“I thought I was going to write poetry,” I said. “Remember the book Lynn and I were writing? We didn't receive enough interest from women, so we put it on hold. I sent one of my poems to a Sonoma magazine, but it was rejected.” Carlos looked disappointed for me. “The first time I read Rainer Maria Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet, I fell in love with poetry. I bought a long, flowered dress at a secondhand store and combed out my braid, letting my hair spread wildly in the air. But it's very difficult to compose something great.”
Some nights after work, I met Carlos on upper Fillmore Street, where he practiced with his new band. I waited outside until the band finished. I didn't want to intrude or distract the musicians. Michael Shrieve, the drummer, and Chepitó Areas, the timbales player, were from the original band. Michael grew up in the Bay Area and had introduced Carlos to the music of John Coltrane and Miles Davis. Chepitó was a jokester from Nicaragua. Sensitive about his height, he always wore high heels, and he panted strangely when he talked to women. Car- los said Chepitó was talented and played flügelhorn and trumpet as well as percussion. Together, they had hired local musicians to expand the band's repertoire to an open, free-flowing jam of jazz and rock, at the edge of an undefined genre of music. Carlos did not want to perform the band's hits when they began touring. He created a three-hour set of music without “Black Magic Woman,” “Evil Ways,” or “Oye Como Va.” I admired his daring.
My identity was important to me. I felt that I was Carlos's girlfriend—someone to respect. It was imperative to me that I not be viewed as a groupie: I knew musicians used women around a band as disposable, or as something to share, a “thing” to assuage their hunger. I had seen Sly's band members, as well as guys in acts that opened for them, licking their lips while looking at women backstage. They would choose one, or sometimes more, to spend the night. In the morning, we would gather in the lobby to leave; and the women, in their concert garb, faces smeared with mascara, stood proudly as they waved good-bye. It was the guys' low voices and snickers that taught me that the women were not valued but rather were pieces in a board game to be touched, played with, and thrown back in the box—forgotten. I despised the groupie culture, with sympathy and pity mixed together in my heart.
Atop Carlos's TV was a photo of a smiling woman with hair below her shoulders and her arms around a young girl and boy. I asked Carlos who she was.
“That's my friend Linda and her kids. We broke up before I met you. She lives down in Mill Valley. When I met Linda, some guy had tossed her in a garbage can behind a club.” I wondered why he kept her photo out, and I recognized that I, too, had been treated like rubbish before I met Carlos. He said they were friends, but my suspicious, hurt part wondered if that was all they were.
“I love her kids,” he said. “We used to eat bowls of cereal in bed Saturday mornings and watch cartoons together. It gave me a chance to have the childhood I was never given.”
On Sunday afternoons we started a ritual of lying on the deck above the canyon, slathered with coconut oil, basking unclothed in the sun. At six o'clock, we would dash downstairs and jump on the bed to watch Carlos's favorite TV show, Wild Kingdom.
“Look at that,” Carlos would exclaim, watching the antics of a lion cub or a gorilla. I was surprised he adored animals, and I was charmed by his innocent display of joy. We laughed from our bellies.
My job at Black Expo ended with a concert at the Civic Auditorium in downtown San Francisco. Because I was on the production side of the show, I was there from early morning, checking in musicians and equipment and monitoring ticket sales in the box office. I worked beside Stevie, who knew the entire process. A manager of one of the groups talked to me as though I were there for his ego and captivated by his charms. When I rebuffed his come-on and tended to the business, he said, “Oh, I see. It's like that,” implying I preferred women to men because I was next to Stevie. I thought about defending myself, but decided who cares what he thinks? and ignored him, which felt powerful. I never wanted to have to explain myself to a man again. San Francisco State was about a mile from my parents' house. Classes began in early September, and I used the money from my last paycheck to buy my books for school. Most nights I was with Carlos at his mountaintop chalet. He let me drive his Volvo to school after I dropped him at rehearsal. I wrapped my mind around creative writing and Spanish, excited to be in college again.
Santana's fourth album, Caravanserai, was soon to be released. I played “Song of the Wind” over and over, trying to decipher which guitar was Carlos's and which was Neal Schon's. I felt as though I were flying when they traded solos; the band's music soared with layers of rhythm and melody unlike any I had heard before.
