Gabe thinks he's a master of disguise—after all, his given name is Elizabeth. He doesn't realize his neighbor, music guru, and voice teacher is hiding an equally huge secret—John's got a fake death in his past, plus a real pair of blue suede shoes and a key to the front door of Graceland. Gabe, John, and Gabe's BFF Paige move through Gabe's evolution from high school to college and female to male—culminating in a trip to Vegas, of course--during the summer after Gabe and Paige's senior year. Throughout their adventures, John and Paige show Gabe that transitions can be made with grace, dignity, and a little rock and roll.
How about some pages?
Show #1
Radio is the medium of the ugly person, and if I could live my life as a voice, not a person, life would be perfect.
But the dead air has got to go.
While I fumble for the next CD, I attack the mike. “And that’s Bon Jovi, ‘Have a Nice Day,’ from their disc with the same name. Now let’s have some Green Day. Here’s ‘American Idiot.' I'm Gabe, and this is Beautiful Music for Ugly Children, on community radio 90.3, KZUK.”
When I came to KZUK for an internship, I never figured anything big would happen. And now I’ve got my own show. If I could do radio for the rest of my life I’d be set, but it’s a dying industry. Checking “DJ” on a high school career survey is like checking the box for “dinosaur.”
And nobody can see me while I do my show. Double bonus.
Then—of all things—the phone rings. I stuff my voice deep in my chest and race to grab it.
“Hello, KZUK, the Z that sucks.” Maybe I shouldn’t say that, but it’s too obvious, given the call letters. I probably wouldn’t risk it at 9 a.m. on a Tuesday, but it’s midnight on a Friday. Who cares?
“No you don’t!” A perky voice answers me. “I love your show. Can you play a request for me?”
“Who is this?” I try not to let the tremor in my hands appear in my voice.
"Just a fan."
My very first show’s been on the air for all of 10 minutes—how can she love it? “I can't do a request now, but if I’ll bring it next time if I have it. Uh . . . what’s your groove?” Dumb. Dorky, in fact.
“‘In the Summertime,’ by Mungo Jerry. Do you know it?”
“Music nerds know all the obscure songs."
“You’re so great!” I hear her giggle.
She’s way too young to be up so late, not to mention calling radio stations. “How do you know about Mungo Jerry?”
“My folks are music nuts. Gotta go! I’ll listen next week!”
“Hey, what’s your name?”
“Mara.”
“OK, Mara, tune in next week for your one-hit wonder.”
“Cool!”
Mara brings my listener total to one. If I can get the number up to five I’ll be set.
Then I realize what I did: I let someone talk to me. And I talked back. When you’re someone like me, you KEEP TO YOURSELF. Nothing good can come from friendly conversation with a stranger.
Silence again in the studio. But the KZUK promo is cued, and I just need to push the button. Not more than three seconds’ worth of dead air. But I don’t remember how short the promo is, so while I’m reaching for more CDs, the world is awash in silence.
Finally I get it together. “Let’s have a slow one, for you and your sweetie: ‘In The Still of the Night,’ the Five Satins.”
Tonight is very still. The studio windows are wide open, and nobody’s around. I love being awake at midnight. The darkness soothes me.
The phone rings again.
“Hello, KZUK, the Z that sucks.”
“Gabe, I have another request.”
“Mara?” My voice is high, because I react instead of think. I clear my throat, pull it low, and try to sound cool. "What can I do for you?"
“‘You Know My Name,’ by the Beatles—do you have it?” She doesn't seem to notice my slip.
I clear my throat again. “I’ll have it and 'In the Summertime' on the next show.”
“You rock!” She hangs up without more chitchat, thank God.
More songs go on, more music goes out into the darkness. Then I miss another cue, but this time it’s not my fault. With community radio, the equipment tends to be marginal. We only have two CD players, and—of course—the one with the song in it jams on me. I’d been warned, but I spaced it. Thank God I have another song cued up in the other player, but it takes me a second to remember what’s in there. Then a disco ball pops into my head.
“Let’s finish out the show with another danceable love song, ‘Da Ya Think I’m Sexy,’ by Rod Stewart. Boogie the night away, people, and I’ll see you next week. I'm Gabe, and you’ve been listening to Beautiful Music for Ugly Children on community radio 90.3, KZUK.”
My voice is beginning to get hoarse from keeping it so low in my chest.
When Rod Stewart’s done the Hustle off the airwaves, I plug in a tape of Marijane, the master gardener. I can’t imagine people really want to garden at 1 a.m., but who knows? KZUK fills up its night spots with gardening, how to learn Chinese, and news from New Zealand, of all places. Once I know Marijane is digging in her dirt, I pack up my crap and get out of there.
My show is so damn cool. I love it.
When I get home, there are lights on next door. Our neighbor, John, is a night owl too. We’ve spent many late-night moments debating the merits of Stax versus Motown (it’s a toss-up), or Merle Haggard versus Conway Twitty (we like Haggard, though Twitty has his merits, and Johnny Cash trumps them all). He always wins with this line: “Look, girl, I was alive then, and you need to get a grip. You don’t know nothin’ about it.” He’s from the South, so he says it in this funny drawl. Someday I’ll make him debate Elvis Costello versus Sid Vicious, and I’ll win that one. Maybe.
