by BJ Knapp
“I, um, started looking them over. I’ll have them finished tomorrow.” She gives me a look that says she’d expected them today. I hold my hand to my head as if to say “See? Headache.”
“First thing in the morning, okay?” she asks.
I nod and walk out of her office. It’s almost five, and all day long I’ve been daydreaming about walking in and finding the band congregated around the kitchen table working on a song. Is that what composing a new album is really like? Did they spend the day in my living room, lounging on Portia’s chaises, exchanging ideas? I picture one of them playing a riff on a guitar, and another leaping up and saying, “That’s it!” Then the rest of them sit bolt upright and play along. Once they’ve put the song together, they will inevitably call me in to be the first one to hear it. I will offer my opinion, which will ultimately decide if it would go on the new album.
I drive home in silence, lost in thought. When I pull into the driveway, I press the button on the garage door opener—and stop my car just short of running into a drum set. “No problem,” I say to myself. “It has to go somewhere, right? Better here than in the living room, anyway.”
I back out and park at the end of the driveway, so I won’t be blocked in tomorrow morning. These are the sacrifices one has to make when hosting a rock band. The band’s minivans aren’t in the driveway; they are probably all at Del’s. No crashing a songwriting session today, I guess. Maybe tomorrow. Until then, it might be nice to have the house to myself. I just got a new book from the library the other day; maybe I can sit out on the deck, crack into it, and enjoy the quiet before they all get home. After all, there are probably no chores to do, thanks to Angela the housekeeper—who arrived to make breakfast at five this morning. I imagine the house will be spotless and smell like lemons when I walk in.
Instead, I find the exact opposite. They must have had one hell of a party. Empty beer bottles cover every available surface; a half-eaten pizza is on the counter, the cold pepperoni grease staining the cheese into an unappetizing grayish color. Vito is dozing on the floor next to an empty pizza box. I have no idea how much he ate, but judging from how distended his stomach is, I’m guessing it was a lot. I feel his stomach, and he groans uncomfortably. I know that he’ll probably throw up in the middle of the night, so I check under the sink to make sure we have carpet cleaner, just in case. He has no control when it comes to the smell of pizza. Not many of us do, right?
“Wanna go out, Vito?” I ask. He barely thumps his tail against the floor once and groans.
As I try coaxing my dog to go with me to the front door, I hear a dripping noise coming from the hallway off the kitchen. I step over Vito and pick up the pizza box, toss it onto the counter, and sidestep a pile of greasy paper towels that are strewn on the floor. When I throw open the door to the half bath, I see the toilet is clogged and overflowing, and there is an inch of water on the floor. The rug in front of the sink is soaked through. I pick it up and carry it down the hall to toss into the washing machine.
I steel myself as I tiptoe my way through the puddle of water, reach behind the toilet, and turn off the valve. I jump back to dry ground just outside the bathroom door then kick off my shoes and wipe them clean with a paper towel in the kitchen. I wonder whether I should throw them out and decide instead to take them outside and hose them down. From the upstairs hall closet, I grab a few beach towels and spread them on the floor, watching them become instantly waterlogged. In the kitchen, I take the phone from the counter and punch in Toni’s cell number. While I wait for her to pick up, I shove the already sopping-wet towels across the floor with the tip of my toes and try to absorb as much as I can.
“Brenda, before you say anything—” Toni answers.
“What do you mean? You intentionally left my house this way? Toni, I have an inch of water on the bathroom floor.”
“Angela is on her way, as is a plumber.”
“Toni, give me one good reason why a group of grown men should have left my home in this condition.”
“I am so sorry, Brenda. See, the boys were celebrating the first day of recording. It won’t happen again.”
“Are they going to celebrate like this every day? Didn’t they celebrate enough last night?” Gee, what happened to being respectful guests in our home? That notion barely lasted twelve hours.
We hang up. I glance out the bathroom window and, for the first time, see the big burn mark in the grass in the daylight. I’m sure Tim already checked it out from our bedroom window this morning; I’m also sure he isn’t happy about it. Then I wonder what the celebration will look like once they’ve finished recording, if this is what they do when they’ve just started. Will our homeowner’s insurance policy even cover “act of rock star?”
