Beside the Music

by BJ Knapp

  “If you breathe a word of this to Tim...” I hiss.

  “Don’t worry, Brenda,” Ben says. “I don’t want to piss him off, either.”

  I go back up the stairs and slip back into bed next to Tim. He moans softly, still half asleep. “What was that?”

  “Nothing, honey. Go back to sleep.” I figure the less Tim knows about hookers and weed in his home, the better off he’ll be. I’m sure Aria will freak out if she learns that hookers were in our house, let alone rock stars and pot. I am not exactly thrilled about it, either, but I think this will be one of those things that I’ll tell Tim about later. Way later.

  Chapter 14

  IN THE MORNING, I walk into the kitchen, surprisingly ahead of schedule seeing as how I was awake in the middle of the night. I pour myself a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, courtesy of Angela. Ben and Erik are at the kitchen table, poring over scattered papers, deep in discussion.

  “I’m telling you,” Erik is saying, “these lyrics are just too damn dark.” I pause, mid-sip, and listen.

  “But they go well with the feeling of the song,” Ben replies.

  “That’s nice. But people don’t give a damn about the feeling of the song. We all know it’s the lyrics that sell the song.”

  “Brenda,” Ben turns to me, “I need a second opinion. Will you please read these lyrics and tell us what you think? Erik thinks Keith’s gotten dark in his old age.”

  Here is the moment I’ve been waiting for since they moved in! But the timing is a bit weird. I planned on giving them hell this morning before Tim got out of the shower. Bringing hookers around was definitely not cool.

  They stare at me expectantly. What can I say? I’m a sucker for rock stars making album-altering decisions around my kitchen table. I feel my heart beat faster as Ben hands me the printout. I wonder how seriously they will take my opinion. Will my input determine whether the song makes it onto the album? Will they ask me about other songs too? Would I be crazy to think that the entire future of the new album depends on this one moment, and my feedback could change everything?

  Twisted metal

  Broken glass

  I stumble in a haze

  The smell of leaking gas

  You are broken

  I can’t make you whole

  You are broken

  Trapped inside your soul

  Erik and Ben look at me expectantly. I read the lines a few more times and try to formulate a response. “Yes, it is dark,” I begin. Erik raises his eyebrows at Ben as if to say, “See?” “But I think that’s just what you guys need right now.” Then Ben returns the same look to Erik.

  “What do you mean?” snaps Erik. He leans in aggressively, as though let down that I didn’t side with him. Everyone is supposed to side with Erik in all matters pertaining to the band.

  It actually feels a bit good to not side with him. He totally blew me off when I tried to express my irritation about the way the band left my house the first day they were here. He hasn’t exactly been a gracious house guest since then, either, the way he leaves his trash around for Angela to clean up.

  I feel my stomach lurch; the butterflies are waking up, and my hands shake with an adrenaline rush. This is a big deal, and I don’t want to take it lightly—someday I’ll hear this song on the radio, and I’ll know that it was this moment that gave birth to it, that I helped make it happen. I have been daydreaming about this moment since Erik first asked if the band could stay in my house.

  I clear my throat and take a sip of my juice, just to slow myself down and provide the singular response that will change the direction of this song. But I can tell that I am also building the suspense: Erik and Ben are leaning in, waiting for me to elaborate. I admit it feels nice to be the center of attention and have them on the edge of their seats, waiting for me to respond. My head starts to buzz a bit with the power. I cannot remember the last time I had two grown men hanging on my every word. In fact, I don’t think that has ever happened. This is what they must feel on stage night after night, with a crowd of adoring faces waiting to find out what song they’ll play next. I wish I could prolong this sensation just a bit longer: it feels too damn good.

  “Well, everyone knows what Keith’s been through.” I pause; they lean in closer. “It’s controversial, but it’s a very real part of Keith’s life. I mean, we all have this image of the glamorous life of a rock star. Keith’s shown us the real him, and how he responded to a tragedy that really was his fault. And everyone out there who is calling him a drunk driver and drug-addicted loser is demanding an explanation.”

