by Cecilia Tan
I thought about that. I didn’t want to bring up Digger so I settled for, "Remo and me used to play together, before he got famous."
"Cool. Are you going to join Nomad after the tour’s done?"
"I doubt it!" I hadn’t even considered it. "I’ve got to go back to school in September."
"Oh. What are you studying?"
"Music." I rested my elbows on my knees.
"Oh, right. Wow, that’s great." She rolled onto her side to face me. "You’re pretty talented, then."
I shrugged. Her ability to state the obvious and to hold a conversation without any real content amazed me. She put her white arms behind her head and smiled.
"You know who I like? Steve Vai. I’d really love to work with him someday." She nudged me. "Wouldn’t you?"
"Yeah, I guess." I lied. I didn’t really have a burning desire to work with anyone legendary, except maybe Remo. What would they need me around for? "Maybe Robert Fripp," I added.
She gave me a blank look. When I didn’t offer any explanation she nudged me again, then said in a low voice. "I’m really glad you’re coming along on this trip." She moved on the grass so when I looked down her face was upside down. "Those old guys can get kind of boring. Waldo never gets jobs with cool bands like REM or Depeche Mode."
I shrugged again, looking out over the parking lot. In the distance I could see the yellow haze of Los Angeles proper.
She touched my chin.
"You look a little like Paul Simon." She turned my face to hers. "No, no you don’t. He’s short like you, though. You look more like..." Her voice became breathy. "Oh, I don’t know." She leaned forward to kiss me, her eyes half-closed, her lips parted.
I pulled back. "Carynne..." What was I supposed to say? I stood up. "I think we better go back inside."
She stayed on the ground. "They don’t need us. I’ve got the keys to Waldo’s van."
I searched for any excuse and blurted out a safe truth. "This is kind of sudden."
She smiled, glancing down at my feet. "I knew you were the gentlemanly type," she drawled, her cheeks coloring. She got up, her smile getting wider as she rubbed her neck. "We’ll have plenty of time later." Her hand brushed under my chin as she stepped back from me.
I pushed my hands into my pockets.
"Daron!" Martin shouted from the doorway. "We want to run through that blues thing! You want to join in?"
I was already running for the door.
More Than A Feeling
Opening night we played to a packed house of 7500 people at a music hall in San Diego. Remo told me we would be playing mostly venues that size or smaller. This was what they called a "warm up tour," to let the band break in new material in front of smaller audiences. In a few months, after the new album was released, they would hit the road again to play major arenas. This tour was ten cities in all, starting in LA and working through the Midwest to finish in Boston. With so many miles between cities and some shows on consecutive days, we would be flying to all but the last three dates. That night, we went straight from the stage to catch the air shuttle to San Francisco.
When we arrived at the airport hotel I was still crusted with sweat and shaking with the aftereffects of an adrenalin high like no other—playing in the clubs was one thing, and this was similar, and yet, so much more. I’d felt the same click as I let the music take over and the energy from the crowd carry me, but man, what energy. I lay my head against the window of the airport van and smiled, thinking I wouldn’t mind feeling this way every night for the rest of my life. Martin rubbed me on the shoulder. "Have a good time tonight?"
"The best." The first hour of the set had been sheer hell, as I waited backstage for my cue to come on. But the last half hour more than made up for it. I looked out the window at the hotel entrance. "What are we sitting here for?"
"What do you think this is, a family vacation? We’ll go in when we’re sure they’re ready for us." He rubbed his hands and bugged his eyes like a maniac. "Waldo’s getting the keys now." Martin, at ten years older than me, was the youngest in Nomad and had always liked having me around back in Jersey. Some of the times I’d decided not to go home I’d ended up crashed on his couch and most of what I knew about drums I knew from him.
Waldo and Remo emerged from the revolving doors and hurried over to us. Waldo stuck his head in the driver’s door window and cracked his gum. "They’ve mixed up our reservations. Everyone head for the third floor and we’ll pass out keys there."
