"Peter, I'm no idiot. You're not getting the money you deserve let alone the money we expected. I wish you would be okay with me going back to work. In fact, I insist on it."
She was right, and my ego hated it. I had a hard time admitting to her, let alone myself, the practicality in it. "You know perfectly well rock 'n roll wives are not supposed to work. They're supposed to enjoy their lives, travel with their husbands, and keep them on the straight. You saw what happened on the last tour when that singer was all over me. The woman can't be trusted, and I'm only human. These package tours where you get lumped in with a bunch of other bands are dangerous."
I gave a wink, and Jane gave a playful shove. "Peter, really! There's no way you're touching her. Besides, if you do, it'll give me a great excuse to lob off her head. The woman drives me batty." Jane toyed with my shirt in that cute little way women do when they are trying to persuade you to succumb to their wiles. "Truthfully, I miss working. Being here alone all day isn't fulfilling. How about I see if I can go back part time so I can still go to dates with you and make sure that the grubby little girls keep their sticky, jam coated hands off of you?"
"Are you really unhappy?" I was concerned the conversation may have deeper meaning.
"We make me happy. No matter how glamorous it all seems, being in this big house by myself every day doesn't suit me."
"All right, darling. Whatever makes you happy." I pulled her deeper into my chest so that she couldn't see the relief on my face. Why God blessed me with such an angel was beyond reason.
Suddenly Jane jumped up and tugged at my hand. "Come on! Let's run!"
"Run?"
"Yes, I want to sketch you sitting right in that chair as the sun sets so we have to hurry. Let's chase the dogs around the yard and see how long it takes until they chase us. Ernestine! Fredericka!" she yelled as she ran off with me following behind. It was a metaphor for my life—chasing the dogs, knowing that in the end you are the one trying to get ahead. But if Jane was chasing with me I didn't care if I ever caught them.
Who Do You Love
Jacqueline flashes through the living room in a sweet little black dress. The hints of blue and green in her smoky eye shadow adds depth to her sparkling eyes and make them appear to be aquamarine. "Ooh! Where are you going looking all gorgeous?"
"Dinner with Herman."
"The cute doctor with the bad name that you met at the market?"
"Herman Walappilee." Jacqueline looks to God. "Really? What kind of name is Walappilee?" When she recovers from her tizzy she scans my outfit—a purple scooter dress with a green jockey hat and matching belt along with bright pink accessories. "Did you steal that from the wardrobe department of I Dream of Jeannie? With your dark hair and wild makeup you kind of look like Jeannie's sister."
Best. Compliment. EVER! Squee! "Thanks! Seriously, how did she never get her own name?"
"Let me guess. Niles is on his way over."
"Yep! Dinner and a movie after a quick stop at Warped Records. It's a good thing House of Pies is open late. Undoubtedly we will make Shane stay while we search every bin. You can never trust those guys to keep the new arrivals segregated."
Headlights peek through the window as Niles pulls his Camaro into the driveway. "So, you've recovered from last week's momentary lapse of reason?"
"Unless he full-on shows he has no interest his lips are touching mine tonight."
"Rock on, sister. Slip me some skin."
After a low five, a skin slip, a hip bump, and a hug for good measure, it's date time.
Albums cover nearly every inch of grey, thus making the gloomy walls of Warped Records bloom with life. Bins of music form two long, narrow walkways leading to a wall of glass that imprisons stacks of unsorted jewels. The display always taunts me with dreams of what gems may reside within. However, today none of this charm holds my attention. Even that glorious smell of album covers that I can only liken to how some think of the tempting aroma of cookies is lost on me.
This never happens.
Never!
My mind is locked on Niles. He gazes at the rows with narrowed eyes. I bet he's wondering where all the good stuff is hidden. A double tug that matches the beat of the blasting punk/power pop sound of the Buzzcocks, jolts my arm. Shane drags me aside. "You're dating that guy? Really?"
My cheeky gleam confesses my happiness, but hey— "What's wrong with Niles?"
