The Rock Star in Seat 3A: A Novel
Page 15
“Finn! I need you,” Steve, his manager, said, closing his cell and bolting over. “I have the promoters of the Australian leg of the tour in the bar. Can I steal him for a sec?” he asked me.
“Of course, sure,” I said, surprised he would even ask me.
“I’ll see you upstairs,” Finn said over the shoulder of his leather jacket as he was led off by Todd.
I went up to the massive suite, not believing people actually traveled this way. I took off my clothes, put on the deliciously cozy Pratesi robe hanging in the bathroom, and climbed into the downy cloud that was the linen-sheeted bed from heaven.
At the foot of the bed, I noticed my brown-paper-wrapped books. Summoning what energy I had left from our long walk, I leaned forward to retrieve it and leaned back on my bevy of fluffy pillows as I delicately unwrapped the paper. The Missing Piece was on top.
I flipped through the pages, loving the simple black ink images that were still familiar to me after twenty-five years. That’s when you know you’re old, when a memory triggered seems like yesterday when it was, in fact, decades old. The protagonist, a large proto-Pac-Man with one slice of pie missing, is rolling around, searching for the sliver with just the right fit. One is too big, another is too small. Some are misshapen, some don’t fit at all. And then he finds the One. The one that fits perfectly. They click, they fit, they roll. They explore the world together.
And then . . . I realized as I kept turning the pages my memory had failed me. It was twenty-five years ago, and not yesterday.
In my weathered recollections of the story, worn by the pumice of years and years, I somehow had thought they rolled off into the sunset. Wrong.
He gently sat the piece down. Then rolled off alone, singing, “I’m looking for my missing piece . . .”
Huh. Kira was right . . . the ending was kind of sad. Bizarre! I mean, why did I love that so much? I suppose as an innocent child there weren’t any romance-tinged metaphors associated with the plain, simple story, so it never would have occurred to me that it was even remotely laced with wistful melancholy. But he moves on. Looking for that next piece. Searching in the first page, searching in the last page.
Hmm. I closed the book and pulled out the one that was lying beneath it. The Giving Tree. Another simple black-pen-on-white-paper illustrated book about a tree and a little boy. The tree loved nothing more than giving. When the boy is little it gives him its branches to climb on, its apples to eat. Later in his adulthood, the tree gives him its wood to make a house.
As I got to the end, where the boy is now an old man, needing a place to sit, I welled up a little reading how the tree, now just a stump, offers itself as a seat.
“And the tree was happy.”
I closed the book as I leaned back for a nap, and when I shut my eyes, two tears spilled out.
Chapter 37
Fantasy is the only canvas large enough for me to paint on.
—Terry Brooks
When I woke up, it was time for a quick supper before what would be the biggest concert of the tour. Finn dove on the bed and tickled me awake, and I warmed to his embrace as he kissed me into consciousness. I had to get up, but before I headed to the bathroom I lay down on top of him, somehow trying to replicate human blanket.
“Ow!” he said, when I smashed him.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, did I crush you?”
He winced. “No, no, it’s fine. Just didn’t see that coming.”
I felt a surge of embarrassment. “I’m so sorry—”
“No, no—” He put a hand on my bashful cheek. “Come here.”
He leaned in and kissed me. I felt a strange fear, like I was in such unchartered territory, making my own history on the voyage, experiencing it all alone in my head.
I showered and dressed, heading downstairs to an awaiting car, which whisked us to Daphne, one of his favorite restaurants. We drank a sumptuous bottle of Bordeaux and chowed, sharing each other’s dishes, when his phone rang. It was one of his reps in L.A.
He nodded and asked a couple questions, then hung up.
“What was that?” I asked.
“Ugh, another offer for a movie sound track. Some romantic comedy bullshit.”
“That’s cool! Have you ever wanted to do a sound track? I bet you would be amazing at it! So many of the songs on The Spirits are so cinematic, and they don’t have lyrics, so I always kind of picture my own movie scenes . . .”