We piled out of the hired vans, shaking and stretching like cats. A few bellmen handled the bags, while Matthew supervised the two man road crew moving the instruments. Carynne crowded me into the elevator. Waldo was arguing with Remo when the doors opened. They were knee-deep in luggage.
Waldo was shaking his hands like they were wet. "I just don’t get it. We confirmed the rooms this morning and now, this."
"What’s the big deal?" Remo said. "We’ve got an even number, six double rooms should be enough for tonight. I don’t mind doubling up."
Waldo shook his head and stuffed a bunch of plastic keycards into Remo’s hands. "Well, then you figure out how to pair it. They promised me at least three singles, and a suite..."
Remo took stock of the crowd that had formed in front of the elevators. "OK, Alex and Alan."
Alan took the key from him. "Check."
"Dolette and Janice." He handed one to the backup singers. I still didn’t know which one was which. "Martin, you’re with me. And John and Dave, you guys okay?"
"Sure, road crew ought to stick together." Dave took a key.
That left me, Waldo, Matthew and Carynne.
Carynne plucked a key out of Remo’s hand. "Daron can stay with me."
Waldo grabbed her hand, pulling the key free. "Pick up your bags," he growled, glaring. "You stay with me." He began dragging her down the hall.
"But you snore! And you always leave the seat up..." She complained all the way to the room and then Waldo shut the door behind them.
Matthew took the last key from Remo. "That leaves you and me kid."
"See you in the morning," Remo said as he picked up his bag from the pile the bellhops had left.
The room was typical: two double beds, TV, postcards. The fact that it was my first time staying in a hotel without my family didn’t make the room any more exciting, though I did sort of have an urge to look through all the drawers in the place—for what, I don’t know. Matthew lay his jacket onto the bed near the window and immediately lay down next to it. He took a paperback out of the breast pocket and started to read. I sat on the edge of the other bed and took off my shoes. Earlier that day, while we were laying out cables during soundcheck, I had noticed how long his hands were. They looked dignified to me, like they should be holding a pipe and a cane. His mustache, trimmed and sandy, lined his dry, thin lips. His hair was short, but a little overgrown in the back, stray wisps of it curling over his collar. I realized I was staring at him.
He looked up from the book.
I folded my hands in my lap and looked at them instead. "Is it always like this?"
"Like what?" He rolled onto his stomach and propped himself up on his elbows. I watched the arch of his back. "This confused?"
I shrugged. "Remo and Waldo seem to argue about everything."
He smiled, tiny crow’s feet creasing the edges of his eyes. "Remo likes to feel that everything is under control. And he’s a fanatic about keeping expenses down. I wouldn’t be surprised if Remo changed the reservations himself and just didn’t tell Waldo about it." He indicated the room with a nod. "Nomad is the lightest traveling band I’ve ever worked with. And Remo, he just doesn’t trust managers. He’d do everything himself, if he could. But he can’t."
"He used to," I said. "But it was a lot less to deal with."
Matthew sat up, interested. "Was he always like this?"
"I guess." I shrugged again, shaken by his sudden attention. "He was always laid back on the outside but kind of frantic un
derneath. He just wanted to make it so badly. I’d think that now he could relax a little."
He nodded. "Do you have recordings of when you played with him?"
"No." I regretted it. "But Remo must. He may travel light, but he never throws anything away."
We both smiled and were quiet for a while. I wanted to hear him talk more, but I couldn’t get myself started again. He looked at the book in his hand, and opened his mouth to speak. He hesitated a moment before saying "I get a lot of reading done on these trips." I just watched as he scratched his short sandy hair. "I’m just not the rowdy type." I still hadn’t thought of anything to say, so he went on. "Do you want to watch some TV?"
I shook my head.
"Do you want to borrow a book?"
The offer was too generous for me to refuse. "Sure." He went to his bag and pulled out a murder mystery called Death for Credit. I lay down with it and he returned to his bed. But after a chapter or two I was looking at him again. His socks made his feet into sculpted curves. I guessed he must be around thirty-five, but it was hard to tell. Eventually, I interrupted him again. "Matthew?"
