Orfe (5 page)

I put the papers in the notebook, closed the notebook over them, and left.

*  *  *  *  *

So I became Orfe's manager. If I had known then what I know now, I never would have. But what I know now I learned then.

Just for example: The first thing was to get her listened to. You can't sit around, waiting to be discovered, you have to put yourself forward; or you have to have a manager to put you forward—that is, when your manager isn't busy keeping up with the work of her education so she'll be able to do little things in her life like keep food on the table and pay the rent. As manager, my first task was to get Orfe listened to.

I don't think there's any ignorance I missed. I bought a tape, borrowed a tape deck, had Orfe sing into it. . . . Even
I
could hear that it wouldn't do. Then I discovered that everybody, or everybody's brother, has a friend who knows something, knows someone. . . . And it took me a while to learn that everybody can't be relied on, not for more than genuinely wishing you
well, sometimes. I ran in circles for a while, before I learned how to find a recording studio and rent time, what kind of equipment I needed so we could make a good-quality tape and who I could borrow it from, what kind of equipment I needed to play the finished tape for whomever I was asking to listen to Orfe.

Orfe never lost patience, never lost hope, never lost faith in me. She earned regular money and slept in my room occasionally. I finally asked her about Yuri and she told me. “He's my guy, he's my lover, he's . . .”

“Bad cess, Jack said,” I finished her sentence, “which I take it means an addict. What is he, recovering?” hoping she would deny it.

“—beautiful, he likes my songs, he wants to meet you.”

“Sure,” I said. “Whenever.” I waited for Orfe to name the time and place. She didn't say anything. “But where do you think I should take this tape to play it?” Orfe had no idea.

Everybody else had suggestions and ideas, people their sisters knew. . . . In the end, I went to places where I thought Orfe might have a chance.

Talk about learning experiences. Learning
how to dress, what to say, just so somebody would agree to listen to a song, just one song. Most of the somebodies were men, but that was about all they had in common. I learned—as fast as I could—how to recognize the person who could actually make the decision, whether or not to haul the tape forthrightly out of my purse or to try to lead the conversation around to the point where he might ask me if I had one; I learned who resented and who preferred jeans on his suppliants, who thought that if you didn't say
fuck
and
fucking,
you weren't worth listening to, and who thought that if you did, that was something you were willing to do to get your tape listened to; I learned how to recognize an implacable
no!
and when I could press a little harder, just in case.

All to no avail.

On the best days I would finally get to play the tape and the face would listen politely, and then turn from side to side: No, sorry.

I finally admitted that however clear and good they were, the tapes didn't convince anybody that he wanted to hire Orfe, so the tapes weren't good enough. “Come see her perform in front of an audience,” I'd say. “You have to see her in live performance.”

“Where's she playing?”

I'd name the street corner, but that was a kiss of death, playing on the streets. “Listen, sweetie, I'd like to help you, you look like a nice girl, but, you know, singers are a dime a dozen, I could get singers—and good singers, like your friend on the tape—just by snapping my fingers twice. Just like this. She needs a band, is what. It's easier to book a band. People want to hear a whole performance, not just a singer. You know what I mean? Thanks for stopping in, for asking me. Tell your friend she needs a band.”

Those were the polite ones. The not-so-polite ones just said, “Give me a break, will you?”

*  *  *  *  *

“You need a band,” I told Orfe.

“You think?”

“No, not personally.”

“You sound tired, Enny. Your grades are okay, aren't they?”

“Never better.” That was the truth. I'd never done better work with less effort. “I can't figure out why, except—you're a good influence on me. Either that or I'm the kind of person who does best when she's overworked.”

“You're not overworked,” Orfe quickly pointed out. A stickler.

“But I have no idea how to find a band.”

“Look for it, that's the first step.”

“A whole band?”

“Probably not, probably we'd have better luck looking for solos,” Orfe said. “If you know where to look.”

“Do you know where to look?”

“I could ask, when I play, maybe someone listening—but it'll have to be
my
songs.”

