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.What They’re Saying (and Who Are They?) “Cait O’Dwyer’s voice is a wake-up call to a dormant, stupid, smug music biz.” “If you only go to one live show this year, this century, this eon, then this is the show.” “Music so pure and true you’ll sob.If you don’t, get therapy.” “She was Irish, but she’s ours now.This is the future of real American music.” Click here to download a.pdf of the Flambe profile of Cait, “Bleaker and Obliquer: A Simple Ghoul from Erin.”The Flambe article mentioned that she lived in Brooklyn over a tea shop, from which she bought purple boxes of an imported brand of breakfast tea she had known in her childhood, “where ghosts were a daily reality but sex was a legend or a nightmare never to be discussed.”3AND SO THE NEXT DAY Julian stood on Henry Street, less than a quarter mile from his apartment, in front of the building he had known at once from the puff piece’s breathy indiscretions, its ground-floor storefront filled with tea paraphernalia.Next to the window, its door buzzers were labeled plainly enough: 1- TEAPUTZ OFFICE, 2-M&R INC, 3-HARRIS, and floating atop them all, 4- CO’D.He listened to her demo on his iPod: “Come, come, come, come find me, no matter what I say.” A good line, implying a tormenting, irresistible woman, unsure of her own mind but accelerating in her fall for you, O listener at your computer, debating yourself as to whether she’s worth the dollar-download click, as Julian stood, facing her doorbell but still not touching it.They would go out for coffee and flex their overdeveloped charms.He would be cast in the role of suitor, if not the revolting and unholy hybrid of fan-suitor, a crest-flaunting lizard, and she the unimpressed, dozy-eyed lizardette.They would or would not be dazzled by each other’s personalities, each other’s memories, collected solely to display to others, thus winning new experiences and yet more memories.Perhaps they would be startled by the easy flow, scarcely able to pay for the coffee before dashing up her stairs, to shove each other into her apartment, to devour each other.Or with crevasses of cappuccino foam still wintry pert, they might shake hands, express mutual gladness at having met, thanks for the advice, good luck with your career.Or he might long to touch her cheek but then see her boredom with his time-dulled surfaces, with this interminable coffee coursing deep under insurmountable cappuccino Alps.Or she might make a fatal error, say something lame, dispel the thickening illusion that she was not half his age, and he would, limp as ever, smile wanly at the pretty little girl not worth even a cheap pass.“It’s cold outside, so come find me,” she persisted, but it wasn’t quite true; the weather was warming, and that was enough to break the spell.He’d imagined it.It was just pop music, not any real woman on earth.He turned away from her door and went to his office, embarrassed at having lurked and ogled.He spent the ride laughing at himself to avoid pitying himself.And by the time he’d arrived at his desk, he forgot all that shame and wisdom as his computer came to life with an email that asked, “Why didn’t you press the bell? Why not pay a call?”That first uncanny moment, coming to see he’d been observed, was enough to replenish everything he’d meant to outgrow on the subway.She must have watched him from her high window.He replayed the event now with its fuller meanings: not him brought to his senses but her showing herself to be the more confident and intriguing of them.She had watched for him, shadows and glare delicately shrouding her while he dithered and, after laughing at his shy retreat, she must have sat right down and written her anonymous taunt on his flashy website: “Contact Julian Donahue”: “Why didn’t you press the bell? Why not pay a call?” He sat back at his desk.She had somehow learned his name, his website, his work? She had toiled like a private detective or a crystal-ball-tickling step-witch? What giant footprints and fingerprints had he left behind on coasters, on a gallery guest list? Where else? His fingers shook so he could barely dial his iPod, and he tapped for her voice to match the sight of her pixellated bursting arrival into his world.No return email address, no signature, nowhere to reply, only pixels beautifully and originally arranged, her voice in his head, the song “Crass Porpoises” (or so her robust accent led him to believe until he reread the song list).But Julian wasn’t shaking from a desire to dash to her.She asked the question but knew the answer as well as he: he hadn’t rung the bell because that would have been a bore, to them both, and her anonymous taunt proved it, proved her, confirmed his best suspicions of her.He listened to his iPod and sketched storyboards of how they could meet, but because he was a hack, all his ideas were recycled from TV and movies and his own ads.Every approach he could imagine played itself out as quickly as his impulse to ring her doorbell, and she would laugh at him as loudly as she had today.He could use one of her songs in a commercial.Paired with certain images of love and renewal, “Coward, Coward” would be quite effective.And it would certainly be a gift to her, better than bouquets.She’d be paid hefty licensing.And mainstream hits were sometimes made thanks to tasteful use in the right commercial.Have Maile contact the label, insist Miss O’Dwyer meet the director herself: “I thought this a better call to make.”No, even that only rearranged the frames of a tolerable romantic comedy he’d sat through because Rachel liked the lead actor.She would just shake her head, as if he were one of those little boys at the club, complimenting themselves on their courage as they lost to her in cards.4HE WRESTLED THE QUESTION for several days, then decided the problem was not in how to meet but when, and maybe even why.Why not pay a call? Because they didn’t know enough yet.There were pleasures of investigation and discovery still to be enjoyed that he’d almost squandered.She was laughing at his impatience.Something original could still occur, something neither of them had ever known, and he had nearly destroyed it.And so he made himself sit still, and he watched [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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