There was probably a point where he could have made nice. There’s even a part of me, buried beneath a surprisingly thick wall of resentment, that thinks I might be being unreasonable. Since last night, I’ve had no new Gavin inputs — nothing new he’s had a chance to do wrong. Still, I’ve grown increasingly annoyed with him, and as I listen it’s hard not to consider the possibility that he’s done nothing new, and that I’ve been building my case in his absence. All it’s taken for him to seem more repugnant since last night was to know he exists.
But the longer we don’t speak, the further we move from possible resolution.
He could have said hello when he came in, before he started playing. I wouldn’t have run to him and given him a hug, but it might have dulled my edge.
He could have given me a smile, without saying a thing. Smiles can say a lot. I’d probably have taken his as, I’m still a weasel and I want to get into your panties, but it would have been friendlier than this.
What is he trying to prove, rehearsing in the main room? There are only four or five people in here at any time, and he’s directly across from me, out of all of them.
Does he need us to hear his brilliance? How amazing he is on the guitar, playing his … his …
I don’t know the tune he’s been strumming over and over since he sat down. That’s not surprising. I may have Googled him this morning, and I may have listened to every Firecracker Confession tune I could find on YouTube — even a bootleg of their unreleased album, Brutal Design — but I don’t know all of his songs.
I do see, now, that most of what he plays is recycled Firecracker content, though. But this isn’t any of that. Last night, I’m pretty sure his entire rehearsal and set was just the YouTube songs, stripped of lyrics and played acoustic.
I may have listened to every Firecracker Confession song twice this morning, then hit a few more between shifts. I don’t know everything he’s ever done, but I don’t think this was ever on YouTube.
I have to admit it’s catchy, though I can tell he’s still playing with its shape. There’s little beyond the hook, but I can sense it fleshing out a bit with each replay. As I stew with my back to Gavin, turning bottles that have already been turned, I find myself wanting to hear it again.
And I can almost hear words, though he’s not singing any. The words are in my head. The kind of refrain my idle brain will attribute to just about any rhythm — a recurring pattern of footsteps, the predictable drip of rain from a leaky gutter.
The repeated chord progression stops, and the room seems too quiet. I take a few seconds before I turn to see why, sure that Gavin will be walking over, wanting to bug me as he did last night before and after showing his true colors. Good. I’ve been rehearsing witty, cutting responses all day.
But he’s not even looking in my direction. There’s a young guy onstage with him. A kid in a hoodie with short, bristle-cut hair. He looks about my age, maybe midtwenties. But even the motions of his hands as he talks to Gavin tells me that his words have a maturity beyond his years. And, I suspect, that I’m witnessing a discussion these two have had many times before.
I’m staring too long and don’t want Gavin to look over and take my look for interest, so I spin and head toward the back room, hoping to find someone to ease my mind of all this confused, disturbing emotion.
I walk away, realizing I’m humming Gavin’s tune.
CHAPTER 12
Gavin
I’m turning the melody over and over in my head, intrigued by its stubbornness.
Plenty of songwriters feel that they’re literally creating their songs, but I disagree. For me, it’s as if I’m finding songs rather than building them. I don’t know what my songs will be until I start to play them, and their shapes often surprise me. But because they’re things I find, I also don’t know when I might break them, or when they might slip away, burying themselves again in the shifting sands of my subconscious.
Some songs seem like they might be good, but turn out to be nothing.
But then there are songs like this one. I don’t know where it came from, but it’s stuck in my head, refusing to leave. In my mind’s eye, it’s like I’ve been crushing dirt to search for whatever’s out there, and this thing arrived out of the blue, as hard and impenetrable as a diamond. And it must be resilient because I’ve kind of tried to forget it. I don’t have the headspace right now to discover a new song. No matter how found they are, excavation takes effort. I have to try all the combinations. I have to write down what seems to want to work then pick it apart when I realize nothing’s quite right.