Orfe's face was hidden, lowered, and then she raised her head. Eager, she was so glad for what was coming up next in her life she could give it away. With anyone else I might have envied that much gladness, but for Orfe, being glad wasn't something that made other people jealous. It was like her songs: When Orfe sang about the homeless, for example, I always went out and did something—took food into a shelter or found some clothes I'd never use again or just smiled and said hello to someone clawing her way through a garbage can as if I could tell the difference between her and the garbage her hands were in. It wasn't just me, either, responding that way. You could see it. Orfe's songs made a difference, an actual, acted-out difference.
Orfe's eager gladness got to me. “A band will come along,” she said.

“Be real,” I advised her, also myself.

“I'll be looking too.”

“What about Yuri, could he play?”

She shook her head. “I don't want to ask him. I don't even want him to know I'm looking. He's got his hands full staying clean right now. He'd want to help out, and it would be his old friends he'd think of, and his old friends live the old way in the old place. . . . Not Yuri.”

My boyfriend of the time knew something about music. In fact, it was his interest in Orfe's music that led him to me, so he was happy to join the search for backup instruments and singers. We went to clubs and bars, parks, and the occasional college organization party, keeping our ears open for someone who might do for Orfe, a musician looking for a group to play with and songs, a group looking for a singer and songs.

And we were the ones who found the bass player, Grace Phildon. In actual fact, it was Zach—that was his name, Zachary, a great name, Zachary Cairn, I wonder sometimes what happened to him. We stayed friends right through graduation, long after we'd decided we weren't meant
to be lovers and wouldn't ever be. Then after graduation Zach went to Europe, and I lost touch with him.

It was Zach who found Grace Phildon, but not in any of the likely places where we had gone looking for musicians. He found her on the notice board of the local deli-grocery-news-and-magazine store, while I was picking up salad for a late supper and some bread to go with it. Zach saw the card and called me over. “Something about this gets me,” he said.

Something about it got me too. Maybe the bold black strokes out of which name, instrument, and phone number were formed. Maybe the lack of any further information on the card. We told Orfe, and she called to set up a meeting. “An audition,” I corrected, taking the phone away from Orfe and introducing myself, “the manager.”

“Makes never no mind to me what you call it,” the voice responded. “I'll be there.” She read back the address. “I'll be on time.” She repeated the time.

“So will we,” I promised.

*  *  *  *  *

Grace Phildon was prompt—a knock at the door, which Orfe went to open, as if I were the one running the audition. As if I were the one who would know and
decide. “Orfe,” I protested, following, and Grace Phildon pushed open the door. She wore jeans and a red sweatshirt; she had a bass guitar in its case in one hand and a child at the other. She was young to have a child in hand, even a child like this one just starting to walk; she was no older than we were. The child was diapers, dark curly hair, and satiny brown skin. “I apologize for having the baby with me. My mother wasn't free and my sisters have jobs. If that gripes you, I can leave right now. Usually I don't have my baby with me. Usually I make arrangements.”

“Doesn't bother me,” Orfe said. I shook my head, it didn't bother me. For all I knew, that might be the standard way of doing an audition.

Grace Phildon lifted the child into a corner of a deep chair. “You got to sit quiet while Mommy makes a little music. Can you be good, honey?”

The little head nodded. A thumb went into the mouth. Grace Phildon straightened up, a sturdy figure, solid legs, broad torso, strong arms. “I can sing, I can play, I can dance, sort of. What do you want?”

Orfe went to the upright piano and played a classic Beatles song, “Blackbird.” Grace Phildon's voice was soft, and warm,
and sat lightly on the air. When Orfe joined in, Grace Phildon switched to singing harmony, the two voices blending like a warm breeze and sunny air.

She sounded good to me, the two of them sounded good. They took out their instruments and played “American Pie,” sounding good, guitar and bass, unamplified, singing. “Do you read music?” Orfe asked.

“Some. I've been studying—some.”

