Before the Flock

by David Inglish

  Suddenly there is a vast emptiness, a void that is soon filled with the sound of Federales clubbing the audience. The teenagers run for the exits with their hands over their heads. The members of Sally’s Strung Out run for the safety of their tour bus.

  Lunky looks down and spots a row of canisters with stringy wires attached to them at the edge of the stage—pyrotechnics. He grabs a whole row of them, puts them under his arm, and says, “Follow me!” He turns and runs full blast through the fake wall at the back of the stage.

  “Wow!” Sven says. Eric and EJ grab Kurt, and the whole band follows Lunky out the hole in the wall.

  After escaping the melee at the Lazy Lizard, Lunky and the band wander the streets of Ensenada. Lunky still has the pyrotechnics under his arm. Sven asks, “Should we go back and get our stuff ?”

  “It’s not worth going to jail,” Eric says.

  “Let’s call Pastor Ron. He’ll pick us up.” EJ says.

  The band wanders to the beach. In the last minutes before sunrise, Lunky sets off the fireworks for some children on their way to school. Lunky holds the canister under his arm as the sparks fall around him. The little faces light up with joy.

  Pastor Ron and Wayne Franklin park the VW van in front of a small café. They walk in and find the band seated at a wooden table.

  Wayne says, “Kurt, it’s time for you to go where you can get some help.”

  Pastor Ron stands silently by Wayne’s side with his arms folded.

  Kurt looks at his father and then at Pastor Ron. “Oo I af oo oose?”

  “What?” Wayne pushes a fly off his cheek.

  Pastor Ron wiggles his mustache.

  Eric walks over to Kurt’s side and says, “He’s asking you if he has to choose. Choose between science and religion, between God and meds. Are you”—Eric points at Pastor Ron—“going to tell him he needs to pray, and are you”—Eric points at Wayne—” going to tell him he needs meds?”

  Pastor Ron softly shakes his head. “Gosh, no. I was gonna tell Kurt he should seek psychiatric help too.”

  Kurt stares at the floor and twists his head.

  The seven of them get into Pastor Ron’s VW van and head north. Kurt sits Indian style between Pastor Ron and Wayne. He holds his swollen and useless jaw as he slowly rocks back and forth. They are stopped by traffic eight hundred yards from the American border. Pastor Ron pushes a button on the dash and the radio crackles to life. Wayne fumbles with the dial.

  “OP!” Kurt yells.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Kurt points his thumb to the left. Wayne turns the knob slowly.

  “OP! ISSEN!” Kurt holds his hand at his ear.

  “That’s us!” Eric yells.

  Pastor Ron turns the volume up. It’s “Rain Fall” by Thunderstik. It’s Kurt’s acoustic guitar solo. Wayne turns it up until the speaker distorts. Wayne smiles and nods to the beat. He reaches back and puts his hand on Kurt’s knee. “You did it, son. You really did it.”

  Kurt nods his head. “I OWE.”

  It is more like an operation than a birth. Sophie is awake but not all there. Harley comes straight up out of her belly.

  The doctor says, “Congratulations! It’s a boy.” And he holds the little gray guy in his hands so they can see him.

  Sophie looks over at the Jovi in quiet defeat. “Fucking Phoenix.” She shakes her head.

  The Jovi kisses her. “I’m so proud of you.”

  She tries to smile through her oxygen mask. A nurse pulls down Sophie’s gown and puts Harley on her breast. Sophie stares off into space with a blank expression. The Jovi searches her sleepy eyes. “It’s the miracle of childbirth.” He kneels at her side.

  They’ve been at their new home, in L.A., in Laurel Canyon, with Harley for five nights when Sophie opens a bottle of wine with dinner.

  “Drinking? Already?”

  “I’m not pregnant anymore. I can do what I want.”

  She drinks the whole bottle by herself. Suddenly she is happy and flirty. She runs her foot up the Jovi’s leg at dinner. He kisses her and puts his hand down there.

  “You’re disgusting. Not yet.”

  There is a bottle of wine at every dinner until one night Sophie gets dressed up and says, “I’m going out.”