I grab a few more towels and continue sopping up the puddle. A few moments later, Angela arrives at the back door, and soon after that, the plumber comes in the front. I glance at my watch and realize Tim will be home in about fifteen minutes. I start to panic. He is going to be very pissed off about this. I call him on his cell to try and head him off at the pass and turn on the charm.
“What do you say to dinner and a movie tonight?” I ask.
“Hmm... I was planning on a quiet night at home,” he says, yawning. “I’m really tired.”
“Quiet? With rock stars in the house? I think you’ll have better luck with a quiet night out.”
“Well, I have been wanting to see the new Star Trek movie.”
“Okay, then, let’s go.”
“Bren, you hate Star Trek. Is something wrong?”
“No,” I reply too quickly, still mopping up the bathroom floor, now with paper towels as the beach towels are over-saturated. I put them in the sink, figuring the water will at least run down the drain until we can get them into the washer. “I just figured you’d want to get away from the rock-star invasion and thought I’d take you out.”
“That’s nice of you,” he says with a sigh. I can tell he is smiling, and that makes me smile into the mirror. We agree to grab a burrito from Cilantros and then head to the theater. By the time I get off the phone, Angela has already cleaned half the kitchen in a blur of efficiency.
“I have to go keep Tim occupied,” I say to her, “while you and the plumber sort this mess out. Not a word about this to Tim, okay?”
“No problem,” she says. “I take it Tim won’t be impressed with your house getting the rock-star treatment, eh?”
“Um... no.” I ask her to wash the clump of towels in the bathroom sink. I really don’t want to leave any evidence of Hydra’s crimes. Then I wash my hands in the kitchen sink, generously lathering them with antibacterial soap. I suppose it could be worse. What if they had decided to throw the TV out the window or skid a motorcycle on the hardwood floors? “Will you also let Toni know that we went out and that I need everything to look normal by the time we get back?”
“Mrs. Dunkirk?” the plumber calls out from the bathroom. “Do you know what’s stuck down here?” I walk down the hallway and stand at the bathroom doorway. Mr. Plumber is peering down into the toilet, apparently unsure of whether he wants to put his hand in there. Well, I wouldn’t want to put my hand in there, either.
“I have no idea,” I reply.
“I was a janitor at one of the clubs in Providence,” he says, shoving a plunger up and down in the toilet and then peering inside. “I used to find used needles jammed up in the toilet. I just want to know what I’m getting into here. You’ve got some musicians here, right?”
“Yeah, we do,” I say, sighing. “But I don’t think they’re into needles.” I hope my tone is enough to reassure him, as he continues to peer suspiciously into the toilet.
I remember reading in Keith’s book that they got into cocaine back in the ‘80s. Every rock band was into cocaine in the ‘80s, though. I wonder if they still are. I honestly hadn’t thought to ask that when we made the arrangements. Everyone was more concerned about making the house suitable and making sure I wouldn’
t tell anyone that they were staying here.
I glance at my watch. “Oh shit, Tim’s waiting. I’ve got to go. Good luck.” I nod toward the toilet. The plumber is still jamming the plunger up and down. I don’t even want to know what’s in there.
I sit through Star Trek with Tim, but all I can think about is whether Angela and the plumber have managed to get the house cleaned up. I hope Tim hasn’t noticed me constantly looking at my watch, but if he has, he probably thinks it’s because I’m bored to pieces with the movie. I try to call Toni from the ladies’ room, but it goes straight to voice mail. I am getting irritated. How can she turn her phone off, when she knows that I am out keeping Tim distracted while my house gets put back together? I pace in the ladies’ room for a few minutes until I figure that, if I stay any longer, Tim will wonder where I am.
By the time we get home, Hydra is behaving in a civilized manner. They are clearing the plates from dinner, and all traces of the day’s earlier festivities are gone. I breathe a sigh of relief. Tim looks at me with a puzzled expression. I shrug, and grab some lemonade from the fridge. I must ask Angela how she makes it. I doubt this is Country Time powder in here.
