by MV Ellis
Every day I have the brim of my cap pulled down and the collar of my leather jacket pulled up. Thankfully, my trademark shades obscure my bloodshot eyes. The most they might be able to say is that my stubble is longer than ever and I’m not as sharply dressed as normal. But even that isn’t altogether unusual in the downtime between tours or other major engagements. I honestly couldn’t give a rat’s ass about my appearance right now—it’s not like I need to impress the guys as we sit in a darkened studio for days straight.
I enter the building to find the guys sitting in chill-out area in deafening silence, looking like kicked dogs. I’m immediately suspicious. There are many things this band could be accused of on any given day, but quiet and serious are not among them.
“What’s going on? Did one of you find my vodka stash and replace it with lighter fluid or something? Or is it the porn? Don’t tell me one of you bozos deleted my legendary porn collection. Motherfuckers have been killed for less. A lot less.”
I’m joking, but the guys don’t laugh. In fact, they don’t even crack a smile. Nobody says a word, but there must suddenly be something epically interesting about the floor, because that’s where everyone is looking. What the actual…?
“Okay, someone needs to tell me what the fuck is going on, right now, before I start losing my shit. Ten… nine… eight….”
Luke clears his throat, still staring at the floor.
“Yes, dear brother of mine, do you have something you’d like to say?” I rub my stubble. It may look like shit, but I love the feeling of it under my fingertips.
The silence drags on.
“For the love of God, grow a pair of fucking balls and spit it out!” I bellow so loud I’m pretty sure I can be heard in Jersey.
Luke still can’t look me in the eye, so I know it’s bad.
“I called Mom. About you.”
What?
“What? Why?” My fists clench involuntarily. “What am I now, some kind of pussy?” I actually can’t believe what I’m hearing. I’m hoping they’re pranking me, but the atmosphere in the room suggests otherwise. Still no laughter or smiles. I seriously want to kill one or all of them. What kind of loser runs to their mother because life gets a little ugly?
Honestly, I’d rather eat a fucking shit sandwich than pull Mom into this. Sure, she’d have to be aware of the scandal—she has a TV and access to the internet. She also has a legion of “concerned”—read: nosey and judgmental as fuck—friends who don’t hesitate to fill her in on anything she might be in danger of missing. Knowing that she knows and openly discussing shit with her are two different things. Next they’ll be asking to sit in a circle, hold hands, and sing “Kumba-fucking-ya.”
“We just thought that maybe—”
“We who?”
“All of us.” He gestures around the room at the entire band.
“Oh. You all thought that… what? Maybe even though I’m a grown-ass man, I still need to run to Mommy when shit doesn’t go my way? What do you think she’s going to do, kiss my booboo better, give me a Spiderman Band-Aid, and magically make all the hurty go away? You’re truly more dense than I ever gave you credit for.”
“It wasn’t my idea. The guys thought it might help.”
Oh Lord.
“So what exactly did you say to her, or am I better off not knowing?
“We just thought it might help for her to call you and give you some advice from a chick’s perspective, you know? She’s met London, and really liked her, so we thought she could talk some sense into you or something.”
Really?
“Since when does this bunch of rat bastard motherfuckers know anything?” I motion to the other guys and laugh to myself about how much like Gramps I sound. Sometimes when you really want to get your point across, only old-fashioned cussing will do. This is most definitely one of those times. “Seriously, you’re gonna listen to them and expect to come up with anything other than idiocy?” I’m actually still in shock at the level of stupidity on display.
“What the fuck is Mom gonna do or say? Sure she’s a chick, but she’s also my fucking mom, ergo, pretty much the last person on earth I want to talk to about this. You guys know this about me. I was the kid who at age eleven took myself to the ER on the subway with a broken arm instead of calling Mom and making her take time off work. What makes you think I’d want to call her now for a broken relationship?”
Crickets. For a normally overly rowdy group of guys, everyone was suddenly uncharacteristically happy to embrace silence.