“Nah, that’s all too happy-go-lucky for me. I’d do a horror movie, maybe. But even those have happy endings. Some kind of salvation for the one poor schmuck who makes it out alive.”
“What’s wrong with a happy ending?” I asked, thinking of my own hatred of movies that end with bodies everywhere and no sunset to ride off into. “Have you ever tried to make music that’s infused with some of the joy you clearly derive from life?”
“I do love my life, I do . . . but . . . it’s boring to sing about that. Let everyone else revere the bluebirds and love and all that shit.”
I paused. “Love is shit?”
“Not all of it . . .” He shrugged, almost blasé, as if we were talking about something completely benign, like sandwiches.
“What about that ballad you did . . . ‘Delilah’?” I probed. Kira and I always wondered who this Delilah person was. Clearly he’d been smitten (“My molten heart, you wrenched apart”).
“Oh, she wasn’t real,” he said, shaking his head. “I never name anything for real people. They always leave or change or disappoint.”
I nodded quietly. Was he lying?
“It’s just . . . you know when a funny actor who makes you laugh decides to go and get a serious role to win an Oscar?” he asked.
“Yeah, I hate that,” I confessed.
“Well, that’s how my fans would feel if I suddenly got all happy-go-lucky, extolling the virtues of amore. They take comfort in my songs because it’s a safe place for them. Their anguish or loneliness or suffering feels understood. You should see the letters I get, the e-mails. These kids, or their parents, or whoever feels like the anguish in their soul mirrors mine and it makes them feel less alone in the universe.”
“That’s true, and I’m glad—you sure as hell did that for me and legions of others. But you’re not put here only to serve as their mirror, you’re also your own person who can evolve. Honestly, I think it’s all just a safe place for you. You’re so used to being in that cave that it hurts to crawl out and see the sunlight. It’s easier to play that role.”
“Right.” He shrugged matter-of-factly. “Like Jim Carrey being the goofball. But I still want him as the goofball and not the tortured soul. It’s the opposite for me. I’d rather subvert my own glee and keep the music rooted where it started.”
“That’s absurd.” I laughed, with a tinge of frustration. “That’s cutting off your nose to spite your face. Why not try and allow yourself to be free of all the torment? Just try it. It’s not so bad out there on the other side.”
“No thanks,” he said, patting my head. “I like it in the cave better.”
He stood up and reached for me to take his hand, which I did. But as we walked off—Finn preparing to face his legions upon scores of screeching fans, people who wept at his lyrics, his throaty vocals and grinding riffs because he yanked their own heartstrings along with the steel guitar ones, I thought of Wylie. The one who didn’t believe in the transience of loved ones. The one who named his restaurant for me. The girl he wanted to make his wife. Who sprinted from a precious proposal and threw herself into a man who wanted only wings and change and constant evolution.
I couldn’t live in a cave. I needed the warmth of hope, of family, of the toasty blanket of reveling in giving love and being cherished. Flying with him to London had given me wings. But suddenly . . . I needed roots.
Chapter 38
Fantasy mirrors des
ire. Imagination reshapes it.
—Mason Cooley
The set was indeed legendary. Wembley Stadium held ninety thousand people, most of whom were absolutely devoted from day one, along with teens who discovered The Void later in life. I swayed in the wings, relishing the final chords of “Black Wings,” singing along like a loser groupie but one who knew she had her own road that didn’t overlap with the tour bus. As the deafening applause roared through the massive area, Finn took off his guitar and ran offstage. Rather than go for the water, he came right for my waist, which he encircled with his sweaty arms, giving me a huge kiss. It was a rush. The would-be apex of life for any fan, any girl. But somehow I felt a tightness in my throat that rivaled the thrill quotient. As beseeching shrieks for an encore blasted my eardrums, Finn toweled off, swigged some Evian, and kissed my forehead quickly. Then he gave me a quick wink and headed back onstage to the microphone as the ocean of exhausted larynxes gave a screaming push of final noise that could have easily registered on the Richter scale.