“Brenda,” Toni says, coming into the kitchen. “I just wanted to apologize to you about today.”
“What happened today?” Tim asks.
“Oh, nothing,” I reply, forcing Toni to listen and, hopefully, not say anything. I’m sure she must realize that Tim can’t know about this, but I can’t be too careful. “They just forgot to tell me that Jeff’s drum set was in the garage,” I say. “I almost ran into it when I got home, and I got a little mad over it.” Tim looks at me as if to say “you’re lying,” but doesn’t say anything out loud.
Vito whines at the back door. Hopefully Angela or one of the crew members let him out while we were gone. I am sure he is still uncomfortable after eating all that pizza. Tim calls him to the front door; we decided to let him out the front for the time being, seeing as the crew wouldn’t want Vito doing his business in their camp. I watch out the window while he paces uncomfortably on the front lawn, something he usually does when he needs to throw up. I hear Tim open the door and ask Vito if he’s okay before stepping outside himself and closing the door.
I follow Toni into the living room; she sits beside Erik on the couch and opens her laptop. I stand.
“Brenda, how was your day?” Erik purrs.
I have a feeling he knows exactly how my day was, so I take the bait. “My day at work was fine. Coming home was another story.” I pause. “The way you guys left my house was unacceptable.”
“I understand,” Erik replies as he scrolls through his iPhone. I don’t think he really understands or cares, but what can I say? I turn on my heel, leave Erik and Toni in the living room, and head up to bed.
And with that, everything is fine for about a week or two. Tim and I settle in to having rock stars in the house. Tim grows less irritated with them. Basically, Tim and the band have an unspoken agreement that they will just avoid each other. That definitely makes my life more comfortable, as well. I have fun getting to know the band members and the crew.
We start to fall into a groove, where Tim and I eat with them every night; I think Tim might be enjoying himself just a little bit, too. I don’t think he’ll ever admit to it, and I don’t want to press the issue. The friendly banter around the dinner table is contagious, and I can see why they insist on staying in a house together while recording. It must help them work together better, if they’re having fun together, too.
Then, two weeks into it, the band randomly breaks the peace treaty.
It’s late, and Tim and I are in bed. I wake from a sound sleep to a loud crash downstairs. Vito stands at attention at the foot of the bed with his hackles raised, growling softly and cocking his ear. How would he respond to an actual intruder in the house? Beagles aren’t often used for home security; Vito would probably try to distract a burglar with his demands for a belly rub until the police arrive.
Tim sits upright in bed. “What the hell was that?”
“I think it was rock stars,” I say with a yawn. I look at the alarm clock. It’s 2:30 in the morning.
“Well, they belong to you. Tell them to shut the fuck up.” He rolls over and jams a pillow over his head. He’s right. There is no hope of playing rock-paper-scissors to try and get out of it.
I sigh and put my robe on. When I get downstairs, I see that every light is on, and the silver candlesticks from the dining room table are missing. In the kitchen, I find Ben holding a drunken Keith upright. Ben is trying to reason with him, but Keith isn’t having any of it. Keith is trying to light a joint off of one of the lit candles; Ben’s trying to tell him that he’s already had enough.
“Brenda!” Keith raises an empty beer bottle, and the joint falls from his lips onto the floor. “Fancy a smoke?” Ben wrenches the bottle out of Keith’s hand and sets it on the counter. Then he picks up the joint and jams it into his pocket before Keith notices. Keith stumbles toward me and slips his arm around my waist.
I shove Keith off of me. “Ben, get that out of my house. Tim’s going to have a cow if he knows you brought that in here.”
“What do you expect?” Keith slurs. “We’re rock stars, not altar boys.”
Just as Keith finishes his sentence, I hear giggling coming from the living room. I face Ben but don’t ask out loud. Instead, I follow the sound, while Ben tries to stop me.
