by Kim Holden
(Franco)
My doorbell rings at eleven o'clock in the morning.
Six times it rings. One right after the next.
It's Gus. It has to be Gus. No one else is that annoying on purpose.
When I open the door, he pushes his sunglasses up into his hair on top of his head. "Morning. I need help."
"True that. I'm glad you've finally recognized there's a problem."
He rolls his eyes. "My brand of crazy is too adoring to cure. I'm talking about the shit in my truck."
I slip on my flip flops and follow him out to his truck parked on the street.
He opens the passenger door, and there are four thin cardboard boxes, about twenty inches tall each, stacked up next to each other on the seat and two more on the floorboard. I gather four into my arms; they're heavier than they look. He gathers the rest and shuts the door gently with his foot. The care he takes with his truck is hilarious. It's so rusty and beat up, but the way he treats it you'd think it was pristine.
"What are these?"
"Patience, cock star. They're for the Drum Grotto."
My favorite drum kit is set up in one of the spare bedrooms. It's where I practice every day. Gus named it the Drum Grotto because it's small like a cave and there's not much natural light that comes in through the tiny window. Plus, grotto's supposed to sound sexy. It does. It's my favorite room in the house.
We set down the boxes and start tearing into them. I notice that he leaves one of his untouched. Inside the boxes are black frames, each containing something music related. The first is the cover art of our first album.
"This cover is still killer." A gloss black crow on a matte black background, Rook in bright red letters.
"Nothing like simple to make a statement," Gus says.
The second is an action shot of me playing drums. I'm shirtless, covered in sweat.
"This was Denver, right?" I ask.
"Yup, first nationwide tour. It was hotter than hell in there that night, remember?"
I can't wipe the smile off my face thinking about it. "Like Satan's oven. The photographer was amazing, though. This is a great shot."
The third is Rook: Gus, Jamie, Robbie, and me standing in front of Joe's Bar before the first show we ever played as a band.
Gus laughs. "We were so young—we look like kittens."
We were young. "I didn't even have any tattoos yet. And we look scared shitless."
"We were scared shitless. Remember, Jamie threw up behind the amp stack right before we went on?" Gus reminds me. And then he busts into full on belly laughter.
And I can't help joining him, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. "God, that's right. It was all nerves. Poor kid."
"That's gold right there. Those were the good ole days."
The fourth is a photo taken in Grant, Minnesota. It's Rook and our friend, Kate Sedgwick, on stage during a performance.
I can't hold back the smile, or the lump in my throat when I see it. "She was so pissed at you when you forced her on stage that night."
He's smiling. It makes me so happy that he can smile when he talks about her now. "She was. Until she opened her mouth. And then it was on. Damn, that girl could sing."
"She could. That was the best night of that tour by far."
"Agreed."
The fifth contains two photos of my favorites drummers—John Bonham and Dave Grohl. Two completely different styles, but I grew up listening to and admire them both equally.
Gus shrugs. "You know, in case you need some inspiration."
"Thanks." I hold out my fist, and he bumps knuckles.
"These belong in here, so you don't have to stare at blank walls. The Grotto needed some character." He's a considerate bastard. His mom's child through and through. They're good people.
"I'm gonna grab a hammer and some nails."
Gus helps me hang four, and while I'm hanging the fifth, he announces, "I need to take a leak before we head out."
"No problem," I call back.
When he returns we get lunch—not brunch, lunch—and hit up an art studio downtown. It features several artists' work from all over the country. I could've bought ten paintings, but I settle on two by the same artist—D. Glenn. His style is raw and passionate, like flat-out sex on canvas. I'd like to meet this dude, I bet he's one smooth motherfucker.
The paintings are massive and take two people to hang. The larger of the two goes over my couch and the other above my bed.