  “You look incredible. You look like you never even had a baby.” The Jovi says with Harley cradled in his arms.

  “You think?” Sophie swishes her hips back and forth in the mirror.

  “Absolutely.”

  The Jovi falls asleep with Harley on his chest. When he wakes up, his son is gone and it’s three in the morning. The Jovi finds Harley sleeping in his crib in the nursery. The Cambodian night nanny is asleep in the rocking chair next to him. The Jovi walks into their bedroom and the bed is still made-up. He walks around the house and out onto the porch. The house is perched on the side of a ravine like a crow’s nest. Aside from a coyote’s occasional cry or the hoot of an owl, the canyon is quiet at night. The Jovi notices the pattern, the Morse code of the owl. Sophie comes in around four.

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “It uz a biz-ness dinner. I can cuntrol it.”

  In bed he spoons up next to her and kisses her ear and runs his finger down her back. She rolls away. “Stop. I’m tired.”

  “Could you just call me when you’re going to be out super late?”

  “Of course. Of course, sorry. I should’ve called.”

  There are other nights just like that one. The Jovi wakes up and it’s three in the morning and his wife isn’t in bed next to him. He imagines her dead by the side of the road. He pictures her being raped and robbed. He thinks of her smiling at some guy’s line of crap. He looks at the ceiling. He looks at the clock. It’s been twenty minutes. The sheets feel itchy and hot. When she finally comes in, he wants to scream. But he doesn’t. She gets in bed. It’s four thirty-three, and she’s asleep. The Jovi lies awake. When he hears her slight snore, he says, “I love you.”

  The Jovi wakes up in the morning and she isn’t in bed. He walks in the kitchen and she is dressed up and standing next to five suitcases. The Jamaican day nanny has on a fancy church hat and a dark blue suit. She has Harley in her arms.

  “What’s going on?”

  “We’re going to Paris for a week to work.”

  “You’re what?”

  “We’re going to Paris for—”

  “I heard you the first time. ‘We’ means ‘not me’?”

  “We’re going to Paris for a week to work.” She sounds like a stage actress who is trying too hard to enunciate her lines.

  “And you’re taking our son? He’s too young to fly! I say no way!”

  “They want him in the shoot. That’s the whole thing. Don’t you get it? Babies are hot.”

  “He’s not hot. He’s my son. You’re not taking him. You can’t do that.”

  “Look babies are really in right now—”

  “Yeah, I get it, babies—the hottest accessory for fall. Why can’t you use a doll or something? He’s a person.”

  “You don’t get it! It’s not up to you. I’ll be back in a week. We’ll talk about it in a week.”

  “What is this?”

  “I need some time. Why can’t you understand? You said you’d always support me—anything I wanted to do.”

  “Okay. Okay.” She feels like a stranger. “Let me help you with the bags.”

  After yet another night of staring off into the canyon and then lying in bed, the Jovi thinks to himself, I should spank it If I spank it, I can fall asleep. He jiggles himself around. Nothing is happening. He gets up, walks to the bathroom, looks at himself naked, and notices the dirty clothes hamper. He digs through it, finds Sophie’s nightgown. He brings it to his face and breathes it in, the sweet smell. He takes the nightgown to bed.

  The sun comes up and he drives down to a coffee shop. Unable to eat, unable to sleep, but still good for a cappuccino. He turns to find Tiffany Tucker, dressed in a black leather trench coat,
standing in line. “Tiff! Tiffany Tucker!”

  Tiffany gives him a big air kiss. “The Jovi! Darling!” She reaches out and holds his wrist, as if feeling for a pulse. “How are you holding up?”

  “Okay. Can’t complain. How’s my Tiff ?”

  “Really, darling, we’re old friends, no reason for the stiff upper lip with Tiff.”

  “No. Really things are fine. I’m fine.”

  “Well, if you insist, good for you. A little intestinal fortitude is so rare these days.”

  “Yeah. Thunderstik, my bros. Fuck, it’s a bummer.” The Jovi looks her up and down for a second. “But you know—”

  “Thunderstik? Oh, that’s old news. I was thinking of your more immediate problems.”