“Brenda, don’t go in there... nooooo!” He tries to grab my arm, but I slip out of his grip. He loses his hold on Keith, too, and has to lunge toward him to keep him from falling down. I storm into the living room—and see half-dressed women draped over my furniture. Two of them are older women with their cleavages shoved up in an effort to look younger. The third looks like she’s barely old enough to drive. She has caked her eyes in smoky makeup, but she’s so young, she looks as if she was playing dress-up in her mother’s makeup before going out.
“Who are you?” I ask. Might as well get to the point, right?
“Hi, honey,” one of the older women says. Her eyelashes look like tarantula legs under all that mascara. Her cleavage tumbles out of her skintight corset, and I can see the edge of her nipple. “Love your robe. It’s very Heff.” She looks me up and down. I know exactly what these women are doing here, and I am not happy about it. By the way she’s checking me out, she’s probably calculating how much more money she would make if I were thrown into the mix.
I look down and wonder what it is about my fuzzy magenta robe that is so “Heff.” “Ben?” I ask. “What’s going on in here?” Let’s see what he has to say for himself.
“They’re here to help us shelebrate,” Keith slurs.
I turn to Keith and Ben, suddenly furious. “Are you serious? You brought hookers to my house? Come on, guys, really?” It’s almost comical that they are living up to the rock star stereotype. Maybe someday I’ll look back on this and laugh. Someday. Not today, though.
“Hey, we’re not hookers,” the other older woman pipes up. “We’re escorts.” She sits up straight and crosses her legs at the ankles. The way she sits reminds me of the time I went to an afternoon tea with Tim’s mom. All of the women sat perched on the edge of their seats with their legs crossed at the ankle. They held their fine china teacups delicately with manicured hands and nibbled on their pastries without messing up their lipstick. I notice that this hooker was at least kind enough to set her beer on a coaster, rather than directly onto my table, and I wonder briefly about her upbringing. “We’re just here to have a little fun,” she says.
“Oh, Sandy, can it,” the first hooker says. “Quit trying to be something you’re not. The fact is we get paid to do certain things. Get over it.”
Sandy sips her beer while the young hooker sitting on the other end of the couch squirms in her seat. She looks familiar, but I can’t place where I’ve seen her. Our eyes meet for a moment until hers dart away. She turns her attention to the black-and-white photo o
f Vito on the wall by the couch. Okay, I think, time for these bitches to go.
“Well, I’d like it if you left,” I say, opening the door. “Drive safely.” I gesture outside.
The women stand up and head for the door. Surely they’ve seen this exact scene play out dozens of times before in their line of work.
“Bye, Keithy!” they call. “Bye Benny!”
I hold my hand up to quiet them, hoping they don’t get any louder and wake Tim. The young one still hasn’t said anything. She slouches behind the other girls and tugs at her skirt, pulling it down from where she’d presumably hiked it up earlier in the evening. I look closer at her face, but she is still avoiding eye contact with me, pulling her low-cut V-neck top closed to cover her meager cleavage. I know I’ve seen her before; it’s starting to bother me.
I start to say something, but Keith lurches into action and lunges for her. “You can shtay” he slurs. “I like you.”
“Keith, stop.” I pull him away from her and motion for her to leave. I can’t help but wonder if there’s been anyone since Tamsen. Probably hookers and strippers, judging by tonight. He’s a good-looking guy and still semi-famous. Why would he have to hire someone? He’s probably just going for the easy target; he doesn’t want to take the time to get to know a woman before getting her into bed. A brief flicker of gratitude crosses the girl’s face.
“I know you from somewhere,” I say to her.
“I hear that a lot,” she says, so cool she seems unfazed. She steps out the door and glances at me for a second before joining the other women already making their way to the car. I memorize the license plate and watch them drive away, but it probably won’t matter: Sandy’s driving. I am still trying to place the girl’s face when Ben speaks up. I kind of wish I had Google in my brain, so I could look her up.
“Sorry, Brenda,” Ben says. He slips between me and Keith. “Okay, you drunk bastard,” he says to Keith. “Off to bed.”