Read You Must Go and Win: Essays Online
Authors: Alina Simone
You Must Go and Win: Essays (27 page)
And there was something else. Around this time, a music blogger included me in a top-ten list of his favorite female singers. He sent me the link, and when I looked at it, I immediately sensed that my name was out of place. The other singers on the list were all on well-established labels. Their songs were featured in movies, on television, in iPod commercials. They provided the background music for high-end hipster shopping. In some way, I realized, their success was defined by comparison with singers like me—if the list were reorganized in food-chain order, I would be the plankton. Then I noticed something else: of the other nine singers on the list, seven were older than I was and only one—a singer whose husband was also a musician, and who could tour as a family—had a child. Now, maybe the rest of these obviously successful, ambitious, and talented women just weren’t the maternal types, but I suspected something else might be at play here. My guess was that this, too, was a matter of trade-offs.
It was true that I didn’t belong on that list, I thought to myself. I hoped in more ways than one.
The problem was
how
to quit. After all, America does not like a quitter. In a broader sense, I knew that my exit from the music scene would cause not a ripple. At worst, my core fan base of depressed Jews might find themselves a little more depressed. But in this, I felt like I was practically doing them a favor. No, for my own
sake I needed a way to explain the sudden change of heart, a beautiful, glass-half-full way to spin this, like, “Don’t think of me as a failed musician when
really
I’m a successful cat nurse!” After all, Etsa had turned a corner, hadn’t he? The closets were once again redolent of cat pee, and lately he’d begun standing outside our bedroom door in the mornings again, serenading us with his bloodless screams. All the gains I’d found so elusive in other spheres of life were now satisfyingly felt here, in pounds and ounces.
how
to quit. After all, America does not like a quitter. In a broader sense, I knew that my exit from the music scene would cause not a ripple. At worst, my core fan base of depressed Jews might find themselves a little more depressed. But in this, I felt like I was practically doing them a favor. No, for my own
sake I needed a way to explain the sudden change of heart, a beautiful, glass-half-full way to spin this, like, “Don’t think of me as a failed musician when
really
I’m a successful cat nurse!” After all, Etsa had turned a corner, hadn’t he? The closets were once again redolent of cat pee, and lately he’d begun standing outside our bedroom door in the mornings again, serenading us with his bloodless screams. All the gains I’d found so elusive in other spheres of life were now satisfyingly felt here, in pounds and ounces.
Still, it would be good to have a non-cat-based explanation handy for quitting indie rock, and I actually figured this would be easy, for I’d long been in the habit of collecting quotes that made losing look like winning. It started back in high school, after a sadistic English teacher forced us to read
Middlemarch
and I found myself jotting down George Eliot’s last memorable description of the long-suffering heroine, Dorothea, on an index card and taping it to my closet door: “For the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.” At the time I had no idea why I felt the need to write this down. Perhaps, instinctively, I sensed a missed marketing opportunity, a spokeswoman for those of us who just wanted to be let down easy, the weak-hearted seeking a good excuse not to try. Where were our how-not-to books and unmotivational speakers? Then, a little while later when reading
Franny and Zooey
, I stumbled across another gem and automatically reached for a pen: “ … just because I like applause and people to rave about me, doesn’t make it right. I’m ashamed of it. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of not having the courage to be an absolute nobody. I’m sick of myself and everybody else that wants to make some kind of a splash.”
Middlemarch
and I found myself jotting down George Eliot’s last memorable description of the long-suffering heroine, Dorothea, on an index card and taping it to my closet door: “For the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.” At the time I had no idea why I felt the need to write this down. Perhaps, instinctively, I sensed a missed marketing opportunity, a spokeswoman for those of us who just wanted to be let down easy, the weak-hearted seeking a good excuse not to try. Where were our how-not-to books and unmotivational speakers? Then, a little while later when reading
Franny and Zooey
, I stumbled across another gem and automatically reached for a pen: “ … just because I like applause and people to rave about me, doesn’t make it right. I’m ashamed of it. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of not having the courage to be an absolute nobody. I’m sick of myself and everybody else that wants to make some kind of a splash.”
