Then Again

by Rick Boling

  “I’m confused,” I said.

  “I don’t blame you. It’s so complicated and personal I don’t even know if I can explain it so someone else can understand.”

  “Look,” I said, “We both know I’m not the smartest guy on the planet, but I’ve got a lot of living under my belt, and as long as it doesn’t involve higher math or physics, I might be able to figure out a way to help. Why don’t you take a deep breath and give it your best shot?”

  “Okay,” she said, sliding back until she was propped up on the pillows and pulling the covers up to her neck. “The thing is, I’m kind of lost, and I need to—pardon the cliché, but I need to find myself, to find out what is uniquely me. I’ve been Sam’s calculator, Jimmy’s sidekick, Mom’s pride and joy, your little girl, Patsy’s muse, the school’s award winner, an advisor to half a dozen musicians. But don’t you see? None of those things are me alone. They’re all me as part of somebody or something else. I wanted to do one thing just for me, to feel something that was only mine. I’m getting ready to go out into the big wide world, and I need an identity. I need to be somebody unique, not an appendage or a support mechanism.”

  “But you are, honey. You’re one of the most unique individuals on the face of the earth.”

  “You don’t get it, Daddy. Not that I expected you to. Look, the sex thing was painful and disappointing, but at least it was my pain, my disappointment. For the first time in my life I felt really alive. It was only a start, but I can move on from there. I want to put my name, my stamp on the world. Not as the famous Rich Voniossi’s brainy kid or that pretty little girl at Blue Note Studios. I want to be me, Aurélie, a singular entity with her own identity.”

  “Then why don’t you sing? Let me produce some stuff for you. I guarantee I can make you a star. Then it will be you out there, on your own.”

  “But don’t you understand? Don’t you hear what you just said? You would be doing it, not me. I’m not really star material anyway. Without a lot of promotion and writers and production, I’m no better than your average teenage shower singer. Besides, fame is not what I’m after. What I am after is my own personal fulfillment. I want to do something important, and if nobody else ever knows it was me, that’s fine.”

  Her determination seemed unshakable, and even though she was wrong about not being seen as an individual with her own unique accomplishments, I realized she wasn’t going to buy that argument. The hardest part about all this was that I knew she was still a kid inside, that Doris had been right about not letting her skip all those grades. Emotionally she was as confused and vulnerable as any adolescent, despite the fact that she had the brains of a forty-year-old physics professor. There was a point at which every parent had to let go, but we seemed to have reached that point with Ellie far too early.

  “I know you probably think I’m being overprotective,” I said, “and the last thing I want to do is hold you back. But I’m scared, honey. You’re trying to cut the ties way too early, before your emotional maturity catches up with your intellectual development. You’re still at the stage where impulse and hormones take precedence over common sense and logic. When a teenage crush can seem like true love. When conquering the world looks as easy as passing a math test. If you think the physical pain and disappointment of being inexpertly deflowered is as bad as its going to get, you’d better think again, because that’s nothing compared to what you’re going to experience as an attractive, emotionally immature kid alone in the cruel, uncaring world out there.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe not. Did you ever stop to consider that I’m also one of the most logical persons you’ve ever known? I understand what you’re saying, and you’re right on one level. But what you don’t seem to get is that I already know all that. I’ve examined myself from every angle you could think of, and I’ve studied adolescent psychology and the hormonal influences of puberty. So I’ve got a pretty good idea of what’s going on inside me. Why do you think I chose someone I could never fall in love with to deflower me?”

  “I give up, why?”

  “Because it was the logical thing to do. Believe me, I’ve had more than one crush, starting long before I hit puberty. What girl wouldn’t, being around all those older guys, some of whom are so sexy and famous any teenager would give her eyeteeth just to be in the same room with them? Hell, before I came to my senses, I would have jumped Jackson in a second, and he knew it.”

  “He knew it? Does that mean …?”

