World Enough

by Clea Simon

  ‘You read me?’ She’s tickled. She forgot how it feels. ‘God, Scott, I miss it. I really do.’ She looks down into her beer, as if the past were all that golden hue. ‘I don’t know. It seemed like a good job. A natural move what with the writing I’d been doing for you. What we did with the Underground. I mean, I’d always wanted to write. But then the Dot started cutting back, and Peter – well, he’d already moved on. He’s doing consulting now, with one of the big firms, and we were married by then. And the scene, well …’

  ‘Yeah.’ He nods. ‘The fun ran out.’

  ‘Exactly.’ It’s as good a description as any. They drink in silence, and Tara finds her mind wandering. ‘Hey, what were you humming?’

  ‘What?’ He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t remember.’

  ‘I thought …’ She stops. Smiles at the memory. ‘I saw the Whirled Shakers the other day,’ she says. ‘They were still good.’

  ‘Phil and the gang? They’re still at it?’ A ping from the other room. ‘Hey, keep talking,’ he says, rising from the sofa. ‘Tell me all about it while I finish the glaze.’

  She does, leaning on the door frame as he whisks butter into a small saucepan. ‘I even ended up dancing,’ she says. Scott has been fussing over the food while she talks, and she feels self-conscious, like she wants to see his face. See his reaction. ‘Min thinks it’s all kind of pitiful,’ she admits.

  ‘Min Kahler? You’re still in touch?’ He looks up from where he’s crouched by a low cabinet, before extracting a tray. ‘What’s she up to?’

  ‘Still at County.’ This is safer ground. The jobs – no, the careers – of their friends. ‘She could move into management, I think, but she likes just working her shifts.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He stands and looks at the tray. ‘Sounds like someone I know.’

  ‘What?’ They’re back on familiar turf. ‘I moved on. Went from Underground Sound to the Dot and Zeron. I’m the manager of corporate communications, I’ll have you know.’

  He raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth drawn back as if to smirk. ‘Yeah, that was real risky for you, Tara.’

  She shakes her head, confused. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You said it yourself. You’re a writer.’ He reaches for an oven mitt. ‘That’s why I want to get you writing again, Tara. City could use you – but I think it would be good for you, too.’

  He opens the oven. The aroma is intoxicating. Tara doesn’t cook, never did, and certainly never like this. She feels almost lightheaded, it smells so good.

  ‘Not that I don’t have my own selfish reasons.’ He stands. Placing the pan on the cooktop, he glances over his shoulder. That old smile, the real one she remembers so well. ‘Shall we?’

  ‘I didn’t expect to hear from you tonight.’ Min’s voice is low, her words innocuous. But Tara’s known her long enough to catch the insinuation.

  ‘It’s Scott, Min,’ she says. The exasperation, at least, is real. ‘I mean, I’ve known him forever.’

  ‘You knew him, how long ago?’ In the pause following Min’s question, Tara hears the flick of a lighter. The inhale. The satisfied exhalation that follows. ‘I mean, hey, I never had a sense of him, other than as a fat guy who made you do all his dirty work. But now …’

  ‘Yeah, he looks good now.’ Tara thinks back on the dinner, on how it felt to see her old friend again. ‘But who knows? I never saw him with anyone back in the day, either.’

  ‘As previously stated: fat guy.’ There’s an audible purr of pleasure in Min’s voice, though from the smoke or the conversation, Tara can’t tell.

  ‘And he didn’t make me do all the dirty work.’ Tara doesn’t like this. Doesn’t like Min when she gets all catty and cool. But she has questions for her friend, and Min has been hard to pin down lately. ‘He gave me a chance to write. As you may remember, I was stuck doing paste-up at the Dot. Maybe I got a record to review, like once a month. And Scott and I – we made something.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Tara closes her eyes. Lets Min have her point. Besides, she’s not sure where she and Scott stand. It was so easy to fall into old patterns. The meal had been great – green olives and lemon spicing up a game bird. Potatoes crisped and tender. Somewhere along the way, Scott had learned how to cook. But even before they had tucked in, they’d been talking business. Scott was full of ideas – opening with the funeral, jump back to clubland’s heyday, when A&R men would saunter into Oakie’s like they belonged there.

