Girls They Write Songs About Read online

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  1.

  Rose and I moved to New York to be motherless. We moved to New York to want undisturbed and unchecked.

  And what did we want? We wanted to be seen as an overpoweringly singular instance of late-twentieth-century womanhood. We wanted fan mail. We wanted to be worshipped. We wanted lives full of purpose and free of regret. True daughters of the second wave, we were counting on work to get us there. We thought that if we worked hard enough we would one day, and on time, stand exactly where we hoped.

  But we were neither selfish enough nor selfless enough to become heroines. And even though she and I are no longer speaking, it makes me happy to think and write of that we.

  Once, on my twenty-sixth birthday, we ran out on the bill at a very expensive restaurant. When I realized that our waiter’s shift had finished and our table in the corner had been forgotten in the Friday-night frenzy, I said Let’s make a run for it, and we stood up from our chairs and walked out. All the while looking at all the handsome, burnished people with money, looking at them as if they were rings in a jewelry case, as if they were lives or faces we might buy for ourselves one day, realizing that maturity, too, was its own kind of money, and yet still feeling reckless and regal, because we were free and no one could buy us.

  Another time: the two of us, riding the Staten Island Ferry for no other reason than it was unseasonably warm in March, meeting two elderly women with winking eyes and fanny packs, one with a cane and one wearing a sun visor, who said, as we sped away from Manhattan, white waves pounding behind us, waves as white as their hair, You two must be sisters, the way you’re laughing.

  One night, at a friend’s bewilderingly ostentatious wedding, we charmed the bartender into giving us each a bottle of Veuve Clicquot as revenge on such ostentation, and we ran out of there with coats flying behind us—coats we’d bought for fifteen dollars each on the street in the West Village, castoffs from the lives of long-dead old ladies—clutching those green bottles to our chests as we hopped into a cab. New York: getaway cars everywhere, whenever you needed one.

  On yet another night, summer, at a birthday party, we danced ourselves into cramps so painful we walked barefoot out onto the sidewalk, shoes crammed into our handbags, and hobbled one block to a Duane Reade where we bought flip-flops and then hobbled another five blocks to the subway. Let’s get old in exactly this way, I said, as we clutched at each other’s arms and crept toward the entrance to the R train.

  Rose and I, true daughters of Long Island and New Jersey, loved a diner: it was democracy in action. We were sitting in a booth at the Red Flame, a diner we loved on Forty-Fourth Street, a diner that’s still around, and a family of French tourists, who had been sitting a few tables away from us, wearing trim down jackets, eating what looked to be shrimp scampi, sent a bottle of white wine over because they’d heard us arguing over Godard. Rose was trying to tell me why I should hate him and I was trying to explain why his misogyny didn’t bother me. You could have those kinds of conversations back then. We drank the whole bottle with our grilled cheese-and-tomato sandwiches and fries and declared that we’d had way worse at book parties.

  When the Red Flame goes out, Rose used to say, we’re leaving New York.

  One night we left work too late to see a band in the East Village, and I remember Rose saying Well, we missed it. We missed U2 at Red Rocks, we missed Billie Holiday at the Blue Note. Napoleon, Sid Vicious, Martin Luther King, Muhammad Ali, Moses. May of ’68 and July of 1789. We missed it! All of it! I had to sit down on the sidewalk on Avenue B I was laughing so hard.

  I think of that all the time: We missed it! All of it!

  2.

