Rebecca Asher turns off Piedmont Road into the parking lot for Ansley Mall, and parks behind the filling station that’s on the corner of Piedmont and Monroe Drive. She’s headed to a show at Smith’s Olde Bar, half a block away. Tonight, she has decided she won’t drink much, because she needs her wits about her. Tonight, she’ll be using some information she gained from an associate to approach a woman who’s intrigued her from the first time Rebecca laid eyes on her. Tonight, she’s planning to make her move. The words of a Patti Smith song she remembers from a record her mother used to play run through her head as she maneuvers her copper-colored Mini Cooper into a space and kills the engine. “I’m going to make contact tonight.”
The past six years haven’t been easy for Rebecca, starting with the death of her mother, Sharon, in June of 1997. At that time, her unmarried and childless aunt, Rachel, became the guardian of Rebecca and her brother, Steven, and instituted what Rebecca terms “her autocratic rule” over the siblings. Rebecca did her best to endure, sometimes shoplifting items from stores in downtown Decatur or Little Five Points, or occasionally directly challenging Rachel’s authority, like when she packed her car, an ancient Toyota her mother purchased for Rebecca to get her and Steven to school, and drove to Florida for Spring Break her senior year, over Rachel’s objections, but largely she tried to promote harmony in the household, mostly for her brother’s benefit, who seemed enamored with their aunt.
Rebecca headed off to college after that, having been accepted into Columbia University, where she planned to major in Journalism, and which she financed with a combination of limited scholarships and student loans. Once there, Rebecca started writing, for school publications, literary journals, extra-curricular student rags, and also took the opportunity to fully explore her attraction for other women. She found herself part of a clique of highly progressive lesbians, who staged shows, sponsored talks, and agitated for change, on campus and around town, where her writing skills served her well, making her an important voice in the movement. Through a friend, she even managed to get an occasional column in the Village Voice which she called “The Frantic Feminist” in which she touted feminist ideals and promoted women’s empowerment. For the first time in her life, she felt free, and unencumbered by the expectations of her friends and family back home, and came to believe she could truly make a difference.
It all came crashing down her junior year, starting with a surprise and very unwelcome visit by her father, Owen, a pilot, who ran out on the family when Rebecca was nine. Following Sharon’s death, Owen suffered an attack of conscience, and felt guilty about losing touch with Rebecca and Steven, and began calling and writing to them. All his attempts were intercepted by Rachel, who let him know his presence was not welcome. About a year and a half after she moved to New York, Rebecca began receiving cards and letters from Owen, who had somehow tracked her down there. Still, she had no desire to initiate contact with him, at least not on his terms, so she’d file away his missives after angrily reading them.
One evening, halfway through her junior year, she returned to her dorm, where she was startled by a familiar voice calling her name as she moved through the lobby. She turned to see a tall, middle-aged, well-tanned man with dark, curly hair approaching her. Though it had been years, she recognized him immediately.
“Owen the pilot,” she said aloud to herself, using her mother’s derogatory term for him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Hello, Little One,” he said.
Rebecca shook her head furiously. “No. Don’t you call me that. Don’t you ever call me that again. You gave up your right to call me that.”
“Becky, I’m sorry,” he said.
“Sorry?” she said. “You abandoned your wife and children, left us to fend for ourselves while you’re off being a swinging single in San Francisco, and all you can manage is sorry?”
“I guess I deserve that,” Owen said.
“You guess?” Rebecca said.
“Becky, please, I just want to talk,” he said, “to make amends.”
“No. No. Unacceptable,” she said. “You think you can ditch out on your responsibilities then just waltz back in and resume playing Daddy?” She stormed away from him, then swung back around and screamed, “To hell with you, Owen. Just hop back in your damn plane and fly the hell out of here.”
The confrontation had drawn a small crowd. The dorm manager appeared and said, “Is everything okay?”
Rebecca hurried to him and said, “No.” She pointed to Owen. “This man’s harassing me. Call the cops.”
“Becky, you don’t have to do this,” Owen said. To the dorm manager, he said, “I’m her father.”
“Non-custodial,” Rebecca emphasized. “You can verify with the district attorney in DeKalb County, Georgia. There’s a restraining order against him, sworn out by Rachel Lawson, my aunt.”
“Sir, you’re going to need to leave,” the dorm manager said, assuming a protective posture between Rebecca and Owen. Over his shoulder he said to the desk attendant, “Call NYPD.”
Owen threw up his hands. “That won’t be necessary. I’m sorry I bothered you, Rebecca. I hope we can talk some other time.”
