“Is that where the name of your old band came from?” I ask. Before joining Big Bang Theory, Emerson had once been in a group called The Blissfully Unaware. They achieved moderate success. Emerson, who was one of the principal songwriters in the group, still gets royalties from the few radio hits they had. Their “best of” compilation experiences moderate sales.
“Something like that,” says Emerson.
“Do you miss being in your old band?”
“No, not really.”
“Why?”
Emerson smiles. “Being in a band is like being married. But you can sleep with other people.”
“I see.”
“You’ve got to like the people you’re working with,” he continues. “Because you’re in a room with them a lot. You need to get along. Even if it’s a love hate relationship, the love needs to outweigh the hate.”
“I once chose a career over music,” I say, without considering the statement.
“Out in the jungle?” asks Emerson, with a knowing smile. “Out on the streets?”
“Yeah,” I reply, smiling back. I think that Emerson knows there is more to my story than the drifting existence of an urchin. He can tell I’m educated, which is a bit of a giveaway. But he never brings it up directly. “Out there in the wilderness, there’s all kinds of careers to be had.”
“Wild,” he says.
“Maybe I should have never stopped playing. Maybe being here is someone’s twisted punishment.”
“Here on the boat?” asks Emerson.
“Here... in general.”
“Do you love music?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re living the dream.”
“Perhaps.”
“Do you know how many people live the dream?”
“Not many?”
“It’s a percentage so small you would round it to zero.”
“And then double it,” I say, dragging on my cigarette.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, in case there’s a second human race out there somewhere.”
“Shit,” says Emerson. “That’s a scary thought. But why stop there? There’s probably infinite planets out there coated in humans. It doesn’t end. How do you ever visualise that? No exit. No end point.”
“It’s not easy,” I say. “Maybe we should talk about something less gigantic.”
“I like those new demos you did,” says Emerson, in a swift change of subject. “They all have a really timeless quality to them. They already seem so fully formed too.”
“Well, they’re just me and a guitar. Wait till you hear them with the full band treatment.”
“Have you already got the full arrangements in your head?”
“Sort of, but I’m happy for you guys to be involved. Everyone’s allowed to have input. I’m just writing the tunes.”
Emerson nods and drags on his cigarette. “I’m looking forward to our next session.”
“Me too. We’re pulling some really good sounds in the studio.”
“I just hope we can keep it ragged,” says Emerson. “I want it to sound unclean. Some of these bands are coming out with these albums and you can smell polish. You can taste the fuckin’ chemicals when you listen to it. Like a hospital floor, or something.”
“We need to sweat and smell bad,” I say.
“Yes. We need to soak in our own filth,” adds Emerson. “It needs to be four guys in a room. That’s it. You don’t want it to be sanitised.”
“And I think the songs should evolve. They should be different every time we play them.”
“I like that idea,” nods Emerson. “The songs should change shape. If people want to hear a carbon copy, they shouldn’t come to our live shows. They should just sit on their sofa with the disc.” Silence passes between us as we both look out at the wallpaper of stars. “Marty is already talking about our stage show. He wants it to be a pretty big spectacle,” adds Emerson.
“I don’t want it to distract from the music,” I say.
“Me either. We shouldn’t need flashing lights to attract attention. The live show should be about the music. We don’t need screens and banks of strobes. It should just be... a performance.”
“Well, let’s not let Marty talk us into anything we don’t want to do.”
A voice behind us asks, “What am I trying to talk you into?”
We both spin around to see Brannagh, standing with hands on hips, a wide grin on his face.
“Opiates,” I say.
Brannagh laughs, heartily. “I can’t promise you anything! Now both of you get back on deck and join your party. Tonight’s a celebration. We’re not talking business.”
“We’re watching Easton disappear,” says Emerson, pointing in the direction of shore.
“Good,” says Brannagh. “Say goodbye to it. Because it’s about to enter a new era. When we return, it will be different. It will be the era of Big Bang Theory.”
