The cover of the January issue of Sonica, which hit newsstands in early December, featured a photograph of Loring Blackman posed on top of a bed, his back against the headboard, a blond-and-black Telecaster in his lap, and a dashing, well-lit look of self-consciousness on his face. To his right, the headline read: Rock's Most Eligible Bachelor: “I want to be in love just as much as the next guy.”
The article itself was a miscellany of quotes taken out of context that painted Loring as an achingly handsome, surly, broken-hearted whiner with an Oedipus complex.
In my original draft, the article made no mention of Loring's clothing, his empirically good looks, or his famous father. Immediately noting that Doug had been overlooked as a topic, Lucy called me into her office and said, “What is this kiss-ass crap?”
I wanted to blink myself invisible. Better yet, I wanted to blink Lucy into oblivion.
“I beg your pardon?” I said.
“You expect me to believe you didn't talk about Doug during the interview?”
” We did, but—”
“Then write about it. His father is the king. You can't write about the prince without mentioning the king. If you were any kind of journalist you would know this. And people will want to know what the guy was wearing.”
I couldn't get no out of my mouth, let alone fuck off and die. But I did manage to shake my head. “Writing about Doug would completely vitiate the dignity of the piece.”
Lucy scoffed. “What do you think this is, the Wall Street Journal ?”
I prayed to God, my dead parents, and the late Jim Morrison that I didn't start crying in front of Lucy—I would be back at square one if I let the bitch see me cry.
“Loring trusted me,” I said. “And do you really think there's a person out there who'll pick up this magazine and not already know who his father is? For once, why not let the guy stand on his own? Considering the completely erroneous record review Sonica gave him last year, it's the least we could do.”
“It's not our job to do these people favors, Eliza.”
Lucy told me that if I didn't make the changes I would have to hand over my notes, and she would write the article herself. “I know he's cute, but is Loring Blackman worth losing your job over?”
I walked to my desk, collected my notes, and took them back to Lucy's office.
“Just keep my name off of it,” I said.
Loring dialed the number three times before he pushed “send.” And even though he was well-aware of whose number he was calling, it startled him when he heard Eliza's voice.
“Hi.” He paused. “It's Loring.”
Sonica had hit the newsstands days earlier, but judging from the silence on the other end of the line, Loring guessed one of two things: either Eliza had no idea when Sonica hit the newsstands, or through the static of his cell phone and the noise of the traffic behind him, she had no idea what he'd said.
“It's Loring,” he repeated.
“I know who it is.” Her voice was murky. “Why does it sound like you're in the middle of Times Square?”
Actually, he was standing outside a coffee shop on Columbus Avenue. He'd just walked the boys to school, stopped to get a scone and, he told her, someone had left the magazine on the counter.
“You read it?” she sighed.
“Yes.”
“Are you calling to tell me how much you hate me?”
“No.”
Loring quickly confessed that he'd run into Terry North at a party a few days back. He refrained from confessing that he'd only gone to the party because it was Sonica-sponsored and he thought she might be there.
At the party, Terry had told Loring all about the squabble Eliza and Lucy had over what Lucy mockingly described as “the fucking dignity of the piece.” Terry said Eliza had almost lost her job, and that Lucy tried to rile Eliza even more by assigning her the task of digging up rock stars' high school yearbook photos for an upcoming fluff piece.
“I was going to call you,” Eliza said. “I just didn't know what to say. Not that it's any consolation, but I actually enjoyed talking to you, and I was really proud of the first draft.”
“I enjoyed talking to you, too.”
Loring focused on a long crack in the sidewalk that was shaped like the Mississippi River on a map of the United States. He was standing off to the east, near Atlanta, trying to find a hidden message in Eliza's words.
“How about we just laugh it off?” he finally mumbled, watching a bug crawl towards St. Louis. “That's not even why I'm calling.”
“Why are you calling?”