Carlos was focused on rehearsing for the upcoming Santana shows with the new lineup. Three concerts in three nights were booked for October at Winterland in San Francisco. The shows would be a warm-up to a European tour in November.
The day of the first concert, we drove to Winterland in Carlos's Volvo. No limos, no fringe, no sparkly sequined shirts, no drugs. We arrived in the early afternoon for the band to have sound check. Carlos wore blue jeans, boots, and his faded, ripped Jesus T-shirt.
Winterland held 5,400 people. Fans were already lined up outside, even though the doors would not open for three hours. Carlos grabbed my hand as we walked inside the dark, cavernous hall, his guitar case swinging at his side. I felt as small as a mouse moving through narrow hallways to the hospitality suite.
“I'll see you later,” Carlos said. I hugged his neck, holding on to his embrace, afraid to let go. My insides were shaking as I remembered almost two years earlier when I had been here. I reluctantly put my arms down and watched him walk to his tuning room. My eyes took in the dressing room.
I recalled the night perfectly: Mom and Dad let me borrow their Dodge Dart to meet Sly at Winterland. I parked a few blocks from the Steiner Street entrance, zipped my keys into my purse, and strode confidently to the “will call” window inside the lobby. “Hi,” I said to the woman behind the glass, “my name is Deborah King. There should be a ticket here for me.”
Her ring-clad fingers shuffled through the box holding tickets with names handwritten on green envelopes. “I don't see anything for you,” she said, flipping her dishwater-blond hair off her face. She looked over my head at the man standing behind, dismissing me.
“Well, Sly was supposed to leave my name,” I explained, holding my ground. “Could you check with someone in back?”
“I can't leave the box office. Stand over there and I'll try to find someone who can go backstage,” she said, waving her hand toward the street in a show of irritation.
My shoulder blades tightened. I moved about ten inches from her window—just enough to let the hundred other people in line step up closer to the front.
I thought about what I would do if she didn't find someone to go backstage. I should have come earlier with Sly, I scolded myself. Well, I would wait a little longer before I would ask her again.
Pretty soon, a man burst through one of the doors leading inside. He wore a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves and blue jeans. He walked fast, a scowl spread darkly across his face. “Get in line!” he screamed at me as he buzzed by, slicing his hand past my face toward the other ticket buyers.
“I'm waiting for my ticket.” My voice rose in anger.
He stopped, shoulders hunched, and turned around, his face dark. “Well, wait outside!” he bellowed, his bushy black eyebrows furrowed in a diabolic frown.
I looked hopefully at the lady in the ticket booth. She would not look at me. I would not move.
A husky security man approached me. “Bill says you have to wait outside.”
I tried explaining my dilemma to him, but Bill Graham yelled from across the vestibule, “Put her outside!” His deep voice echoed wildly across the tile floor.
The man picked me up, threw me over his shoulder, my stomach squeezed by his muscular arms. The line of people parted for the guard to sit me down on the si
dewalk. Some people close by screamed at him for his roughness, and a man in a tie-dyed shirt kneeled next to me. “Are you okay?” he asked, reaching out his hand to help me up.
“Yeah. Thanks.” I looked into his kind eyes and brushed off Sly's shaggy goat-hair coat that I was wearing. More embarrassed than hurt, I stormed down the street, tears pushing at my eyelids. I was too angry to let them fall. My feet kept moving until I was near the stage door entrance. Sly's dad, KC, stood outside, talking with a security guard. He waved, and I ran to him. Words and tears gushed out together. He put his arm around my shoulders and hustled me inside, telling the door guard that I was “okay.” In Sly's dressing room, KC explained to him what had happened. Sly's expression was grim, and his shiny red ruffled shirt cast an eerie glow in his eyes. He told KC, “Tell Bill Graham I'm not going on until he apologizes.” KC rushed out of the room.
I said, “Just forget it.” Sly had not bothered to answer. He sat on the Formica counter in front of a wall of mirrors and bright makeup lights. I moved to the couch across from him. When Bill Graham entered the dressing room, Sly said, “I hear you threw my lady out in the street.”
