The Wages, An Illustrated Story | 11. Masterstroke | Pearly Light
I struggled to prevent my song’s shame-saturated backstory from defining me and I tried to tune back in to the present moment. I crushed and squeezed the paper bag while I marched through Toronto in an emotional whirlwind propelled by the excitement and apprehension of hearing my voice on the radio. A purple hairbrush and a bottle of antacid were humble celebrations for a music industry milestone, but I felt grateful for both. Overcast weather never bothers me, and I picked up my step through the pearly light that glowed from the pastel textures of the bustling big city on my day of success.
But my secret persisted and I fought intrusive thoughts of the DJ smuggling my unzipped promo photo home so he could save a couple of bucks by skipping the latest copy of Penthouse or Playboy. Then I decided that was the vainest notion that had ever crossed my mind. But it couldn’t be vain because it was not the goal of all my efforts to have my picture stashed in a bedside drawer somewhere. If that was my sole objective I would have obscured my identity with some kind of boundary like a fake name—the opposite of telling my entire story.
My mind was overflowing with nonsensical conundrums again. I had to stop spiraling into feeling unworthy of having my song on the radio. I resolved that if anybody is going to spread pictures of me around, those pictures have to come with my voice. My voice was now being broadcast far and wide, so I called it a deal. What the DJ did or didn’t do alone was his own business, and I was glad I had no way of knowing.
I whispered, “Thank you for other people’s privacy. Amen.”
I needed to stop the misgivings and be more open to happy opportunity in my career and in my life. It would be nice if I could bring my hours of lonesome rehearsal unzips into the real world in front of a lover. Getting married would be a good way to solve my sexual isolation and manage my weird eruptions of desire, so I could concentrate on making a living by making better music than ‘I Feel So Trashy’.
That would mean I would have to choose a male partner, but I spoke this prayer aloud; “The right man could show me the true meaning of being a wife. Amen.”