A new vision was forming in my young, impressionable mind. It was a lofty goal, but with hard work and persistence, I might just get there. To be an absolute nobody and rest in an
unvisited tomb. I could go live in this appealing alternative universe, a place with no SAT prep classes or varsity sports, where the heroes were the ones carrying out unhistoric acts in the welcome shade of obscurity, like contestants in some noble race to the bottom. But I didn’t turn up the best quote until college, when I read a short, heartbreaking essay by Tillie Olsen called “I Stand Here Ironing,” in which she writes of her oldest daughter: “She has much to her and probably little will come of it … Let her be. So all that is in her will not bloom—but in how many does it? There is still enough left to live by.”
unvisited tomb. I could go live in this appealing alternative universe, a place with no SAT prep classes or varsity sports, where the heroes were the ones carrying out unhistoric acts in the welcome shade of obscurity, like contestants in some noble race to the bottom. But I didn’t turn up the best quote until college, when I read a short, heartbreaking essay by Tillie Olsen called “I Stand Here Ironing,” in which she writes of her oldest daughter: “She has much to her and probably little will come of it … Let her be. So all that is in her will not bloom—but in how many does it? There is still enough left to live by.”
Was there ever such a beautiful ode to lost potential? It became the crown jewel in my canon of loser literature. And recalling it now, my heart soared. So all that is in me will not bloom! Let me be! There is still enough to live by! So true. I had to tell someone, but who to tell? I knew that Josh wouldn’t have much faith in my change of heart. He would remind me of the other times I’d cried wolf. Worse, he would tell me to “remember the rabbit.”
It was a few years back, while traveling in Turkey together, that we’d visited the fortune-telling rabbit. The rabbit had its own outdoor stand just outside the Hagia Sophia mosque. When we arrived, he was sitting on a wooden board littered with folded up wads of paper, blinking into the sun, nose working furiously. We handed some money to a Kurdish man—apparently the rabbit’s manager—and he asked for my name. Then he nudged the rabbit, who promptly scampered across the board and picked up one of the fortunes in his mouth. The man handed us the fortune. We unwrapped it, only to confront a line of indecipherable squiggles.
“It’s written in Kurdish,” the man explained, then took the fortune back, offering to read it to us.
“If you smile the world, it smile you back,” the man read. “If you frown, it frown you back. Your mistake is to frown.”
Josh was overjoyed. He pointed at the rabbit, who’d turned his butt to us and was now contentedly munching on a carrot. “That rabbit,” he said, “is right about everything.”
From then on, whenever I started bitching and moaning about my prospects in life, threatening to quit this or that endeavor, swearing up and down to finally become “a real person,” Josh would just peacefully wait out the torrent of words, and then, with Dalai Lama–like simplicity, intone, “You smile the world? It smile you back.”
In the end, I arranged to meet my friend Sarah for dinner.
Sarah was a publicist at a well-known rock PR firm, but our connection had nothing to do with music. We had met a few years back when I randomly answered an ad on Craigslist and ended up subletting a room in her Williamsburg loft for a couple months while I was shopping my first album to labels. During this time I managed to catch fleas and hurt my back so badly that Josh had to wheel me out of her building on a furniture dolly. Sarah, meanwhile, spent that time making famous rock stars even more famous. Somehow we stayed friends.
We met up at Republic in Union Square and took a seat on the patio outside. Sarah told me about her fabulous rock clientele, their hot new albums, and the limitless revenue streams fanning out before them like glistening rows of watermelon ripe for the harvest, while I sat quietly, all that was in me not blooming. Finally, she paused before bringing a forkful of pad thai up to her mouth to ask me how things were going with my music, a question she had asked many times before.
“I’m quitting!” I practically yelled.
“What!” Sarah said. “Why?”
I wanted to say something beautiful or bitter or wise, like
Salinger or Eliot or Olsen, but instead I yammered something about the nebulous state of the music industry and about feeling generally demoralized and awash in doubt. I barely managed to stop myself before getting into the ravaging effects of feline gastrointestinal lymphosarcoma.
Salinger or Eliot or Olsen, but instead I yammered something about the nebulous state of the music industry and about feeling generally demoralized and awash in doubt. I barely managed to stop myself before getting into the ravaging effects of feline gastrointestinal lymphosarcoma.
“Don’t be silly,” Sarah said, plowing into her pad thai with some measure of relief. “We just need to find you a new manager, someone who can help get your album out.”