“This one is for my little H.”
The famous opening chords of “Salt Water” sounded to a welcoming rumbling of claps and hollers. His voice dragged liltingly over the opening lyrics.
My thoughts are dotted with you,
I am besotted, this gutting true.
It’s like I swallowed a wrench,
My fists are always clenched,
If I lose you, I lose me
If I lose you, I lose me
Adrift to drown in this black sea.
Salt water in my wound
Salt water in my wound
Your notes to mine are too attuned
Salt water in my wound
Your absence’s like lifting a boulder
This ache’s a pain I cannot shoulder
We once could only burn and smolder
But now I’m pelted by freezing rain
You tripped a wire I can’t explain
If I lose you, I lose me
Adrift to drown in this black sea.
Salt water in my wound
Salt water in my wound
Your notes to mine are too attuned
Salt water in my wound
If I lose you, I lose me
If I lose you, I lose me
As his voice trailed and almost seemed to slowly lick each seductive word as it spilled from his lips through the silver grid of the mic’s interlaced wires, his hot breaths filled the unseasonably chilly English air. Practically inaudible now, his final words, a whispered If I lose you, I lose me, slithered out like a drawn-out, beckoning plea, so quiet yet screaming and blazing with a zillion decibels of emotion. I felt a tear spill out of my left eye and roll down my cheek.
I reached up to wipe it, but as a breeze blew, I felt the wind on the track my own salt water had left on my face; as the wind hit the wet line it was like a highlighter to my emotions. Crying, feeling, understanding. I got it. I knew it was safe to feel anguish, I knew it was a place I could always retreat to, courtesy of Finn.
But I also knew it was braver in a way to get it out—not wipe it away but let it roll off my chin to my chest, burrowing its way inside, where it would always remain along with Finn. But the braver thing to do, stronger than curling up in that cave, is to armor up and face the music, as it were. And that was just what I needed to do. I looked out at the faces and felt the hum of their cheers, but rather than looking out at them, I retreated into myself, as if I were in a library and not a jam-packed stadium. This was amazing—all of it—but would 342 stadium shows start to blend into one? What about coziness with the remote control and a yummy dinner? I thought about my desperate longing to yank apart the Velcros and suddenly missed smashies and human blanket desperately. I looked down at my feet, countless serpentine wires winding all around plugged into amps and stuck down with yellow tape. My black boots didn’t feel like they were meant to tiptoe over those electric cables forever. I tiptoed back into the wing and sat down, watching the encore.
After the show, Finn and I went into his dressing room so he could wash up before a dinner in London. After his shower, he came out refreshed as I sat on a blue couch as hordes of VIPs awaited his majesty on the other side of the door.
“I’m starving. I could use one of those food fuel pills right about now,” he teased as he toweled off his ripped torso.
“Finn, I’m . . . not coming to dinner. I mean, I’m not coming along. For the rest of the tour. I need to go see my sister,” I stammered. “I need to go home.”
Finn stopped getting dressed and looked at me with a witheringly disappointed glance that then fell to the floor. “I know.”
I stood up and crossed the room to hug him.
“I knew you wouldn’t stay, Hazel. And I understand. You’re too delicate for this shitty nomadic life. This whole world, you’re too good. Too beautiful,” he added stoically.
“Finn, this has been . . . a dream come true.” I started to cry. “I can’t even get over what this whirlwind has been. Just now . . . onstage, that was akin to a religious experience or something . . .” I shook my head. “But I have my real life, and I miss my sister. I have never gone this long without seeing her.”
“I understand,” he said, though we both sort of knew that as an only child and an orphan . . . he didn’t.
“You and I,” I started, choking up. “We are on different pages of different books on different shelves in different languages . . . I just don’t know how I could foresee enmeshing myself completely into your world without relinquishing so much of what makes mine tick.”