  When Rose and I moved to the city, living in Brooklyn meant you had to commute to Manhattan in order to have a good time. Tokens were still the only currency accepted by the subway. The New York Times printed their photos in black and white, and there was no such thing as the Style section. Coffee cost less than a dollar. You could smoke in bars. Tower Records still stood at the corner of Broadway and Fourth Street. The most important machines at work were telephones, Xerox machines, faxes, computers, and printers. If you needed to temp you could still sign up, like your grandmother did, with a Kelly Girl service, and some of the Midtown offices they sent me to had IBM Selectrics sitting out on the desks like old horses nodding off in their stalls, and I can still hear the warm hum they radiated between words, and the clicking of the cylinders as you pulled the paper up and out of them. The Strand was a dump. Other places were dumps, too—dumps or near-dumps, like McHale’s and the Subway Inn and Rudy’s and the Holiday Cocktail Lounge—but the Strand stands out at the moment because I was in there the other day marveling again at the heaps of branded merch that now greet its guests and contrasting that place with the one that used to smell of dust and the funk of its unwashed cashiers. We drank at night in dumps; ate in near-dumps. Sat in vinyl booths patched up with duct tape; pissed in scrawled-up, paint-peeling, rust-watered bathrooms. Nobody minded or cared. That’s how you knew you were not in the suburbs.

  Everyone has their own New York, and this was ours.

  Rose and I met in 1997 at a music magazine we used to refer to as WKRP. On my first day, as she led me down a cramped hallway back to my cubicle, through a gauntlet of offices blasting music from behind closed doors, I apparently wondered aloud: And where are the adults? Rose always said that’s when she knew she liked me. Rose, of course, scared me a little. But she didn’t scare me as much as the girl with an office at the end of the hallway—Tracy, the managing editor—who was actually sleeping with musicians we loved, Bikini Kill be damned. Since Tracy was doing all of this while earning a master’s in psychology from CUNY, however, you couldn’t call her a groupie. You wouldn’t dare call her a groupie, because she’d tell you to go fuck yourself and ask you how much fun you were having over there in your saddle shoes. Tracy. She wasn’t tall, but bony and angular enough to make you think she was, and her black hair, chopped into a bob, gleamed blue, just like Veronica’s did in the Archie comics Rose and I later discovered we were both addicted to as kids. Tracy’s official title was managing editor, but her true value lay not in wrangling copy, but in wrangling all the talent for the magazine’s annual music festival. No one knew where Tracy lived or where she’d come from, although someone thought they’d heard it was Forest Hills. Someone once said that she didn’t even graduate from college. Tracy. She drew all kinds of glamour to herself, and seemingly without effort. People wrote songs about her, blew her kisses in liner notes.

  Tracy had no time for equivocating bullshit. She wanted what she wanted, and hated what she hated. One night, when we were all drinking after work, the editor-in-chief told us that he’d heard from a friend in a band who sometimes slept with Tracy that Tracy was getting herself handcuffed fortnightly to the bed of a famous writer for The New Yorker. Rose rolled her eyes and I said Nice work if you can get it, but on the train home we both confessed to wishing we were somewhere in the vicinity of invitations to what we used to call the voluptuous ludicrous.

  One morning I got into the elevator with a copy of The Dialectic of Sex and Tracy laughed and rolled her eyes. If I were you I’d stop reading about it and start getting some. I laughed, too, but weakly. Philistine, I thought, and then Handcuffs and then Point taken, and tossed the paperback in a trash can on the way to the subway that night after work.

  Tracy. Famous Tracy, the editor-in-chief called her. Vanilla Nice, she called him. I remember Tracy at staff meetings, standing by a window in the conference room so she could smoke, her blowing the plume out into the unremarkable skies that stretched over Fourteenth Street. Calling bands asshats and dismissing someone’s album as a piece of jizz.

  Rose and I did not become friends immediately, although I’d been aware of her before we met. She’d been writing for the Voice, for the New York Press, for Time Out. But never for the Times, I noticed with relief. I’d stare at her byline on the subway or in a bodega thinking Who is this girl doing my job? I’d sit on the subway reading her pieces, listening to the voice of a girl that was louder than ink and larger than column inches, I might have written at the time, if I had to review the sound Rose made. A girl unafraid to lose herself in a description of the physical pleasure the music gave her and unafraid of turning lethally bemused when the music failed her. The display, and the confidence it took to put it out there and keep it coming, was infuriating. Rose wanted you to watch and she knew you wouldn’t stop watching, and if she hadn’t been funny, which meant she was smart, I would have been able to write her off as an attention whore. And that might have been the most infuriating thing of all—not being able to write her off completely.