"Yes?"
"Can I room with you again tomorrow?"
He graced me with another crinkled, mustache-y smile. "Sure. Sleepy?"
I was. He put down his book and went into the bathroom. I could hear the water running. I hurried to undress and slid under the covers. I was asleep before he came back out.
I Ran
Nighttimes were settled then, Matthew and I roomed together most of the time. Everything about it worked out great, at first. I learned a lot about stage tech, and I read a lot of books, and it kept Carynne at a safe distance. Matthew always answered my questions, and kept passing down mysteries he picked up by the armload in every airport we passed through. But after a while I started getting restless. I wanted to go out and look for someone to scratch my itch. But being underage, in an unfamiliar city, traveling with so many people, it was impossible. When I felt courageous, I would masturbate in the bathroom after Matthew had fallen asleep and fantasize about running into another Mr. Neatly Groomed.
Daytimes would have been easier if not for Carynne. Things would be going along great and then she’d switch into flirt mode, giving me a coy smile as she doled out my per diem or trapping me in the window seat of the plane. I tried to act cool. The last thing I wanted was for the others to see me upset. I could picture Remo, shaken with concern, prying into "the problem." And worse, if my resolve was weak enough, I might even tell him. Sometimes when she would start in, if I was on the ball I’d send her off to do some vital errand for me. Gee, Carynne, I’m so glad you’re here, would you fetch me another pack of gaffer’s tape? When she’d come back to the stage I’d be gone. I felt like such a shit.
In Seattle she tried telling me her "intimate" secrets, to whet my appetite, I suppose, or make me jealous. After she recounted the tale of how she had taken on the whole rhythm section of Battleaxe simultaneously, I began some hard thinking. Suppose I told her the truth? It would save her from being offended and she’d get off my case. But I’d have to make her promise not to tell anyone. That would never work. After all the things she’d told me, I knew no secret would last. And who’s to say it would work? Would she take it upon herself to "convert" me? That might be even worse.
In Chicago, she changed her tack, trying to get me alone whenever possible. I tried to be as nice as I could, and still say no. This only encouraged her. She wasn’t going to take no for an answer, unless I got nasty about it. I considered it. And what then? She could make life very hard for me, now and in the future. For all I knew, she might spread the rumor that I was queer out of spite. I got tongue-tied when she stood too close, and there was no way I could tell her it wasn’t for the reason she thought it was.
In Madison, where we played a summer festival show on the University of Wisconsin campus, Carynne got her chance.
When we arrived at the building it was noon and none of the student crew were ready for us yet. They were still hanging lights and building a drum riser, laying down cables and setting up the monitor board. A small platoon of students in matching t-shirts took our personal gear backstage. Remo suggested we all get something to eat. One of the students directed us to a street nearby where pizza shops and record stores abounded. Everyone scattered.
Carynne, of course, stuck by me. Don’t get me wrong, it was sometimes fun to hang around with her. She knew every trivial fact about every rock musician who had ever lived or died. Especially the ones that had died, whom she always referred to by first name, Jimi, Janis, Buddy, Richie, Keith, all except for Lennon. I don’t know why. I got a chill thinking about him; was there a psychopathic killer in my future? And would I be remembered by my first name or my last name? I wasn’t 100% sure what to do about the last name issue, now that I’d decided to change it. I wanted to owe Digger nothing, not even that.
She and I sat in a little formica square of a restaurant where the air conditioner above the door hummed loud enough to drown out the tinny transistor radio that sat on the service counter. I ate pizza while Carynne poked at a bowl of lettuce they called a salad. She looked around the empty restaurant, then leaned across the table to me. "Did you see the backstage setup?"
"No, I just looked around the hall."
"It’s wild, all these little rooms, like little dressing rooms or unused dorm rooms or something. I’ll show you when we get back."
"Okay." As soon as I had said it, her smile fixed on me hard, and I knew I’d made a mistake. Dread churned my stomach. But maybe I could still get out of it, maybe the crew would be done by the time we arrived; then we’d have soundcheck, I might be able to keep myself busy until showtime. She was talking now but I wasn’t listening.
