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CHAPTER 40 Mid June, 1993 Kim sat on her bed, her arms wrapped around Jessie, and her legs resting in the half-American’s lap. She had her chin resting on her shoulder. They were both staring at the blank TV screen sitting on the cabinet in front of them. “Should we?” Kim brushed Jessie’s hair back over her shoulder, so she could get a better view of that one huge unblinking eye, black glass reflecting their images back at themselves. “Maybe it didn’t turn out. Carroway found a strange bloke to direct.” “Careful, Jessie-grrl, you’re starting to talk like me.” Jessie smiled. “I’ve heard that happens when you spend too much time with someone.” “Not too much! Just enough. We spend the precisely right amount of time driving each other bloody well mad, Miss America.” “I don’t think I want to see the video.” Kim sighed, holding her tighter. “I know. Is this the point where we’ve sold out? Becoming commercial enough to sell our images on television?” “Most bands have videos from the beginning. We waited until going platinum before considering it.” “I don’t think I want to make another. Harve Troskins was insane. Bad director. And what the bloody hell kind of a name is Harve, anyway?” Kim giggled. Jessie put her hands over Kim’s. “Parents can be cruel, Ms. Kissably.” “Mine were just boring. Or fighting. Or both, really.” “Mine were just fighting.” “Let’s vow to neither of us ever have children, awright? Wherever the future may take us. I can just see myself utterly destroying a life... I’m not mother material.” “Give yourself more credit, Kim. You’re compassionate and caring, even when you pretend you aren’t. You’ve proven that through Chatha.” “I suppose.” Jessie leaned into Kim. “Eb told me you’ve been writing some new songs.” Kim laughed. “We really don’t want to see this vid, huh?” “Admittedly, I’m trying to put it off, seeing as I haven’t asked in the two weeks since she told me.” She smiled softly. “Our dark lady said something about you writing a song for Ribbons?” “Mm hmm.” “And can I hear it?” “Maybe later. I don’t want to spoil it before we record another album.” “You’re impossible. Can I hear some lyrics?” Kim laid back on the bed quickly, causing Jessie to shriek and fall with her. She rolled so she was beside Kim, and shoved her. “Bitch.” “Thank you.” “Can I hear some lyrics?” “I’ll think about it.” “Don’t make me beg.” “And how would you beg me, my dear half-American? I really am curious.” Jessie got up on her knees and clasped her hands, calloused fingers intertwined. Her perfect hair had fallen in front of her face, tracing brown lines in front of her gentle brown eyes. Kim propped herself up on her elbows, watching. “Grrls don’t beg me often.” “Do you want me to?” Jessie rested her hands against her chin. “I’m not sure I’d know what to do if you begged me.” “Succumb.” Kim rolled over, pulling herself across the bed to Jessie. “Now, see...” She reached up and took Jessie’s hands, tracing the rough fingertips. “Kim Kissably is not, by any means, the kind to succumb.” She pulled Jessie’s hands apart slowly, watching her fingers slide against each other. “Don’t beg me, Miss America.” “Will you have to succumb if I do? Free your will to another?” “I’m not sure if I want to tell you that.” Jessie threaded her fingers through Kim’s. “And palm to palm is holy palmer’s kiss,” she whispered. “Shakespeare?” “Yes.” “I didn’t think you were the type to quote it.” Kim’s voice was small. She let Jessie pull her up so there were both kneeling. “I didn’t think you were the type to recognize it.” “Have not saints lips and holy palmers too?” Kim gripped Jessie’s hands tightly. Her mind was reeling, and she was afraid she would fall if she let go. “Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.” “O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do! They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.” She found herself leaning in closer to Jessie. “Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.” “Then move not...” Kim took a deep breath. She had caught sight of the TV out of the corner of her eye, reflecting back the image of two grrls kneeling far too close to each other, their knees touching, their hands clasped together, strands of hair intermingling between them. “While my prayer’s effect I take,” she whispered, but shook her head and pulled back. “Nah, I’m not the kind to succumb, Jess.” “I knew no good could ever come of having a TV in one’s room.” Jessie got off the bed. “Isn’t that a bit much of an American habit for you?” “That’s a bloody cuss if I ever heard one.” But Kim didn’t raise her voice. She couldn’t even look at Jessie. “Look, are we going to watch the video? Or are you going to give me a little taste of your new song? Or what?” Kim cringed. Jessie sounded agitated. “I wrote two songs,” she offered. “Didn’t tell Eb about the second. I don’t think she noticed. I wrote it in Munich, Jess... After the show.” Hearing the tone to Kim’s voice, Jessie came back to the bed. She sat down beside her, careful to only touch her hand lightly. “Talk to me.” “It’s called Token Whore, Jess. That’s what I’ve always been up under the stage lights, huh? The token whore, again and again. Y’ think I would have stopped the habit when I was leading an all-grrl band at least.” Jessie