With that, he left. After assuring the dorm manager she was okay, and refusing the offer to speak with police, she headed up to her room, still shaking, where she polished off a bottle of wine she and her roommate stashed there. The following month and a half was a blur for her, as she sank into a deep depression and dealt with it using alcohol and marijuana. When she finally sobered up, she learned she had missed her finals and was on academic probation after failing all her classes. Feeling control of her life spiraling away from her, she packed her car, and headed for home.
Back in Atlanta, the situation didn’t improve. Using her experience with publications in New York, she was able to find work with Creative Loafing and several other outlets around town, but her drinking and recreational drug use increased. Her relationship with her aunt, strained before she left for school, now reached the breaking point, as she began staying out until all hours, wandering home intoxicated, angrily rebuffing attempts by Rachel to talk or insist she seek help. At last, Rachel changed all the locks on the doors, and Rebecca showed up one afternoon, drunk, to find all her belongings packed up on the porch. Since then, she’s drifted from friend’s couch to friend’s couch, sometimes sleeping in her car, remaining just coherent enough to hold down her job, reporting on cultural events around town, until several weeks ago, when she recognized the name of a favorite band appearing at Blind Willie’s, and attended the show, where she was once again confronted by someone with whom she’s become obsessed.
One of her favorite haunts is the club scene in Atlanta, and it’s here she first heard of a red hot female deejay who bills herself as CC Belmonte. Almost a mystical presence in the clubs, CC cuts a massive figure — some say she’s over seven feet tall — with long, dark hair and a total badass bitch attitude, who spins some of the tightest House mixes in all of North Georgia. Rebecca has acquired several of her compilations. Given her height, there’s a rumor rampant in the gay clubs that she’s actually a drag queen, but Rebecca has confirmed through reliable sources this isn’t the case, though information on her is fleeting, fueling the mystery.
Then came the show at Blind Willie’s, where Rebecca was catching up with the brother and sister duo, Echo, who she’s been following since she was in high school, and working the board for them was none other than CC Belmonte herself, who’s also an in-demand sound engineer. It took Rebecca a while to confirm it, since CC had ditched her club attire for jeans, a Steely Dan T-shirt, a backwards baseball cap, with her hair pulled back, and slip-on Vans, which de-emphasized her height, but once she purchased an Echo CD, and read the engineering credit, Rebecca knew for sure that this woman the band occasionally addressed as “Claire” was the deejay who has come to dominate Rebecca’s every waking thought. She couldn’t stick around after the show at Blind Willie’s, but enlisted the aid of an acquaintance with mad research skills, who she’s used for background on stories, to run down info on the elusive Ms. Belmonte. Armed with the results, Rebecca heads into Smith’s Olde Bar, ready for Round Two.
She camps out at the bar downstairs, where she can smoke, and watches the entrance to the upstairs music room. Echo has a new album and tonight is the official release event and Rebecca is covering it, and also looking forward to reviewing their new CD. While she’s waiting, Rebecca notices an older woman, wearing a faded polka dot dress, denim jacket, and a railroad cap peering into one of the windows. She looks, to Rebecca, like a refugee from Cabbagetown. She seems confused when she first comes in, then focuses on the bar and leans against it, near Rebecca.
“Where’s that band playing?” the woman says.
“Upstairs,” the bartender says and points to the entrance. “Doors open in about twenty minutes.”
“Listen, I ain’t here to see no show,” she replies. “I just need to give a message to one of them people with the band.”
The bartender shrugs. “I think they’re doing the sound check now. They might let you up. You can try.”
The woman nods and goes to the door. Finding it open, she heads up. Rebecca doesn’t see her come back before the light goes on, letting the crowd know doors are open. Once she gets to the music room, Rebecca sees the woman seated near the far end of the room, nursing a drink in a styrofoam cup.
Guess she changed her mind about the show, Rebecca thinks.
This will be the first time Rebecca has seen Echo live in several years. She’s kept up with them via their mailing list, and on the Internet, while away at college, and she has all but a couple of their CDs from the early-00s, but nothing quite matches her memory of hearing Charlotte sing in person. She takes a seat at the bar, and debates whether or not to get a drink. By the time the bartender arrives, she’s decided against it for now.
“Let me start with water,” she says. When it arrives, she leaves a dollar tip on the bar. She’ll definitely drink something later, especially just before she’s ready to approach Claire, but she decides to at least hear the first few songs with a completely clear head. She glances back toward the sound booth and sees Claire is ready. The lights dim, and in the darkness, Rebecca sees the band getting in place. The announcement for them comes over the loud speaker, and they start playing as the lights come back up.