Every Saturday, we’ll be posting a new illustration by David Lester. The Mecca Normal guitarist is visually documenting people, places and events from his band’s 26-year run, with text by vocalist Jean Smith.
Celia is snapping dead stems off the potted geraniums on her balcony when the phone rings. The answering machine is not on. She picks up the receiver.
“Hello?” she says.
“Hello, Celia.”
The voice sounds like Marcus. 1978. Marcus who ended up on the psych ward. Marcus who told Celia it was her fault he was there. Marcus who told Celia his psychiatrist said it was her fault. Celia doesn’t remember not believing him. She remembers watching him bounce his leather-slippered foot up and down as he spoke. He was sitting in a common area of the ward, legs crossed, wearing his housecoat and pajamas in the middle of the day. Celia listened to him say that it was her fault that he was there. Marcus’ mental illness was her fault. She had caused it.
“Who is this?” Celia asks.
“I heard you wrote a song about me.”
It’s Guy One. She hasn’t heard from him for three years.
“That’s what I do. I write songs about my experiences.”
“Do I need to hear this song?”
“Need? No, probably not. What constitutes need?”
“Do I need to be concerned about being identifiable?”
“Ah ha,” says Celia. “You don’t want to be identifiable. Well, as it happens, I am not seeking revenge, and I do not reveal identities because it is unnecessary.”
“OK, so what’s the song about?”
“You might catch something about yourself, but it would be mixed in with other stories about other people. Unless you wanted to stand up and say, ‘Hey, I think part of that song might be sort of about me,’ there isn’t really much to identify you.”
“So which part might I sort of hear about if I listened?”
“You might hear about a guy at the border between Mexico and the USA and a customs guy turns over a guitar and a peyote button falls out and it rolls under something and is not found.”
“Really? That’s the overall impression that you took away with you?”
“No. It isn’t indicative of an overall anything. It’s just part of a story, part of a song. What business is it of yours what I write about?”
“You’re paranoid, Celia.”
“I’m paranoid? You’re the one calling me up all worried that I may have written a song called ‘The Nasty Narcissist I Once Knew.’”
“Narcissist? You’re the narcissist, Celia. Nothing I did or said was good enough for you.”
“Look, you got your answer. This song isn’t going to be causing you any problems, so I shall say goodbye and let you get on with your ridiculous interpretation of life.”
Celia hangs up and returns to the balcony to pinch off enough Greek oregano for her scrambled eggs.
