And the pathetic pinnacle of that disastrous and short-lived flight were beer-sodden backroom bars with bad lighting and crowded tables and a burble of conversation just loud enough to rise above the distraction of the music being played from the stage. There’s a circuit of such rooms in Chicago, and it included Armstrong’s, an old stone tavern an outfielder’s throw from Wrigley Field, with a great red globe carved into the center of its pediment alongside a banner reading SCHLITZ. Classy all the way.
It felt odd and sad being back. Frank and Erica took a table in the rear and ordered a couple beers without being carded. They watched some blond guy with a potato face wailing on the stage.
“You used to play here?” said Erica.
“I confess. They had an open-mike night on Mondays and that’s where I started. One day the boss, June!—you had to pronounce her name like she did, with fifty years of cigarette smoke curling its edges—June! So June! called me over. ‘I have a slot on Wednesdays if you want it,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t pay much but it’s something. What do you say?’”
“What did you say?”
“Hell yes is what I said. It was the greatest moment of my life. I was on my way. Wednesday nights.”
“What happened?”
“I never got to Thursdays.”
The singer finished his set and the audience gave him scattered applause. The drinks came as a technician started fiddling with the mike, the cords. Erica took a long swallow of beer and looked around, eyes wide. This wasn’t much, he knew, but it was enough steps up from the coffeehouse where they had met to mean something to her.
“It must have been pretty cool, though, the whole professional musician thing,” she said.
“It gets old fast,” said Frank. “You hang out with the same Wednesday night people, drinking up your pay, putting out an EP that no one listens to, working shit jobs just to keep the dream alive. And you begin to resent everyone—those who are working the weekends and aren’t as good as you, those who head out to LA even though they have no chance, those who are leagues better and make you feel like shit, even the saps sitting and drinking and talking over your set because they get to go home and have a life that’s working for them in a way yours isn’t working for you. And there’s always one of your fellow performers, maybe with a little gray in her hair, telling you that she wishes she had gone to law school when she had the chance. ‘Get out now, before it’s too late.’ And you’re thinking that maybe she’s right, except you never went to college yourself and so law school won’t work. And then the resentment turns the writing into shit, so you’re playing the same crappy songs on the same crappy night in the same crappy room to the same crappy losers, just waiting for June! to send you back to open-mike night.”
“You’re crying so hard,” said Erica, “you’re making me think of going to law school.”
“Welcome to the music biz, birthplace of attorneys,” said Frank. But his words didn’t match his emotions.
He wanted to taste the bitterness, he wanted to feel so over his old dreams, he wanted to be all about the rush forward toward Freedom!—and that was the way he played it with Erica because he didn’t want his doubt to dampen her resolve—but he couldn’t shake the ache that had settled within him, eating at his bones.
When he had first played at Armstrong’s half a decade ago, he had felt connected to something so rich it snapped the bass strings of his soul. He was a member of a community dedicated to solidarity and to art. He was a creator, tapping into an immortal stream that ran so much deeper than himself, doing work that was the very meat of life. They used to say, all the painters and writers, actors and comedians and musicians who had chosen art over commerce, that no one could make them do anything else.
And yet, here he was, sitting in this very room as an exile.
They hadn’t made him give it up, the amorphous yet all-powerful they; he had given it up on his own. Why? How? Jealousy, resentment, bitterness, laziness, the drugs, the money he wasn’t making and the disastrous attempt to get it all in one great dare. It was enough to seize his breath and fill his veins with panic. His hands shook as he lifted his beer to his mouth.
And then the next performer was announced and, to a tepid chorus of applause, she walked onto the stage with her guitar.
“Wow,” said Erica, with a little laugh. “She’s so beautiful.”
They ended up back at the house, drinking beer and smoking weed and hanging out, not just Frank and Erica and Marisol, but the housemates, and some others who had come to see the show. And it was just like it had always been, free and calm and comforting, all except for Dan.
“So you’re Frank,” said Dan.
“That I am.”
“I heard a lot about you.”
“Most of it bad, I assume.”
“Not all of it. You guys were good together up there tonight.”
“Thank you. It felt good.”
“You still singing?”
“I try.”
“Well, keep at it. You never know.”
Yeah, thought Frank, fuck you, Dan.
Dan, black and bland, with a rumpled shirt and shifty eyes, was apparently Marisol’s new thing. He owned a comic book store, did good old Dan, and the word was he was working on a graphic novel no one had seen but that was supposed to be a piece of genius that would change the entire medium. Frank knew how that worked.
He wandered around the first floor of the house, sucking at a succession of beers. Erica was sitting on one of the couches, chatting with some guy Frank didn’t know and who was sitting a little too close. Every once in a while she looked at Frank and smiled and he nodded back.
He usually would have been pissed that some guy was moving in on Erica, and he usually would have done something about it. But at the moment Erica seemed a little young and a little shallow, and the ache of nostalgia had grown ferocious, and regrets were lying heavy on Frank’s skull, pressing down his eyelids and sharpening his vision as he scanned the scene as if from miles away.
