He was four or five tables away, toward the rear of the place, a dark, shadowy lump in the atmosphere.
“Hey, Lisa,” I asked. “Who's that guy? I see him here all the time.”
Lisa looked over, frowned. “That wreck? You don't recognize him?”
I shook my head.
“Linus Paulson. You know, that one-hit wonder from the eighties? You gotta know him.”
Then she hummed a few bars of “What Comes Around, Goes Around,” and the song unreeled in my brain. A radio and MTV staple from back in the day. A catchy, breezy little tune that had the effect of staying with you after the first few notes, playing on an endless loop in your brain, like some songs do.
“Sure, I know him,” I said. “What's he doing here?”
Lisa snorted, refilled my water glass. “I dunno. Waiting for his turn on open mike night maybe.”
With that, she left, returning a few minutes later with a big bowl of soup and my wrap. As I ate, I noticed that Linus Paulson was watching me, watching me very closely. His eyes were shaded beneath a dark hoodie that he oddly wore his hat over, but I could see them focused on me, measuring me in some way.
I was cold and hungry, not looking forward to the wet walk back to my apartment. So I ignored him, concentrated on my food. A few minutes later, I was brought back by the sound of the chair opposite mine being pulled out and someone sitting down.
Paulson.
“I…umm…hope you don't mind,” he said, and I looked over at his drawn, weary face swaddled within layers of dark clothing. “But I've been meaning to talk to you…to tell you something.”
I might have frowned then, settled the spoon back into the soup bowl.
“You're Linus Paulson, right?”
There was still enough of whatever was left of the old MTV star to light up at my recognition. I didn't have the heart to tell him the waitress had identified him for me.
“Yeah, that's me. You know my music?”
“Well, sure.” I shrugged. “Who doesn't?”
Paulson's face, seemingly lit from within a moment ago, darkened, sagged.
“Most people don't, not anymore,” he muttered. “Lana Del Rey, Lady Gaga, fucking Justin Bieber, those shits they know. Me? Not so much. Or when they do, it's for that one song. That one, stupid little fart of a song.”
This tirade was barely above a whisper, and it faded quickly into a few words that I didn't hear. His head lolled after that, his chin falling almost to the table.
I didn't know what to say, so I picked up my spoon, slurped some soup. I was hoping that by going back to eating, he'd get the idea to leave.
He didn’t.
“Well, like I said, I wanted to tell you something, talk to you.”
I peered at him over the spoon, nodded my head.
“I've been listening to your music over the past few weeks, really listening to it.”
I lifted the wrap, took a gigantic bite as if to punctuate the dinner he was interrupting.
“You're good.”
“Thanks,” I said, around a mouthful of hummus.
“No, I mean it. You're good, real good.”
Thinking of nothing more to say to this, I nodded.
He seemed put off by my reticence—finally—and pushed back from the table.
I put the wrap down, wiped my mouth.
Paulson looked to be chewing something himself. He reached over, grabbed a napkin, then horked up a huge, noisy wad of phlegm and spat it into the center of the paper napkin.
He set the napkin onto the table, stood.
“I've got something I'd love to give you. Something that can help. If you're interested. Call me.”
With that, he produced a business card from the depths of his swaddling, slapped it onto the table beside the napkin, which was slowly uncrumpling, as if blooming into a strange origami flower.
“Call me if you want to take your music to the next level.”
With that, he turned, strode away, out the door and into the wet night.
I waited a few minutes before I reached over the table to grab the card. It still felt warm and damp from its stay in Paulson's pocket, and I held it between two fingers as if it were soiled or infected.
I looked across the table at the napkin he'd left.
My hand had evidently brushed it as I took his business card, and now its exposed center faced me.
It took me a moment to process what I was seeing.
Glistening in the grey creases of the napkin were several thick curds of material that looked less like snot than a braided, bleached twist of raw hamburger.
I pushed my food away, suddenly not very hungry.
