"What Nothing Reveals" by John Yohe
Tired and dehydrated, walking along Palma's huge port with the rows and rows of sailboats and yachts bigger than his whole apartment building back in Michigan. No shade. At a “river” (a dribble coming out of a big drain pipe at mid-summer) the man checks his tourist map and cuts up to a park, hoping for trees and a quiet bench, but it's crowded, teens hanging out in the lower section and younger kids playing in a playground. But right next door, a bar with a shady patio.
Not many people inside. He sits in the small non-smoking section, next to a young woman who looks to be a tourist too, blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, white sun visor and large sunglasses, wearing a tanktop and white cargo shorts, with a pair of the gladiator-looking sandals in fashion in Spain that summer. Can of Diet Coke on her table, small notebook open on her lap, with blank pages.
He puts his old bike messenger bag on the seat next to him. The camarero comes over immediately, smiling. The man says: —Un gin tonic, por favor.
—Un gin tonic. Muy bien.
The camarero leaves with a nod. The man looks around, just happy to be off his feet. Another young woman reading a book in the smoking section, though not smoking. Three young women speaking rapidfire Spanish enter: college, maybe high school age, with piercings and mullet haircuts, which he hasn't been able to determine means merely “alternative,” or “lesbian,” or both. All three in old dark jeans and t-shirts, tattoos up and down their arms. With the whole smoking section to choose from, they sit down at the table right next to the woman reading, which maybe answers his question.
The camarero returns, wide glass filled with ice cubes, bottle of tonic water, and bottle of gin. He pours the gin a third of the way up and fills the rest with the tonic water, leaving the bottle on the table. The man smiles. —Gracias. Con mucho hielo. Perfecto! Todo perfecto!
The camarero nods and smiles. —Nada.
Swirling it a little, to cool it, the man sips, then takes a gulp, leaning back and sighing. —God, that's fucking awesome!
The woman next to him laughs. He tries a friendly smile. —Sorry. Pardon my French.
She smiles back.—It's okay. I didn't think you were American at first.
—I didn't think you were American either. We seem to be rare here on Mallorca. It's just Germans everywhere.
She nods. —Yeah. Good thing everyone speaks English, I wouldn't be able to survive. Your Spanish seems pretty good. Like, Spanish Spanish, not mexican. The way you say gracias with the lisp sound.
—Thanks. I feel like it's getting worse here actually. If I make one little mistake trying to talk to someone, they just switch to English, even if their English is horrible.
He takes another drink, waiting to see if she seems open to talking more. No wedding ring.
She talks. —So what are you doing here in Palma?
He waves a hand vaguely east, or where he thinks east is. —I'm actually staying out on the Playa.
Her eyes widen a little. —Wait, the beach? You're sleeping on the beach?
He laughs. —No no no. Although that might be cool. There's a row of hotels out east of Palma that everyone just calls the Playa. It's like ten kilometers of sand, with tons of hotels. I found a cheap one just a couple blocks from the water.
—How much is cheap?
—Like twenty-five euros a day.
Which is like, fifty dollars. She hesitates. —Oh.
Which probably means she's staying at a way more expensive place. —How about you? You here in Palma?
She nods. —Yeah.
—Are you one of the boat people?
She does a double-take. —The what?
—One of the people who came in on a yacht?
She laughs. A nice, natural laugh. —No. Not a boat person. I never really wanted to have one. I've been on them before though. I flew down here from England. To get away.
—From what?
She shrugs. —Oh, well, you know. Everything. I actually came here because I heard there weren't a lot of Americans.
—Ah. Sorry to spoil your escape.
Another smile. —It's okay. I just don't want to—
She pauses. She takes a deep breath. —I just got sick of being seen.
He nods to her notebook. —Oh. So are you like someone famous? Are you a writer?
She smiles. —Well, I'm a songwriter.
—Oh. Cool.
The camarero comes by to ask if they want another round. They both say yes.
