by Clea Simon
When she hadn’t responded by Friday, he’d followed up with a threat. I’ve got a freelancer, all of twenty-five, who’s eager for an assignment. How badly do you think he’ll mess this up? That had done it. She’d emailed back that she would begin over the weekend – that she’d have some notes for him by Monday. Tara knew the damage a reckless twenty-five-year-old could do. After all, wasn’t that part of her story?
She is aware, suddenly, of the silence.
‘It all fell apart?’ His voice is quiet, and Tara can’t read it.
‘Well, yeah,’ she says. She feels coarse, suddenly. Clumsy. ‘I mean, I know lots of people went on to do different things. And a lot of bands stayed together. We both heard the Whirled Shakers the other night. They still sound great.’
‘But they’re not the Aught Nines.’ He’s nodding slowly. He gets it.
‘Yeah.’ She feels a bit braver and builds on her theme. ‘It was like, everyone was having fun and getting nibbles on their lines. Then they – he – had a chance to break through. I mean, for real. And it all got more serious.’
‘That’s one word for it.’
Tara knows what Nick means. The big unspoken – the drugs. What had been recreational, an accompaniment to all the drinking and the fooling around, had gotten bad, right around the time when the Aught Nines were drawing major label attention. That night with the Brit boys had been the first time Tara had seen anyone shoot up. It wouldn’t be the last.
‘So, you think it was the smack?’ She keeps her voice low. Nick never used, not as far as she knew. But he’d been the one to find Brian, slumped up against the wall out behind the Casbah, she’d heard, the needle still in his arm. He’d lost other friends, too. They all had.
‘I don’t know.’ He looks down at his soda, at the coffee table between them. ‘Maybe it was all just a crazy dream. Prolonged adolescence – no, fuck that. Prolonged childhood.’
Tara follows his eyes. Sees the apartment as he must. He had a home, she’s learned. A house, a marriage. Now – this. A pull-out couch for when his boys visit. A coffee table from Ikea or, more likely, Goodwill. A bachelor pad without the sense of fun. Featureless, except for that carving. She picks it up again.
‘You like that?’ Nick’s question interrupts her thoughts. His smile is unexpected.
‘Yeah.’ She turns it over. The surface is smooth and polished to highlight the grain, the piece balanced to show the horse in motion. ‘It’s nice.’
‘I did it.’ He sounds proud but also a little wistful. ‘For Jack, my youngest. He’s too old to play with horses now.’
She looks up, seeing him anew. ‘I didn’t know you carved.’
‘Whittled,’ he corrects her. ‘Yeah, it gives me something to do with my hands. Keeps me sane.’ He chuckles softly. ‘Maybe that’s why I didn’t get involved in any of that shit. You know, back in the day.’
‘Could be.’ She hands him the figurine. He turns it over, rubs a finger along its body, as if it testing the polish, the finish.
‘But it was special, for a while. Wasn’t it?’ She speaks quietly. This is a side of the man she doesn’t know. He replaces the little horse on the table between them and sits back.
‘Yeah, it was.’ This time he meets her eyes.
‘That’s what I want to write about,’ she says, gathering steam. ‘Not what happened with any one club or even one band. Just – how it came together and how it all came crashing down.’
‘You talked to Neela?’ He raises an eyebrow.
‘No, not yet.’ Tara thinks back. ‘I’m going to have to, even if I don’t bring the story up to Frank, poor guy. I mean, she was at the center of it.’
‘That she was.’ Nick’s comment has a note in it – wistful? Amused? – that makes Tara wonder. ‘Now, she’s a story.’
‘She was,’ Tara says, not realizing how she’s changed the tense until the words are out of her mouth. Timing. It hits her. ‘Actually, she might be. I mean, she and Frank got married just as everything was falling apart.’
‘Yeah, they got out just in time.’ Another silence, more thoughtful this time. ‘Frank started going to meetings. Neela had Mika. They built a life.’
