by Kim Holden
I have goosebumps by the time silence descends on the room.
MFDM holds his hand up in the air as if signaling him to stop and then quickly gives him a thumbs up and waves him to the booth. He never talks, which I guess makes sense since the dude doesn't have headphones on.
I clear my throat to let MFDM know he's not alone. "Hey, sorry to interrupt."
He startles, regardless of my warning, with a hand to his chest. "Franco, what are you doing here? Gus wrapped up the last piece this morning. We're done."
The door opens, and the guitarist from the booth enters.
I don't want to drag this out any longer because I need to get out of their hair and let them work. "Yeah, I know. Gus forgot his hoodie and asked me to pick it up. Mind if I take a quick look around for it?"
"No, go ahead."
"Thanks." When I turn the guitarist is sitting on the couch behind us, his attention on the phone in his hands. "Nice work, man. That was clean."
When I move he looks up at me. He's wearing an easygoing smile.
I step forward and extend my hand, not wanting to appear rude. "The name's Franco."
His focus is on my mouth, not my eyes.
While we're shaking hands MFDM says, with his back to me, "That's Ridge." And then he adds, "He's deaf."
At the same time I say, "What?" and feel like a jackass for doing so, the door opens and a blond woman walks in and hands Ridge a bottle of water and interrupts the whole scene. I'm thankful because I need a second to start over with Ridge and make this right.
He touches his fingertips to his chin and quickly signs thank you. I recognize it because my sister taught my niece to sign before she could talk. Thank you was one of the signs.
She signs back. It's more than one word.
I keep my mouth shut as I watch him reply.
The blond looks at me with a friendly smile. "I'm Sydney."
"I'm Franco. It's nice to meet you."
She finger spells something to Ridge.
"Franco?" Ridge says apprehensively, like he's trying it out to make sure he's saying it correctly.
Sydney smiles and nods.
"Sorry, names are hard to lip read sometimes. It's nice to meet you, Franco. I'm Ridge." His enunciation is surprisingly clear for someone who can't hear.
I shake my head and smile. "No worries. It's nice to meet you. You're incredible, dude. It was an honor to eavesdrop on your session."
Ridge nods and the smile that looks like it's probably a permanent fixture widens. "Thank you. We have a lot of work to do, but it's getting there."
"Are you a solo act, or are you part of a band?" I ask. It doesn't matter which, this guy just needs to make music regardless.
"I'm in a band with my brother, Sounds of Cedar, and I play a little on my own too."
"Awesome, I'll check you out. I wish you all the best." I extend my hand again and he shakes it. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but thanks for taking a few minutes out to talk."
"Thank you. Do you play guitar?" Ridge asks.
I shake my head. "Nope. Just admire those who can."
Ridge nods to accept the compliment.
"Take it easy, Ridge. Sydney."
"You, too," they say in unison.
"Later, MFDM. I'm gonna look for Gus's hoodie in the booths and then I'm out."
"Franco, do you have plans? Think you could hang out for a few hours and help me out? Jake's gone home, family emergency, his daughter fell off the swings at the park and they think she broke her arm." Jake owns the recording studio. And though MFDM can handle most everything on his own, especially when he's working with a full band and has extra sets of eyes, ears, and hands, working one on one with an artist is more difficult.
"Sure. I can stay." I love performing, but the technical side of making music has always interested me. MFDM encouraged Gus and I to get much more hands on with the album we just finished and we enjoyed it. I think MFDM did too. He's a quiet, serious guy, the opposite of Gus and I, but the contrast works. "You missed me, didn't you, you big softy?"
"I need help is all," he corrects with a hint of amusement in his voice.
"It's okay, stop, you're making me misty." I swipe at non-existent tears just to rile him up.
He shakes his head. "Go find Gus's hoodie and then come back in here and we'll run through Ridge's tracks we recorded this morning."
I find Gus's beloved hoodie balled up on the floor in one of the booths. I take a photo of it looking pathetic and unloved before I pick it up and text it to Gus along with, This is fucking disgraceful, to shame him.
He replies immediately, Word. Finder's fee is my undying appreciation—that shit's for life.
And it opens up banter. What if I'd rather have beer?
Gus: Beer is a half-assed replacement for my gratitude. My feelings are hurt. But ok.
My mission accomplished, I return to the booth.
It's different listening to music critically that isn't your own in the studio. Different perspective, when you remove personal attachment and investment. But equally intense process because I want to see this guy, Ridge, succeed and put out the best songs he can. I'm one of those people who wishes success for everyone, no matter what they do, because life isn't a competition. It doesn't require that one person lose because another one wins. We can all win.