“That’s an unsettling thought,” I say.
“Don’t be ludicrous,” says Brannagh and pats me on the shoulder. “Things in this world don’t exist to remain the same. They exist to be changed and transformed.”
“Alright,” I reply.
“Now come back to the party,” smiles Brannagh. “Everyone wants to bask in your brilliance.”
“Can we at least change the music? This electronica is way too hectic,” says Emerson.
“Deal,” says Brannagh. “I’ve got some back-up music anyway.”
“I don’t mind what disc jockeys do,” says Emerson, “it just doesn’t speak to me.”
Brannagh smiles, then says, “What did one DJ say to the other after they left the cinema together?”
“Don’t know,” I say.
“That guy was an amazing projectionist.”
Emerson and I both smile and follow Brannagh back to the party.
The music is changed to rock and blues. Everyone recognises more songs than I do. I smile and mingle, chatting to our guests. People move to the music. They heap praise on me and they all want to be my friend. It seems genuine, but pigeons only circle when you’ve got a fistful of breadcrumbs. Most of the women on the boat flirt. They always touch my arm when they talk to me. Constant, subtle contact, as if trying to channel something from me. I occasionally catch Jemima watching me from across the deck. Sometimes she’s talking to her friends and they’re eyeing me as they whisper. I keep wondering whether Jemima and I will have another moment to ourselves and, if we do, whether that’s a good thing.
A stronger man would fight the temptation I feel around Jemima. But do I have any control over my urges? Over my sexual behaviour? We often refer to our cravings as animalistic. But that doesn’t really do us any justice. What we would describe as “animalistic sex” is so far removed from every other type of animal, that it’s like comparing apples to oranges. Besides the bonobo and the humble dolphin, creatures don’t have sex for pleasure. But Homo sapiens take their time. The more time we have, the more we take. We avoid procreation. We spend billions of dollars inventing more innovative contraception. Every time we describe our proclivities as animalistic, it’s a backhand to all those poor grizzly bears and tigers and their brief, emotionless mounting. They’re all puppies and kittens compared to the bedroom antics of our species.
Brannagh declares that he’s going to change the music again. That he’s going to provide something better. That’s Brannagh’s general ethos. He disappears below deck. The rock and blues is cut dead. Everyone waits expectantly, the sound of the engine and lapping water filling the air, uninterrupted. Brannagh returns from the cabin and in each hand he is carrying an acoustic guitar.
“Time for a sing-along, friends,” he says. He hands me a guitar and then another to Dylan. “Would you do us all the honour?”
“I don’t know, Marty,” says Dylan. “I’m not sure if I’m in the right state of mind.” His reluctance seems more an attempt at false modesty than an actual desire to not be the centre of attention.
“Nonsense!” says Brannagh. “Drugs and alcohol are not a hindrance, Dylan. They enable.” He hands Dylan and I a plectrum.
Dylan looks at me and I shrug. “I suppose we could play a few songs,” I say. Everyone claps and cheers. I put the guitar strap over my shoulder and Dylan follows suit. “I’ll lead, you follow,” I say.
Dylan nods. He’s sweating profusely and looks very wired. He’s clenching his jaw. But his natural ability will carry him through. I walk over to him and smile, then I launch into ‘A Well Respected Man’. Dylan smiles and begins strumming along with me. And we sing the chorus together. The party around us watches and listens, transfixed. Then I shift into ‘Riverside’, which was written by Dewey Bunnell. As Dylan and I jam it out I can almost imagine that I wrote it. That Dylan and I perform it as its originators. Then I kick into a slightly slower gear and shift into ‘Tell Me Why’. Dylan keeps up, closing his eyes. His skin is pale and beads of sweat roll from his temple, but I can see him getting lost in the music. I sing the song, not as hauntingly as Neil Young, but in my own way I do an alright job. Out on the waves in the night.