‘Poor Neela.’ Tara thinks back to the pale and faded woman she saw only a few days before. Remembers the sexy redhead in the torn jeans, gyrating at Oakie’s. Remembers when she tried to climb up on the bar at the Casbah. It took two bouncers to carry her out, and some jokester laughing that if her tits were only a little bigger they’d have let her be. It was a wonder any of them ever went back there. That the place made any money at all, not the least enough to set up Jonah Wells.
‘Did you ever work at the Casbah?’ She looks at Nick, at the half smile that still lingers on his face.
It disappears, his reverie broken. ‘What made you think about that place?’
‘No reason.’ He’s watching her, and she feels bad about lying. ‘It’s the magazine,’ she confesses. At least to a partial truth. ‘Did you know Jonah Wells owns it now?’
‘Jonah Wells.’ He repeats the name slowly, thoughtfully. ‘And he knows you’re doing this story?’
‘I don’t know.’ Tara ponders. ‘I know he told Scott – my editor – that he wanted the magazine to be more urban. Edgier.’
‘Edgy.’ Nick has his hands on his knees. He faces the table as he pushes himself to his feet. ‘That’s a hoot. No, I never worked at the Cash Bar. Thank God.’
Nick is used to this role. Support. The constant bar back. Tara feels a little guilty about plumbing his memories, but after that little outburst – after a break for a refill, which she doesn’t really need – he gives her what he can freely and without reserve. The phone numbers for the rest of the Exiles. A place on the Cape where he thinks Brian’s old girlfriend lives. Katie’s married name, which she’s kept.
It’s enough for Tara to get started, and she thanks him. She’ll work him into the story somehow, she promises herself. A credit, if not a quote. He was there.
Besides, she wants to see him again. After an hour or so of reminiscences, the two catch up on their current lives. He’s into cycling, he tells her. Takes his boys out on the weekends, when he has them – twenty, thirty miles at a pop. But he does shorter rides, too, he says. Does she know the Minuteman Trail? It’s the best way to see the foliage, and it’s easy enough to pack a picnic.
By the time she leaves, she’s no longer thinking about the apartment. About its pre-fab uniformity, the sad beige couch. Instead, she’s buzzing from the conversation – from the possibilities that have begun to present themselves. About the little carving and the care it showed, about his deep blue eyes.
She spends most of Sunday making phone calls. The nuts and bolts of reporting that she remembers well. Only this time, instead of looking for a quote about a trend – stories about a new band or, God help her, a new paint color all falling within her beat – she’s asking about a dead man. A friend, and the circumstances of his last few months. It’s not the story she outlined to Scott, not exactly. It’s what she’s thinking about, though. Her way in.
‘So your hook is the dead guy?’ Peter’s voice is gentle, his question less so. At least that’s better than the last few months of their marriage, Tara thinks, even as she shrugs a noncommittal affirmative.
‘Yeah, in a way,’ she says. He’s called to check in. See how she’s doing, he says. Tara wonders. These last few months, he’s been calling more often. Some of that is about the condo, the ‘logical next step’, as he puts it, now that she has the good job. He’s always pressured her to think ahead. To be smart. Some of that is, well, something else.
Tara knows what Min would say. Will say, when Tara admits that she’s told Peter that she could use his help. That she’s told her ex-husband, ‘Sure, come on over.’ But it’s not romance or even regret that prompts her former spouse. He worries about her, she knows. Worries that she hasn’t made some crucial step. That she’s getting lost.
For instance, there’s his
critique of her story, what there is of it thus far: a few notes and a list of people to call back. They’re sitting on her sofa – once their sofa – each in their old, accustomed places. He’s holding a beer. She’s got her laptop open.
‘You’re not that kind of a journalist, Tara.’ He’s heard her out, but that hasn’t changed his conclusion. ‘You’re great on features. Always were. You have a style. Why don’t you just do this as a feature? A look back on a particular subculture.’
He’s trying. She knows that. The compliments are his way of patting her on the head. Sending her on her way. But she’s no longer the star-struck newcomer. The former paste-up girl who’s had her first big story and seen the star news guy reading it.
‘Because I don’t want to write a retrospective.’ She remembers how he looked up and caught her staring. How he’d smiled and introduced himself. ‘Some kind of rose-colored rock and roll history.’