I wallowed in darkness this morning then tried to head out to clear my head. I took a walk, but whereas my moods usually leave me once I’m in the open and able to interact with others — to let Public Gavin come out, knowing He can always find a smile — this time, my mood persisted. So did the song.
It was there when I stopped by Hill of Beans, paying for a cup of coffee even though I shouldn’t be spending money.
It was there when I dropped my bills off at the post office.
It was there when took an out-of-the-way route to the diner from yesterday, the Nosh Pit, and it stayed with me the entire time I sat on a bench outside, sure it would be a mistake to go in but unwilling to leave for nearly an hour anyway.
I didn’t want to deal with a song today, but it won’t leave. It’s a hard nugget in all this loose mental dirt, and the more I try to walk away, the more it feels like a pebble in my shoe.
So I went home, and I worked it.
And when I arrived here, at the Overlook, I massaged it some more.
I stayed in the back for a while, but the infant melody craved the stage. Nobody was on it, so I sat in a stool and played. I didn’t notice until the first notes that Abigail, the girl from yesterday, was behind the bar. She gave me the dirtiest look when she saw me, but still I wanted to play. Because the longer I sat and the longer I played, the more of the song I discovered.
Abigail seems furious. Whatever grudge she was carrying yesterday, it’s still there. I probably didn’t help things when I went home with … with whoever she was … but it’s not like we’re in a relationship. Contrary to the easy back-and-forth we had over lunch yesterday, it’s not like Abigail is even interested in talking to me.
It’s not like I keep thinking about her.
It’s not like I find the melody more whenever she looks over.
I don’t owe Abigail anything. I don’t need to feel guilty. I already feel guilty. I’ve been in a constant state of guilt for three years now, and anyone would tell me I’ve served my penance. So to hell with her if she has a problem with me. To hell with her if she has a problem with me taking girls home. If she has a problem, maybe she should just fucking speak up.
The thoughts are like song lyrics. They’re not, but they give my mind fences, and within those fences, more of the melody comes out of the ground.
“That new?”
I look up. I see Freddy standing above me, as if he’s been there all along. I’ve been buried; I didn’t see him approach. And when I look toward the bar, Abigail seems to be gone.
“Oh. Just something I’m working out,” I tell him.
“But new,” he says.
“New.”
“I don’t think I’ve heard you try anything new onstage the whole time I’ve been here.”
I look out. I’m on a stage, yes, but there’s no audience. It’s not the same. “First time for everything,” I say.
“So you’ve been writing?”
“I’m always trying to write.” I don’t emphasize trying, but we both know the emphasis is there. This isn’t the first time we’ve had this chat, and I don’t really want Freddy’s thoughts on writer’s block and what I should and shouldn’t blame myself for. I’ll figure it out on my own. It’s my baggage, not his.
There’s a chair just behind the pulled-back curtain. Freddy grabs it by the back, spins it, and sits on it backward beside me. “Let’s try
. It’s time.”
“I write alone, Freddy.”
“You didn’t used to write alone. It’s not even your normal mode.”
“It’s been my mode for three years.”
Freddy’s face changes. Not much, but I see pity and want to punch it away. A deeper part of me tells me that pity isn’t a sin, and Freddy is hardly the only person who feels sorry for me. At least he understands. If what happened to me happened to him, Freddy would be like me. For a month. Then he’d return to form, and his life would get better. If he couldn’t write, he’d plan. If he couldn’t plan, he’d build systems around his production and distribution efforts. If he couldn’t build, he’d hire coaches and outsource promotion. But even if he couldn’t manage any of it, he’d at least play. Our old songs are in my head forever and going nowhere. If Freddy were me, he’d get past the hurt and play them. Because to a guy like Freddy, art has a life of its own. Refusing to give it breath, even if your reasons feel like good ones, is akin to murder.
“Exactly. And how much stuff have you produced in that time?”
