Leila Sales - This Song Will Save Your Life

“Hey,” I said. “Do you know Char’s real name?”

Vicky didn’t even pause. “Sure. It’s Michael. Michael Kirby. Why?”

“No reason,” I said. “I’ll see you tonight.”

We hung up after that. Then I opened my computer, and I googled “Michael Kirby.”

I wanted to know who Char really was. No more personas, no more images, no more pretending.

It was easy—so easy that I had to wonder why I had never asked Vicky for his real name before. Within ten minutes, I had a whole picture painted of Michael Kirby.

He was nineteen years old, turning twenty next week. He’d grown up in Westerly, about forty miles from here, the middle of three kids. On the high school track team, he would occasionally, but not all that often, finish in the top five in the 400-meter. He was one of eight trombone players in his high school’s marching band. I watched a video of them playing at a county fair, but I had to watch it twice before I could tell which one of the blue-uniformed trombonists was him. Michael’s dad worked in construction and his mom worked part-time as a secretary for Russell Gold, DDS, “Where Your Smile Makes Us Smile.”

In Michael’s freshman year at state college, he’d joined the college radio station and lived in Hutton Dorm. There was a photo of him wearing pajama pants at a study break, with a caption reading, Michael’s special snack: Chex Mix! Now in his second year, he was only a part-time student; he spent the rest of the time as a server at Antonio’s Pizzeria. He maintained Antonio’s Web site, and when I clicked the “contact us” button at the bottom of the page, it opened an e-mail addressed to michael@antoniospizza.com.

That was Char. It was all laid out for me across the Internet. It was a simple portrait of a person, like a million other people, and I felt the magic of Char float off into the air, as if I’d blown on a pile of dust.

But you know better than anyone how the Internet sees everything and nothing, all at the same time.

After I had learned all I cared to learn about Michael Kirby, I looked up my own name.

Why do you do this? Why do you want to see what other people say you are?

I suppose it’s because old habits die hard.

The first two search results were the same as always. Elise Dembowski, MD. Elise Dembowski Tampa Florida school superintendent.

But the third result was different. Elise Dembowski suicide had fallen down on the list. The third thing that came up when I typed in my own name was Elise Dembowski DJ .

I stared at my computer screen for a long moment, and I smiled. Then I closed my laptop and got ready for Start.

“So you decided to show up after all, hmm?” Mel said when I arrived at Start later that night. “Just couldn’t stay away?”

“What can I say? The scene needs me,” I told him.

Mel laughed. “Atta girl.” Then he noticed who was behind me. “Hello,” he said, sticking out his hand for a shake. “I’m Mel.”

“I’m Joe Dembowski. Elise’s dad,” said my dad.

I closed my eyes briefly. Please don’t do anything to embarrass me, Dad . Actually, my dearest hope had been that he wouldn’t identify himself as related to me, period. Let everyone think he was just some lecherous old guy who enjoyed hanging out at warehouse parties on his own.

“You’ve come to see your daughter’s big premiere?” Mel nodded his approval. “You’ve got a good dad,” he said to me. “And don’t worry about it, Joe; I don’t need to see your ID.”

“You’ve been taking care of Elise?” Dad asked, looking Mel up and down.

Mel shrugged modestly. “When she lets me.”

Dad laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “I know what you mean,” he said. Then we entered Start.

“So this is where you’ve been spending all your time?” Dad asked, looking around the room. The party hadn’t started yet, so it was almost entirely empty. The bartender’s iPod was playing faintly on the speakers.

“Some of my time,” I said cautiously.

Dad shrugged, like he wasn’t impressed. Then he laughed. “You know what? You’ve come to enough of my gigs over the years. I’m glad to finally have the chance to return the favor.”

“I’m glad, too,” I said, and I was. Glad that we were back on speaking terms, glad that my dad understood what it meant to fall in love with music, glad that I had my own father and not Sally’s. I hugged him suddenly.

“I’m proud of you, baby,” Dad murmured. “Go out there and knock ’em dead.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I said. “Now would you please sit over by the bar and act like you don’t know me all night?”

He nodded. “You got it.”

I headed over to the DJ booth and started setting up. Char had always taken care of this part before, so I went slowly, checking and double-checking to make sure that everything was plugged in correctly.

Just as I was plugging in my last cords, the Dirty Curtains arrived.

“Helloooo, Glendale!” Harry shouted, raising his drumsticks in the air. “How y’all doing tonight? Glendale in the hoooouse!”

“Harry,” Vicky said, a step behind him. “We’ve been over this. The drummer doesn’t get to banter with the audience.”

“What about the guitarist?” Dave asked, setting his guitar on the stage. “Does the guitarist get to banter?”

“No,” Vicky said.

Dave shrugged. “That’s cool. I didn’t want to banter anyway.”

“ I did,” Harry said. He raised his voice again. “Glendale, get your hands in the air if you’re sexy! All sexy hands, in the air! Unsexy hands, you can just hang out.”

“I swear to God,” Vicky said, “I have the bantering under control. I will handle the banter. Just play your goddamn instruments.”

I stepped down from the booth and gave Vicky a hug.

“Okay, I am freaking out .” Vicky let go of me and took a step back. “Now tell me the truth: do these false eyelashes make me look like a My Little Pony?”

“Vicky!” I laughed. “Since when do you get stage fright?”

“Uh, since my whole life?”

“But you’ve performed in a zillion things. You were a cheerleader,” I reminded her.

“Yeah, and shouting, ‘Roosevelt Roosters, go go go!’ in a yellow-and-green unitard really prepared me for singing in front of Start. Anyway, this is the first time I’ve performed my songs. Songs that I wrote. Not to mention the first time the Dirty Curtains have performed anywhere, ever. Like, all of a sudden the Dirty Curtains are a real band, instead of a few dudes who play video games on my TV and shed beard hair all over my rug while I try to make them rehearse.”

I glanced over at the other two Dirty Curtains, who were plugging their instruments into amps and saying, “Testing, one two three,” and, “Is this thing on?” and, “Cocksucker cocksucker cocksucker” into their mics.

“They seem like a real band to me,” I said.

“I just don’t want you to regret asking us to play on your big night,” Vicky said. “We might suck. Are you prepared for people hearing us and, like, vomiting all over your dance floor?”

“Vicky,” I said, resting my hands on her shoulders. “Repeat after me. I deserve to be here. ”

“I deserve to be here,” Vicky said, looking into my eyes.

“I don’t care if anyone thinks I look stupid.”

“I don’t care if anyone thinks I look stupid,” Vicky echoed quietly.

“Okay.” I took my hands off her shoulders. “Do your stuff out there. Show no mercy.”

Then Vicky went to help set up, while I went to the booth and put on my headphones. I cued up the Undertones’ “Teenage Kicks.” Then the clock hit ten, Mel opened the door, and the crowd came pouring in. The night had begun.