Against my better judgment, I pocketed his card.
Against all judgment, I called him a few days later.
* * *
Linus Paulson, eighties pop star, lived in what could charitably be called a tenement. It was down off Carr Street, a decrepit building that had seen better days, but probably not for a hundred years. I parked at a meter directly in front of the building, a little nervous because of a tight group of vagrants huddled around a trashcan on the corner, smoking and giving my battered car furtive, appraising looks.
If you want it that badly, I thought as I pressed the LOCK button on my key fob, take it. Having a car in the city was a pain in the ass anyway.
The building's lobby was small, dark and dank, even in the afternoon. The linoleum of the floor was worn through in broad swaths, down to whatever it was linoleum was laid over. I imagined the parade of fine footwear that must have walked across this floor at one time, picturing it devolve over the decades from yesteryear's polished wingtips and pumps to stained work boots and flats and finally to flip-flops and battered house shoes.
The tiny antechamber was lined with brass-fronted mail slots, and it smelled of dust and cheap cleaning solution, with a whiff of vagrant urine thrown in for good measure.
I'd called Paulson that morning to say I'd like to speak with him. His voice was soft, distant, but he seemed surprised and pleased that I'd called. He told me to visit him at his place.
There was a board that at one time would have been the directory of people who lived in the building, complete with a little buzzer to let them know you were here and needed to be let in. Perhaps the place even had a doorman once.
Neither of these had been here for a long, long time. The door leading to the elevators was propped open with a chunk of cinderblock, and I could hear sounds echoing down the shaft. Mostly kids playing and people shouting. The loud noises of afternoon television.
Sighing, I went to the elevators, pressed the button I assumed was fourteen—most of the numbers were worn off—and waited for the rickety car to descend to then take me up to my second and final meeting with the singer of “What Comes Around, Goes Around.”
* * *
He met me at the door, effusive in his greetings. He pulled me into his apartment quickly, his hands hot and clammy on mine. Once inside, he closed the door hard, secured a long row of locks and chains.
The contrast between the corridor outside and the inside of his apartment was staggering. The narrow hallway was dark and confined, and smelled of must and age and dirty carpets lurched across by dirty people. Paulson's apartment, though, was well-lit, smelled clean and fresh, and was both inviting and comfortable.
Paulson turned from the door and faced me, dressed in dark jeans, a tight dark hoodie pulled up and shadowing most of his features. He was average height, thin and wiry, with an angular face and deep, kohl-rimmed eyes that reminded me of another fleeting eighties powerhouse, John Waite.
We stood in the middle of what I guessed was his living room, well-appointed with a few tasteful pieces of furniture arranged around throw rugs atop old hardwood floors that were polished and shiny. End tables held lamps and bric-a-brac. The entire place seemed freshly painted, and the walls were hung with all sorts of memorabilia from Paulson's career.
Concert posters here and there, a few
framed t-shirts, programs from Grammy ceremonies past. And over the mantle of the fireplace were the two crown jewels: two framed platinum albums. One, obviously, was for the album “What Comes Around, Goes Around” had been featured on, the name of which escaped me. I thought it might have been simply Linus Paulson.
The other was his second album, which featured Paulson's other—and last—Top 40 hit, the name of which also escaped me.
Off to Paulson's left there was a bright and airy kitchen. To his right, and behind me, a hallway lined with more framed pieces that led to several other rooms.
“Weren't expecting this in this building, I'd bet,” he said, and his dark, pinched face, still peering out from beneath a black hoodie, beamed.
“Well, to be honest, no I wasn't,” I said. He motioned me to a leather couch, and I sat carefully. He took a seat to my right in a solid, Mission-style leather recliner. A coffee table before us had a few magazines—Rolling Stone, Billboard, Inside Radio—and a tray with two cups and a steaming pot.
