Limelight
By Janine Kovac
When Magda arrived home at the end of her shift in the shoe department at Mellman’s, Jarricho was standing at the door, guitar in hand, waiting for her like a dog holding its leash, hoping to go to the park.
“Easy, tiger,” she said, throwing her Hello Kitty key ring into the air and catching it in her teeth before spitting it into a bowl by the coat rack. “I still have to do my nails.”
A lot of nerve, Jarricho thought. She hadn’t been home ten seconds and already she was goading him. A wisp of a girl at barely five feet and not yet nineteen, Magda was a head shorter and nearly a decade his junior. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep his sarcasm in check. She was not going to get the best of him tonight. Tonight they were going to meet actual famous people. Renni, wife of legendary jazz guitarist Sammy Stewart, and Mack, a childhood buddy of Jarricho’s from Jacksonville, were playing in a bar just a few blocks away.
The degrees of separation were both familial and circumstantial. Mack’s wife gave private tennis lessons and Sammy Stewart had recently added tennis to his daily swimming regimen. Mack’s wife mentioned that her husband played bass guitar and Sammy Stewart mentioned that his wife was looking for a practice partner. And that was that. Usually Mack and Renni played in her studio as she worked through new compositions. But tonight Renni had a gig in the East Village and she asked Mack to join, which brought Jarricho that much closer to sitting in.
Renata Zeiliński—known as “Renni” to the jazz world—was a guitarist “in her own right,” which meant that she had recorded albums and regularly toured sold-out shows in Europe. It meant that Sammy and Renni lived in the kind of apartment that had a doorman and that they belonged to the kind of athletic club that had a rooftop pool and private tennis instructors—all paid for by jazz.
Jazz didn’t pay for anything in the Jarricho-Magda household. It didn’t even pay for Jarricho’s guitar strings. It used to. Jarricho had played in the United States Navy Band, a gig that lifted him out of Jacksonville and had brought him to bases in Chicago, San Diego, and Seattle. It had gotten him out of debt and carried him to New York. But it wasn’t real jazz.
Jarricho described jazz as “noodling.” The way he explained it, the notes swirled and intersected with each other in different harmonics. Each diminished chord led to an infinite number of possible progressions and every melody was an improvised variation—an idea that drove Magda nuts. She liked the reliability of a routine that played over and over. Same steps, same music, same patterns. Repetition was the road to perfection. Improvisation felt so formless. Like aimless wandering. Like Jarricho’s life, come to think of it.
Magda sat on the bed and applied the finishing touches to her outfit: tomato red lipstick and blood red nail polish, both snatched from the dollar bin at Walgreens. The lipstick was waxy—the kind that left greasy smears on the rims of pint glasses. The nail polish, although fairly new, had a thick gooeyness to it. Each time she smoothed the brush over a fingernail, it left tiny clumps in the shellac.
“Ugh. This is going to take forever. I hate this nail polish.”
Jarricho felt his stomach contract. All day he’d been trying to coax his courage out of the shadows, alternating between coffee and weed. Don’t let her get to you, he told himself. Think of her as a spark. It’ll only catch fire if you add kindling. Focus on tonight. You’ll bring your guitar. You’ll sit in. You’ll be brilliant. This could be the break you’ve been waiting for.
But as soon as he felt confident, self-doubt seeped in. Maybe he shouldn’t take his guitar. What if it made him look desperate? What if it made him look cocky? Jarricho hated the sort of guy who showed up to a gig with his axe. It was so presumptuous. Why couldn’t he catch a break like Mack did? Bass players had it so easy.
Should he smoke another bowl to calm his nerves? What if they asked him to sit in and he was too stoned to play? He ran a hand through his mop of prematurely gray hair. Should he take the edge off with a drink instead? Maybe he didn’t need to bring his guitar. Even if he didn’t sit in, Mack would introduce him to Renni. Maybe even tell her how good he was. But what if Sammy Stewart was looking for another guitarist to round out his band for his next album and Jarricho missed the chance to prove himself?
“Hurry up, we’re going to be late.”
“They’re not dry yet.” Magda blew on her nails. “Besides, whoever heard of showing up ‘on time’ to a bar gig?”
