Voice. Part 9

John hesitated. Usually when Danny said an idea might be completely r.e.t.a.r.ded, it turned out to be, well, completely r.e.t.a.r.ded. John still had a scar from one of Danny's suggestions involving a very small bicycle and a very high hill when they were kids. There had been a spectacular crash, of course, a trip to the emergency room, and nine st.i.tches.

Still, it had been a h.e.l.l of a ride.

"All right. Let's hear it."

Danny grinned, and Case pulled out a chair and sat down.

"We need to make up an alternate persona for you."

"What the h.e.l.l are you talking about? Like Bruce Wayne or something?"

"Something like that," Danny said. He continued before John could protest. "Think about it. You get onstage and you're worried about all kinds of things. Are you going to sing well? Do you look like a jacka.s.s? Are you going to say something to embarra.s.s yourself? Is this socially acceptable?"

"I wouldn't say I'm worried about what's socially acceptable," John said.

"I think you are. The front man of a rock band has to behave in a way that would be downright strange if he acted that way normally, and I don't think you ever forget that you're the same guy once you get offstage."

"That's because I am."

"I don't think that's the way everybody sees it. Even if they do, it doesn't matter. You're practically expected to be eccentric and over-the-top onstage. Reckless, even."

John frowned. "And how is adopting a stage name going to help?"

"Stage persona. You pretend to be somebody else when you're up there. Somebody who doesn't give a f.u.c.k. The persona gets all the attention and the social disapproval, and you can walk away scot-free after the show."

"Sounds like bulls.h.i.+t to me," John said. "When did you get a psych degree?"

"It's not bulls.h.i.+t. Marilyn Manson used to p.i.s.s off people by the thousands, but do you think anyone gives a s.h.i.+t what Brian Warner thinks?"

"Who the f.u.c.k is Brian Warner?"

"Marilyn Manson, when he's tucked into bed at night and the makeup has all been washed off."

"I'm not giving myself a b.l.o.w.j.o.b on stage," John said.

Case gave him a c'mon-let's-be-realistic look. "I think that was an urban legend. If the man could suck his own d.i.c.k, he'd never have left the house."

John changed tactics. This whole conversation was making him uncomfortable. "It all sounds so hokey," he said.

Case narrowed her eyes. "I don't know. I think there might be something to it."

"What, you too?"

"I read an interview with Buckethead once where he said the mask and all that c.r.a.p-the whole persona-helps him loosen up onstage. It's just like Danny said. He can do whatever he wants, because the character takes the heat. I think he said that the irony was that, because of the character, he could act more like himself than he could if he was just, you know, being himself."

"Who the f.u.c.k is Buckethead?"

"A guitarist," Case said.

"Who plays with a bucket on his head," Danny offered helpfully.

"And a mask."

John considered this. He felt cornered, and that wasn't fair, but the idea had its own seductive charm. For twenty-five minutes, the whole short set, he could step out of his own life and pretend to be somebody who wasn't f.u.c.ked up and overtired and insecure. He looked at the group of girls chattering over by the bar, and acid squirted into his stomach.

"Yeah, okay. What the h.e.l.l?" he said. "How do I start?"

Danny blinked. "Huh. I didn't think you'd bite, so I haven't really gotten that far." Typical. Like most of his stupid ideas, he hadn't thought it through to the end.

"I'll be right back," Case said, getting up.

"Wait, where are you going? We're on in twenty minutes!"

She didn't bother to answer. John watched, nonplussed, as she went right past the guy working the door and left the club.

"What the h.e.l.l was that all about?" he asked Danny, bewildered.

"I don't have any idea."

They tossed around a couple of ideas, but the ideas were all pretty lame, John thought. Makeup and masks were right out. "This is not f.u.c.king KISS," he told Danny. "And if you're gonna make me do all that s.h.i.+t, you have to do it too." Danny backed off after that, but he didn't have much else to offer. The conversation petered out, leaving both of them staring at the table.

Case got back after a few minutes and threw a heavy bundle in John's lap.

"It's big on me," Case said, "and you're skinny, so I think it'll fit."

John unfolded and held up a black leather motorcycle jacket. It was old and beat-up, covered in buckles and zippers, but he had to admit it exuded cool all by itself.

"I'm going to feel like such a poser in this thing," he said.

"Fake it till you make it," Case shot back.

He started to put the jacket on, and Case put a hand on his arm. "Wait," she said. "John Tsiboukas is not bada.s.s enough to wear that jacket. Tonight you're . . ." She bit her lip, thinking.

"Johnny," Danny suggested.

John twitched like he'd been burned. I have seen your dreams, Johnny. "I don't think-"

"It's perfect," Case said. "Can you think of a more rock-and-roll name than Johnny? Johnny Ramone, Johnny Rotten. Johnny Winter. Johnny Thunders. And all those songs from the fifties and sixties. It's cla.s.sic. Yeah, that's it."

John thought of Douglas, and the-the man at the crossroads, and he s.h.i.+vered. Still, Case had a point. It was evocative, and he couldn't see a crowd of people chanting John, John, John, unless they had to get in line for the toilet.