“One of the few things that my earlier career helped me with,” he said, his eyes darting around the room. “I made an obscene amount of money, even for someone with just a few hits to his name. But I held onto it a whole lot better than some acts way bigger than me. I knew when to get out.”
I nodded as he continued. “Yeah, bought this place on the cheap thirty years ago. I have my own security, my own parking. I own this unit, about half the floor here. Take care of it myself. Keep it up.”
“Well, it's beautiful, really.”
“I've got green tea with honey here, but I can get you water, a soda, coffee…”
“Green tea is fine.”
He smiled back at me, bent forward to pour hot tea into the two cups. As he did, the hand closest to me went up, absently it seemed, as if by habit, and grasped the edge of the hoodie he wore low over his face, preventing it from pulling up.
Paulson looked at me out of the corner of his eye as he replaced the teapot, handed the cup over. I sniffed it, took a small drink. Light, refreshing, slightly sweet. It seemed just the kind of thing a vocalist would drink for his throat.
“So, you're probably wondering what a worn-out old sod like me could possibly have to offer someone like you,” he said, sipping his tea and watching my face carefully. “It's okay, man. I'm pretty self-aware. And besides, with the kind of shit we'll be talking about, we might as well be honest with each other right from the start.”
I raised my eyebrows, took another mouthful of tea. “Well, yeah, the thought had crossed my mind. Why me? I mean, I haven't had any real success yet. I'm not the best guitarist there is. And if you'll excuse me, your name isn't one that opens doors anymore. I'm not interested in switching teams this late in life, so what's the catch here?”
Paulson snorted softly, replaced his teacup on the tray. “That's brutally honest. So I will be, too. First, no, I'm not an aging queen looking for a boy toy. Second, you're right, you're not the best guitarist I've heard. You're not even the best guitarist I've heard at that hippy dump you play at.”
As hard as I tried to keep a straight face, a frown pushed through the smile I'd set on my face. “That's brutally honest, too, I guess.”
“Don't get me wrong,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “You're pretty good, but it's the whole package, not the individual pieces. You're a lazy guitar player, but a pretty good lyricist. Some great chord progressions and catchy rhythms, tight voice. Nice phrasings. All in all, you're the best I've heard in quite a while.”
I laughed, caught off guard by an assessment that, while a little rough, I pretty much entirely agreed with. “Thanks…I think.”
“I mean it. You're good. What do you think brought me to that dreadful café for weeks on end? The food?”
“Is that what you brought me here to tell me?”
He smiled, and I noticed that his hand went back to his hoodie, this time ducking inside, to scratch or tug distractedly at his ear.
“Of course not. And I didn't drag you up here to tell you anything. I brought you up here to give you something. If you want it.”
“I'm all…ears,” I said, and I felt heat rise to my cheeks as soon as I said that last word.
In response, his face hardened, and his hand slipped out from under the hoodie, rested atop the arm of the chair.
“It's probably best just to show you,” he said, standing. “There's no way you're going to believe me otherwise.”
* * *
He took me down the hallway to the last door, which was closed. The door drew open onto a large room, larger than the living room, which looked like space he used for recording and listening to music. The windows were tinted, and the sunlight that fell into this room was somber and subdued.
Custom-built shelves lined one entire wall, holding albums and CDs, all carefully organized. Across the room, a door led to what looked like a small recording studio, complete with a mixing board and a heavily soundproofed booth with a microphone hanging from the ceiling.
There were a variety of seats everywhere, and thick, comfortable rugs covering the hardwood floor. Paulson led me to the center of the room, where a large, circular, padded piece of furniture sat low to the floor. It was the size of a playground roundabout, and it was upholstered in deep brown microsuede. A few pillows were scattered across its surface.
“Go ahead and have a seat. I'll fire up the stereo,” he said, moving over to the shelves and turning on a bank of amplifiers, equalizers and other high-tech sound equipment.
“I'm not sure what we're doing here, Mr. Paulson,” I said, suddenly and inexplicably uncomfortable. “I mean, are you giving me songs or offering to write for me or what?”
