[Pages 11-13]
––
Vincent makes a few phone calls at the end of the planning session, and we step out of Felicia's suite for a while, intending to head down and check the lay of the land at The Joint. She's had enough rest to manage a temporary shapeshift; it's bizarre, watching it happen right in front of my eyes. She begins to glow slightly, and her outlines go blurred. Her fur begins to fade, and larger dark blotches appear. Her hair changes color, growing darker; her ears and tail shrink into her body and disappear. What we're left with, when the change is over, is a woman in a dark navy-blue business suit with white pinstripes – the skirt reaches down to just above the knees. She looks like a completely normal human being, if you ignore that her hair is extraordinarily long and also a deep midnight blue.
It's still Felicia's face, though. When you look close, you can see that her big green eyes still have the large slitted pupils of a feline, and as she grins at me, her little fangs catch the light. "Pretty impressive, huh?" I can only nod.
I'm reminded, however, of another question, and once we're in the elevator I ask her: I know you're not exactly ashamed of being a paranatural, but nevertheless – you could have made more use of that talent of yours.
"Oh, I did, all the time when I was a kid. I mean, that's how I managed to fit in at school for so long..."
But you kind of gave it up after a point, right? You certainly never used it when you were starting your career... I don't know, I just think it might have come in handy.
"You mean, hiding the fact that I was a catwoman?" she says. "Nah, I've never been happy about having to do that, even when I was a kid. If you mean avoiding long, messy explanations, well, yeah – that's what Mom said about it... But I don't know. Hiding what I am, that's never appealed to me. Besides, I've never been that good at it."
I look her up and down again. Not that good? Really?
"Well, the actual changing part's easy; I've had a lot of practice, so I can do a cat or a regular human really well. But it takes a lot of effort to keep my shape once I've changed it. I couldn't keep it up for more than, like, six hours at a time when I was a kitten. My classmates kept catching me with my ears and tail out – I think we actually had to do more explaining and hushing-up that way. So not friggin' worth it."
So how long can you make a shapeshift last now? I ask. "As far as I can tell, twelve hours is about my limit – and I'm always, like, tired afterward. It's a pain in the tail." She chuckles. "My big sister Grace, though – she can disguise herself as a human for as long as a week. And even she gets exhausted. Even after all these years, she's totally shy about people seeing her real form, so she has to hide out on the weekends and rest up... And then there's my little sister Pico; she's been practicing all her life and she can barely change at all."
Your little sister, you say... Your youngest sister? "Yup." How young? "Well, she's twenty now. Which is so weird, 'cuz she still doesn't look a day over fifteen... We catpeople all age well, I guess."
Yeah, I noticed.
Felicia laughs. As the elevator car comes to a stop, she raises her hand (no longer a paw but a perfectly ordinary human hand, with fuchsia-colored polish on the nails) to her face and snaps her fingers; a stylish pair of blue sunglasses – cat's-eye frames, of course – materialize on her nose. "Well, let's get going," she says, and eases past us as the doors open, moving with a determined, strictly-business strut.
Our little platoon is moving across the casino again, this time with our mysterious businesswoman in the lead. Remarkably, although I notice a lot of people doing double takes as we pass, no one steps up to ask for an autograph. The face seems familiar to them, perhaps, and the hair is indeed blue – but the famous ears, paws, and tail are nowhere in evidence. Felicia's ability to shapeshift is no secret, but the results leave her identity just uncertain enough; the casinogoers around us don't appear able to overcome their reservations sufficiently to approach and inquire as to whether she's who they think she is: "It could be her, but – I just don't know. Do I risk asking and looking like an idiot, or...?" And since most human beings are terrified of looking like idiots, they don't ask.
It strikes me that this is intentional on Felicia's part; since she's become famous as her real self, her disguises are harder to penetrate when she chooses to don them, on those rare occasions when she actually wants some privacy from her fans. And sure enough, when I ask her about it, she confirms that this is exactly her intent. "Did it yesterday, too," she says. "When we pulled up at The Joint to get the gear unloaded, I was dolled up like this. You hadn't gotten there yet... what were you doing?"
I think I was checking in over at my hotel, I say. "Oh, right. That makes sense. I was kinda wondering what happened – they said the InTheMix guy would be waiting for us when we got there. Your flight come in late or something?" Or something, I say. I was finishing up an assignment in New York, and that took a bit longer than I thought; I was supposed to come directly out here Wednesday night, but I missed that flight, so I had to take a red-eye flight to Phoenix and change planes for Vegas.
Felicia giggles. "Aww, you poor guy. Grace tells me Sky Harbor's pretty confusing to get through."
