“To what ends and then starts again,” he said. He downed his second beer as if it were water. That he could only remember the beginning and the end of the show didn’t bother him; it had become the norm, no longer the exception. “I don’t want to open for these fuckin’ guys again.”
He crushed his beer can and reached for another. The first two had gone down quickly, as if he were discovering the taste of beer for the first time.
“I don’t think we have to worry about that,” Syd replied.
“What’s up with turning on the fucking house lights while we’re playing? We pumped up their crowd.”
Syd raised her red, white, and blue can of Budweiser. “To the Living Shit!” she cried.
“Fucking eh, Syd!” he shouted. Ethan looked at Gus, who looked spent.
“I don’t know what we’d have done if you hadn’t showed.” Gus sighed, flopping onto the bench against the wall. “I can’t take too many shows like that.” He set his beer can down on the bench beside him. The bench, like the dressing room and much of the arena, had seen its share of abuse, despite the cover of red paint. “My heart’s too soft.”
Ethan turned to Greg. “So,” he said, feeling the effect of guzzling a few beers in quick succession, “what’s your fucking story?”
“Not much,” Greg replied as he pulled another beer out of the cooler. “The fucking bastards knew what they were doing. I didn’t catch on till it was almost too late.” He opened his can and drank. “Fuckin’ wanted me to join their band, the fuckers. I took a taxi here.”
Ethan looked closely at Greg, but it was Syd who spoke.
“You coulda called,” she said.
“Who the fuck would I call?” Greg said, changing the tone in the dressing room.
“Our manager maybe?” Syd said, her head bobbing like a bobblehead doll, as if the answer were only too obvious.
“Never occurred to me.” Greg sighed and took another gulp. “I don’t have his number.”
“Really?” Syd said, looking to Ethan. “Well, he is our fucking manager. Maybe you should.”
Ethan didn’t say a word; she’d said it for his sake, not Greg’s.
“I still can’t believe it,” Gus said, looking as if he were about to become part of the bench he was lying on. “This was my best night ever.”
Ethan nodded. Gus had saved them from all-but-certain disaster in front of their biggest crowd since opening for REO Speedwagon. Ethan wondered just how good Gus could be under pressure, as it seemed to up his game, even though he didn’t like it.
The pounding boom of the Living Cult starting their show overpowered any more conversation.
“You know,” Ethan shouted, looking to Syd and then Gus, “I’ve heard enough of this fucking band! Let’s go for a drink. We’ll come back when the show’s over.”
He didn’t have to ask twice.
CHAPTER 61
Thursday, January 17, 1985
“Fuck off,” Syd sneered above the din of the bar and ZZ Top’s “Tush.”
“Why the fuck do you always talk to me like that?” Greg asked, his back stiffening as she glared at him. “I’ve never done fuck to you.”
“And you’re never going to either,” Syd snapped, turning to look at Ethan. “’Cause after Bogart’s, I’m done. I’m staying in Ottawa.”
Ethan stared back at her. She’d taken off her makeup during their brief stop at the motel and wrapped her hair in a mauve scarf. Her announcement was news to Ethan. It was no doubt in response to what she’d walked into at the house. This was her other side, her tough, get-even side. It was a side desperate to win her music and do whatever it took to win—the same side that had made her leave Ottawa to join a band in Toronto.
“You’re quitting the band?” Gus said, displaying something between a question and outrage. His tone was sharp and sardonic. He set his empty glass down hard on the table and looked right at her. Disbelief seemed to sober him up. “Really? And why now?”
Ethan was silent. He wasn’t surprised, but wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t a bluff. Yet again, he had misjudged her. He’d explained he wasn’t quitting, but that didn’t seem to matter; he’d hurt her again. It was time to get his.
Gus looked at Ethan. “You fucking know about this?” he asked, but before Ethan could say anything, Gus seemed to know the answer. “You do!” he shouted. “Fuck! So much for my great night.”
