“Yeah,” I said. “I'm all yours.”
“Good. Okay. Perfect.” Paul began trying to remove the mitten from my left hand, but the shaking of his own was making that difficult. Once he managed to get the mitten off, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring that looked as if it had been made a hundred years ago. There was a pearl in the center, surrounded by eight tiny diamonds cut into triangles, set to form the shape of a flower.
“If you don't like it, Harry said you could come in and pick out another one.”
Before I knew it, Paul had slipped the ring on my finger, and my mouth fell open as if the hinges to my jaw were loose.
“I know what you're going to say.” He put his hand up to keep me quiet. “This is the last thing I should be thinking about now, right? It's supposed to be all about my career, the band. But one thing I've realized is that my life in its entirety is more important than any one aspect of it. And the sad truth is that until I met you I didn't have anything else. So, if you love me and want to be with me…Well…What do you say?”
I was a second away from jumping into his arms and screaming Yes! But a wave of anxiety stopped me, and threatened to split my chest in two.
Paul must have sensed my apprehension. He backed up and shoved his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt, then jammed his fists together, stretching the cotton tightly across his shoulders. He looked like he was trying to hug something that wasn't there.
“Silence,” he said. “Not a good sign.”
It was my turn to pace. I walked in a four-by-four square pattern, turning the corners at sharp, ninety-degree angles. Inside my coat I was sweating.
“Shit, Eliza, don't do this to me.”
I covered my face with my hands, which felt weird because I was only wearing one mitten. Closing my eyes, I bit my cheeks and tried to imagine all our possible futures, but I couldn't escape a shattering hunch that Paul's future, as I suddenly foresaw it—the fame, the women, and most daunting of all, the traveling—made little room for me.
“Here's a bonus,” Paul said. “If you marry me, I'll have to tell you my last name.”
In his eyes I saw all the other possibilities. The dreamworld possibilities. The fairytale possibilities. The seemingly impossible possibilities. Maybe Bananafish's record would go platinum; Paul and I would buy a townhouse in the West Village, one with a stoop out front where Paul could sit and strum on his guitar and write songs; I'd be doing cover stories for Sonica, and we'd have a kid or two—boys with shaggy hair and cool rock ‘n’ roll names like Rex and Spike; Vera and Michael would live next door, and everything Paul and I needed, wanted, and loved would be within a five-block radius. We would never have to leave the neighborhood, let alone leave New York, let alone leave the ground.
“Eliza, say something.”
Over the ledge I could see the little bits of index cards pirouetting in the wind like tiny ballerinas on the sidewalk.
“I'm scared, Paul.”
“Look at me,” he said.
I shook my head, and an army of tears made its way down my cheeks. A stronger breeze scattered the papers into the street. Paul was never going to be able to clean them up now.
He held me against his chest and said, “Tell me what you're scared of.”
“Getting left behind.”
“I'm not going to leave you behind.”
I stepped back far enough to look Paul in the eyes. The longer I looked, the more the tension drained, first from my face and then down my body, and I began to nod.
“Is that a yes?” he said.
“Yes.”
He put his hands on the sides of my face and kissed me like a drowning man gasping for air.
We celebrated at Balthazar that night. The Michaels were all there, along with Vera, Queenie, Feldman, and the woman known only as “Feldman's wife” because Feldman hardly ever brought her around, and when he did he never introduced her to us.
“Her name begins with an M,” Vera said.
“Cheryl.” I was sure her name was Cheryl.
“In what language does Cheryl begin with an M?”
Paul and I often visited Michael at Balthazar for free coffee and croissants, but we'd never been able to afford a meal there. The restaurant was large, crowded, and noisy, but with its red leather upholstery and Parisian-brasserie decor, it reminded me of the places Hemingway wrote about in a book Paul had given me, A Moveable Feast.
When Paul and I arrived, the champagne was flowing; there was a plate of raw oysters in the middle of the table and two dishes of fried calamari at each end.