I look into Freddy’s eyes. They’re blue, like mine, but very light. Freddy looks younger than he is and always seems driven, but his eyes are soft. The sincerity in his gaze is probably why I find it so hard to be angry at him.
“My whole set.” I refrain from reminding Freddy that I’ve become more popular in recent years, not less. Whatever I’m doing, even if it doesn’t work, somehow does.
“Come on, man. That may play with the audience, but it doesn’t play with me. It doesn’t even play to Danny.”
“I have a permanent slot on this stage, Freddy.”
“Because Danny sees potential in you,” he counters. “It’s not that you’re breaking ground.”
“If you’re so goddamn unimpressed with what I’m doing, why do you keep begging me to write with you?”
He looks right at me. “Because I see potential in you, too.”
I try to decide if I should be insulted, or at least feel condescended to. Freddy is younger than me, and even though Firecracker Confession didn’t get signed, we would have if things had worked out. That’s closer than Freddy’s ever been. He’s talented as hell and he’s more driven than anyone I’ve ever known, and anyone who doubts Freddy will make it through sheer, clawing willpower one day just isn’t paying attention. But for now, I’ve got cred that he doesn’t have. Potential indeed.
But I’m not insulted. The song rolls over again inside me as I think of what Freddy sees in me, and a wave of melancholy descends like a closing curtain.
“Look, Gavin,” he says, “you’re creating without creating anyway. It’s why the crowds love you. Look at Firecracker’s discography. It’s all borderline pop-punk. That’s not an insult at all; it’s great pop-punk. But the shit you play today? The same goddamned wireframes, adapted for acoustic instrumental? Jesus, it’s crushing. You turned airy and fun into shit that sits on an audience’s chest and squeezes. No wonder you don’t sing the lyrics. They wouldn’t make any fucking sense half the time.”
“That’s not why I don’t sing.”
“My point is you’re not writing new songs, but you’ve made the old songs into something entirely different. That’s the artistry you’ve made. That’s what Danny sees, even though we all know you can’t just play this stuff forever. You’re in an in-between right now, G. You move ahead, and this becomes your blue period. You stop, and you’ll be trapped forever.”
“I see. So you know everything.”
“I know you blame yourself. But man, you weren’t driving that car. You weren’t driving the car that hit them, either. You didn’t get anyone angry and cause them to storm off. Some shit just happens.”
I look away.
“And if you’d been there on time to ride with them, all that would have changed was that you’d be dead too.”
I have a thousand arguments against that. If I’d been on time, maybe I’d have insisted on driving. I doubt it, since Charlie always drove when we were all together, but maybe. The minute or so it took to load my case and body might have delayed us enough to miss the accident. I might have wanted to stop for food, or I might have said something that made one of them hungry. I used to bitch at Charlie for driving too fast; I might have done that, or he might have slowed down just to keep me quiet. I might have seen the other car coming in time to warn Charlie to swing wide. Any one of a million things might have changed our lives if I’d been there, but I wasn’t. And now Charlie and Grace have no lives to change, and I’m alone.
“I know it sucks,” Freddy says, “but nobody else is going to say what you need to hear.”
I grab my guitar and stand, knowing what’s coming.
“You’ve got to let them go,” Freddy says.
I’m suddenly furious. I could march off, but I want to grab my case angrily to show Freddy how pissed he’s made me.
“It’s been three years, Gavin. Three goddamned years!”
I turn to face him. “I see. So I need to join forces with you. So I can heal.”
“Maybe, yes! You sure as hell need something, man!”
“You ever lose anyone, Freddy?”
His face wrinkles, suddenly awkward. I thought not. Maybe an uncle, maybe a cousin. Nobody big, who’d formed a pillar in his life. He has no idea what it’s like. Grace held me up inside. Charlie was my best friend, but Grace was part of me. I wake every morning expecting to find her beside me, and there’s always this terrible second where I have to remember, each and every day, that she’ll never be there again. When I moved a year ago, I took her toothbrush. I just couldn’t bear to admit that its days were over. Stupid things. Things a baby face like Freddy won’t get unless he has to, and that I’d wish on no one.