Six hours later, I'm walking to my truck to head home and pull my phone from my pocket to check it. There's a text from Gemma. It reads simply, Goodbye, with a YouTube attachment. I hit play before I start the engine. The song is called "Goodbye Los Angeles" by Future Husbands. I've never heard of the band or the song and maybe that's one of the reasons it punches me in the face unexpectedly. The woman's voice is brilliant and the lyrics are eerily fitting...
Goodbye Los Angeles, I've had the time of my life
Farewell dear Sunset Strip, Goodbye to Hollywood lights
Hey La Cienega, Guess I'll be seeing ya, but not tonight
I've got to hop a plane, drag myself back to them, it's not alright
They say home is where the heart is
I'm leaving mine with you
Goodbye Los Angeles, seems like it happened so fast
One day we fell in love, I moved in but it couldn't last
The odds were against us, we tried but it turned to dust and slipped from our grasp
Would I do it all again if I knew that it would end? Please don't ask
They say home is where the heart is
I'm leaving mine with you
Goodbye Los Angeles, I've had the time of my life
Farewell my friends, you know I couldn't forget if I tried
Hollywood Boulevard, I'll miss you and all your stars they shine so bright
Now I've got to hop a plane, swear I'll be back again, it's gonna be alright
They say home is where the heart is
I'm leaving mine with you
I'm leaving mine with you
I probably listened to the song fifty times on the drive home to San Diego. And I smiled the entire time. Because Gemma has the power to make that happen.
Sunday, January 28th
(Franco)
Day one post-Gemma.
I didn't think it would be this...
Hard.
It's weird.
I can't stop thinking about her.
I'm not obsessing.
It's just that I'll see something or hear something and it reminds me of her. Or I think of something funny, and pick up my phone to text it to her. And then I remember that she's gone. And that the phone number is probably out of service because she won't need it anymore.
I'm a realistic dude, I knew our time together was temporary. But there aren't that many people you meet who are instantaneously woven into the fabric of your life like they were always meant to be there. Sex aside, which was mind-blowing, I genuinely miss her friendship. A ten-day bond that felt more like ten years strong.
Unexpected.
A few hours later I call her
cell.
And immediately hang up because a recorded message tells me the number is no longer in service.
Gemma Hendricks withdrawals suck.
Monday, January 29
(Franco)
Day two post-Gemma.
I've kept busy all day.
Distraction.
I surfed with the guys this morning.
Worked on my Triumph this afternoon and then took it for a ride at sunset.
Ate some cereal for dinner.
And then decided to burn off some energy before bed.
The Grotto is a sauna. It's not literally a sauna, it's my tiny third bedroom that houses my drum kit. Even with the air conditioning on and a fan blowing, like clockwork at the thirty-minute mark of drumming like a mad man, the room heats up and turns into an easy bake oven. That's when I hit my stride. I suppose it's like runner's high, endorphins are released, sweat coats and drips, and I'm reminded why I love doing this. Some people use meditation or prayer to find their center, to bring them peace.
I drum.
My hearing is shot from years of constant punishment. But there's nothing like the audible fuzz that hangs on after I'm done playing. My body's reluctance to let go of the music. It coats the inside of my skull like cobwebs when I walk to the kitchen to replenish lost liquids.
On nights like this, I play to exhaustion...and then I play a little longer. Every part of me used up and worn out. Like I've pushed my mind and body's purpose to the breaking point. Nothing makes me feel more alive than going to bed utterly drained. It's like a big high five from the universe for making the most of the past twenty-four hours.
After a bottle of water and a shower, my bed is practically whispering sweet nothings in my ear. We were made for each other, my sleep number and I. As I slip between the sheets, I lift my cell from my nightstand to check it out of habit. And promptly drop it to the floor when I see the text preview box with an extra-long, unknown phone number flash on the screen.
"Shit."
Scrambling out of bed and picking it up, I'm relieved the screen's not busted. My thumb hovers over the screen, hesitant to touch it. I'm not sure why. I miss this woman. I can't stop thinking about her. That scares me a little.
Fuck it.
Fuck being scared. I have an awesome friend who wants to keep in touch, that's what matters.
So, I tap the screen and the fear evaporates. I swear I can hear her speaking the words in her accent as I read them:
Dear Franco,
I have a confession. Turns out I need/crave witty banter on a regular basis. Functioning and this "life" thing is horrid without your humour. Can we be friends? From afar? Me texting you funny shit out of the blue in the future will be awkward without the title already in place.
Sincerely,
The Grouchy Northerner
I text back:
Dear Grouchy Northerner,
Ditto to the witty banter/"life" is horrid thing (but not to the extra u in humor, I'm not on board with that). Yes, to friends. Yes, to future funny shit that won't be awkward in the least because we're official.
Your Friend,
The Moping Bastard
Her response is lightning quick:
Dear Moping Bastard Friend Who Can't Spell Humour Properly,
Hoorah! Prepare yourself for a friendship unlike anything you've ever known. It will be glorious.
