Demonstration Not For Sale
by Tashi Saheb-Ettaba
The summer heat festers in our crappy apartment like this headache that’s ready to kill me. The living room windows are mostly for decoration. There’s only one tiny window that moves, and we use it for our portable AC that is, currently, busted. Even with two fans on full blast, my clothes stick to my skin like wet towels. I’m dissecting the AC’s electric panel with a YouTube tutorial on my phone, but Jesse’s acoustic guitar overpowers the video’s volume.
“He approached me after the show, and we talked for a long time,” Jesse interrupts.
He’s slumped on the couch, cold beer bottle sweating next to him. E-sharp shrieks from his guitar. A string of neurons coils tight in my head. E-sharp is supposed to be a shimmer, not a freaking screech.
I rub my sweaty forehead. Just ignore him. Focus on these wires. Blue. Green. Red. I’m staring down the red one, and my mind flashes to a patient’s bloody head injury at work yesterday. Great.
“He wants the album!”
I slam my phone against the carpeted floor, take a deep breath, and turn away from the AC. My view now, across the room, is our record collection. It takes up the entire wall. The heat is so intense, I wonder how it hasn’t melted the vinyl and caused all our music to ooze onto the floor. We collect records of our favorite bands, and I build special displays for them. My favorite is Deprive Shadow’s album, Let it Out. On the cover, the three members pose with tombstones at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery. It took me weeks to build a coffin-shaped frame. It’s a little dank, sure, but this band has been riddled with scandal. Fights, breakups, deaths.
So much darkness. If I’m honest, that’s part of what I love about them. The lore.
Okay. Breathe in, breathe out. Face boyfriend who apparently will die if he is not the center of attention. I mentally roll my eyes as I turn toward him. This is the part in which I ask him if he sent the album to the producer, and he’ll whine about his writer’s block. His inability to finish said album because of “all the pressure.”
“So did you send it?” I ask.
“No, I still don’t have a track five.” Jesse tilts his head backwards. “Fuck, why does this have to happen at the worst possible time?”
Called it.
“What a shame. For a minute, I thought you might actually contribute to the rent this month.” My voice is laced with more bitterness than I intended.
“Isla, come on, I’m getting really close!”
I stab the screwdriver into the panel. “So close. Hey, speaking of track five, how’s the big ballad coming along?”
Jesse sits up, his fingers redden around his guitar neck. “Seriously? I told you not to overreact again.”
“Right. Ballad’s not finished either,” I snap. I twist the screwdriver around, but the screw I’m working on doesn’t catch. There’s a gnawing sensation growing in my chest. His excuses—they’re on heavy rotation. One-hit wonders wearing down my soul.
Jesse holds down his strings. “Would it kill you to be happy for me just this once?”
I suppress the urge to let out a guttural scream as I toss the screwdriver aside. Jesse’s blue eyes pierce me. He’s about to speak when a door knock interrupts. As he leaves to answer, my head pounds. I lean against the AC, wishing for a hum, a noise, some kind of sign it’s coming back to life.
Way to go, Isla. Way to be a shitty, unsupportive girlfriend.
I sigh and remind myself of the reality of the situation. Jesse has no degree, so he can’t get jobs easily. He’s been putting his music across the internet and booked as many gigs as possible. He’s trying. He is.
Still, I wish we could return to our University of Arizona days, back when we exchanged lyrics at Caffe Luce. When our meetups blossomed into love songs. When I would get that rush of adrenaline through me whenever I played bass with his band.
We were pretty popular on campus. A whole bunch of people thought we should try to make a run of it.
But Jesse’s idea for a “new direction” didn’t sit well with everyone. He wanted the whole band to move to Seattle after graduation—the birthplace of rock gods like Jimi Hendrix, Heart, Nirvana, too many to count. Some of the band thought Seattle was “over.” Others had family in other cities, or just wanted to stay in Tucson. So, we broke up.
Jesse and I moved the next week. It seemed like a dream, just me and him making music. My family and friends urged me to rethink it. But our confidence was so bright, it blinded us. Eventually, the rejections from labels and late payment notices piled up like a mountain in front of us, impossible to ignore.