Shane's face gets all contorted. What's the deal? The question's neither insane nor complex. "He's a little … odd around the edges."
I start to take offense but remember my own recent qualms. I kind of get it. Still— "I like guys who are a little odd around the edges. After all, some could say that about you and me as well. In fact, I seem to recall when I bought an Every Mother's Son album you said I had completely lost my mind."
"That's because it was the one without the hit. Even that album is marginal, and that's if I'm baked."
Instead of letting his baulk goad me into shame, I give him a playful tap on the arm and then do something completely uncharacteristic for my surroundings—pay more attention to a man than to the treasure trove around me. I snuggle my head into Niles's shoulder. "What are we in the mood for today?" My voice does not at all sound like I'm talking about music.
Niles glances down with a shadow of a smile. "Seemingly nothing these guys have."
"Hey, how is it we've never compared collections? How about we skip the movie and go back to your place so I can check out what you've got?" My teeth pinch the inside of my lip as I process how slutty that sounded.
Was her question straightforward? There are a million places my mind has dreamed of Rosalyn's hands touching. None of them have anything to do with my record collection. A beautiful woman at my house who is looking at records? It's weird, just like these New York Dolls albums. I mean, what twisted thing caused Buster Poindexter to emerge from the great David Johansen? The name referred to him and not a band, right? Since Buster Poindexter was an obviously fake name shouldn't his solo stuff be filed under Buster and not Poindexter? I'd file it under S for sucks.
Rosalyn's luscious lips form a beautiful smile. Speaking of things that suck, I wonder what those lips would have to say about Buster.
The house key feels weighted. What does Rosalyn expect of my home? Is she prepared for athletic gear and nudie mags? She might be a little disappointed in me.
My foot hits a long wave patterned into a brick driveway—a tan on maroon version of the yellow-brick road. A small, well-manicured yard sits before the deep brown, shingled Craftsman home. Two small stained glass windows, with scenes reminiscent of waves, reside on each side of the chimney. They make me dream of what treasures the inside may hold. This is exciting. I've no clue what to expect.
We step inside and Holy Noel Coward! The nineteen twenties-style living room slays me. Art Deco furniture fills the room while an antique area rug covers the polished, hardwood floor. The furniture matches the deep-walnut bookcases that were built into the walls upon their construction. On each side of the sofa sit floor lamps with stained glass shades of maroon and cream. It's all very classic, masculine, and oh so freaking incredibly sexy!
Niles hangs my coat in the closet before taking me on a tour. I'm completely blown away by the kitchen. The refinished, original cabinets somehow blend with the modern, top-of-the-line appliances. "Wow. This kitchen makes me think you can cook. This is awesome!"
His shrug is just adorable. "I get bored sometimes, so when I can, I take random classes. Cooking has become quite the hobby."
"Yet somehow you've never cooked for me. Here I thought that you liked me enough to try to impress me a tiny bit." I nearly hold my breath while awaiting his reply. Will my hint get blown off? Niles cooking for me would be epic.
"Wanting to impress you is why I haven't cooked for you." He adds a wink before continuing our journey.
He wants to impress me?
He wants to impress me!
My insides squeal and bounc
e while clapping, then start Snoopy dancing!
Niles's bedroom contains numerous bookshelves and a desk. This house seems big enough to have space for an office. Why cram himself in here?
Three more doors attach to the hallway. Just past the bathroom I find pure nirvana. He's knocked out part of the wall between the two bedrooms and created a giant media room. It's lined with an impressive collection of posters from San Francisco's greatest concert halls and festivals; The Fillmore, Winterland, The Avalon Ballroom, The Trips Festival. "Where did you get all of these?" Awe oozes through my voice and gives away the fact I'm totally on a high.
"My grandparents." He looks so cute and proud as he says it like he just damn adores them. "They used to go to these shows."
Niles slides open the door of one side of a room-width closet and gestures permission for me to peruse it. I'm so busy trying to take in my colorful surroundings I almost miss a framed piece of ripped out notebook paper with a poem scribbled on it.
