My Challenge Fo' Real

[Medesha]

Apparently there was a glitch when I tried to post this thread, and then I went out of town. I know I said I was going to do a Dungeon proposal for my challenge, but then I got a short story idea. It's weird. Here you go. Feedback appreciated.

One Hit Wonder

“Bobby, you’ve got to get my song off the radio. Pull the promo spots, yank CDs off the shelves, do whatever you have to do. Stop them from playing my song. Or I swear to God I’ll throw myself into the Grand Canyon, and I won’t leave you a cent in my will.”

Bobby Tucker gave me exactly the kind of look I deserved. “Have you lost your mind? You’re number seven on the charts and I think you’ve got a shot at a Grammy this year.”

I hustled across his office and pulled back the fake-book door covering the bar. My hands shook so bad I could barely fit the whiskey into the glass. A big gulp set my stomach on fire and did nothing to calm my jackhammering nerves. “Bobby, you’re my manager. That means you have to do what I say. And I say pull the damn song. I won’t sing it, I won’t promote it, and you can go up on stage and accept the Grammy on my behalf and then stick it up your—”

“Calm down!” Bobby snatched the Rolling Stone off his desk and flipped to my feature spread. They’d plopped a white felt cowboy hat with zebra-print band on my head and teased my blonde curls until they were almost as big as my boobs, prominently displayed in a white lacy corset. The headline, in letters that looked like branding marks, read: Amazing Grace. I’d hoped for something a little more creative, but my boobs did look pretty great.

“Look at this,” Bobby said. “Four pages all for you, and your sales almost doubled after the issue hit the stands. Everyone’s talking about Merry Grace and her” — he paused to read from the article — “sweet-tangy soulful voice that belts out powerful hits, like a honey-coated Texas barbecue.”

“I’m not even from Texas, I’m from Michigan.”

“Doesn’t matter. You sound like you’re from Texas.” Bobby tossed the magazine across the room, pages rippling like flags. It splatted against the wall and fell behind the pleather couch. “I’m your manager, and that means I have to look out for you. Finish your drink, pour yourself another, and me one too while you’re at it, and tell me what’s wrong.”

I paced the length of his office, gesturing with my half-empty glass. “Never Be Another You and Me. I can’t stand it.”

“It’s a fantastic song. Rock solid. Speaks to people.”

“I know, Bobby, that’s the problem!” I gulped down the rest of the whiskey to jazz myself up. Lord knew if he threw me into the nuthouse I wouldn’t have another drink for a long time. “There’s this woman in Arkansas, her husband just left her. For her younger co-worker, just to make it more mean. She listens to Never Be Another You and Me every night. Over and over. While she drinks. And then gets drunk and calls her ex, and he hangs up on her and then she cries herself to sleep.” I ran a hand through my hair. “Over and over, Bobby!”

“You’re not making any sense.”

“I see her! Every night when I go to sleep, it’s like I’m standing next to her, listening to that damn song on repeat. Watching her go through old wedding pictures and drinking Boone’s Farm sangria with shots of vodka poured in.”

Bobby leaned back on his desk and let his lids droop over his eyes, like a lizard sunning itself on a rock. He thinks it makes him look trustworthy. “You’re under a lot of stress right now, Merry. A lot of stress. Success can be frightening for some people. Why don’t I find someone you can talk to?”

I hucked my glass at him. He stepped forward and took it right in the nose. “Ow! Dammit Merry, you almost hit the picture of me and Elvis. It took me over three hours to photoshop it right.”

“She’s not the only one!” I’d come in meaning to sound rational and clear-headed, but two weeks with no sleep had messed me up. My voice sounded like a train whistle. “There’s a guy, I don’t know where he lives, but he works for a hardware store and he’s in love with the girl who runs the till, but she’s happily married. When he’s at work he can’t stop thinking about her, and when he gets off shift he sits in his truck at listens to That Song and smokes a cigarette or two. Sometimes he listens to it twice.” I resumed pacing. “Hell, there’s even a little girl in someplace rainy — Seattle? Portland? — whose parents are getting a divorce. When they fight, she locks herself in her room and cranks That Song way up, I’m not sure she understands the lyrics exactly but I suppose it could be about a lost parent.” My throat hitched and the last words burbled. Tears stung my eyes. “Oh God, Bobby, every night I see people listening to my song, and they’re all miserable. I know I’m making them feel better, like someone understands, but I can’t take it anymore!”