I had a degree in nursing. I got a job. Jesse scouted for producers as a solo artist. Our agreement was this—so long as I helped him out with his lyrics during his late-night writing sessions, he’d bring me onboard when he was signed.
Songwriting sessions grew fewer and farther between. My bass began collecting dust. Resentment started seeping in. I’m not sure exactly when.
Nursing had benefits we never discussed. At the hospital, I could skim things that took the sharp edges off our existence—ground every new splinter of our dream down into something that didn’t hurt.
“I know what will cheer you up!” Jesse beams, waving a flat, square package, “Come open it with me!”
I shoot up from the floor and rush to the couch. It’s not. Is it? Damn, that was fast! Deprive Shadow’s rare single was impossible to find until we stumbled upon this vintage record site. We didn’t think it was real until the seller provided proof. Mottainai is what my Mom would say if she knew how much money we poured into this single record.
But this thing—this is special. This single was never released to the public. Like everything else that has to do with Deprive Shadow, there’s a story about why.
Legend has it that during the recording Sara, the drummer, complained about severe headaches and blurry vision. Danny, the lead guitarist, forced her to push through the pain until he was satisfied with the session. Right at the end of the song, Sara collapsed on her drum set and died. There’s been a lot of debate about whether she had an aneurism, if she overdosed, or if there was some kind of foul play. On the boards, there are plenty of conspiracy theories. One camp seems to think that Danny was not just indirectly to blame for Sara’s death. They think he straight up murdered her.
Anyway, this song, the last one Sara ever performed, went into the vault. There were whispers of rare copies floating around the fandom. Stories about strange things happening whenever they were played. I’m not sure if I ever truly believed they existed. Until now.
“You should open it.” Jesse’s shaky hand grips mine. “I’m way too excited.”
That’s not why his hands are shaking. But I nudge him. “Together.”
We tear off the brown paper packaging until a green cover gleams between the layers. My heart sings as I trace my fingers along the glossy folded cardboard sleeve. In the corner is a stamp, “DEMONSTRATION—Not for Sale.” It’s not a dream! It’s real! This really is Deprive Shadow’s unreleased 1971 single, Haunt Her!
I drink in the cover art. On the left is Danny, disheveled and angry. The sleep-deprived bassist, Mick, is in the middle. Sara is at the right, her intense brown eyes glaring at us.
Every one of them is dressed in their uniform—black clothing with skeletal necklaces.
Jesse gets up to turn on the living room lights. I pull out the record from its inner sleeve and angle it towards the lighting. As the light wraps around the surface, I tilt the record slowly. No scratches or blemishes on its grooves.
Jesse reaches his hand out. “All good?”
I hand him the record. He sets it up on our record player. The air feels electric. Every one of my nerves is buzzing.
Jesse grabs a pill from the dwindling stash.
“Are you sure?” I ask. “Eyes on me at work. It might be a while before—”
He smiles wide. “Special occasion, right?” He crushes it. Separates it into two lines. Hands me the straw.
We’re about to hear a song very few, if any, others have ever heard. I inhale. Taste the bitterness as it hits the very back of my tongue. I’m ready.
The intro’s guitar hums before the pounding drums join in. Danny’s sultry voice echoes like a ghost, intertwined with the bass tempo. Jesse gently takes my hand and pulls me up. I wrap my arms around his waist. My head against his sweaty chest, his heartbeat soothes me as I inhale his sweat and beer aroma.
We could have been the greatest love song
But our notes were always wrong
I thought we were in perfect harmony
She was my muse, my melody
Until she changed the tone
Left my heart to shatter, all alone
She thinks she’s free
But each chord binds her to me
I’ll always haunt her
Haunt her
Haunt her
Haunt her with the only song she knows
Haunt her for I won’t let go
I lean my head back. Jesse’s face swims in my vision. “Fun fact, Sara wrote that song, but the band had to change the pronouns so Danny could perform it after their break-up.”
Jesse groans. “Not this rumor again.”
“It’s not a rumor! If you compare her writing to Danny’s—”
“You’re thinking of Gone. That was the last song she wrote before she…you know…overdosed.”
“Or so Danny claimed,” I argue. “There’s no way her symptoms line up—”
Jesse breaks away from me. “Jesus, Isla. Her symptoms? You’re a fucking nurse, not a doctor.”