John is one of my exceptions to the “keep to yourself” rule—there are two. Then again, he only knows Elizabeth.
I knock on his door, and it flies open, just like I figure it will. “Liz! Haven’t seen you for a while.” He steps aside to let me in.
It takes a second for my brain to catch up when he calls me Liz, since I’ve been Gabe for the last hour “What’s new?”
I’ve known John since I was in second grade, and, to put it bluntly, I want to BE him. Musically, anyway. He’s the only other person I know who dives headfirst into music and drowns in it. I guess you could call him my mentor.
He’s got on Bo Diddley, loud, so he reaches to turn down the stereo. “Just catching up on my Rolling Stone backlog.” He subscribes to every music magazine known to humanity. “Want some Pepsi?” It’s all he ever drinks.
“No thanks. I saw your light on . . . just thought I’d say hi.”
His smile is always warm. “You know you’re welcome any time. Sure you don’t want a Pepsi? Or a sandwich?” That means a peanut butter & banana sandwich.
“I’ll take a sandwich, sure.” I can’t resist them.
John’s your basic old dude, bald and a little bit tall, with a paunch and very sparkly brown eyes. He started giving me voice lessons when I was seven. I quit when I was in eighth grade, but he didn’t hold it against me, even though he used to tell me I was good. Really good. I never believed him, but he wouldn’t change his mind. He’s been our neighbor since before I was born, and I talk music with him every chance I get. I know it’s weird to be hanging around with an old man, and people could think he’s perverted, hanging out with me, but I don’t care. My parents trust him, and I do, too.
He hands me my sandwich, and we sit down with a copy of Rolling Stone from the early 80s to argue about whether Face Dances by the Who or Emotional Rescue from the Stones was the lamest sellout for a supergroup. He wins, of course (it’s Face Dances, duh), but I make him argue for forty-five minutes. He almost gives in when I put on “Another Tricky Day.”
He cocks his head while he listens. “You’re right, this is a good song. But these are the people who put out Tommy. This song blows . . . ass? . . . compared to Tommy.” That’s the Who’s rock opera.
I can’t hide my grin. He and slang don’t always do well together. Then I realize how long I’ve been at his house. “I’d better go. If my folks heard me come home, they’ll be wondering why I didn’t come inside an hour ago.”
John rubs his bald head, which is the signal he’s thinking. “I’ll come up with another Friday Night Fight and we can do it tomorrow. OK?” That’s what we call our “this versus that” arguments: Friday Night Fights, like the wrestling matches they used to have on TV in John’s era.
“You got it.” I let myself out while he’s shuffling through his albums in one of his bedrooms. His living room has a couch, a chair, a table with a lamp on it, a stereo with big speakers, and magazine racks, nothing else. But he has three bedrooms packed full of music, boxes and crates of all sorts of stuff, some organized according to artist, some according to theme or place or era. His rooms contain 6,453 albums (he loves that number) plus too many CDs, cassettes, eight-tracks, and reel-to-reel tapes to count. He also has a computer full of MP3s. I think my collection’s doing all right (225 albums, 320 CDs, 270 cassettes, and another giant amount of MP3s), and then I come over here and get a reality check.
When I step back onto his front porch, I notice the air. Everything smells green, if that’s possible. Nothing like late spring in southern Minnesota. John’s lights are still on as I slip inside my house. After I brush my teeth, I check again. Still on.
“So you really want to quit voice lessons?”
“No . . . but I have to.”
“You don’t even have to pay for them anymore. Just don’t stop now.” He sounds sad. “You’re too good to give up on your voice!”
“I have to, John . . . I just have to.” I can’t say anymore, or I’ll cry.
John goes somewhere else in his house and comes back with a 45. He hands it to me. It says “That’s All Right,” and “Elvis Presley,” and the words are on a bright yellow label that says “Sun” at the top. I turn it over, and the other side says “Blue Moon of Kentucky.”
“What’s this for?”
His voice is quiet, and he’s more serious than I’ve ever seen him. “It’s just a gift. Elvis is one of my favorites.” He looks me square in the eye. “Don’t give up on yourself.”
I shake his hand, because I’m not sure what else to do. “Thanks for the record.”
“Are you sure you can’t tell me why you’re quitting?”
I have to look at the floor. “I . . . really can’t.”
He opens the door for me. “Well, I’m not far away if you want to start again. Goodbye, Elizabeth.”
“’Bye, John.”
I come back to my house and put “That’s All Right” on the turntable I find buried in the basement closet. By the end of the afternoon, I’ve listened to it thirty times, and the raw power of the song has soaked into my bones.
Every night, before I go to bed, I dust my 45. It’s on a stand, on my desk. Some people say it was the first rock and roll song ever.
When I’m stressed, I imagine Elvis saying “That’s all right, Gabe,” and it helps.
I make sure the windows in my room are open, to let in the green smell, and I drift away, listening to the faint sounds of Tommy wafting from John’s house.
I wish I’d been born a vampire or a werewolf instead, or had a big red clown nose permanently stuck to my face. That stuff would be easy. But I’ve Googled people like me enough to know I’m an ISSUE. A social issue. A political issue. A gender issue.
Fuck being an issue. But I still can’t stand to be seen.
