Every stone rock and roller knows that Elvis had a dead twin.
Jasmine and Ginger both survived birth, Jazz alone made it past
twenty. Jazz didn’t think about much except her dead twin.
Ginger was undoubtedly dead. No arrests were ever made in connection
with Ginger's death. No one ever found anything as definitive as her
body. Their mom kept right on believing that Ginger had run off with a
rock singer and forgot to call home. Jazz felt like someone punched her
in the gut hard the exact moment that Ginger died. Jasmine spent nearly
thirty years with the absence of Ginger.
The summer of '71 the two star struck groupies had driven carelessly
around the map like it was a greased mobious strip. Truck stops and
motel rooms still sparkled in Jasmine's memory. She remembered those
manic months in Technicolor with a soundtrack. The girls woke up
simultaneously and it seemed like cymbals clashed. They moved through
the sweat-dampened air dancing in tandem through gypsy crowds. They
entered the sacred back-stage enclaves with their matched beauty serving
as their passport.
Being beautiful was a backstage pass.
The girls had been pathetically young in '71, with arrogant firm bodies
and ignorant unlined faces that had known only transient
disappointment. Jasmine withered in a nanosecond when she knew her twin
died. Ginger would never grow old. Ginger choked in her own vomit
while blood vessels in her eyes burst.
Ginger drifted through Jasmine's dreams, her blue eyes clear as morning,
her strawberry hair thick and cascading to her supple waist.
Jasmine's waist had thickened. The mirror didn’t exactly displease
Jasmine, she had become a handsome enough woman: still thin, but no
longer limber. Her hair was a convincing shade of auburn styled in a
ubiquitous pageboy. She looked well enough---for her age---an age that
Ginger would never see. She talked to Ginger when she put on her
make-up. Jazz kept on thinking like half of "we." We look great for
over forty, we need to have our roots done, and that lipstick makes us
look pale.
Her condo was decorated in cool pastels. Her bedroom had twin beds.
Jasmine always slept in the bed next to the closet. Ginger always liked
the bed near the window. Jasmine never went to sleep without muttering,
"G'night, Ging." The ruffled curtains cast shadows across the empty
bed.
Jasmine favored suits in shades of blue and gray. Her students in the
graduate seminars she taught on the Sociology of Popular Music and the
History of Politics in Music presumed she'd spent her early adulthood
cross referencing odd allusions in "Stairway to Heaven" with obscure
Celtic folk tales. She laughed about it with Ginger. "I mean, where do
they think old groupies go, Ging? To the geriatric rocker home? We
just got our doctorate in sociology 'cause we couldn't think of anywhere
other than Berkeley that we wanted to hang out. Shoot, it beats tending
bar, kinda." The suits were easy, sort of like a uniform, or a
disguise.
Dr. Jasmine McKinley AKA Jazz McKeen still wrote the occasional
pseudonymous article for Rolling Stone or incisive critique of aging
rock icons for the New Yorker. But, mostly she taught from her
unimaginative syllabus and spent her evenings talking to Ginger. She
really loved her sister.
She kept a silver-framed 8 by 10 on the double dressing table in their
bedroom. Ging and Jazz at Woodstock-- their strawberry hair tangled
together, shooting off sparks of sunlight, their tanned arms wrapped
around each other's smooth shoulders. Ginger was wearing a long tie
dyed t shirt and a purple suede fringed vest, her long bare legs had
been as toned as a dancer's. Jasmine had sported low-cut, wide legged
bell-bottom jeans, a bandanna tied around her full breasts served as a
top. They both wore large gold hoops in their pierced ears. A
smaller shot in another silver frame--Jazz and Ging at Monterey. Jazz
was arrayed in an Edwardian lace blouse and bikini bottoms, Ging in her
batik print mini-dress.
No one but Jasmine could tell them apart in the pictures, even she
wasn't certain who was who anymore--some days she would think there I
was in that huge shirt with the purple vest. Some times Jasmine wondered
whether she was Ginger, if it was really Jazz who'd been murdered. She
didn't always think it mattered.