As the song winds to its close, I break into ‘You’ve Got To Hide Your Love Away’. When we’ve finished my favourite Beatles tune, Dylan says, “Time for you to follow.”
“Alright,” I say.
Dylan drops his plectrum on the deck and starts picking the strings of his guitar with the fingernails of his right hand. He kicks into ‘Babe I’m Gonna Leave You’ and I play along. We practiced this song extensively at our last rehearsal. The Zeppelin number rolls from us in an effortless malaise, exploding when it needs to, subsiding soon after. While we can’t give it the full band arrangement that it deserves, it still breathes in the air as we sing it. A formidable, soulful presence. Lingering. Rambling.
When we finish the song, everyone claps and whistles. Dylan and I take a little bow and remove our guitars. Jemima is smiling at me.
“Show’s over, folks,” says Dylan.
“Play more!” yells one of Jemima’s friends. Everyone cheers in agreement.
“Nope, sorry,” says Dylan. “That was just a little taste of our debut record.”
“We don’t want to give away too much,” I add. “Besides, we hardly know you people.”
“We don’t like to fuck on the first date,” says Dylan.
“That’s right,” says Brannagh, grinning, addressing the party. “That was just a little taste of what is to come.” He heads downstairs and turns the electronic music back on and everyone starts to dance.
When Brannagh returns to the deck, he walks up to me. “You are going to be successful,” he says with complete confidence. It’s as if he’s stating a well-known fact.
“Really?” I answer.
“Jack, you will be famous.”
I glance over at Jemima and she’s still smiling at me. Brannagh sees me look at her.
“You know, you have the best young publicist in the business. She’s got a massive future ahead of her. Jemima is a clever woman.”
“Yes, I can tell.”
“You’re in very good hands,” smiles Brannagh. He gives me a knowing look and turns and melts back into the party.
I smile at Jemima and motion for her to come over. She leaves her friends and approaches me.
“Nice performance,” she says.
“Thank you.”
“Are you enjoying the night’s festivities?”
“Yeah,” I shrug. “But I would have preferred something a little more... personal.”
“A more intimate gathering?”
“Yeah, just the band and a few friends. I don’t really know these people.”
“Well, intimate gatherings and close friends will become scarce. Fame shakes things up a lot.”
“If I were being honest... I would have preferred to spend this yacht cruise alone with you. No one else.”
Jemima blushes, her blue eyes look down. “Jack... I... “
“It’s okay, you don’t have to say anything.”
“No, I do,” she says. “I’m just not sure... what to say.”
“That’s fine.”
“I’m sorry. I’m obviously very confused.” She looks back at me and forces her soft lips to smile.
“I don’t think anyone’s downstairs at the moment. Want to head below deck?”
“Is that a good idea? For us to be alone?”
“Good. Bad. It depends on the criteria.”
Jemima looks uncertain and I am too. But the drugs don’t say no. Drugs don’t send you to your room without supper. They’re the careless parent that condones everything.
As I hoped, no one is downstairs in the living quarters. Everyone seems to follow Brannagh’s lead and right now, he wants all hands on deck. It’s warm down here. I turn on an air-conditioner that’s mounted on the wall. The living area is open-plan and in floor space, it’s almost as big as my new apartment. A dining table in one corner. A lounge area in another corner, with plush sofas facing a widescreen television on the wall.
I walk over to the kitchenette and look in the fridge. The chilled temperature inside feels exquisite against my face.
“Something to drink?” I offer.
“What’s in there?” asks Jemima, who sits on one of the sofas. I pull out an expensive bottle of sparkling wine and hold it up. “Perfect,” she says.
“I’ll find some glasses,” I say, turning to look through the cupboards.
“It’s okay,” says Jemima. “We can drink from the bottle.”
“Is that hygienic?”
“I think we’re past hygiene.”
“Really?” I smile, joining her on the sofa.
Jemima takes the bottle and examines the label. “This one’s expensive,” she says.
