Scar Girl (The Scar Boys #2)(32)

“Useless.” I couldn’t get it out of my head.





HARBINGER JONES


The truth is, I’d heard “Useless” before. Johnny had played the song for me a few days earlier, and we’d even worked on it a little bit. I nailed the guitar part at the Bitter End because I’d already played it. That’s something I’ve never told Cheyenne and Richie.

I didn’t know why Johnny was making it seem like I’d never heard it, but I figured he had a reason, so I played along.

I asked him about it later.

“Did you know,” he answered, “that when Alfred Hitchcock filmed the shower scene in Psycho, he used warm water for all the rehearsals? But when it came time for the actual take, he used cold water, only he didn’t tell Janet Leigh.”

“Who?” I asked.

“She’s the woman who gets stabbed in the shower.”

“Oh.” I’d never seen Psycho before, but I knew better than to interrupt Johnny when he got going on something.

“So when they started filming and they needed her to scream, they doused her with the ice-cold water and she gave the performance of her life.”

“John,” I said, both exasperated and confused, “what does that have to do with ‘Useless’?”

He rolled his eyes like I was the biggest idiot in the world for not following his train of thought. “I figured that, if the other guys thought it was a totally new song, it would give the band extra focus.”

Johnny was like that. Always looking for a way to push us harder, make us better. He was like our own David Lee Roth. It drove the three of us crazy sometimes, but for the most part, it worked. Whether or not it was his Psycho stunt—pun intentional—or something else, “Useless” worked that night, it really did. It was a totally magic moment. At least I thought so.

Only, as soon as we walked offstage, Johnny bit Chey’s head off, accusing her of playing drunk. She had been a little off during the set, but I wasn’t really sure where his level of anger was coming from. It ruined the whole good vibe we had going.

I started coiling my guitar cords and packing up my effects pedals in silence while Richie took apart his drum gear. Johnny, who looked really tired, was leaning against the wall; his blond curls, which he was growing out like Roger Daltrey, were matted against a concert poster for when Peter Frampton had played the club. Chey had stormed off to the bathroom.

“You kids were amazing,” this guy said as he walked up to us. I’m not sure why older people like to call younger people kids. Do they think it endears them to us? It doesn’t. It’s condescending. You don’t need to remind us that you’re older, wiser, and in control. We know that every waking minute of every day. It was especially aggravating on that night, because, really, we were supposed to be in control.

“Thanks,” Richie said. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m your fucking future,” the guy said. I liked his answer. It made me forget about the kids thing for a minute.

“You mean,” Richie responded, “like, you’re Johnny, but from the future?” He cackled at his own moronic joke, and I went back to coiling my guitar cords while the guy talked.

“Not quite. I manage rock bands, and I’d like to get the Scar Boys into the studio to cut a demo. I think you guys have something here, and I’d like to get a closer look.”

We all stopped what we were doing. He had our full attention now. He was a scrawny man with a big nose and yellow teeth, but also with a certain kind of charisma. He was holding business cards, fanned like a hand of poker.

“Jeff Evans,” he said, by way of introduction. We each shook his hand and took a card.

Jeff, seeing how completely dumbfounded we were, just stood there, taking it all in, grinning like he knew something we didn’t. Like he knew a lot of things that we didn’t.





RICHIE MCGILL


Jeff tried to come on all strong, like he was this wise older dude and we were just a bunch of dumb young punks.

He told us that he managed bands and gave us this whole song and dance about how he was gonna get us to the big time. I was still coming down off the high of the set, and I didn’t really know what to make of the dude. At first it sounded like a lot of bullshit.

“So listen up, Scar Boys and Scar Girl,” he said, nodding to Chey, who had just walked back up from taking a leak—wait, do girls say taking a leak? Anyways, Jeff said, “You’re doing great on your own. But you’re good enough for bigger venues. I saw you a couple of weeks ago at CBGB’s, when you opened for Chemicals Made of Mud. You shouldn’t be opening for wankers like that.” Jeff loved to say shit like wanker, tosser, and punter. He was one of those dudes who thought it was cooler to be British than American. I guess when he was younger the cooler bands and better music were coming out of the UK. That’s not true anymore. The crap coming out of London in the last few years flat-out sucks. I mean, Kajagoogoo? “If you’re going to be an opening act, then you should open for bands playing theaters and small arenas.”

“Arenas?” Johnny asked.

“Yes, arenas. Look, I have your single, ‘The Girl Next Door.’ It’s great. The raw emotion on it sucks you right in. But it needs a bit more of a professional touch.”