He’d helped her at first. She won’t deny that. She’d just been put on staff and didn’t know what to write – how to find a story beyond the newest band, the latest record – and he’d given her tips. Told her to start stockpiling numbers. People to call. Sources.
‘Journalism 101,’ he’d said. It sounded like a joke, but she knew he meant it. That he’d gotten a degree in it, even after years on small community newspapers. He’d taught her about fact checking, about sourcing quotes, about talking to everyone and everybody. Basic research. ‘Do your homework,’ he’d say. When he offered to help, at first, she had been so grateful, she hadn’t seen beyond her own need. Hadn’t even questioned when the tutorials turned into more.
‘I don’t know what I want to do with this story exactly. Not yet.’ All these years later, she’s learned to stand up to him at least. Learned not to be cajoled into a compromise. ‘I don’t want it to be stale.’ She emphasizes the last word. Remembers that they’re no longer married, for better as well as for worse. ‘But thanks,’ she says, knowing how lame this sounds.
‘It just seems …’ He breaks off with a heavy sigh. She looks up at him and waits. Unlike her, Peter always finishes his sentences. ‘I don’t understand why you’re doing this,’ he says.
She nods. ‘I know,’ she says, gathering her thoughts. ‘Some of it is Scott. I’m excited by the opportunity. I mean, City is a big deal. A glossy.’
He eyes her as he drinks. He brought the good stuff, not that over-hoppy brew he usually orders.
‘Peter, you know I’ve missed it,’ she answers the question he hasn’t had the chance to form. ‘And it’s not like I’m quitting my job.’
‘There’s something about that guy I don’t get.’ He shakes his head. ‘Always was.’
‘What’s there to get?’ Tara turns back to her laptop, eager suddenly to hide her face. Her defense of Scott is as old as her relationship with Peter. The two men never developed any kind of rapport. Only her stock dismissal of her ex’s concerns reminds her of her new awareness of her old editor. Of her new interest, and she can feel the heat rising to her cheeks. ‘He’s just Scott.’
‘Hmm.’ She resists the urge to glance up and thus can’t judge his intent. ‘So, what can I help you with?’
‘That’s just it.’ She focuses on the screen, willing her few notes to make sense. ‘I guess I’m looking for a structure. Some way of making sense of why everything fell apart.’
‘Why?’ He huffs out something like a laugh. ‘Tara, are you serious?’
She keeps her face still and doesn’t comment. It took her years to learn to do this. To not rush into an argument. Better to let Peter wear himself out.
‘Tara, you always romanticized the rock world, the people who hung out in those clubs. You were a bright-eyed college grad, and they were – I don’t know – local toughs.’
‘Min wasn’t.’ She breaks her own rule. Stops there.
‘OK, but most of them. I’m not saying they were bad guys, but they weren’t what you wanted them to be. And, yeah, OK, maybe there were a few other exceptions – it sounds like Scott has done something with himself. But basically, you had a bunch of townie kids amusing themselves before the inevitable.’
The last word makes Tara gasp. She looks up to see that he’s put his bottle down. His face, at least, looks pained.
‘I mean, before their girlfriends got knocked up or their dads made them start paying rent.’ There’s a note of exasperation in Peter’s voice, high and tight. ‘But, yeah, there was always substance abuse. So, yeah, the rest of it followed.’
‘The rest of it.’ Tara turns away from her former husband. Her eyes are hot. ‘I can’t believe you’re such a snob, Peter. I thought …’ She shakes her head. But they’re not married. Not anymore. She’s going to finish her thought. ‘All those shows you came to with me. All those songs I played for you. I thought you heard what I did. I thought you understood.
‘Maybe most of us weren’t going anywhere.’ She focuses on her computer, the wisp of a thought hovering. ‘Most of us weren’t stars. And I’m including myself in that.’ She starts to type, to capture it. ‘But there was a community. There was some kind of camaraderie and support that made something possible. That made something special happen.’