“You know what I hear more often than anything else? ‘Pain makes great art.’ Like I should find a positive side to all of this. Like I should just cut a album, get the deal that Firecracker was inches from getting to close the loop, then give a speech about all of this at the Grammys. ‘It was tragic that my band died, but hey, I’m holding a fucking golden phonograph today, so it’s all good.’”
“Jesus, Gavin. Nobody’s saying you should — ”
“I don’t want to make it into ‘art’! I don’t want to think about it! And I don’t fucking want to ‘let it go,’ Freddy, even if I could!”
He looks at me for a sad moment, more pitying than angry. I almost wish he’d fight back, but he just stands there. I think for a horrible moment that he’ll tell me what Danny’s always telling me: that this, how I am now, isn’t what they’d have wanted for me. Especially Grace. I’ll never know anyone like Grace again. She was my everything, but I was her everything, too. If I’d been there for her to hear her final breath, I know what she’d have told me, and it’d be exactly what Freddy is telling me now.
We face off for a while, and despite my anger, I feel a strong desire to apologize. Freddy is a good kid. I like him a lot, and there’s no questioning his talent. If I was going to hitch my wagon to someone these days, it’d be Freddy. He’s got drive, and we both have chops. We’d need a lyricist, but in the meantime we’d have plenty of fuel for the next stop.
And he cares. As much as this all hurts me to think about, I know Freddy cares. I know that what he’s telling me, beneath it all, is totally true.
But I can’t let them go. Not now. Maybe not ever.
I think Freddy will slink away, chastised. Instead he says, “Keep listening to the song, Brother. Go where it tells you.”
Then he walks past me and holds my forearm for a split second — just enough to break my heart.
Freddy’s tenderness cuts me so much deeper than guilt, pain, or anger ever could. He walks away, and I’m left on stage alone, feeling like I might break.
CHAPTER 13
Abigail
I’m helping to move a few boxes in the kitchen when I hear an angry voice shouting in the other room. It has to be Gavin, yelling at the kid he’d been speakin
g to when I ran out. I can’t hear what’s said, but I recognize the tone — one man pumping his chest and telling the other to mind his own business and not tell him what to do. Artistic differences, maybe.
Sometime later, I’m in the converted loading bay when Gavin walks by. I’ve seen him sullen, but this is a new level. This isn’t really morose-sullen, and it’s not an angry, fuck-the-world breed of sullen. It’s almost depressed-sullen. One that, for a change, I find myself believing as genuine.
He vanishes down the hallway, and I don’t consider following. I’ve pretty much decided I’m done with Gavin Adams — and, in my defense, I wouldn’t be in a position to need to be done with him if I’d known who he was in the first place. I allowed myself to get a bit smitten that first day at the Pit, but that wouldn’t have happened if he’d never come in.
If he hadn’t plunked himself down in my section for Friday’s lunch, I’d have seen him for the first time on Friday night. Then I would have seen Gavin the Showman, whose face I recognize from my ex-fiancé, Brian the Showman. Mr. Popularity, no different from the guys I loathed in high school. Just like the guy who made me look like a fool right before I decided to pack up and go, leaving Hartford and ambitions of Princeton behind.
That was my old life. I came to Inferno Falls to start a new life.
Here, I’m a waitress. If I make it and become something worth being, it’ll be because I deserve it and built it on my own, not because of my parents’ money. That dream has taken a beating since my move to Inferno, but it’s still alive somewhere deep down. I keep telling myself I’ll write what’s percolating inside me someday. I’ll find people who know how modern writers make it, and keep doing what they do, then refuse to give up until it’s done.
I don’t have to be a waitress forever. I’ll create, like these musicians do.
The Forbidden Muse (Inferno Falls #2) Page 7