“My parents are coming over for dinner Saturday. I'm sure Paul would love to meet my dad, and I've been meaning to invite you guys over for a while…”
Paul was standing at the foot of his bed, staring blankly into his closet as if none of the clothes in it belonged to him, searching for the perfect outfit in which to meet Doug Blackman. He was trying to decide on a shirt to wear with his green suit and had already changed three times.
“Do I look all right?” he said, turning to face me in a red, long-sleeved shirt. “Or do I look like a fan? I don't want to look like a goddamn fan.”
“You are a goddamn fan.”
“I know, but I don't want to look like one.”
“What do you want to look like?”
” A peer. I want Doug to see me as a fellow musician. A kindred soul. Not some freak who knows every word and every riff to every song he's ever recorded.”
“If the shoe fits.”
He pointed at his chest. “Yes or no?”
I liked Paul in red. It made his skin look like perfect alabaster and, in combination with his dark hair, made his eyes sparkle. But red worn in conjunction with the green suit gave me pause. “To be honest, you look a little like a Christmas tree. I'd opt for black or white under that silly suit.”
“Silly?” He ran his hands down the jacket's lapels. “You think my suit is silly?”
“The color's a little silly,” I said gently.
I could make fun of him until my eyes turned blue, but I was just as excited to see Doug again as Paul was to meet him.
Paul kept the red shirt on, but dumped the suit in favor of black trousers and a black belt studded with silver grommets. He spent another five minutes trying to get his hair to stay out of his eyes enough to see clearly, but not so far that he looked like what he called “a goddamn cracker.”
On the way uptown, Paul insisted we stop for flowers, but he was completely dissatisfied with the bouquets he found in the neighborhood markets.
“Weeds,” he said, pointing at wilted daisies. “We can't bring the greatest songwriter in the world a bunch of weeds.”
“Maybe you should get him a nice corsage.”
“Funny. Ha-ha.” He held a cluster of maroon and yellow orchids in my face. “What do you think of these?”
“They look like scabs.”
After a detour into a gourmet market, Paul scrapped the flower idea, opting instead for a bottle of wine and an Oreo-cookie-crusted cheesecake.
As highly strung as he'd been throughout the day, as nervous as he'd been all the way uptown, and insomuch as he was possessed by a strong desire to make a good impression on his hero, when the elevator door opened into Loring's apartment and Paul found himself face-to-face with Doug Blackman, I watched him behave as if he'd just walked onto a stage and was the superlative star of an already-in-progress performance, remarkably transformed from a goddamn fan to a composed equal, respectful and gracious, yet acting as if he were unfazed by the legendary figure standing before him.
“Eliza Caelum,” Doug said, pointing at me. “I had a sinking suspicion I was going to run into you again someday.” He crushed me with the kind of bear hug that made me wish I still had a dad. Then he stepped back, visibly scrutinizing Paul. “You the fiancé?”
“Paul Hudson,” Paul said, catching Doug's hand as if drawn to it by a powerful magnet. “It's an honor to meet you, sir.”
I lau
ghed out loud. I'd never heard Paul call anyone sir, and I basked in the glory of the moment. Paul's face was aglow and I celebrated the scene as one of those rare instances when you actually catch sight of happiness in motion. Happiness made everything soft and shiny like Vaseline on a camera lens.
I leaned in toward Doug and whispered, “Save the savior.”
“Hear that?” Doug elbowed Paul. “She thinks you're the Second Coming.”
“Yeah, well,” Paul said, still beaming, “she also thinks Brooklyn is on the way to Jersey.”
Behind Doug, Loring appeared with one of his sons thrown over his shoulder, the other one running in circles behind him. Loring was wearing jeans and the gray sweater I'd borrowed the last time I was there, but no shoes or socks. I thought it was sexy, the way he walked around his apartment barefoot.
Paul put his hand on the little boy's head and asked his name.
“This is Sean.” Loring flipped the kid around to face the guests. “Sean, say hi to Paul and Eliza.”
“I'm not Sean, I'm Walker,” the boy said.