A sharp pain rises from the back of my head. It drills so deep into my skull I have to sit on the couch. I close my eyes, soaking in the song’s drum solo. I tap my fingers along with the beat. That’s better. I breathe and the apartment doesn’t feel like soup anymore. I pick up the sleeve, and my fingers slide across a greasy spot. The hell—it’s supposed to be in mint condition! Lavender wafts from it as I withdraw my hand. It’s so strong, it stings my eyes.
“Hey, I think the seller lied. It’s not—”
But as I flip the jacket, I realize it’s gone. The cardboard is pristine.
#
Jesse insists on making chicken parmigiana for dinner tonight, so we head down to QFC. As we weave through the spice aisle, Jesse grabs some chives and oregano and shakes them around like maracas and breaks into a song, “Stuck in my own maze of despair, every turn I take, I’m going nowhere.”
He strums his air-guitar and pivots on his heel. Laughter erupts from me. Oh god, I think, we’re delirious. Everyone stares at him like he’s the biggest idiot on the planet, but he doesn’t care. That’s the best thing about him—he always bounces back after our disagreements.
“But my Dad always told me miracles are everywhere, after a long search, you are there, your light leading me back home,” Jesse croons.
Only one shopper claps. Jesse bows. While everyone else swerves around us, Jess grabs my hand, still making up lyrics as he twirls me around.
We used to browse at the Tucson mall, making up dumb lyrics and dancing in every store we came across. It’s nice to do it again, like this.
“Wow, that actually was good,” I say.
Jesse’s eyes light up as he pulls me in an embrace. “You mean it?”
“Hell yeah! You should add that to the album.”
Jesse nuzzles my hair. “Thanks, that means a lot.”
We make our way to the meat section, holding hands. The song summons an ache in me. A longing for home. Even though we’ve lived out here for a few years, it’s still unfamiliar. I’m sad a lot of the time, if I’m honest. Lonely. Always putting on a façade around my coworkers or drowning in my private purgatory.
“Listen, I’m sorry if I came off…” Jesse pauses. “Shitty earlier.”
“No, I shouldn’t have been so bitchy. I should have been more supportive that you got something.”
“Hey, we got something. We did this together.”
Jesse belts out more lyrics as he plays his imaginary guitar. I lightly bounce next to him, picking up his melody as he goes. I hum along to match his sound.
Something emerges from the depths of my soul. It starts off with a slow guitar solo before the growling bass rages alongside it. Then it picks up speed, and I sing, “Nowhere to go, just a stranger lost in a crowd. Nowhere to go, I thought I’d be someone out here.”
A sharp pain cuts into the base of my skull. My vision is out of focus. I stumble forward, but Jesse catches my arm.
“Whoa.” He strokes my face. “Hey, are you okay?”
I lean against the refrigerated display case, staring at the packaged fish. I clutch the basket close to my chest, breathing hard as sunspots cloud my sight. I’m so nauseous that I can’t move. Jesse says something but it’s muffled. The store’s volume decreases to silence. I breathe deep, from my diaphragm, and release a long drone. Am I severely dehydrated? Is this a migraine? Where’s the medicine aisle—
The haze and lurid lights combine in my mind. I push through the fog as the music deafens me. Harsh liquor stings my throat as if to burn away my pit of hopelessness. Cigarette smoke clashes with a lavender perfume. Out from the fog, a man emerges. I can’t see his features, but his smile…
My heart flutters the way it did when Jess would look at me during our band days. The drums pulsate in my chest, synching with my heartbeat. A bubbling sensation in my head leaks the pain from my headache. It courses through my veins, ready to burst from my pores.
“No!” A shriek pierces the air.
I flinch. The basket slips from my hand and crashes to the floor. Jesse flings packages from a display. Wait, what? I rub my eyes to make sure it’s not a hallucination. Adrenaline shoots through me as I push past the gaping bystanders.
“Where the fuck is it?!” he yells, his fist up in the air.
I grab hold of his hands. “Where’s what?”
“Look at this shit!” He yanks his hands away from mine. “This is why there are fucking riders.” Then he shrieks, louder, “Do you expect us to eat that?!”