I’d thought going to Gramps for advice about London a few months ago was chickenshit enough, but this is a whole other level of whipped. I sigh loudly.
“What is this, an inter-fucking-vention? Who do you think I am, Stevie?” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve gone too far. Luke winces. I shoot a look around the room and note that everyone, including Stevie, is now looking apologetic. Okay, that was low. I need to fix it. I look Stevie in the eye.
“Sorry, man, that was out of line.”
“Don’t sweat it. You’ve had my back enough times for me to know you didn’t mean anything by it. More than enough, actually. Besides, it’s true. You guys have all had to rescue my sorry ass more times than I could ever hope to remember. I did need an intervention, so what can I say?” He shrugs and flashes me his trademark grin. It takes a lot more than that to piss him off, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a dick move.
He’s right. Because he’s funny, charming, affable Stevie, we’ve forgiven him fuckup after fuckup. No, that’s not right. Not only have we forgiven him, we’ve loved him for it. It’s the niche he had carved out for himself in the group dynamic, and if I’m honest, I think part of each of us has always been happy he was such a fuckup, as it made the rest of us look more like we had our shit together
Still, true though it may be, throwing it in his face like that was a dog act. We saved his ass all those times because he’s our brother and we love him, which is the exact same reason we wanted him back in rehab when it became obvious he wasn’t coping. We’d do all of it again if we needed to, and the last thing I wanted was for him to feel bad about it. We have each other’s backs. It’s what we do.
That said, I still can’t get past their epic stupidity. Why the fuck would they want to call my mom? I mean seriously, I’ve been hitting it hard in the weeks since this all started. So what? It’s not the first time I’ve looked for the solution to my problems at the bottom of a bottle or five of premium vodka, and the way things are going, I’m not convinced it will be the last. What’s different now? I mean, the fact is I’m functioning. More than that, I’m fucking writing more, and I think better, material than ever. What else do they want from me? Am I meant to be prancing around singing about sunshine and fucking lollipops? Fuck that, and fuck them. I fix Luke with one last death stare.
“Okay, so here’s how it’s going to go. I wrote two more songs last night, and they’re good. Fucking outstanding, in fact. I’m gonna sing them for you, and then you dumbasses are going to use the two and a half brain cells you have between you to help me work out the arrangements for them, and we’re gonna pretend like this thing with Mom never happened. Okay?”
Silence.
“Okay?” I bellow the word this time.
Mumbles and grunts from around the room are as good as it gets.
“Good.” I launch into the first verse of “Hummingbird,” but I don’t get very far before my phone rings. Retrieving it from my pocket, I see Mom’s name and photo flash onto the screen. Speak of the devil. While I’m inclined to reject the call and send it to voice mail, I also feel that I may as well rip the Band-Aid off now and get this nonsense over with.
“Mom?” I sigh heavily again as I answer the call and step out of the studio into the parking lot. It’s bad enough that I have to have this conversation; I don’t need every Tom, Dick, and Mary listening in.
“Arlo?” She sounds apprehensive.
“Yeah. So Luke tol
d you that the guys think I need an intervention or some shit, right?”
“Not in so many words, but he did mention that you might benefit from some advice from another woman.”
“Nope. I just need every motherfucker to keep their nose out of my business.”
“Arlo.”
I know she’s my mom, and always will be, but I resent being busted for stupid shit like swearing at my age. I’m not fifteen anymore, and it’s not like she hasn’t heard me curse a billion times before.
“No, Mom, it’s true. I don’t need advice right now. I just need to get on with my life.”
“No, you need to go to her.” Her voice is gentle, placatory even.
“I can’t go to her. She wants nothing to do with me. She told me so when this whole thing with Marnie first went down. We’re done. There’s nothing else I can do. I’m not going to fucking beg.”