“No, you're not. You're Sean.” Loring shook his head. “They just discovered they can fool people and they're relentless.”
Loring herded us into the living room and introduced us to his mother, Lily, an attractive, elegantly dressed woman in her late fifties, busy in the kitchen getting dinner together. Paul offered to help but she said, “Mr. Chow already took care of the cooking. All I have to do is empty it into serving bowls.”
Twin number two tried to get the room's attention by sounding the alarm on the large toy fire truck under his arm. He told Paul his name was Sean.
“Walker,” Loring said. “Quit it.”
Paul crouched down to match the boy's eye level and egged him on. “Nice truck you've got there, Sean. My name's Eliza.” He pointed at me. “That's my friend Paul.”
Walker giggled, rolling his truck back and forth across the arm of the couch, leaving wheel marks in the velvety fabric. “Is her name really Paul?” the boy said. Then he tossed the toy aside as if it meant nothing to him. He was staring, riveted, at the studs on Paul's belt. “You wanna play Sega with me? I have Sonic the Hedgehog.”
“Are you kidding? I love Sonic the Hedgehog,” Paul said.
I was sure Paul had never played this game. He was going to be a good dad someday, and for an instant I wished he and I could trade lives with Loring. I wished Paul was my humble, Grammy-winning rock star husband with a legendary father, an apartment on Central Park West, and these two lovable, rambunctious boys who, in our alternative universe, would be called Rex and Spike.
“No Sega until after dinner,” Loring said. “Walker, please go wash your hands.”
Walker stomped away and Paul shifted his attention back to Doug, who wanted to give his account of the day he and I met. Not surprisingly, he skipped the part about asking me if I wanted to fuck.
“She cried,” Doug said. “And then she refused to leave my room until I granted her an interview.”
Paul laughed. “Funny, that's not how she tells it.”
“That's a huge exaggeration,” I said.
“Put it this way,” Doug continued, “I didn't think I was going to get rid of her, so I figured I might as well talk to her.” He leaned back and crossed his arms, examining me as if I were a painting on the wall. “How do you say no to those eyes, huh?”
“If you figure it out, let me know,” Paul said.
“Papa,” Sean yelled, yanking on Doug's sleeve, “show them how you make the cards fly.”
Doug whipped a deck of cards from his pocket, much like he'd done with me in front of the elevator. The child watched intently.
“Pick one,” Doug told the boy. “Show it to Paul and Eliza, and then put it back.”
“I know how to do it,” Sean said. He picked the jack of hearts, made sure Paul and I got a twenty-second-long glance at it, and then slid it into the middle of the deck with his little hands cupped around the edges so Doug couldn't see it. As Doug shuffled the cards, the boy bounced back and forth on the couch from one foot to the other.
“Here we go,” Doug said. He spread the cards on the coffee table, snapped his fingers, and the jack of hearts leapt from the deck to the floor, where it landed face-up.
“Wow. You've progressed,” I said.
Sean jumped and cheered and begged to see the trick again. But Paul's reaction was even more priceless—his jaw dropped and he said, “Jesus,” as if Doug had just made it rain inside the apartment.
Lily announced it was time for dinner, and as we congregated around the table, Paul took the seat next to Doug, and he kept trying to steer the conversation toward music, but all Doug wanted to discuss was the Yankees who, back in October, had lost the World Series to the Arizona Diamondbacks.
” An expansion team, for Christ's sake.” Doug thought the team's pitching had been inconsistent the entire first half of the season, but that by June things had finally come together. He wanted to know who Paul thought was a better hitter, O'Neill or Jeter.
“I have no idea who those men are,” Paul said.
“One time I saw Jeter steal a base!” Walker exclaimed.
Paul admitted he wasn't much of a sports fan, he had never even seen a live baseball game, and Doug spent the next five minutes lecturing Paul about broadening his horizons. “There's more to life than your guitar, and you'll be a better songwriter, a better person, if you get a few extracurricular activities that have nothing to do with music.”
“Eliza's my extracurricular activity,” Paul said.