“And I would never want you to,” he said, taking my hand in his. He took his other hand and put it upon my cheekbone, sloughing off the armies of tears that had gathered there. “I’ll never ever forget you,” he promised.
More tears flowed as I looked into his enormous blue eyes. I put my hand on his hand that wiped a new spill of salty water off my cheekbone and took a deep breath. I wasn’t facing the music, I was walking away from it.
“Never ever,” I said, hugging him good-bye.
The car to Heathrow was strangely not filled with convulsive sobs but rather a few more streams of controlled tears and then . . . oddly . . . relief. Like a sliver of silver moon appearing from behind the werewolfey thick clouds, so did my own self. Not the impetuous rebel Hazel who dashed off, abandoning her personal galaxy like a rogue comet, but one who was homey, who loved watching 30 Rock and South Park, putting her feet up on the couch with Glad Corn and Martinelli’s sparkling cider. Who loved food, and didn’t ever want it replaced by a pill. Who loved her friends, real friends instead of paid friends. And laughter and dirty jokes and other music that was sometimes cheesy or goofy or even (gasp!)—pop. Music that made me feel just plain old cheerful rather than “understood.”
I went through passport control with my bag and coach ticket and found at the gate that HLAVERY was up on the check-in screen. I approached the desk.
“Yes, ma’am, delighted to inform you that your upgrade came through!” chirped the blond Brit in uniform.
“Oh, great,” I said, not even really caring, though a wider seat was always a plus.
“There you are, ma’am. Seat 3B.”
Of course. What goes around comes around. I couldn’t believe it! And yet, somehow, I could.
“Thank you very much.”
I sat in the gate waiting area for a few minutes until they preboarded my section. I walked the jetway, found my seat, and put my bag overhead. I plopped down and opened a magazine, looking at the stream of incoming passengers, wondering who would sit beside me. A tall African American woman smiled at me but then saw that she was the row behind, in 4B. Next an anal businessman glanced at the number above my head but moved on. And then, just my luck, a dad with a ten-month-old boy in a BabyBjörn. Greaaaaat. Just what I needed for seven hours!
“Apologies in advance,” the man offered in his clipped queen’s English. “I’m afraid Benji and I are your flying companions this evening, I’m terribly sorry for any fidgeting or crying but I vow to do my best.” He grinned warmly. Benji’s brown eyes sparkled as his smile met my own.
“He’s precious. Really,” I said, swearing I could almost see a cartoon twinkle in his spirited retinas. “He looks like he was chiseled off the Sistine Chapel ceiling,” I said.
“You’re too sweet, thank you,” the dad said.
“No it’s true, he’s like a little angel . . . ,” I said as the baby gripped my index finger. Suddenly I felt a wave of emotion crash over me. The dad noticed that I suddenly seemed a bit choked up.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” I said, reinforcing my emotional levees with a couple deep breaths. “Just excited to see my family is all.”
“They’re in New York?” he asked.
“Yes, well my sister, Kira, is picking me up and we’re going out to her house in East Hampton.”
“How lovely.”
I nodded.
The duo began to watch Warner Bros. cartoons full of Road Runner’s beep-beep honking mischief and loads of explosives, and I instantly thought of an e-mail Wylie had sent me on our first anniversary.
Happy anniversary, Hazel. A whole year, and I still feel like my skeleton is forged in iron and you are a huge ACME Products cartoon magnet from Wile E. Coyote’s arsenal. I’m never going to stop feeling uncontrollably drawn to you, it’s hardwired into my bones. I’m yours. Wylie.
As my eyelids grew heavy, Benji’s dad shut down the portable DVD player, and mirroring his fresco da Vinci self, Benji was an absolute cherub, drifting off to sleep on his daddy’s lap. And shortly after, I was also adrift in slumber that lasted until the plane was descending.
I awoke stiff but a bit refreshed, realizing only then that I hadn’t slept very well in the last month.