It was going to be a long night.
“Only in America. This could only happen in America. Because America is in a tailspin from grace. What we invented—what our contribution to the world has been, the sonic representation of the freedom we as a country pride ourselves on—is rock ‘n’ roll music. But rock ‘n’ roll music is a dying man. No, not just a dying man. It's a man being crucified, Eliza. It's Jesus Christ. Our Savior. It's The Way, The Truth, and The Light bleeding down on us from the cross, and you know what? We're all just standing around watching the poor guy die.”
That's the analogy that Doug Blackman had offered me over cheeseburgers and French fries in his hotel room in Cleveland.
Doug said radio was inundated with what he called “musical heathens and soulless pop pagans.” For the most part, they don't write their own songs—and the ones who do can't seem to write good ones—but they dress in hip clothes, they dance and lip-sync like nothing else, they're skilled in the art of self-promotion, and, most notably, they play by the rules.
Doug picked up my tape recorder and spoke directly into the mike. “Nobody, and I mean nobody, ever started a revolution playing by the rules.”
The man was cynical, to say the least. But he had come of age in the sixties—that mythical generation of turbulence and change, where new things were new and people had hope. Rock ‘n’ roll, civil rights, men walking on the moon. He'd protested wars and preached about a woman's right to choose. He'd earned his opinion.
Doug said the America he knew then was now the home of the lost, the confused, and the greedy. He said we live in a country that values commerce over art, a country that allows mediocre talents to thrive and breed and poison the airwaves, movie screens, television, and printed word like toxic chemicals in the water supply.
“Once in a while something pure slips through the cracks, but these days it's rare.”
“Why do you think it's so rare?” I asked him.
By then he'd had half a bottle of wine. He was worked up. “I'll tell you one of the reasons why it's rare in music— because record companies have become little divisions of billion-dollar corporations, that's why. In some cases, record company CEOs are nothing more than middle-management kiss-asses. They don't know shit about music and don't care. Their job is to sell records. They don't need a good ear, they need good marketing skills. And that's only half of it. There's politics involved. Politics.”
“How does that explain your success?”
Doug scratched his temple, which he had a habit of doing whenever he paused to think. “It was different when I started. We're talking 1966. What we were doing then was relatively novel. You had Dylan doing the folk-rock thing, you had the Beatles taking over the world, and I came from the blues camp—I was a white guy trying to make gospel music with a raspy voice and a guitar. But if I were twenty-four today and released the same record I put out then, how many copies do you think it would sell?”
“Blasphemy,” I said. I couldn't imagine my world without the sound of Doug Blackman in it. “Your music changed my life.”
I told Doug about my first concert experience: His 1990 The Life You Save Could Be Your Own tour at the Cleveland Coliseum. I was sixteen, and it was just a few weeks after my episode in the bathroom with the kitchen knife, so needless to say I was a little down on myself. Michael, Vera, and I sat in the fourth row—seats nine, ten, and eleven. And when Doug ambled onto the stage, red Gibson in hand, and belted out “The Day I Became a Ghost” with what looked like tears in his eyes, it was as if he were speaking directly to me.
“That song gave me courage,” I said. “It reminded me of something I'd learned so many years before. That I could feel things. Even if it was pain.”
“That's the magic,” Doug said. “That's why you have to save the dying man. Because you want him around to keep saving you.”
“Save the savior,” I said.
“You dig, Eliza Caelum?”
“I dig, Mr. Blackman.”
During the 66 show, Doug's words were all I could think about. 66 was one of the worst bands I had ever seen or heard. It was as if, instead of amps, the guitars were plugged into helium tanks. And all the girls in the audience were dressed exactly like Amanda Strunk, a peroxide blond with a trampy, been-around-the-block attractiveness, whose only real talent was the ability to say fuck and lift up her skirt at the same time.
The crowd screamed and applauded like they were watching the Beatles.
Following the show, I walked to Tompkins Square Park, where I sat on a bench, stared at the word HOPE carved into stone above the water-fountain gazebo, and jotted down notes about the concert as Doug's words echoed in my ears: Tell me what you listen to and I'll tell you who you are.
