“What do you mean?”
“Just drop it.”
Outside, Uwe and his buddies began to split. One of them snapped Uwe’s suspenders against his back. He spun around to look for the guy who did it. He couldn’t find him, so he stood wearing a frown. He reached down and picked at the seat of his underwear before walking away. The sonofabitch didn’t know anyone was watching.
“Oh, my,” I said, imitating Zoe’s favorite expression.
“I better go,” she said.
“Have another Coke,” I said. “Why the hurry?”
“I have to keep my grades up,” she said. “Someday I might want to go to law school or something.”
Yeah, I thought, and someday soon I would not want to go to Stanford Graduate School, but I would go there anyway.
Zoe picked up her book bag and started to leave. Then, rather tentatively, she hung back. “Abbey and I are going to Santa Barbara to visit Abbey’s mother on Saturday. Seth was going to lend us his V.W., but it isn’t working.”
“I see.”
“This presents a problem.”
“I could drive you two.”
“That’s what I hoped you’d say.”
What a coup, I thought.
“Look for me on Saturday, then,” I said. “I’ll be wearing suspenders.”
“Don’t you dare,” she said.
* * *
That night I went to 29 Orchid Street for a midweek practice. We were introducing a couple more of Seth’s originals into our show. Seth refused to play new pieces at a gig until we polished them to death. By the end of practice we were all a bit put out by his obsessiveness.
This also was the night he asked us to pledge our futures to Bandit.
We were presently a hometown band, playing to a loyal hometown audience. To Seth, true success as a nightclub band meant playing new towns and bigger clubs; it meant being good enough to break new ice night after night. Seth claimed we would never know how good Bandit was until we got out of S.L.O.
He had brought all this up before. But except for Jay, who was game for anything, all of us, Abbey included, had been noncommittal. Uwe had had two interviews with a company in L.A. and had a job offer after graduation. Abbey was closely moored to her mother in Santa Barbara; she was reluctant to move farther away. I had plans, too.
But Seth now had something working in his favor. A song by the Pricey Dexters, featuring none other than Domino Gettsland on drums, had broken onto the charts. Suddenly, Bandit’s ex-drummer had become famous, and Bandit’s remaining, die-hard members were green with envy. Domino’s big splash made me feel restless, too. Something competitive boiled inside me—I needed to try and match this guy, beat for beat. “Where do you think we should go?” I asked Seth.
“I don’t think we’re ready to go south to L.A.” he replied. “We need more experience. We don’t have enough original.” His fingers nervously ghosted chords on the neck of his guitar. “But I’ve talked to some other people in bands like ours who’ve headed to northern California. This one cat in S.B. told me about Lake Tahoe. There’s a new music scene taking root there. It’s the type of place where a band like us can transition—from small-time to professional.”
“It’s perfect,” Abbey said. “Bandit’s a rebel band, and playing L.A. right now would be a cliché. I’m sure northern California has great clubs.”
“We’ll blow Tahoe away,” said Jay.
“I just don’t get it,” Uwe said. “The industry is south. What a bunch of donkeys! You guys are scared of Domino, aren’t you?”
“This sounds cool, Uwe. Come on,” said Jay. “If things gel, we’ll get down south.”
“The Sierras are beautiful,” Zoe said dreamily, as she browsed through one of her notebooks. “I’d love to summer there.”
“You can be our manager,” exclaimed Abbey.
“Yes, I could,” Zoe said.
“She’s dead wood,” Uwe said. “Seth does fine managing us. If you go, Zoe, you’re going to have to earn your own way.” He puckered his liver lips and blew her a kiss.
“You goon,” said Abbey.
Seth looked at Abbey and Zoe and rolled his eyes. “Trust me,” he said to Uwe. “This is the right move for us.”
“Consider it, Uwe,” said Jay. “Do you really want to wear a suit and tie and kiss the Man’s heiny every day? L.A.’s tough, dude—competitive and expensive. You’ll just end up 9-to-5-ing for that company that’s got its eye on you. Hey, man, we gotta let this band ripen on the vine.” Jay grinned. He liked his last line.
“So it’s all set in cement?” Uwe asked.
Everyone nodded.