“I didn't know who she was,” Bill brashly answered. “She didn't have a ticket.” I could not take my eyes off the big mole over his bushy left eyebrow. His hair was parted just above that, and his forehead had a deep crevice, probably from screaming and frowning, I thought.
“Well, you owe her an apology, man, or I don't play.” Sly slowly raised his head and glared into Bill's eyes, Sly's voice shaking on the last three words.
“I'm sorry, miss,” Bill said as he turned to me, feigning remorse.
Not opening my mouth, I nodded slightly, shaking with the same anger that electrified the entire room. The weight of the goat coat was making me hot and light-headed.
Bill Graham turned and walked out of the room. I had met the great promoter.
Tonight, my fear was that I would see him again, when everything was perfect with Carlos, and that he would still be angry.
“Would you like something to drink?” a voice broke through my thoughts. I looked toward the doorway and saw a bushy-haired man, wearing round glasses on the tip of his nose, smiling at me.
“Hi,” he said. “I'm Killer, Santana's stage manager. Carlos wants me to make sure you have a place to watch the show.”
“Thank you. It's nice to meet you.”
“The band's almost ready to go on. Would you like me to take you onstage?” he asked.
“Thanks, but I think I'll go out in the audience. Could you get me a backstage pass so I can get back after?”
Killer smiled. “Sure,” he said. “I'll be right back.”
I stood looking at my face in the mirrors across from the couch. My hair was brushed over my forehead and wisped onto my cheeks. My tight, cropped sweater hugged my waist. I had gained seven pounds since my move home and no longer hated looking at my reflection. My features weren't lined now with painful twists of despair from trying to break away from Sly.
Killer came back with the pass. I pulled off the waxed backing and stuck the adhesive side to my top. Walking down the narrow corridor, I felt a little jumpy, wondering whether Bill Graham might be around the next turn.
Killer led me to the velvet curtains opening to the concert hall. The house lights were turned up, the lighting tech waiting for the signal that the band was ready. Technicians tuned the congas and set Carlos's guitars next to his amplifiers. As men moved into the shadows of the stage, the arena went black, and a cheer went up from the audience. Blood pumped through my body anticipating seeing Carlos onstage. I had never seen Santana in concert.
A lone spotlight turned on Tom Coster, the new keyboardist, who struck a brass gong. Carlos stood, his back to the audience— long curly hair angling down his T-shirt. The music began as a prayer, with soft, minor chords; then notes sang from Carlos's guitar. The drums crescendoed, church chords shimmied from the keyboard, and music rolled off the stage like a ship on the ocean, wave after wave of rhythms and melodies, the guitar sailing on the crest of it all. I followed each musician's solos for the two-and-a-half-hour show. “Incident at Neshabur” was the finale. Carlos bowed and thanked the audience. The crowd stood clapping, whistling, and waving their arms for more.
Music echoed in my ears. Notes that had danced from Car-los's fingers clutched my heart. I shouldered through the crowd and the backstage curtains.
The audience would not stop screaming, whistling, and stomping on the floor. “More! Encore! Encore!”
Killer found me in the hallway to the dressing rooms and led me up wooden steps to the side of the stage where the musicians huddled together. Carlos looked up, his eyes brimming with light. His mouth was wide open, laughing jubilantly.
Someone bumped my arm. There, as close as my breath, was Bill Graham. He charged past me. I stepped back in the shadow, hiding behind the raised lid of a road case. Bill was talking wildly nose-to-nose with Carlos. Carlos watched him, nodded his head, and then led the band back onstage.
The organ played a familiar opening that sent the audience into a shrieking frenzy: “Black Magic Woman.” The percussive rhythms had the audience jumping to the beat like a tribe of Africans moving through a savanna. After the encore, Carlos danced into my arms, his T-shirt soaked with perspiration. Screams echoed from the arena as we walked to the dressing room.
Bill Graham slapped Carlos on the back, “See! You can't leave all the hits out of the set. Your audience would never forgive you.”
Carlos smiled and raised his hands in surrender. “Bill, this is my friend, Debbie. You might know her father, Saunders King.”
