“Thought you were hungry,” I say.
“I am,” she says, patting the bed beside her. “But for more than eggs.”
I scoff.
“You’re such a prick,” she says, reaching for her bra. “You know that?”
“We’ve both got work today,” I say. “Right?”
“Fine.”
Staying here longer than I must ain’t worth it.
She pulls on her bra. “You gonna put some clothes on?”
After we grab a bite to eat, I call the executive producer at Wax Trax! and tell him we’ll be recording “a song called ‘Fantasy in Black’” and that we’ll need to meet with him about it. We set the meeting for tomorrow. Deed done. Next: break it to Jonathan.
I call Kenny. His answering machine kicks on.
“Hey. Called Wax Trax! We’re meeting, tomorrow, about ‘Fantasy in Black.’ Let’s talk after rehearsal tonight. Out someplace. I’ll let you know where.”
I hang up the phone, button my coat, and leave to meet Nancy at Mad Bar.
Got things on track again.
The damp, cold wind blowing along Damen Avenue hits me as soon as I step outside. I pull my collar tighter.
Nancy’s smart enough to see that even if we release “Daydream and Try,” Jonathan’s got nothing left. And Jennifer being back in town? I shake my head. Nancy knows the future needs to be planned for. She’ll see Kenny’s it.
Then it’s on to AnnMarie. She needs the band too, but differently. She wears it like a disguise.
For Kenny and me, it’s even more.
Sorry, Sammy. I don’t have a choice. You didn’t give me one. I wipe my face to sweep Sammy’s face from my mind. God, I’m so sorry. So very—
“Hey,” Ron calls to me from across the street, a stocking cap pulled over his ponytail. He waves for me to stop and trots across the street.
“What’s this about Jonathan?” he asks, his camera swinging from his neck.
“What about him?”
“He’s leaving town with Jennifer?”
“What?”
“So Kenny’s taking Jonathan’s place?” He shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his leather jacket.
“Who told you that?”
“He did.”
“He said he’s taking Jonathan’s place?” My hands ball into fists. “When?”
“Hour ago. Saw him at the Busy Bee with some pretty boy. He said you were going to use ‘Fantasy’ something for your single. He’s singing it.”
I clench my teeth.
“When did he decide to leave?” Ron asks, fondling his camera.
“Hold up here. What did he say about Jennifer?” I ask.
“Kenny? Nothing. Nancy told me she was back in town and that she and Jonathan got together last night. Together together,” he says, interlacing his fingers. “I figured that’s why he’d leave. Almost makes sense that way.”
“So,” I say, “this stuff about Jonathan leaving …”
“Figured it that way,” Ron says. “Nancy figured as much too.”
“Nancy figured what what way?”
“About why Kenny’s replacing him,” Ron says. “She was shocked when I told her.”
“Stop.” I hold my hands aside my head. “When did you tell her?”
“Ten, fifteen minutes ago. She was right there”—he points down Damen—“at Mad Bar. She said she was meeting you. I—”
I bolt down the sidewalk. No. No. Not the way.
“Hey,” he shouts after me. “When do I shoot new band photos?”
Mad Bar is empty when I burst through the door.
“Hi there,” I say to the bartender, my breath heaving from my run in the cold. “Did you see a woman in here? Dark hair? Blunt cut?” I ask. “She was with a guy with long black hair, goatee, a camera.”
“Oh, yeah,” the bartender says. “She took off. Left a few minutes ago. Right after the guy.”
“Shit,” I say, scowling.
“Aren’t you …”
“No. I’m nobody.” I rap my knuckles on the bar. “You have a phone?”
The bartender points to the back. I jog to the back, slip two dimes into the black box, and rap it with my fingers until her machine clicks on: “I’d love to hear from you,” her voice says, “but I’m not here. Or can’t get the phone. You know what to do next.” The machine beeps.