I hugged myself and waited for Bobby to call the men in white coats to take me away. For a minute I wished the Grand Canyon would obediently open up in the office floor so I could hurl myself in, but suicide’s a sin and if I wound up in Hell, I knew exactly what I’d find waiting.

Bobby surprised me. He left off with the sleepy-lizard look and strode past me. He looked around the outer office, but it was empty. He shut the door and closed the blinds.

Then he turned back to face me. He looked like he was about to tell me my grandma had died. “Merry, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’d hoped we’d have a long working relationship, but your career is over.”

I sniffled. “Maybe I can still record from the nuthouse. You think we could work that angle somehow?”

“What? Oh, no, you’re not insane. I wish you were. Then maybe we could cure you.”

“I’m not insane?” I dropped myself down on the pleather couch. “Then in God’s name, what’s wrong with me?”

Bobby returned to leaning on the desk. “It happens with artists from time to time. No one knows why, but if you ask me, the universe loves playing nasty jokes on people.” He loosened his keyboard tie. “You record a song, a great song, a song that speaks to millions. You get tied to it. When other people connect with the song, they connect to you. You get the dreams. Or you can’t get the tune out of your head. Every song you try to write comes out with the same rhythm or rhyme scheme. It’s the beginning of the end.” He shook his head. “I’m real sorry, Merry.”

“At this point, I almost don’t care about my career.” Almost. I wanted to burst into tears. “Just tell me how to stop the dreams.”

“I’ll make some calls and book the studio,” Bobby said. “You’ll have to come up with a cause you like. Phone any friends who owe you favors. We’ll record it as soon as possible and release it as a single. It works best as a group effort, you know, like We Are the World or Do They Know It’s Christmas.”

“You want me to record a feel-good benefit song?”

“Anything that’ll make people feel warm and fuzzy. It seems to help. Instead of crying divorced women you might get dreams of fundraisers and people waiting on hold, but I’m told the link is much less intense. That’s it for your career, though — you never really recover from a charity album.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard.”

Bobby shrugged and went to pour himself a drink. “The best I can do. Some artists go on to support the cause for the rest of their lives, sort of insurance that the link with the original hit won’t come back. Some make more albums, but all the songs come out cheesy. Africa is very popular right now. Or AIDS — you can write almost anything and say it’s about AIDS.”

My head spun from the whiskey and the stupidity. “I’m not becoming a spokeswoman for a cause I pull out of a hat!”

“Then pick something you really care about, I don’t think it makes a difference.”

“There has to be another way!”

Bobby stared at the ceiling and swirled his ice cubes around in his glass. “Well, I suppose you could get pregnant.”

“What!”

“Then do albums where every song is about your unborn child, people love that sort of thing. Unmarried gospel-style country singer single mother probably won’t fly, though. Any special men in your life?”

I almost tripped on my heels I stood up so fast. “I’ve changed my mind. You’re the insane one, not me. I’m not recording any kind of awareness-raising song about AIDS in Africa, and I’m certainly not having a baby!”

“Suit yourself.”

“There has to be another way.” I pointed one sugar-pink nail at him. “I will find another way.”

He drained his glass and said nothing. When I left the office, he was chugging straight from the bottle.

*

Merry Grace doesn’t go down without a fight. No sir. When she was a little girl growing up in Texas, after her daddy died and her momma had to go work in the factory to support her, her grandma would say, “Honey, don’t you ever go down without a fight. You can have anything you want if you work for it.”

Alright, so I was never a little girl in Texas, and my dad’s still alive and I don’t think my mom worked a day in her life except for those few miserable months when she tried to sell Mary Kay. I still have eight tubs of lip gloss in the cabinet I’m too cheap to throw out.

