Weekend at Prism

by John Patrick Kavanagh

  “Stop it! Stop it!” Cam moaned, the pounding just as hard but not as fast.

  “Did it ever occur to you that something had gone foul in your life? Did you ever...”

  “Please, Mickey! Don’t!”

  “Hush, servant of rock star,” he responded as she collapsed face down and continued to bay. He eyed Spotswood again. “Have you ever snuck a little, itty-bitty sniff,” he continued, placing his nose briefly at his armpit, “of that private place of yours? Are you ready for a change?”

  “I…am…ready!” Spotswood shouted.

  “Then please try our product,” he concluded, picking up the prop. “Boom Stick Deodorant. The way to beat it with a stick!”

  Stanton, not more than a month before the announcement at Yankee Stadium, signed a lucrative lead spokesperson contract with the developers of Boom Stick who’d decided to go with the tag line, The way to beat it with a stick! in all the advertising of their product, adding a hockey goalie and a symphony conductor to round out the trio of endorsers. The others faded from the lineup after the first run of television, internet and magazine ads, but Stanton’s unassuming, goofy bearing made him an instant hit with consumers and provided an income now greater than the considerable fees he charged when sitting in on other performers’ recordings. In two months, his exclusivity clause would lapse, allowing him to pursue offers he’d received from a drum company, a fast-food chicken operation, a clothing manufacturer, a lawn food operation and the city of San Diego.

  “The chicken people are offering me the world,” he answered in response to Spotswood’s question.

  “And all the drumsticks he can eat,” Cam added, standing up and rubbing her husband’s stomach, kissing him on his neck. “You’re getting a little bulge there, babe,” she added.

  “I know,” he said, comically extending his belly as he tugged his trousers an inch or two lower, oinking and snorting. “But I love dat Cammy’s home cookin’. And my blimpness aside, we promised a few quick photos with our neighbors down the Corregidor.” He took his wife’s hand and pulled her toward the door. “Catch you later, man.”

  “See you tomorrow, Jip,” Cam winked.

  He waved as they left, then followed Christie to the couch. Her green eyes were troubled; her entire body soaked in a certain resignation.

  “Mom said to say Hi if I saw you.”

  He lowered his eyes. No one in the world meant more to Christie. Every other relationship - even with Blair - paled in comparison. She was devoted to her parent, a loyalty that had seen Mrs. Cramer though cancer surgery twice, a broken hip, and the slow, inevitable slide into the twilight of her life. Though the singer could easily afford a dozen, 24-hour-a-day hired companions and a live-in doctor, she instead chose to be her mother’s confidant and pal, never going more than a few days without flying back to have lunch with her when CCBBA was touring, never letting a day pass without spending an hour with her on the phone. Christie’d been willing to forsake the audition with The Alliance to help her mother through her first week home from the hospital, had walked away, in part, from one of the biggest draws in entertainment when she discovered her mother’s next operation might not turn the tide.

  “How is she?” he asked, hoping the news was good.

  “Not bad,” she responded, her eyes brightening a bit. “We’ve been having a great time lately. Started a croquet league in the neighborhood. The games go on forever. We had one that lasted four hours last week. Mrs. Dundee lapsed into a story about her childhood between her second point and a roquet, went on close to an hour, but her and Mom won the game. Eventually.” She laughed.

  “How about Billy?”

  Her face went blank. “He got worse,” she sighed. “Worse than worse. Like shredded seven ways to Sunday.”

  The story she’d told him, the last time they talked at length in New York, was sad and a bit frightening. It wasn’t in his article about CCBBA’s hiatus and had never, he knew, been told anywhere else. While so many diseases had been conquered, acute schizophrenia, at least Blair’s, wasn’t on the list.