What the fuck? Is he crashing? No. It’s too soon, isn’t it? He hurls the nearest package of chips. Its fake cheese scent explodes through the torn wrapper. I grab his arm to hold him back, but he shoves me aside.
He grabs the next package and hurls it towards the people gawking at the scene. Someone yelps as if the bag was a grenade. A teenager holds out a phone.
Phone. Shit. The producer. The offer. The last thing we need is to go viral for this.
“Jess!” I manage to scream through my tremors.
“What?!”
“I’ll make dinner tonight! Please, let’s just go!”
Jesse stomps away. “Is everyone incapable of doing their fucking job?!”
I shake my head. Whatever’s happening, whatever the fuck he’s screaming about, I need to get him out of here.
He’s stalking down the aisle, and I’m steering him toward the exit, but I’m out of breath as if I’ve sprinted for my life. My stomach churns and when I finally step outside, the humidity suppresses my ability to breathe.
I double over to catch my breath. Jesse paces nearby. What do I even say to him? What the hell was that about? Most days Jesse can’t summon the energy to get furious. And all that…because of groceries? It makes no sense.
My headache creeps right back, pounding hard again. I chant Haunt Her to calm my nerves.
Maybe it’s the pills. They haven’t been lasting as long lately.
Or maybe it’s the heat affecting him.
Maybe.
#
The apartment is still warm when we return home. I make cold soba noodles and sauce for dinner. Jesse silently nurses a beer. The silence is so unnerving, I wish he would babble about this producer who’s supposedly going to change our lives. I have to break the silence, so I get up from the dining table to put on Haunt Her as background noise.
It feels as if the slightest irritant will cause him to fly into another rage. I hold my breath as I make my way to the record player. My body tenses as I set the needle. I glance in Jesse’s direction several times, but nothing changes.
We could have been the greatest love song
But our notes were always wrong
I barely step away from record player when the lavender smell stops me. I lean against the couch. My head throbs violently. With each pound it grows heavier, and I’m sinking into misery and pain. I cry out as I curl in a fetal position.
The sound. It’s like it harmonizes with the wail from Sara’s backing vocals. It stops me dead.
Then the pain evaporates.
Jess is oblivious to what just happened. I sniff the air. Bring a lock of hair to my nose, as if the perfume might have latched onto me, but it’s not there.
What the hell is wrong with me?
As I sit back down, I feel ideas begin to blossom. Lyrics unspool, spreading out their roots inside me. My heartbeat elevates, but not in a frantic way. It’s a rhythmic tempo, the same as when I hold my fingers down hard against my bass strings. I sit and drum my chopsticks on the table. I want to write. I have to let it out. Let it out, let—
“Isla? Isla? You there?”
I blink hard. “Huh? What?”
Jesse scoffs. “What were you thinking about?”
I lock up the lyrics in my chest. I won’t share. No way in hell is he going to claim these songs. They’re mine.
I shrug. “Oh, you know, work.”
Jesse slurps up his dinner. “Hey, that song I sang earlier, will you sit with me awhile? I could use your help finishing it.”
Soba burns in my stomach, ready to rise up to my throat if I don’t swallow it down. I quickly dip my chopsticks into the sauce so I don’t make eye contact. Fuck, not this shit! He’ll never let me go until he’s satisfied with his lyrics. I can’t do this, not while these songs are burning inside of me. I can’t just extinguish this flame. Not tonight.
“I…actually, I have an early shift.” I lift my noodles up to my lips. “But I can help you out tomorrow night. Sorry.”
Not sorry at all.
Jessie stays quiet, his cheeks move from side to side like he’s biting their insides. He stabs his chopsticks into his noodles.
#
I write for an hour, words pouring out of me like I’m possessed. Then the pain returns, sudden like a balloon popping in my skull, breaking me out of my trance. My pen falls from my grip and my notebook tumbles to the floor. Everything is blurry. I lower my head, sip whatever is left of my coffee. So much for caffeine helping with migraines.