  “What are you talking about, Tiff ?”

  “Oh, come now, you don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Well then, I absolutely wish you my best.” She turns her shoulder. The leather makes a broad sweep across his leg. She begins to walk away. He grabs her by the latte and turns her back around.

  “What is it? What are you talking about?”

  She looks at him as if she is trying to figure out the best place to put the knife. “Your wife. Darren Getty. The two of them. You didn’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “They’re an item. It’s all over town—they’re all over town. Just about killed his ex. He brought your wife on set with your son. What’s his name?”

  “Harley. No way, Tiff. She’s in Paris.”

  “Oh? Oh no. I just saw them at a party, what? Two days ago. I guess we’re always the last to know. Well, must run, would love to catch up some more, but I’ve got a call time in twenty…”

  The Jovi goes back to the house and calls Jean. “Where the fuck is my son? You call your daughter and tell her she’s got thirty minutes to get my son back to my house, or I’m calling the cops and charging her with kidnapping.”

  The Jovi hangs up, paces the floor, and throws coffee mugs at the eucalyptus trees near the deck. The phone rings. It is Sophie. “Thirty minutes or I’m calling the cops.”

  He paces more, punches the floor. When he looks up, she is standing in the doorway holding Harley in her arms, smiling at the Jovi like maybe she loves him just a little.

  The Jovi runs over and takes Harley from her arms. He kisses the child and holds him up against his tears. He feels her hand on his neck. He spins around. “GET OFF ME!”

  Harley starts to cry. The Jovi lays him on his back on the sofa. The Jovi turns to Sophie. “So you’re fucking Darren Getty?”

  “What?” She lets out a little laugh.

  “Is that your next career move?”

  “No.”

  “Is that what your mother told you to do? Like she told you to fuck Giuseppe? Find an actor who directs? Is this another career move?”

  Sophie’s face contorts. “We were in Paris.”

  “You can’t stop lying, can you?”

  Her sleepy eyes get angry. “Okay. Fine. He’s nice. He’s successful. This is the best thing for me.”

  “Sophie, you’re not a commodity. Stop selling yourself.”

  She blinks and a tear runs down her cheek into her ample mouth. She smiles a crooked smile at the Jovi’s green eyes. “I can’t.”

  “Without love, men cannot endure to be together.”

  —Thomas Carlyle

  In February, I answer my phone.

  “Eric, it’s EJ. Did you get a new keyboard?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wheels?”

  “Yeah. A Bronco.”

  “Sweet! Friday night we’re opening up for A Flock of Seagulls at FM Station in the Valley. This gig is going to be huge. It could be the break we need.”

  “Right on! Is Kurt’s jaw better?”

  “No. It’s still wired shut, but he says he can sing fine.”

  “Umm… Okay.”

  “And Josh Weiner from Polygram is coming to the gig. Kurt talked to his secretary.”

  At soundcheck Thunderstik sits and watches A Flock of Seagulls set up. It doesn’t look like the band from the video. The keyboard player has dark curly hair, a thick beard, and weighs four hundred pounds. The drummer is black and looks about fifteen years old. But when they start with “Space Age Love Song” it sounds just right. The song has several bars before the vocal starts. I search the stage for the lead singer and his distinctive awesome hair. A hunched-over middle-aged man with thin, long, stringy blonde hair starting about half way back his skull turns to the microphone and sings. “I saw your eyes…”

  “Is that the same guy?” I ask Sven.

  “Yup.” Sven says nodding and continuing to nod. When he stops he says, “Dude, you have to check out their tour bus.”

  After the song ends, we walk outside and around to the back of the club. There sits a rusting Winnebago with threadbare, smoke-stained curtains. Even from a distance it smells like wet dog. “If this doesn’t pan out tonight,” Sven says, “I’m moving on.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “The Jovi says he can get me an audition for the Cult. They’re going on tour.”

  “Nice. When did you see the Jovi?”