Oh, it's all right. Nowhere near as confusing as some airports I've been in... I still get nervous every time I have to go through Chicago.
––
At The Joint, we are nine people in a venue meant for five hundred times that many; hotel security have given us the run of the place while Felicia and her brain trust plan out the camera placement. Empty concert halls and clubs are always an eerie experience for me – something feels wrong about such a huge empty space that's meant to be full, especially if you saw it full just the previous night. The floor of the general-admission area has been swept clean and the scuffmarks of shoes polished away. Somebody's turned on the Muzak, and Felicia can't resist the urge to caper across the deserted ballroom floor, twirling on one foot. There's a sudden brief flash of light, and it's no longer her skirt but her tail that is flying behind her; her clothes have disappeared and her catwoman characteristics have returned. "Just us in here," she calls over to us. "I figured I could drop the disguise." She dances on up to the rail that separates the (currently nonexistent) crowd from the stage; I follow with my own camera in hand.
Vincent and Jon are in the center pit with the other sound and lighting staff, checking to make sure none of the settings on the mixing boards have been messed with. Gerry and one of his assistants have gone up into the VIP areas; I see them moving back and forth, one on either side of the room, trying to make sure that the cameras won't block anybody's view once they're moved in. Another assistant is standing on the short scaffold at the back of the floor, marking out a position with a ruler and duct tape. Felicia has hopped the rail and is standing in front of the stage, holding an imaginary camera before her eyes. I advance to the rail and lean on it. Everything looking good from here? I ask.
"Sure," she replies. "This oughta be fine. I guess we'll have to ask 'em to move this rail back a couple inches, though – give the camera guy a little more room to work." She jumps up to the stage, where the band's instruments (Evan's keyboards, Jared's drum kit, Trilby's congas) have been looking rather lonely. She hunkers down front-and-center, surveys the room, and calls out: "Hey Gerry! How's it looking?"
"Pretty good so far," comes the reply from the VIP boxes. "I don't think we'll have any big problems."
"Okay." Felicia continues staring out at the room, rubbing her forepaws together. Her cat ears are drooping slightly. You look a little worried, I say from the rail. What's up? "Oh, nothin'," she replies. "It's just this stupid Bonnie business – it's got me a little on edge. And I'm a bit nervous about Saturday, too."
You? Nervous?
She nods and giggles. "It's funny. I only get nervous when there's, like, cameras around. I don't know why – it's just some stupid thing that happens to me."
Afraid they won't catch your good side, perhaps, I say. Felicia considers that for a moment. "Mm. Yeah, I guess that's part of it. I worry that I'm not, like, getting across, if you know what I mean." She pauses, as if a little unsure how to continue, and then sits down on the edge of the stage and leans forward to me to speak more quietly: "I... I know I have an effect on people. It's never something I've learned to control; tell you the truth, I'm not sure I can control it, or even whether I oughta be able to control it." She shrugs. "It just happens around me, all the time, whenever I'm giving off good vibes. It's like I'm some kinda reverse Typhoid Mary or something – I, like, infect people with happiness."
You know, I do think I noticed something like that last night.
"So you know what I'm talking about," she nods. "And you see my problem. How do I get that to come across on a TV screen? Seriously, dude, I don't think I can do it..." Her ears droop further and she sighs, looking down at her forepaws. "It's silly to worry about stuff like this, but I've never given a bad show, and I don't wanna start now."
I actually think you 'come across' pretty well on TV, I say to her. I remember the first time you played Late Night, and you absolutely OWNED it – and ever since then, every time Conan has you on, the ratings go through the roof... I don't think it matters whether you can make people feel anything through the TV. They'll still watch, because it's you.
A big smile spreads across Felicia's face. "Myaah... How do you writers do that?" Do what? "You always have the right words. You always know how to sum things up." She chuckles. "I wish I was good at that... When I'm writing a song, the music always comes easier than the words do."
Her eyes move down to her lap, where her paws are clasped together, then back up to the virtually-empty hall (where the tour bigwigs have huddled together in a group in the middle of the floor, and appear to be discussing something very earnestly) – then down to me at the rail. "Hey," she says, raising one blue eyebrow, "I just got a great idea."
What's that? I ask. "Well, we're gonna have them move this rail back a little bit so the camera guys can work tomorrow night... You've still got your press pass, don'tcha?" I nod. "And I bet your magazine would be happier to see some shots from the audience, instead of way the heck off on the side of the stage. So how about you bring your camera right down here tonight?" she says, indicating the little trench.
That's a thought. As long as I don't get in the way of the security people...
"Nah, it oughta be fine," she says, clambering down into the trench. "My fans aren't exactly the rioting type."