The record player’s tonearm goes up, bringing Haunt Her to its end. My headache subsides. I search for my notebook on the floor. It’s facing up, with these lyrics:
Can’t escape from their dead, cold eyes
Behind our fake smiles, we feed each other lies
Break away from his chains
I’ll burn up in flames
But if I let him control me
he’ll never set me free
My heart pulses. This is my handwriting, but none of these words feels familiar. I flip to the previous pages. Most of them are one liners or a couple of stanzas spread out across the pages. Like this one, on the top left corner, your lies suffocate me
Or these zigzagging lyrics across the center of the page:
You stole my voice
Held me in the dark
While you soak up the lights
I turn the pages faster. Search through my notebook until I stumble on the lyrics that I recognize:
Nowhere to go, just a stranger lost in a crowd
Nowhere to go, thought I’d be someone out here
Nowhere to go, except drowning in neon lights
Didn’t want to know you
till you pulled me out of the ashes
I think I remember. Back at QFC. It was like I was in a music video, stumbling through a hazy bar. A guy emerges.
But that’s all. There’s nothing beyond it.
Then Jesse screaming…about a rider?
Shit, listen to me. I am losing it. Looking back at the zigzag lyrics—stolen voice, darkness and light. The lyrics sound like the narrator fell in love. But when we move into the scattered sections, everything turns dark. An ugly truth starts to unravel—
A shuffling noise startles me.
I jolt from the couch. The notebook nearly flies from my hand. Jesus Christ—it’s only Jesse. With a beer in his hand, he reads over my shoulder.
“The hell is that?” he asks as he sits next to me.
“Umm…” I lower the notebook. “Honestly, I don’t really know.”
Jesse wraps his arm around my waist. He kisses my cheek, before traveling down to my neck. I lean away from him, my mind’s still reeling. His hand slithers underneath my shirt.
“Jess, no—”
His fingers slide between my skin and the waist of my pajama shorts.
I shove him away from me. “Hey! Stop it!”
Jesse spreads his arms out. “What?!”
“I’ve always given YOU time to work!” I hug the notebook to my chest. “The least you could do is give me space for my music!”
Jessie’s smile vanishes. He’s sucking in his right cheek, his icy eyes glare at me.
“Your music,” he mocks. “You don’t have music anymore. You gave up on it.”
I scrunch my notebook, nearly ripping the whole thing in half. Is he fucking serious right now?
“Gave up? Who’s been fine-tuning YOUR songs this whole time?!”
Jesse stands upright, his fist grips the bottle so tight, his knuckles turn white. He towers over me, his eyes steel with rage. “I’ve been getting gigs, working my ass off on our dream!” The glass makes a cracking sound in his hand. “We made a plan. And now you’re angry with me for sticking to it?”
Heat rushes through my body so fast I have to stand upright, or be burned alive.
“You are so full of shit!” I yell. “Laying around here with the drugs I get for you. And gigs? They’re all at the same three bars run by your friends. You haven’t made new music in years. You haven’t finished your stupid album. You keep saying you’re getting somewhere, but you’ve never shown one shred of proof!”
“It is happening! If you just—”
“Stop!” I clamp my hands over my ears. “Stop lying to me!”
My throat dries up. Nausea whirls my stomach. I’m on the verge of throwing up. Deep breaths aren’t helping. Jesse’s standing there, his jaws and fists clenched. He steps forward, raising his beer bottle. Is he…going to hit me?
“You knew this wasn’t going to be easy!” Jesse snaps.
“I did. So, stop fucking around and get a real job! Maybe you can finally pull some weight around here!”
He heaves the beer bottle towards me. I cower, a scream rises from my core as the bottle shatters against the wall behind me. The record player’s needle jumps and scratches the vinyl.
“No!” I shriek. The walls quiver from the clashing drums and swelling guitar. Jesse shouts, but it’s distorted, mixed with Danny’s baritone as he sings.
“I am so fucking tired of that song!” He storms towards the record player.
He hurls the record across the room, then lifts up the record player and throws it against our collection. The records and displays tumble to the floor.
My breath is ragged. This isn’t real, I silently pray. This is some kind of nightmare.
“You never loved me!” Jesse rips a record from the wall. “All this time, you never believed in me!”
The sharp pain twists in my skull, burrowing deeper. I clutch onto the couch. Records like bombs exploding all around me, some barely miss me.
“That’s not true!” I yell. “Jess!”
Jesse stomps on the fallen records. “Look at you. Just waiting for me to be discovered. What am I? A fucking lottery ticket to you?” He laughs maniacally, grinds his fingers against his sweaty forehead. “You’re just waiting for me to get big, so you can suck the life out of me, like a goddamn leech.”