  “So?” Erik asks.

  “Well, how does the story end, Erik? At what point do we get to see that the accident affected Keith?”

  “That’s really not so important. I want the song to sell.”

  “The world still thinks Keith is a jerk,” I shoot back. “People don’t want to buy music from people they don’t like. That’s why I wrote my fan letter in the first place. I read his book, and I am waiting to see if he’s grown or changed. With this song, you can win over your listeners way faster than allowing him to brood about it forever.” I hear a sound and turn just in time to see Keith duck out of the kitchen doorway. “Oh shit!” I turn back to Erik and Ben. “Do you think he heard me?”

  Ben nods.

  “Should I go talk to him?”

  “No,” Erik says. He clears his throat. “Better to let that one go.” He points back to the printout. “So you think the lyrics should stay?”

  “Yes, I do. It’s obvious that Keith still needs to get this out. And believe me, the listening public is interested in the story. That alone will sell it.”

  “Well, I’m still not convinced this is the right way to go,” Erik says, standing. “We need something people will want to sing along to, and not his belly-aching.” He walks to the back door and calls out to Toni, then heads toward Tent City. Toni, who is standing a short distance away, wrapping up a phone call on Bluetooth, holds up a finger toward him, indicating, “just one moment.” Does she sleep with that thing on?

  Ben sips his tea. “He’s wrong,” he says.

  “Agreed.”

  “He needs to think it was his idea to let the lyrics stay. You’ll see—it’ll get done.” He pauses to take another sip of his tea. “Listen, Brenda, I’m really sorry about last night. Did we wake up Tim?”

  I sip my juice and try to formulate a response. I don’t want to say it was okay, because it wasn’t. As exciting as it is to have rock stars living in my house, so far Tim has been right: it’s a pain in the ass. But I am trying not to let the logistical annoyances get to me. I just gave them my opinion about Keith’s lyrics and their salability, and it was unlike anything I’ve ever done before. It is incredibly validating to have Erik, who probably never cared about what anybody else thought, lean in and make eye contact with me, absorbing my viewpoint, even if he did say he wasn’t convinced. It doesn’t seem to me that he does that very often. I can’t wait to hear the song on the radio; I am pretty sure I just rescued it from the cutting-room floor.

  “I can explain, if you like.” Ben’s voice brings me back from daydreaming about riding in my car with the windows down, listening to that song. “About last night,” he says. I nod, although I’m already pretty sure it was just a classic case of the rock-star sense of entitlement. They wanted to party with a bunch of hookers, and it could have gone way worse. They could have brought them upstairs, and Tim and I would have heard them from our bedroom. That would have ended badly.

  “Yesterday was the anniversary of the day Tamsen threw Keith out,” Ben says.

  “So he hires hookers to get over it? Can you imagine if Tim had seen them here last night? He would have called the cops. That would have killed the election for him, Ben.”

  “He tends to spend that day fucked up,” he continues, apparently not stopping to consider what I am saying. “At least we’re all here to keep an eye on him. But he doesn’t always think through what he’s
doing. I’m so sorry.”

  I still don’t want to say it’s okay, but I can feel it on the tip of my tongue. I need to be strong here, and not instantly feel sorry for Keith because this is the anniversary of one of his worst days. Tim always says I am sympathetic for the wrong reasons; here I go again. I should be mad at them for bringing those women into my house.

  I check my watch and note that it’s my designated shower time and leave the kitchen. Keith is sitting on the bottom stair, writing in his journal. I sit beside him. Under normal circumstances, I’d have every right to be pissed. I should be pissed. They brought hookers and weed into my house last night. That’s just what Tim and I need: for the cops to show up and arrest a bunch of prostitutes on our front lawn. To have that kind of controversy show up at our door would make Tim a laughing stock on the local news, and his chances for state Senate would be thrown out the window. But these aren’t normal circumstances, and now that I know the whole story, I can’t be completely pissed off, can I? Even though it’s been awhile, and even though he wrote the book about his experiences, he is still hurting. What can I do in this situation? Kick him while he’s down?

