Ursula Pflug - Seeds and Other Stories

“Ten dollar cover at the door, and people come, because the music’s real good and doesn’t stop till morning. At least some nights it’s real good.”

He stared at her. “How come you got so wise?”

“I want to get to heaven,” she said. “You have to save one life. That’s the entry fee, I heard.”

“I knew there was a catch.”

“Don’t screw up,” she said, as if only now, the first daylight streaming in the front windows, could she see how broken he really was. She left in a hurry, crashing into the door on her way out, sounding like a platoon of armadillos wearing rings on their fingers and doorbells on their toes.

He hated her for just a second: a girl, afraid he might embarrass her. Didn’t she know who he was? But she did. It was why she’d invited him. And why she was afraid.

And he walked across town in the snow to save the bus fare, brought his beauty home, bought a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter at the Latino convenience store on the ground floor of his Avenue C walk-up with the leftover five dollars. He practised for four hours before he ate and went to sleep, and when he played that night at Carlos’s he didn’t embarrass Rickie at all. He’d completely forgotten the rush of applause; he’d done only session work for so long. Jingles. But this was real.

After they’d made music four nights a week for a fortnight his landlord turfed him out for non-payment, and Rickie, reading his mind again, invited him to share her First Avenue one bedroom, use the fold-out. How foolishly idealistic the young are, he thought. How does she know I won’t screw up my share of the rent, won’t come on to her, won’t deal heroin out of her crib? Rickie stared into his eyes, still too knowing, said, “Because I believe in music. Because you’re not as good as you used to be.“

“No, I’m not,” he answered, ready to call his old supplier, have her come to the apartment while Rickie was out at work, make indiscreet phone calls, leave the bathroom full of needles and bent blackened spoons.

“No,” she said. “You’re not as good as before. The last two nights you were better. Whatever happened to you, and I know it wasn’t good, you’ve finally turned it into something good. I’m just a girl who believes, but you’re a real musician.”

It was true, he thought. “I believe too,” he said.

And she said, “Of course you do. Why else would you have stayed in the game so long? Not gone into real estate, software, whatever?”

Could be I wasn’t good for anything else, he thought, but agreed instead. “Whatever. But you know too much.”

“Only when I’ve been singing,” she replied.

And they went to Orchard Street and shopped for sheets for the pull-out, and he thought perhaps she’d teach him to love New York all over again. “Get an extra set,” she said, “for your beastie.” She leaned down to pet it but it snarled, snapping at her fingers. He winced, full of remorse. Why did it have to follow him everywhere, looking like that?

But Rickie only said, “I’ve never met anyone who has one before. I’ve heard of them of course, seen them on TV, but I’ve never met a real person who’s got one. Even Mojo.”

No kidding, he thought, you can’t be a copy-cat and expect an animal to come to you, but said instead, “I know you don’t have one, I would’ve seen it by now. But don’t you ever feel one waiting for you, wanting to come?”

“I dream of a bird sometimes. It’s golden and very beautiful.”

“Dream more,” he said, and looked at his creature in shame, dragging her peeling yellowed talons along the cement. She hadn’t always looked like this.

He remembered the beginning, when he’d first moved here, when it had meant so much to live in the East Village. Meant everything; that he’d honed his craft so lovingly he had a creature to prove it, a beautiful gryphon with yellow eyes who sat behind him when he played. That had been worth more than gold. He looked at Rickie. That must be what she felt like still, waiting patiently for her animal, calling it with her passion, her attention, her discipline. Life’s biggest dream was about to happen to her. That anyone could still feel like that. His monster drooled and shuddered beside him, shedding feathers and fur. He wished he could kill it, start all over. But of course it didn’t work that way.

Three months into their arrangement a girl came to the door when Rickie was at her four night a week waitressing gig. Pale pale face, short dark hair, a hollow wooden look. Rickie was such a survivor, so efficient and competent, he’d forgotten there was another kind of girl, this kind. Stick figure, bird bones, puppet. Marionette, he thought, who’s pulling the strings? And then wondered at the thought, its flash of unasked-for intuition. He checked to see if she had an animal. She didn’t, unless it was very small, hiding in a pocket. She stared right back, looking past him at his monster who’d come skulking down the stairs after him. A bag of feathers and fur, matted, shedding.

The girl asked for Rickie, but Rickie was at work, and Joey too had to leave to record his tracks for a jingle, so he couldn’t invite her in for coffee, not that he wanted to.

“What should I tell her?” he asked.

“Just say Phoebe dropped by,” the girl said. “We’re real good friends,” but Joey had never heard Rickie mention any Phoebe.

“You come back some other time,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t. Phoebe sighed heavily, as though he was such a drag not to invite her up, stared past him, slyly, at his creature, smirked.

He shut the door in her face, hating himself again for being so old, for knowing too much in a different way than Rickie did, Rickie whom he owed rent. He hated himself for his cynicism, but knew without a doubt that friends like this didn’t come to the door unless they wanted something: food, a share of the stash, a place to stay, money. He knew he was being unfair, but he’d been around too long not to peg the type when he saw it. He’d had that look himself, for over a decade, frightening people, or arousing their contempt. Probably still had it. Only Rickie had seen through to something else, a brightness buried deep within, almost winked out. Maybe he was an alley cat, protecting his turf, jealously guarding Rickie’s generosity for himself. What if Rickie kicked him out, invited Phoebe to share the flat instead? Those cat eyes, he could feel them staring through the door even as he climbed the stairs. Telling him he wasn’t an alley cat at all; no, he was a monster. Had to be: he had one, didn’t he?

A street door that locked. Windows that didn’t look at an air shaft. That’s what First Avenue did for you, even if it was a cheap rent control she’d paid key money for, borrowed from her parents. Sally was still in the one Joey had had. Heat that worked. Three months and he still couldn’t get used to it. It had been years. He thought he wouldn’t mention the girl.

He didn’t tell, but Phoebe showed up when he was out, and Rickie home. And when he got in, Phoebe was asleep on what he’d come to think of as “his” sofa bed, blue shadows in the white sheets, under her eyes. He sighed and slept on the floor. In the morning, when Phoebe was still asleep, and Rickie had just gotten in from Carlos’s, she said, “You take the bedroom tonight, it’s only got a twin. I’ll share the pull-out with her.”

And he wanted to say, it’s because she was here I didn’t show up at the club. I was afraid she’d rob you, friend or no. I know her type too well. I was one, but at least I got an animal first. But Rickie stared at him with a look that said, it’s my apartment and that’s the end of it, and so Phoebe stayed.