“No, no, no,” I said. “This is it. I’m done. I’m quitting. But don’t worry, it’s not some kind of tragedy. I’m happy about it. Can’t you tell I’m happy?”
Sarah eyed me uncertainly.
“Besides,” I continued breathlessly, “I have a new plan. I’m working on a screenplay with Konst. An action thriller!” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them. I sounded like a down-and-out character from some Jim Jarmusch film, the broad with a cigarette voice, desperate for reinvention.
“Well,” she began, “I guess if you’re happy …” but suddenly her eyes skated past me and lit up. She grabbed my arm. “Oh my God! Look, it’s the Hulk!”
I turned around and, indeed, there was a very beefy man, his chest spanning about six versts, lumbering down the street.
“Do you realize what a rare sighting this is? I haven’t seen the Hulk in, like, a year!” Sarah whisper-hissed.
I had never seen the Hulk before, or even heard of him for that matter, but my wonder was soon eclipsed by another attraction not five steps away: a man with a black-and-white tabby cat balanced perfectly on top of his head. I shit you not. I hadn’t visited Union Square in a while, and in my absence it seemed to have transformed into one of those tiny cars vomiting out an endless stream of clowns onto the sidewalk, each more improbably bizarre than the last.
Sarah’s eyes flicked to the Cat Man, then back down to her plate. “Oh.
That
guy. I see him all the time out on Sixth Avenue.”
That
guy. I see him all the time out on Sixth Avenue.”
I was surprised at how little interest Sarah showed in the Cat Man. But then again, she’d grown up on Staten Island, not a one-Starbucks town like mine. I was still hick enough to be dazzled. The Cat Man stepped into the doorway between Republic and the Heartland Brewery. He stood on the little spit of asphalt separating two islands of patio diners, making sure he had everyone’s attention. Then he carefully set the cat down on the ground.
“Nick! Hey, Nick!” the Cat Man yelled. “Get upstairs.” At this, the cat pivoted wildly to make an impressive vertical ascent up the Cat Man’s body, scrambling right up the side of his face to regain his perch on top of the man’s head.
“Jesus! Did you see that?” I said to Sarah.
“Uh-huh,” Sarah replied, not looking up.
I gave the Cat Man two dollars, and Sarah and I went back to our conversation. I was hoping we would return to the topic of my quitting music, hoping, somehow, that Sarah would beg me to reconsider. I was suddenly feeling not so sure of myself. Maybe it would be better, more noble and pure and self-effacing, to simply accept my status as plankton, recognizing the important role plankton plays in nourishing the stature of the guppies, dolphins, and blue whales of the indie-rock world? But the parade of Seuss-like characters down Union Square West had apparently wiped Sarah’s memory slate clean. Now she was talking about a client she had to accompany to an important photo shoot the next day for a major fashion magazine, and the difficulties of hitting the promotional sweet spot where rock-and-roll rebel meets high fashionista. It
was
tricky, I commiserated. I mean, modeling sunglasses for Diesel is one thing and donning de la Renta for
Vogue
quite another, but that middle ground?
Pure
Lord of the Flies
wilderness. Well, such were the vicissitudes of life at the top, I guess. We paid our bill and made our way up Sixteenth Street.
was
tricky, I commiserated. I mean, modeling sunglasses for Diesel is one thing and donning de la Renta for
Vogue
quite another, but that middle ground?
Pure
Lord of the Flies
wilderness. Well, such were the vicissitudes of life at the top, I guess. We paid our bill and made our way up Sixteenth Street.
“And the thing is, I don’t even know what to wear myself. I mean, it’s not
my
fashion shoot, but still, I have to make a good impression, you know?” Sarah was saying. We had taken a left on Sixth Avenue and I was about to reply, when I noticed the Cat Man a block away, heading toward us.
my
fashion shoot, but still, I have to make a good impression, you know?” Sarah was saying. We had taken a left on Sixth Avenue and I was about to reply, when I noticed the Cat Man a block away, heading toward us.
“Look! There he is again,” I said.
“See?” said Sarah. “I told you. Not rare.”
When we were within spitting distance, the Cat Man stopped and gave us an expectant look. Nick peered down hungrily at us as well, his front paws delicately balanced on the brim of the man’s baseball cap.
