The doctor came in wearing a grim expression, needing to speak to Dump and Sienna. Aly and I didn’t stay too much longer. We were later informed that Dump was Stage-4 non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, and he’d begin immediate chemotherapy treatment. Dump was in a fight for his life, and I was in complete shock.
He was too young to die.
We spent the later part of the afternoon floating around the city, from SoHo to Midtown to the Upper East Side, in our disconnected mental state, looking for furniture. We didn’t know what to do with ourselves. I knew I should have called Notting and my mother right away, but I didn’t have it in me to explain what was going on. They’d be on the next plane out when I did. I’d wait until morning.
Dump’s life was now a waiting game, and I didn’t want to think about the possibility of the band without him. I kept thinking back to Sienna and her devastation, how she desperately clung to me for comfort. Her whole life was Dump, just like mine was Aly. All I knew was, I didn’t want to let go of Aly. The warm feeling of her skin beneath my fingers consoled me as we weaved up Park Avenue. I wanted to dash the mayhem of the city streets and made a left at 76th Street toward 5th Avenue and Central Park.
The moist heat of the day was tempering down, and the warm breeze was soothing. A walk across the park toward our home would provide a welcomed distraction. “Hey.” I squeezed Aly’s lithe hand. “Everything’s gonna be okay, Dump’s a fighter.”
Aly shook her head; trouble lined her forehead. “I hope so. Did you see Sienna? I’m so sick about this.” She leaned her head against my shoulder as we waited to cross the street into the park. “I can’t imagine my life without you. I mean really without you. Just knowing that I could never see you or hear your voice again…” She choked back tears, covering her mouth with the palm of her hand. She squeezed her eyes shut, and tears spilled onto her cheeks.
“Hey, stop it.” I pulled her into my chest, hugging her tightly. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.” Aly’s words stabbed at my heart, and I found myself swallowing back my own tears. I cupped her cheeks in my hands and kissed away her salty tears. “You wanna go through the park? Or take a cab home?”
“I’d love to go to the park.” She turned and stepped off the curb, pulling me along. “Some first day. I can’t believe it.” I was surprised when a burst of laughter came out of her. “Actually I can. I’m not surprised…I don’t know what I am.”
The feeling was mutual, I thought, as we stepped up onto the sidewalk in front of the park. I spun her to face me. “I’m sorry, Aly. I’m sorry for dragging out…that shit with Sophia…” I stammered, looking down at the uneven cobblestones beneath my feet. “I need to be better about facing shit.”
Her hazel eyes shimmered at me, blinking. “You have no idea how it felt to lock eyes with her. I really hope that was the end.” She turned away from me. “I don’t wanna talk about it anymore.”
I went to speak again, but shut my mouth. I knew I’d probably dig myself more of a hole. It was the end, as far as I was concerned. I’d ruined a friendship, and I didn’t deserve Sophia’s forgiveness, let alone Aly’s understanding. I didn’t need the hovering drama in my life trying to make things right with Sophia would cause, either. My main concern was now Dump and finding a drummer for the upcoming radio & TV station gigs. My stomach churned with unease. I didn’t want to do this without Dump.
I held Aly’s hand snugly as I steered her through the narrow and winding asphalt paths of Central Park. Its lush greenery was at a pinnacle, and the birds and squirrels were darting and scurrying through the bushes and trees. Making our way to the Upper West Side and our home, I savored the calm, silent moment. Shit was gonna be miserable. My head spun just thinking about the band’s immediate future.
The late afternoon sunlight beamed through the trees, and the peaceful faint rustling of the tree leaves made me pull Aly off the trail to climb the nearby boulders. I wanted to appreciate the calmness before I was thrown into my own survival mode. As I took a deep stride up the rocks, I turned to help Aly up, but she was stepping her way around a less steep area, holding her dress up over her knees.
Oops.
“Sorry about that!” I called out. She smiled, waving me off. I observed her movement; the way she held her slender arms out, balancing her way towards me, the way her hair swayed over her face and bare shoulders, and her smile. I loved her smile. I didn’t deserve her or her smiles, I thought. I needed to prove that I was worthy of them and her. I crouched down, sitting on the hard, warm surface, and held out my hand to Aly. She took my hand, standing next, to me and looking up.