When we're done, I find Gus standing in the living room with his hands on his hips staring intently at the wall above the couch. "Damn, is it just me, or is that painting hot as fuck? It's like I can hear Marvin Gaye in my head singing 'Let's Get It On' when I look at it." He exhales loudly. "I need to buy one of those for my room." Prying his eyes away, he looks at me standing next to him. "Listen, if this whole music thing doesn't work out for us, we should get our own show on HGTV."
"Decorating With Douchebags?" I suggest.
He slaps me on the back and points at me as he walks toward the front door. "That's catchy. Write that down."
"Will do. Thanks again for the Grotto artwork. It's perfect."
"Glad you like it," he says as he walks out the door and down my front walk. Raising his hand to wave, he adds, "Peace out."
"Take it easy."
After I lock the front door, I take a walk around my house to admire our handiwork. The house finally looks like a house. Lived in and homey. I can't wait for Gemma to visit. The last room I walk in, more out of necessity than to gloat, is the bathroom. I haven't peed all afternoon. I'm busy unzipping my fly and lifting the toilet seat, so it's not until I'm in full flow that I notice it. "Sonofabitch." There, framed and matted like all the others he gave me today, hanging proudly over my toilet, is me. Naked getting in the shower. It's the photo Gus snapped in L.A. and sent to Gemma. And apparently to himself. There's a sticky note stuck to it that reads, You're too damn sexy not to showcase in the shitter.
Fuck it. I'm leaving it. For now.
Saturday, February 17
(Franco)
"Franco, I know I'm going to sound like an absolute bitch asking you for this, but I've talked to my lawyer, and he's advised me to have you sign a contract."
It makes sense. "What does it say?"
"I'll email it to you so you can read it, but it basically states that no money is exchanging hands in return for sex. That the identity of the father of my child will remain a secret and that both of us agree not to disclose the information, unless we, mutually, deem it necessary in the future due to a health emergency. You will be required to notify me of any major changes in your health, especially if they may be hereditary in nature. No father will be listed on the birth certificate, and the child will have my last name. You are released of all rights as a parent, and obviously, I will never ask for any financial, emotional, or any other kind of support regarding the child. I just don't want you to ever question my integrity or that I'd take advantage of your kindness. You'll have no responsibilities or obligations to me or this child."
"I'll do whatever you want, Gem. I give you my word on that. As long as you don't cut me out of your life after I fertilize your garden."
She laughs. "If you manage to fertilize my lady garden, or not, you won't be able to get rid of me. Good mates are hard to find. I like you. A lot."
"Email it over. I'll sign it and send it back to you, and I'll give you the original when you get here tomorrow."
"Are you mad at me for asking you to sign it? I don't want you to be mad at me."
"You're protecting yourself and your child, I'm proud of you. It's what any mama bear would and should do." It's true.
"Thanks, Franco. Bye."
"Bye, Gem."
She emailed it.
I read it.
I understood it.
I agreed with it.
I signed it.
I scanned it and emailed it back.
And now I'm sitting here alone in my k
itchen.
Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of me is thinking positive thoughts because I can already picture Gemma's belly swollen and round in her last trimester. And I can already picture her eyes bright with happy tears as she looks at the tiny, precious newborn in her arms. And I can already picture a toddler with huge, dark blue eyes and a full, breathtaking smile like her mom. But when I think about her dark, curly little ponytails, the other point one percent of me is sad, because she got them from me...and she'll never know that.
I know it's selfish. Goddamn, I know it's selfish. And I know it will pass. This isn't about me. But it's stirring up things inside me that I hadn't thought of in these terms.
I grew up in a family that was tight, a family that valued family and all the bonds and traditions that came with it. It wasn't perfect, there were times my brother and I fought so fiercely it threatened to reduce the house to rubble around us. But during times like that, my mom came in, picked us both up by our ears and reminded us we were blood. Love survived regardless of arguments or disagreements. I always admired the way our parents were strict on morals and right from wrong, but always let love lead by example. We never questioned that they loved us. Never questioned that we loved our siblings and they loved us back. It was created and thrived. I always wanted that for my kids someday. Even though I thought kids would be way down the road.