shook her head. “You’re not a whore.” “‘A strip show’s only the price of a ticket and a free ride all the way is a backstage pass.’” “No.” Jessie pushed hair back out of Kim’s face. “Tell me the lyrics to Violence of Music.” Kim closed her eyes, not wanting to see the half-American’s reaction to a song very unlike ones she had written before. “‘I don’t want to die by the hands of music. The urgent, violent, broken caress. Leading me by an invisible chain. Forcing me down to my bleeding knees. “‘Tears in my eyes as the noise washes over. Passion and ecstasy drowning me, drowning me! Pushed onto my back by the sound. “‘I don’t want to die by the hands of music holding tightly to its pulsing guitar. Panelled in black, with flashes of red. Coaxing its quiet demands. “‘Creeping around me, resting in my ears. Can’t push it away, don’t know how to try. My mind is in ribbons, black and red ribbons, shredded to ribbons by an electric guitar. “‘I don’t want to die by the voice of music. Today, it’s harsh, inviting me in. The words are like razor wires, lashing my skin. Can’t tell it to stop. Don’t remember the words. “‘My heart is pounding, racing the beat. My skin is on fire, burning petals of roses. I have a thorn caught in my side, twisting deeper and deeper and I won’t take it out. “‘I don’t want to die by the voice of music... That’s a choice that isn’t mine.’” Kim only opened her eyes when she felt Jessie’s arms around her. Jessie’s voice was whispering in her ear, so soft. “Will you let me coax my quiet demands?” Kim shivered, gripping Jessie’s arms. “We have to watch the video, Jess. Chatha won’t let us live it down if we don’t.” “What if we reenact the video instead?” Jessie’s hands were on Kim’s cheeks, and she was staring into her eyes. “It would go well with your thoughts of black and red ribbons.” “Let’s just watch,” Kim gasped, but she was unwilling to pull away again. “Please.” “The great Kim Kissably can say that word?” Jessie pulled back, letting her hands slide away slowly. “Then I grant you the video. Though I don’t understand why you would still be scared.” “Only sometimes, Jess.” “It’s been a year.” “Please, I can’t talk about this.” “I know.” Jessie sighed. “So... The video.” *** Silence. A white sink--one of the ones standing on a single porcelain leg like a birdbath--is the only thing that can be seen. The edges are lined with precariously balanced hair care products: an open jar of creamy pomade, a fallen tube of gel, a myriad collection of hairsprays, brushes with hair stuck in the bristles, bobby pins, and elastics. The sink is shaking and the view pulls in, all the way in, down the drain into darkness. Moving darkness. Black upon black, scattering over itself. This moving darkness seems to push the view back out, and there the white sink is seen again as hundreds of spiders run out through the drain. Fill the basin, step out onto the rim. Bottles and brushes fall to the floor, spiders falling with them. Some get stuck in puddles of gel around the rim, another one sinks right into the pomade. In the doorway, a teen girl wearing all pink is standing and staring. She seems to be waiting for something (perhaps the words “okay, you’re going to look frightened ... now!” to be spoken?), then her eyes widen and she points in at the bathroom, then turns around screaming “SPIDAHS!” and runs out of the room, waving her arms in the air. Perhaps there’s a hint of laughter, but she’s out of range now. The door slams shut behind her and a bass-line starts up, running a very simple line. The first words to be sung bring the scene to a stage in a small club where Kim Kissably and the Red Lips Sextet are playing. The vibrant Kissably herself, wearing a fully unbuttoned shirt with her hair hanging down to almost completely cover the gap, is crooning into the microphone, eyes closed. “Without you, I couldn’t fly. I remained stranded on the ground. So I taught the spiders to cry. In their webs I will stay bound.” The guitars and drums slam in as Kim pushes back from the microphone and tosses her head, red and blue hair flying under the stage lights. The rhythm is pulsing and holds a resemblance to that of The Cure’s Hanging Garden. Her voice repeating the chorus brings s new scene to life, where she is kneeling at the feet of her bassist, Jessie Founders. Jessie is sitting in a stiff wooden chair in what has to be a hotel room. She is mouthing the words. Kim’s face is not seen. Her hands are, though, holding a length of silk scarves that have been tied together. Black and red. Black and red. Black and red. She is running the length between her hands, and Jessie watches her. The chorus repeats itself a second time, and Kim goes to work with her silk scarves, beginning by tying them carefully around Jessie’s ankles, working up from there. “Without you I couldn’t fly.” Wrapping once, covering the knot. “I remained stranded on the ground.” Again, layering black against red, catching the bottom of Jessie’s trousers. “So I taught the spiders to cry.” Again around the bottom of the trousers, smoothing out the bump that had been left previously. Meticulous. “In their webs I will stay bound.” Kim looks up at Jessie, whose eyes are rolled up to stare at the ceiling, a look that could be fear or passion on her face. The bass-line takes over the