“Nancy. Call me as soon as you get home. There’s been some bullshit flying around, and I want to straighten it out. Call me. A-SAP.” I slam down the receiver. “Fuck me.” I walk back to the bar, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“She’d go home, right?” I ask myself. “Yes. Go home to think. Make calls. Right.” I take off, hauling ass down Damen to her place.
I jam the button next to Nancy M.
Nothing. I jam it again and wait. Nothing. Twice more. I wait more. Still nothing. I walk to the side of her three-flat and strain to see into her windows. They’re all completely dark.
“Where the hell are you,” I say to the window. “Goddamn it!”
It’s gotten very windy, and the wet cold cuts deeply. I lean against the wall, closing my eyes. Goddamned Lynda and her movie-script life. She had to have brunch the morning after. I was supposed to be at Mad Bar, with Nancy. Instead, stupid people got to say stupid things to the wrong people at the wrong time.
“This was so simple!” I shout.
“No,” I say, correcting myself. It’s still simple, only not as easy. Because of diarrhea of the mouth. Now, instead of easy transition, it’s damage control. “Fuck.”
I take several deep breaths.
“Fine,” I tell myself. So let’s say she called Jonathan. Him I need to deal with now. Then Nancy. Then AnnMarie. Then Wax Trax!
As I walk around the park, I jam my hands into my pockets and pull my shoulders up against the frigid wind.
Kenny, you’ve made this so much harder than it needed to be. The whole world probably knows about us now. Why’d I think you could keep a secret like I did for Sammy?
Doesn’t matter. Like Sammy always said, persistence and determination alone are omnipotent.
When I reach the loft, I trudge up the stairs, wondering how far this has gotten. No matter what, I know I’m right to put saving the band above everything else. Including Jonathan.
On the fourth floor, I stop and take a deep breath. Pulling my shoulders back and standing tall, I slide the key in and twist.
“Let’s get it done.” I open the door.
Under a thin layer of smoke, the three of them sit on the couch—Mercurial Visions without me. They all turn at the sound of the door opening. I pop my lips.
“What’s up?” I ask, striding in.
“We have a problem,” Jonathan says. “Involving all of us.”
I shake my head as if I don’t know what he’s talking about.
“‘Fantasy in Black.’”
“Yeah?” I ask, shrugging. “That’s that song I’ve been working on with Kenny, for Unknown Vices. We’ve talked about this before.”
“Yes, we did. Last time, you suggested that I sing his song because we didn’t have a single.”
“Not so.”
“Yes so. But now I hear—”
“Hear what?”
“Kenny thinks he’s singing it,” Jonathan says.
“Oh? And you believe him? Our former roadie? Onetime singer of another band?”
“Cut the crap,” Jonathan says. “What’s going on?”
He’s glaring at me. Nancy looks down, picking at her fingernails. AnnMarie’s expressionless.
“I told him,” I say, “that I wanted to use his song if we couldn’t come up with anything else for the single we’re recording in a couple of weeks. But—”
“But what?”
“‘Daydream and Try’ changes that.”
“Not what he said. And not what you said to Wax Trax! this morning,” Jonathan says.
I cock my head as if I didn’t hear.
“Yes, we know you set up a meeting with Wax Trax! without me. Yes, we know it’s about recording ‘Fantasy in Black.’ See, they called. They had to push it back fifteen minutes. I asked, of course. One plus one equals you’re going to tell them our ex-roadie’s singing his song in my band.”
“Our band!” I shout. “It’s our band. Not yours alone. And you haven’t really been in it for two years, Jonathan!” I stomp my foot. “Two years that I worked my ass off to keep us touring and keep us earning money while you curled up into a little ball like some prima donna, letting everything go to hell. You couldn’t write for shit on Second Vision. You couldn’t even perform. Read the reviews. ‘The front man, lead singer was all but absent, and the guitarist did his best but finally couldn’t overcome the mannequin’s lackluster performance.’ Yeah, I remember those lines. You felt it. And you.” I point to Nancy. “And you.” I point to AnnMarie. “The audience did too. They especially. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me!”