Pieces of her soul had been lost when the Stones played Altamonte and
appeared to be in league with Satan. Both twins had witnessed the
signature trashing of hotel rooms that added to Zeppelin's notoriety.
When Sid and Nancy had died the twins mulled over what really must have
happened---they were privy to information that the media didn't
report.
Stargazer was beyond the standard rock star excess. There were rumors
of wretched dissipation. There were rumors of participation in snuff
films. There were whispers through the covens of groupies that girls
had been disfigured or driven mad. There were stories of families being
offered huge sums of hush money. Some of the rumors were true.
There was the unmistakable truth of a few girls who simply
disappeared.
Ginger had disappeared.
Stargazer stayed at the top of the charts. They withstood assaults by
grunge, hip-hop, punk, and derivative rhythm and blues. They outlasted
everyone except the Stones. They continued to pack in hordes of fans on
their world tours.
Jazz and Ging had toured with two or three different bands. The twins
were groupie royalty, a cut above the teeny boppers in St. Paul's or
Atlanta who sleazed their way back stage by hanging onto a roadie. They
were USDA prime, only for the stars. There were rumors about three ways
and odd kinks involving various liquids. Those rumors were untrue. The
girls would have never done sex together. It would have spoiled the fun
of comparing notes.
During the '71 Stargazer tour Ging and Jazz had slipped away during the
Atlanta show to hunt down a Dairy Queen. "Billy thinks his is made of
gold." Ginger licked a butterscotch-dipped cone suggestively.
"Well, is it?" Jazz preferred chocolate dip; it was one of the
infinitesimal differences between them.
"You know Sissy, when we give this up and marry rich record producers, I
want my old man to give me emeralds." Ginger fiddled with the hoops in
her ears.
"I don't know, I was thinking we'd look better with sapphires." Jazz
tilted her hair and studied her sister. It was like looking in a warm,
breathing mirror.
"We have a few years to decide. Let's get back before the show
starts." Ginger scooped up the keys to their trusty Ford. As they
drove towards the back-stage parking lot with the radio blaring, they
bounced in unison. They opened their car doors simultaneously. Four
perfect legs swung synchronically. Two masses of waist length hair
shook in the amber sunset.
Jazz fell into step with Ginger. Their sandaled feet hit the asphalt at
precisely the same time. Just before they reached the door, Ginger laid
a light hand on Jazz's forearm. She hadn't really needed to; her sister
could feel it when she wanted to speak. Jazz leaned towards her twin,
they looked like two exotic long stemmed flowers bent by the breeze.
"I want to live forever." Ginger's face was drained of color. Her hand
was cold against Jazz's flesh. "I don't ever want to die." Her heart
was hammering against the frail cage of her ribs. Jazz could feel her
own heart rate speed up.
Jazz hugged her sister. Then they merged into the smoky back-stage
carnival. Jazz never saw Ginger alive again.
At 1:45 AM Jazz woke up from a hazy sleep. She was choking on her own
infinite tears. She was with Eric the rhythm guitarist who immediately
decided that super-groupie or not this kind of hassle was not something
he had to put up with, no way.
Jazz couldn't remember how she got home.
She didn't remember much of the next few years. Stargazer's scene got
uglier. Groupies lured by pot stayed for smack. The hollow-cheeked
blondes with ran-into-a-door bruises started having single car wrecks.
A groupie from Toronto allegedly bled to death aborting alone in a hotel
room---that was not the real story at all. Dark things, horrible
things, things unspeakable and unholy, millions of dollars, platinum
albums, and a sweet movie deal.
Ginger was dead but not forgotten.
Jazz was forgotten but not dead.
Jazz had a bit of trouble her first two years of college. In high
school Ginger and she had split classes: she had taken English, French,
and history twice each day. Ginger had handled math, science, and phys
Ed. She managed.
She put her hair in a bun and wore baggy dresses with lace-up hiking
boots years before that look was common. She didn't have any friends;
she and Ginger had always had each other. She didn't date. She made
very good grades all the way through graduate school.
G'night, Ging. I haven't forgotten. I'll never forget. I'll fix
him.