“Wow. This is amazing.” She dropped her bag on the rock. “Such a juxtaposition, it’s crazy.”
“This is why I love being near the park.” I tugged at her arm. “Sit down.”
Aly sat as close as she could that our thighs and hips pressed together. I wrapped my arm around her shoulder and we sat in silence. The warmth of her face pressed into my neck. I nuzzled her hair, taking in her clean, fresh scent. How could someone be so content and wretched at the same moment? But I was. I felt guilty about my happiness with Aly, while Sienna and Dump hung out with the Grim Reaper.
Aly cleared her throat. “I’m sorry about Dump.”
I glanced at her, and she was looking up at me with misty eyes. “Me too. I hope he’s gonna be okay. He’s gotta be.” I thought of Sienna and what it would do to her if she lost Dump. My sentiments went to Aly. I would die without her.
12
Jake
At 4:00 PM a month later, I found myself staring up at a five-story brick and mortar building way up town on East 96th Street. As I passed each black door with engraved silver plaques, it appeared to be all offices. Finally coming to number 402, it read The Jones Show. Really? I was trippin’ that the wannabe journalist, Marty Jones, had a pretty legitimate looking set-up. I checked the doorknob. It was unlocked, so I tapped on the door as I cracked it open. There sat Michael, Marty’s little brother and pseudo assistant, behind a simple black desk, working (probably playing) on a computer.
“Hey Michael,” I greeted as I stuck my head in and slid my sunglasses on top of my head.
Michael’s hazel-blue eyes lit up wide, and he slapped his forehead. “I didn’t think you’d really come!” he said excitedly. “I didn’t believe you! Marty always gets lip service and empty promises! Um, um, come in, come in.” He waved eagerly. “Oh man, my dad’s gonna shit when he hears you really showed up.”
I couldn’t help but smile at the kid as he took off into another room. I could see a green screen through another open door down the short hallway. Wow, those were at least eight grand, and the computer Michael was working on was a Mac desktop, the kind with the largest monitor you could own – not cheap. I wondered who Marty’s father was, that he’d shit that I’d actually showed up for his son. Voices blended together, and soon enough, Marty, wearing another gingham checked button-up, was standing in front of me with a mile-wide smile.
He pushed his blue-rimmed glasses up on his nose. “Welcome.” He tipped his head, pleased, and gratitude filled his eyes. He chuckled. “Man, thanks.”
“No problem.” I extended my hand to him, and he shook it and slapped my back. “You got a nice set up here.”
“Thanks. I do graphic design work to pay the bills and interview bands for my blog.”
“I see that.” I nodded as I stared at all the pictures of him with famous bands, musicians and singers – Kings of Leon, Imagine Dragons, Gwen Stefani, Beyonce –Fuckin’-A, I thought, and pointed. “I had no idea, Marty.”
He smiled proudly. “Most of those were before they got really famous, except for Beyonce. I kinda got her like I did you, following her around and being respectful.” He smiled sheepishly. “Been doin’ this since I was fourteen.”
And here I thought I was doin’ him the biggest favor of his life, Marty wasn’t really a wannabe at all, he was doin’ somethin’ right…
“But I never had anyone like you, a Gramm
y winner...after they’ve hit the big time. I’m too little-time for their labels and managers now. They want Rolling Stone, MTV, n’shit. ” He chuckled. “But it’s all good.”
We locked eyes and I searched his face. This guy was totally legit. I was about to do something that was gonna cause the biggest uproar with my label and Notting (not to mention my mother. I’d yet to tell anyone about Dump), and Marty was gonna be the messenger. “So where do you wanna start?”
Marty cleared his throat. “You gotta get outta here by a certain time?”
I shook my head. “Nope. I’m all yours.”
A burst of breath escaped him, and he smiled, unbelieving. “I can’t thank you enough for coming.”