  ‘Are you going to want me to get the Casbah in there?’ Tara had been only partly teasing. She still couldn’t get her mind around the idea of Jonah as Scott’s boss. Jonah in her world.

  ‘I don’t know about that.’ Scott had sounded reticent, and for that Tara was grateful. And he’d changed the subject, then. Pushed forward. ‘Let’s not set anything in stone yet,’ he’d said. ‘I want you to do some research. I know you know what happened, but why don’t you see what’s out there now? See if anyone has an interesting story. You know, hellion transformed into church lady. Someone who made it coming back to get the band together.’

  ‘That would be something.’ Tara had sat back, then, remembering the previous night. The Whirled Shakers at the pub. That wasn’t what Scott meant, though, and she knew it. ‘You’re looking for someone big, though. Right? Someone like the Aught Nines?’

  ‘Exactly.’ He’d paused. They had locked eyes over the table, remembering. ‘Only, you know, someone who survived.’

  ‘You were right, you know.’ She blinks back the memory. Throws a bone to Min, who has grown quiet on the line.

  ‘Of course I was.’ She chuckles. ‘In what way?’

  ‘About us – about the scene. So many people didn’t make it. The drugs and all, and now Frank.’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ Tara can hear her friend adjusting. Maybe even putting her cigarette out. ‘I didn’t say “us”. Not us. You and me, we were never self-destructive like that. The drink and the drugs. We kept our heads.’

  Tara nods. She’s not sure how true that was. Yes, they’d come through OK, but as she recalls, much of that was luck and fear.

  ‘And Frank, well.’ A sigh. Or Min has picked up her ciggie again? ‘I don’t know what was up with him, but the man was sober for – what? – twenty years? Not that he didn’t have reason to drink again.’

  ‘He was having problems?’ Tara thinks back to the women at the reception. To the gossip. ‘He called you to talk?’

  A chuff of laughter – or maybe a cough. ‘Tara, the man was an old friend. When he called me for advice, what was I going to do?’

  ‘Advice?’ She does her best to keep her tone level. Nonjudgmental.

  ‘Mm-hmm.’ Min takes a drag. Exhales. Tara can picture her, lying on that old sofa. ‘A few weeks ago. When they got the news about Mika’s baby. He wanted to know everything.’

  ‘And he didn’t trust the doctors?’ Something was off. Tara was fishing, but she didn’t know for what.

  ‘Tara, I’m a nurse. He’d known me for more than twenty years. His grandson was sick. It was serious.’ Min was not one to be probed. ‘He wanted the straight dope, OK? He’s – he was – an old friend. Kind of like Scott is for you. Sound familiar?’

  ‘That’s …’ Tara stops. Maybe it isn’t different. Maybe Min is right. ‘I’m writing a piece for him, Min. A piece for City.’

  ‘Let me guess: ice cream?’ Min is almost laughing.

  ‘No.’ Tara cuts her off. ‘It’s not all … I’m writing about the music world. About the community we had.’

  ‘Oh, that’s rich.’ Min has her back up now. Tara can hear it. ‘Just what you need – more time in the clubs. Talk about addicts, Tara, you’re one. You’ve got to let it go. Move on. I was thinking when you told me your old playmate was in town, that he was looking good, that he’d be good for you. You could jump his bones finally. Get laid. Consummate that strange relationship you two always had and get Peter out of your system along the way. But now I’m thi
nking your ex sounds better and better. Your old buddy – Scott? – he’s enabling you. Using you just like he used to, only you’re in so deep you don’t see it.’

  ‘Min, stop it!’ Tara takes a breath, or tries to. Peter. Scott. Her interest in the scene. Min has thrown so much at her she doesn’t know where to start. ‘It’s an article. Freelance. A feature for the magazine. I’ve missed it, you know? I mean, I’m not going to quit my job, but Scott’s given me an assignment, and he’s letting me run with it.’

  ‘Uh huh.’ Min’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

  ‘It’s a possible cover.’ But that’s the least of it for Tara, and Min knows it.

  A pause as Min takes another deep drag. ‘Writing about how it used to be,’ she exhales the words. Tara can almost see the smoke.

  ‘Maybe.’ Tara has to give her that. ‘But also about what happened and why. You know? How things fell apart. Who’s left, who’s still doing it. I mean, it’s for City, so I’ll be focusing on the big names. The Cars. Til Tuesday. The Aught Nines.’