“I just gave you two dollars, remember?” I said. “Back in Union Square.”
“Yeah?” the Cat Man said, the word marinating in his thick New York brogue. “An ya just boughtchaself a little piece in ’eavan wid dat.”
We kept walking down Sixth but the Cat Man stood there, calling after us.
“It’s allabout karma!” he hollered. “Give a little, get a little. Everything comes back around, ya know.”
“It’s hard to take a man seriously when he has a cat on his head,” I remarked.
“Right.” Sarah snorted. “These ‘gems.’” She laughed. I wanted to laugh too, but something stopped me. After all, how different were we, the Cat Man and I, when I could practically feel the weight of my own cat on my head? Make that two. I considered all the cats—and remembered the rabbit.
We stopped at the mouth of the subway to say goodbye.
“Well,” Sarah said. “God. It is kind of sad, you quitting music. My mind’s kinda … blown.”
“Yes,” I agreed eagerly, hoping for more. “It is sad. Really sad. Right?”
“Yes,” she sighed, then suddenly brightened. “But, hey, like you said, you’re happy. That’s all that matters.” She gave me a quick squeeze and disappeared into the tunnel, handbag swinging.
And then I turned in the opposite direction and ran. I could have sworn I heard my train coming.
I owe a great deal to the early readers of this book, foremost my parents, and especially my mother, Inna Simone, who not only accepted my debatable version of events with incredible grace and good humor, but whose comments always clarified any weak spots with chilling accuracy. Andrei Konst, thank you for founding the world’s tiniest and most elite writing group with me, for your relentless cheerleading, and for being such a unique and irrepressible force of nature. Sarah Lindemann-Komarova and Vanya Komarov: your infectious enthusiasm made finishing each chapter all the more worthwhile.
Thanks also to the Massachusetts Mafia: Eugene Mirman—you are right, I will always be in the midst of a nervous breakdown, but luckily you will always be around to provide unlicensed therapy; Amanda “Fucking” Palmer (
www.amandapalmer.net
,
twitter.com/amandapalmer
,
myspace.com/amandapalmer
) for your friendship and for setting me on the path to absurdity at a young age; and to the indescribably fantastic Ben Coonley, I hope we continue to troll the galleries of Chelsea together until we are both old and grumpy. Er, grumpier.
www.amandapalmer.net
,
twitter.com/amandapalmer
,
myspace.com/amandapalmer
) for your friendship and for setting me on the path to absurdity at a young age; and to the indescribably fantastic Ben Coonley, I hope we continue to troll the galleries of Chelsea together until we are both old and grumpy. Er, grumpier.
Onward with this dogged crusade of thanks! Thanks to Punk Monk and Brother Scott Phillips for spiritual enlightenment, or in Scott’s case, simply lightenment, and to Sarah Avrin—everyone needs at least one happy, well-adjusted person in their life, and you are mine. Similarly, everyone needs one unrelentingly bitter friend in her life, and in my case that would be Dan Moller, who endured many questionable earlier drafts of this work. I lay wreaths of gratitude at the feet of my bandmates, Shawn Setaro, Conrad Doucette, Chris Barrey, and Satish (with special thanks to drummer John Lynch for making my years in North Carolina so Carrborific), to Bob Gourley for tech support and Sheila Kenny for fabulousness support.
To Joshua, my stealth editor, thank you for applying your considerable intellect to debating the relative funniness of “Power Ass” versus “Ass Power,” and for enduring life with Etsa the cat for more than a decade now. You have the patience of Job.
Speaking of “patience of Job,” enormous thanks to the long-suffering Eugenie Cha. At first I felt bad about how your youth was being squandered, chained to a desk at Farrar, Straus and Giroux, making sure my manuscript was in tip-top shape. But now that I see the final result, I cannot help but cheer! Just kidding (sort of). Also, many thanks to Kathy Daneman at FSG and to this book’s illustrator, Vladimir Zimakov.
And finally, this book would not exist were it not for Eric Chinski, who wrote to me out of the blue one day, yammering something incomprehensible about the Owl of Minerva, and inquiring about my writing. Thank you for cajoling this book into being, Chinski, and for being so incredibly sweet and supportive. You are the kind of guy who will always give his cupcake to the girl stuck in the elevator, and I am lucky you found me, luckier still to count you as a friend.
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