It’s the principle that counts, though, and in this case the principle was never give up, and never go down without a fight. The fantasy Merry Grace knew it, and the prosaic Meredith Gastenberger from Michigan knew it too. Since I’d turned myself from the latter to the former, I knew I was capable of a whole lot. I’d figure a way out of this.

My first goal was to get a good night’s sleep. The bags under my eyes grew darker every day. Over the counter sleeping pills helped if I took triple doses — I still had dreams, but they were fuzzy, cloudy, and I could ignore them well enough to get some real rest. A hit of espresso in the morning and I was ready to go. I bought up enough No-Doz to last me the next few weeks and went to work.

I don’t believe in magic, but I do believe in the devil. It took three more days before I roped up enough courage to visit the witch doctor. Merry Grace’s stanch Christianity isn’t part of the show. I do love Jesus with all my heart. But I’d prayed every day for three solid weeks now, and I’d called Pastor Roberts and asked him to pray for me too. The Lord helps those who help themselves.

The witch doctor was Chinese, dressed in a polo shirt and khakis, and I told him I had an appointment with Doctor Change. He replied that he was Doctor Change, and I apologized, but I got the impression he was used to it. We shook hands. He asked me to spit out my gum (the No-Doz gave me a constant dry mouth) and take off my shoes.

We sat in beanbag chairs facing each other, and I told him I was having trouble sleeping. He burned incense and chanted for a good ten minutes. The whole time I sent up apologetic thoughts to God. I don’t really believe in all this, I thought. But I have to try something.

That night I skipped the No-Doz and found myself right back in that woman’s house while she cried over her wedding album. So much for Doctor Change.

I went back twice just in case, but if anything the dreams got worse. Never Be Another You and Me had hit #3 on the charts. Doctor Change recommended me to a colleague, a woman with black hair down to her waist, three kids already, and one more on the way. We talked in her kitchen while the angels screamed and threw toy cars at each other. She prescribed three kinds of herbal tea. The tea got rid of my breakouts and killed my chocolate cravings, which was a blessing since my stomach was constantly upset from the lack of sleep, the pills, and the espresso. But the dreams kept coming.

I had to go back on the No-Doz for a few days and get some real sleep. Bobby called to run the idea of a breast cancer awareness song past me. I hung up on him. Then, two days later, I got a call from a dream therapist who was a friend of a friend of the tea lady. We set up an appointment for midnight the next day. He claimed it was the most powerful time to treat dream dysentia. I said I’d give it a try and thought sorry, God, again.

Sometimes I wonder if the next bit might have gone better if it hadn’t been for the gum.

*

I stayed up as late as I could, which wasn’t much of a problem, drinking smelly herbal tea and nibbling on a slice of Wonderbread. It was the only thing that didn’t upset my stomach further. I’d lost seven pounds this month. Then I hit the No-Doz again and knocked myself out till the afternoon. Even then I heard distant sobs and the distorted notes of Never Be Another You and Me in my sleep.

I woke up with a pit in my stomach and the sure knowledge that something had gone wrong. I sat up and the pillow came with me.

“Dammit!” I ran to the mirror to study the damage. The pillow sagged down to my waist, glued to my hair by a stringy strand of gum. “Dammit, dammit!”

It was worse than it looked. The wad of bubblegum had migrated from my mouth to behind my right ear, and formed a tangled, gummy mess that stretched almost to my shoulder.

I cursed for a good minute to keep myself from crying. As if I needed another trial. I knew freezing bubble gum unstuck it from clothes, but there was no way I was fitting my head in the freezer. In desperation, I called mom.

“Peanut butter.”

“Peanut butter? Are you sure?”

“Sure I’m sure, I’m your mother, aren’t I? When are you coming home, darling? Joan’s son got accepted to Yale and I need something to show off.”

The peanut butter worked. Sort of. It greased up the gum and made it easier to slide off my strands, but the mess was too terrible to treat. It would take me days to get it all out, and it was already 8 pm. I found a pair of kitchen shears in a drawer, took a hit of espresso to jack up my nerves, and cut.