“I wouldn’t know,” I say, and take it back, pulling the foil from the top of the bottle. I remove the wire brace and pop the bulbous cork, which fires into the roof and bounces across the room. Bubbles flow from the mouth of the bottle and I quickly raise it to my lips and drink. I then pass it to Jemima and she drinks also. This moment suddenly seems so familiar to me. As if I’ve been here before.
“I just had déjà vu,” I say.
“Day-ja what?” asks Jemima.
“Nothing,” I say, enveloped by the drugs in my system. “It’s French.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s an alien language,” I say.
“You are so strange,” says Jemima, handing me back the bottle. I take a long gulp. Jemima leans into me. “I shouldn’t be here with you.”
“No?”
“No,” she says, shaking her head slowly. She’s messed up like I am. “I’m… way… too attracted to you.” Her hand slides on to the leg of my jeans, moving to my inner thigh. I can feel her fingernails through the material, tingling my skin. “Please stop me…” she says.
“Stop you? I don’t think guys do that.”
“Please.”
“You’re a big girl, Jemima. I can’t make your decisions for you. I can only marvel at them.”
Jemima pushes her mouth to mine and we kiss. Our tongues move against each other, tasting the wine on each other’s lips. Her hand loses any remaining ounce of subtlety and becomes focused quite specifically on my crotch.
How does one make a girl like Jemima come to her senses? Do I simply do nothing and allow her to make a decision that will liberate her from the manacles of marriage? A wise philosopher once said that marriage is not a word, it’s a sentence. It may have been Plato. But here is a bright young thing questioning her natural instincts in the name of a vow she made in front of an entity that may or may not exist. Isn’t that wrong? Isn’t it warped that she should feel awkward or uncertain? Why should I deny her hand as it slips into my jeans? If God were truly offended by handjobs, he wouldn’t have given humans opposable thumbs and the carpus in their wrist. He sees everything, including all the physical applications of our bodies. You wouldn’t give someone the keys to a car a
nd then tell them not to drive it.
Jemima looks at me with those bedroom blue eyes and says, “Maybe we should go into another room?”
At this point I should run and swim for shore, because I’m not capable of making calm, rational decisions. I can’t stop Jemima. Should I run or stay? I could take my chances in the obsidian ocean. “Okay,” I say.
Leaving the bottle next to the sofa, we walk over to the small alcove next to the kitchenette. There is a set of stairs leading down to the bottom storey of the yacht’s spacious interior. Downstairs are the many sleeping quarters. I take Jemima’s hand and we make our descent.
We step into a narrow corridor. Reddish brown paneling on the walls, smooth and reflective. Dim lights in the roof. The first door on our left is locked. For a moment I think I can hear guttural, human moans in there but it could be ringing in my ears. The door on the right pushes open. Jemima follows me inside.
It’s not a big room, but against one wall is a bunk. Two single beds above each other. Jemima closes the door and locks it. When I turn around she throws her arms around my shoulders and we kiss again. The she motions toward the bunks and asks, “Top or bottom?”
I unbutton Jemima’s shorts and say, “Let’s start with the bottom.”
Jemima’s body is curled against my own, as we lie on the lower bunk. She is naked from the waist down and I lightly run my hand along the length of her thigh. My fingertips trace light circles from the peak of her hip and down her leg. Lying down generates its own glorious sensations. I’m conscious, but only in a broad definition of the word. I never want to stand up again. My body is pulsing. I am weightless. I want to be entombed with Jemima like this forever.
Although she is facing away, I know her blues eyes are probably closed. I can hear a soft gasp drift from her when I touch a sensitive inch of skin. Jemima rolls on to her back. I lay my arm across her stomach and her eyes remain closed.
“What do you love?” she asks.
“This isn’t too bad,” I reply. “A half naked girl,” I continue. “I can’t complain.”
She smiles. “No, but… seriously. What are you… passionate about?”
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