I took off my shoes, set them next to the chair in the corner, and walked to the edge of the bed. I stood there as if I were looking into the deep end of a cold pool, trying to muster the nerve to dive in.
Loring continued to chat with his brother like nothing out of the ordinary was going on, but he never took his eyes off of me while I moved about the room.
Sometimes, to chase away thoughts of Paul, I picked a song title and tried to make an anagram out of it. Perched above Loring, I considered Doug Blackman's “Soul in the Wall,” but all I could come up with was “Lost in Hell,” and I ended up with a W, an A, and a U I didn't know what to do with.
I needed a distraction stronger than word games.
“Scoot over,” I whispered.
Loring made a place for me, and I nuzzled in close to him. He was warm, and smelled like he'd just taken a shower.
“Leith,” Loring said. “I gotta go.”
I took the phone, set it on the table behind me, and maneuvered my lower body so that Loring's thigh rested between my legs. His eyes were darting all around my face.
“How about I give you two options?” I said, pausing for a breath. “Option number one: tell me this isn't a good idea and I'll get out of your bed, no questions asked.”
He was already hard. I could see it under his sweats, the cotton fabric like a faded baldachin draped over his erection.
“Option number two,” I said, my finger tracing the Y in YALE. “Spend the rest of the night making love to me.”
He turned onto his side, put his hand on my hip, and moved it slowly up my body until it was in my hair. Then he pulled my face closer and let his lips touch the pearl in my ear. “Let's go with number two.”
“For the record,” I said, “this has nothing to do with two-can-play-at-that-game.” Not that I was so sure.
“For the record,” Loring said, “right now I don't think I'd care if it did.”
I ran my thumb over his eyebrow, down his cheekbone, and kissed him, tentatively at first. But as soon as he rolled over and I felt the weight of his body on top of mine, I buried all nonphysical sensations and raced to get undressed before I changed my mind.
“Not so fast,” Loring said. He downshifted to a more leisurely speed, unwrapping me like a gift, tracing me from head to toe with lips and hands and tongue, which, I had to admit, was pretty incredible, but gave me too much time to come up with more anagrams.
“Enough of the soundcheck,” I whispered. “It's time for the show.”
“So,” I said, lying in Loring's arms after the fact. “You want some ice cream?”
He laughed. “Actually, I would love some.”
I sat up on my elbow so that I could watch him walk naked into the bathroom, come back, and slip his sweats back on. It occurred to me then that Loring and Paul had very little in common, and nowhere was that more evident than physically. Paul's body was vulnerable and fragile, like if you dropped it, it would shatter into a thousands pieces. Loring was athletic and majestic. A sanctuary.
I tried hard to convince myself that having sex with Loring was a progressive achievement on my part. I was one step closer to getting over Paul. Then I remembered I wasn't supposed to be thinking about Paul and I tried to make an anagram out of Bananafish's “Avalanche,” but gave up because by making an anagram out of one of Paul's songs, indirectly I was still thinking about the bastard.
“What kind is it?” Loring said. He'd briefly disappeared from the room and had returned with my robe in his hands.
“What?”
“The ice cream.”
“Oh. It's a surprise.”
I took the pint from the freezer and hopped onto the counter while Loring grabbed two spoons from the drawer underneath my legs. He handed me a spoon, then opened the container and smelled it. “You really made this?”
“Well, Queenie really made it. She figured it out. But Vera and I helped mix.”
Loring said the color bore a strong resemblance to the East River after a sewage spill, but the consistency was perfect. It couldn't have been any creamier.
“Ready?” I put a giant spoonful in my mouth, wrapped my legs around Loring, and kissed him, letting the ice cream flow from my tongue to his.
At first he moaned. Then he coughed. “Hold it!” he said, catching ice cream in his palm as it dripped down his chin. “This is my milkshake! You stole my milkshake!”