  “Keith, Ben told me about the anniversary. I’m sorry.”

  He looks up from his journal and meets my gaze. “Thank you for saying so,” he whispers. Tears fill my eyes. “It never makes sense. You know, thanking people when they say they’re sorry.”

  “I know,” I say. “I thought the same thing when I lost my mom to cancer ten years ago.”

  “I had no idea. I am so sorry, Brenda.” He pauses. “I couldn’t imagine life without my mum. I talk to her at least twice a week. She’s the only one who didn’t give me any shit after everything happened with Tamsen and Damien.”

  “At least you had someone in your corner,” I say with a shrug. “I’m sure it was a chaotic time for you.”

  “It was. I am so appreciative of her.” He pauses. “Were you close with your mum?”

  “I was twenty-five when she died, and she didn’t get to see me and Tim get married. I feel like I missed out on the adult relationship I could have had with her. Like, I was still in the ‘just moved out of home and don’t bug me’ phase of my live. I wish I could have talked to her one more time, you know?”

  “I wonder if I’ll ever have that kind of relationship with Damien.” He stares out the window.

  Most normal people would still be pretty mad at Keith. And I know I should be. He brought drugs and prostitutes into my home. That is definitely overstepping the line between polite houseguest and raging asshole. But he is being so human with me right now. I wish I could record this moment and show it to the world. This is what they all need to see; not the spoiled rock star who expects to have everything handed to him. I know that, if given the chance, I can be the one to help him look like a decent human being. I can be the one to help him get back into the good graces of his fans. It’s not about publicity; it’s so much more. Sure, I can change the public’s perception of him, but what I really want to do is to change his attitude and change his life for the better.

  I reach out and squeeze his arm. Time for a bit of honesty to get him started on his new path. “I’m not sure that acting in the way you have been for the last few days will answer those questions for you, Keith. At least Damien is still alive. You have the chance to make a relationship with Damien happen. But it’s not going to happen like this. You need to make the effort here.”

  Without saying a word, Keith stands up and walks into the kitchen. I go after him.

  “I’m sorry, Keith. Clearly, I overstepped.” If I want him to listen to me, I need to not crush him like that.

  He’s by the back door, putting his shoes on. He stands and points an accusing finger at me. “You have no idea what I’ve been through,” he hisses. “Just because you read my book doesn’t mean you know me.” Then he walks out the door, slamming it behind him.

  Wow. That was a bit intense. Kind of rude, actually. I open the door again and step out onto the deck. I spot him walking toward the woods. “Yeah, Keith,” I yell after him. “Maybe I don’t know you. And that’s the problem. You won’t let anyone know you.” The crew looks up from Tent City. I am sure I look crazy, standing out here on the deck in my bathrobe, shouting across the lawn at Keith. Toni even pulls her Bluetooth out of her ear and throws me a puzzled look.

  Okay, enough drama for one day. It’s time to get to work; I go back inside. As I walk up the stairs, it crosses my mind that Keith didn’t apologize to me for last night. I wonder how much of it he actually remembers. I wonder if he actually cares. His reaction is disappointing. I thought I could actually get through to him, but he just walked away. Maybe he’s not ready for my brand of honesty. Operation Fix Keith is going to be harder than I thought, but I will not give up on him.

  After I get dressed, I head back to the kitchen and find that Ben has made an egg on toast for me. “Eat up, Brenda!” he says. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day!” He laughs.

  “Thanks,” I say, biting into it. “Mmmm... this is good. I should have sent you a fan letter, instead.”

  “So, have you had a good talk with Keith, then?” he asks. I am about to answer that I didn’t really feel that it was a good talk at all and don’t feel that he was at all sorry for last night—but then Erik walks in and grabs a banana from the rack on the counter. I clam up. I just don’t feel right talking about Keith in front of Erik.

  “Ben, have you done your yoga? We need those vocal chords fresh,” Erik warns.

  “Yes, I have.”