  The problem first surfaced when the band regrouped after a break following the first leg of their tour the summer before. Christie was determined to spend the entire time with her mother, so Blair disappeared to contemplate the reality of his sudden stardom turned superstardom and his personal intermission was a busy one. He purchased a large parcel of land outside of Jackson Hole, Wyoming and commissioned an architect and contractor to drop all of their other commitments to design then build a rococo-Egyptian house topped with a silver-plated pyramid for him…and maybe for Christie. He wrote close to a score of songs, each one meandering, introspective nonsense. He began to wear his stage makeup without the stage, his rock-hero clothes without the spotlight. And finally, there were the radio broadcasts heard only by him, emanating from his private station located deep within the pyramid of Khufu at Giza. “Out of his god damn mind,” she’d described him, a similar diagnosis rendered by the psychiatrist she finally persuaded him to see.

  But Billy’d have none of it. None of the medications that might bring him in line with everyone else’s reality, none of the therapy that might pull him away from the nightmare world he’d entered. “I’m not the one who needs enlightenment,” he’d moaned. “It’s all of the voices who need help.”

  For the first few days of their trip to Paris after CCBBA’s swan song, he seemed more rational, reverting to the boy with whom she’d fallen in love. But then he changed back while they walked through the Tuilleries into the haunted soul who craved nothing more than his daily communion with his personal disc jockeys - Ramses and Akhenaton - and the drive-time voice, Tutankhamen. Christie had ventured it was amazing they could speak in English. “And it’s amazing you’ve turned into such an insensitive bitch,” he’d responded with an anger he rarely displayed. She left him and returned to the States the next morning, calling Spotswood to relate the ending.

  And that was the last time he’d heard her voice.

  He’d emailed her a few times after that, having never discovered her new phone number, suggesting they get together. She always wrote back short, almost business-like responses; never showing her hand, never offering more of an explanation.

  He’d fallen for her the night they met just as millions of men would fall for her in the ensuing years. He thought he was in love with her as Coldmeadow’s car sped out of the parking lot. He never told her because he was too afraid she’d tell him they shouldn’t see each other again. He’d carried the flame since then, a small votive candle flickering in the recesses of his heart, flickering at a shrine that he was the first to see. Were it not for him, it wouldn’t have happened. But it was much too late in the day to change it. Christie now belonged to the world.

  “So what’s going on?” he asked.

  “You want something? A drink, something to eat?” she replied absently.

  “No.”

  They sat a moment. Then he asked his question again.

  “A little heavy on the security here, huh?” she said.

  “A little.”

  “Ought to be quite a show,” she said. “Geno doing sound and effects. Our one-on-one with Obsession. A lineup of special guests that’re gonna blow the ceiling off the Oasis.”

  “Like who?”

  She smiled knowingly, but didn’t answer. “Sure you don’t want something?”

  “Just an explanation.” He paused. “Not for a story. I’m just curious.”

  Christie stood, stretched, then entered one of the four bedrooms that came with the suite, returning with a black envelope in her hand. She tossed it onto the coffee table in front of the couch and looked to her guest. “Last call. I’m gonna to have a Pepsi. Want one?”

  He nodded.

  She walked to a hidden refrigerator on the facing wall and removed two cans, popping the tab on hers after handing the other to him. “Sometimes, Jonathan,” she began as she sat down next to him, “and I don’t mean this against you, beca
use you know I love you dearly, but sometimes I wish you’d never written that story for Rolling Stone.”

  I love you dearly, he thought. I love you dearly.

  “I apologize,” he shrugged.

  “What do I say in that song? I can never take it back, those days of yesterday?”

  Polanski, she said, had called her the previous May to outline the proposal. Franklin Potcheck wanted CCBBA—possibly solo, possibly with supporting acts—to headline the New Year’s Eve concert at Prism as long as all seven members were on board, and she was now the final thumb’s-up required. He told her it’d be the biggest payday in her life, to be augmented by another18 date tour over the late spring and early summer. If she agreed, she’d have a certified check for half of her cut of the Prism money within 48 hours, the rest to be paid the day before the gig.

  May? She must be confused. That came down in October.

