Diary Of A Blues Goddess. Erica Orloff
I would rip my own soul out for the chance to see him once again. I haven’t suffered enough.
I’m also not like Michelle Pfeiffer in The Fabulous Baker Boys, writhing around on top of the piano without being so klutzy that she rolls off the piano. Nor am I like Nicole Kidman in Moulin Rouge, hanging from a swing and inspiring a roomful of men to sigh. Yes, singing bubblegum pop is one thing, standing in a spotlight like a true chanteuse is something else entirely.
So while I bide my time, waiting to evolve into a blues goddess, waiting to get the nerve to stand in that hot light and belt out a song that speaks to other people, in the way that static electricity can send a shock through one person’s hand to another, I sing the words to every song I wish I didn’t know.
“Get Into the Groove,” by Madonna. Know it.
“My Heart Will Go On,” by Celine Dion. Know it.
“Oops! I Did It Again,” by Britney Spears (know it and particularly hate it).
“Celebration,” by Kool & the Gang. Can sing it blindfolded.
Unless, of course, it’s at the Wedding of the Year, and I get the shock of my young life.
Cammie Winthrop was to marry Dr. Robert Carrington III, the plastic surgeon who can liposuction your Heavenly Hash-enhanced thighs away, on this particular beautiful sunny day in May—with no humidity—as if her father had ordered up the weather from God himself, which he might have because if God can be bought, Roger Winthrop is buying. He is the king of New Orleans real estate, and the reception Jack and I were racing to in his Buick was to be held in the ballroom of the Winthrop family’s very own plantation. That’s another side of New Orleans for you. Plantations and Greek Revival mansions surrounded by moss-draped oaks. You feel as if any moment someone’s going to hog-tie you into a corset and a hoop skirt.
Jack and I arrived at the Winthrop plantation. Gary was pacing as we entered the ballroom.
“Do you live to torture me?” he asked. Then he put up his hands. “Don’t answer that. I know…the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse will ride through the French Quarter before you’re ever on time.” He looked at my leg. “Wite-Out? Please…. please, I am begging you, tell me that’s not Wite-Out. Georgia…when you go to buy pantyhose and tampons, can you not just make a mental note to purchase enough for a few months? Like pantyhose—buy every last pair in your size. I mean, why do I know more about your preference for control tops than you do? Why? Tell me why!”
Gary was clearly panicked, and his voice was rising into a falsetto range usually hit only by Dominique. Did I mention, the Winthrop wedding was the social event of the year? If we played well, which, after years together, we did effortlessly, we would have weddings and functions filling our schedule for the next two years. But Gary thrived on panic. That and ABBA made him tick. Just like antagonizing him brought me small comfort and wrought revenge for the sequins.
“You need to seriously take a Valium. Go to the bar and have a shot of something.”
“Georgie, you are the reason I live on Tums,” Gary whined. “See these?” He pointed to beads of moisture accumulating near his receding hairline. “You cause these.”
“Fine. But I’m the only person in the band who can fill out a sequin dress.”
Endgame.
Soon, I was singing my heart out, hoping, as I often and ridiculously do, that there among the tables-for-ten surrounding the dance floor was some record executive waiting to discover me—the easy way. All right, so this isn’t exactly a formula for being discovered, but I tell myself it’s possible. Like run-proof pantyhose being invented.
I was, this day, quite specifically, singing the infamous, crowd-pleasing, no-wedding-will-be-complete-without-it song, “Celebration.” Ever notice how few words it has? It’s pretty much just endless repeating of “Celebrate good times” and “Come on.” Doesn’t take Billie Holiday to sing it. But Cammie Winthrop wanted to dance to it with all her blond sorority sisters (not a brunette in the bunch, though the band and I had a betting pool on the number of natural blondes, which was likely considerably smaller). And whatever Cammie wanted, Cammie got. Including a five-thousand-dollar muted oyster-colored Vera Wang dress and a diamond tiara.
I was on the small stage that had been built by the dance floor, sparkling in my silver gown, with not one but two pairs of pantyhose on. Well, not exactly. I had one leg each of two separate pairs. I arrived at the wedding in the Wite-Out pair, which I had put on while Jack screeched his way onto the plantation’s grounds, me wriggling into them on the front seat, and which had a run in the left leg—held in check by a smear of white. Gary, obviously tired of my ruining a pair of hose at every wedding, and always in the leg visible through the slit of my dress, almost always keeps an extra pair of my size B’s in nude, with control top, in his keyboard case. I had counted on that all along. I had grabbed them from him as he mopped at his forehead, and I raced to the bathroom, sweating all the while, making my hair frizz and curl faster than ever. Putting on the new pair, my nail made a run in the opposite leg. Again, I cursed the geniuses who could send a probe to Mars but not make a run-proof formula. However, with some creative cutting with a steak knife borrowed from the kitchen, I had, ostensibly, one full pair of pantyhose. One of each leg, with a double set of control tops. I was feeling very tight-tummied.
And I was singing the aforementioned simple-to-remember words to “Celebration.”
And I glanced across the dance floor.
And the words to “Celebration” left my mind.
Gone. Like a giant black hole had sucked them from my brain. Nothing in my mind but “la, la, la.” Gary looked at me imploringly. Jack stared at me desperately, as if willing the words into my brain. But it was hopeless. Because there, across the dance floor, standing on the perimeter, looking slightly older but still confident and handsome, was Casanova Jones.
The only man I’d ever, even briefly, thought might be The One.
chapter
4
I t was the shriek heard round the world. Or at least round the French Quarter.
The day after the Wedding of the Year and my momentary attack of amnesia, my friend Maggie came over to cut my hair and dye Dominique’s eyebrows to match her new platinum look. As soon as I told them that I had run into Casanova Jones, Dominique shrieked and began hugging me and jumping up and down.
“Did you fuck him in the men’s room?” Dominique squealed.
“No, I did not!”
“The ladies’ room?”
“Give me a break.”
“You thought about it though.” She stepped back and wagged her finger as if scolding a child.
“God help me, you’re impossible.”
“This guy must be something if he’s a possible bathroom screw,” Maggie said, directing me toward the sink. “I need details. Like who is he? And what the hell kind of name is Casanova Jones?”
“I can’t tell you yet. I’m in hair shock. What, exactly, are you doing with your hair?”
Maggie works at a trendy salon near the Garden District. She makes a ton of money—in cash. She makes a whole lot more than a wedding singer, I can tell you—though I guess that isn’t really saying a whole hell of a lot. Still, she doesn’t have to wear sequins to do it. She’s considered one of the best stylists in the city and even does the hair of a couple of well-known actresses when they are in the Big Easy shooting movies. But somehow, despite knowing everything there is to know about cutting hair, and highlights, and foils and all of that, her own hair is what I would gently term “experimental.” It’s art. What kind of art, I can’t tell you. This particular Sunday, I would perhaps call her hair color raspberry, though it was more accurately some strange hybrid of red and purple. And the cut was lopsided. As in uneven.
“It’s