He stood up and walked away from them.
“So,” Greg said, looking at Ethan after sitting quietly. He set his glass on the table carefully, as if it might break if he weren’t really careful. “What the fuck’s going on?”
It had only been a short time since Ethan had asked Greg the same question.
Ethan shrugged. “Why ask me? I didn’t fucking say a thing.”
“Exactly,” Greg replied. “You haven’t said a thing, and that’s unusual. You’re looking like you have nothing to do with this, and my money’s on the opposite being true.”
Ethan hated that Greg seemed to know him better than he knew himself. “What do you want me to say?”
“Try the fucking truth,” Greg replied, and he looked at Syd.
“He’s auditioning,” she said.
Greg looked at Ethan. “What?”
“He’s auditioning,” Syd repeated, staring at Ethan, “for a movie or something.”
“What the fuck?” Greg said, scrunching up his face and shaking his head as if trying to clear it.
“Tell him, Ethan,” Syd said.
Ethan frowned. This was not how he’d envisioned telling the band, not that he’d imagined much. Each time he started thinking about it, he didn’t like where his train of thought went, so he never got to an end. He didn’t want to hurt anyone yet seemed to hurt everyone. Now the revelation was happening too fast and in turmoil. When Jonah had approached him, he’d known this scene would eventually take place. He’d tried to convince himself that what was best for him would be best for the Release, but he had known, as was now evident, success in one would lead to the demise of the other.
If he were honest—and honesty seemed all his bandmates wanted, though he was finding it difficult—he knew acting wasn’t the experiment he was pretending it was. After the first audition, sitting on the bus back to the house, he’d known. He’d known when he finished the audition after Christmas. Even when Syd had found him in the living room, rehearsing his lines, less than twenty-four hours ago, he’d known. He’d known after Jonah’s question “Ever done any acting?” Acting was in his heart and out of his control.
Time had mended both the sadness and the horror in his heart. Time had changed how he saw acting and remembered Mila.
“Yes.” Ethan nodded. His palms flattened on the tabletop. He sat up in his chair. “Yes, I auditioned and won the part.”
“What was that?” Gus said, returning to the wood armchair he’d been sitting in. He slid in closer to the table.
“Just more fucking around,” Greg said, dropping to his chair’s four legs after having been leaning back on two. He wore a grin Ethan recognized as the one he produced when he was trying to look relaxed but wasn’t. “So what’s the plan?”
“Plan?” Ethan asked, thinking he could get ahead of or at least catch up to what looked like his intention to dissolve the band. “There’s no plan. A few obstacles to get around is all.”
“A few obstacles?” Greg replied. His grin was gone. “Care to fuckin’ elaborate on that, Eth?”
“Okay, okay!” Gus shouted. “Wait a fucking minute. I left, and Syd was quitting the band. What fucking plan are you talking about?”
Gus was angry. He usually held a pretty even temper, but Ethan could see it was fraying.
“All right, fuck,” Ethan said, his voice loud above the bar’s noise and Foreigner’s “Hot Blooded” in the background. “Here’s what happened.
Last night, Syd found me at the house, rehearsing lines for the movie I auditioned for after Christmas. We shot the first fucking scene today. That’s the reason I had to come down after you guys, not because I had to see my fucking parents. Syd’s announcement is a surprise to me.”
Syd didn’t move. Her legs were crossed, and her hands were clasped together, fingers intertwined, over her knee. Her eyes hadn’t left Ethan throughout his explanation. She was seething.
“You’re shooting a fucking movie!” Greg yelled out. “Are you fucking nuts?”
Ethan shook his head. “No. No, I’m not.”
“You shot part of a movie today?” Gus repeated.
Ethan didn’t think Gus could have looked any more amazed if Mick Jones and Lou Graham of Foreigner suddenly had appeared in front of them.