Way down the road suddenly feels like light years away.
I don't like light years away.
And then I remind myself again, this isn't about me.
This is about Gem.
Sunday, February 18
(Franco)
Gem insisted she take a cab from the airport instead of me picking her up because customs takes forever and she didn't want me standing around waiting for her.
Instead, I've been standing at my front door watching the street for the past thirty minutes for any sign of a cab.
Of course, when I step away for a minute to use the bathroom, she rolls up, and I miss the greeting I had planned. It was to be an ambush at the curb.
Instead, the doorbell rings while I'm washing my hands.
I haven't seen her in a few weeks, the rustling in my shorts is a wily reminder of just how much her presence affects me. She's dressed in all black, except her leopard print Chucks. Her hair is knotted, slightly askew on top of her head leading me to believe that travel has been hectic. The circles under her eyes confirm a lack of rest. But she's smiling, so big I can see all her teeth, like she can't hold back her excitement.
No words have been spoken. We're just smiling like fools at each other, her on my doorstep, me on the inside of my screen door.
"Hey, gypsy."
She lifts her bags, one in each hand, to show agreement of the title. "Your no vacancy sign isn't on. I'm assuming I'm still welcome."
I don't have an addictive personality. There's nothing in my life that I pursue in excess, except maybe drumming. But Gemma? I might be addicted to her.
Opening the door for her, she steps in wide-eyed taking in the pool table and living room within view. "Wow, Franco. This is amazing. I was expecting a proper bachelor's lair. But a craftsman style bungalow, this is cozy."
Ten points to the Decorating Douchebags! I shrug to hide how happy I am that working our nuts off to get this place ready has paid off. "Thanks."
She slips off her shoes at the door, and I unload her of her bags. "Can we play?" Running her hand across the felt on the pool table, she wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.
Her flirty question and expression beg for a loaded response because I can't very well tell her how bad I suck at pool. "Are you good with a stick and balls?"
She nods convincingly, but a devilish smile is bleeding through. "Very. I've keen dexterity." Her fingers are fluttering in front of her to illustrate her point. "It's a gift."
I'm in trouble. She's been here sixty seconds, and I'm already picturing her naked on top of my pool table. I mutter something under my breath; I can't be sure but it sounds like, "Shit. Fuck. Goddamn," because I'm only thinking in expletives right now.
Gemma's giggle confirms it was cursing gibberish.
I nod my head toward and call off the rooms as we walk past. "Kitchen. Spare bedroom. Bathroom."
"Your bum is definitely display worthy," she says pointing to the framed art over my toilet. "It's my home screen wallpaper on my cell, as well."
I skip the compliment and continue the tour. "Drum grotto." I'm nervous all of a sudden. The spotlight is shining on me. I don't want that with her. I just want to be Franco.
She walks in the room timidly and turns around two steps in to look at me. "Is it okay if I'm in here? This feels like such a private space." The unexpected sincerity makes me smile. It's not the crazed reaction of an avid Rook fan; it's respect for my passion, my career. It's little gestures like this that make people stand out, a testimonial to their character.
My nerves are fading. "Of course it's okay." Now that she's in here I don't want her to leave. My favorite room in the house is perfect.
She goes immediately to the photos on the walls, and I tell her about each one. She asks a lot of questions, and it feels good to talk about it. I draw such a distinction between my personal life and my career because one is real and the other is fantasy. Some people can't reconcile the two, and fame makes authentic relationships difficult. Not on my end. I treat everyone the same, regardless of who they are. But some people only want to be friends with fame, not with me. I'm not my fame, I just happen to be a drummer in a band that works their asses off and who's had some luck in the success department. It's the reason I keep my circle small: pretty much childhood friends, the band, and my family. Not because I'm a dick who doesn't want to let people in, but because, honestly, there's only so many times I can be used before it starts feeling like a kick to the face. A kick to the face that always leaves me questioning my integrity, even when I wasn't the one pulling the 'I'm-a-shady-human-being' bullshit.