“Hey man. I got nothin’ to lose if you’re what I think you are, and by the looks of it, you are. Where do you sell your pictures? You know, those shots you’ve been takin’ of me over the years? Of these guys?” I pointed to the wall, finally finding one of me performing at Madison Square Gardens.
“I don’t sell my pictures.” He sat up straight, looking serious. “I use them only on my website and for future publication. I plan publishing a book someday. A book of interviews and moments of music through my eyes.”
I was impressed. “That’s a lofty goal, Marty. I dig it.” Now, more than ever, I wanted to help him, and I wanted to help myself. Sure, we as a band had media interviews, our displays for the world; how we wanted to be seen. There was my story, which Marty was ultimately interested in, but with Dump’s illness and uncertain future, I felt the need to really document what was going on with us. I think our fans would want that.
That morning, before meeting with Marty, I’d met with Dump. He was four weeks into his cancer treatment, and the chemo and whatever else they had him on seemed to be working. He was up and around, weak, but pretty much back to his leathery persona. He’d taken up smoking marijuana to increase his appetite. I was optimistic about his recovery. I’d informed Dump about my plans, and he’d given me his blessing.
“Fuck those guys. We’re free agents, and they’re lucky we stayed with ’em. There’s nothing in that new contract about media proxy,” he’d said about our label. I’d originally wanted Marty to debut our next single, but seeing what a class act he was, I decided that not only could he debut our single, he would be the one to help me deliver the news about Dump to the world.
We’d moved into another office with black painted walls, more pictures of musicians I recognized, and a glass top desk. Another equally large Mac monitor sat upon it – graphic design must be paying him well. The building had clearly been converted into office space, and this unit used to be a two-bedroom. Marty rolled out his desk chair and ran his hand through his mussed black hair.
I sat down on a worn tan leather sofa watching Marty as he fidgeted nervously with his glasses. “Marty, take a deep breath.” I chuckled. “I’m not gonna bite.”
He closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath, and placed his glasses back on his face. “Out of everyone I’ve ever followed, you’re the one that’s made the biggest impact on me.” He sighed. “My father is a pharmacist and was addicted to pills most of his life. When we nearly lost everything because of it, it was your band and you that got me through those days. Then you went downhill for the same reasons and came back, and it gave me hope that he would too.”
“Did he?”
“Yeah. I actually used you as an example of perseverance during our family therapy sessions. My mother was gonna leave him…” He trailed off, revisiting the distant memory, and I wondered what he was staring at in his mind. I was glad Aly was never able to witness my fall from grace. I felt for Marty’s mother; it must have been awful. “And I played him your music. He was always a big fan of rock n’ roll. And I told him your story, and let’s just say he’s doing okay now. He’s a fan, too.”
Wow. I was beyond humbled.
“That’s heavy shit, Marty. I’m glad to know he’s doing okay.” I glanced around as the silence mounted. Marty was deep in thought. “Hey, we’re lucky that we have people who have our backs. I’m fortunate this shit happened before the real fame. I’m happy I got a grip on it before I really fucked some shit up.”
“Yeah. I read into all your lyrics and dissected them, sharing them with my dad. I don’t know if what I interpreted was what you meant, but I think they saved my father’s life, at least, I like to think they did.” Marty wiped his forehead. “It’s getting hot in here.” He laughed ironically and got up, walking over to the window and firing up the air-conditioning unit.
Marty and I talked for over an hour. I was the one doing the interviewing. Whether he was telling me what I wanted to hear or not, our meeting solidified what I wanted to do. I wanted to invite him on the road with us, the next round. He showed me a bit of his footage, footage of famous bands in their beginning days, and footage of Beyonce sitting in the very spot that I filled.
“You never aired any of this?” I watched a silent, younger Beyonce on Marty’s computer screen.
“Not at length. I wrote an article for my blog and just posted a thirty-second snippet.”
I nodded, thinking, and then offered, “Marty, what would you say if I invited you to travel with us this next tour?”
Marty went speechless and pushed his glasses up his nose, blinking, dazed at my offer. “I would say yes.” He gulped. I could see his wheels turning. “When?”
“Next week.”
