Busy Child (Club Mix)

         Sometimes it feels really good when I dig my fingers into both my eyes and just rub hard. When I stop, I can’t see for a second and my eyeballs tingle. Anyone who sees me doing this always yells at me about how it’s probably not good for me; they’re probably right. It’s just what I need, though, sitting on the soft leather chair in the middle of my living room. Today was not a good day, and this phone call isn’t helping.
         “No, I don’t think you’re following me,” I say into the black cordless phone. Capital One has screwed up my credit card bill again, and now I’m trying to straighten it out. Again. “My billing cycle ends on the seventeenth of each month, right?”
         “Yes, sir, that’s what I have on my screen.” The man on the other end sounds young, and has that annoyingly chipper voice that is supposed to be people-friendly and never is. It’s a voice that never sounds quite competent enough to handle customer problems.
         “All right, now, for this cycle, the due date for my payment was the eighth of March, correct?” I have the bill in my hand and I’m staring right at what I’ve just read.
         “Um, let me just check here,” he says. I’m starting to let my attention wander around the room. A gentle breeze is ruffling the curtains on the window across the room, and the soft afternoon sunlight is casting shadows onto the windowsill. The Dali print over the television is crooked, but I really don’t have the energy to walk over and fix it right now.
         “Yes, sir, that is correct.” His voice brings me back to the conversation. I’m staring to get annoyed that this is taking so long to explain; he didn’t understand it the first time through.
         “Ok, good. My balance for this month was two-twenty-four-fifty, right?” The juices in my stomach are churning; I haven’t eaten anything since that sandwich six hours ago.
         “Actually, it was two-forty-two-fifty, sir.” Excuse me? I look back down at the bill. He’s right. I read the numbers backwards.
         “Right. That’s right. I’m sorry,” I say in a huff. “You received my payment, of two-forty-two-fifty, on March the seventh.” I look up, sighing to myself. This is when I see the calico cat that has just jumped to the floor from my window. I recognize it from the times I’ve had dinner with my neighbors downstairs. It looks at me and its tail stiffens slightly. Slowly, so as not to scare it away, I sit upright in the chair, pushing down the footrest. I begin moving towards the cat, with my hand out, hunched over just a bit. The cat tips its head slightly to one side, staring at my hand, which is coming down to gently stroke its head.
         “That’s what I’m bringing up here, sir.” I shoot back up, almost standing to attention.
         “You did?”
         “Yes sir, we received that payment on the seventh, just like you said.”
         I lean back down to the cat and let it jump into my arms as I put the phone in the crook of my shoulder. “There was a late charge billed to my account. What date was that?” I’m walking across the living room over to the kitchen counter.
         “It was billed on the sixth.”
         “The day before you received my payment, right?” The cat is rubbing its head on my shirtsleeve, getting comfortable.
         “Right,” he says, trailing off. I think he may be getting it now.
         “All of which happened before the actual due date.” I open one of the cabinets, the one next to the refrigerator, and search for something, nothing in particular; maybe something to eat “So would you mind telling me why exactly your company feels its necessary to charge me a late fee before the due date arrives, and not deducting it when they receive my payment? On time, mind you? Do you have that piece of information on your little screen?” The cat is squirming a little bit at my anger, but I calm it down by gently rubbing it on the forehead.
         “Oh, I’m very sorry, sir. I see what you mean. I’ll deduct the fee immediately. It must have been a computer error. You’ll see the credit on your next bill.”
         “Great. Thank you very much. I hope I wasn’t much of a hassle.”
         “No sir, not at all.”
         I hang up the phone and look at the cat’s face. He looks at me with those big glassy cat-eyes, looking about as hungry as I am.