She’s typing quickly now, and to his credit, Peter has the sense to shut up. He sits as she works. Drinks the rest of his beer and does his best to peer over her shoulder at the words forming on the screen. The sun has set before she’s done, the light from the computer illuminating her face. When she looks up, his face is in shadow, and she realizes how the time has passed.
‘Sorry,’ she says, slightly abashed as she comes back to the dark room – to her ex.
‘No problem.’ His voice is soft again. Tender. ‘It looks like you’ve found your story.’
She smiles, her flush flooding her with warmth. ‘Well, I think I have a direction, at least. A line of questioning. But as you always told me, now I’ve got to go do the work.’
They order pizza from their old place, and she has a beer and then another to celebrate. He spends the night. It’s something they do now and then. It’s not like either of them is seeing anyone else. Or not exclusively. Tara knows Peter has lovers. That he plays the field. There’s something comfortable about this, though. Maybe it’s as simple as the familiarity. He knows her body, as she knows his. Maybe it’s the lack of expectations.
It is considerate sex. Courtly, even. Though the one time she told Min that, her friend had rolled her eyes. ‘Sounds thrilling,’ she had said. ‘I’d rather have a doughnut.’
Some things Min will never understand, Tara thinks to herself, as Peter pulls on his clothes the next morning. As he leans over to give her a chaste kiss on the cheek.
Her friend thinks she is spinning her wheels. Sating her hunger with her ex as a way of avoiding getting out there. Meeting someone new.
Like Min should talk, Tara chuckles softly as the front door closes with a click. Like Min has moved on. Like any of them really have.
SEVEN
The arrival of Chris Crack changed everything, and not just for the band. Suddenly, the clubs were crowded – even Oakie’s. Even on a Tuesday. And although Scott tried to pass off the newly packed venues, the lines at the doors, as the return of the students – ‘September,’ he’d said. ‘Lemmings. They’ll have moved on in a month.’ – he’d been infected, too. Up till this point, he’d left Tara to her own devices. Now he began pressing her on when she was going to write up this new wonder kid. This bright, bratty, golden boy who was bringing them in. By the time her piece came out – Underground Sound being a monthly – the band was already headlining weeknights. The story was tagged to their biggest upcoming gig to date: a Saturday night at the Casbah.
A backlash was inevitable. This being Boston, the focus was on Chris’s suburban roots, his penchant for thrift-store finery, rather than his talent.
‘It’s an affectation,’ said Scott, as they opened the reader mail – real letters in those days. ‘It goes to credibility.’
> ‘What are you?’ Tara had sniped back. ‘A lawyer or something?’
He’d paused and blinked up at her, hurt showing on his round face.
‘Sorry,’ she’d mumbled and pulled another from the stack of letters. She’d been surprised, as well, by the snark in her own voice.
‘He’s not yours anymore.’ Scott might as well have been reading her mind. ‘I remember when that happened with the Cars.’
‘It’s just too many people.’ She’d not wanted to be that way, to resent someone else’s success. ‘I mean, last night at the Rat, I could barely get from the stairs over to the bar. It’s got to be a fire hazard.’
‘Hmm.’ Scott had nodded, as if he hadn’t heard, and it hit her. A man – a large man, like Scott, anyway – had no problem pushing his way through a crowd.
‘Maybe I should climb up on the bar,’ she’d said, the snark returning to her voice. ‘Do like Neela.’ When he still didn’t say anything, she pushed further. ‘It certainly works for her.’
Her editor hadn’t responded. Hadn’t had to. Neela’s trademark move had made her a local celebrity. More than local, if you figured her for the inspiration to ‘Dancing Girl’ by the UK stars GlitterBot, as almost everybody in their crowd did. And along with the attention came the access – Neela was always on the list. Always backstage, and often enough on the arm, if not the lap, of whatever touring rock star wannabe was headlining that night. Not that it mattered to Frank much – or not that anyone could see. When whichever big-name band left town, the two of them would show up together again, same as always. If her wild ways bothered him, he didn’t let on.
‘Tour rules,’ he’d say, and laugh, the implication being that he, too, took advantage of local talent when Last Call were on the road.