I took the seat next to Vera while Paul tapped Michael on the shoulder and said, “Need to talk to you for a sec. In private.” He wanted to be the one to tell Michael. He thought it was more chivalrous that way.
Grabbing a tentacle, Paul dipped a piece of calamari in marinara sauce, tossed it into his mouth, and then dragged Michael around the corner. They were out of sight for no more than a minute. When they walked back to the table Michael had a blithe, if not surprised smirk on his face.
“I hope you know what you're getting into,” my brother said, kissing the top of my head. Then he looked at Paul. “Maybe I should be saying that to you; I'm not really sure anymore.”
Everyone bellowed to know what was going on. Michael pointed at Paul and said, “Ask my future brother-in-law.”
The table fell silent as Paul slid in next to me, plucked an oyster from the platter, sucked the meat from its shell, and then lifted my ring finger. “Jesus, do we have to write it out on a goddamn chalkboard?”
Vera caught on first. She eyed me with apprehension, and then she surrendered, cheering, and the rest of the party followed suit.
For the first time in my life, everything felt like it was in its right place. Paul and I were in love, my brother had a career to look forward to, and Vera would be starting law school in another month.
It was a good night.
Even Feldman looked hopeful.
I'm a man of principles. A decent-enough guy. And confrontation, believe it or not, does not come easy to me.
Is this goddamn thing working? Check, one, two, three. It's been like, six zillion months since I've used it. Okay, it's moving. Shit, where was I?
Getting my ass kicked.
No kidding, I probably would have received less of an ass-kicking squaring off with Mike Tyson than I did when we finally headed into the studio in February. And just to make myself feel better, I'm going to blame everything on Winkle. I'm going to say he instigated all the conflicts, because who the hell likes to admit they should've watched where they were walking when they find themselves sinking in quicksand?
The problem with Winkle, he has this phony-sycophantic, leader-of-the-pack mentality that irks my last nerve. His modus operandi while we were recording went something like this: He'd start off by telling me how great a song was, going on and on until he'd used every thesaurus entry for the word “incredible,” then five minutes later he would give me a dozen reasons why that very same remarkable fabulous awesome amazing astounding song couldn't go on the record. But his reasons could always be whittled down to one—it doesn't sound like the shit that's selling now.
I've come to a conclusion though. This is all just a game to Winkle, a game he has to win or else he's out of a job, and he resents me because I won't play along.
Our first big run-in happened when I came up with the idea to record the entire album on eight tracks with a twenty-five-thousand-dollar budget. I'd read that the Drones debut had been made for less, so I knew it could be done well. And as I'm still conscious of the recoupment factor, I wanted to be efficient. To my genuine surprise, this plan didn't sit well with Winkle. I guess he wanted me to waste as much money as possible.
“Eight tracks?” he spouted, his eyebrows ready to burst forth from his forehead. “We're offering you a state-of-the-art studio and you want eight tracks?”
I told him I was pretty sure Abbey Road was recorded on eight t
racks. So were Doug Blackman's first two records. He said I had a better chance of being struck by lightning. He also laughed at what he called my naïve budget plan.
“Paul,” he said. “The Sykes Brothers alone are going to cost that much.”
Welcome to blowout number two. Winkle had hired the hit-making team known as the Sykes Brothers to produce the record. Listen, the Sykes boys are nice and all, but they have serious pop-pagan tendencies. They also put their stamp on everything—in other words, they go into a project intending to make a Sykes Brothers record, not an insert-band-name-here record.
Winkle wanted to know who I thought should produce the record and I proposed myself. Again, it would have saved a lot of cash. Again, I got nothing but a laugh in the face.
“What's the last hit record you produced, Paul?”
I stared him down, hoping he didn't notice my hand on my pancreas. He said if I wanted a career I better quit pouting, get my ass in the studio, and make it work with the Sykes Bros. Actually, what he said was: “Show up and shut up, or get the fuck off this cloud.”