At this point, Paul looked so in love with Doug I thought he was liable to lean over and plant a big wet kiss on the man's cheek.
Eventually Doug got around to asking Paul about Bananafish. He wanted to know what the band's tour plans were, and he told Paul that the only way he'd make a respectable name for himself was to get his ass out on the road and play until his fingers were about to fall off.
“It's up in the air,” Paul said, explaining the red tape he'd been dealing with. “The record was supposed to be released in October, then they pushed it back to January. There's been talk of opening for the Drones, but that's not until March.”
“The Drones,” Doug said, pointing into the air like Einstein. “The only reason to listen to the radio in the last five years.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Loring said, spooning a small serving of rice onto Sean's plate and sounding more amused than offended.
“Wait until you hear Bananafish,” I told Doug.
One of the twins repeated the word Bananafish, the other twin chimed in, and for a full minute they tossed the word back and forth like they were playing tennis with it.
“Boys,” Loring said. “Settle.”
They did, for half a second. Then Walker tapped on Paul's arm and said, “Can you do this?” He let a string of milk-thickened spit run from his lips all the way past his chin before he quickly slurped it back into his mouth.
Loring pointed at his son. “I'm not going to tell you again.”
“Can I have a sip of your milk?” Paul whispered to Walker.
After the boy nodded maniacally, Paul took a large gulp of the milk, swished it around in his mouth, and then tried Walker's trick, only the milk hadn't had time to thicken his trail of saliva and instead of being able to suck it back into his mouth, it dropped into his lap.
“It's okay,” Walker said, sliding his glass back to Paul. “Just drink some more.”
Feigning authority, Loring told Paul he couldn't have any dessert unless he behaved. Then he said, “Walker, eat, please.”
Walker shoved a handful of a fried seaweed-like substance into his mouth, turned to Paul with strings of the green stuff spilling down the sides of his face and said, “You wanna see my room?”
“Sean, I would love to see your room,” Paul responded, knowing full well he was speaking to Walker. Then the other twin said, “Hey, what's my name?”
Paul studied Sean. “You're Walker, right?
”
“Walker Black Man,” he said as if he were Native American. “I'm five.”
Justine joined us for dessert. She was wholesomely pretty, like a model on a soap commercial, and she told Paul she remembered meeting him at Emperor's Lounge.
“Uh-oh,” Paul said. “I never hit on you, did I?”
“No,” Justine assured him. “Although I did hear a rumor you were involved in a plot to sabotage my wedding.”
“Nothing personal. I only did it for the money.”
Later on, Lily and Justine took the boys downstairs to give them their baths. As soon as they were gone Doug pulled a bag of marijuana from his breast pocket.
“Take it outside,” Loring sighed.
Doug made a bid for company and Paul jumped on the invitation, while Loring and I went back to the table, took turns picking at the cheesecake, and watched the two grown men pass a joint back and forth on the terrace like a couple of teenage stoners.
“You don't smoke?” Loring asked.
“Only when set on fire.”
After discussing the merits of any dessert containing Oreo cookies, I said, “Paul's life is complete now, just so you know.” I turned my chair to face Loring. “Thanks so much for doing this. For everything. I still feel horrible about the article.”
“Forget it.” Loring put his fork down and pushed the dessert closer to me.
“This is my last bite,” I said, digging into the underside of the crust so as to come away with an Oreo-covered forkful.
Loring kept pressing on his teaspoon as if trying to flatten it.
“Hey,” I said. “Aren't you leaving town soon? Your makeup shows, I mean?”
His nod conveyed a less-than-tepid interest in the upcoming mini-tour. “I was just getting used to being off the road. The last thing I feel like doing right now is going back on tour. Plus, we're leaving right after New Year's and we just lost our opening act.”
Apparently the drummer for Dogwalker, Loring's scheduled warm-up band, had broken his wrist in a snowboarding accident three days earlier. I contemplated Loring's predicament and came up with what I thought was the greatest idea of my life.