Uwe rose and thrust out his big right hand. “Put your hands on mine. We do this in my frat for spirit.”
Abbey smirked and thrust out her hand limp-wristed.
“You too, Zoe,” he said.
Our voices echoed his. “Alpha, two, Upsilon, four. Go, Bandit, pound the floor!”
I looked around me. Everyone seemed embarrassed, yet also very, very happy. We’re a strange bunch, I thought—however, right then, I liked everyone, almost loved everyone, even Uwe.
Uwe started laughing. The rest of us laughed, too, but Uwe kept it up—eyes watering, growing hysterical.
“What’s his problem?” Abbey said.
“He’s just totally stoked, aren’t you, Uwe?” Jay said.
“No, you stupid chink. That’s not it.”
Uwe dried his eyes with Jay’s bass wipe. “This whole thing—to watch it play out—it’s fuckin’ hilarious.”
“Huh?”
“When push came to shove, I knew you guys didn’t have the guts to head south, to really go for it. It’s just like he said it would be.”
“What are you talking about?” Abbey demanded.
“Domino gave me a call the other night,” Uwe said. “He wanted to check in with his old pal, you know. Of course he rubbed his hit song in my face, you know how he is.
“We talked about my getting a job in L.A. I said I wanted to get in another band, something with promise. Domino said L.A. is full of opportunities for keyboard players like me. He practically dared me to quit you guys and come hang out with him. He’s going to crack up when I tell him about your ‘big plans’ in Tahoe. You bunch of losers!”
Uwe turned his eyes on Abbey. “He also asked about you, Abbey. I told him you were still fucking up—still a drunken, stoned, head case.”
“Asshole!” Abbey rushed at him and hit him in the stomach.
“Get her off me, guys,” Uwe barked, “or I’ll hit her back.”
Jay grabbed Abbey. I was frozen. Seth stood up and started toward Uwe.
“You want some too, little donkey?” Uwe’s eyes burned.
“You’re out, man. That’s it,” Seth said.
“Don’t think about coming back,” said Abbey.
“Outstanding,” Uwe said smugly. “Now excuse me, I’ve got a future to embark upon, and you losers aren’t in it.”
Jay grudgingly helped Uwe clear his stuff out of the studio and load it in his car. The rest of us went inside the house. We could hear them shouting at each other while they were working. Then we heard Uwe’s car roar away, the horn blaring the length of Orchid Street.
Jay came inside and asked for the bong. He sat down and took a giant hit. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees and covered his face with his hands. He was silent for a long time; then he looked up.
“I have something to confess,” he said. “I’ve given Domino a few calls myself—you know, we’ve always been buds, and then I had to congratulate him.”
“Another traitor,” Abbey said.
“It wasn’t like I was kissing his ass. It was hard, Abbey. I have my pride.
“Anyway, we rapped about his thing down there. He asked how Bandit was doing and I told him we were doing okay, that we might start gigging outside of S.L.O. He was cool.
He even gave me some advice.”
“You’re going down there too?” I said.
“That’s shit,” said Seth.
“No, he didn’t invite me. What he said is that we ought to get rid of Uwe, that he was dead weight.
“I said that was kind of harsh, and then he said not really, that Uwe has called him a bunch of times, not vice versa. Uwe’s, like hounding Domino to get him into the music scene in L.A. Uwe’s the donkey. He’s only out for himself.”
“That asshole,” Seth said. “Domino’s right, we don’t need Uwe. We’ll do better without him. So what if he was an original member.”
“I’m glad you feel that way,” Jay said, “because here’s the deal — I sort of asked Domino to lead Uwe on a little, you know, get on the phone and act like he’s glad to hear from Uwe, let him think there are opportunities for him in L.A. Give the dude some bait, you know, then blow him off when he gets down there."
“Wicked,” I said.
“Domino said he’d do it?” Abbey asked.
“He did it. It’s done.”
Jay looked at Seth. “I feel guilty, dude.”
“I wish you had talked to me first,” Seth said, “But, shit, I guess I’ve reached my limit with that donkey.” He issued a polka-dotted party horn laugh.
“Finally,” Zoe said.
“You’re brilliant,” Abbey said. She rushed over and gave Jay a hug. So did Zoe. I was happy for him, but I wished the girls were hugging me.
