Indigo Blues (11 page)

"Really?" The troop leader gives me the once-over, too.
Same blue eyes. I should've known Cookie Monster was
her daughter.

I'm sticking to my story. "Really."

Tony quickly grabs a bunch of store pencils from under
the counter. "Who would like one?"

Several grubby hands shoot up. He gives them to the
lady. "Thanks." She nods. "Girls what do you say?"

"Thank you," they say in unison.

I Windex the counter as they sit at the tables and chomp
away. I try and act as un-Indigo-like as I can, so they don't
mistake me for the girl in that song again. Hmmm, the girl
in the song might frown a lot. I clean with a huge smile. The
other Indigo probably never studies, so I ramble on to Tony
about my physics lecture today. I even swing by the tables
with some Dixie cups and a pitcher of water.

At three-thirty the troop leader tells them to throw away
their trash and line up at the door. They all wave good-bye.
Cookie Monster is last. She turns to me and says, "You don't
seem that mean."

My mouth drops. A friggin' eight-year-old knows my
business. I'll never survive another day in this town, let
alone a whole school year. "Don't believe everything you
hear," I call after her.

The first thing I do when I can't see their faces anymore is
rip off my name tag and pull out the label maker from under
the register. I type out random names. Pearl. Then Ivy.

Tony returns from stocking the freezer. "Something
eating at you today?"

Ha. I hold up the two names. "Which one suits me
better?"

"Indigo."

"Not available."

"Okay. Ivy, I guess." He shrugs. "But you know you
might have trouble cashing paychecks made out to Ivy
Jackson."

"I'll take my chances."

The doorbell chimes. A father and two boys in soccer
uniforms walk in. The father is busy yelling at someone on
his cell. The boys run straight for the chocolate case. I slap
on my new name. "I'm Ivy, what can I get for you?"

The younger boy points to his arm. "IV? Like the thing
they put in your arm at the hospital? My grandma had one
to give her medicine. She was really sick."

The older boy bonks his brother on the head. "No, doofus, Ivy, like the plant that grows all over everything." And
makes a huge mess.

I take the sticky back off Pearl and slap it on top of Ivy.
Pearls are nice and clean. "Better?"

"Pearl's in my class. She picks her nose." The little boy
frowns.

"So do I." I smile until I realize that their father is no
longer on the phone and is now staring at me.

I laugh. He does not.

Shoot me. Now.

kay, I'm getting desperate now. Today seems eerily
like yesterday and my progress is sluggish. I promised the new song to the gang by Saturday morning and
all I have right now is a page full of words that rhyme with
booger. I should chain myself to this desk until I pump
out the song. I don't think there's a word to describe the
predicament I'm in now, other than "fucked."

I pop in an early Hendrix CD for inspiration. Bad idea.
He's an immortal guitarist, someone I would never even try
to compete with. I turn it off before the lyrics even start.

I call Gina.

"Gina, my brain is dead. I can't come up with a good
song.

"What about `Sugar Rush'?"

I pick the half empty box of Nerds off my desk and
toss them into the trash can. Get lost, little balls of sugar. "I
don't even have the hook worked out yet."

Silence.

Dead silence.

"Hey, are you there?" I say into the phone. All I need is
my manager crapping out on me.

"Sorry Adam, I just lost an earring. You know, the sapphire ones Chad gave me for my birthday."

"No, I don't," I shout. Okay, maybe that was harsh,
but keeping up with the presents my manager gets from
her boyfriend is not something I'm interested in. "I'm dying
over here, Gina."

She goes into manager mode. Soft-voiced and sweet,
"Okay, relax. Take a deep breath."

I inhale. Then cough. "Not working."

"Adam, I know this is a big deal, but you need to calm
down."

I get up from my computer chair and circle the room.
My feet slide across the carpet. Like I'm six again, I try to
get a shock from the static by revving up my socks and
then touching something soft. Things would be so much
better now if I were six. "I have writer's block. Maybe we
need another jam session."

"Well, you know the guys will be all over the song after
you come up with the lyrics. But at this point we need
something solid to work with."

"Nothing like pressure." I try to release some air, but
end up coughing instead.

"Pick up your guitar, close your eyes, and just play
some freestyle."

"Sounds New Agey."

"I didn't ask you to get into a yoga pose."

"Yeah, but I'm totally stumped here. Believe me, my
guitar's seen more action these past couple of days then I've
seen in a long time."

"Whoa." She laughs. "I've got plenty of people I could
hook you up with."

"This is not funny."

"You're right. It's not. First things first. The song. I'm
just asking you to get comfortable. Let go of some of the
tension."

"Do I have a choice?"

No answer.

I stop pacing and end up in a corner, facing the wall.
"Okay, fine. I'll try it."

"Good. Check in with me later," she says before hanging up.

Okay, simple assignment. I can do this. I think.

I take off my socks, grab my guitar, and put my feet up
on my desk, all in an attempt to get comfortable. It feels
weird to close my eyes in a room full of light-I've never
been much of a napper. I get up to close my blinds, then
settle back into the chair. It's been so hard to shake Indigo
from my brain, but I will say one thing-there's nothing
that I love more than music. More than the sounds that emanate from my guitar, than the words that flow from
my mouth.

Here goes ... I take a deep breath as instructed and play
around with some chords. I start with some basic stuff, then
move to freestyle. I combine a few simple chords until I
come out with a deeper bass sound that resonates with me.
I know "Sugar Rush" is supposed to be more upbeat, but I
figure the song can start off slow and simple and build its
way up. My eyes flit from open to closed. I don't look at the
pictures on my wall. I don't look at a certain framed photo
on my desk.

Instead, I imagine myself in the middle of Manhattan,
in the heat of the action.

Thoughts of Indigo float around in my head. A time
when we were lying together on the sofa at Zach's house
watching an old horror flick, Nightmare on Elm Street.
Indigo grabbed me at all the scary parts. Eventually she just
laid her head against my chest. It felt good keeping her safe.
But I quickly shake the image of safety from my mind. I
remind myself that it's only a memory. I clench my jaw and
imagine plowing through the chaos.

Finally my internal critic shuts down and Gina's voice
in the back of my head telling me to relax eventually fades
away. I force myself to close my eyes again. I see darkness.
Then light.

I focus on the beat of the music and churn out a few
more lyrics. I scribble them down for fear of losing everything to a brain freeze.

My phone rings. I don't answer it. I don't glance at the
screen. It's just me, my guitar, and my grumbling stomach.
When I look up at the time on my computer monitor, it's
12:47 p.m. I've been sitting here for over three hours. I get
up to check my fridge. I'm as stiff as my high school PE
joke-I mean, coach. I don't even know why I bother to
open up the fridge door because I haven't been to the market in three weeks.

I try to push away the growls in my stomach, but it's
sucking up the airwaves to my brain and there's no sugar
rush here. I figure I'll grab a sandwich from Subway, half a
block down, chow, and get back to work.

A foot-long turkey with everything, hold the mayo,
and a large Coke later, I'm back to work. I stare at what I've
written so far, hoping to be released from my food coma. Crap, it's not easy to jump right back in, to be creative on
demand.