Bill looked me in the eyes and put his hand out. “Hello. Nice to meet you.”
I shook his hand, relieved that either he did not remember me or did not let on that he did. “Hello, Bill.” We were quickly swallowed in a crush of admirers surging into the dressing room.
Caterers laid trays of sandwiches on a long table. The sound of beer cans popping open mixed with laughter, and people pushed close to Carlos—voices rising to a clamorous high.
After the weekend of concerts, I went home and studied hard for my classes, trying to put out of my mind that Carlos would be leaving for a European tour in less than a month. I did not want to be without him for five weeks.
One afternoon at the Mill Valley house, Carlos pounced on the bed. “Guess what?” he said.
“What?”
He gripped my shoulders and exclaimed, “John McLaughlin wants me to record with him. He's a magnificent guitarist, a musical giant. He played with Miles.”
“That's great,” I said, although I had never heard John McLaughlin's music. I knew anyone who had played with Miles Davis was a god to Carlos. I remembered Carlos's face when I told him Dad's story about Miles. Dad had taken Mom to hear Miles at a club in San Francisco in the early 1950s. Miles spotted Dad and jumped from the bandstand, hugging Dad so tight that he picked him right up off the floor. They had played in the same clubs together years earlier. When Dad introduced Mom, Miles said, “Man, what'd you do, rob the cradle?”
Now I was worried that if Carlos recorded with John, he would be gone longer than I had thought. I swallowed my sadness and tried to look glad for him. “That's a great opportunity.”
Carlos riffled through the stack of albums by the bed. “This is John's last record, Birds of Fire. It's amazing.” He put it on. Strings poured out with electric guitar, keyboard, pounding drums. We sat on the bed, covered by music. I picked up the album. John's band was called the Mahavishnu Orchestra. The back cover showed a poem called “Revelation” by Sri Chinmoy. Carlos had mentioned that Larry Coryell, another guitarist he knew, had a guru named Sri Chinmoy.
Carlos tucked my hands beneath his. “Why don't you come to New York with me?”
I looked into his chiseled face, his deep-set black eyes, and wrapped my arms around his waist, squeezing him tightly. “I'd love to, but, school …” I did not know how I could take tim
e off. Plus, hadn't I just returned to college after having dropped out to travel with another musician? Disappointed, I said, “Thanks for asking me.”
All week I thought about not going to New York with Carlos. I went to my professors to see whether it would be possible to continue my work outside of school for a short time. All of them consented. I was thrilled.
Mom told me she wished I would not go to New York, but rather stay and concentrate on my studies. “You're twenty-one now, honey,” she said. “You've got to think about your future.”
As soon as she finished talking, I packed. I knew Mom was right; she cared about the practical, sensible responsibilities in life. But I was unreasonably in love, and there was no place I wanted to be except with Carlos. I did not have Mom's blessing, but at least this time she and Dad knew Carlos and I left them our hotel information.
New York's skies were streaked with lavender hues. The sun's last blaze backlit the haze above the horizon. Our jumbo 747 banked through the clouds and rumbled onto the tarmac. I touched the small oval window, looking at the sleek airport buildings. I glanced at Carlos, his droopy eyelids and Aztec nose looking out the window. He smiled a wide, mustached grin and grabbed my hand with his long, butterscotch fingers.
I shoved my book into my shoulder bag. Carlos slung his soft-case Gibson Les Paul over his shoulder, and we walked down the Jetway into the embrace of John McLaughlin. He was two inches taller than Carlos, his face was square, and his hair cut in a thick crew.
“This is my wife, Mahalakshmi,” John said with a British accent.
“This is Debbie.” Carlos pointed to me. We all shook hands.
Mahalakshmi reached my shoulder. Her blond hair was pulled back into a straight ponytail. Clear, blue eyes caught mine, and she smiled warmly. We strolled to baggage claim, weaving in and out of hundreds of passengers who rushed in every direction. Skycaps yelled, “Need help?” A man in a navy chauffeur cap and wrinkled trench coat elbowed up to me and said in a quiet voice, “Only thirty dollars to Manhattan.” I shook my head and moved closer to Carlos. Police whistles rang outside, while suitcases banged down baggage chutes.
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