insistent rhythm, and a sax can now be heard wailing faintly behind the other instruments. Chatha, the pink girl, is running down the hall, screaming silently. Maybe she’s smiling a bit much for someone so supposedly scared, but at least she’s still running, waving her arms, playing out the full panic mode. With the verse, everyone is back on stage. Kim has her arms stretched above her head, hands clasped together, a devious smile on her lips. She knows her attitude and motions don’t fit the song. She doesn’t mind. “I never meant to hurt you. I never meant to toe the line. You know we were meant to be forever and I’m gonna’ make sure we remain together. I didn’t try to betray you. There was no malice in my intent, but I’m grounded in this place anyway and the spiders don’t want to go away.” Back to the instruments and the tireless girl in pink running down the hall. She passes by a goth couple making out passionately in a doorway, stopping only for a moment to tug on the sleeve of the goth girl, then point and yell “Spidahs!” The chorus again, with Kim kneeling at Jessie’s feet. She has bound her to her knees, trailing her fingers against the silk sensually. “More?” she asks over the music. Jessie, her head rolling against the back of the chair as though she’s about to be overcome, moans out: “More.” It takes another three repetitions of the chorus for Kim to wrap her bassist almost to the waist, securing her to the seat of the chair. She traces her fingers down the helpless woman’s legs, eyes closed. A longer instrumental interlude this time, giving the pink girl more time to run and point and scream, finding her band mates one at a time. She warns all of them of the coming spiders, getting quizzical looks and smiles, but she just keeps on running past the ratty drummer without giving her a second glance. Onstage, Kissably has let her hair fall in front of her face again, acting instead of giving into the necessity of feeling. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to love you. I’m just so afraid of driving you away. “How much will it take to get you back? The spiders own my heart tonight. “The spiders are dry-eyed forever.” She pushes the hair back out of her face. “Neither of us has ever won. Hold onto me just a little longer. I’m think that I’m coming...” She grinned. “Undone.” An instrumental added for the purpose of the single starts in. Elke, almost tripping over her own guitar cord, walks up to her mic, staring in wide-eyed wonder at something above the audiences heads. “D’ya see ‘em? D’ya see em? I -- the -- they’re everywhere. Man, they’re everywhere... I swear! See, it’s that hole--” she points at the spot in the ceiling. A huge, gaping black hole right above the audience, and is that a long, spindly, hairy leg creeping out of it? “--it’s that hole up there. Dude! Spiders...” It’s almost as though her voice draws them out. “Spiiiiders...” The size of a human head, maybe a birthday cake, coming down on threads right above the unsuspecting audience. “Spiders everywhere!” Readying her guitar as a weapon, she steps one pace away from the microphone. “And you can see ‘em. They way they’re so creepy and crawly and everywhere. They’re everywhere! Spiders!” One of the giant spiders falls on its silken thread right in front of her. She shrieks, winds back with her guitar, then whacks the thing right out into the audience. “Oh... Watch your heads! Audience people, watch your heads... I’m sorry. I’m so bloody sorry!” As the chorus comes back for another set of repetitions, Kim is now on her feet beside the bound bassist, working the silk higher. Lines of black and red, wrapping around the shoulders, neck, chin. Carefully, slowly. Lingering with a sigh before wrapping it around Jessie’s mouth, nose, eyes. She falls away from her bound bassist, landing on her back on the floor, covering her eyes as she begins to sob. “How much will it take to get you back? The spiders own my heart tonight.” A close-up on her face as she pulls her hands back, staring past the smearing black eyeliner with defeated green eyes. “The spiders are dry-eyed forever. Neither of us have ever won. Hold onto me just a little longer. I think that I’m coming undone.” Her green eyes close, and the instruments draw everything back out to the hallway where the pink girl runs. She has found a door right in front of her, and pulls it open. It leads outside. “Without you I couldn’t fly. I remained stranded on the ground.” Standing out there is a young man with a pierced eyebrow, looking exaggeratedly at his watch. He holds out a bouquet of pink roses held together by a spider ring. “So I taught the spiders to cry. In their webs I will stay bound.” The pink girl rolls her eyes and throws her arms around him, muttering something too soft to be heard. (“Y’re a big doofus, y’know, offerin’ y’rself up fer this vid’.”) She pulls back, smiling up at him, lips still moving. (“Jus’ ‘cause Rain did i’ don’ mean y’re obli-- obligae-- obliga-sumthin’ t’ do i’.”) He puts the roses into her hand. “For you.” The music fades out as the pink girl grins, steps back from her boy, and twirls with her arms thrown out. She’s holding tight to the roses, but a few petals and leaves find their way to the ground and she spins and spins.This
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