In the two years they had been together, Magda never said reassuring things like, “But you’re so good!” or “Don’t worry, they’ll love you.” Not just because it would have sounded insincere (which it would have; she had no idea if he was a good musician or not), but because it never occurred to her. Instead, she let him sit and stew. The more anxious he got, the calmer she became.
She tapped on her nails to make sure they were dry before she put on her sheer black pantyhose, the pair with the barely-visible run in the thigh. Jarricho had wanted her to wear her little black dress and her highest heels—which she would have worn even without his prompting—to complement his dark gray dress shirt and thin green tie.
Magda imagined—and not for the first time—hurling the nail polish at the exposed brick wall. She could hear the satisfying smack it would make, splashing Tequila Sunrise No. 6 on both the wall and Jarricho’s Fake Book before shattering on the floor. The nail polish would pool on the weathered hardwood floor like blood from a movie murder scene. Shards of glass would scatter like dice from a game of craps. Perhaps one chunk would roll under the bed. Maybe one morning in a hungover stupor, Jarricho would stretch and yawn and step on it. One could only hope.
“I can’t believe you are actually taking that thing,” Magda nodded at the guitar. She pretended not to notice Jarricho’s reaction. “But good for you. You need to take more chances. You know, in meets, there’s this instant right before you step on the mat—”
Jarricho raised his hand to interrupt. “Magda. Not now.”
She shrugged. “Whatever.”
Not that she would have admitted it, but Magda had also spent the day looking forward to meeting the great Renata Zeiliński. She saw plenty of celebrities at work—at Mellman’s she worked on the floor reserved for VIP clients. So far she’d had seen three soap opera stars, one sitcom star (who kept looking around nervously as though at any moment adoring fans were going to pop out from behind the potted plants), the mayor’s wife, the girlfriend of one of the Yankees, and even a senator, not to mention countless socialites Magda would never have recognized. Not that she could pick Renni or Sammy Stewart out of a crowd, but she was still excited about the idea of getting to know them. Wasn’t that the whole reason for moving to New York in the first place? To meet real live stars?
Magda pictured a fancy joint like the speakeasies in the movies. Little round tables with white tablecloths and gold utensils. Shrimp cocktails and piña coladas. Maybe their meal would be comped, since they were friends of the artists. Renni would play the first set with Mack and then Jarricho would sit in. Maybe they would play a duet. Jarricho, with his blond Les Paul, (the one with the barely visible crack in the neck that may or may not have happened when she kicked it during a fight) noodling with the great Renata Zeiliński. Maybe he’d become famous and then instead of working in the VIP shoe department at Mellman’s, she’d shop there.
Jarricho stared at the blue dot on his phone that pulsed toward their destination on East 14th . Nothing they passed looked like a jazz club. Each storefront was locked up behind a graffitied metal door, flanked by mom-and-pop eateries. Maybe there was a secret door with a secret knock or something. When the blue dot met a red pin in front of an unmarked door, Jarricho put his hand on Magda’s shoulder.
As soon as they crossed the threshold, her heart sank. Magda hadn’t spent a lot of time in bars, but she knew a dive when she saw it. Faded piñatas hung from the ceiling. A stack of chairs with orange vinyl cushions, the kind you might find in the banquet room of a quinceañera, faced a tiny stage. Bathed in a glow of warm light against a backdrop of dark, apathetic walls, Renni Zeiliński sat on a barstool, her guitar resting on her lap.
The bartender looked at Magda and cynically raised an eyebrow. He could tell she wasn’t of age, but she brought the attendance up to six, so he didn’t turn her away. She in her tight little dress and Jarricho in his shiny green tie. They both looked like they were trying too hard.
Jarricho clutched his guitar case as if it held all his life’s belongings, like a small child who has packed his suitcase to run away. He should have smoked that bowl before they left. He should have had a shot of liquid courage.
Magda looked at him and shook her head. What a chickenshit. He should just get over himself and play in this empty bar with his childhood friend and his friend’s practice buddy. Nobody was watching. Nobody cared. Put me up there, she thought. I don’t even have an instrument to play, but dammit, I could go up there and put on a show.