“Yes, I did,” Ethan replied, looking from Gus to Greg and back again. “Jonah set it up. Thought I’d—”
“Jonah? Jonah fucking Vetch?” Greg said. His voice rose in shock or anger—Ethan couldn’t tell which. Maybe both.
“Yeah, Jonah Vetch, our manager.”
“You’re joking! You’re fucking making this up,” Greg said with a wide-eyed look of incredulity. “Am I missing something here, Eth?” His eyebrows rose as if trying to open his eyes wider. “Our manager is breaking us up?”
“No!” Ethan yelled, angry at what was taking place after one of the best nights the Release had ever had. “Nobody’s fucking breaking us up!”
Ethan shook his head in frustration. “Syd is pissed at me. I get it. I fucking get it. Quit the band. I don’t give a shit. I’m not quitting. We just had a fantastic night that we’re fucking up again with our bullshit. I’m sorry I did the movie. I thought in some fucked-up way, it might make me a better performer. But this shit isn’t worth thinking about for another second. I fly back for the shoot tomorrow morning. Then I’m fucking done! I’ll call Jonah and tell him, all right?”
Ethan stopped. Greg and Gus didn’t say a word. Syd looked at the floor.
“There it is, Syd!” Ethan growled. “Now you have it. Still want to quit? Then quit, and stop fucking us around!”
Ethan couldn’t remember being so mad at the band. Every step seemed to be monumental. Instead of celebrating, they were ripping themselves to shreds again and again. No one could stand someone else’s success. Success was like a sickness that grew from a never-ending series of highs and lows; quitting was incentive to keep going, and those who did achieved things beyond anything they could have imagined. Success defied logic—logic that seemed to have little to do with much outside of satisfying the rightness of one person over another. Logic killed creativity and the imagination, yet the world bought into it as if it were the only real truth. Logic was the virus that kept people from trying new things, leading them to refuse the unbelievable and believe the ability to predict an outcome was actually possible. Success was unpredictable. What looked like all the right ingredients could turn into something fruitless. Yet when nothing seemed right, defying logic, success happened. But living with success and logic was the real tragedy. The Release couldn’t bear a single night of success. Ethan found himself too angry to even face his bandmates now.
“I’ve had enough of this fucking party,” he said, pushing his chair back, scraping the legs across the worn wood floor. “I’m going to the motel. See you tomorrow.”
“Ah, come on, Eth,” Greg said as Ethan stood up. “We need to fucking talk this out.”
“No,” Ethan said, gripping the back of the chair he’d been sitting in. It was hard to hold his voice steady. “You guys need to talk it out. I’ll go wherever. London, Toronto, Ottawa—doesn’t matter. I’m in this band.”
He didn’t wait to hear more and walked away, heading to the front of the bar.
“Hey there!” a female voice shouted as he approached the front door.
He didn’t know anyone in Windsor, so someone calling him seemed unlikely, yet he turned. At the end of the bar closest to the entrance, two pretty faces were smiling at him. One woman was blonde, with straight hair cut just above her shoulders; the other had wavy red hair in full Farah Fawcett–esque bloom. Both were wearing loose blouses with the top buttons undone. The redhead looked to be the one who had spoken.
Ethan hesitated. He wanted to be alone to think about what had just taken place with the band. Talking with two women together at a bar without any apparent male company was not a means to that end.
But curiosity led him toward them as the redhead waved him over. He glanced back to see if the others were watching. They were face-to-face in conversation.
“That was an awesome show,” said the redhead as he approached, her voice loud above the background music of the Rolling Stones playing “Satisfaction.” “You guys were amazing!”
“Thanks,” he said, standing behind them.
The redhead stared and smiled.
“I’m supposed to review the Living Cult for the paper,” said the blonde, turning from the bar with a brown bottle of Canadian clutched in her hand. “She said they were good.”
Ethan smiled, not knowing what to make of the two. “Really?” he replied, his right eyebrow rising. It was too early for the show to be over. “That’s why you’re here now?”