  She hadn’t seen Blair since Paris, though still talked to him on the phone a few of times a week. For all she knew - for all anyone knew, except for his phone calls to her - Billy had dropped off the face of the earth. No one lived in the house in Jackson Hole save a grounds keeper and his wife. Nobody had seen him, heard from him, listened to his endless musings about Freud and Camus and Aquinas and Lerman. Nobody knew the confusion and emptiness in his voice. Nobody knew him anymore. He was gone, a whisper on a late-night satellite downlink. He’d never mentioned a reunion, never hinted at the idea of performing again.

  “And?” he asked.

  “And I said. ‘Show me the first check’.” She took a long sip from the can. “I cashed it, it cleared, and here I am.” She lifted the envelope from the table, setting it beside her guest. “It’s an expensive world, Jip. I’ve got responsibilities. This doesn’t last forever.” She paused. “And here’s the rest.”

  He gingerly picked it up, carefully opening it and removing the chit. Certified. Potcheck Enterprises Games. Pay To: Christine P. Cramer. Three million six hundred forty-two thousand eight hundred eighty-five dollars.

  He wanted to ask another question, place a piece in his uncompleted jigsaw, when he heard the door open. Stanton called, “Here I come, here I come, ready or not,” then cautiously entered the living room. “Sorry, guys. We got a meeting with Mr. Polanski and Mr. Lera, Chris,” he apologized.

  “I know, Mick. I’ll be there in a bit. Go ahead.”

  He bowed, turned and left. She glanced to Spotswood and smiled.

  “Have you been working out or something, Jonathan? You really look great.”

  “Been putting in a lot of hours...” Cassie’s face flashed through his mind. “…and getting some exercise in.”

  She gently grasped his chin with a thumb and forefinger, then moved his face back and forth, side to side.”

  “No. You really look great. Have you always been this handsome?”She glanced away, then back. “Did you have some work done?” she giggled.

  “Nope. Same old Jip you’ve known for years.”

  “Well, those years have been very kind to you.” She paused, staring into his eyes the way he’d fantasized she might someday. “I mean, you look scrumptious!”

  “Guess you gotta go,” he smiled, standing up and offering his hand. “It’s funny,” he added as she took it. “Folks don’t think about people like you going to meetings on a Friday afternoon, sitting down around a conference table and charting the history of popular music, the stuff that a thousand writers will write a thousand stories about.”

  As they walked into the corridor, he turned to the left as she turned to the right. He waved good-bye and began leave when she said, “I know you’re gonna be great doing the broadcast, Jonathan. We’re all really excited for you.”

  “I’ll try to give it my best shot.”

  “No,” she replied, taking a step toward him. “You will.”

  “See you at the warm-up tomorrow? Andy texted I could drop by.”

  “He did?” she replied curiously. Then she grinned, stepping closer and kissing his cheek. “I’m... surprised. But if the boss says so, then yes you shall.”

  He again began to walk away but stopped when she said, “Oh, just one more thing.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Do you remember that gorgeous night when we drove out to that hill and made it all the way to the top, talking about everything in the universe?”

  He nodded. The climb had followed soon after the damn button didn’t open. “Sure.”

  “Thinking back, I sort of wish that we’d stayed in and continued what we’d started.” She looked away then back to him. “Maybe we could meet after work tomorrow?” She smiled. “I’m available.”

  Before he could respond he saw Stanton trotting down the hall toward them and shouting, “Western Union Escort for Miss Cramer! Western Union Escort for Miss Cramer!” then upon reaching the pair, grabbing her at the shoulders, turning her toward Polanski’s suite and guiding her away.

  Breaking from his grip, then shaking a scolding finger at him, she called back, “Jonathan? Give me your answer at warm-up?”

  “Anything you say, Chris.”

  Chapter Seven

  Reynolds stared at the video of passengers disembarking from United flight 341, each face surrounded by rectangles as readouts flashed along the entire bottom of his Big Board of twenty discreet screens.

  “All right. Three passes and no hits. Mar?”