* * *

         My head jerks forward as I slam on the brake. The sky blue minivan zips by, so close that I can see the fake grain on the wood paneling. I can make out a woman in the driver’s seat and four smaller figures—children— in the back seats.
         “Oh you stupid bitch,” I mutter.
         “Excuse me?” says the voice on the end of my cell phone.
         “Oh, no, not you Mom,” I say quickly. I still can’t swear in front of her. “Some people like to just drive right into a rotary without slowing down.”
         “Are you okay?”
         “Yeah, it’s fine. Anyways. What were you saying?” I’m still not really paying attention to her; I’m more focused on the minivan that I’m now tailgating, somewhat dangerously. I imagine myself laying on the horn for the length of the highway, or at least until she gets off it. One day I’m going to get mad enough to actually do that.
         “I was talking about how Peter Sigman, that guy who comes into the restaurant a lot, was telling us about some new projects that he’s working on in his company.” Peter Sigman is always working on new projects. He started BioTechnics when I was in high school, and my mother has used him as an example ever since. “And he asked about how you were doing at your job and if you were enjoying it.”
         The minivan is slowing down as we come off the rotary and merge onto the highway. I tap the brake impatiently. She doesn’t need to slow down, there’s no one coming. I wait for her to hit the gas, but she never does. I veer to the left, onto the rumble strip that separates the ramp from the right lane of the highway, and gun it into the middle lane, staring at her as I pass. I shake my head in annoyance.
         “And what did you tell him?” I ask.
         “I told him that you liked the research you were doing, but that you were ultimately looking for something away from a university, a position in a private company.” Of course you told him that. You tell everyone that. I bet you also told him that…
         “And that you were looking for a bit more money,” she finishes. “He also said that he might be able to help you out with a position if you were interested. He gave me his email address. Do you have a pen?”
         “I can’t write it down right now, Ma, I’m driving.” Even if I weren’t, I probably wouldn’t write it down anyway. I don’t like Peter Sigman; he’s pompous and obnoxious. I could never take a charity case from him. Especially not one set up by my mom.
         “Ok, I’ll email it to you.” The Internet was her new kick. She emailed me stupid notes and web pages. I’m hoping she’ll grow out of this phase of trying to be hip. “What else is new, honey?”
         I can see the mass of red light up ahead as traffic slows. I move into a gap in the lane to the left. “I bought a new rack,” I say, not sure of what her response will be.          “A what?” I forgot. She’s my mom. She doesn’t know what anything is; it’s as if she stopped paying attention to the rest of the world when I was born.
         “A rack. The big double CD player with all the buttons that I use for deejaying. I bought a new one.” I slide into another empty gap back in the middle lane, hoping to advance a bit in the traffic. I drive in rush hour traffic is like it’s football; if I hit the open gaps in the next lane, then new ones will open up and I can drive away from all the other players.
         “I won’t even ask how much you spent on it,” says my mom, with that echo of displeasure that I’ve grown used to. “I thought that was just going to be a hobby.” I knew that was coming.
         “It is, Ma. I like it,” I say as I pass I line of several cars to the left. “I need to do something that doesn’t have to do with work, you know.”
         “I don’t understand why you waste your time with it. What, are you going to become a professional DJ or something? Are you going to spend the rest of your life in nightclubs?”
         Before I have a chance to answer, a black Saab convertible cuts in front of me from the right, and I jam on the brake pedal. I put the steering wheel in a death grip, frustrated that I can’t swear loudly at the moment.
         “No, ma. It’s just something to do on the weekends. I get paid for it; it’s not a waste of time. And I meet people.”
         “For what?” she asks. “I don’t know. It just seems like you aren’t concentrating as much on your work as you should be.”
         “Mom, calm down,” I reassure her, even though it is something that she should actually worry about. “I know what I’m doing. It’s just a hobby.”
         “I am calm. And I know you know what you’re doing. I just hope it’s the right thing.”
         “It is. But mom, I have to go. I just pulled into work,” I say, even though I’m still fifteen exits away from where I need to be.