So I did. I showed up, shut up, and made it work. But it felt like compromise. And if you ask me, compromise feels like amputation.
Winkle was beginning to hate me. I could see it in his eyebrows and I could smell it on his breath, which called to mind the warm air that shoots up from the subway grates and smacks of a slow, steely death.
The Michaels and I spent four months in the studio with Sykes and Sykes—three weeks longer than our allotted time. We recorded fourteen songs, twelve of which were slated for the album, two that will be saved for B-sides and the like. After finishing what the brothers considered to be the final song, they decided their work was done, packed their bags, and moved on to the next bunch of heathens, even though I was still unhappy with the half the tracks.
Their departure turned out to be the best thing that could have happened. It gave me a chance to fiddle with all the moments on the record that didn't feel right. After a couple more weeks working out the kinks, I was satisfied we'd made the best record possible under the circumstances.
That's when I finally let Eliza listen to it. I'd been holding out on her. I wanted it to be a big deal, you know? I wanted her to get the whole package in one dose.
She cried and told me I was a genius.
Note to self: Always remember how lucky you are to wake up next to someone who thinks you're the shit.
Next step, the finished product got messengered over to Winkle for approval, but before he'll sign-off on it, he's sending us to Los Angeles to meet with “a few key marketing and promotional people.”
Sounds fun, huh?
Michael and Vera have never been to California, and Vera is out of school for the summer so Michael's going to bring her along, maybe stay a few extra days and hang out on the beach.
Here's how stupid I am. I had this notion that I'd tell Eliza about the trip, the prospect of a few weeks frolicking on the beach would inspire her, and she would agree to come.
As soon as I broached the subject, Eliza's expression darkened, like it does every time we talk about travel requiring flight. Man, the amount of pain that history, fear, and irrationality can dredge up is mind-blowing.
I played like I assumed she would be tagging along, and mentioned that we'd be leaving on the twelfth. So she turns to me in all seriousness and goes, “Can we drive?”
I had to make a conscious effort to keep my eyes from expanding. First off, we don't have a goddamn car. A train would take, like, a week. And a bus, a zillion years. Eliza kept repeating the date and I sensed a fit of hysterics coming.
“Paul,” she said, practically hyperventilating, “don't you know that more planes have crashed on August twelfth than on any other day in the history of aviation?”
Believe it or not, I was completely unaware of this fact. Something like fourteen accidents so far. She made me promise I wouldn't go anywhere near a plane on August twelfth.
I sat her down on the couch and told her the same shit I always tell her: flying is no big deal. I said I'd sit right next to her and talk to her the whole time. I tried to convince her how much fun we could have eating crappy food, watching a stupid movie, and having cramped sex in the bathroom. After five minutes she wouldn't even know she was in the air.
First she used work as an excuse, claiming Lucy would never let her go. Then I made the case that it could be a working vacation. She screamed, “I CAN'T!” and locked herself in the bathroom.
I hate that word, CAN'T. I wish it had never been dreamed up, spoken, or defined. I wish the concept of CAN'T could be eradicated not only from language, but more importantly from the psyche of a girl who I know is filled with so much CAN it seeps out of her pores and scents the air.
I told her I could change the date. We could leave on the eleventh. She kept screaming “No!” and then I sort of lost it. I pounded on the door and started screaming back at her. I told her she was a baby and that she couldn't stay in New York for the rest of her life. I told her that someday—hopefully—I'll be going on a world tour, probably be gone for months, and if she cares enough to see me she's going to have to get her ass on a plane.
She stayed in the bathroom and cried. After I calmed down I told her I was sorry, but she sniffled and said SHE was the one who should be sorry.
I sat against the wall trying to get her to come out, trying to reason with her, but if there's one thing I've learned from Eliza, it's that there's no reasoning with fear.
I'm off to the City of Lost Angels.
Let the odyssey begin.