* * *
The point where Highway 101 breaks out of the rolling coastal hills and jags south in order to parallel the ocean was my favorite part of the drive to Santa Barbara. Gaviota blinked by and then there was a concert of water—blue, alive, and shimmering. This wide-angle picture slugged a person wide awake and sent tingles through the stomach to the groin.
That Saturday morning, crisp, cool air found its way into the passenger cab of my truck through the cracked wing windows while a contrast of eastward sun baked my lap; the fresh air and sun titillated my body hot/cold, hot/cold — yielding a soothing average warmness.
“Isn’t the ocean beautiful?" Abbey said. “It makes me high.” She sat in the middle of my Toyota pickup’s small cab. Gazing at the sparkling Pacific, she leaned against me and stayed there for a long while. Her body conducted a smooth, elegant warmth—snug as an electric blanket.
My dreamy thoughts bobbed like pieces of cork. I imagined Seth, Jay, Abbey, and myself to be shells on the beach. Different shells, each with a different color, shape, and spindly sharpness. Seth was an old shell—bone white, weathered, and wise. Jay was an oval shell, pearl-pink on the inside, with a fan of unicorn horns splayed outward around the opening. Abbey was an oyster-sized abalone, the walls inside and out a blue-swirl jewel. I was not a shell, really, but a smooth piece of quartz the size of a very small potato. In my shell metamorphosis, the sand on my belly felt like wet gravel.
Zoe was there, too, crawling around the clean sand where the shells lay. She was a young female sand crab. I wasn’t sure, exactly, what the difference was between a male and female sand crab, but I knew this to be a girl-crab. Her shell had a metallic sheen and was the same light, red-orange color as a newborn human.
Uwe appeared. He was a man in suspenders smoking a cigar. He walked along the surf line with a mutt dog. Uwe stood to one side of the circle of shells, the rock, and the sand crab, while his dog grimaced and lowered its haunches and took a giant crap in foamy inch-deep water.
The image snapped off.
Abbey asked why I flinched. I told her it was too weird to talk about.
The song on the radio ended with a rim shot, and the D.J. said, “Hey out there! Here we go with that new hip sensation, the Pricey Dexters. The tune’s called ‘Runnin’ like Cecelia.’ And the big P.D. is runnin’ hot….”
“Big P.D.? Oh my, now they even have their own acronym,” Zoe said. “And it’s almost phallic.” Her nose was in a notebook, and she was talking more to herself than to Abbey or me.
“Over and over and OVER,” Abbey said, the radio stations play this stupid song. I’m so tired of hearing Domino and that band. Can we put in a cassette tape?”
I started to load The Pretenders with Chrissie Hynde, one of Abbey’s favorites, into the deck.
“No,” Abbey told me. “Wait. I’m going to handle this like a professional. There, I’m listening. I’m trying to learn something musically…. Shit….”
“Runnin’ like Cecelia” was, I hated to admit, a catchy tune—a real rocker. And I had no doubt that the song’s big beat contributed to its chartbusting success. In a few places, I couldn’t follow his drum work. Some of the beats and fills were so slick they eluded me. Damn he was good. Every time I heard “Runnin’ like Cecelia,” I was reminded of Domino’s skillful drumming. And the D.J.s kept playing the song over and over and over.
Sin city’s just plastic baby
Red lovin’, bets on checkers maybe
You strut on heels and tear down lives
Witchy girl burn fire, fire
Runnin’ like Cecelia
Runnin’ like Cecelia….
Like most rock ‘n’ roll songs, the lyrics were simple, but the way the singer sang them caused the words to strike a nerve. The P.D.’s lead singer strove to affect the visceral rather than the aesthetic. Lyrics, melody, and rhythm of “Runnin’ like Cecelia” all were raw and good.
I hated Domino. I admired Domino. Then I hated him some more.
The waves opposite the highway looked small and shapely, churning over beds of kelp. As we drove along, I pointed out a few surfers, but neither girl displayed much interest. Abbey began to file her nails with quick, nervous strokes. Scratch, scratch, scratch—a rushed, annoying rhythm. Zoe’s glasses had slipped to the end of her nose. She stared into a macro-economics text propped in her lap. One of Zoe’s hands gripped the book; Zoe’s other hand, moving as rapidly as Abbey’s nail file, located and traced important lines of text, highlighting them in fluorescent yellow for later review.