The group on the floor turn toward us, and Jon whistles and waves. "Sweetheart? We've got a few things to straighten out here, if you would be so kind."
"Be right there!" says Felicia; she hops the railing next to me and skips across the floor toward her boyfriend, leaving an almost visible trail of good vibes behind her.
––
One thing I can definitely say for Felicia is that she's a consistent performer. Friday's concert is just as much of a crowd-pleaser as the previous night's. The Joint is packed to capacity again (and I think I see a number of faces in the audience that I remember from Thursday's show). The setlist is largely identical to last night's, and the band chug gamely through all two-plus hours of songs without the least diminution of energy or enthusiasm; I think the rest of the ensemble are somehow drawing on Felicia's boundless supply of energy. She never lets her bandmates' or the audience's spirits flag. And I suspect that she's playing to my camera just a little – at one point, she looks right into my lens and winks.
Late in the concert comes the ritual hazing of Jared Palevsky – Felicia badgers him to sing. "You know I can't sing," he replies.
"Myahh, c'mon, just one? Dude, don't be embarrassed..."
"Which one?" Jared asks, as Jon comes on to adjust his microphone.
"That Money Mark cover thing. You sing it better than me, man! I could play drums for you, if that's what you want..."
Jon has returned to the wings, and everyone can see Jared shaking his head. "All right, kitten – but I'm not going to sing that song tonight."
Felicia has been mugging for the audience, but she spins around when she realizes Jared's breaking from the script. "...Myuh?"
"I hate to put you on the spot like this," Jared says, "but me and the band have been rehearsing a new one behind your back... We thought it'd be a nice surprise – and I know you'll recognize it, so you can sing along this time." The audience laughs, whistles, and applauds this idea, but Felicia has forgotten the crowd entirely; she's looking back and forth from Jared to Tyler to Trilby to Akiko, completely flustered, standing slightly pigeon-toed, her tail twitching frantically, her forepaw dangling awkwardly at her side with the microphone clutched in it. Guitarist Tyler is fitting a slide to his finger.
"Everybody ready?" Jared asks. The other band members give an affirmative response, except for Dom, who is busy selecting a pick for his bass; he finds the right one and gives Jared a thumbs-up. "One, two, THREE–"
And the band thunder into a loopy, stomping opening that I can identify immediately as an old Flaming Lips classic. Much of the audience recognize it, too, judging by the laughter and cheers that accompany it. Felicia stands with one ear cocked, still facing Jared, trying desperately to place that slide-guitar line that Tyler's playing. Her quizzical look begins to give way to a smile when she hears the song's first lines.
I know a girl who / Thinks of ghosts / She'll make you breakfast / She'll make you toast / But she don't use butter / And she don't use cheese / She don't use jelly / Or any of these –
Trilby and Evan, flailing tambourines, join Jared on the chorus, and a good chunk of the fans sing along as well. Felicia has turned back toward the audience a little, and I see her smiling, nodding her head to the beat. Yup, she knows this song all right.
She uses Va-a-aseline / Va-a-aseline / Va-a-aseline...
Tentatively at first, the catgirl sings along to the next verse, lifting her mic back to her face and turning fully toward the house, dancing a little in place.
I know a guy who / Goes to shows / But when he's at home and / He blows his nose / He don't use tissues / Or his sleeve / He don't use napkins / Or any of these –
Now Felicia is singing along at full volume, skipping cheerfully on the edge of the stage, her smile turning into an outright grin of glee at the ridiculous lyrics.
He uses ma-a-agazines / Ma-a-agazines / Ma-a-agazines
Ma-a-agazines...
Tyler comes back in with the slide guitar for the bridge, and as Jared and Akiko pound out the beat Felicia bangs her head, her hair whipping behind her. She's recovered her confidence to such an extent that she actually outsings Jared on the final verse.
I know a girl who / Reminds me of Cher / She's always changing / The color of her hair / But she don't use nothin' / That you buy at the store / She likes her hair to / Be real orange –
She uses ta-a-angerines / Ta-a-angerines / Ta-a-angerines...
The band thunder into the closing instrumental break, Felicia tripping along triumphantly. As the song closes and applause breaks out, she collapses to the floor, lying spread-eagled on her back, squealing with laughter. "MYAAAHH-hahahahahaaa! Ohmigod, you guys," she sputters into the mic, "we SO have to do that song again tomorrow night!"
––
(to be continued, probably)
"She Don't Use Jelly": YT watch?v=AfpyoGFJNNE (Lyrics (c) The Flaming Lips)
Darkstalkers characters (c) Capcom