  “It means I tried,” she said, with a suggestive smirk. “Oh, don’t worry Daddy. You know Jackson’s too much of a gentleman to even consider taking advantage of a kid. There were others, though, who weren’t quite so reluctant. Probably the only thing that stopped them was who I am—you know, the boss’s daughter and all. What I’m getting at is that I’ve experienced adolescent infatuation of the first degree, but once I began to analyze things, I came to the conclusion that I needed to take control of my emotions. And I did.”

  “You did?” I said, wondering what she thought she’d taken control of. “So what was Friday night all about then?”

  “Like I said, that wasn’t a matter of infatuation or adolescent rebellion or any of the other diagnoses your average psychologist might come up with. It was a conscious decision made with forethought and careful planning. By the way, in case you’re wondering why we could never be together as a couple, it’s because he’s homosexual—he prefers gay actually. We’ve been friends for years, and he did it as a favor to me, so don’t get the idea he seduced your sweet little innocent daughter.”

  I must have gone pale, because she looked at me with alarm. “Don’t go having a stroke on me, Daddy,” she said, sitting up and taking my face in her hands. “God, you’re white as a sheet. Look, things haven’t changed from ten seconds ago, unless you’ve suddenly turned into a homophobe, which I can’t imagine. You know a lot of gay musicians and I’ve never known you to discriminate against any of them. Tom’s not even a musician. He’s a shy, straight-A student who’s a bit of a nerd, if you want to know the truth, but a really nice guy. Come on Dad, buck up. Everything’s going to be okay. I promise.”

  Tom, I thought, wondering why I wasn’t already planning his brutal demise. It was probably because her matter-of-fact way of telling me had caught me off guard and left me wondering how to react. Actually, once the initial shock wore off, I’d been worrying more about how cold and analytical she was being. And she was right about my moronic reaction to her choice of partners, which, now that I thought about it, was a fairly logical decision from her perspective.

  “Give me a second here,” I said, trying to catch my breath. I took her hands from my face and held them between us until my heart stopped pounding. Forget the gay guy, I told myself. There’s something far more serious going on here. Her attitude reminded me of mine during those decades of emotional detachment following Robin’s disappearance; those years of lonely, self-centered sexual conquests that left me unfulfilled and spiritually crippled.

  “So,” I said when I’d calmed down enough to think clearly, “What about love, marriage, kids, the joy of sharing your life with someone? You seem to have closed yourself off to those possibilities.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe I have in a way. At least for now. I need space, Dad. Time and space to figure out what I want to do, how I want to attack my life. I can’t really share that space and time with anyone until I’ve become someone myself. Even then, I’m not sure I’d want to trade my independence for the security of a one-on-one relationship.”

  I was in over my head and I knew it. I couldn’t counter her arguments with logic; she was way ahead of me on that front. So I fell back on the only thing I could think of. “I love you, honey,” I said. “I love you more than life itself, and I’d hate to see you let one bad experience influence the rest of your life. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not suggesting you should keep experimenting, not until you’re older. What I’m saying is that when everything goes r
ight, and you’re with someone you really love, it can be the most wonderful thing you will ever experience. If that weren’t the case, kiddo, you wouldn’t even be here.”

  “I love you too Dad, and I don’t want you to worry about me. I have no plans to do any more experimenting, at least for a while. And I am not shutting out the possibility of falling in love. I just need a little time. Now please get out of here and let me get dressed. In case you’ve forgotten, I’ve got a surprise birthday party coming up this afternoon, and I have to practice looking surprised.”

  “To be continued?” I said.

  “Sure. Anytime. I may come off as a smart-mouthed know-it-all sometimes, but I do know how valuable real life experience can be. And you’ve got it all over me in that department. The only thing I ask is that we keep this between the two of us. It’s not that I want to be dishonest or anything, but if Mom found out it would kill her, not to mention really screwing up our relationship. You know how she is about stuff like this.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I don’t think I could tell her if I wanted to.”