Musical heathens? Soulless pop pagans?
I recalled Paul saying he'd gone out with Amanda Strunk. I wrote bitch in parenthesis next to Amanda's name, questioned why I'd done it, and quickly scribbled it out until it became nothing but a rectangular window to the next page.
Most of the bars and cafes in the East Village were still bustling. There were cool people with cool hair and cool clothes everywhere. I saw a guy in a cobalt-colored shirt whose posture, from the back, reminded me of the way Adam used to stand, sort of off balance and tilted to the side. Adam was a blue, human Leaning Tower of Pisa.
I wondered how different New York would have felt if Adam had been there. Not that I wanted him there. I didn't miss him anymore. But I missed the idea of him. I missed having a hand to hold. I missed the illusion of safety.
Heading down Avenue A, I wondered how it was possible to be surrounded by so many people and still feel utterly alone. At Houston Street I came upon Rings of Saturn. The marquee said:
BANANAFISH UPSTRS EVRY THUR
I called Vera to see if she wanted to meet me at Rings of Saturn but she was already in bed. Then I tried Michael. He was still at practice, and I asked him if I could head down to the rehearsal space and hear the band.
“Not a good night for that,” he said. “Some other time, though.”
Inside Rings of Saturn, the main room was small, the ceiling was low enough that I could almost touch it, and everything—the walls, chairs, floor, tables, even the bar—was black. There was a staircase in the right-hand corner—also black—leading up to what I presumed was the stage.
The place was empty except for a young couple at a table in the back, and a burly bartender; I sat down and told the bartender that my brother was a member of Bananafish.
“Which one?” he said.
“Michael.”
“Which one?”
“Oh, right.” I laughed. “Caelum. The guitarist.”
The bartender nodded as if he approved. He only had one working eyeball. The other was clearly made of glass and seemed ill-fitted, bulging so far out of its socket I was afraid it might pop into my lap if he got too excited.
He asked me what I wanted and I ordered the only thing I ever drank. “Water, please. But may I have it in a martini glass with an olive?”
As the bartender fixed my drink, he educated me on the proper way to hot-wire a car. He mentioned a red wire, and warned that if I didn't do it right there was a small chance I'd be electrocuted. He told me his name was John the Baptist, and when I expressed skepticism he admitted his real name was John Barnaby. The moniker had evolved from his chosen profession.
“Dispensing the blessed liquid,” he said. “Why haven't I seen you at the shows?”
“I just moved here.”
I asked him for a refill and he said, “Want me to throw in a little vodka?”
“No, just the water, please. And another olive, unless I have to pay for it.”
“You a friend of Bill's?”
I didn't know what that meant. John explained it was a slang term for a member of Alcoholics Anonymous. He and Bill had been friends for twenty years.
“No,” I said. “I just don't drink.”
“Why not?”
I didn't feel
like getting into the meat of it. That is, how the majority of my high school and college classmates got drunk every weekend, and how watching them throw up and pass out depressed me so I refrained from participating, even though this turned me into more of an outcast than I already was.
“It just seems like a bad idea,” I said, “swallowing a liquid that can be set on fire.”
Smiling, John refilled my glass. “Since you're new here, I'm going to give you some advice.” John picked up a red plastic toothpick that had been designed to look like a teeny-tiny sword. He stabbed three green, pimento-stuffed olives with it, and slid the whole thing into my drink. “On the house,” he said. “Now pay attention. If you're ever walking down the street and some psycho with a gun decides to open fire, here's what to do—don't make eye contact with him and keep walking. Do you hear me? Just pick up the pace and go in the opposite direction of the guy. Unless he's a trained assassin, in which case you're screwed. But if he's not, if he's just some postal worker or something, it's doubtful he'll be able to hit a moving target.”
I wasn't sure if John the Baptist was an eccentric or a sociopath, but I liked him either way, and I left him the last two dollars in my wallet.
