“It’s time,” someone said.
A stage manager escorted him to the stage and helped him strap on his guitar. He waited. He started to shiver. The place was freezing. He smelled Difara’s pizza. Who was eating pizza? Was she watching? Please. His cue arrived. A large digital clock at the back of the room displayed 7:26 p.m. Head down, he strummed the first chords; then, slowly, he surveyed the audience. Something had focused him enough to continue.
Words came out of his mouth. Singing. A few members of the audience mouthed the words along with him. His fear started to dissipate. He took a step toward the audience and sang into the side of the mic. A girl in the front row morphed into Rachel. Lyrics fused with the melody, aching, soaring, generative, sweet and sad. Front-row girl swallowed hard. She motioned to Nick, hand sweeping across her chest, as if she was saying good-bye. Or hello.
Tears streamed down, eventually blotching the top of his guitar. The cameraman zoomed in, framing him in a close-up. Sweat and tears merged, glistening, reflecting back, amplifying. Connected to every person in the audience who had lost something, someone, he swallowed all the loss whole, then beamed something back out. Empathy. Compassion. A brush on the shoulder. A collective hug. Something.
The last chord resonated. He began to come out of “Love.” Applause from the audience. Everyone stood and the applause strengthened. Some had tears. The camera zoomed out. Conan said, “We’ll be right back.”
Someone helped Nick remove his guitar and guided him over to the seat next to Conan. His heart raced. Sweating, he pressed a glass of ice water against his forehead for a moment, and took a couple of deep breaths. In five. Four. Three. Two. One.
“What a moving song, Nick. It’s so honest. Can you tell us about the writing process?”
“I began writing the song almost three years ago with my girlfriend at the time, Rachel. She died unexpectedly in an accident a couple of years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Are all the songs about her?”
“Yes and no. I was going for different feelings, the true feeling of sadness, loss and love, sometimes all three together. So they’re about her, but also they’re meditations on love and loss in general.”
“That’s a little deep, Nick.” Raising his eyebrows and folding his hands, he egged on the audience for confirmation.
They rumbled.
“I understand you had a writing partner of sorts.”
“Fellini.”
“And he’s with you here tonight.”
Right on cue, an assistant walked Fellini onto the stage. Fellini, all 140 pounds of him, sprang into Nick’s lap and licked him on the face. Thunderous applause. Nick smiled for the first time since the show started.
“You don’t do small scale, do you, Nick? How did Fellini help you?”
“I had roughly a year-long monologue with myself. Fellini witnessed the entire thing. I wouldn’t have finished the album without him.”
“Well, he’s a beautiful dog, and if he can help you create more songs like ‘Love,’ then I may need to borrow him for inspiration on my monologues.”
“Only if you want them to be honest.” He allowed himself a small smile. The audience laughed for him.
Conan stared him down. “I understand that you have a new song for us tonight. Do you want to tell us anything about it?”
“It’s for a woman that I’ve always loved. I knew her well before Rachel and these past couple of years guided me back to her.”
“Nick, you’ve been a fascinating guest. Thanks for doing this, and I hope to have you back on the show soon. Ladies and gentlemen, Nick Satterborn, performing the world premiere of ‘When Light Passes Through.’”
Someone escorted Fellini off the stage. Fellini resisted and tried to follow Nick as he made his way back to the band. The audience laughed and Conan signaled to the escort to let Fellini stay.
Nick slipped into his guitar and checked the sound. Panting, Fellini lay at his feet. Nick conjured Sassa sitting on the floor in front of him, smiling, scratching Fellini’s ear. Everything was going to be okay. The drummer struck his sticks together in time. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
When I came back
It was stronger than ever
Finally knew I belonged
I have a dream that someday we’ll be together
I have loved you for so long
I picture us at our house on North Lake
You are wearing your red summer dress
I look over and smile without a word
We are safe, we are healed, we are blessed
When light passes through
it will take us there
and these pictures will fade to truth
There you can be the love of my life
every moment of every day and night
Maybe there I was lost
Your eyes my only guides home
Maybe here we’ll finally get what we need
and everything will change, my love
I’ve waited years to hold you like a child
sleeping side by side, we are atoned
I’ll shelter you from what’s come before
until you know you are not alone
I picture our bodies joined together in prayer
so we can heal from the wars fought alone
When we wake each day, we’ll be a little more aware
as we talk, as we laugh, as we grow old
When light passes through
it will take us there
As these pictures in my head fade to truth
There you can be the love of my life
every moment of every day and night
• • •
Nick opened The New York Times and turned to the Arts section, searching for a review of his Conan performance. He found it on the last page.
Music Review: Nick Satterborn on the Conan O’Brien Show
A couple of nights ago I watched something extraordinary. Since then, I’ve called all of my friends, my non-friends, anyone who would take my call, and asked them if they witnessed the same thing—Nick Satterborn performing two songs on Conan O’Brien last Monday. Many had. Many hadn’t, but called me back right away after they watched the YouTube video. All experienced the same thing.