“Yeah,” the redhead said. She paused. “But your band changed all that.”
The two laughed.
“Lauren,” the blonde said, “you can’t fake anything.”
“It’s not what I do,” said the redhead, who then smiled at Ethan, revealing dimples he hadn’t noticed before. “He’s here, isn’t he?”
“Not really,” Ethan said, not wanting to stay, “but it was nice to meet you.”
“Your show was great,” Lauren replied quickly, turning to look at him. She seemed to know she was a knockout, and that made her less attractive to Ethan. “Loved your songs. Can we buy you a drink?”
“No, thanks, but the rest of the band is in the back, and they’re thirsty.”
He pointed in the direction he’d just come from.
“If it makes any difference,” said the blonde, who now faced him, “we left because we’d already seen the best act.”
She went on to say they’d loved the start of the show.
Ethan savored their compliments along with their closeness and perfume. Their presence was intoxicating, like too many beers. But it was Christa he was thinking about.
“Ladies,” he said, turning to look at the door, “I can’t imagine this ever happens to you, but I have go.”
Neither woman replied. The woman named Lauren seemed to wince a smile. Ethan extended his hand and shook theirs.
“Again, it was nice to meet you. Come out and see us again sometime.”
He then turned and left. As with his earlier thoughts on success’s burden, he could at least try and steer clear of temptation.
He didn’t make it to the door before the situation with his bandmates returned. Whether there was logic in success or not, he knew he couldn’t keep the promise he’d made them.
CHAPTER 62
Thursday, January 17, 1985
He thought of taking a cab back to the motel but realized he’d given the cabbie in Toronto most of his money. It would take him half an hour to walk. He thought the cold air would do him good. What little snow had fallen had melted.
Things were crumbling, no matter how he looked at it. For a time, he’d thought the Release had rescued him from acting, but life seemed to have other plans. In spite of his attempts to block it out, he was ill prepared to deal with the power acting held over him. It was there, recognized or not, bold, steadfast, and beckoning—not unlike his love for Christa. He was powerless to its appeal. Understanding where it came from was like trying to understand why he’d been born into the Jones family in the first place.
Even now, walking alone down the sidewalk along an
unknown street in the cold, he could feel his character from the morning shoot. The desire—the overwhelming propensity—to transform into someone else was captivating. He longed to get a glimpse into someone else deeply enough to understand why that person did things—to go below the surface and do things outside of his own rules, values, and behavior. To go somewhere someone else went—somewhere he would never choose—and to do so for reasons different from his own was a chance to re-create life and, in essence, become who he might really be. It was love, a feeling of connection that even music didn’t bring him. He loved making someone else’s thoughts, words, and feelings into his own. He loved acting.
Both hands were tucked in the front pockets of his worn Levi’s. It was cold. The frayed holes in the knees of his jeans didn’t help. He’d worn the same jeans onstage, having intended to change into the newer pair he’d brought. He wished he had now.
The jeans brought him back to thinking about his day, a day that shouldn’t have happened. Filming in the morning, to most, would have been more than enough. His plane’s delay had seemed like a sign their show in Windsor wasn’t to be. But living life wasn’t about having everything in check. “The show must go on” wasn’t just a cute adage. It was a way of living. There was always a way with a willing participant—adjust here, rearrange there, remove, revise, and improvise, but keep going. Maybe second chances were just part of what was supposed to happen anyway—part of a plan to reach an end that wasn’t really an end at all but, rather, a point in time, unknown and uncontrolled, not human to understand but fitting with a grand master plan that wasn’t his to know but instead his to discover and love. Maybe second chances were the infinite, uncountable points that together made a life, that one could only make sense of looking backward and that were little more than guesses looking forward.
He came to the end of the street. A late-model Volkswagen Beetle passed, followed by a yellow taxi. He paid little attention and turned right. The motel was another ten minutes toward the center of town.
The Musician Page 30