  “Great! Thanks, Dad. Nice talk.”

  Pons Asinorum

  Well, how’d I do? I thought, after I left Ellie’s bedroom. I tried my best to project the words out into the subethric, but there was no response. Not that I’d expected one; it had been weeks since I’d heard from Aurélie, and I’d begun to wonder if she would ever contact me again.

  As much as I’d wanted to continue my talk with Ellie, I realized there wasn’t a whole lot more to say on the subject of love and sex and relationships. Unless, that is, I wanted to get into the more physical and erotic aspects of lovemaking, which I didn’t; I couldn’t imagine discussing the mechanics of sexual arousal with her. Surely, I told myself, fathers didn’t talk about those kinds of things with their teenage daughters in 1977.

  Except for her apparent determination not to fall in love, Ellie seemed to have a pretty good handle on things; at least she was far more realistic and thoughtful than I’d been at her age. Because of that, and because I’d seen no evidence of them, I didn’t think I had to worry about drugs or alcohol either. As for love, I knew matters of the heart had little respect for logic or resolve; when love happened, it happened, and all the calculated planning in the world couldn’t stop it. Aurie had proven that by breaking through the barrier I’d hidden my heart behind for nearly forty years.

  Ellie’s birthday party turned out to be a rather star-studded event. All the musicians stuck around to attend, and she acted appropriately surprised. Most of her gifts were of the humorous variety: Jimmy and Sarah gave her a medieval chastity belt they’d found at an antique store, while Sam and a bunch of the engineers had made her a compilation tape that included a medley of three Gary Puckett songs. The cautionary medley began with Young Girl and Lady Willpower, and ended with Don't Give In To Him, all separated by goofy Spike Jones instrumental breaks. Glenn, who had flown in from California where The Eagles were recording at the time, brought her a lingerie box from the newly-opened Victoria’s Secret in San Francisco, though when she lifted the lid, she found only a pink t-shirt with the words “OFF LIMITS!” printed in large block letters across the chest. About the only serious gift she got, other than ours, was a beautiful Hopi turquoise necklace from Jackson.

  Over Doris’s objections, Patsy and I had gone in together and bought her a Volvo 262C—a top-of-the-line, limited edition; metallic silver with black leather upholstery and hardwood panels in the doors. Ever since she’d gotten her learner’s permit she’d been begging for a car, even though she wouldn’t be able to drive on her own until she was sixteen. As part of her not-so-subtle campaign, she’d collected promises from Sam, Jimmy, and Sarah to ride with her whenever they could. And, she pointed out, when you added me, Doris, and Mom to the mix, she would have six licensed adult supervisors to choose from. She was a little disappointed with our choice of cars—she’d been hinting at a Corvette or a Mustang, but we both agreed we wanted safety not muscle, and Volvo had the best safety record of any car manufacturer in the world at that time.

  The evening ended in typical musician fashion, with everybody jamming and trying out new material. Jackson was working on a new song he said he’d written for Ellie called That Girl Could Sing, and when he played it for her I could tell she was having a hard time keeping her emotions in check. She’d never been an overly emotional child, and I got the feeling there was more to her reaction than the remnants of a teenage crush.

  Ellie still hadn’t decided where she wanted to go to college, which was fine with me. Even as mature and sensible as she seemed to be, I didn’t want her moving far away until she was at least sixteen and had her unrestricted driver’s license. I did, however, encourage her to do whatever she felt she had to in her quest to, as she put it, ‘find herself.’ She’d always been frugal with her money, saving most of what we paid her and never touching the royalties from Parable, so when she said she’d like to support herself and live on her own for a while, there didn’t seem to be any way to refuse her. After all, she would be leaving for college soon and she only wanted to move into Sam’s family’s apartment complex a few blocks from home.