She looks at his bag. —What about you? I see you've got a notebook in there too. Are you a writer?
He shrugs. —Well, yes. I teach writing, but I'm a poet.
—Really? Like, published?
He nods. —Yes actually.
—Like, with a book and everything?
—Yes. I have a book out through the University of Pittsburgh Press. Came out last year.
—What's it called?
He holds up his hands. —What Nothing Reveals. But believe me, I have not made any money on it.
—Still though. I'd like to read it.
—Well, I'll send you a copy when I get back.
—Are you from Pittsburgh?
—No. That's just where the press is from. I'm from Michigan.
—I've been to Michigan. Detroit?
—I live in Kalamazoo.
—Oh. I've heard of it? I'm sure I've driven through it.
—It's on the other side of the state. Closer to Chicago.
—Okay, yeah, I probably drove through it going from Detroit to Chicago or something.
—Where are you from?
—Originally? Idaho. Boise, Idaho.
—Okay. I've been there.
—You have?
—Sure. And I've been up in the Panhandle a lot.
—Oh my god, you really know about the Panhandle?
—Yeah. I was on a lot of fires up there. Before I was a teacher I was a wildland firefighter, and we'd always end up in Idaho at some point every summer.
—Oh my god, wait. You're a teacher, but you used to be a firefighter?
He nods. —Yeah.
—Wait. Why don't you fight fires anymore?
He laughs. —Long long story. Firefighting's okay, but it didn't pay very well. Plus I got sick of being away from home all the time. And, just being a grunt, taking orders from idiots with high school degrees.
She frowns.
—Sorry. I take it you didn't go to college?
She shakes her head.
—I just assumed you had. I apologize.
She shrugs. —It's okay. I actually regret not going.
—My point was to say that my supervisors were idiots. But you know, even that's not true. There were some good ones. I'm an idiot for even saying that.
—It's okay, really.
The camarero returns with the drinks. The man tells him en español to put the Diet Cokes on his bill. The camarero nods and leaves. She digs in her bag. —No no no! Let me get this! Really!
—No, I want to make up for insulting you.
—You didn't insult me! Plus, I mean, I know you're watching your money.
—Thanks. I'm okay. Please let me. Can I ask a favor though? What's your name? Just so I can tell people I bought a famous person a drink.
She frowns. —You really want to know?
—Sure.
She says her name and, of course, he instantly recognizes her. He's not familiar with her music, but knows her as a phenomenon, from a young teen pop star to a famous pregnancy, to an infamous mental breakdown a few (or more, he couldn't remember) years ago. —Oh. Wow.
She shrugs, frowning. —Yeah.
—I'm surprised you're even alone here.
—I've got my entourage, but I just wanted to get off by myself for a while.
He searches his memory for something decent to talk about. Ah ha: —So, don't you have a son?
She smiles. —Yes! He's here. He's with his nanny, napping hopefully. He's wonderful.
—How old is he?
—He's five! He's amazing! I don't know what I'd do without him!
Her phone chirps and she looks at the screen. —My manager. I should take this.
She answers. —What up baby? Where you at? London? Still? Is it foggy? I'm just chillaxing in Palma. Loving it. It's so quiet.
He gets up to use the servicios and cover the bill. When he gets back she's packing away her notebook in her purse. —I have to get back. My son's up and hungry.
He holds out his hand. —Nice to talk with you.
She smiles and shakes it. —Likewise.
—Hey, before you go, there's this open mic at a jazz club tonight. Would you like to go?
She looks at him, almost stunned.—Oh. Wow. Really? Are you a musician?
—Yeah, I play bass. I have no idea what it'll be like but if you want maybe we could check it out.
She pauses, tilting her head. —Well, um, I don't know. It's really cool you asked me though. Thank you. Where is it?
He gives her the name of the club and shows her the street on the map. She nods and smiles. —Okay, well, let me see what's going on tonight. What's your number?
He stuffs the map back in his messenger bag. —I'm phoneless here in Europe.
