Perfect Fifths_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [95]
The song begins with piano and a lackadaisical whistle. Marcus puckers his lips, but something (vodka) about this gesture (maraschino cherry liqueur) strikes him as funny (chocolate liqueur). He spit-laughs into the microphone.
“Sing it, don’t spray it,” grouses Worldwide Symphony Tour ′84.
Marcus has just enough time to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand before singing. “You … know … I …”
It’s just like watching the wannabes on American Idol or any other talent competition. You can tell within the first few notes whether the performer has It or not. And while the standards that determine what It is and whether or not one has It vary greatly from show to show and judge to judge, the collective opinion of the stranded members of the Tristate Chapter of the Barry Manilow International Fan Club is unanimous: Neiman Marcus has It.
“Victory is mine!” boasts Lola.
The rest of the BMIFC shares her joy, always pleased for any opportunity to turn a neophyte Fanilow into an acolyte. They sway and snap their fingers along to the easy soft-shoe beat of the first chorus-verse-chorus. They whisper a digressive commentary about the performance.
“He’s got a nice voice, this Neiman Marcus …”
“It’s a bit deeper, more resonant, than the recording …”
“More of a baritone than a tenor…”
“Barry himself is more of a baritone than a tenor these days …”
“Hmph. He can’t sing it in the original key anymore. Hmph.”
“Hey! I like the way Neiman Marcus shakes his little butt!”
“He’s got a nice butt!”
“Barry has a nice butt!”
“Hmph. Barry never had a butt like that!”
“You didn’t see him back in seventy-seven!”
“Shhhhh … He’s working himself up to something big…”
The song is approaching the bridge, the apotheosis of cheesetastic pop. Marcus is totally committed to bringing it home.
“I’m finding it hard leaving your love behiiiiiiiiind meeeeeeee!”
There might even be some jazz hands involved.
In this climactic modulation at the end of middle-eight, Marcus plants his feet wide, flings his mike-free arm in the air, throws back his head, and closes his eyes.
To the untrained eye, Marcus might appear to be just another hipster whose drunk logic convinces him that his ironic performance of this easy-listening easy target is waaaaaay funnier than it really is. Though such an observation would be accurate 99 percent of the time, his performance is the lonely 1 percent that is pure of heart. Marcus is wholly immersed in this music, this moment. He’s right here, right now, reveling in the freedom to be an unapologetic nerd, celebrating his emancipation from the poet/ addict manwhore so many still mistake him for. Marcus Flutie is letting his freak flag fly in the name of the Showman of Our Time! He’s going balls-out for Barry Manilow! He’s a true-blue spectacle, a worldwide symphony, letting it shine, shine, shine so bright that he can’t see anything else, not the cheering ladies of the Barry Manilow International Fan Club, not the smirking DJ, not even the grinning fan-girl groupie sneaking up onstage to turn his solo into a duet.
sixteen
Marcus Flutie is singing “Can’t Smile Without You” as if it is his religion. Not just any religion but one of his own invention. If Marcus were in the mood to doctor up a fake church à la L. Ron and pass himself off as a prophet teaching the Gospel of Barry …
He’s been Alive Forever
He wrote the very First Song
He put the Words and Melody together
He is Music
He writes the Songs
… Jessica would renounce her vows made to the Universal Ministry of Secular Humanity and become his first converted congregant. His mesmerizing performance—so much like the one in the dream she didn’t remember until she saw him onstage, frozen in the famous toilet seat cover pose—has brought Jessica to her knees.
How did she come to arrive at this sacred place? (She rushed out of Room 2010 and took the elevator down to the lobby.) When did she first hear the Call? (As she raced through the hotel’s front hall, searching for Marcus, through the walls, a few steps away from