  ‘Oh, that’s rich.’ Min is readjusting. Sitting up – or lighting another cigarette. ‘The Aught Nines.’

  ‘You’ve got to admit, they had a great story.’ Scott remembered. He’d loved it.

  Min, however, sputters. ‘They’d have been one-hit wonders. Their album wouldn’t have gone anywhere.’

  ‘Well, that’s just it.’ Tara’s back on solid ground. The music, the history. She could do something with this. ‘We’ll never know.’

  When Tara first became aware of them, the Aught Nines were like so many other bands she knew. Nice guys with nothing much going on beyond the usual garage punk thrash. A repertoire that was half covers of Stooges songs and half originals that didn’t sound as good. The kind of band you saw if you got there early enough, when they were third on a bill on a Wednesday. Jim, the guitarist, and Jerry, the bassist, were brothers and they were pretty honest about their motivation: girls. They’d started the band back in high school and had never really moved on. Of course once they were of age, the free beer kept them going. And when their singer, another childhood pal, left – something to do with his father’s painting business and a freelance tax bill that had never been paid – it seemed likely the band would break up. But that month the Dot was offering a deal on musicians’ classifieds. The first 10 words for free. It was supposed to drum up business and, besides, who could say everything they wanted in only 10 words?

  Jim – or maybe it was Jerry – saw it as a challenge. Kind of like when the bartender at Riddles told them they could only drink free while they were on stage, and Jerry managed to chug five pints while playing open strings. He’d approached the Dot ad the same way, getting the word count down to seven: Gigging band needs singer Iggy Ramones Dolls. The box number was free. That was all they really needed, but it was Greg who insisted on fleshing it out: No preppies allowed!

  ‘We talked about that,’ Greg had told Tara, when they’d sat down for a profile. His moon face had been serious, the bulk of him lending weight to his words. ‘I mean, Jim and I wanted someone we could hang with. Jerry was pushing for something else. Something like “Chick magnet wanted”. But Jim and I had girlfriends, so we overruled him.’

  ‘Funny what you ended up with.’ Tara tried to stay out of her own stories, but this one was obvious. She can still remember Greg nodding slowly, the peculiarity of life obvious to all.

  They hadn’t had many responses. That week, much to the ad manager’s delight, the paper had been stuffed with classifieds – Tara had heard the yelling as pages were requisitioned to handle the overflow. And most, according to the plan, had offered a bit more detail – either about the repertoire the aspiring band mates would be expected to learn or the perks of private practice spaces or regular residencies that paid. Two singers, Greg had told her, had hung up as soon as they’d heard what band they were hoping to audition for.

  ‘We were bummed,’ the big drummer admitted. ‘We figured that was it.’ Still, there were some plusses. They’d each been kicking in fifty bucks a month for the practice space, he’d recalled, money none of them could easily spare. Besides, they figured they’d get some wild ‘last show ever’ gigs out of it, too.

  And then Chris had called. Chris Crack, he called himself. ‘Crack,’ he’d said. ‘Like the drug.’ It wasn’t his real name, obviously. But this was rock and roll, and the brothers were amused. ‘Sure,’ Jerry had said. ‘Come on down.’ It wasn’t like they were doing anything else on Monday nights, and they had the space till the end of the month.

  It wasn’t until a few weeks later that they learned the truth. Chris ‘Crack’ Kantrowitz wasn’t just a preppie, he had no experience being in a band or even on the scene. By then, it didn’t matter. The kid from the suburbs with the bleached blond hair was a natural, a rising star who would catapult the Aught Nines to weekend bills – and then headline slots – in record time. When the suits from New York began to show up – town cars idling outside Oakie’s, outside the Rat – nobody was surprised. The only question, by then, was what had taken them so long.

  Tara was one of the first onto the reconfigured band, tipped off by something Nick had told her. ‘No, really,’ he’d been laughing as he stacked cases by the bar. ‘Patti’s brother’s band has the space next to theirs.’

  ‘The Aught Nines?’ She’d not believed it. ‘They’ve probably let their space. Or they just had their boom box cranked.’