“Secret recipe no more!” I threw my arms into the air. “It only took Queenie three tries to figure out your so-called mystery ingredients. Cinnamon and co—”
“Don't say it!” He put his hand over my mouth, inadvertently smearing ice cream on my face. He was laughing, I was laughing, and it was fun. Like a slumber party with a close friend. And it might have been a record—at least two whole minutes went by without one thought of Paul. But there he was again, popping in unwelcome in the middle of a fine, otherwise enjoyable stretch of time.
Take this, you bastard.
I scooted to the edge of the counter, slid open my robe, and pulled Loring back into me.
Loring had to be at the studio early the next morning, but he was so quiet upon waking I never heard him leave. The phone woke me a little before eleven.
“There was an angel in my bed this morning.”
I rolled onto my side and hugged a pillow to my chest. “Hi,” I said, conscious that I was smiling. “What are you doing?”
“Working. And thinking about you.”
I took a deep breath through my nose. “The bed smells like sex and chocolate.”
He moaned. “Don't tell me that while I'm stuck in a room with six men.”
Behind Loring, I could hear those men, immediately recognizing Tab's voice above the din, clamoring to know who was on the phone.
“Hold on, I need to change rooms.” It got quiet and Loring said, “What are you doing tonight?”
“Interviewing some band from Omaha at four. After that, nothing.”
“Will you have dinner with me?”
“I have dinner with you at least three times a week. You think now that you've licked ice cream from my belly button that's going to stop?”
“I mean out. Someplace nice.”
“Like a date?”
“Yeah.” Loring paused. “A date.”
I heard Tab again. Wherever Loring had relocated, and I guessed the hallway, Tab had followed, shouting, “Who the hell are you dating?”
Loring ignored Tab, but I said, “Let me talk to him.” After audibly expressing his reluctance, Loring handed the phone over.
“Tab, does Loring look any different today? Does he seem more relaxed?”
“Eliza? Is that you?”
“You mean to tell me we finally do it and he doesn't even tell anyone?”
Tab dropped the phone, and at the top of his lungs he began announcing to whoever was within earshot that in the last twenty-four hours a bonafide miracle had occurred— Loring had finally made his way into my pants.
“Thanks a lot,” Loring said after he got back on the phone.
“Pick me up at eight.”
The first line of the first song on Bananafish's first record goes like this: “If condemned to burn for the rest of my days I still couldn't feel the fire of this much pain.”
I wrote that when I was nineteen, sitting in a hospital watching my mom die. But the lyric, and the song “Death as a Spectator Sport,” took on a whole new meaning the day Eliza dumped me for Loring Blackman.
Usually, the power of a song to transcend its own boundaries and communicate a completely new meaning, even to its creator, awes me. In this particular case, however, the sensation is more like nightly impalement. That song is even harder to sing than the goddamn single, because the single is about the contradictions that make Eliza who she is. It's her lightness but it's also her darkness, and something about that makes it cathartic to play. Especially when I focus on the negative.
Performing “Spectator” is like stepping into someone else's sh
oes, taking on the whole of their angst, and then realizing you're standing in your own worn-out boots.
It's all been so exhausting. The break-up. The tour. The pressure to sell a zillion goddamn records. Never in my life did I think I'd be concerned with how many records I was selling. But these people, they make me care. They call me up and give me numbers and figures and advice on what I have to do to earn more money than God, and suddenly it's all so complicated, when all I really want to do is play music.
Everything—and I mean everything—is a complete disappointment.
I know, I know. I'm the jackass who thought he wanted to be a fucking rock star. And sure, at times it's been fun, but if all I wanted out of life was fun I would've become a juggler or a candy maker or one of those boy band singers who dance like puppets.
These last few months on tour, I've been keenly aware that my situation is the opportunity of a lifetime, and there have been short-lived moments here and there when I've been on top of the world. Holy Hell, who wouldn't want a small entourage catering to their needs, women throwing themselves at their feet, and the chance to play for thousands of people on a nightly basis? It's a goddamn dream come true. I've made it to a place so many of my peers long for and will never even get close to. But no matter how hard I try, I can't get myself to truly appreciate my position in relation to my life as a whole.