When John Lennon was shot an enterprising reporter interviewed her on
the sixties. She answered questions in her academic personae.When an
old Zep roadie that worked in marketing for Rolling Stone recognized her
name and called her number, she claimed to be Jazz's cousin. "Look, I
just relay her checks to her, she's in South America."
When the radio and TV bombarded the city with promo spots for
Stargazer's Summer Tour she smiled. It had been such a long time since
she had been to a concert.
Jazz blew off her regular haircuts, might as well let it grow out one
last time. Her hair seemed to grow amazingly fast.
She presented a paper on "The Changing Portrayal of Women in Popular
Music Over the Last Three Decades," at a meeting of the American
Sociological Association. There was polite applause. Screw this Jazz
thought, let's ditch the rest of this boring conference and go shopping,
'kay Ging?
She walked a few blocks from the Hilton to an unfamiliar area of
expensive boutiques. An iridescent tunic caught her eye. The garment
shimmered in the shop window. It seemed to pull her into the store like
a living thing beckoning her. Its' opalescent sequins flashed electric
blues, forest greens, and blood reds.
"Can I help you?" The salesgirl was wearing all black; even her
fingernails were painted black.
"Yes, that thing in the window, the dress or tunic, whatever?"
"Yeah, dress if you've got the attitude and the legs for it." The
salesgirl looked at the tweed-suited woman appraisingly. "It's about
your size."
"Let me have it." Jazz felt her heart hamstering. She was near dizzy.
Bored now that she'd made a sale, the girl rung up Jazz's purchase and
wrapped it in a black tissue before putting it into a black bag. "No
refunds, exchanges only."
Jazz had no intention of returning the garment. Ginger would love it.
When Stargazer tickets went on sale Jasmine dealt with the indignity of
Ticketmaster. After a confusing maze of pressing the pound sign to
review the menu six times she managed to secure a ticket. She didn't
care where the seat was. She intended to be back stage.
A week before the concert she was reviewing a collection of particularly
uninspired research papers when she heard the foot shuffling, coughing
supplication of a student. Jasmine glanced towards her office door.
Who was it? Oh yes, Carol, not entirely stupid, hard-working. "Carol,
is there something you need?"
Carol was a short young woman with a round appealing face under a cap of
dark brown curls. "Well, yea Professor, I have . . .well, I really
admire your work . . . and I was wondering if you could give me a
protocol for how you approach learning so much about a topic when you
haven't actually had the sensory experience."
Oh, dear, another eager young thing wanting to know about LSD without
risking a brain cell. "What were you wanting to know about?"
Carol hugged her notebook to her sweatered chest. "Mostly your
methodology."
Curious, Jazz beckoned the student into her office. "Come in and sit
down. Now, precisely which methods of research are you interested in?"
Carol bit her lip. "It isn't so much the research angle as the way you
lecture. You talk about the sixties like you were really there. I want
to teach English and I would love to be able to make Dickens and
Shakespeare come alive in the class room like you make things real."
Jazz studied the girl's face. She had the open honest expression of a
Girl Scout hawking cookies. "I think what you need to do is absorb
every possible source of information on the topic and then focus your
lectures on the parts that you are the most enthusiastically interested
in yourself." Jazz coughed to keep from laughing as she watched Carol
write: absorb all poss. inf.--lec. Re: most interest.
"Oh, thank you,” Carol said. "Thank you so much." She scurried off
like a happy puppy.
Jazz shook her head. What was that about Ging? When she could no
longer hear footsteps in the hallway she took a surreptitious glance at
the mirror in her purse. She did look a bit younger than she had a few
years ago. It must have to do with growing her hair long. She studied
her reflection; her skin seemed more youthful since she'd abandoned the
auburn dye. There wasn't any gray in her hair, she had been foolish to
let her hairdresser talk her into the expensive cut, curl, and dye
routine.
She abandoned her car a few days later. Ginger had been the one who
enjoyed driving. After a few weeks of walking to and from campus, her
waistbands loosened and her pants grew larger.