  And then she and I were up for the same position at the magazine—staff writer—but Rose was the one who landed it. I didn’t really have the experience to apply, but the editor-in-chief said he liked my sentences enough to want to talk with me.

  These pieces aren’t very strong argumentatively, said the editor-in-chief, at the interview. Karl: blond hair shaved very close
to his head, heavy black eyeglass frames, bitten cuticles, combat boots cracked from use. He was not an eighty-five-year-old man, as his name suggested he might be. But they are lively.

  I see, I said. No one had ever suggested that my writing was lacking in any regard. And he had a resume in front of him that tallied several awards for writing over the course of college and graduate school. This was yet another encounter with a very particular kind of assertion of authority practiced by many of the young men I’d meet in New York: a routine dispensation of firm, almost acerbic verdicts that made them seem much more unflappably discerning than their twenty-six or so years. They wore used T-shirts and dress shirts and sneakers to work—I almost wrote school—and so they performed their adulthood by putting on a suit they thought they had to wear because they were paid to traffic in opinion and taste. You could almost hear them adjusting their rhetorical cuff links and shaking out the cuffs of their rhetorical trousers before they gave you their take.

  You want to write, he said. But can you edit? He took four pages of copy off the middle of his desk and handed them to me.

  I took out a pen, plowed through the copy, gave it a once-over, and handed the pages back to him quicker, I think, than he expected, or so the look of slight surprise on his face suggested.

  The next day he called to tell me that he’d given the job to a writer whose byline he’d been seeing all over, a writer whose voice was already fully developed, and who had more experience, all of which meant he wouldn’t have to spend time training her to write a profile. He was calling to tell me this, he said, because he didn’t want to make me sit around wondering what had happened and why. The sincerity made me almost pity him rather than mind that I was being rejected. And then he called a month later because Rose, the writer he’d hired, needed more editing than he’d imagined, some other editor of his had just quit to run a record label in Chicago, and would I mind helping him out for $25,000 a year? Maybe you can write, too, he said. We’ll see. I did the math on the back of a Brooklyn Union Gas bill lying next to the phone and said yes.

  It was very easy work. The magazine, like most magazines, was nothing more than a mosaic made up of rewritten press releases, despite several of us trying to write sentences that could potentially be cited in other people’s think pieces. And since most of my coworkers just wanted to leave at five to collect the free drinks and free drugs that came with the job, they took my edits easily, smilingly, often letting me rewrite pieces outright if they were a big enough mess. You do it, Tracy told me the first time I asked if she might take another stab at a piece. You’re smart enough to make sure I don’t sound like an idiot. When I wasn’t rewriting pieces, I pushed punctuation around, uprooting colons and semicolons and planting them where they needed to be. I was weeding a garden, and I found it soothing. When I’d gotten my bearings I told the editor-in-chief I could turn myself into the managing editor Tracy was too busy schmoozing to be, and with his blessing I drew up schedules, sent out reminders via email, walked around with a clipboard, and beaned people with it playfully when they said they needed another day, another hour. I was impersonating a person with a career, which amused me. And after the psychological torture of graduate school, the piecework felt like a much-needed convalescence. I thought I might vacation at the magazine for a year—which became two.

  Karl Orson Schroeder. Or, as it appeared on the masthead: Karl O. Schroeder. Native and apostate son of Orem, Utah, descendant of Mormon bishops on his mother’s side and gun-toting polygamists on his father’s. I suppose he could have had any name, or been anyone in that position, at that time, with those approximate qualities and tastes, and a crush would have gone off within me like a long-buried land mine.