  “The manifest listed her, or at least a Cassandra Chase. Sixteen-A in business class.” She paused. “Disguise, maybe?”

  “RecPro can’t be beat. RecPro has never been beat. Somebody manages to trick five of the metrics, which is impossible, there’s another five that’ll catch ’em.” He sighed. “What’d the Alias Estimator come up with?”

  “Eighty-one probables, another 100 secondaries.”

  Reynolds blew a couple of puff balls. “Then I guess we’ll have to pick her up at Gun Store. Anything from Chip?”

  “They’ll let us know as soon as she asks for the package.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  ***

  As Spotswood and Denny stepped into Broadcast Booth One, Conrad Scanlan looked up from his binder and smiled, half-shouting, “The man of the 18 hours has arrived!” Stepping across, he hugged him tightly. When his partner merely patted his back he added, “Hold me closer, tiny dancer.” So Spotswood did. “That’s better. When’d you get in?”

  Almost a decade before, Scanlan had first hosted his half-hour show Pop Goes The Cultureas a late night Sunday filler on Chicago’s NPR station, WTTW. Within a few years it had been picked up by another few dozen stations and lengthened to 60 minutes, but remained only a staple for night owls, insomniacs and a small audience which tuned into the NPR podcasts. Then his big break came when he was offered the plumest of commercial radio slots: five hours a week following the insanely popular daily Lunch with Lerman broadcast, turning him into a star almost as big as his benefactor and eventually transforming him into THE go-to authority on any topic falling into the pop culture basket.

  “This morning.”

  “I heard about the abort last night. Glad I came out earlier.”

  “Denny? This is Connie Scanlan.”

  She extended a hand which he shook. “So very nice to meet you, Mr. Scanlan. I just started listening to your afternoon show a few months ago, but I’m hooked. That Christmas thing you did last week with Santa Claus being a concert promoter that’s been here for 2000 years? It’s absolutely wonderful!”

  “Thank you. It’s one of our audience favorites. We’ve been playing it every… God, every holiday season since the year I broke in.”

  “Well, please keep that streak going.”

  “I promise.” He gestured around the room. “How you like our new home, Jip?”

  “I think I’ve already gotten used to it.”

  While he’d seen some photos of the installation, its sheer size, spiffy details and the tremendous sightlines it offered still came as a very pleasant surprise. The Oa
sis Theater was said to be the greatest modern venue ever conceived, and a quick look out the front windows gave him an instant appreciation of that accolade. With space for an audience of 19,000, the Oasis was basically an in-the-round configuration with some novel add-ons that also made it one-of-a-kind.

  At dead center was Ground Zero, a massive rectangular piece of real estate that could be used for any number of events from concerts to basketball games to conventions to elaborate stage productions, surrounded by main floor seats electronically adjusted to perfectly match the required needs. Backing them were generous sets of rising rows of first floor seats that could also be arranged in limitless ways.

  Extending over those—where he stood—was The Crescent, perhaps the most striking feature. Taking up only a quarter of the stadium’s circumference, it consisted of the luxury suites, topped by the box seats and smaller suites, topped by the control rooms, the broadcast and press booths and some additional box seats. The true beauty of the Crescent, however, was the fact that the entire mechanism was mobile—synchronized to track the stage as it rotated, or if the action at Ground Zero was static, languidly circle around it at varying speeds, providing fortunate observers an ever-changing view. Above the Crescent was the Mez, 50 or so more rows of seating cleverly built to straighten or fade, eliminating the dreaded nose bleed feel of other venues.

  Broadcast Booth One was situated directly over the second of the three Luxury Suites, and contained considerably more amenities than a typical studio. The slightly curved anchor desk could seat six comfortably. A bank of front-view-only sidewinder screens could be called up, projecting images and information visible to the talent but unseen by viewers. Remotely controlled louvers could be opened to allow live sound in from the theater. On each far side was seating for twelve off-camera guests, and behind them were a pair of refreshment areas providing service staff, stool/table views, buffets, refrigerators, ovens and topnotch A/Vs.