  “I bumped into him in a bar in Silverlake. He was playing an acoustic set with his baby strapped to his back. One of our songs, ‘Rain Fall,’ I think. He said Sophie ran off with that old gigolo-actor, Darren Getty. Can you believe that shit?”

  “Wow. That bitch is like the sun: One man’s dark night is the next man’s bright day.”

  “We drove over to Felder’s together, took turns pissing through his mail slot.”

  “Even the baby?”

  “No. He just watched. What about you? Are you going to stay in Thunderstik?” Sven asks.

  “I’ll never be in another band as good as this one.”

  “So?”

  “I’m gonna ride it out for as long as I can.”

  As we take the stage, Thunderstik still expects throngs of people to mob the entrance, and record execs too. Unfortunately the ’80s are over. The stage lights are low and bright, but it appears that only eight people are sitting out there. None of them is Josh Weiner. Kurt belts out our best songs with his jaw wired shut. As the last one dies down, Summer emerges from the light and steps onto the stage. She’s beaming. Kurt pulls her under his arm and turns to me, “I CALL OOO EN EE AVE A IG IORIN,” he says.

  “You’ll call me when we have a gig of importance?” I translate.

  Kurt nods.

  “I’m out?”

  “ORRY.” Kurt kisses Summer on the forehead.

  “All you ever wanted was him,” I say, more impressed than betrayed. “And now he’s yours.” She slips her hand in Kurt’s back pocket, shrugs her shoulders, and smiles a devilish smile.

  I roll my cords and stuff them in a bag, put the keyboard under my arm, and move toward the door. A soft hand taps me on the shoulder. I turn and Dane is staring up at me. “That was a really good show,” she says.

  “Thanks, I thought we sounded pretty good. I can’t believe you came.”

  “I always liked the music. Why wasn’t the Jovi on stage?”

  “He baled. Look—I’ve been meaning to call you. I’ve been a real shit—”

  “Eric—”

  “This whole thing went to my head. I’m no rock star. It’s fucking obvious to everyone but me.”

  “You can play—”

  “Not like those guys.”

  “Yeah, but you enjoy it.”

  I reach for her hand. “We used to laugh...”

  She pulls her hand away and points to the stage. “Eric, that is what you always wanted most.”

  “Yeah. It was. But some big label is never going to send the jet for me, it’s just not going to happen and… that’s okay. But when I see you I remember—”

  “I came here with my boyfriend. He went to the bathroom. He’s going to be back in a second. He just wanted to see the show.”

  “Boyfriend?�
�

  “Boyfriend.”

  “He’d heard of Thunderstik?”

  “No.” A man’s voice answers. “I’m here to see A Flock of Seagulls.” He has long mutton-chop sideburns and a button-down sweater.

  I glare at him.

  “Eric, this is Dodd,” Dane says. The lights go dim.

  “Hey, they’re about to start.” Dodd says and lifts a Super 8 camera to his eye.

  “You’re a fan?” I ask.

  “No, I’m a filmmaker. I want to do a documentary on them. I think it’s funny as shit – what they’ve become.” Dodd says as he stares through the glass rectangle.

  “Don’t laugh at them.” I say and point my finger at his sideburns.

  “Man. It’s the 90’s. You should move to Seattle.”

  “Space Age Love Song” begins with its straightforward drumbeat and echoing digitally delayed guitar riff. It sounds just right. The singer is on pitch, on time. I believe him when he sings. “I was falling in love…”

  Dodd chuckles and pans from the four hundred pound keyboard player to the balding lead singer.

  Dane reaches up puts a hand on Dodd’s shoulder, and smiles at me.

  Outside the air feels thick and cold in my lungs. The parking lot is big, empty, and glistening from a light rain that has just stopped. The whir of distant cars on the freeway sounds like an unrelenting ocean. To the west there is a jagged rim of light along the ridgetop.

  I get in my Bronco. When it starts, “Alone, Alone” is in my cassette player, the tape we made at Ivo’s. I hear all our parts, some big, some small, and they fit together flawlessly. The song soars. I am warm and light. The rest will fade away, but not this. I will always be haunted by the hope I feel when I hear our music.