"All I ever wanted was someone to smile with. Someday, when our worlds collide, my soul will be complete. Until then I await your simple hello and the colors of pink and purple that will forever flower my world."
"What's this?"
"It's from Peter Lane's notebook. You know, the guy from Love Machine. After he died his manager sold off the pages to fans. I found that one at a convention. It's not something I would normally buy, but a friend convinced me. Now I have a strange affinity toward it."
His voice makes it sound like it's no big deal, but his eyes await a reaction of idolatry over the sheaf. Normally I would flip out, but in light of recent events this is really, really weird, especially if the colors are in reference to the flowers Jane planted in the yard.
Hey, wait. This is dated July nineteen sixty-six. Peter told me he met Jane in August. "Is it real?" Shock resounds in my voice, and Niles smiles at what comes off as my inner fangirl.
"This room is the one place where I can count on honesty, which is why you and my mom are the only ones who've seen it." Niles grabs a remote off of a bookshelf and plops down on the floor. He lies back and hums Cheap Trick covering Fats Domino while tapping the remote in time to "Ain't That a Shame." I marvel over his enormous collection of vinyl. A beautiful kaleidoscope of colored spines stands before me.
"No CDs?"
He points to another mammoth closet across the room. "Over there." His chuckle is more one of nervousness than musing. "They both hold so much weight that someday I'll come home and find they've completely collapsed and put giant holes in my floor."
"So, none of your friends have ever been in here?"
"Just you."
Why me? Does that mean …
A smile slips onto my face, and I try to conceal the fact that my cheeks have gone red. Have I become as special to him as he has to me?
In my excitement I randomly pick a shelf and pull out a treasure. "Hey, Quicksilver Messenger Service. I can't believe someone else my age actually knows who Quicksilver is."
The soft colors of the Happy Trails cover, a product of the artist and not of time, make the nice copy appear weathered. As the album slides out of its inner sleeve and into my hands a starburst reflects off of the surface.
Ah, the bump—that unmistakable sound of a needle hitting a record—followed by a short hiss that makes me want to bow before the turntable. Vinyl, how I love thee!
John Cipollina hits that first note on his guitar, and my emotions swirl as the sound soars over me. I take a place next to Niles on the floor. There's something about Cipollina and his own unique brand of playing. It's so signature to the psychedelic genre, as if he knew it was his responsibility to define it. "Have you ever been to San Francisco?"
"Just on my way to see my grandparents."
"So you've never really been there. There is nothing like walking among the magnificent Victorians—those beautifully painted ladies that stand majestically around you. San Francisco is art, history, and love all wrapped up into one amazing package."
Rosalyn's words regarding San Francisco perplex me. I respect the city's beauty, but Rosalyn speaks of an enchanted kingdom. "This music," she says, her voice filled with euphoria, "it sweeps me up and puts me back in the moment. I arguably wasted half a morning staring at the gorgeous Queen Anne Victorian the Grateful Dead lived in. This sound right here—this urban drumbeat, those raw vocals—even though it's nearly fifty years later the freedom of this music still fits the dream I feel in San Francisco's air."
How is it that putting the needle on the turntable can cause this type of emotional reaction? She hears a city filled with hopes, traffic, and art. I just hear phenomenal music.
"So, why am I the only one you've allowed in here?"
Pressure builds in my temples. Niles, you've got to start going there at some point. If there is one thing you and Rosalyn have in common, it's that you both understand how hard it is to be different. "I think you know it is not always easy to take risks. Sometimes people neglect sharing things for fear of the memories it will bring when they get hurt later."
"Wow." Rox sounds stunned like I was calling her out instead of confessing. "Jacqueline really was right. I had no idea it was that obvious. Is that why you're so reserved?"
Okay, so far, so good. "As unmanly as it sounds, scared is a much more appropriate word." I risk touching her chin and gently raise it so our gazes meet.
"Niles, I don't want to be scared anymore. What about you? Are you ready to move past your hurt?"