The emotion he conveyed in the first song, “Love,” infuses all of his compositions on Songs of Love and Loss—love, sadness, and, above all, a sense of truth. I dare say that the emotion he conveyed in the world premier of “When Light Passes Through” will make him an indie legend.
When the two song performances were juxtaposed, apparently purely due to a scheduling accident, something extraordinary emerged, a moment of collective consciousness where everyone I talked to, where probably millions of people, lived Nick’s story. We understood that he’d embraced his demons. We witnessed them dissipate. We knew he’d gone through extreme pain, and had come out on the other side stronger, more alive, more truthful. We knew he’d loved. Twice.
His love for Rachel, the subject of “Love,” was palpable. When she died, he honored her with one of the most beautiful good-byes I’ve ever experienced. But the subject of “When light Passes Through,” a girl named Sassa according to my sources, was clearly his true love. She was his “home.”
To be able to first express so much feeling for Rachel, then actually go beyond that point with Sassa, I believe was something never before witnessed by such a large television audience. Somehow we all connected, and for a few moments, the world seemed more honest, more alive, more compassionate.
Nick closed the paper and wept.
• • •
Weeks after the Conan show, Nick was still looking for signs that his plan had worked. Nothing as explicit as a phone call. Just enough of an opening, a signal, whatever, that he could widen the crack.
The show had created buzz for him, the band, and even for studiomuscians-dot-com. He accepted bookings up and down the East and West Coasts. Due to strong
demand, the studio had to book customers three months out. Sales of the album regained some of the early momentum, rocketing back into the iTunes “Alternative Top Ten” list. A detailed profile of Nick, his music, and his company appeared in The Village Voice. Steady requests came in for additional television appearances, but he turned them down. Anything after Conan would only be a letdown.
As time passed, he started to lose hope, to close down. He’d done everything he could to get through to Sassa. He’d taken his best shot and she’d turned him away. He’d stayed open to her for such a long time that the thought of closing down felt both unbearable and at the same time like a relief. In the dark, in bed, he tossed and turned each night. He could still taste her, feel her, touch her, but gradually exhaustion won out and she faded. He’d worked himself into a state where love and loss were one and the same.
CHAPTER 17
Sassa studied the television screen as Nick performed “Love.” Midway through, she finger-punched the off button of her remote, dropped it on the sofa, and made a bee-line into the bathroom. She stripped, and while staring into the bathroom mirror, downed four Vicodin one at a time. She glanced over her shoulder at her scar and whispered, “It’s for the best.”
That night she dreamt of a tattoo parlor, New Y. Ink Art, that she passed by every day on her way to work. Naked and reclining in a dentist-like chair surrounded by tattoo guns, her body oozed tattoos of Nick, of her family, of guitars, of Italian food. In the mirror, she watched the tattoo artist work on her face—Nick on her left cheek and Rachel on her right. When the needle jack-hammered her right side, she screamed awake and checked her face for blood.
A few hours later, the morning light tapped her eyelids and announced she’d slept through the rest of the night. What a dream. An incredible urge to work, to have sex, to be anonymous overtook her. Pushing up on her elbows, she glanced out the window at an older woman fixing her hair far away in an apartment across the street. Just like Mom, a long time ago. She reached for her phone on the nightstand and tapped Boss. “Hey there. It’s me. Got a minute?”
“You realize it’s 6:00 a.m.?”
“Sorry. I need to go on the road. You okay with that?”
“You know you don’t need to ask anymore. Are you okay?”
Palm up, she curled her fingers and repeatedly pressed them into her palm like she was kneading pastry dough. “Nothing long workdays won’t cure. One more thing.”
“Sure.”
“I won’t have my normal cell phone while I’m away. I’ll buy one of those disposable ones to use instead.”
“You really do need to get away.”
“I’ll text you the number, but please don’t give it out to anyone. See ya.”
She slipped out of bed, and wandered toward the kitchen to boil water for tea. Along the way, she stopped at a windowpane mirror hung above her favorite reading chair. The pane hashed her reflection into distorted rectangular pieces.
• • •
On her first morning in Chicago, Sassa spent time with a new chef teaching her how to prepare different entrees. Midway through constructing a pasta dish, the chef accidentally dropped a hot, oiled pan on the floor. Sassa ranted at her, something unintelligible about scarring the floor, then fired her on the spot.
Long, grueling days followed. She worked so hard that her body ached, crowding out her thoughts. She and the team stayed behind after the restaurant closed each night and held Batali-like cook-offs for new menu items. Wine. Laughter. Excess. The search for the ultimate dish. Vicodin.
On her last night in Chicago, she crawled into bed and wept. The pain in her body, especially her back and shoulders, was almost unbearable. With the edge more than taken off, she drifted to Daniel.
For two years at Michigan, she consumed a string of lovers, the last of which was Daniel, a dark-skinned Brazilian, who thought she had promise as a CIA agent. One day, while walking with him on the south campus, Sassa asked, “Let’s construct a list of qualities for the perfect CIA agent, okay?”