A few notes of music twisted through the air, pumped into the room by unseen speakers. Paulson turned from the equipment, smiled again.
“No, nothing like that,” he said, coming back to the circular couch. “I'm out of the business, remember? Done. Finished. You're going to learn that it's important to know when to get out, no matter how successful you are.”
He sat on the couch, across the circle from me.
“I've got something that helped me, something that needs to be back in the business,” he said. “It's something I think someone like you could benefit from. You can use each other.”
At this point, I was pretty ready to call it a day and duck outside to make sure my heap of a car was still there. But Paulson stretched out atop the circular couch, clasped his hands behind his head.
He seemed relaxed, but there was an edge in the room, something shaky and brittle. As the guitar picked up and amplified the notes of the synthesizer, I paused, forgot Paulson altogether for a moment.
“What…is that? Is that one of my songs?”
“Excuse the cheek, but yeah, that's one of yours, at least as translated by me,” Paulson said.
I leaned back onto the couch still confused. It was an older song of mine, “Turn a Blind Eye,” and it sounded…awesome. He'd taken it, aired it out, layered it with guitars and synths. Even his vocals were spot on.
“I still don't get it,” I said, turning to him. “You want to be my engineer, my producer?”
Paulson remained still, eyes closed. “No, just lay back and listen to this, and it'll all become clear.”
I was flummoxed, and I have to say that I still thought that this all might be some crazy way to get in my pants. But I pulled my legs up onto the couch, stretched out on the opposite side. I crossed my hands over my chest, then felt stupid and let them fall to my sides.
We lay parallel to each other, I dunno, maybe two, three feet apart. Sounds like a good distance unless you're talking about laying side by side with a man you hardly know. But, I figured, what did I have to lose? I mean, it wasn't like I was afraid he was gonna attack me or anything. And if it did just boil down to some elaborate ruse to get me up here and get my clothes off, well, I was a guy who could say no and make it stick. I'd get up and go back to my life of café gigs where I g
ot fed instead of paid.
So, I laid back and listened to the music, my music.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that he'd pulled his hoodie down, exposing his head. I didn't think much of it, though.
I closed my eyes, fell into the well of sound he'd created out of a few notes I scribbled onto a piece of notebook paper years ago when I was baked on weed, back when I could afford it and it actually did more than just zone me out.
That's when I felt it, a soft, tenuous touch on the edge of my ear closest to him.
Here we go, I thought and raised a hand to absently swat away what I thought was his hand.
I kept my eyes closed, more to give him the benefit of me thinking it was something else and not actually seeing his hand playing with my ear. Even if I had to leave now, even if I wouldn't get to hear any more of what he'd done with my music, I thought he'd earned that little politeness from me.
But as soon as my hand returned to my side, the touch came again, this time more insistent.
But it was warm, and wet, and the awful things it might have been that tumbled through my mind caused my eyes to snap open.
But, oh, they weren't nearly awful enough.
As I moved to sit up, to confront this guy who I now thought of only as some sad, creepy pervert, whatever it was that had been caressing my ear slipped inside, actually pushed into my ear canal. There was a horrid, liquid squelching sound, and the tickle of whatever it was sliding in deeper, deeper.
I turned my head in Paulson's direction, but whatever it was slithering into my ear prevented my head from turning all the way.
But what I saw was terrifying.
Something thin and hideously long pushed from Paulson's ear, the one nearest me, and snaked its way over to me. It was an oozing, pulsing white thing, no thicker than my pinky finger, glistening wetly in the soft light of the studio. It was veiny and lined with creases and folds that looked to be covered with some kind of translucent jelly.
As I tried to sit up, the last of its length plopped from his ear, bringing with it a slime of white curdles in its wake, like cottage cheese. As it slid from his ear, I heard something crunch inside my head, felt it more than heard it really. There was a blinding moment of pain.
Savage Beasts Page 5