All the perks I just mentioned, they're minor distractions. They can make the bad feelings go away, but only temporarily. And even then, there's always something lingering above it all, something ungodly and lonely that I just can't shake.
The very first day of the tour, I knew. I walked up to that prick Ian Lessing at the Hyatt in San Francisco, and I knew. It was mid-afternoon, day of the show, and Ian was so out of it he spoke to my left shoulder instead of my face. He acted like he'd never heard of the band. After I explained who I was, how much I admired his work, and what I was doing there, he said, “Right. Charlie Bucket.” He was referring to one of our songs. He's called me “Bucket” ever since.
I guess I'm supposed to admit to being guilty of under-the-influence behavior similar to Ian's at least once or twice in my life, but that was back when I had nothing to look forward to except folding shirts and eating a can of baked beans for dinner. And not before a show. After, maybe, but never before.
It seems irresponsible, stereotypical, and just plain sad to act like such a goddamn rock star. No kidding, these guys are walking caricatures of the myth, and they're constantly being egged on by everyone around them. I guess they're easier to control that way, but I'm not falling for it. And part of me thinks I'm toeing the line just to spite the motherfuckers.
Irrespective of all that, I think I would be okay if the Winkles would show some respect. And I don't mean for me. They could stick me in a crate with two air holes and I wouldn't complain. I want respect for the music. It's not about the music for them. No matter how hard I try to convince myself they care. THEY DON'T FUCKING CARE.
About a month into the tour, Winkle called to tell me I needed to start being more forthcoming in interviews. He said I'd been described as “terse” and “petulant.” Well, you know what? I don't like answering the same stupid questions every goddamn day, and I don't think my personal life is anybody's business, especially when the name Loring Blackman comes up.
Winkle's next demand: add a cover song to the set so the audience has something to sing along to. Something popular, he said, like maybe one of those big power ballads from the eighties.
“'Faithfully!'” I said. “Journey, 1983.”
Okay, I was so fucking kidding. But Winkle was like, “Yeah, yeah. Great, Paul. Great.” It was the most genuine sentence he'd ever said to me.
Before he got too excited, I told him he'd have to peel all my skin off with a paring knife before I'd agree to that. Not that I can't ape Steve Perry note for note, but our set is short enough. We fit in about six songs if we speed things up, which we rarely do. And let's not forget, most of the people who come to the shows have never heard of us. Last thing I want is for them to associate Bananafish with someone else's hit.
If Winkle and I had been in the same room during this conversation, there's no doubt in my mind he would've beat the shit out of me.
Last but not least, Winkle asked me to cut down on my guitar playing on stage. “Let that other guy do it,” he said, as if it's so hard to remember the names of my band mates.
His reason? Girls prefer their singers hands-free. That's what he said. And, well, I laughed. Because I honestly thought he was joking. I mean, that sounds like a joke, right?
Anyway, he's wrong. Eliza used to cream her pants whenever I got within two feet of a guitar.
Winkle called me a moron, which I granted him, but then he had the nerve to accuse me of having no ambition and that's when I lost it. Hell, I've been working my ass off for a decade. I sleep what I do, I eat what I do, I dream what I do, I live what I do.
I told Winkle what he didn't understand was that my ambition, I've come to realize, doesn't go beyond the music, and he said: “Well, it has to. This is a business, Paul. Not a hobby. Not a religion. It's a fucking industry.”
Know what? For the first time I actually saw where Winkle was coming from. But he and I live on separate islands, there's a stormy sea between us, and we have no boats to get us across.
A call from Feldman followed shortly after my conversation with Winkle ended. Feldman tried to convince me that the debate between art versus commerce is archaic and stupid. He said the key is to learn how to bend but not to break. Good advice if you're Stretch Armstrong, but I've always been more of a Humpty-Dumpty kind of guy—hard shell, soft and mushy on the inside, liable to roll off the wall and crack into a zillion pieces beyond repair.