The evening of the concert Jazz stepped out of her shower and doused
herself in patchouli oil. She finger combed her long hair and shook it
dry. In the pink glow of the afternoon sun she caught a glimpse of her
body in the full-length oval mirror. She posed before the shining
surface. You know, Ging, it's really freaky . . . but in this light, if
we stand just right. . . We look just like we did at seventeen.
The prismatic fabric of the strange tunic spilled over her body like
wicked moonlight. She laced up her high boots. There was more than a
foot of smooth skin between the top of her boots and the swirling hem of
her dress. The dress was like an animate being, it alternately caressed
and fled, revealed and concealed. Her hair was like a cape of fire.
Her stomach muscles tightened, it was as if there was no skin shielding
her nerve endings. She was dangerously alive. C'mon, Ging. Let's go
rock.
She seemed to have a peculiar illumination outlining her. As Jazz
walked the few blocks to the arena she seemed more like a model on an
MTV shoot than a middle-aged sociology professor. A barely bearded kid
with a Nikon crouched before her; he was framing his shot to feature her
high breasts. She weaseled through the crowd near the stage entrance.
She graced him with a runway model smile. "Got a good one!" he
exulted.
"Well, but who was she?" his girlfriend nagged.
"Damned if I know, but she had to be someone's old lady." He clicked
furiously as Jazz mounted the stage door steps and disappeared into the
Promised Land.
Piece of cake, Ginger. After all that bull about increased security,
it's the same as it always was, smile, show skin, and keep on trucking.
She sipped a diet soda and waited for the back-up band to finish.
The crowd screamed like a tornado hit them. Boom. The roar of
pyrotechnics and the squeal of the revved up fans moved up the Richter
scale to shatter the night sky. Jazz felt her own breathing quicken,
her heart rate escalated. Thousands of hearts pumped harder, thousands
of fans rocked to a rhythm as ancient as the worship of fertility
goddesses. In a haze of smoke and terror Stargazer exploded into their
legendary hit "Human Sacrifice."
It's ballsy; I'll give them that. Most guys would save that for the
encore. C'mon, Ging. Jazz walked unheeded to the wings where she could
watch Billy excite the crowd into a writhing mass of mayhem. By the
middle of their second number he had flung off his jacket, sweat
plastered his black T-shirt to his muscular body; leather pants clung to
his thighs. His ebony hair whipped around his shoulders as he leapt
into the night like a dark angel. The foot stomping of the audience
echoing the beat threatened to shatter the bleachers.
Death hovered over the arena. Jazz thought of the Who concert in
Cincinnati. She thought of the unreported deaths that had followed the
Dead. She smiled.
As Stargazer launched into the misogynist, nihilistic anthem "Destroy
Your Love" she changed positions so that the light from her dress
temporarily blinded Billy. As the satanic singer shrieked his hymn to
male dominance, "I spit on your wanting me, little girl. There have
been thousands before you, I've forgotten their names." Jazz felt
Ginger's touch on her arm. It's time, Sissy. Way past time.
The young men in black were crowding the stage; the first few rows had
become a carnivorous mosh pit. Girls in Goth splendor were straddling
their boyfriend's shoulders, held aloft they pulled up T-shirts
displaying their young breasts. Jazz seemed detached, like a fairy
queen.
With a final detonation from the drummer and eruption of purple smoke,
Stargazer vaulted off stage. Billy almost collided with Jazz as he
rushed into the wings seeking a Perrier. He'd given up the booze years
ago. Aging rockers tend to rely more on their personal trainers than
their pushers. He took a thirsty gulp of the over priced water. As he
spun around to dash back onto the set for his encore his eyes locked
with Jasmine's dark blue eyes. "I can wait. I've waited years." She
smiled suggestively. Billy went chalky beneath the thick make up.
He ran on automatic during "Use You," his movements were robotic,
jerky. The band noticed--the crowd didn't. Todd shrugged as he went
into his final drum solo, 23 cities in 26 days--what did they expect?
Billy got a hold of himself during "Get Another Lady Tomorrow." As he
pranced and snarled down at the worshipful fans, logic took over---it
had been over twenty years since those twins had hung with the band, lot
of water under the bridge, lot of different women.