—Oh wow, I'd be like, lost without my phone.
—Anyways, it would be cool to see you. If not . . . .
—Yeah, if not . . . this was fun.
She gives a little wave. He waves back. —Okay. Bye.
—Yeah! Adios! Chau!
She walks away, already talking on her phone. Quietly, he says her name out loud.
Walking back into town, into the old centro, narrow cobbled streets where cars drive by with barely any room for pedestrians. Doors lead to tattoo shops, or restaurants, or clothing stores, or huge courtyards that could be a house, or the Swedish Consulate. San Miquel, the main street, teeming with people, tourists and locals, shopping, dining, seeing and being seen. He ducks back onto side streets, and eventually stumbles upon the Literanti bookstore, air-conditioned, gracias a Dios, with a café where he can sit and drink a green tea and rest and read Roberto Bolaño in the original Spanish.
Rested, and after checking his map, he heads north back through el centro, and on another busy cross-street finds a “locutorio,” a cyber café, where he rents a computer for one euro an hour. He puts on headphones and brings up YouTube, typing in her name. A long list of videos comes up, some with millions of views. He clicks on what looks like the most recent: Drum machine, synthesizers instead of real horns, and there she is, dancing in skimpy futuristic-looking rags, mouthing the words to a song about dancing at the end of the world. Behind her, a group of raggedy dancers mimicking her moves. There doesn't seem to be a verse, just a chorus repeated over and over, a simple rhyme, so that he could sing it after hearing it once. The song is—he can't help it—awful. She looks amazing though. Athletic body, shiny lips and impossibly high heels. He wouldn't have recognized her in the café, even if he’d been familiar with the video.
A loud German man (which at this point in his trip seems like a redundant statement) is skyping a couple computers over, so he turns the volume up on his computer drowning him out with Metallica while he reads her Wikipedia page: Thirteen-year-old tv star on Nickelodeon becomes sixteen-year-old wunderkind, favorite of young teen girls everywhere. Her infamous striptease routine at seventeen during the MTV Awards. Her teen pregnancy shortly thereafter, and marriage to small town sweetheart from Idaho, with the divorce six months later. The breakdown. Son taken away and given to her parents. Drug rehab. The last album, supposedly her comeback, didn't sell very well at all. The comeback tour cancelled midway through. Her silence for the last year.
At night the streets in the old centro section look and feel even more like alleys, except that there are even more people out and about. He arrives at the bar, called simply the Palma Jazz Bar, at nine, though it isn't open yet. People waiting around outside, mostly skinny long-haired musician-types, with guitars and cymbal cases and girlfriends in tow. Young, they all look so young. He thinks, I was like that once.
She arrives ten minutes later, wearing dark jeans, her sandals, and a black silk blouse. Her hair still pulled back in a ponytail, and she's wearing black thick-rimmed glasses. —Hey!
—Hey!
She presents her cheek to be kissed, European-style, which he does, with only a little awkwardness on whether they do the double kiss, both cheeks, or not. They do.
—You came!
—Yeah! They're not open?
—I think they're on Spanish time.
She's standing next to him and they watch the people passing in the street. He smiles at her. —I'm glad you came.
She smiles. —Yeah! Sure! Sounds interesting. I've never actually gone to an open mic before.
—I mean, it could suck. There could be bad players. But it could be awesome too. Or, at least that's how they are back in America.
—So I'm trying to figure out how you've done all the things you've done in your life. Musician. Firefighter. Teacher. Poet.
He shrugs and smiles. —Well, I am older than you.
—Yeah but, most people don't do any those things. Or they do one.
—I'm not sure about that. Maybe you can understand growing up in a small town. Or, okay, Boise isn't so small.
—Yeah it is.
—Okay, well, I just always wanted to escape. I always thought there was more to do than watch Dancing With The Stars on tv and eat Doritos.
She laughs.
