Free The Melting Season by Jami Attenberg Page A

fun pointing at all the different costumes, the Elton Johns with crazy disco suits and big sunglasses, and Michael Jacksons made up to look like they were zombies from that ancient “Thriller” video, and Dolly Partons, big blondes with big fake inflatable chests (both men and women were dressed as Dolly), and Tina Turners in short skirts and high heels and big spiky wigs. The grossest and weirdest were all the older women dressed up like Cher, wearing these see-through body suits with ribbons covering their private areas just like in that video where she was dancing around on top of a huge boat in front of a bunch of soldiers. There was a huge crowd of them that had all come together. Their bodies bulged in all different directions out of their suits and they were drunk as skunks and cackling loudly. “Icky,” said Valka, when I pointed them out. She had become a real lady in that outfit of hers.
    And then the show started, and we sat back with some cocktails. What a ride. From the minute the curtain came up, you did not have a moment to think, they would not let you. There were lights and the music coming from the stereo was so loud it was like a fire engine right next to your head. The sets kept changing every time there was a different performer so there was always something new to look at. First there was just an explosion of girl performers all at once: Joan Jett and Pat Benatar and Gwen Stefani and Mariah Carey, all howling out their greatest hits in under three minutes each. The risers looked like city buildings, and they moved up and down when each performer was beginning. Then the city lights turned out, and all of a sudden there was a sunset with real ripples of water for the Beach Boys, and what looked like real sand, too. “How did they do that?” I said to Valka. I had smelled the ocean, I was sure of it, even though I had never even been to one before.
    They all just kept coming, one after the other. All of the performers appeared as their younger selves, as bright young stars—except for Aretha Franklin and Barbra Streisand, they were both older and fat. There was an army of Britney Spearses, all dressed like schoolgirls. Right then my cell phone buzzed, and I looked down at it—it was a video of my sister wearing a stupid New Year’s hat, a noisemaker dangling from her frowning lips. Then it was the Beatles. Valka went nuts: she jumped up and hollered, her big headband sliding halfway down her bangs. Valka was not the only Beatles fan. There were a hundred other Valkas in the audience, some dressed like her, more of them hippies, and a few Yoko Onos in the crowd. They were pretty good, I had to admit, even though I did not know much about their music. My dad sang along to their songs when they played on the easy listening station in the car. I suddenly remembered John had been shot. That was all I could recall, that and Paul being married to the one-legged lady. But I could see why the girls had gone crazy for them when they were still a band. Their songs were really catchy and sweet and hopeful, plus the members of the band—the fake band anyway—had cute haircuts and big soulful eyes. Valka’s voice ran out halfway through their performance, she had been screaming so hard. “I love you,” is what she had been saying over and over. “I love you.”
    At the end of the show Prince came driving out in an actual little red Corvette and the whole crowd shot up from their seats, cheering so loud it was hard to hear the music. Valka’s headband fell off completely and she didn’t even care. Everyone could agree on that one. We all loved Prince. The entire room of people swayed back and forth to “Purple Rain.” Lots of folks had brought lighters and I was jealous because I did not have one. Then Valka reached into her purse and pulled out a few matchbooks from the Bellagio. She was so smart. So we kept lighting match after match and letting them run down to our fingertips. It was dumb but it made