“Having fun?” said Sheila.
“Like old times.”
“Marisol says you’re staying for the night.”
“Troy’s room is open, right?”
“I’m not sure it’s such a good idea.”
“Good old Troy wouldn’t mind. And you know me, Sheila. If there’s a bad idea, I’m all over it.”
“You won’t believe it, Frank, but that’s what I always liked about you.”
“You’re right,” said Frank. “I don’t believe it.”
As he spoke with Sheila, Frank scanned the party, looking for Marisol, with a dark and shining purpose in his soul. Talk about bad ideas.
Something had snapped in him and he couldn’t stop remembering the feel of her skin, the tang of her sweat, the way she laughed in bed when he was inside her, the way they sang together way back then, and the way they had sung together that very night.
It had been a surprise when Marisol gave him a shout-out during her set. He hadn’t even known she had seen him sitting there in the back. And it had been a bigger surprise when she called him up to join her in one of the songs they had written together. He hemmed and hawed but Marisol insisted, and there was even some polite clapping from the crowd, as if one or two people actually remembered him. With Erica’s urging he made his way to the stage to stand beside Marisol and lean toward the microphone.
The song was a ballad called “Torn Hearts,” with bittersweet lyrics and a simple chord structure that went dark in the bridge. For a moment he was stumped on the opening verse, but as soon as Marisol started in on the first chord change the song blossomed for him like a flower, and they sang it together with an easy familiarity, complicated harmonies and all. Just being up there, with the dark swing of the music, the sadness of the verse, the plaintive note in Marisol’s sweet voice, the scent of her hair, all of it had left Frank with a profound sense of loss.
And the ache told him, with the simple clarity of an old folk tune, tha
t what had been lost was Marisol.
As he made small talk in the house with one old friend here, an old acquaintance there, some woman he had never seen before named Frieda who had taken Khalia’s bedroom, his gaze kept shifting back to Marisol. Tall and thin, gawky almost, the way her elbows bent and her head bobbed, with that smile that was as genuine as gold.
He wanted to rush over to her, to wrap his arms around her waist, to take her upstairs, or outside, or anywhere where they could be alone and talk, just talk. And maybe kiss along with the talk. It’s amazing where kissing and talking could lead.
What he needed was some alone time with her, but at the club there was Erica hanging around, suddenly wan in comparison with the shining Marisol, suddenly more millstone than life preserver, and then here, in the kitchen or the dining alcove, there were always other people within earshot. And Dan was eyeing him like a hawk. And Erica was sitting on that couch. And every time he made a move to get close, to maybe talk a bit one-on-one, Marisol had that scared squint in her eye before pulling away and escaping to chat with someone else.
So he stood there in purgatory, staring with his sharp gaze and wondering how he could fix this whole damn thing to get back to where he suddenly hungered to be, to where he had been just a few years ago, living with a true partner in love and art, singing for paying crowds, making real music, to get back to the perfect life he had created before he took the stupid risk with Delaney and blew it all. But there was no way to get back. He couldn’t think of any way to fix it.
Yet.
The party slowly petered out, until there was just a handful of them sitting on the couches, sharing a bag of Doritos, laughing about nothing and too tired to really talk about anything. One by one they rose to go to bed: first Frieda, then Dan, heading home but not before giving Marisol one of those Dan looks that had become so annoying in the few hours Frank had known the guy, and finally Erica, with an expression Frank hadn’t cared enough to read, until it was only Marisol and Sheila and Frank, talking about nothing.
“It’s all right, Sheila,” said Marisol, finally. “You can go on upstairs. We don’t need a chaperone.”
“That’s not what I was doing, it’s just that—”
“Go to bed, Sheila.”
“I think I’ll go to bed,” said Sheila.
And then, finally, it was just the two of them, along with an unexpected awkwardness born of past intimacy and sorrows.
Frank would have one chance to get this right, one chance to change all their destinies. “So,” he said after a long moment. “Advertising.”
Marisol nodded as if she had been expecting to hear exactly that. “Tell me about Erica. She seems nice.”
“Yeah, she’s great. We’re on our way west, to do some business in LA and then head overseas. I’m going to try it over there. Maybe they’ll be more receptive to my sound.”
“You think so?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Maybe because your sound is from here. You look thin, Frank.”
“I’m keeping in shape.”
“By running?”
“And other things.”
“What are you running from this time?”
“Advertising.”
Marisol laughed. “It’s good to see you, too.”
He leaned toward her, lowered his voice. “Thank you for letting me bust your set. I forgot what it felt like to sing with you.”
“It would have been churlish to play that song alone with you sitting in the audience. I think it went over.”
“Hell yes it went over. It reminded me of how good we were together. It reminded me of other things, too. The work, the emotions, what it was like to be beside you day and night. I felt like I was home.”
“Why did you come back, Frank?”
He played it a bit; she would expect him to. He pulled back, lowered his eyes, fiddled with his thumbs. “I came back for you.”