He reached in his pocket and pulled out a Vicodin. He placed it on his tongue, stopped walking, and pulled her close to him. “Here you go. Okay. I’ll start. Beauty.”
“No immediate family.”
“Smart.”
“A master liar.”
“Never gets worked up.”
“A chameleon, especially around men.” She snaked her arm around his and pulled him close. “Let’s go back to my room and fool around.”
In her Chicago hotel bed, she glanced out the window at Water Tower Place. Well-lit, it was beautiful in the dark, like it was originally architected for the night. What ever happened to Daniel?
• • •
After a long day at the Los Angeles Green Angel, while dancing at a trendy nightclub, Sassa whispered an attractive, dark-skinned Brazilian software salesman back to her hotel. She’d been on the road for several weeks, and had worked her way down the West Coast. In Seattle, a guy from just outside of London. In Portland, a guy from Australia. In Los Angles, the Brazilian. Apparently, she had a thing for foreigners.
Inside her hotel room, she kicked off her shoes and leaned against the far wall. Balancing on one foot, she pushed the other up against the wall, and gave the Brazilian her wide-eyed, irresistible, never-fails look. “In the top drawer below the television, there are some pills. Bring the bottle to me.”
As she waited, the room came to the forefront. A small gray desk in the corner, a black flat-screen television, and a king-sized bed with a bland bedspread filled the space, making it indistinguishable from all of the places she’d stayed on her trip. Wasn’t there anything unique anymore? No wonder she was back on Vicodin.
“What are these?” the man asked.
“Vicodin. Want some?”
“Not my thing.”
“What are you waiting for? Give them to me.”
The Brazilian hesitated a little longer, then handed the pills to Sassa.
She popped one after each step toward the bed. At the bed, she dimmed the lights, stripped, and slipped under the covers. “Are you ready for me?”
The Brazilian glanced out the window into the dark, as if he was searching for permission or forgiveness. He had the saddest look on his face, like he was about to repeat a mistake and had no way to stop himself. A moment later, he removed his clothes and crawled into bed.
She moved on top and helped him enter her. With her eyes closed, she pulsed with even, moderate speed, trying to lose herself in the rhythm. Then the Vicodin kicked in. Interlacing her hands with his for leverage, she picked up speed with more and more hyperbolic movements. Intensity took over, and the first of several swells built until, finally, she screamed, “Get the fuck out of me, Nick!”
She didn’t need Nick. She was beautiful, successful, and had no trouble attracting men from all parts of the world. Work, sex, and drugs—those were the things of a good life. She slid off of the man and flipped over. He smelled like stale espresso beans. Why hadn’t she noticed before? She edged away, thankful for a king-sized bed. “You good?”
“What did you mean when you screamed?”
“Nothing.”
He stared at her for a moment. He hopped out of bed, picked his clothes off the floor, and slipped back into his underwear and jeans. Rolling the desk chair over to the bed, just across from Sassa’s head, he raised the lights right before sitting down.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“What happened to you?”
“Come back to bed. ”
“You’re shadow painting.”
She turned her head toward the Brazilian. “I thought you were in software?”
“I am.”
“Is there an app for shadow painting?”
The Brazilian smiled. “You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to tell you a story.”
“Boring. I’ll doze off.”
“Please hear me out. I promise it will be w
orth your time.”
She really wasn’t in the mood. But he did have a kind face. And sad eyes. And round one did her wonders. She popped another pill. She could give him a few minutes before round two. “Longshot, but go ahead.”
“I’m thirty-five now. Single. Never married. About ten years ago, I was in love with a woman named Astrid.”
“Nice name.”
“We planned to marry. One day I followed her to work. I don’t know why I did it, but I played a hunch. A few miles from our apartment, she stopped in front of an old, dilapidated brick house, removed a key from her purse, then disappeared behind the front door. I snuck around the house, window to window, until I spied her naked in a bedroom with another man. They were both snorting coke from a stash of drugs strewn across the nightstand. I started to cry. I paced back and forth, trying to figure out what to do. I slipped into the house, and made my way to the bedroom. Then I made enough noise until Astrid and the man noticed me. As soon as they did, I ran out of the house, raced back to my apartment, and waited.”
“That’s your story? Boring.”
“Hear me out. About thirty minutes later, Astrid came back and begged me to forgive her. She told me she loved me and promised to go to rehab. She said I was the single best thing that had ever happened to her and she didn’t want to lose me. I was so filled with anger that I didn’t hear a word she said. I screamed, ‘I’ll never forgive you! Get the hell out.’ I never saw her again.”
Sassa started twirling her hair. “Why are you telling me this?”
The man stood and kissed her on the forehead. He sat on the edge of the bed and placed his hand over her free hand. “About a year later, I received a call from her mom. Astrid had died of a drug overdose, an apparent suicide. Next to her body her mom found a handwritten note that read, “N, I’m sorry. You were right, I don’t deserve forgiveness. I’ll always love you.”
The Color of Home: A Novel Page 25