Against the backdrop of a fog bank developing offshore, I saw something, maybe a seagull, bobbing on the water thirty yards away. Turning my head, I focused on the long point of land that curved out into the strait, protecting the harbor. Sally’s Hook. That’s what the road sign called it.
This was where our music had finally taken us, and it was a lonely place: the mocking lap, lap, lap of crazy dreams at the edge of the world. I suddenly wondered if there ever could be salvation through music. My mind drifted to the original quadropheniac, Townshend’s alter ego, Jimmy, perched high on a rock in the ocean, waiting for a wave to take him, to wash over him, like the perfect chord that would wash over us all. It hadn’t. And like Jimmy, I knew even if I sat out on Sally’s Hook forever, that ocean would never take me.
My brother, Kevin, had called me “Mr. Spaceman” whenever I slipped into one of my moods, but then Kevin never had a melancholy moment in his life. He was the eternal good vibe, believing in all those hippie-dippy ’60s notions like give peace a chance, love being just a kiss away, all you need is love. He didn’t understand other people’s fears, and he didn’t understand why I would crawl inside myself until the darkness lifted. He was always confident in the ultimate outcome, the ability of the unified human spirit to triumph over our worst instincts. How wrong he was.
It was during one of my moods when Kevin gave me my first guitar—a cheap nylon-stringed acoustic that he’d received as a Christmas gift—and suggested, laughingly, that I take it and use it to get in touch with myself.
After Kevin’s head got blown off along the Cambodian border, my moods deepened, especially on Friday nights. For a full year after we got the news about Kevin, I couldn’t face going out, and I couldn’t stay in the family room with my parents, waiting for the fight that would inevitably break out, so I would go to bed early, shut off the lights, and turn on the radio. I would lie there with my eyes closed, the radio near my head, listening to whatever came on the AM rock station. If I was lucky, something like the Who’s See Me, Feel Me would start playing, and I would forget about myself and free-fall through the musical darkness. I was no longer Daniel Travers. I became Tommy, that kid in the song, floating through space, out of touch, out of mind. Listening to you, I get the music. Those were the good nights. But that was before I discovered cross-tops, before I became Dr. Daniel, medicating myself out of the trough of my later depression.
Rob shifted position on the bench, and I again pulled my coat tighter. I knew I needed to fill the emptiness now before it became complete and the voices arrived. I looked down at my paperback and fingered the bookmark that Nita had given me. I thought about her, about calling her, but the thought made me nervous.
I looked sideways at Rob, who, with his head tilted back, his Stetson over his eyes and his blond hair draped over the back of the bench, appeared characteristically serene.
“Rob, you awake?”
“I am now,” he said without opening his eyes or changing his expression.
“Are you gonna call Candi today?” I hoped his response would answer the question growing in my mind.
He leaned forward and gazed at me, his blue eyes focusing. “Funny you should ask that. I was just having this weird dream about her. She was flying above me, like one of those Carlos Castaneda birds, like a Don Juan vision.”
“She didn’t crap on you, did she?” I asked, checking the sky for seagulls.
He laughed. “No, but it was a pretty cool dream.”
“Whatever you say, Rob. So are you gonna call her?”
“Man, you’re such a cynic.” He took off his hat and shook out his hair. “Well, let’s see. We’ve been gone two nights, right? I’ve been giving Candi some space to cool down, but maybe it’s time to check in.”
“Maybe so,” I said, but as I did I wondered if Rob was being completely honest with me. Hadn’t he tried to call Candi from that phone booth near Portland on the way up to Puente Harbor? And then he had disappeared for a while after dinner the night before, presumably to try her again. At least, that’s what the rest of us figured.
Rob checked his watch. “She should be finished with her classes by now, if she isn’t hanging out with one of her professors. Anyhow, maybe I should give her a call.”
I shook off my thoughts about Candi and made a quick decision. “I’ve been thinking of calling Nita.”
“Who?”
“That girl I met at the party the other night. The one from Berkeley.”
