I’ve just signed with an agent, Drea Cohane of The Rights Factory in Toronto. I’m pretty excited and boosted; such a boost to have a professional in your corner. Drea is smart, enthusiastic and encouraging. I will have more news in the near future. In the meantime, here’s an excerpt from the forthcoming Town Slut’s Daughter.
New York, New York, a town so nice, they named it twice. Nice. Yeah, right. And the city that never sleeps never sleeps because it’s rank and sweltering hot, baked sidewalks oozing blood, urine, spittle. Neither did things cool after sundown. Still, Fiona loved the city’s fascinating, ruthless nightlife and omnipresent skyscrapers.
The band had scored a sublet on the Upper West Side, not far from the Dakota and the Museum of Natural History, New York City a peeping tom’s paradise. The Virgins watched yuppie couples cook, cleaning crews dust and a working girl roosted on her toilet, a fine line between uninhibited and exhibitionist thought Fiona.
The plan was to sojourn in NYC for a month, play shows, make contacts, seek management and promote the EP. Everybody else liked the record. It got them gigs, which got them press, which got them a European tour, airplay on a string of college radio stations and a big time booking agent, Brian Kezdy. Most East Coast press coverage was favourable, though Fiona wondered why rock journalists could never come up with one original question.
FROM CANADA—PURE ROCK ‘N ROLL—THE VIRGIN MARRIES
I must admit I’m a sucker for girls with guitars. At times this well-built punk thrash outfit from Vancouver, Canada, sounds like Bessie the Brontosaurus pounding the city’s pavement. You have to give them credit for being tough and loose, fast and funny, all in a femaleist way, as they steadfastly condemn tanning beds, silicone implants and Citibank. The Virgin Marries exhibit the introspection of a Steppenwolf in All I Have Is Me while Woman Driver reveals insights into the female psyche: A mother, a bride or a daughter / Now which one will I be/ Forever and ever is a long time/ To turn my back on me/ My parents ornament the hood/ My husband’s in the rear view mirror/ My children ride up on the roof/ I think I am behind the wheel. This is a seditious band and these provocative young women provide fine, if not frightening, role models.
New York City is not a good place for anyone with a jones for heroin. Dolores swore she was trying to corral her habit, but Jackie often found her in the bathroom, head in bowl or spike in arm. Rita kept an eagle eye on the band’s equipment.
“That’s the next step with junkies. They start stealing your shit and pawning it.”
“Aw man,” said Dennis, “don’t call her a junkie.”
They wanted to put Dolores into rehab but Kezdy had them booked to play the UK and Europe a month down the road.Despite a loud Virgin Marries buzz, a 150 bucks was the most money they’d ever earned. Friends and hangers-on volunteered to manage the band but Rita insisted on holding out for someone with clout. They did have a certain breed of chippy coming out for all their shows, new friend Poppy the ultimate fan. Poppy was an exotic dancer, a euphemism for stripper, Fiona learned.
“Poppy is sexually strident, cheerfully malevolent and a larcenist,” observed Rita. “Check her bag.”
A huge Plasmatics fan, Poppy had decided the Virgin Marries were her new favorite band. “I’d walk through Bed Stuy to see you girls.”
She often got off stage at the Galaxy Club in Times Square, covering her tits and track marks with feather boas to take a cab to Max’s, because “CB’s is full of bridge and tunnel people now.” Poppy spent all her tip money on drinks and drugs, indulging Dolores far too much. She introduced the Virgins to Dee Dee Ramone, Mink DeVille, Johnny Thunders and Gordon Stevenson, bass player for Lydia Lunch’s band, Teenage Jesus and the Jerks. They wondered why Johnny Thunders knew everybody. Why soon became obvious. Thunders was a desperate opportunist hustling anyone who showed even the remotest interest in him. Poppy had asked Fiona to come by her room at the Chelsea to pick her up for lunch. Fiona dutifully arrived on time and walked in on her giving Thunders a blowjob.
“Oops, sorry!” she sputtered.
The “living tragedy” looked up. Sort of. Poppy lifted her head of kewpie doll curls, Thunders’ dick at half-mast. “I’ll be right with you, sweetie.”
Yeah, right. Too bad she’s not getting paid by the hour.