That's why she's been so patient—baggage. I wish it were so simple for me. Every other girl has been in this house for one reason—sex with a decent looking lawyer they picked up in a bar. But the girls worth keeping want love, and that's an emotion I can't fathom.
I bring my lips towards hers and then hesitate to look in her eyes and be certain she is ready for this. I should know better, because I can only pretend to give her what she needs.
Don't do this, Niles. You'll hurt her.
When our lips finally touch I hold back and let hers lead the way. It's a nice kiss, but will I actually know love if it ever hits me?
Niles looks deep into my eyes, and I'm filled with anticipation over his beautiful lips touching mine. I've become so wrapped up in all that he is that this moment feels a lifetime in the making. As our lips touch, something inside my soul screams that this is what I have been waiting for, not just for the last few years but since the day I emerged from the womb.
I brace myself for the bursting of an emotional dam. The kiss is so tender, so perfect, that I could do it all night. It ends too soon, and I pull back in both surprise and relief. In some ways I had feared the sensation that comes with the first kiss—the one that gets you all wrapped up in a man. Jacqueline's right. My emotions must still be locked up. I was certain that the electricity between us would zap me off my feet. Instead, it was just a kiss—a nice, long, sexy kiss. I'm so filled with disappointment I actually hate myself right now. The man of my dreams is right here, yet I stupidly keep closing myself off because some jerk wronged me when I needed him most.
My eyes go to those of Niles, and I remember his words about being able to overcome anything. Despite the fact one part of my heart is holding me back, there is another part that want to shove forward even more. Hey, Mom, Dad. It's your Rose. I think I may have found something special.
With odd relief in somehow knowing the intimacy level for the night has peaked I cuddle into Niles's shoulder. He presses a few buttons on the remote, and while the ceiling lights fade, liquid lights color the darkness. This room is peaceful and absolutely glorious. It was meant for people like us. This incredible man who surprises me in so many ways really does seem to be akin to me. I just hope that I can appreciate him before he loses patience and gives up on me.
"Welcome back!" Jacqueline says as I come through the door. She plops herself on the sofa with a book while still dressed from her date. In addition to the plant that lives on the table where I drop my keys sits Jacqueli
ne's extra wide curling iron and a carving knife. "Why are these—"
"I chased my date out with them."
"Yikes! So the good doctor—"
"You mean the wannabe gynecologist? When he didn't take no for an answer, I grabbed the curling iron and told him I was in for a game of proctologist. He got a creepy, turned-on look until I went for the knife."
"Geez!" I motion Jacqueline to move her legs aside so I can plant my butt on the sofa. Her eyes scan me while enlivening with the hope of hearing good news. "Relax. We both lost our stethoscopes. I'm great though. Really, really great. Baggage is another commonality, and it's comforting. I'm actually excited about possibilities now. You okay?"
She gives a half smirk to show she's less than thrilled but is trying to find the humor in it all. She then lofts her feet into my lap and lounges back. "We should have a first date rule not to wear stilettos so we can make fast getaways. If there is one thing horror movies have taught us, it's that falling is fatal."
"Well, if we are going to subscribe to that, we should only date brainy guys with street smarts since all of the handsome ones die."
Her tension fades. "Boy, we sure have learned a lot about dating from horror movies."
"Only what not to do. If they taught the good stuff, we wouldn't still be single."
Broke Down and Busted
September 1967
On a lovely summer afternoon, my back slammed against the backseat of a police car. My wince from the jabbing of my cuffed hands into my spine was muted in refusal of accepting defeat.
The cop in the driver's seat said to the one next to him, "I can't believe who we just picked up for trespassing. Mr. Big Time rock star stealing fruit off of trees!" He called back to me, "They were pretty happy to press charges over a few apples. What'd you do to piss them off? Bet you gave their daughter a right shagging!"
Scary Modsters... and Creepy Freaks: A Rock and Roll Fantasy (The Rock And Roll Fantasy Collection) Page 10