Over.
“Armageddon,” Paul said when he called from Los Angeles. “I mean it, Eliza. The end of the goddamn world.” He'd only been gone for three days and already he was having a breakdown. “Do you have any idea how this company made most of their money, before they acquired a record label, a movie studio, and half of the Internet? Cigarettes and processed dairy products. ‘If our goddamn tobacco doesn't kill you, try the mayonnaise!’”
Apparently Paul had been doing research on the corporation that now “owned his ass,” as he phrased it. “Technically, the Gap was a better gig. At least they gave me health insurance.”
According to Paul, the corporate structure was a hierarchy of separate companies, with the most profitable division—its Internet server—the apex. Music was third on the ladder, and probably did little more than provide a nice tax write-off every year.
“I'm still working for the man and he's still got me by the balls.”
By the end of the first week, Paul's resentment had evolved into doomsday pessimism as he gave me blow-by-blow accounts of the budding compromises he was being faced with on a round-the-clock basis.
“Day one,” he said. “This guy, Clint, a.k.a. Winkle Junior, tells us that although he likes the songs we've recorded, he's sorry to inform us that he doesn't hear a single, and in accordance with a stipulation in our contract that says we have to deliver recordings the company deems commercially satisfactory, I have to write one. Or else.”
“Or else what?”
“Or else everything. If Clint doesn't get his single, Clint can make it so our record never sees the light of day. He told me I had to write a single. He said: ‘Go write a single, Paul. You're not leaving here until we've got a single.’ That began World War III.”
I'd never heard Paul sound so upset. “What are your options?”
“Options?” He took a long hit off of a cigarette—a habit he admitted had returned with a vengeance during the week. “I wouldn't exactly call them options. I either give them their radio song or, according to Feldman and Damien Weiss, they can terminate my contract on the grounds that I'm in breach of the deal.”
“Jesus…”
“Wait. It gets worse. Meredith from—I don't know what department—art or marketing or something—Meredith is concerned about the Bananafish image. She wants to take us shopping and buy us some new clothes. She's convinced I need a new hip-ass hairdo t
o go with said clothes. And she informed me, after a day-long photo shoot, they were planning on putting my goddamn face on the cover of the album. Me. Not some cool graphic, not the whole band, just me. World War IV.”
I wondered if Meredith was pretty. “I thought you had approval over that stuff.”
“It's all bullshit. Our contract says we have to be consulted on the artwork. It says nothing about them having to listen to the opinions expressed during that consultation. The only good news is I think I won that battle. Unfortunately, it didn't come cheap. I give them their goddamn single and they keep my face off the cover.”
As much as I loved Paul, his ambivalence toward success made me want to kick him. “Explain to me why you don't want your face on the cover.”
“Eliza, my pancreas.”
“You're cute. And cute sells records.”
“Holy Hell, I don't want anyone buying my record because they think I'm cute.” He coughed and cleared his throat. “Day three, Clint's back. And Clint has developed an annoying habit of ending every goddamn sentence with my name. First thing he says to me: ‘How you coming on that new song, Paul? You're going into the studio in three days, Paul. You're not leaving California until you record a single, Paul. We can't make plans for the video if we don't have the song, Paul.’”
I visualized Paul's hand roaming his lower abdomen, searching for that infernal gland of his.
“I miss you,” I said.
“Yeah. Me too.” He coughed again. It sounded like bark scraping his esophagus. “Nobody's on my side with this video thing. Even your brother wants to make a video.”
Paul was out of his mind. That's what I decided. “You're kidding right? You have to make a video.”
“Music is not a visual medium.”
“How do you expect to sell any records if you don't make a video?”
“Music is not a visual medium.”
“Yes, it is. Music became a visual medium on August 1, 1981, the day MTV was born. I don't like it any more than you do, but—”
“Music is not—”
“All right, I get it. We'll talk about it when you get home. In the meantime, hang in there. It's only a few more days.”