I alternate between repeatedly kicking the curb and pacing the small parking lot. I’m aware that I’m completely exposed to the glare of prying telephoto lenses, but I don’t give a rat’s ass. I can just imagine the headlines now: “Arlo Jones paces anxiously while caught in love triangle scandal,” accompanied by a photo of me talking on the phone, a pained and impassioned look on my face, and a cigarette in hand. Yeah, so I started smoking again—no biggie.
The paparazzi situation has been especially crazy since the Marnie video broke, with them going to extreme lengths to try to get photos of me, London, or better still, us. Exactly the shit she said she can’t deal with as part of being with me. The craziness of it all. The lack of privacy. The intense interest in everything you do, even the most mundane things. The speculation. The lies. The truth. I totally get where she’s coming from, but this has been my normal for so long, I almost can’t remember a time when it wasn’t this way.
Along with the rest of the band, I’ve learned to deal with the staring, pointing, photos, whispers, jeers, kisses, strokes, pinches, and even punches that we’re subjected to on a daily basis. It’s part and parcel of who we are and how we now live, and we just have to accept it as a feature of the job we love. London didn’t sign up for that though, and I get that, but I also get that there’s a way to live with it all and not lose your mind.
Just look at Jake and Kris. They’ve been together since the days when we couldn’t get a gig at our local bar if we paid them, and they’re still together now despite the trailer-load of shit that comes with the life we live.
“Go. To. Her.” Mom is emphatic. “Something tells me she will want to see you.”
“How can you say that? You don’t even know her. She’s given no indication so far that she wants me anywhere other than the hell away from her. The irony is that for once, I haven’t done shit. I don’t know when that video was taken, but I know that it wasn’t when I was with her. Seriously, since the two of us have been a thing, I’ve had no interest in anyone else.”
“Not even Marnie?”
Why can’t anyone understand that it was always just sex with Marnie?
“Especially not Marnie. The thing between us was always about convenience, nothing more. At least for me anyway. I ended it because of London, but really, I should have cut it off so long ago, I just didn’t really think—”
“Do you ever really think, Arlo? About people, I mean? Sure, the band and the businesses are going well, but there’s more to life than those things. You need some perspective about what’s really important when all is said and done, and you need to treat people with more respect and consideration. If you’d done that with London and with Marnie, you might not be in this situation right now. Anyway, that’s the shoulda, woulda, coulda of the situation. For right now, focus on what you’re going to do next. Contact her, and I’m telling you, she’ll want to see you. I’d put money on it.”
“How can you know that?” She’s cryptic as fuck.
“Look, none of us has a crystal ball, so we can’t know anything for sure. Call it women’s intuition or mother’s instinct, or whatever, but I saw something in her that day at the gallery, and….”
“And what, Ma?”
“Nothing, just trust me on this one. I never ask you for anything, but promise me you’ll do this one thing.”
“Okay, I’ll try.”
“Do or do not. There is no try.” Her laughter is infectious. I join in, laughing out loud for the first time in weeks. The sound is almost foreign to my ears.
“Since when did you become the kind of person to drop Star Wars gags?” I say.
“Since I became the kind of person to have four movie-mad boys.”
I guess she has a point. “I gotta go, we’re at the studio. Time is money.” I’ve left the inmates in charge of the asylum, and I’d better go make sure they’re not wrecking the joint or planning on calling an exorcist for me next.
“Okay, sorry to keep you while you’re working, son. I love you.”
“You too. And Ma?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks.” I hang up the phone and return to the studio, still wondering whose ass to kick first.
Chapter Eight
They say pride comes before a fall. In a move I will hopefully never have to repeat in this lifetime, I take my mother’s advice and call London. As cryptic as that whole conversation was, she was so certain that London will want to see me that I decide to just roll with it. I want to see her, and I’m full of pride, but have nowhere further to fall.
I’m poised to hang up, expecting the call to go to voice mail, as ever. Instead, I hear London’s voice on the line after only two rings.
“Hello?”
I’m caught totally off guard. There’s no way I thought she would pick up.