I swallow down my bile as tears well in my eyes. He punches the coffin shaped Deprive Shadow record frame. A loud static sound erupts in my head like feedback. A shudder runs deep in me as I press my hand against my chest. I have to get out of here. I scramble towards the door when Jesse grabs my wrist and pins me to the wall.
Panic consumes me. I struggle to break free from him, but he keeps me nailed to the wall.
“Let me go!”
“You turned the whole band against me! What the hell is wrong with you?!”
“What?!” I try to maneuver away from his grip. “No, no, I didn’t!”
“Ever since that night in Malibu, you’ve been different!”
“Malibu…” I’m perplexed. “Jess, what are you talking about?”
“Stop pretending! I’m sick of your goddamn games, Sara!”
Chills spiral down my spine. What did he say?
Jesse throws me to the floor. I lie there, pain saws through my skull. I grind my teeth as if to will it away.
Haunt her with the only song she knows
Haunt her for I won’t let go
My attention flickers to the record player. It’s still playing? How? It’s smashed into pieces. The drums mutate into crashing noises and a woman’s shrill screech.
I find myself immersed in a haze. Two shadows appear. The man throws the woman against a wall. Her body snaps against the shelves. She’s on the ground when a record player crushes the back of her head. The man bends down next to her.
The dark figures disappear. Looming over me, Jesse clutches the broken record player. His crazed eyes fixate on me. I force every ounce of energy through my lungs to scream, but I have no voice left. My body is too weak to break into flight and run. All I can do is crawl away from him, until my back is against the wall.
He raises the record player higher. His eyes widen. He crumbles to the floor and breaks into a sob. “I never stole anything from you. We did this…we did this together. Together. Together…”
Dark spots erupt in my field of vision, growing as the seconds pass, threatening to converge. The lavender returns as if summoned from the grave. I shut my eyes tight against the fumes.
We could have been the greatest love song
But our notes were always wrong
A new feeling burns deep in me. Breaking its way out of its cage and coursing through my veins. I straighten myself up and look down at Jesse. How he’s groveling on the floor, like all the nights he whined about his muse, how he was uninspired, how he couldn’t. Do. Anything. He’s curled there, shedding his crocodile tears. Pathetic.
How could he say that I was using him? All this time, I’ve been the better songwriter, and he fucking used me. I’ve wasted my time. Wasted my love. Worse—wasted my music on his lazy ass.
I pick up the broken record player.
Jesse looks up, his tears glisten across his cheeks. “I-Isla?”
I smirk. “Hello, Sara.”
Jesse’s eyes go wide. “No!” A screech erupts from my gut as I swing the player above me and smash it down against his moronic, inflated head. His scream entangles with mine. Pain and fury out of harmony with each other as I deliver another blow.
Over.
And over.
And over.
#
Jesse’s blood clings to me like my favorite lavender perfume as I scrawl in my notebook. My hand spasms from gripping the pen, but euphoria surges in my brain and spreads across my body, lifting me up to my highest, most elevated state. My face aches, stretched by my nonstop smiling as I write:
We could have been the greatest love song
But our notes were always wrong
I thought we were in perfect harmony
He was my muse, my melody
Until he changed the tone
Left my heart to shatter, all alone
He thinks he’s free
But each chord binds him to me
I’ll always haunt him
Haunt him
Haunt him
Haunt him with the only song he knows
Haunt him for I won’t let go
My laptop’s sound breaks me out of my flow. I toss the pen aside and stretch out my limbs before pulling the screen towards me. My heart flutters at the sight of the settled highest price.
I accept the bid.
Then wipe the blood away from the sleeve as I slide the album into the mailer.
YOU HAVE REACHED THE END OF THE CHAIN.
Come back every Tuesday… if you dare.
About the author
Tashi’s pieces are featured in HerStry, Not Deer Magazine, Glue Gun, and The Burgeon Zine. Whenever she’s not writing her weird stories, she loves to scout across cafes for the best cappuccino and tiramisu.
Tashi lives in Tucson with her two spoiled cats and a Sonoran Desert tortoise.
I can't wait for the next part!