***
I opened my apartment door, and Marty stood there wearing a light-colored striped button-up. “Dude, it’s fucking a hundred degrees and a million percent humidity. What are you wearing?”
Marty rolled in a single piece of luggage, carrying a backpack and what appeared to be two camera bags. He was barely perspiring. I would have been sweating my balls off, with pit stains to boot. He laughed. “It’s nothin’. It’s my thing.” He shrugged, looking around, and abruptly stopped when he saw Aly sitting on the edge of our one piece of furniture that just arrived that morning – an L-shaped chocolate sofa with black leather piping.
“Hello,” he said, waving awkwardly.
Aly stood, wearing little black denim cut-offs. She flipped her long hair over her shoulders. “Hi.” Her slender tanned legs carried her over to us, and she extended her hand to Marty. “It’s nice to see you again, Marty.” She smiled favorably at him. “I’ll leave you two to do your thang,” she sang out, bouncing on her tiptoes, and leaned over, kissing my cheek. “Yoga calls. Be back in a couple.”
I watched her taut ass dance out of the room, and a pang went through me. I was gonna miss her. I still couldn’t believe she’d chosen to stay home. I shook my head at the thought and glanced at Marty, who was staring down the hallway where Aly vanished.
His mouth clamped shut and gulped. “I can see why you’re in love with her. She’s more beautiful in person than in pictures.” He turned and gently put down his camera bags. “She’s so…so….clean looking.”
I laughed at his portrayal. “That’s because she’s California-grown, man.” I slapped his shoulder. “Just like Van Halen said, I wish they could all be California girls.”
Me and the band, including Dump and Marty, were set to leave that afternoon on a ten-city radio station tour, with a stop in California for an appearance on The Ellen DeGeneres Show, and finishing up back in New York with an appearance on Saturday Night Live. We were flying to each destination. I hadn’t told Marty about Dump, and my stomach churned, knowing I was about to deliver the unsettling news.
I sighed and squeezed at the tension building in my neck. “You want something to drink? Beer? Wine? Water?”
He nodded. “I usually don’t drink, but I think a beer sounds good.” He grinned.
“Great.” I went and grabbed a beer and a bottle of water.
“You said you wanted to record something now?” he asked when I returned, handing him the bottle of amber ale.
“Yeah, might as well start,” I said as my nerves pricked at me. “I got s
omething for you.” I walked over to my satchel and pulled out some papers and an envelope. “I know I said I’d take care of your boarding and food. But I wanted to put you on the payroll.” The look on Marty’s face was priceless. He quickly twisted the cap off the beer bottle, taking a swig as he stared at the envelope in his other hand. “And I need you to sign this.” I tossed one of those tax forms and an agreement in front of him. I kinda felt bad for putting him on the spot, but I had to protect myself.
“I usually don’t sign anything that my attorney hasn’t seen.”
“Sorry man, you can’t go with us if you don’t fill that stuff out and sign that.” I shrugged. “You’re a smart guy, Marty, read it. You’ll get it. All it says is the amount of money I’ll be paying you on the first of every month for your services, and that you can’t sell any footage, images of the band, or anything like that to a third party while under my employment, unless approved by me, to anyone else. But it does say that anything you capture you can use for your blog or any books you publish, things like that. It’s a little convoluted, but you’ll understand, I’m sure.”
Marty’s head swayed, and my heart thumped like I’d run around the block. I knew I should have done this earlier, like every other important thing, but fuck, I was busy. I tried to make myself feel better as I watched Marty’s eyes dash over the words on the pages. He rubbed his head, took his glasses off his face, looked at me, and then back down at the last page.
“Do you have a pen?”
I felt the pressure in my chest release. “Yep.” I dug in my bag and handed him a pen.
“Are you married to Alyssa?”
“No,” I stated firmly. “Why? I would have told you that already.”
“Well it just says in here that if anything happens to you, like if you die, Alyssa has to approve any material that I want to be released.”
I shut my mouth and thought about the clause that I’d asked my attorney to add in. “I’m going to be making her my Power of Attorney. Alyssa is the only person I trust that would always do right by me.”
Broken Notes Page 8