After taking his final bows he sauntered off stage with an easy
arrogance. He retrieved his water and drank down the bottle before
throwing his arm casually around Jazz's shoulders. "I believe I may
have known your mother." Billy took pride in being deliberately crude.
She smiled enigmatically. "Well, how about a little kink for auld lang
syne?" She didn't go for his zipper like a nineties groupie. She
didn't even slip her arm around him. "Why don't I ride back to your
hotel with you?" She ran her long fingers through her incredible
hair.
He hesitated. He usually got off back-stage and then retreated to the
privacy of a luxury hotel room. She just smiled as if it was already
settled. It was clear she wasn't going onto those smooth knees in a
dressing room.
She followed him to the limo as if she were a queen. Billy didn't even
register the shock on the faces of the other guys. Jazz nodded regally
at the boys.
She exited the limo and strode confidently across the marble lobby as if
she knew exactly where she was going. As they rode up in the mirrored
elevator she hummed a tune Billy couldn't quite place. "That's one of
ours isn't it?" he asked.
"Of course, but you haven't played it in years." She stepped out of the
elevator ahead of him.
He remembered the song, a soppy love ballad from their first album.
"Recorded that before you were born." He slipped the key card into the
lock.
She looked around the expensive suite as if it would just barely meet
her standards. He fell on her with gauche urgency. She pushed him
back. "I have all night, don't rush things." She lit a cigarette.
"I'd like something to drink, please."
A look of utter bewilderment crossed Billy's face.
Deliberately misinterpreting his lack of comprehension, Jasmine said,
"Anything you have will be fine. Diet soda, juice, water, anything at
all."
Every time he gathered enough presence of mind to toss the uppity
groupie out on her delightful fanny, her dress shimmered and distracted
him.
She sipped her orange juice slowly. He looked at her with open lust.
"All in due time, darling."
When she finished the juice, she placed the glass down on an end table
with a resounding clink. She stood like an exquisite flower stretching
towards the sun. A smile like dawn broke across her perfect features.
Jazz was ready for him, so was Ginger. They had waited years for this
night.
"You can make your move now Billy." She let her pink tongue peek out
from between her plump lips.
He made his move.
Early morning light sucks the color out of back alleys and opulent
bedrooms. The monochromatic chill of 5AM bled the color from the woman
in the bed beside Billy. He shifted in uneasy sleep, flinging his arm
across flaccid frigid flesh. Bad dream. Nightmare. He broke a sweat
and scrunched into the twisted sheets sticky with traces of sex. His
leg brushed against something hard, unyielding. He raised up on his
forearms and saw her sprawled across his bed.
He shut his eyes instantly, unwilling to see her. Like a by-stander at
the scene of a wreck, he opened his eyes in morbid fascination. Billy
had never really seen the naked body of a woman his own age. The
slightly flabby flesh, the scars and stretch marks echoing the years he
had run from the devil. He was initially repulsed by the intimation of
his own mortality. As his eyes adjusted to the achromatic pre-dawn he
noticed the woman's neat auburn pageboy hairstyle, the faint crow's feet
framing her eyes. He was horrified by the imperfection of her aging
body. The faint spider veins on her thigh repulsed him; the slackness
of the skin around her hips seemed a precursor of decay. Billy felt
nausea rushing up his throat.
Who the hell was she? What was this hag doing in his bed?
There was a problem far more profound than that of her identity or how
she came to be in his bed. She wasn't breathing. She was unmistakably
dead. She wore nothing but a necklace of purple bruises.
Trembling, Billy sat up. He fumbled in the woman's purse for her
cigarettes. He coughed as the unfamiliar smoke permeated his lungs. He
sat in a chair beside the bed shaking his head in disbelief and
wondering how on earth this had happened and what on earth he was going
to do about it. He had always been so very careful when he indulged in
his little games.
He was innocent this time.
Billy didn't have long to consider his options. The door to his suite
crashed open and the overhead light seared his eyes. Before he finished
the cigarette, a detective and two uniformed officers were reading him
his rights. They allowed him to put on his pants before leading him out
of the room.
x x x
|