I did cry a little when I saw myself in the mirror. It looked like I’d got my hair caught in a propeller on the right side. No time to fix it, though — the dream doctor was waiting. I pulled the rest of my hair into a lopsided ponytail, which looked marginally less horrible, and wiped peanut butter off my neck.

The dream doctor sure didn’t advertise. I pulled up outside a featureless door in the middle of a run-down block. It looked like a fire door. The gas station down the street was doing a good business, as was a club on the other side of the block. I knocked on the door and the dream doctor opened it.

He was young, early twenties, with a goatee and a silver stud earring. He grinned when he saw me. “Ah, you must be Merry. Please come in.”

I followed him to a bare room with a single light in the ceiling, a card table, and some folding chairs. A bright green cloth covered the table, and a teapot sat by two cups. The dream doctor gestured for me to sit and poured me a cup of tea. “To relax your subconscious.”

“More tea?” I grumbled. But I sat down and drank. The dream doctor kept staring at me, then looking away. The peanut buttery hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I was desperate, but I wasn’t an idiot, and my gut screamed that something was wrong.

“This was a mistake,” I said. “I’m leaving, thanks anyway.”

Panic flashed across the dream doctor’s face. “But I haven’t treated you yet. We have to talk about your childhood and stuff.”

“And stuff?” I tried to stand up. The room tilted. Two more men — boys — appeared at the door to gawk at me.

“Wow, it’s really her! Cool!”

“Shut up, dude. Where’s the camera?”

Merry Grace does not give up without a fight. No sir. Nor does she succumb to a mickey in her tea when her system is already stressed out on caffeine, sleeping pills, herbal tea, and Wonderbread.

Whatever they gave me hit the mix in my stomach and exploded. I don’t remember the next part well, but I do remember slamming the dream doctor against the wall and shouting, “Don’t mess with Texas, boy!” I remember kicking the camera all the way down the hall, too. I couldn’t find the door I came in through, so I ran away from the jerks that’d suckered me there, down another hall and through a door.

I also remember staggering into the club connected to the back rooms and forcing my way through the crowd of people. People who recognized me and shouted my name. Cell phone cameras everywhere. Stumbling onto the street, turning my ankle, and hitting the pavement. A lucky fall, otherwise I might have tried to drive home.

On the bright side, the ambulance driver was pretty cute.

*

It didn’t take long for “Amazing Grace” to become “Fall From Grace.” The headlines were merciless. MERRY GRACE’S SECRET PILL PROBLEM. COUNTRY STARLET PRACTICES BLACK MAGIC. MERRY GRACE ANOREXIA FEARS. SULTRY SONGSTRESS PARTIES WITH TEENS DOWNTOWN.

Each one accompanied by a shot of my self-mutilated hair. They were really fixated on my hair. That’s why I think it might have gone better without the gum incident.

Bobby said I was brilliant, and that it was a much better plan than We Are the World. My sales skyrocketed and my song hit #1. As my sales went up, though, the dreams faded. It wasn’t about the song anymore, it was about me. No one could listen to Never Be Another You and Me without talking about my spectacular media bellyflop. The emotional bond dissipated. I slept for three straight days.

Bobby thought I could capitalize on the infamy and release a second album, but I didn’t want to go through that again. I filed an invasion of privacy lawsuit with the tea lady, after we traced the dream-doctor jerks to one of her kids, who’d sold my number to a guy a school. They admitted they were trying to get compromising pictures to sell to the tabloids. The dreams were fading by then and the tea lady seemed truly sorry, so I let it drop.

Songwriting isn’t a bad gig. I make a good living, get to express my creativity, and my songs still touch people. Just from a distance. Fans focus on the singer, not the songwriter.

Only now I think I’ve done it. I’ve written a number one best seller. My new agent, Genevieve, thinks she can pitch it to country’s latest golden girl. Mass media exposure.

The song is good — really, really good. Genevieve’s waiting for my phone call, and I’m not sure what to tell her. What if it’s too good? I’m not worried for myself, but for the new stars-in-her-eyes cutie in the zebra-print cowboy hat. Can I risk putting her through that?

But the song is really good.

What the hell. I hear "Free Tibet" is a hot issue this year.