They played one of Orfe's songs, playing it through time after time until it came smooth. I sat and listened, as content as the baby.

“Okay,” Orfe said at last. “Here's what we're talking about. I'm looking to form a band to back me up, doing mostly my own songs, like that one.” Grace Phildon waited for the list to be complete. “Equal split on any money, including the manager gets an equal share. Drugs are out, absolutely, and no funny stuff about it,” Orfe said. “My guy is a recovering addict.”

“No problem,” Grace said. “I see no problem with any of it.”

“I don't have any work, not yet. No jobs to offer you.”

“I figured. Or else why would you have seen my notice? I'm happy to bank on
you, and so's Cass, aren't you, honey?” The baby had slid down, while they sang, and trundled over, while they sang and played, to plunk itself down on the floor and listen from up close. “I had to leave school with Cass,” Grace said, “and I figure, my talent is my only hope for me. You—you're some kind of music, and if you'd like me, I sure would like you.”

Orfe said, “I wish we had some jobs to offer.”

“We're fine, Cass and me, we've got family, I work at one of the hamburger joints—flexible hours, no problem. For the baby's life too, I mean. I mean, hope.”

*  *  *  *  *

The second band member Orfe brought in from the street. There was no audition. There was no consultation with Grace Phildon or with me. That day Orfe arrived in the dormitory reception room where Grace was waiting for a rehearsal session, and I was keeping Grace company. A few minutes after Orfe arrived another person showed up, toting a big black box of an amplifier. She set it down and left without a word, to come back a couple of minutes later carrying a guitar. In those minutes Orfe had said, “Willie. I asked her to be in the band,” and I had said, “I thought I was
your manager, I thought a manager was consulted, I thought I had a voice in decisions.” And Orfe said, “About music? About my music?” as if that were a thought so bizarre she'd never even thought to think of it before. And I said, “I'm sorry,” immediately afraid that now Orfe had thought of it she'd dump me, and Orfe said, “Don't be stupid, do you think it would be better that way?” and Grace Phildon spoke for the first time. “Dunno about better, but it's the usual way. Usually there's a couple of good reasons—along with the usual bad ones—for the usual way of doing things.”

“You'd have liked it if I had talked it over with you first?” Orfe asked. Grace nodded. Orfe looked at me. I nodded. Then Orfe nodded, agreeing. “Her last name's Grace,” Orfe said. “Willie Grace. She's really good.”

Willie Grace interrupted us, all sharp angles of elbows and chin and hips, jet black eyes sharp as coals, the corners of her mind and tongue as sharp as bones. “You-all unhappy with me? I can be outta here in about two minutes flat. Fuck it, that's what I say.”

Hostility you could touch was in the air, so sharp you could cut your fingers on it if you put your fingers out. I was silent.
Grace Phildon was silent.

“Anyway, let's try a song,” Orfe said.

“I mean it,” Willie Grace said. She hadn't even plugged her guitar into the amplifier. “I don't need any bad-mouthing from any wussy females.”

I didn't like her. “I thought
wussy
was a gender-specific put-down,” I said.

“Let's do a song and just hear how we sound,” Orfe asked again.

We ignored her. Willie Grace put her hand on her hip and jutted her elbow out, her hip jutted out. “Yeah? Oh, yeah? You mean, like, I can't call you a prick even when you're acting like one?”

Orfe laughed. I didn't blame her.

“I wouldn't have thought you'd have this kind of friend, Orfe,” Willie Grace said.

“Only one,” Orfe said. “I never met anyone else like Enny.”

I could stand up for myself. “What do you mean by that?” I demanded of Willie Grace.

“College,” Willie Grace said. “But lemme tell you, college kid, maybe I did get this little black ass out of school the day I turned sixteen, but I passed the GED the next day. Going to college doesn't mean anything.”

“Tell me about it,” I said.

She looked at me.

“Neither does not going to college,” I said.

She looked at me.

“Can we play now?” Orfe asked.