Karaoke Breakdown

Dear Carla,

I know this whole situation is all very difficult (perhaps for you more than anyone), but I don’t think it’s fair that you hold my talent as a singer against me. Nor does it make sense. You see talent everywhere. “Jerry’s a wonderful golfer. Tina’s a wizard with numbers and Taylor makes very sound investments,” you have said many times. So why do you deny me? You remember the poems I showed to you some months ago. My tremulous fingers as I handed over those crumpled, sweat-damp pages? How my eyes darted everywhere but into yours as I ached for some flicker of your approval?

It is the same for my true craft and I feel betrayed, frankly, that you won’t acknowledge me in this instance. I could understand if you weren’t prepared for the karaoke performance of three weeks ago, but I made sure to give you fair warning. Otherwise, your behavior since then might have been fitting. I myself don’t often know what to do with the purity of my voice. The expressiveness of my range. Am I really this good? I ask after my morning showers. Were those tears lining my cheeks yesterday following “What’ll I Do?” or just my shampoo rinse? The time has long since passed for me to think I might earn a living this way, but I considered it a great consolation that if I couldn’t make my gift known to the world, then I at least could share it with you. And I tried so hard to do this.

I hope you appreciate just how hard it was for me to prepare you for this performance. All that self-promotion felt like so much manure in my mouth. We reduce our best efforts to empty swagger when we sing of them ourselves. My father was a man of such aggrandizements and he suffered in my mother’s eyes because of it. There’s was an unhappy marriage—please forgive the digression. My present circumstances find my thoughts invariably entangled.

Begging your pardon as well, but why would you wear the strap of your messenger bag draped across your chest if not to draw my attention to the lift and separation of your breasts? I’ve long been a fan of your fashion sense and smart, feminine figure and had hoped to convey as much by complimenting your array of sweater sets and pleated skirts. It seems only polite, then, at least to offer me a simple “good job” for my rendition of “I’ve Got You under My Skin,” if only to point out how well I handled the key change in the middle of the refrain.

Was it uncomfortable that I stared at you for the entirety of that performance? Perhaps I might have picked a subtler way to finally share my feelings outright—a less obvious song title at least. But alcohol always leaves me with a little more bravery than I know what to do with. Plus, the extended instrumental left me feeling awkward and in need of a sense of security. The stage has always been in me ; it’s like an open wound that I can heal only through the power of my voice.

I hope you weren’t jealous when I pulled the cocktail waitress on stage to sing counterpart for “Something Stupid.” I am afraid now that it was me who did something stupid. I hope you will continue to hear me out: Jenna had been asking me to sing a duet with her ever since she heard my delicate interpretation of “Nature Boy” some two months ago. She’s a sweet girl, but I am afraid I used her to try to steal your attention away from the bartender you made such a show of flirting with. For whatever else comes of this mess of ours, Carla, you should keep away from him. I have word direct from Jenna that he has been caught on more than one occasion touching female customers’ elbows and laughing at jokes that were obviously not very funny. He is a scoundrel. Regardless of how you feel toward me, stay away from this man. I promise you now he’ll only break your heart.

I’m sorry, though, that he misinterpreted what I said. I hope you know that I am definitely not a racist and was only speaking in a vernacular context. I have many friends of different ethnicities, some of them even mixed race, and it was only when they mentioned their origins that I even noticed we were different at all. I hope this matter does not become part of my entanglement. These race things are always so much more volatile than necessary. Did I mention to you the compliments I’ve received on the “free style” rapping I sometimes do instead of the lyrics to “Love Train” and other “soul” classics? I’ve even received special praise for my flow, particularly from those friends I just mentioned. I find rapping to be a wonderful diversion and I attribute my talent for it to the year I spent as a coffee house junkie, attending and competing in poetry slams.

Jenna is a poet, you might remember me telling you as I tried to clean my drink off your shirt. The stubby fingers I inherited from my father also ruined my chances as a concert pianist. I know this is a tricky thing to do, and I don’t want to come off as uncaring, but neither do I want to be insincere. So here it is: I am sorry you walked in on us in the back room, but, regardless of what may be in my best interest, I am not sorry about what I did. This was not a gallant move, I admit, but it was far from criminal. I should have been responsible enough, though, to take precautions not to be disturbed. My recklessness has caused embarrassment for all parties. But I am adamant that if you had not been so petty and resentful about my singing, so dismissive of me in general, I would never have pulled Jenna into the closet and there would not have been this horrible misunderstanding about my intentions. I am no more a threat to a woman’s safety than I am a bigot. Ask Taylor. As an attractive, young  black woman raised in the inner city, her opinion should resonate with you and, I hope, a jury. I have recommended her to my attorney as a character witness.

I wish to recommend you as well, Carla. I need you particularly in this instance—you know how hard it is for me discuss my virtues. Also, my new friends here are tiring of my serenades, and I worry about the possible repercussions of crying so often because of them. But for this to work, we need to reach a place in our relationship where the two of us can talk without resentment. A place where you feel free to ask me to sing, with no more prompting than your idle desire to be entertained. I know you are upset, but I hope this letter will have convinced you to drop your charges as well. You don’t need the process of a trial to tell you what you already know. That I am your faithful, devoted, and forgiving,

Anderson.

Zach Kessler lives in The Plains, Ohio, and teaches at Ohio University. He also
holds an M.A. in English from that institution. This is his first publication.