The question is one of faith. Faith in my talent. Faith in my decisions. And faith in the idea that the truth, even if it can't pay my bills, can still set me free.
I know. Funny. Ha. Ha.
Am I talking loud enough? I'm trying to be quiet because my new roommate is asleep across the hall, but I'll get to her in a few minutes.
First, faith—one of the many pancreas-burning issues I wrestle with every day. Trying to hold on to faith in this business is like trying to hold on to a rope while dangling off a cliff. And believe me, I'm not afraid I'm reaching the end of the rope as much as I'm afraid of letting go and having a long way to fall.
Rehearsal was supposed to run late tonight, but we were all down in the dumps over the Winkle fiasco and couldn't accomplish a thing. Then Feldman showed up, pissed as hell. He came in demanding to know what was wrong with me, and if I realized I'd alienated one of the biggest names in the industry, not to mention potentially throwing my career down the drain.
I dragged Feldman into the hallway, shut the door, and asked him if he'd sent me to the meeting knowing what Winkle was going to say. He told me I was supposed to go alone—his way of answering my question. I reminded him that I'm not a solo artist, and he goes, “Well, maybe you should be. You write the songs. You hold the crowds. You make the decisions.”
I begged him to keep it down. He pointed to the door and said, “You didn't tell them?”
Hell, no, I didn't tell them. And I asked Feldman not to tell them either. They don't need to hear that kind of negative shit.
Feldman ranted until he ran out of rants. He thinks I purposely try to make everything harder than it has to be and said only a fool would turn down an opportunity to sign with one of the biggest record labels in the universe. But the thing is, it took me a long time to find three guys I click with—we're a band and we're staying a band, and if that means we play Rings of Saturn for the rest of our lives, so be it.
For what it's worth, I don't go out of my way to be difficult. I just want to sleep with a clear conscience and wake up with the ability to look at myself in the mirror. I also want my life to be my own. Even if it's a shitty goddamn life, it's still mine.
The night Feldman and I met, at the party of a mutual friend, Feldman hadn't impressed me in the least. And, well, actually, the so-called mutual friend wasn't much of a friend. She's what I like to call a fleeting lapse of judgment, but I don't really want to get into that. Anyway, she coaxed me into playing a few songs. Afterward, Feldman appeared out of nowhere and fed me one of those “you've got star written all over you” lines. I didn't fall for it right away. My goals have nothing to do with celestial bodies. But he was persistent. He showed an enthusiastic interest in my music, offered to manage me on the spot, paid for the rehearsal space, and even got me a social security card and driver's license—despite the fact that Hudson is my stage name.
All Feldman wants out of life—and he even admits this—is to be somebody's Brian Epstein—you know, the guy supposedly responsible for the Beatles. Feldman said he'd been searching for his McCartney or Lennon and he picked me. In the meantime, he works with 66 because they're actually making him money.
Feldman was also the one who got us the residency at Rings of Saturn. A few years ago I'd shamelessly begged for a chance to play there, but after doing a short set for the owner of the place, the guy said my music had “too much texture,” whatever the hell that meant.
When I asked Feldman how he managed to change the guy's mind, he laughed and told me that as a young, struggling lawyer, he'd represented a number of New Jersey's finest organized crime families. “I have friends in low places and they all owe me favors,” he said. “I just cashed one in.”
I didn't ask.
After Feldman left rehearsal, we put our instruments aside in favor of getting stoned, and then spent half the night debating the most popular flavor of ice cream. Burke insisted it was chocolate, even though it's vanilla—I actually read this somewhere— but I was too distracted to argue about it. First, I couldn't stop thinking about Winkle. Then I couldn't stop thinking about Eliza, and I wondered what Michael would say if he knew I was letting my imagination run riot with his sister. He'd warned me before Eliza got to town: Hands off, he said. Keep an eye on her, be her friend if she'll let you, but no messing around.
When I asked Vera why Michael was so obstinate, she told me that some asshole had recently broken Eliza's heart. A drummer, no less. Hell, even I know girls should stay away from the goddamn drummers.