A man finally arrives with a key, opening the door, and everyone files in, going upstairs to the second floor. The space small, about twenty feet wide and maybe forty to fifty feet long. Bar at one end, small stage at the other. Walls painted black, dark red lighting and small candles the camarera is lighting on various tables, either shorter ones near the stage or longer ones in back. A large-screen tv playing music videos from what looks to be a Romanian VH1 station.
They grab a tall table in back and the camarera with short brown hair and tight blue dress and heels comes over and takes their order: white wine for him, and another Diet Coke for her. The house band—guitar player, bassist, drummer, keyboard player, all in their early twenties—start setting up.
—Man, this is already different from the open mics I've been to in the States.
—How?
He nods to a table of young women. —Usually it's a bunch of old guys, there's never females in the audience. They don't even look like girlfriends of anybody. They actually came to hear live music.
She smiles. —Why is that so shocking?
—Nobody does. Nobody listens to real musicians anymore.
Which, given what he listened to this afternoon, might not be the most tactful thing to say. But she doesn't seem to take offense, or care, or even make any connection at all. After everything's miked up and ready to go, the tv volume's lowered, the drummer goes into a funky sixteenth note groove on the hi-hat, with the guitar player vamping on a “chicka chicka” rhythm.
She looks at him. —I thought this was going to be jazz!
He shrugs. —So did I!
—Sounds almost like disco or something! I kinda like it!
Through the speakers comes a voice rapping in American English: Back at the bar a black man holds a wireless mic. —Yo yo yo y'all. W'sup? Que pasó todo el mundo? Bienvenidos al Palma Jazz Club and the open mic, el micro libre! Anyone want to play, just let me know. Díme a mí si quereís tocar algo, vale?
The keyboard player does a solo, and the host gets up on stage.
She leans into him. —This isn't jazz at all!
He nods. —I know. I feel like I'm at the Nuyorican in Manhattan. Have you ever been there?
She shakes her head. —No! Why isn't anybody dancing?
—Not sure! I mean, there isn't a dance floor.
The song ends and the host points out to the crowd. —Alright yo, quién quiere tocar? Don't be shy. I see all these musicians out there, but nobody has the balls to come up.
The man raises his hand. The host points at him. —Vale! Qué tocas, mi amigo?
—El bajo!
—Okay, venga, come on up.
She pats him on the back. —Cool! Good luck!
—Thanks!
The whole club watching as he steps up onstage. The house bass player hands him his bass.
—Gracias.
—Nada hombre. Anda.
He puts it on, hands shaking. He looks at the band. The guitar player asks, —Qué quieres tocar?
He shrugs. —Bueno. Un blues? Un blues funky? Algo así?
They nod. The guitarist calls the key, the man watches him on the chord changes, locking with the drummer, playing steady sixteenth notes again, trying to throw in some fast fills, already soaked in sweat. After the guitar player takes a long solo, end of the twelve-bar coming around again, the man looks over raising his eyebrows. The guitarist nods. Bass solo! He moves his fingers up the neck, keeping the sixteenth notes going so the bottom groove doesn't drop out. People in the audience whistle, so he keeps going, stopping the pulse to bend some notes, trying to have some kind of melody while still keeping the rhythm. Basically impossible, but he tries his best, soloing for two rounds, then slides back into the low funky groove. People applaud.
After the song, the band looks at him. The drummer asks if he sings. He smiles. —Pues....sí. Pero en inglés.
He smiles. —Mejor!
They put an extra mic and stand in front of him and they play an easy ZZ Top song, “Just Got Back From Baby's,” a shuffle blues in C minor, which goes pretty well. He tries a funky version of Dylan's “Meet Me In The Morning,” and even takes another bass solo. Back in America he would have been rotated out, if just for daring to do two bass solos, but they want him to do one more, so he takes them through B.B. King's “The Thrill Is Gone,” a slow latin-ish groove, which goes over very well, people actually recognize that one.
After that, a new group of musicians comes up on stage. He gives a bow and a gracias to the band. They wave and smile.
At the table, she's beaming. —Oh my god! You were great! I didn't know you were so good!