  About a month after she moved into her new apartment, she invited us over for dinner to show off her domestic skills, which, it turned out, lacked a little in the cooking department. Still, we spent a pleasant evening talking about her scholarship offers and helping her hang some curtains. The pleasant part of the evening ended abruptly, however, when we were driving home and the news of Elvis’s death came on the radio. The announcement caught me by surprise, and again, Doris complained that I hadn’t told her or tried to do anything to intervene. I reminded her that it was almost impossible for me to remember exactly when certain events had occurred, but that didn’t stop her.

  “You told me long ago you could remember the big stuff,” she said. “So you could at least tell me about some things that haven’t happened yet, even if they’re years away.”

  I reiterated my objection to interfering with the flow of history, but she fell back on her standard claim that the only reason she wanted to know was so she could record the events in her journal for future reference. Even though I doubted she would leave it at that, I couldn’t very well call her a liar, so I did my best to recall a few things in the hope of satisfying her curiosity.

  Unfortunately, my memories of what went on in the world during my tumultuous thirties were blurred by heroin and booze and the whirlwind of my early recording career, appearing in my mind’s eye like blurry impressionist paintings—wispy, undetailed renderings of things I’d spent most of my time trying to ignore. Back then, all that mattered to me was getting laid, staying high, and feeding my insatiable ego, which left little room for concern about the world at large.

  The only important events I could recall from that era were those that had dominated the headlines and conversations of the time, and even that list was pitifully short. Other than Elvis’s death, there were things like the Jonestown massacre, the Iran hostage crisis, John Lennon’s assassination, and the eruption of Mount St. Helens. There was a smattering of trivia: Michael Jackson’s huge success with the album Thriller, the first Star Wars movie, and the popularity of Rubik’s Cube. But that wasn’t what Doris was after. So I ran through the more historic incidents, explaining each one as best I could and pointing out the impossibility of doing anything about them.

  “We can’t stop a volcano from erupting, or convince a bunch of religious fanatics their leader is a nut case,” I said. “Besides, I don’t remember the exact dates any of these things happened, and warning people years in advance would only make us sound like delusional alarmists. Then, when they do happen, we would probably be investigated by the CIA or the FBI because of our prior knowledge.”

  She didn’t say anything in response, and I was thinking maybe I’d finally gotten through to her. But when I pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine, she made no move to get out of the c
ar. She stared straight ahead for a couple of minutes, then turned and gave me a steely-eyed look. “We cannot let John die,” she said with a finality that left no room for argument. “Ellie would be devastated.”

  We’d met Lennon two years earlier when David Bowie booked the studio through EMI to record his number one hit, Fame. John had co-written the song with Bowie, and he played guitar and helped out with background vocals during the session. After we wrapped, John, David, and Yoko joined us for dinner at Bern’s Steakhouse in Tampa.

  The evening’s conversation was dominated by Ellie and John discussing social issues ranging from war to famine to civil rights. And by the end of the night, the two of them had become fast friends. John even drew a quick sketch of her on one of Burns’ linen napkins, then politely called the maître d' over and offered to pay for the napkin so he could give it to Ellie.

  Since then, Ellie and John had stayed in touch, and I realized what Doris said—that Ellie would be devastated by his death—was true. Still, I was reluctant to interfere. Even if I’d wanted to, my memory of the shooting was too fragmented to be of much help. About all I could remember was that it had happened outside his hotel in New York and that the shooter was some religious crackpot by the name of Mark David Chapman.

  When I told this to Doris, she thought for a moment, then said, “Mark David Chapman is not a terribly common name. Do you remember anything else about him?”

  “Not much,” I said. “Born-again Christian. Insanity defense. I think he eventually pled guilty, though. And there was something about him being pissed at John for claiming the Beatles were more popular than Jesus.”

  “So, you don’t have any idea when it happened?” she said. “Even something unrelated we could use as a time reference?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “I’m not sure, but I think it was around the time Reagan was elected President. Whenever that was.”