The bassist waved to them. Jarricho’s stomach lurched and he felt his armpits dampen. What if they asked him to sit in and he didn’t know what they were playing? Or worse, what if they didn’t ask him to sit in at all? He froze. Magda wiggled her fingers coyly in a wave. She hoisted herself up on a barstool and swiveled around to the bar.
The bartender threw two coasters on the counter in lieu of asking for an order.
“Um, do you have any iced tea?” Magda pretended to chew on a nail. Her little girl act, Jarricho thought. She could be so immature sometimes.
“Yeah, from Long Island,” the bartender drawled. Behind him, the bar back chuckled.
“Oh, that sounds good. I’ll have one of those.” Magda wasn’t stupid, but she’d scored a lot of free drinks by pretending to be.
On the small stage, Renni looked up at Mack. He nodded and she played a flurry of notes Magda recognized. “Green Dolphin Street!” She looked at Jarricho, but he was staring at the stage. He bobbed his head in time to the music.
Her drink came in a tall, thin glass with a big orange straw. It was sweet—and definitely alcoholic.
“This is really good,” she told the bartender.
He tapped her glass. It made a tinging sound. “All booze, sweetheart.”
Magda widened her eyes, as if she didn’t drink Long Island Iced Teas every time they went out. Three times the liquor was her lucky number.
Renni’s guitar trailed off. It must have been the end of the song because Jarricho and the four other people in the bar started clapping. It didn’t look like Sammy Stewart was here. Maybe he didn’t see all of his wife’s gigs the way Magda attended all of Jarricho’s. Maybe he got mobbed when he left the house, like a real celebrity. Or maybe performing was just a part of normal life for them. Would Magda have expected Jarricho to sit through a three-day meet?
After two more songs—could it have been an entire set of “Green Dolphin Street?”—Renni murmured something into the microphone and Mack put his bass on its stand. Magda turned to the bar where a second Long Island Iced Tea was waiting for her. The bartender winked and made a shooting gesture with his thumb and forefinger.
Without looking directly at Jarricho, she tried to discern if he’d seen. If he had, Magda was sure to hear about it, but only days later in the middle of a fight about something else.
Renni stepped up to the bar and the bartender handed her a bottle of water. She looked at Magda and smiled the way you smile at a child.
For as long as Magda could remember, she’d been fighting her age. At every stage of gymnastics, she’d always been too old. Now, for the first time in her life, she was too young. Too young to be with this guy. Too young to be in a bar. She could see it in other people’s faces. She could feel it in their stares. She loved it. It was like being on center stage and she didn’t even have to compete for it. I am a burning torch, she thought. I’m a beam so bright, I outshine the rest of you. All y’all are just pocket flashlights compared to me.
Jarricho puffed up with something that could be mistaken for pride, but Magda knew better.
“Hey, Jare!” A woman Magda hadn’t noticed before materialized out of the darkness to give Jarricho a hug and he kissed her on the cheek. Mack came up to the bar and put his arm around the woman’s waist. The tennis instructor, Magda realized.
She turned to Magda, “You must be…” she looked at Jarricho for a name. “Marla?”
Magda nodded. It was close enough.
“The Olympic gymnast, right?” She looked her up and down.
“In the flesh,” Magda said, suddenly pleased that she’d worn a short dress and high heels. She gave a little curtsy.
Jarricho bit his cheek again. It wasn’t even real gymnastics, he thought. It was the kind that looked more like circus acts. The hoop, the ball, the rope, the pins. Besides, the U.S. team sucked. Unlike the real gymnastics team, they never placed. They weren’t even in the top ten. And Magda hadn’t even been on the team! She’d only been an alternate. But she’d marched in the opening ceremonies and she’d come home with an embossed jacket. Three months after Rio she quit due to a herniated disk in her back. What fifteen year old had herniated disks?
To Jarricho, Magda had as many Olympic medals as he did. Zero.
But for Magda, it counted. It all counted. She had competed in traditional gymnastics, but hadn’t made it to any of the big championships. To be competitive you had to do all kinds of stunts and flips and everything was measured against someone else’s idea of what was good or what was difficult. Magda couldn’t care less about that part. She liked the physicality of it. Her favorite had been the uneven bars. She liked the feeling of soaring in the air, the point of suspension just before you started to come down again.