Your Friend,
The Less Grouchy Northerner Who Spells Humour Properly
We can do this.
Dear Goddess of Friendship and Funny Shit,
Consider me prepared to be dazzled.
Your Friend,
God of Friendship and Funny Shit
And just like that, the floodgates of communication are opened. Her final text reads:
Download WhatsApp on your phone. It's free to message. Free is much cheaper than texting.
I reply:
Done.
And then I search for WhatsApp in the App Store and download it.
Let the friendship resume.
Monday, February 12
(Franco)
Messaging Gemma has quickly become the highlight of my days.
I thought communicating with someone face to face and then moving to strictly electronic dialogue would seem artificial and disappointing, mainly because I'd miss out on her killer accent and adorable facial expressions, but her humor and personality resonate loud and clear through written word. I laugh out loud at something she writes during every exchange.
And we're already in the habit of recapping our days to each other:
Rook is rehearsing every day now for the upcoming tour.
She received a promotion at work the day she returned and is working on the hotel design project with her team.
I'm back in the routine of surfing every morning.
She's already seen her doctor and is scheduled for donor insemination next week. She's not wasting any time.
It feels nice to have someone to talk to every day who wants to hear it all, the big and the small, the good and the bad, the exciting and the mundane. And who responds with funny memes to it all, like it's an art form she's mastered.
She makes me laugh.
She makes me think.
She motivates me.
She challenges me.
She supports me when I need it.
She plays devil's advocate when I need it.
I like this woman.
I really like this woman.
Wednesday, February 14
(Franco)
I've been in the midst of an internal battle the past several days. Normally, I'm the type of person who trusts his instincts without question. I listen to my gut because it never fails me.
But this is different.
Because it doesn't just involve me.
It involves another person.
And potentially, if all went well, another.
I'm trying to look at the situation logically, and it's to the point where I've thought about it so much that I'm just confusing myself.
That's why I'm making this phone call, because I feel like she's the only person who can help me decide if my idea is batshit crazy or honorable.
"Hi, Franco." I rarely call her on the phone, but every time I do she never sounds surprised to hear from me. I swear that she has a sixth sense about the people in her life and she's part fairy godmother.
"Hey, Audrey. Is this a bad time?" I know she's at work—it's eleven o'clock in the morning on a Tuesday—so I ask to be polite.
"Of course not." Gus's mom puts everyone's needs ahead of her own, so I don't know if she's lying or not. "What can I help you with?" See?
I delve in, despite my reservations, because I don't want to waste her time. "Can I ask you a few questions about Gus and Gustov?" Gustov is Gus's biological father.
"Sure." There's no apprehension. She's one of the only people I've ever known who holds back judgment until they know the whole story. Gus inherited the gift from her. It's the way we should all live, but most people don't.
"Did having a child fathered by Gustov complicate your friendship with him?" I blurt, and I feel like an ass for the lack of grace on the lead in and delivery.
She doesn't falter. "Quite the contrary, I would say it strengthened an already solid friendship and bonded us for life."
"Did you look at him differently when you were pregnant, or after Gus was born, knowing that you'd created a child with him? I'm sorry if this is all too personal. You don't have to answer if you don't want to." I'm sweating, this conversation is so uncomfortable.
"Other than being supremely grateful to him and appreciating his kind heart that much more, I would say no."
"Again, you don't have to answer this, but hypothetically if having Gus would have been the result regardless of the father, would you still have involved Gustov or would you have gone with an anonymous donor?"
"Without a doubt, Gustov. Familiarity, and the fact that I knew his participation ca
me from a place of deep friendship, made all the difference. I knew I was carrying a child that was half of a man I already adored and admired. There's comfort in that that's irreplaceable."
That's the answer I needed to hear. My intuition feels like it's just received a standing ovation. "Thanks for being so candid, Audrey."
"Anytime. I'm always here if you need to talk. About anything," she adds knowingly.
"I appreciate that."
"Franco?" she says.
"Yeah?"
"You are a blessing. Your children will be too." There's no pause before she goes into her next offer. "Stop by sometime soon, we'll all have dinner."
"Will do. Thanks again."
"You're welcome. Bye, Franco."
I don't have to ask her to keep this talk between us because Audrey can keep a secret better than anyone I know. "Later, Audrey."
When I end the call, I set my cell down on the kitchen counter and stare at it.
And then I run to the bathroom and take a piss. Because I'm stalling, not because I have to go.
Walking around the house, I'm trying to quiet my mind and my heart rate. I'm pacing from one end of the living room down the hallway to the bedrooms and back again because it's the longest straight shot in the house.
It isn't long enough.
My mind is racing, reeling, dizzy.