, and before you know it you wake up at the airport.”
I sat up on the unmade bed and asked, “Don’t you find it strange riding in a limousine?”
She smiled a little, “Not really. I sit in the front seat.” She let out a small laugh, it was almost like a cackle.
“Isn’t that against the point?”
“I like looking out the window. See what’s going on.” The Southern twang in her voice reared its head every now and again; it was a little rough around the edges. It was already becoming soaked with whiskey and nicotine.
There was a silence for a few minutes in which we said nothing. She sat, looking out of the hotel window, silently working her way through a cigarette. I just observed her from the safe vantage point of the bed. At first I was just musing over what colour her messy hair was, but then I began just watched her. She was looking out of the window, with a sad but wistful look in her eye, as if her mind were a million miles away from the Chelsea Hotel. But there was nowhere she could go, she went where her manager told her to go, like a good girl. She was a robin with her wings clipped, looking out of the window only pretending she can fly. Once her cigarette had finished she turned her head towards me a little, with a grin said, “You going to be reading poetry to old ladies?”
“Why not?” I said. “As long as they pay me.”
She smiled again and said, “You know something? I normally go for handsome men.”
“Gee, thanks.” I murmured.
“I didn’t mean it like that, just… you know, you have the music. It makes up for it.”
I raised an eyebrow, “The music?”
“Yeah. You’ve got the music. I’ve got the music. Looks don’t matter as long when you have it.”
“But it helps.”
“Yeah to the narrow minded ones it does.” She moved over to the desk with a mirror on the wall. She began pouring herself a drink, the glass reflected the moonlight. There was a brief pause and then she said reflectively “We may be ugly, but we have the music. I mean people who have the music- they’re going to last forever. And the good-looking people… well they just come and go, you know what I’m saying?”
“That we’re immortal.”
“Maybe.” She lifted the glass to her lips, paused and added; “Only time can tell, right?”
“Right.” She gulped down the contents of the glass; I asked her softly, “Do you think you’re going to last forever?”
She looked away from me, avoiding my gaze. “Sure. Maybe… I don’t know.” She looked into her glass, “Guess it’d be nice.”
“What about Kris?”
That struck a nerve, “Of course he will. He’s got the music, man.”
“Oh course- the great Kris Kristoffsen.”
“He’s done some good records.”
I shrugged, “I never brought any of them.”
“You should.” She said. “You guys are kinda like each other.”
“Except he’s taller.”
“Is he?”
I looked confused, “I thought you and he…”“No.” She paused. “Not yet, anyway.”
Great, I thought, I’m a substitute for a guy she hasn’t even met.
She continued, “His records… they just show he’s got the music, you know?”
“More than me?”
She shrugged, “You’ve both got the music. You’ve got it in your words.”
“He reads poetry to the old ladies too?”
“Not exactly.” She turned away from me and looked into the mirror, the tumbler in one hand and the whiskey bottle in another.
“Was it Kris you were looking for tonight?”
She shrugged, “Does it matter?”
“Well you certainly weren’t trying to find me.”
Her voice darkened, “I could say the same about you.” That was true. I didn’t reply back because we both knew that it was true. What had happened was of no importance. Our brief encounter was not out of passion- it was out of convenience. If I been looking for anyone it would have been Bridgette Bardot, but I’ve yet to find her. “If it’s not for the music, then what’s the point, you know?”
“Sorry?” I said.
“Why we do it- for the music.”
“Yeah. For the music.” I replied, although I believed she meant something else.
“I mean, money… it just comes and goes, doesn’t it, man? All the travelling and meeting people and all that crap… nobody does that because they want to. They do it because they have to. They do it just so they can get to the music.”
“Everything else is irrelevant.”
“Right! That’s right. You can forget all that other stuff, that aint worth anything- it’s the music that counts.”
“Or the words if you read poetry to old ladies.”
She began to pour another drink. “Yeah, but you say what you mean… you feel it. You get inside it. If you don’t… say what you mean, then what’s the point? It’s getting it all out, all those emotions and feelings that, you know, we’re not supposed to talk about in polite conversation, we do it through the music. We talk about this stuff through the music.” She took a gulp from her glass, “If we don’t talk about it then who will?”