"Maybe," he said.

"Yeah," Case said. "Johnny . . . Johnny Tango."

That didn't impress him at all. "Tango?"

"Yeah. Military alphabet for T."

"Sounds kind of, well, p.u.s.s.y."

She grinned, sharklike. "n.o.body'd tell Johnny Tango that to his face."

Before he could argue, an image formed in his mind. Johnny Tango. He wore a motorcycle jacket, greased his hair back, and kept a switchblade in his boot. He said motherf.u.c.ker a lot. He called his friends motherf.u.c.ker in an amiable sort of way, he called the guys he fought with at the bar motherf.u.c.ker right before he worked them over, and he used it as an all-purpose expression of rage and frustration. Ow! Motherf.u.c.ker! was the kind of thing he said when he pinched his fingers while working on his car. He liked cars. He drove an old car, one of those giant tail-finned boats from the fifties, white and cherry red, and turned a wrench at a local garage to keep himself in cigarettes and beer. It was a caricature, sure, but for pure rock-star att.i.tude it sure beat the h.e.l.l out of a nervous part-time Starbucks barista whose house smelled like fish.

John put the jacket on. It fit perfectly. Danny gave him a nod.

The sound guy came over. "You guys are on."

John looked up at him, then back to Case and Danny. He tried on a nasty grin. "All right, motherf.u.c.kers. Johnny Tango it is."

John was already sweating by the time they took the stage. It was July, and he was wearing a heavy leather jacket. His momentary bravado was fading even as he went up the stairs on the side of the stage.

I feel like a moron. I look like a moron. Case is right-John Tsiboukas is not bada.s.s enough to wear this jacket.

No, he wasn't. He ought to take the d.a.m.n thing off right now. It was making him even more self-conscious, and Christ knew he didn't need any help with that.

John stopped on the stairs, hidden from most of the crowd by the giant speaker stack. Case, Quentin, and Danny were already at their instruments.

His palms were slick with sweat, and he felt like he was going to die in that heavy jacket. He tried to shake it off; this would not be a good time for Johnny-the real Johnny, Johnny the alter ego, Johnny the att.i.tude-to take a night off.

f.u.c.k that noise, he thought, mustering a sneer that felt completely false. Johnny never takes a night off. The bravado rang hollow, and his throat felt tight.

He peered around the speaker stack. There were so many people! Even with the lights glaring in his eyes, he could see the shapes and silhouettes of the crowd, reflections in eyes and off gla.s.ses and bottles.

What if I can't sing? What if it's gone now? Terror gripped him, and it seemed like his throat must have sealed itself up.

Either Case jumped the gun because she, too, had a case of nerves, or she was simply being hateful. She laid into the opening riff of "Burn" without even checking to see if anyone else was ready. It was hot, fast, and greasy-a h.e.l.l of an opener, if they didn't f.u.c.k it up. Quentin and Danny were more ready than John had given them credit for-or maybe Case had checked, and he'd just missed it-but they came in right where they were supposed to.

It was a solid start, and John's terror cranked itself up. Don't f.u.c.k this up, don't f.u.c.k this up, don't f.u.c.k this up.

He almost missed his cue. The opening figure was nearly wrapped up, and there he was, standing like an idiot on the side of the stage. He forgot all about ditching the jacket, crossed the stage in a few quick strides, and made it to the mic just in time to hit the first line. What if I can't sing?

He was out of time. He opened his mouth and sang.

"Light it up!

Light it up, baby

Let the fireworks fly

They say we all gotta die

But I'm goin' up like a rocket tonight"

To his horror, the words came out flaccid and half strangled. He knew they weren't his best lyrics, not by a long shot, but they were all he'd been able to fit to the rolling, tumbling, sleazy riff Case had brought to the group, and if they weren't going to stand up on their own, he'd have to sell them.

And he wasn't selling them. There was a spotlight in his face, so he couldn't see the crowd, but he didn't need to. He could imagine the look of mild boredom on the faces of Quentin's buddies and the group of girls who had come to see Case, to say nothing of the other bands and the people who had come to see them.

f.u.c.k that, he thought. Johnny Tango doesn't give a d.a.m.n what those people think. He means this s.h.i.+t.

Now he felt the push, that weird sense of something pus.h.i.+ng forward in his mind that he'd gotten so used to over the last few weeks. Had it been there at the beginning of the song, and he'd been too tense to pay it any attention? He didn't know, but it was followed, as always, by that questioning feeling-only this time, the feeling came as an actual voice, quiet but sure, a ragged whisper in his head, as clear as if it had been piped through headphones despite the volume of the band.

Now? it asked.

He flinched, startled, but then relief flooded him. He hadn't been abandoned or cheated. He could do this.

Yeah.

John grabbed the mic with both hands. The black jacket seemed to suck up the light, suck up some energy in the room and transfer it to him. He belted out the second verse with something that could almost be mistaken for confidence, his voice steadier and stronger than ever, and he even gave it a little swagger at the end.

"They're watching me

They're watching me, baby

Waitin' for the flash