Speaking of, Angelo pointed a stick at my face and told me vanilla was boring, but the thing is, I never said it was the most fun, I said it was the most popular.
Caelum goes: “There have been studies done on this topic, gentlemen. You could wager a bet and look it up.” Caelum always talks like someone's dad when he's high.
Angelo suggested bubble gum as a number one and I told him no one over the age of eight orders bubble gum ice cream. Then Burke raised his hand like he was in school and asked if maybe we could talk a little more about what happened with Winkle. I immediately suggested we call it a night but Angelo wouldn't let the goddamn bubble gum issue die. He claims he orders bubble gum ice cream all the time.
Burke stood up and goes, “Maybe we should at least consider whatever Winkle suggested.”
Angelo jumped on the bandwagon, yelling, “Yeah. It's better than nothing.”
The rehearsal space is twelve by twelve, if that. There was no need to yell.
Caelum said yielding to Winkle would mean the end of folding shirts for me, not to mention it would keep him in the band. Or so he thought. The desperation in Michael's voice made me feel even guiltier, and for the zillionth time I said I didn't want to talk about it. My pancreas ached and I had to press on my side to ease the goddamn pain.
“Oh, here he goes,” Angelo said. “Enough with the fucking pancreas.”
“Is a little sympathy too much to ask?” I was looking to be coddled, not mocked.
“Here,” Caelum said, passing me what was left of a joint. “Here's a little sympathy.”
At that point I packed up my stuff and came home. This is where it gets interesting.
All the lights were off when I walked in. The windows were closed and it was so hot it felt like being inside a terrarium. I turned on the light, went to the bathroom to take a piss, and lit a cigarette. Then I went across the hall and knocked on Eliza's door. Nothing. No “Who is it?” or “Come in” from the other side. I just assumed she wasn't there and walked in.
She was there, all right. Sitting on her bed, reading. My fan was on her floor, positioned to blow directly on her face, and she was wearing a pink lace bra and matching pink lace underwear.
I said hi and then laughed while she scrambled for the sheet and covered h
erself up—bad idea. I took this as a sign of weakness, and exhibiting signs of weakness in front of me, especially while in a state of near nakedness, was the wrong move. It gave me an advantage.
I sat down on her bed, took off my shoes, and stubbed out my cigarette using the bottom of my left sole. Then I hopped over her, rolled her extra pillow into a ball, and lay down, completely ignoring her protests.
“Relax,” I told her. “We're friends, right?”
She said, “We barely know each other.”
“Irrelevant,” I said. “I could really use a friend right now.”
I made her swear a zillion times that what I was about to say would never leave the room, then I told her the truth about what happened with Winkle. I don't know why. I guess I thought she might have some insight. I also wanted a reason to stay in her room.
I told her how the worst part was I'd actually thought about it before I said no. She said nobody would've blamed me if I'd said yes, but holy Hell, I would've blamed me. I swear to God I'd rather kill myself than give in to those cocksuckers.
I tried to play with the little pearl in her ear but she wasn't having it. Then, just to get a reaction, I asked her if she always wore bras that matched her underwear, and at first she got all shy, but eventually she flipped her hair and said yes.
I asked her if yes meant unexceptionally always or once a week. She said it meant every day. She also told me the reason— because she doesn't have a lot of money to spend on clothes, and this way, even if she has old jeans and a crummy T-shirt on, she still feels like she looks nice. Like she's dressed up.
It probably goes without saying that from now on, every time I see her, I'm going to wonder what color her underwear is.
I closed my eyes and moaned, trying to stymie the hard-on I'd had since I walked in the room, and Eliza said: “What's wrong? Your migrating pancreas acting up again?”
I told her it wasn't the pancreas this time and she called me a bastard, but she was kind of smiling when she said it. Honestly, it took all my strength not to lean over and kiss her right then. I would've done it, too, had I not been sort of distracted by the long, thin scar that slashed through the middle of her left wrist.