“Arlo?”
Fuck. I have to say something or she’ll think I’m pranking her, or that it was a butt call.
“Hi.”
“Hi…?”
I guess she has a right to be hesitant.
“How are you?” I genuinely want to know. Despite the daily updates from Marko, I want to hear her tell me in her own words.
“I’m fine.” If she sighs any more heavily, she’s in danger of deflating.
“You don’t sound it. Wanna talk over coffee?” Might as well make the most of the opportunity—it’s too good to pass up.
“Coffee?”
I’d be dubious too if I were her. Scrap that, I am dubious, and I’m the one doing the talking.
“Today?” I didn’t expect her to agree so readily. Why do I get the feeling that this is all too easy, that there’s got to be a catch?
“If that works. I can work around you.” I feel like a fucking teenager again, asking the most popular girl in school to prom.
“Yeah. Okay. Now.”
She’s not about to win any awards for her small talk, but I couldn’t complain about the result.
“Sure, I’ll come to you. I can be there in twenty.”
“’Kay. See you at Bean & Bloom.” She hangs up without waiting for my response. Maybe she’s more like me than I first gave her credit for.
It takes all my willpower not to break the land speed record on the way to the cafe. Of course today, every light in the city turns red if I come anywhere near it. Why? I’m like a raging bull. I swear there is actual steam coming from my nose and ears.
I almost dare someone to cut me off, flip me off, or piss me off in some other way, just to give me a “legitimate” reason to epically lose my shit. Luckily for all concerned, nobody does. I arrive with time to spare and my anger in check. Kinda.
As I walk into the coffeehouse, I look around for somewhere to sit. I guess I didn’t think this through properly before making plans. I’d offered to come to her as I figured she wouldn’t want to come to my place. On the other hand, I can understand why she wouldn’t want me in her space, so somewhere public seemed like the best option to her. At the time I was too stunned about the fact that she’d agreed to meet anywhere to think too much about the logistics of her choice. Now that I’m here,
I feel like I’m in a goldfish bowl, providing the perfect vantage point for the circling press vultures to stalk their prey.
I already gave them a penalty shot with the photos of me on the phone with Mom; I’m not about to hand them the scoop of the century—photos of London and me talking under current circumstances would buy one of those gutter rats into early retirement. Walking into a public place for this conversation—or any conversation involving London—is playing right into their hands. Not much I can do about it now, as she’s already on her way. I’m just going to have to roll with it.
The only good thing about being here instead of Starbucks or somewhere is that the Bloom in the name of the place refers to a flower and vintage bookshop out back. It’s a windowless room, the air heavy with the sickly smell of flowers and thick with the dust of ancient books, but at least it’s private. There’s nobody else here, and most importantly, there’s nowhere for the paparazzi to shove their cameras. Maybe London was more clear-headed than I was in choosing the venue, after all. I pull my baseball cap down and head to the counter, ordering a triple espresso with four sugars for me, and an extra-hot latte for London. While I wait for our drinks, I fire off a text.
Me: Here. Grabbing coffees and heading out back.
Her response is almost immediate.
London: Decaf please.
That’s new, but then glancing at my watch, I figure that for some people, drinking coffee at this time will fuck them up for the rest of the night. That’s never been the case for me. With the hours I keep, coffee has been a nighttime staple for years and never gotten in the way of a good crash out when I need it. I correct the order with the barista and knock back mine like a tequila shot. Fuck, I really wish it was tequila, but in the absence of Mexican morphine, I order another coffee for me and carry both to the back of the store. I settle at a table in the corner of the room and sit facing the door, idly flicking through my phone.
I feel London before I see her. When I look up, she’s at the threshold of the room, leaning against the doorjamb, and I get the impression that she’s been there for a little while. She’s studying her shoes as though she’s never seen them before, but now realizes they hold the answer to all the world’s questions. I wait. For someone as impatient as me, I’m getting pretty fucking good at it.