  He was the oldest of five and seemed to know something about keeping a group of people mostly, happily in line. He never lost his temper although he could lower a stone-cold look of warning, pulled his oars harder when one or ten of us, hungover and sleep-deprived, dropped ours, and bought us all beer or pizza to keep us rowing. We might have bitched at his rigor but never too forcefully, because we knew he was right and we were lazy. Karl, from time to time, could be seen through his door reading from John Berryman’s Dream Songs and James Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time, as if to ward off the evil spirit of serviceable prose working in the service of capitalist gain. He was an extremely intelligent boy-slash-man from a working- to middle-class family—from what, if he got drunk enough, he called trash—and those two biographical coordinates have always worked on me the way a handsome face never could. His weekly emails to the staff were small masterpieces chiseled out of wit, both anarchic and dry, and what I suspected was creeping intellectual boredom.

  Whenever I heard the sounds of Rose and Karl walking down the hallway, their laughter announcing their return from lunch, I’d stop typing and sit still, listening to her high spirits tumbling over his measured, but clearly amused, interjections. I eavesdropped on those two the way I’d eavesdropped on Heloise and Abelard for my senior thesis: judging them one moment and envying them the next. Have mercy on me, Heloise, I prayed, for I too am a woman who responds not to beauty but to authority. And then I’d type faster to chase these thoughts away.

  Karl was pleased with himself for hiring me, but Rose thought I was her bête noire. Because with Rose it wasn’t weeding, it was wondering whether you could get a coherent narrative to grow in rocky, incoherent, and self-dramatizing soil. She must have been able to publish so much, I thought, although I didn’t want to think it, because the men who ran the music sections liked the sound of her voice and what it promised: easily aroused availability without demands. I wondered, and I didn’t want to think this either, whether Karl had hired her because he was beguiled by that promise, too.

  Rose knew how to talk to famous people and could get them to say all sorts of things, could get them, at the end of every interview, to say that they hated interviews but they loved talking to her, which left her with so much material she could never decide what was most important, so she poured it all into the blender and hit puree. Tracy could get you to want to sleep with her, and Rose could do that, sure, but she could also get you to just want to spend hours and hours with her—the more dangerous prospect. So much so that from time to time a publicist would call the magazine and request that Karl do the interview—a request that he would respectfully deny. Karl used to say that he thought Rose was so good at getting inside people’s heads he sometimes worried that she’d end up in a cult—or even worse, would found one herself.

  I’d email to say I was coming over to her cubicle to give her edits, and when I arrived she’d already be in fighting mode. Her back stiff, her face blank in the even blanker light of the computer, she would not look at me when I talked. She would wordlessly, testily hit the backspace key to erase whole sentences, and select and then delete whole paragraphs—whole paragraphs, when I had suggested maybe losing just the first few words. She knew I was right but had to do something to make it clear to me and to herself that she had been hired for a reason. Standing there trying to talk to her ice-cold face while remaining ice-cold, too—I could not let her break me—was like driving through a slaughtering rain with no exit ramp in sight. I hated it. I’d have to take three walks around Fourteenth Street to shake off all the gritting of teeth I’d done while suffering through her performance. Once it drove me downstairs to the ancient Irish bar across the street that smelled perpetually of bleach, where I sat watching NY1 for two hours while nursing a whiskey.

  Karl was shrewd and wise, but not yet wise enough to realize that it was incredibly stupid to have one highly strung, highly intelligent girl tell another highly strung, highly intelligent girl that she needs to stop being herself—for this is what you are doing when you tell someone to cut five paragraphs in order to get to the almighty point.

  More often than not, reentering the magazine, coffee in hand, after one of these clashes, I’d see Rose in his office with the door closed—no, what I’d see were her feet on his desk, and sometimes I saw him laugh, stand up from his chair, and forcibly remove her fancy feet from his wire-basket inbox. Rose had a pair of shoes for every day of the week, it seemed. Through his door’s window I noted a parade of the following: platforms from the seventies, red snakeskin with brass buckles; black velvet platforms from the forties; white canvas platform espadrilles, embroidered, probably, in Mexico in the sixties, with fuchsia and egg-yolk-yellow flowers, and about six inches’ worth of green grosgrain ribbon running up the trellis of her calves.