“Really? You’re gonna call her in Berkeley?” Rob grinned. “You really dig her, huh?”
“I don’t know. Yeah, I guess so.” My face suddenly felt hot, even against the cold breeze. “She’s ... well, she’s interesting. I figure, what the hell, I might as well check her out.”
He laughed. “What about all that stuff about girlfriends being bad for the band.” He raised his eyebrows. “You changed your mind?”
I paused. He was right. My muddled but growing feelings about Nita weren’t consistent with my vision of the future, my plan to ride our music out of Creedly. Assuming she was even interested in me, Nita would only complicate things, divide my focus. Still, the emptiness I now felt had something to do with her.
I looked at Rob. “You’re right, and, anyhow, it doesn’t make much sense, does it? She’s in Berkeley, so how’s that going to work?”
“But you’re thinking about her.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
He stood. “Well, hell, let’s find a phone.”
We walked back toward the hotel, stopping at a dirty Laundromat stocked with ancient washers and dryers to get change for the phone. Many of the depressing stores along the street had small American flags hanging outside. The sight of them had baffled me earlier in the afternoon until I remembered it was election day, Jerry Ford versus Jimmy Carter. I felt sorry for whoever would have to take over this mess of a country for the next four years.
We found a phone booth next to the post office on First Street, down the sidewalk from the hotel. Rob went first while I waited, leaning against the outside wall of the post office. He lowered his head and turned his back on me a few moments after feeding a number of coins into the phone and dialing. He had apparently reached Candi.
I started thinking about what I would say to Nita. I wished I could better recall her face, somehow knowing that it would help me find the right words, but I could only remember her punk clothes and her brilliant blonde hair. Suddenly I heard Rob’s voice rise. I turned and looked through the glass of the phone booth. Our eyes met momentarily before he turned his reddening face away from me and lowered his voice.
Three minutes later, he pushed his way out of the booth.
“How’s she doing?” I asked. “Everything O.K. at home?”
Rob forced a grin but looked distracted. “I guess I should’ve given her another day.”
“I thought you looked a little tense in there.”
Rob shrugged and gazed down the street. “It’s cool. She’ll be fine once I get home. No big deal. Everything’s fine.”
As usual, Rob wanted to keep his problems to himself, but this time I decided to press him a little harder. “Look, Rob, is something else going on between you and Candi besides the band? I’m sensing a lot of tension, at least on your side.”
Rob paused and rubbed at his nose. He finally shook his head and said, “No, man, like I said, everything’ll be cool once I get home. It’s just a week, right?”
When I didn’t say anything, he added, “She’s just dealing with some shit at school that she wanted to talk about. In fact, she said that she’s missing all of you guys. Can you believe that?” He laughed, but there was no humor behind it.
“O.K., Rob,” I said, not sure that I believed anything he had said. “Just thought I should check.”
He pulled me toward the phone booth. “You’re up, man. Get in there and leave me alone.” He gave me that hollow laugh again.
I closed the door and paused for a minute to collect m
y thoughts. I pulled out the bookmark with Nita’s phone number. My heart pounded as the phone rang at the other end of the line.
A woman’s voice came from far off. “Hello?”
I wasn’t sure if it was her. “Nita?”
“No, she’s out right now. Can I take a message?”
“Uh, no. I mean, yes.... Can you tell her that Daniel, Daniel Travers, called? She can’t call me back, but could you just tell her that I called?”
The line went quiet. For a moment, I thought the woman had hung up. Then her voice came back on, and this time it had a warmer quality. “Oh, hi, Daniel. I’m Suzanne, Nita’s roommate. Nita told me about you. You’re the one in the rock band, right? Anyhow, she’s off some place, the library, I think. Or maybe at her art group. Can you call back later?”
I thought for a second. “No, I’ll be playing until late tonight. Tell her I’ll try her later in the week. I’m not sure when, but tell her I’ll try. Thanks, Suzanne.”
I hung up and pushed out of the phone booth. Rob was waiting for a report. He listened to me, grinning and shaking his head. “Don’t you see, man? She digs you.”
