Free There Must Be Some Mistake by Frederick Barthelme

planet.
    â€œI am Plastique,” she said, and there was an accent, not an extreme accent, but it took me a minute to get that this was Plastique, the art-pop singer, who was, at that time, very underground and hip, and she had come to find me. I was thinking: God is great.
    So in a few minutes I had locked the gallery and we were in a cab headed downtown and she was telling me she had gotten my CD from a friend and she liked the noise. At the restaurant we ordered, we talked, and she proposed that I back her at some club where she had a gig the following week. I could not see how that was going to work, but I was so flattered that I was unable to say that. I was afraid her noise and my noise were not the same noise. We got through the meal, and when I was paying the bill I got some change from the waitress and left ten dollars and the silver on the table.
    Before the waitress returned, Plastique snatched the change off the table. “Never leave this,” she said to me. “It’s uncouth. It’s demeaning.”
    It was like eighty-four cents or something, and I hadn’t even thought about it. Outside the restaurant she dropped the change in a plant by the door and I could tell she had lost some respect already. We went to a loft off Houston belonging to a woman percussionist who introduced herself and handed me a guitar. A couple scabby-looking guys loitered in the background. They were clearly there for my audition. For about five minutes I scratched around on the guitar, which was plugged into an old Fender amp, trying to look serious about my scratching, but I knew this wasn’t the noise I was good at. I thought about trying to explain that my noise was composition based, that it was produced by sifting hours of tapes and other sound sources, that there was a lot of dubbing and overdubbing involved, that I could prepare something for them in a few days, that this guitar scratching really wasn’t me. But they were already, like, looking at each other, pushing their hair around mightily. Moments later Plastique signals me to stop and takes the guitar, then walks me to the door, her arm through mine.
    â€œYou had frozen under the harsh gaze of celebrity,” Chantal said. “You did not measure up. But it was only the first test!”
    â€œI had failed already.”
    â€œLet’s get some dessert,” Chantal said. She waved at the waiter, who came rushing at us as if we were on fire. “Could we have the dessert menu?”
    â€œWe have no dessert,” the waiter said.
    â€œIs that design or circumstance?” Chantal said.
    â€œThe first,” the waiter said.
    â€œFruit?” Chantal said.
    â€œYes,” he said.
    â€œWell, that will do,” she said. “A selection of your best fruit, please.” And the waiter vanished. “Plastique did not remain long in the limelight, as I recall. Wasn’t she Swedish or something?”
    â€œNorwegian,” I said. “Or Icelandic.”
    â€œSomewhere chilly,” Chantal said. “Iceland, of course. It figures. They’re always entertaining. Do go on with the story.”
    â€œThere’s not much more,” I said.
    â€œYou were young at the time? Twenty-something?”
    â€œTwo,” I said. “Maybe four.”
    â€œIt was an embarrassing moment,” Chantal said. “But these were not the keys to your future as a fine artist, certainly.”
    â€œI was wounded,” I said.
    â€œStill,” she said. “The show must and all that.”
    â€œI began to take on a slightly jaundiced view of celebrity at this time,” I said.
    â€œKnown to the trade as the Cornball Defense,” Chantal said.
    â€œSort of, I guess. Jeering as denial of desire. I waved hello to Bob Dylan, who I saw on the street in the Village, as if we were the best of friends and Bob had forgotten, the plodder.”
    â€œNoble work,” she said.
    â€œI had an intimate