* * *

         The air conditioning is on way too high, I’m thinking as I stand at the counter by the register, tonguing the three Certs that are in my mouth. My lunch has left me a really gross aftertaste, like burnt animal hair or something.
         “It’s definitely marked differently on the shelf,” I say, trying to remain relatively calm. She’s young, still in high school, and her name tag reads: “ALY, TRAINEE.” I kind of feel bad for her; she’s getting flustered at this new challenge.
         “But it reads as higher here on the computer, it’s not on sale,” she ventures. No. Wrong answer. She just lost my sympathy.
         I point over my shoulder, in the general vicinity of where I picked up the RC cables. I need them for my new rack. “But they are displayed as being less than what is showing up,” I say, a little more sternly. “I can show you the sign if you really want me to.”
         She looks at me a little warily, wondering if this offer is against some kind of rule. I raise my eyebrows, daring her to come with me. “Sure,” she says, giving in. “Why don’t you point it out to me?”
         I lead her through the electronics store with a grin on my face. I hope everyone is watching us and secretly cheering me on to point out a flaw in this retail giant. They’re not, but I’m still proud of myself.
         “Right there,” I say as we reach the aisle from which I picked up the cables, pointing at the blue and yellow tag. “It’s a full fifteen dollars less that you rang up.”
         “Oh,” she says, quietly. “Well, then I’ll just mark it down.” That was way too easy, I’m thinking to myself. Couldn’t we have settled this without marching halfway across the store? Ah, but then no one would have paid attention to my mission.
         We get back to the register, where the people who were in line behind me are giving both of us dirty looks for taking two minutes of their time. I take out my wallet and remove my credit card. “Ok,” she says. “It’s forty-seven twelve.” I shove the card into her hand and she scans it though. We both stand there, staring at the screen, waiting for the authorization to go through. She begins tapping my card on the counter impatiently. I bite down on the Certs. Finally, the computer beeps, but its not a good beep. It’s that embarrassing, there’s-something-wrong-with-you beep that makes you intensely more aware of the people behind you in line.
         “Card declined,” the girl says, handing back my card.
         “Really?” I say nonchalantly, trying to brush off the insult.
         The girl cocks her head slightly to the side and smiles. “Maybe you forgot to pay your credit card bill.”

* * *

         One-two-three-four, two-two-three-four, three-two-three-four, four-two-three-four, five-two-three-four, six-two-three-four, seven-two-three-four, eight-two-three-four, changeup. That’s the basic rhythmic pattern for most dance and techno music. Four beats, eight times, then some kind of shift in the music, whether it’s a vocal, or a different synthesizer arrangement, a new drum machine, something changes.
         Mosley’s is packed tonight, let me tell you. The half-priced drinks always bring them in. For a second-rate, outside the city club, this place doesn’t do half-bad. You’d be amazed at the number of second-rate suburbians who need to get out to something like this.
         The fog machine is churning out continuous thin clouds, which get illuminated blue, red, and green by the bank of lighting that lines the high walls of the room. The mirror ball that is suspended from the ceiling casts sparkling beads of colored light onto the clothes of the dancers who are packed in tight below me. I’m on a second floor balcony that hangs over the dance floor so that I can see the length of the club, and the mirror ball’s shine reflects off the plexiglass window that is in front of me.
         Technically, the manager asked me to play a “healthy” mix of music that people know. Whatever. I’m not in the mood to play all that Top 40 Hip Hop shit tonight; my show, my music. And everyone seems to be enjoying it anyways, so house music it is.
         In one ear I can hear the deep thumping of the music that is coming out over the huge JBL speakers that surround the dance floor. One of the earpieces on the giant black headphones that I have on my head is sending different music into my other ear. I play with the dials on my rack, adjusting the tempo and pitch of the track in the headphones, so that they match perfectly with the song that the dancers can hear over the speakers.
         With a minute left in the song, I start counting the beats on the playing song and cue up the one that I want to play next. I turn the cross-fader volume all the way to the left, so that the only thing that is coming through the speakers is the feed from the CD that is already playing. Seven-two-three-four, eight-two-three-four, I hit Play on the second CD player, but the new song isn’t playing over the speakers yet—only in my headphones. I’m still counting beats, and for every one of them, I tap the cross-fader switch a little more to the right, so that the original song’s volume starts going down, and the new one gets louder. After every tap I also push the red Restore button, which incrementally brings the pitch and tone of the new song back to its original settings, not the ones that make it match the original songs. That way, it will sound normal by the end of the mix. Finally, the cross-fader is all the way to the right, and all that is coming through the speakers is the new song.
         I sigh deeply, remove the old CD from the player, and turn, smiling, to my suitcase filled with music. That one was actually pretty good. The image of my mom’s face flashes through my mind. I wonder what she would think about that. Those mindless drones down below don’t even realize that they’re dancing to a different song. I wonder if she would appreciate beat-mixing if she saw it live. I laugh. I doubt it. Soon after rummaging through the suitcase for a bit, I’ve forgotten about my mom, and Capital One, and Aly. All I want is to find another song that will keep me in this mood.