“How do you know?”
“She told her roommate all about you. She must like you or she wouldn’t have said anything.”
I wasn’t sure, but the loneliness had momentarily disappeared. There was even a little spring in my step as we walked back to the hotel, ready for our first night in the Mai Tai lounge.
9
“HELLO OUT THERE, ya punters.”
Mick’s voice echoed around the near-empty room. In response, the half-dozen regulars at the bar swiveled on their stools, stared at us, and then rotated back around. Mick squinted into the stage lights, peering out as if he could actually see without his glasses. He shook his head, noticeably unimpressed by their lack of enthusiasm. “Let’s try this again, shall we.” He pressed his lips against the mike. “Attention Kmart shoppers, rock band in lounge. Special price. Five superb musicians for the price of two American dollars, right?”
This brought a few groans from the direction of the bar, a reaction that seemed to satisfy Mick.
“Get on with it,” I hissed at him.
With an exaggerated shrug, Mick wagged his glitter-painted fingernails at me, tugged at the belt of his blue-and-white striped flares, worn especially for election night, and turned back to the mike. “O.K., mates, we’re the Killjoys. We’re here all week, so get ready, ’cause we came to your town to help you party down!”
With this cue, Yogi counted it off and we launched into Grand Funk Railroad’s We’re an American Band.
Finally, finally, we were playing again. Everyone had been edgy and quiet waiting for nine o’clock to approach, as if we had never played before, and in some ways we hadn’t. Standing on this stage was different. I saw the scuffs and old masking tape left on the stage by countless bands who had played before us. Old broken picks, bits of guitar strings stuck in the stage’s cracked plywood. Splintered drumsticks, initials etched into the floor. A shiver ran down my back. Jimi Hendrix had stood on this stage; Ann and Nancy Wilson of Heart had played here. Who the hell were we? What was I doing here?
Suddenly, as I chopped down at the strings, my chest emptied, compressed. I missed the chord. Fear came over me in a big wave, my legs, arms, fingers suddenly thick and heavy. My left hand shook in an attempt to hold down another simple bar chord. Keep breathing, keep breathing. I forced myself to step forward, to look beyond Yogi’s drum set toward Rob and Sam, but my view was blocked by Mick, who came bouncing sideways past me with a demonic grin on his face, his chartreuse silk scarf trailing in the breeze. He spun and started back across the stage, slowing as he passed to throw me a gaped-mouth Jaggeresque grin. And then he floated back to the mike for his next bit of vocals.
I took a gulp of smoky lounge air. The wave broke at my feet and washed away, over the scuffs, the broken picks, the legendary footprints, out into the night. I took another breath, stepped forward, and windmilled the hell out of the next chord.
THE SMALL TUESDAY NIGHT crowd was a blessing of sorts. After my initial jitters and some erratic playing by Yogi, the band relaxed and worked off the rust, knowing that all the bullshit was out of the way and we could do what we came here to do. The string-worn grooves in the calluses of my fingertips felt familiar and reassuring. Undoubtedly, I was more comfortable onstage than anywhere else in my life, despite the occasional bouts of stage fright.
I leaned back, closed my eyes, and slid into the familiar riff behind the bridge of Cream’s very cool Badge. (Imagine, a song titled simply because Eric Clapton misread George Harrison’s written word Bridge!) I could feel the band working toward its groove, toward the rhythmic pocket created by bass, drums, and rhythm guitar that gave us our tightness, our sense of forward motion. At our best, the Killjoys could do something most local bands I’d heard never achieved: We could simultaneously play inside and outside of the pocket, keeping a rock-steady groove in place while Mick’s vocals and my guitar jumped all around the groove—a screaming, vibrating train steadied by the constant chug-chug of our powerful, deep-throated engine.