Her grin is ear to ear by the time we're done looking at and discussing the photos. "I'm proud of you, Franco. You're living your dream."
I shrug. "I'm no different than you. I'm just doing what I love."
"We're lucky, aren't we?" She means it. Truly. I love humility—it's the equivalent of a neon sign advertising My heart isn't an inconsiderate bastard, I'm nice. For real. Every day this woman is more and more perfect.
I nod. "Truth."
Her eyes shift to my drum kit, and she taps the ride cymbal with her pointer finger. "I have a confession to make."
"Is it dirty? Please tell me it's dirty?" I know it's not by the tone of her voice, but I have to tease to lighten the mood.
She smiles at my come on, "No," but it quickly fades into her serious face again. "I've never heard you play. I've never listened to Rook. I didn't want it to make things weird between us." She sounds ashamed.
I'm fucking ecstatic—separation of church and state and all that shit. She likes me, for me. "It would be awkward if you listened and thought we were complete shit. You know, because Gus doesn't have a British accent."
A smile breaks out at the jab. "Or idol worship. What if I fell in love with your mad skills and started throwing my bra and panties at you? That would be weird."
"You already do that."
"Shut up, naughty American boy. I also wanted to wait until I could see you perform live because live is always better. A Rook initiation in the wild."
"Are you saying you want me to play for you?"
She nods and it's confirmation, truth, and conviction.
I'm nervous again. Not because I can't perform, I can play in front of anyone, anytime, anywhere. I'm nervous because I don't want to let her down. I'm selfish. I want her to dig what she hears. I know how much she loves music and I want her to be into it. "Turn around," I request as I turn on the stereo behind my drum kit. I don't spend a lot of money, but I did drop quite a bit on this setup and the speakers. I play along to tracks when I practice.
"You have no poker face." She doesn't. Her face is overly expressive and cannot be repressed. Sitting on the stool, surrounded by my kit, I pick up my sticks. And instead of hitting play on the stereo, I sit. It's quiet, still, because I'm staring at her. Staring at her wondering what kind of an indicator this moment, her opinion and my need for approval, is.
"Are you taking your clothes off?" she asks suspiciously, and it rouses me from my thought train that has gone off the tracks.
I laugh and clear my throat. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I can't drum in the buff. I need some restriction down below, or things would get aggressively out of hand. You might lose an eye."
"Can't have you flailing about below the belt then."
"Nope. Close your eyes."
"I already have my back to you," she rebukes, but she already has them closed. I can see her in the reflection of the glass on the frame on the wall in front of her.
"Are they closed?" I ask anyway.
She nods.
"Good. Now imagine me naked." And with that, I hit play on the stereo and drop into "Redemption."
Sometimes, when I'm in the zone and feeling the song with everything in me, I close my eyes and just let it fly. "Redemption" leads into "Killing the Sun" and it's not until I stomp out the final thump of the bass drum, that I open my eyes to find her standing directly in front of me facing me. I was right about the poker face: non-existent. And I'm so thankful that Gemma apparently has an issue with authority and doesn't do as she's told. Her big eyes are glued to mine, unblinking, and paired with the maniacal grin on her face, tell me she liked listening to me play.
Loved it.
I can't help but match her smile as I switch off the track. "You're shit at following directions, Gem."
"Bloody hell, you gave me no choice." She's fanning herself. "That was a full-on sensory diddle. I needed to watch to get the whole effect." After some lightning fast maneuvering, she slips her bra off from beneath her tank top and tosses it at my face. "Christ, it's like staring into the sun...or at a fucking unicorn...you're all blindingly bright and shiny and enchanting. It's too much, I can't take it," she says as she walks out of the room into the hallway.