And let's face it: this mess goes way beyond Paul Hudson and Bananafish. Way beyond art versus commerce. A guy doesn't need Loring Blackman's magna goddamn cum laude Ivy League degree to understand that what most people call capitalism is actually greed, and the whole country is going to hell because of it. I've seen it with my own goddamn eyes. No kidding, it's spawned something of a cultural awareness in me. Or lack thereof, as the case may be. I've spent the last three and a half months traveling across America with my eyes pricked open, looking for a goddamn culture, looking for some meaning. But all I see are truck stops and golden arches and Big Gulps and a lot of little dreams crushed by big powerful men behind big desks.
Maybe that is the culture. Maybe it's supposed to make me proud to be an American, but all it makes me feel is positive we're doing something wrong.
Doug Blackman said it best—all that shit about America being homogenized. He's right. Sacramento is San Diego without the beach. San Antonio is Tampa without the palm trees. Miami is the Art Deco version of L.A. and Denver is Pittsburgh plus the Rocky Mountains. The suburbs are even worse. Apparently sometime in the last ten years every suburb in America has mutated into an exit off the Jersey turnpike.
But you know what? Forget it. Forget everything I just said. I'm no political scientist, I'm no sociologist, and I'm not smart enough to figure out who or what is to blame. Us lazy consumers? Washington and Jefferson? George Bush and his goddamn cronies? Sam Walton and that guy who played Moses? Maybe the guy who signed Shitney Spears had a hand in it. I just don't know.
What I do know is that I'm no threat. I'm a little Dixie cup floating in an ocean of molten lava. To Winkle and all his minions, I'm nothing, and sooner or later I know they'll see to it that me and my big mouth are six feet under where we belong, and when that day comes I expect the heathens and pagans to break out their expertly choreographed hip-shaking asses and boogie all over my goddamn grave.
One more thing I should mention—the girl. I met the perfect girl. So perfect she could have been manufactured at a sweatshop in Malaysia and purchased during a blue-light special at K-Mart. Her name's Jill Bishop and she is completely devoid of any principles. She thinks life is too short not to smoke. She thinks the reason m
usic exists is solely for entertainment. She thinks Starbucks invented coffee. She thinks only nerds read books. She doesn't know the words to any song released prior to 1980—incidentally, the year of her birth. And her mismatched bras and underwear look like they came from the goddamn lost-and-found.
I don't feel much of anything at all for Jill Bishop, except maybe a little loathing. But that's why I let her in.
Listen, I know I've been slacking here with the goddamn audio diary. I just tried to cram a lot of information into a little bit of tape and now the tape is running out so to sum it up, let me just say that the last few months have been horrible, amazing, and surreal, but most of all they've been disappointing, and I'm glad the tour is coming to an end.
I'll check back in once I get home.
This is Paul Hudson reporting from the penitentiary of his mind.
Over and out.
A lot can happen in four months.
—Loring Blackman, March 2002
The summer had started off relatively mild, but by the end of June the meteorologist on Channel Seven's morning newscast warned that a suffocating July 4 was around the corner. I elected not to believe a word of it. I had no intention of acknowledging the imminence of Independence Day, hot or cold, because acknowledging Independence Day meant acknowledging the day Paul was scheduled to board a Boeing 737 at Miami International and, a few short hours later, God-willing, touch down at JFK.
As it turned out, Loring's warning had been an understatement. A little over three months had passed and he and I were now sharing meals, recreational activities, as well as a bed every night except for Fridays and Saturdays when the twins slept over and I hung out in Brooklyn with Vera.
” We need to talk,” Loring said that same June morning immediately following the newscast. He'd just returned from a five-day video-filming trip to Los Angeles and was unpacking. There were clothes all over the bed.
“You wore short sleeves?” I said, partly to change the subject, which sounded deeply important, and partly because I was concerned for his safety. I tugged on his shirt. “Please tell me you didn't wear this on the plane.”