Her whole life was taking risks while his was all about avoiding them. Jarricho couldn’t even bring himself to play in public. Someone should push that guy off a diving board, she thought. The dude needed to be forced into something. He needed to land on his face to know it’ll be all right.
What would he do when the money ran out? What would they do?
“Did you ever meet Mary Lou Retton?”
Magda was born fifteen years after Mary Lou Retton retired. People never grasped just how young gymnasts were. Neither did they grasp how old they were themselves. Especially Jarricho’s friends.
“Of course!”
It was true enough. Mary Lou Retton had come to Mellman’s to shop for a pair of heels for New Year’s Eve. Her feet were so small, she often shopped in the kid’s section, but stilettos don’t come in kids’ sizes. She left with a pair of black Steve Madden’s. Magda’s idea.
If Mary Lou recognized Magda, she didn’t show it. Not that Magda could have asked. Mellman’s Department Store had a very strict policy against asking for celebrities’ autographs or even making small talk. They were supposed to pretend they had no idea who the famous person was. At most a nod to their position, but certainly no conversation around it. The whole reason VIPs took advantage of the private shopping option at Mellman’s was to avoid the paparazzi.
But when people asked if she knew Mary Lou—which they inevitably did—she always said “yes.”
“Hey, man,” Mack put his hand on Jarricho’s shoulder. “You gonna sit in with us?”
Jarricho shrugged. “I came prepared just in case.”
Mack laughed. “In case the talent scouts stopped by?”
Jarricho reddened. “Yeah, well. You know.” Out of the corner of his eye he watched as Magda pointed to her glass. She looked like a little girl playing dress up. Soon she’d be drunk and when she was drunk, she reverted to gymnastic tricks. If they’d been alone, he would have hissed something and she would have slurred something back. They’d fight. He could taste it.
Truthfully, he liked the fighting. She never backed down. As their tempers flared, so did their passion. Their arguments—which were loud and messy—almost always ended in sex. But fighting wasn’t an option. At least not in front of Mack and Renni.
Renni capped her bottle of water and walked back to the stage. He was missing his moment. He needed to ask. Just ask. Can I sit in? Say it. Mind if I sit in? Just walk up there with your guitar. Do it. His stomach clenched and pumped like a fist ready to land a punch.
Jarricho walked to the front of the stage. His voice caught in his throat. The words were not going to come. He nodded to a chair instead.
“Sit in?” he squeaked.
Renni shrugged and Jarricho couldn’t tell if it meant, “Of course!” or “Whatever.”
He grabbed the chair and took his guitar out of its case.
Renni looked at Mack. “Softly?” she asked. He nodded and Jarricho realized it must be the name of a song. He drew a blank. He was a good player. He knew it. But everybody was a good player. “Good” didn’t count for anything.
Renni started, Mack followed her lead, and Jarricho tried not to look stupid. Meanwhile, Magda sat at the bar, chewing on a maraschino cherry, tossing limes into the air. She was going to start juggling soon.
The urge to pick up his guitar by the neck and smash it onto his chair came so suddenly, it felt like a bolt of lightning. She was doing this on purpose. She was wrecking his one chance. She wanted him to fail. A clench. A punch. A sizzle. He didn’t care who was watching.
And then, before he could react, a note of recognition. The sizzle became a simmer and the simmer turned into music. He knew this song: “Softy, As in a Morning Sunrise.” The music called him back to something more primal than anger. More carnal than sex. In a hopscotch of chords, he echoed Mack’s bass line, stopping now and again to complement Renni’s melody.
I am the spotlight, he thought, in the moment between thinking in words and thinking in sounds. I am the flame and the rest of you are just moths.
Janine Kovac (she/her) writes about power dynamics and women’s bodies. Her memoir Spinning: Choreography for Coming Home was a semifinalist for Publishers Weekly’s BookLife Prize and a winner of the National Indie Excellence Awards. Janine is a MacDowell Fellow and the recipient of its Calderwood Fellowship for Journalism. Her second book, The Nutcracker Chronicles, which follows the life of a ballet dancer and the role of art, will be published by She Writes Press in 2024.