  “What are you going to sing today?” I ask. “That song we were talking about earlier?”

  “Yes,” Erik says, gazing out the kitchen window. “Keith’s only finished writing a few of the songs, and now you’ve sent him on walk about.” Seriously? He’s blaming me for Keith’s little temper tantrum this morning? Wow, talk about enabling behavior.

  “Bren, you’re going to be late,” Tim warns, coming into the kitchen, saving me.

  “Okay,” I say, leaning in to give him a kiss. “Bye-bye, love. See you tonight.” I turn to Ben. “Good luck today. I hope it goes well.”

  I am halfway to work when I realize that Ben and Keith have worked their magic on me. I never did get a chance to express my irritation over last night. Maybe I’m too easily seduced by being a rock-and-roll muse.

  Chapter 15

  “OH, SHIT,” I MUTTER TO MYSELF as I approach our house after work. “How the hell did this happen?” I press my hand to my forehead as I pull into our driveway. I know Tim will go berserk when he gets home.

  My day was bad enough. Baxter hates the rooster. They want to use a clam for the Made in Rhode Island logo. An icky gray clam with googly eyes on it. Who the hell thinks of a clam when they think of Rhode Island? Everyone thinks of Rhode Island Reds. I have the market research to prove it. But no. The client wants a shitty-looking clam on their product packaging. Nobody is going to get it—from far away, it looks like a gray lump of shit. Amanda flipped out on me about it, as if I can control the client’s opinion. Apparently it’s my job to control Baxter’s thoughts.

  And now, chaos reigns at home. I managed to get rid of the hookers last night, but I have no idea how the hell I am going to make this go away. Surely the neighbors have noticed, and they’re probably not going to be happy about it, either. Hopefully they won’t call the cops. God, what if the press catches wind of this?

  As I pull down the driveway, a crowd of people gathers around my car. I have to stop, just to avoid running anyone over. There has to be at least twenty to thirty people clustered on my front yard. They slap their open palms on the driver’s side window, trying to get my attention. I can feel them jostle the car, and I am afraid they’re going to break through the glass. How the hell did Hydra get through the ‘80s? I am sure this sort of thing happened all the time back then, and there were way more than twenty or thirty people. They must have had one hell of a security detail, not to mention car wind
ows made of shatter-proof glass.

  “It’s Brenda Dunkirk!” one female member of the crowd calls out. “She’s an old friend of Keith’s!” She holds up a picture that was taken at the Stone Yacht Club. It’s not a flattering picture: my ass is sticking out because, apparently, I was halfway to standing at the time the paparazzi stormed the restaurant. Not my best side.

  She called me “an old friend of Keith’s?” Really? Then I suddenly realize: I don’t really have time to reflect on the ridiculous notion that Keith and I are old friends. The group of people swarms along the driver’s side. It’s absolutely terrifying. Are they going to climb on top of my car? Are they going to lift it from one side and tip it over? I honk the horn and gesture for them to get out of the way so I can pull my car all the way in. Thankfully, they part, and I am able to drive up to the house.

  “Hi, Brenda!” A woman approaches me as I’m getting out of the car. I am starting to get sick of people knowing my name without my having introduced myself. It’s awkward. “Are they inside? Can I come in and meet them?”

  “I don’t think so.” The crowd surrounds me, and my heart begins to race. I don’t have the security of the car anymore. This could get real bad real fast. “I really think you should leave, before I call the police,” I say, threatening. “This is private property.”

  “But I have to go inside with you,” she insists. “Keith knows me.”

  I don’t know what to say to this woman. Maybe Keith knows her, maybe he doesn’t. It’s not my place to be his bouncer. “Maybe you should call him then.”

  “We don’t need a phone to communicate,” she says. “We’ve transcended beyond the telephone.” I consider asking, but I don’t really want to know. She pulls out a copy of Friendly Fire on vinyl from her tote bag. “Do you know the song on side two? The one called ‘Almost’? He wrote that one for me.” I am pretty sure he wrote it for Tamsen. But who am I to say?