I credited Yogi with our ability to reach this unique musical state. He had the steadiest bass drum foot I’d ever heard, laying down a precise, predictable beat that allowed Rob, with his slithering bass lines, to settle down deep into the pocket. In contrast, Yogi’s hands were incredibly busy, clattering crazily across his snare and toms, his crash and ride cymbals, in a Keith Moon-like high-wire act of constant motion. Sometimes he played too much, sometimes he would completely lose the beat, but when he was on, and when Mick, Sam, and I were able to grab onto the throbbing electric wire he threw out and hold on without falling, we were truly something special.
The band was already nearing this groove, something that usually happened only when we fed off the energy of a big crowd. Tonight, the room was maybe a third full, and only a dozen or so people were dancing, but it didn’t seem to matter. Nobody expected a big crowd on Tuesday night. It was enough just to blast away all the tension that had built up over the past few days.
Now pumping my way through Blue Oyster Cult’s Don’t Fear the Reaper, with the room slowly filling, I scanned the flannel shirts and black leather jackets clustered at tables throughout the lounge. Beyond those sitting, at the back near the door, stood two guys, one tall and gawky, the other short and muscular. Without the requisite flannel shirts and leather jackets, they looked out of place, and I watched them for a moment, noticing how they seemed more interested in the crowd than in us. I wondered who they were, but forgot about them as I punched my distortion pedal for more sustain and volume before launching into my solo.
Minutes later, Mick let out a whoop as we crashed to the ending, and we left the stage for our eleven o’clock break. Heading for the bar, I pulled out a bandanna and wiped sweat from my brow, wondering if we’d be able to sustain our energy level through the final three sets. I was almost to the bar when I saw the woman who’d been sitting on the same bar stool the day we arrived. I tried to veer off before she noticed me, but she pointed a long ring-enshrined finger at me and motioned me over. Sitting beside her, just as the day before, was the guy with the bushy sideburns and red face. He stood up and stuck out his hand. Surprised, I reached out. He gave me a cheerful smile, then angled his hand, attempting to give me one of those hip half-handshakes. Flustered by the presence of the woman, I flubbed it.
“Hey, man, cool set,” the guy said, untangling his hand from mine and motioning for Mr. Tom behind the bar. “Sit down and lemme buy you a brew.”
I breathed out and plopped down on the empty bar stool next to the woman. Tonight she was decked out in a tight orange granny dress and smelled of cigarette smoke and pungent perfume. Charlie, maybe, based on the strangely outdoorsy, spicy scent I was now picking up. One of my few ex-girlfriends had worn it. I didn’t like it.
The woman leaned close to me. “Yeah, kid, you surprised me. You guys sound good for a bu
nch of young punks. I’ve seen a lot of bands, but you guys rock pretty good. Maybe you got a future.” The whiskey on her breath cut through the perfume. Beyond the clink of beer bottles and glasses, I heard Harry Reasoner’s voice giving election returns from a TV mounted on the wall behind the bar. Sam and Rob had moved to the end of the bar and were watching the news report.
“Yeah,” the woman continued, “you’re gonna do O.K. here, but you’ll have to crank it up some by Saturday night.” And then she winked at me.
I tried hard not to react to the wink. Was she messing with my head again? “Saturday night?” I said. “What about it?”
“Wait and see, kid.” She smiled and blew a ring of smoke in my face. “Wait and see.”
Her friend handed me a bottle of Budweiser. “I’m Kyle, man, and this here’s Kitten.” He tilted his head toward the woman.
I looked at her. Kitten, eh? This woman was no cuddly pet. “That’s really your name?”
“Yeah,” she said, her smile shifting to a knowing grin. “ ’Cuz I purrrrrr if I like you.”
I looked around for help, but Kyle had me blocked off. “You guys are from California, huh?” he asked, apparently oblivious to the vibe being thrown off by his girlfriend. “Look, you guys need anything while you’re here, you let me an’ Kitten know, O.K.? We can get anything ... know what I mean?”
Anything? Hmnn. I thought I knew what he meant. Then I wasn’t so sure. Drugs? Women? I nodded at him. “Thanks. We’ll keep it in mind.”
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