I could just try to sleep with her, I realized. I tried to rationalize it. What would the harm be? She’d be happy and I’d be off the hook, my secret would be safe, and maybe she’d lose interest in me. I certainly wasn’t going to be the technicolor fuck she claimed certain other touring musicians were... I fought back nausea, the pizza heavy in my stomach. If I hated myself for leading her on, I was sure I’d hate myself even more if I went ahead with it. What frightened me most about the thought of it was not that I couldn’t go through with it, but realizing that I probably could.
Digger would have. I’d have to think of something else.
"Are you listening to me? I said we should get back." Carynne was tapping her watch.
As we were leaving the restaurant, she slipped her arm around my waist.
Two or three students were lounging at the sound board when we arrived at the hall. There was no sign of anyone else. She pulled me by the hand into the wings and led me up a steep set of winding stairs. Off the narrow corridor there must have been a dozen small rooms, each equipped with a makeup mirror, costume stand, and a low bedframe holding a striped institutional mattress. "Isn’t this wild?" she said as she sat down on the cot, shaking her shoulders.
Stalling, I peered out the window and looked into the closet, found it empty. Panic was setting in and it was becoming harder to think. My heart raced. I flipped the light switch on the wall and the ring of lightbulbs around the mirror came on.
She stood up, and kissed me. I froze there, my arms at my sides, but she didn’t seem to notice, holding my head by my hair. It disturbed me how soft her lips were. She pulled back and looked at me, smiling. "You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to do that," she breathed.
Actually, I think I do, I thought, but didn’t say. My mouth and brain were still numb. I just stared at her while my mind sank into confusion.
Our heads turned as the door creaked. It was Matthew to my rescue. He poked his sandy head in and looked around, his laminate swinging from his neck on a lanyard. "Hey, I see you found the maze back here, pretty neat, eh?" His T-shirt was worn thin and showed the curve of his chest.
"Yeah," I croaked. "Pretty neat."
He winked. "Well, you two hurry up. We want to sta
rt soundcheck in a couple of minutes and I want you," he nodded at me, "doing monitors with the kid they’ve got here." He looked at Carynne. "Don’t worry, I won’t tell Waldo." And he backed out the door and shut it before I could say anything more.
Carynne pushed me toward the bed. "I’ll just have to give you a blow job, okay?" I sat down hard as she was already yanking on the button of my jeans. "We haven’t got time for anything else." Her fingers were cool and smooth against my balls as she pulled my underwear down. I gasped as she took me in her mouth. I clenched my eyes shut and pressed the back of my head against the wall. I was still soft but she was sucking and moving at a furious pace. With my eyes still closed, I imagined it was Matthew kneeling between my legs. She made a little sound in her throat as I got hard. I pretended that her hair on my stomach was Matthew’s mustache, bristly and neat. And right up until the moment that I came I kept telling myself I hadn’t done anything to deserve this, I hadn’t asked her for it and I hadn’t agreed to it. But my body said otherwise, need overtook reason, and I came so hard my foot cramped.
I kept my eyes shut, unable to face her. We were both panting. She put a tissue in my hand. At least, I thought, it was over.
I looked up to see her wiping her mouth with another tissue. "We can come back up here during the first half of the set," she said. "I won’t make you late."
I Fought The Law (And the Law Won)
There was only one way to get out of it, I knew. I had to get away from her. After soundcheck I slipped out the back of the hall, out onto the campus. I wandered around for hours, summer school students and local kids crossing my path where the walkways intersected. I could have been one of them, a kid in a jean-jacket on my way to the library or dining hall or wherever college students went. After dark, I started heading back for the concert hall. Sitting on top of a brick wall outside, I could hear things starting. The muffled sound of drums and bass pulsed through the night air. I hoped no one was worrying about me. If I waited another forty-five minutes, I’d be safe. When I made out the pattern of the drum solo in "May Day," I decided to go back.