They stare.
“What the hell d’you want me to do?” I cleave the air with my arm. “Let us die?”
Silence.
“This isn’t right. I’m not the bad guy here. I’m the one trying to save the band. To pull the rest of us out of your self-absorbed implosion.”
“Self-absorbed implosion? You mean my reeling. To recover from that choice I never had to make—the one you forced me to make.”
“Forced you to make?” I thrust my finger at him. “Jennifer? You chose to leave her. No gun to your head. You kicked her out because you knew it was the right thing—”
“Bullshit.” He shakes his head violently. “You trapped me, alone, in that car for days, filling my head with shit: ‘It’s either me or her.’ ‘It’s the band or a woman.’ ‘Make a choice!’”
“Yes. Make your choice,” I bellow. “Not mine. Your choice: some woman or the band. Stay with me or go with her. I saved you. Like I’ve always been forced to save you. I’ve always been there for you, Jonathan. Always. And you? You take me for granted. Sammy never did—never broke a promise to me either. Until you got killed.”
“What?”
“I’ve protected you repeatedly. I saved you from Amy, then Jennifer. I kept you focused. I kept this band going for you, like I would have for Sammy. But Sammy’s dead. You? You take me for granted. I’m sick of it, Mister Jonathan Starks. You won’t do that to me again. You’ve rejected me for the last time. Kenny? Yeah.” I nod, jabbing my finger at Jonathan. “He’s going to be the singer in Mercurial Visions. Like Sammy should have been. Like you were supposed to be.”
His mouth hangs open, full of silence.
Motionless, Nancy and AnnMarie watch like harrowed window display mannequins.
My heart thuds. My whole body’s tense. I summon the sounds of a helicopter flying low overhead, toward a tree line. Then the eruption of napalm comes, engulfing the jungle, taking Jonathan with it. Over this scene, Jim Morrison is singing, “This is the end / my one and only friend / the end.”
I mouth “boom.” The apocalypse. Now.
“I think you’d better leave now,” he says, in spite of being engulfed in an explosion of napalm. “The rest of us have to decide what to do.”
“Not from my house.” I crouch, my body tightening like a bow. “No one decides anything for me. Not for my band.”
I lunge.
He springs aside like a startled cat.
Missing him, my shoulder slams into the couch. I knock it sideways, taking the girls with it.
They scream. Someone grabs my arm.
“Get off me!” I shout, twisting around, pulling AnnMarie with me, flinging her off my arm. Jonathan’s brows are drawn together. He’s seething but scared. I leap, swinging my fist at his unfaithful face. He shifts, fending my punch far to the side. I lose my balance and fall—hard—to the concrete.
Before I can think, he’s pinned my arm behind my back, kneeling on it with his full weight.
My hands sting from striking the floor. I can’t move. The concrete chills my face.
This isn’t right. This cannot be the way it ends. I promised.
So I tell myself to relax. This is only one day. One setback. The only thing that matters is persistence and determination. Just like you said, Sammy. So with each breath, I push the rage out and into the cold, concrete floor. My heartbeat calms, my breaths come slower, more evenly.
No one’s moving. I can hear only breathing.
“I think you’d better leave,” he says, his voice strained.
I lie slack on the concrete.
“Now,” he says.
“I can’t get up,” I say, coolly, evenly.
“Are you going to leave? You’re a big man. I have to trust you. Or call the police.”
I nod my face along the smooth, cold floor.
He lifts his knees off my arm. Putting my palms next to my ribs, I lie on the floor a moment. Pushing myself up, I keep my eyes pegged to the door. The girls have armed themselves with mic stands. Certainly tells me what side you’re on.
“I’ll be back, ladies,” I whisper.
Walking directly out, I refuse to look at anyone.
“As conqueror.”
Chapter 54
Persistence and Determination Alone
—Scott—
As soon as I hit the street, I walk directly to the ‘L’, hiking up my shoulders against a wicked blast from an Alberta Clipper. The wind’s blowing down North Avenue, hitting my cheeks in a hard, brittle gush that feels sharp like slivers of ice. It stings. I turn my back, letting the wind whip the edges of my long coat in front of me.