She laughed at the line-ness of the line, and he laughed too, defensively. But in the moment that line seemed to be the truest thing in his life and the words almost caught in his throat. He had thought he had come back to Chicago for a hot dog and some quick cash, but just the sight of Marisol had changed everything.
“I mean it,” he said. “And truth is, I didn’t know it when I was driving here. I was coming just to pick up enough money to get me all the way west. But seeing the shape of you, your eyes, the glow of your skin. And your scent. God, you smell so good. You smell like you. I don’t know. As soon as I saw you I knew why I had come back to Chicago.”
“It’s a little late for all this, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t. Or yes, it is, late but not too late. I don’t know. All I know is the moment I saw you on that stage again everything changed.”
“For you, maybe.”
“And yet you’re down here, alone with me, after avoiding me all night.”
“You looked like trouble.”
“I’ve always looked like trouble,” he said. “That’s my charm.” He leaned in to kiss her and she let him. She tasted like cigarettes and sex and spice, like his youth and his future. He pressed a little harder with his tongue and she pulled back.
“So what’s your plan, Frank?”
“Taking you with me.”
“You’re kidnapping me?”
“I would if I could.”
“Where would you take me?”
“Away.” He kissed her again, quickly. “West.” And again. “California and Bali and Paris. We’ll sing together, we’ll make art, we’ll drink cheap wine and screw all night.”
He tried to kiss her again but she put a hand flat on his face and pushed.
“Don’t be stupid,” she said.
“Flying to the stars is not stupid. What’s stupid is staying in a life that’s sucking you dry. Is this what you want, working in an office selling crap to the masses?”
“It’s not what I expected, true. But you want to know a secret? I’m good at it.”
“Why wouldn’t you be?” Frank said. “You’re pitching the same crap to yourself and buying it hook, line, and sinker.”
“Maybe I am. But maybe it was time to do something different. I’d been at it long enough to know that Clive Davis wasn’t calling and the fill-in gigs at Armstrong’s weren’t covering the rent. But the truth is, now that I got the day job, I sort of like it. The office chatter, the way I have to focus on something other than myself, the free coffee. The money.”
“The selling out.”
“Why not that, too? It feels better than I thought it would. It’s nice to have some change in my pocket and a bit of status in the world.”
“And settling for Dan with the beady eyes and mumbled platitudes. He told me to keep at the singing thing, like he had any idea.”
“Oh, Dan’s not so bad. He’s sweet, and he’s reliable, and I get free comics.”
“He’s never going to finish that amazing graphic novel everyone says he’s working on.”
“And you know that after one night?”
“That’s all it took.”
“Yeah, well, I think you’re right.”
“Come with me.”
“I’m not coming with you, Frank. This is my home. And what about the girl?”
“Erica.”
“What about her? Is she coming, too? Does baby make three?”
“I’ll send her away, send her back to daddy. It would be the best thing that ever happened to her. She’ll have a story to tell at that fancy college her parents will pay for.”
“You’ll give her up that easily?”
“She was the dream, you’re the reality.”
Marisol laughed. “You really know how to charm a girl.”
“What I mean is, when I saw you again, I realized that what I hoped Erica and I would end up with is what I had and screwed up with you. Come with me. We’ll make it work this time. I’ll make sure of it. Be wild again.”
Marisol was about to say something and
then she stopped, and pulled back into herself. She was thinking about it. My God, she was thinking about it. His blood started bubbling with hope. He took her hand and she let him. He rubbed her knuckles like they were a rosary.
“You said you came for money, Frank. Where were you intending to get it?”
“I don’t know. Friends, maybe. That’s not the point.”
“Let’s make it the point.” She jerked her hand from his. “Were you getting it from me? Is that what this is all about? You came back here to tap me for cash like an ATM?”
“No, not you, no. I didn’t even know you were working. I thought maybe, I don’t know, maybe you could hook me up again with your cousin Jorge.”
“Jorge? What the hell do you want with Jorge?”
“I have some stuff he might want. I don’t need to sell much. Just a little.”
“This again? After what happened last time?”
“In and out, Marisol. That’s all. In and out.”
“And where’d you get it, Frank? The little bit of stuff for Jorge?”
“I just did.”
“You are such a fucking biscuit. Delaney’s still hunting you and you have merch for Jorge? Stolen I’d bet, which is why you’re running. But why not, running is your goddamn specialty. And I bet your Erica doesn’t even know. Sheila told me something was dirty about you.”
“That girl needs to mind her own business.”
“You need to get the hell out of Chicago.”
“I will, as soon as I talk to Jorge. Can you set it up for me, Marisol?”
“Fuck you, Frank.”
“Yeah. But can you? Please?”
22
BLOOD // WATER
The idea came to Frank on the Red Line, heading south.
The train buzzed through the west side of the city before diving into the Loop, where he transferred at Washington from the Blue to the Red. He wasn’t about to drive to South Chicago in the Camaro, with its full load in the spare tire. In his backpack he had brought only a quarter kilo, which was more than enough to get him to Santa Monica if he made the sale. He hugged the backpack in front of him as he sat in the plastic yellow seat.
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