—Thank you!
—Where did you learn to play like that?
He shrugs. —Well, I went to a music school for a year.
—Of course, yet another unusual thing you've done.
He finishes his wine in two gulps. —I was a more serious musician when I was younger.
—Was? You still are!
He makes quote signs with his fingers. —Well, back then I was in 'the scene.'” You know, I wanted to '”make it'” and all that stuff.
—Why'd you stop?
—Just wasn't worth it. The band I was in, we were metalheads.
—Ha! Why does that not surprise me?
—Yeah, ha ha. But I just realized I didn't want to spend the rest of my life with those guys. One guy was openly racist, and all of them were homophobic.
—Oh, that sucks.
—Yeah, and in Michigan, it's just not that easy to find other good musicians. I mean, isn't it the same in Boise?
She looks up at the tv. —Actually I was never in a band. When we did my first album, I was doing a kids tv show.
—Oh yeah. I remember.
—Yeah, so basically we just kind of went to LA and did the album. Either my producer Pete did most of the drum machine programming, or we used studio musicians when we needed them. I just basically came in and sang. Next thing I knew, I was touring. The guys in the band when I tour are always really good.
—Do people even come see a band? Seems like they want to see you. To see a show. Which is different than a band.
—Yeah. I mean, my fans have a great time. I wouldn't do it if they didn't. They're awesome. They all dance. I like seeing them smile. I still can't believe people aren't dancing here.
—I know. If there was a DJ just playing songs I bet they would be.
—You know I bet you're right.
They listen to a couple more band incarnations. He asks her if she wants to get up and play or sing, but she shakes her head. —No. No way. I don't really play anything. Just like basic chords on the piano and stuff.
He's asked back up to play again, and after consulting with the drummer and guitar player, they play some Hendrix: “Red House,” “All Along The Watchtower” and “Hey Joe.” The crowd seems less excited, though the other musicians thank him for playing with them.
She yawns when he comes back to the table, so he proposes calling it a night.
Outside, he walks with her to the main avenue where she can catch a cab.
—Thanks for a great night. I never would have done anything like this here. Or even back in America.
—Well, if you're curious, there's usually open mics in any decent-sized city. That was a good night. Lots of good players. I don't know why they all play funk here though.
—It's cool though.
—How long are you here in Mallorca?
—Tomorrow the entourage is going over to Andrax.
—Oh. Isn't that like on the other side of the island?
—Yeah. Supposed to be quieter. I'm renting a house right on the ocean.
—Cool.
—Yeah.
They walk in silence until they get to the avenue. He hails a cab, it pulls over to the curb, and he opens the door for her.
She turns to face him. —Thanks again for a great night. Do you want to share a cab?
—No. Thanks. I'm going way out to the Playa. I'll catch the bus.
—Oh. Okay. I forgot. Well, chau!
She leans toward him. He hesitates, then kisses her on the cheek. —Goodnight. Great hanging out with you.
She looks at him oddly, though smiling, and gets in the back of the taxi, waving as it pulls away. He waves back.
Two weeks later, back in Kalamazoo, he keeps watching her music videos. Watching her. Listening to her voice. He finds the address of her management company and sends his book. Then mostly forgets, except when one of his students mentions her, or when he sees her picture on the cover of a tabloid newspaper.
The next summer her new album comes out, to rave reviews, saying that this is her real comeback, that she has finally matured and shed her teenybopper aura, thanks in part to her decision to use a real band on all of the tracks, against the wishes of her record company. He buys it on iTunes and listens alone in his apartment with the lights dimmed. It's good. Still formulaic, a little, but she's actually singing, and the band, with a real drummer, is tight and funky. The last track even has a bass solo.
Born in Puerto Rico, John Yohe grew up in Michigan and lives in Oregon. He has worked as a wildland firefighter, deckhand/oiler, bike messenger, wilderness ranger and fire lookout. Fiction Editor for Deep Wild Journal. www.johnyohe.com