It seemed the entire Isle of Manhattan fancied the Virgin Marries, including John Belushi, often showing up at their shows, entourage in tow. Club and record storeowners were bombarded with requests for the Virgin Marries. Major label deal rumors flew.
“Oh man! We’ve gotta get signed to Virgin Records.”
Revelling in their run of successful New York City gigs, Fiona sat sipping coffee, reading a Sunday Times article about John Steinbeck’s friend marine biologist Ed Ricketts, not only the inspiration for Cannery Row character Doc, but Steinbeck’s muse as well. The phone rang.
“Fiona, get over here!” yelled Poppy. “415 W. 57th Ave. Quick! Jackie OD’d.”
“What!”
“Jackie’s dead!”
A lump with legs skittering across her innards, Fiona dropped the phone, looked at Rita and Dennis eating their breakfast, and repeated, “Jackie’s dead.”
They sat a moment staring at each other across congealing eggs until Rita bolted, toppling her chair, Fiona and Dennis following her out the door and down the stairs. They hailed a cab, slamming into each other trying to enter. Fiona shouted the address, stared out the window. Jackie’s the tough one. Jackie’s the smart one! Yelling at the driver, they battled rapids of traffic all the way, jumped out, frantic, but soon located the building. Poppy buzzed them into a trendy apartment gleaming with glass and stainless steel. She led them into the bathroom and crossed herself.
Rita gasped, “Oh my God!”
Jackie floating in the tub, translucent, stiff. Already. Head swimming, Fiona slapped her hand over her mouth. Dennis fell to his knees, weeping. A clock ticked loudly. He lifted Jackie’s long, slender fingers from the water, crushing them to his cheek, sapphire ring raising a red welt in his flaxen whiskers. Dennis looked up at Fiona, anguish in his face triggering a pang in her gut. She glanced away, tub’s claw feet clutching swollen, turquoise marbles, minute bubbles in the glass. Fiona knelt, leaned into Dennis, fiercely pressing her brow to his, clutching the hair at the nape of his neck.
“How could this happen?” Dennis rose with his voice. “Goddammit! What happened?”
Pillow-clutching-Dolores huddled on the couch, moaning, face hidden behind her hands. You stupid bitch. Dennis went over and put his arm around her, cradling her head on his shoulder. She wailed and heaved with a series of strident sobs, Fiona barely reigning in the urge to slap her.
“Why didn’t you call an ambulance?”
“Because you were wasted as usual!” shouted Rita.
“Couldn’t you hear her? Couldn’t you hear her dying, for Chrissakes?”
Dolores buried her face. “Nooooooo! Jaaaaa………..ckie!”
The twins had attended a party with Poppy, Dennis and Fiona off to see Fast Times At Ridgemont High, adjourning to the Golden Harp for a Guinness. Rita took a bath, went to bed early as Jackie and Dolores drank crazy sake, served with ice in little wooden boxes. Jackie took Quaaludes. Several hours later, she turned blue, passed out and nearly stopped breathing. Some jerk put her in a cold shower, poured coffee down her. The party animals got scared and buggered off, leaving Jackie unconscious, choking in the bathroom, eventually suffocating on her vomit, Dolores and Poppy nodding out in the next room.
“Christ! All you had to do was dial 9-1-1. They could have pumped her stomach!”
“Get her out of here.” Poppy’s composure floored Fiona and Dennis, infuriated Rita.
They refused to leave, a nasty argument ensuing. Rita called the police, Poppy scuttling off. Rita identified the body. The body. Jackie’s body. Jackie.
PROVOCATIVE VIRGIN ODs New Musical Express, the Vancouver Sun, Georgia Straight and the LA Weekly called. Then Kezdy.
“You could capitalize on this you know. Graduate from notorious to nefarious, be the ultimate bad girls.” He offered to be their manager.
“Asshole!” Rita slammed down the phone.
Fiona sat on a bench in Central Park and bawled, staring down anyone who dared look at her twice.
The girls were questioned by the NYPD, required at the inquest. After nearly two weeks of red tape, Jackie’s body was sent home, Rita, Dennis and Dolores flying back to attend the funeral. Fiona couldn’t bear the thought of returning, tail between her legs. Easier to face the press and police. There was talk of the Virgin Marries regrouping. In the meantime, Fiona would have to find a job and a place to stay. Dennis promised to return. She begged him not to.
“I just want to be alone.”