“I think I’ll paint every other nail white and every other one bright red,” Abbey announced. She held out both hands and examined them, then went back to filing.
During her manicure and Zoe’s studying, I began to think about Santa Barbara. I had heard bits and pieces about Isabella from Jay. Jay said he met her once when she was in S.L.O. visiting Abbey. Abbey asked Jay to drive her mother, Zoe, and her to the beach in the van and Isabella took the four of them out to lunch at the Custom House in Avila. Her generosity impressed Jay, who always liked a free meal.
“Abbey acts like she’s on Cloud 9 when her mom’s around. Her mother is cool. It’s no fake, dude. Abbey really digs her.”
Mrs. Butler owned a leather goods shop in Santa Barbara. Abbey and Zoe had earrings and purses from there. Twice a month, like clockwork, Abbey and Zoe would trek to Santa Barbara to visit Isabella. They usually borrowed Seth’s V.W. and went alone.
Today’s proposed agenda proved to be a little disappointing. Abbey made it clear that she wanted to spend some time alone with her mother, so Zoe suggested the two of us go to the beach. There was also a music store that I wanted to visit. We had a gig that night at Chee’s Nightclub, and Seth, of course, was expecting us to be there, or else. I hoped Abbey would fit me into her busy schedule. But I wasn’t counting on anything. What was new?
When we reached the outskirts of the city, Zoe shut her textbook and put it into her handbag full of magic markers, notes, and miscellaneous feminine apparel. Acting very pleased with herself as she always did when she accomplished a long stretch of studying, she blurted, “Oh, Abbey, I can’t wait to see Izy.”
Abbey located her purse under the bench seat and began to brush her long brown hair with deliberate strokes. “Turn off at the next exit,” she told me. “My mother lives down by the water. Her shop’s close by.”
I decelerated to 25 mph and rolled down
my window. It was noontime, the sun was strong, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Sea spice saturated the air.
We were in an older section of town. The streets were narrow and the storefronts high and canopied. A curious assortment of people strolled on the sidewalks. Some of them were locals wearing sandals, shorts, and loose-fitting tops; some of them were tourists wearing the same getup. It was easy to distinguish between the locals and the tourists. The locals’ skin was bronze and their hair stained yellow from salt and sun; the tourists’ skin was either milky white or painfully red.
“Here it is,” Abbey said.
“Isabella’s Leather Shoppe,” the sign read. It was a tiny shop squeezed between a bookstore and a place that sold Swedish furniture. Blue paint, white trim, and quaint white wooden shutters gave the shop a cheery face. The front door stood open, held that way by a hefty potted plant.
Seven or eight customers browsed inside. One old man picked up a leather handbag and smelled it. His wife was nearby, in front of a display of sand-casted candles. “What are you doing?” she asked.
A woman parted a cloth drape and emerged from the rear of the store carrying a box filled with cards and envelopes. “Oh there you girls are,” the woman said, her voice throaty and musical like Abbey’s. I was just putting these new greeting cards out. Carmen did a lovely job on them. His new poems are very sensitive.” Her eyes traveled past Abbey and Zoe to me. “You must be Danny, the drummer,” she said. I’m Abbey’s mother, Isabella. The girls call me Izy.”
Isabella’s hair was tinged gray and left long and flowing, not done up in a beauty parlor hairdo like my mother’s. Her skin creased around her eyes and showed age; but still, it was taut and elegant, especially around her sharp cheekbones. Izy was taller than her daughter, and she had a more springy walk. She was strikingly pretty, like a china teacup.
“Hello,” I said.
I learned that the author of the verse on the greeting cards was a local poet and friend of Isabella’s. Zoe whispered that Carmen and Izy were lovers. The girls helped Izy put the cards on display while I looked at the many purses, belts, and wallets distributed around the shop on hooks and in wooden bins. The shop’s interior smelled richly of leather, and I, too, felt a strange need to pick up articles of tanned hide and rub them against my face and inhale their musky scent.