  Still, she’d shown up. Nine on a Tuesday – the promise of those farewell gigs had faded once the band had spread it around that they were not going anywhere. Brian had raised his eyebrows to see her so early – making his usual protest as she fended off his outstretched arms. ‘Darling, you’re breaking my heart!’ Still, he had stamped her hand, no doubt expecting her to surface after the first song finished, if not before.

  As soon as Greg counted off the opening number, it was clear that something had changed. Tara was used to the brothers’ full-throttle attack, guitar and bass together as if volume alone could make up a song. But that night, Jim seemed to be sitting out, standing to the back of the stage as Jerry began to build a bottom line. When Jim came in – one simple, fast riff more metal than punk – she waited for the vocals. Even when Paulie had been on the mic, the brothers had always sung along. Going for the volume again. Gang harmony, they’d called it. Only what she heard was not something the Aught Nines had ever done before.

  Chris Crack – the name stuck, despite its affectation – didn’t enter so much as pounce. A glam rock throwback in a woman’s eyelet blouse two sizes too small, he leapt onstage, grabbed the mic stand and swung it – narrowly missing Jerry – before opening his mouth for a caterwaul that had Nieve at the bar looking up, open-mouthed. Dropping from the falsetto scream into a rough baritone, he delivered the lyrics of the Aught Nine oldie – ‘Beer for Fools’ – as if it were the gospel. And when he tore into a new song – Tara, at least, had never heard it – he pushed back into that falsetto, letting it fade away into something as soft as a lover’s sigh.

  By the end of the set, he had lost the shirt, and under its sheen of sweat, his pale torso glistened. He looked like what he was fated to become: a rock star. And all five people who heard him that night knew it.

  SIX

  ‘So, what do you want to ask me?’

  Saturday afternoon, and Tara is at Nick’s spartan Back Bay apartment. He’s sitting in a repurposed kitchen chair. She’s on the nubbly beige couch. ‘I’m not sure I know any more about Chris Crack than you do,’ he says. ‘And it’s been, what, fifteen years? Twenty?’

  That’s the story she’s given him – the rise and fall of Boston’s golden boy – but for a moment it throws her.

  ‘Chris, yeah,’ she says, remembering. ‘Chris Crack and the Aught Nines.’

  She called Nick after an email exchange with Scott, following up to make sure the offer was real. Half hoping the dinner was something else. And now here she was, not sure exactly where to start.
In the old days, she’d had a Rolodex with the direct line of every publicist at every label in the country. These days, most of those labels no longer exist, and those contacts – always good for a story and at least a drink when they came through town – had moved on long ago, their industry jobs made redundant by streaming services and a new definition of fame.

  ‘Actually, it’s more of a general story – the end of the scene,’ she says, reaching for a small figure on the blond wood coffee table before her. A horse, she sees, carved from some darker wood.

  The story will be about death, she’d told Scott. The death of a subculture. Only now, with someone who knew the deceased, she feels a little funny about the word. It’s easier to talk to the carving.

  ‘Did it end?’ She glances up at his question, but he’s not looking at her. Instead, he’s tipping his can back. Diet Coke – it’s two in the afternoon and they’re no longer kids. ‘I mean, the Aught Nines, sure. And Chris … But Oakie’s hung around for a few years after I left. Bun’s is still around, only with a different name.’

  ‘Yeah, and a DJ on weekends. Dance nights.’ Tara doesn’t have to explain the scorn in her voice. Not to Nick. ‘And by the end Oakie’s was booking cover bands.’

  She catches herself. This isn’t about her, she wants to say. Not about what she had once hoped for. What she misses. Or not entirely.

  ‘I know there are bands playing out now.’ She puts the horse back down. She wants to focus. ‘I know some of it is age. But for a few years there, something was happening. We made something, all of us. Something we shared.’ She pauses. This is the part she can’t quite explain – not to Peter or Min, not to herself. ‘And then it all fell apart.’

  That’s all she’s got thus far. For two days, she ignored the piece. Ignored Scott’s emails, the ones asking for more, and tried to focus on Zeron. On the boss who relied on her, and the staff whose work she would ultimately present to the shareholders. The quarterly report might not be thrilling, but it did demand careful attention. Or so she claimed, not that her protest fooled anyone. Certainly not Scott: Don’t tell me you couldn’t do that gig with your eyes closed, he had written, after she had pled deadline. Don’t tell me you’re not bored to tears.