“It doesn’t end like this,” I tell myself.
Right now I need a place to work from. Kenny’s. I’ll crash there for as long as it takes. We can work from there. Even rehearse if necessary. Not as convenient as the loft, but we’ll take that back soon enough. Mister Starks, you won’t be needing it anymore. It’ll be for my and Kenny’s band. The new Mercurial Visions.
This time of day, Kenny’ll be at work, so I catch the ‘L’ at Damen and head to the Loop, where I switch to the Howard line and get off at the Chicago–State Street stop.
Finally reaching Michigan Avenue, I pass under the faintly orange glow of the lights of Borders. I push through the revolving doors. Passing the racks of magazines and the thin crowd browsing the displays of best sellers and tabletop books, I ride the escalator down. Sliding my fingers through the opening of my coat, I ease each button off, one by one. The long coat spreads open as I stride to the information counter, where Kenny is standing. My palms still tingle from striking the concrete.
His eyes grow wide when he sees me approaching. He backs behind the counter and grabs the computer screen, holding it like a shield.
I snap to a stop directly in front of him and his frightened-doe eyes.
“I thought you’d told them,” he says. “This is my job. Please. I didn’t mean—”
“What do you mean?” I smile and then tap my fingers on the wooden countertop. “I’m here to talk business.”
Kenny regards me with suspicion. A natural-looking woman with her hair in a bun and a makeup-free face emerges from the doorway behind him. She glances at me and then makes a double take: an expression of do-I-know-you? appears.
“You’re …” she says, pointing.
“Yep.” I nod. “Scott Marshall.”
She beams. “Yes, yes. From—”
“Mercurial Visions. Exactly why I came to see your friend Kenny,” I say. His expression pleads. “What are you doing tomorrow?” I ask him.
“Why?” he asks, his voice small, almost whispering.
“We
’ve got a meeting. With Wax Trax! tomorrow. To tell them about ‘Fantasy in Black,’” I say. “We’ll need to be in the studio quickly. Like, within a week at most. And we might need some help from Unknown Vices. Probably will. We’ll discuss that with Wax Trax! at the meeting.”
“Um,” he says, looking lost.
“Now, I need someplace to crash for a couple of nights,” I say.
“What?”
“Nothing serious. We’ll talk about that later.”
“I don’t …”
“When do you get home today?” I ask.
“I don’t—”
“You owe me. Big time.”
His lips close pensively.
My nod beckons.
“Sure,” he says, finally. “I’ll be home about seven.”
“We’ll talk more when you get home,” I say. “Especially about the meeting. Oh, let your roomies know. I don’t want to get shot as an intruder. Capish?”
The girl looks at him, then me, and them him again, biting her lower lip.
He nods uncertainly.
“Remember,” I say, repeating Sammy’s favorite quote, “persistence and determination alone are omnipotent.”
• • • • •
At seven, I knock on Kenny’s apartment door. He lets me in.
In the living room, his two roommates are channel surfing. Young do-nothings, good-for-nothings. Fashion and clubs and nice hair: stereotypical queens. Don’t like you much.
“Let’s go into your room,” I say.
The roommates look at each other with I-told-you-so smirks and then get back to watching TV.
Soon enough you’ll be looking for a new roommate. Kenny’ll be living in the loft with me.
“Let’s talk some business,” I say as I close the door. The room’s small, but there is a chair, which I take. He sits on his bed.
“Can I have the phone?” I ask.
He hands it over, and I call Dave, my lawyer.
“So the meeting is tomorrow?” he asks.
“Yeah. And then we move to evict,” I say, glancing at Kenny, my new front man. He’s watching me with an expression of admiration. His eyes scintillate.
“That’ll take a while,” he said. “It’s not hard—only slow.”
A Perfect Blindness Page 38