“Somebody new and better looking.”
She finished off the contents of the glass of whiskey, “If you kept thinking like that then you’re going to get nowhere.”
“I thought music was about the journey, not the destination?” The question hung around like a stale smell in the atmosphere.
She turned around once again to face me, even in the darkness I could see it was like the light in her eyes had gone. “It gets lonely, though. Doesn’t it?”
“Sometimes.”
“People… people who haven’t got the music, they don’t understand that we put everything into it- we put our hearts into it.” Once again she turned to the desk and poured herself another drink.
I spoke up, “You know that might not be the best idea.”
“What- feelin’ lonely?”
“No the drink.”
“I aint got nothing else to do.” She polished it off in one. “Everybody’s always expectin’ you to be someone, you know.” She held the empty glass began her hands and rolled it around a little. “Like Bob Dylan,” She carried on, “All he wants to do is make music, but all people want for him is to sing protest songs. You know what I mean?”
“Sure.”
“I bet people always want you to be sad just because you write sad songs?”
I sighed, “My songs aren‘t sad. They aren’t cynical, either. They’re just hopeless.”
She didn’t respond for a few songs, then nodded and said, “That’s deep, man… anyway, you’d kill yourself if you were sad all the time.”
“Good thing I’m not sad all the time. Just when I sing.” I then added as an afterthought, “Or read poetry to old ladies.”
She looked down and said, “It’s like… I don’t want to be anyone else. I just want to be me. It’s the only thing I’ve got.”
“Apart from the music?”
“The music’s a part of me. Like it’s apart of you too. You can’t get one with out the other.”
I said, “So when you’re 80 and can’t sing in tune you’ll still be making music.”She smiled, “I think so. Unless I find I’m really good at something else. Like… knitting.” She laughed.
I smiled a little, “I can see you at 80, sitting in a big chair next to a fire…. Knitting away…”
“You can really see me like that?”
I shook me head, “Don’t think growing old respectfully would suit you.”
“Don’t think I’d be able to sit still long enough.” She turned away from me and began fixing herself another drink, I guessed that in her head she was trying to dream up what she would be like at 80. I think she would have been a grouchy 80 year old, with big round glasses like magnifying glasses. I could see her bitter at the young ones who waste their youth. She’d not be quiet, that was for certain. She’d probably spit at people too. She turned back to face me and asked, “You at Chelsea often?”
“Not often enough.” I said. I liked this place. It was the sort of place where you could stumble in at 3 in the morning with a crate of beer, 4 women and a dwarf and no one would care. “You?” I said.
“When I’m this neck of the woods.” Then was another of those long pauses where neither of us could decide what to say. She broke it with, “Boy, I’m hungry. You hungry?”
“Not really.”
“Oh.” She licked her lips and said, “There’s a good burger joint across the street. It’s real nice there. They’ve got a good jukebox. Even got some of mine on there”
At this time in the morning I was in no mood for a burger at that early hour in the morning. “Why don’t you go and get one then?”
“You comin’?”
“No. I’m not hungry.”
She laughed, “You want me to sit in there all on my own? No way, man!”
“Isn’t there someone else you could go with?”
“And this hour in the morning? I don’t think so…” She finished off another drink, I had lost count of how many she had had. Either way, it didn‘t seem as if it were affecting her to much. And that was her. The woman whose heart was a legend, sitting across from me in my room in the Chelsea Hotel working her way through a bottle of Southern Comfort. Like everyone else I’d seen her perform- she was magnificent. It was if she exploded on the stage into a tidal wave of emotion and put her heart and soul on show. She was like a flower in the sun- beautiful and delicate to the touch. And very easy to break.
She said,“I’m supposed to be going to… somewhere. I forget. Maybe somewhere nice. With a lake.
“A lake?”
“Yeah. It’s been about 8 years since I last saw a lake.”
“A long time, huh?”
She sighed, “Yeah. Don’t get much chance to do stuff, like seeing lakes.” There was a silence. We paused. We had nothing much of worth to say.
I asked, to make conversation, “Will I be seeing you around?”
“Sure. You got a TV, don’t you?” She lit up another cigarette.
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