“When did you give my agent your number?”
“A week ago, I think. Yeah, just before the show. We talked a bit about whether it would be good for your career if it was on TV or not. If it means anything, I didn’t think it was a great idea.”
“But you did it anyway?”
I try not to put too much malice in the question, but his reaction says I have. He looks down at the remnants of his drink.
“Frank?”
He looks up. Nods. And with one look, he foresees my next question.
“You want to know why, don’t you?”
As much as I tell myself I don’t care what his answer is, I still do.
It’s my turn to nod.
He begins, “Having children is easy. Raising them is hard. It was just too hard for me.”
For the very first time I have pity for this man in front of me. For his lack of strength. The voice that told him he wasn’t good enough. The story he told himself.
In that moment, before we say our last goodbye, I resolve to never take the easy way out ever again. No matter the consequences.
“Goodbye, Frank.”
Part Five
ENDINGS
34
Phoebe Cates
Tom
Greenway Plaza, Houston
June 1, 2018
Transcript of WTKX-FM The Late Hour—Online and on the waves—Guests: The Friedmann Equation / Host: Chuck Hearne
CHUCK HEARNE: Devoted followers. Beloved listeners. This one is going to get emotional. I’m joined today by the two founding members of The Friedmann Equation as they embark on their farewell tour. Everybody’s favorite post-rock guitar band from Scotland—
SCOTT WALDEN: Second favorite. Third, maybe.
TOM DELANEY: I’m not sure we’d make my top five, actually.
CHUCK HEARNE: Listener, if you didn’t know, those far-too-modest voices interrupting my well-written opening monologue belong to Scott Walden and Tom Delaney. Tom, Scott, welcome to the show.
TOM DELANEY: Thank you very much for having us.
CHUCK HEARNE: Let’s go back if we can. To where it all started.
SCOTT WALDEN: The days of Phoebe Cates?
CHUCK HEARNE: Phoebe Cates?
SCOTT WALDEN: Ha. Yeah. When we first met and formed the band, Tom and I were adamant we’d be called “Phoebe Cates.”
TOM DELANEY: There were two reasons why.
SCOTT WALDEN: Yeah, one, it was the name of the actress in Gremlins and so we thought it was a delightful nod to our favorite band, Mogwai. Two, we both creased every time we imagined a stadium announcement saying—
TOM DELANEY: “Please welcome to the stage, Phoebe Cates!”
SCOTT WALDEN: What can I say? We were young. Our first singer, he took the point of view that “Phoebe Cates” was the stupidest name he’d ever heard of for a rock band featuring four white guys from Edinburgh and said the only people who would turn up at our gigs were folkies expecting to see “some warbling totty with an acoustic guitar.”
CHUCK HEARNE: Was he correct in that assumption?
TOM DELANEY: Clairvoyantly so.
SCOTT WALDEN: As I remember, Tom eloquently told him it was “our sodding band and the name stays.” I think our fifth gig was the last for our first singer.
CHUCK HEARNE: How many singers have you had?
TOM DELANEY: Three in total. I’m not sure we can mention the second singer for legal reasons, can we, Scott?
SCOTT WALDEN: My God, I haven’t thought about him in years. You tell this one.
TOM DELANEY: So, by about, like, 2011, we’d ditched “Phoebe Cates” and were called “Our Sodding Band.” Again, let’s remember, we were very young. Early twenties. And what’s worse than men in their early twenties, right? So, our second singer, let’s call him “Taylor,” he was very attracted to being in a band with a semi-expletive in the title. He wore black trench coats and carved very angry, very politically incorrect things into his arm. We’d have been fine if his anarchic streak stopped at the odd bit of swearing and un-PC DIY tattoos, but—
SCOTT WALDEN: It did not.
TOM DELANEY: No. Unfortunately for all involved, it did not. His love of illegal activities reached a high point when he “allegedly” set fire to a pub that stiffed us on our playing fee. Last I heard he’s “allegedly” serving five years in Saughton Prison.
CHUCK HEARNE: Sheesh. Some of you out there might be surprised to learn that your third singer, the one who left before you became The Friedmann Equation and decided to go fully instrumental, was none other than Christian Lockheart.
TOM DELANEY: Mad, isn’t it? Fair play to him and his million-dollar houses.
CHUCK HEARNE: A smidgen of jealousy?
TOM DELANEY: More than a smidgen for a while. But c’est la vie and all that. Nah, if he’s listening, and I’m sure he isn’t, all the best to you.
CHUCK HEARNE: Now we’re at the birth of Friedmann proper, that seems like a good point to take a break and listen to your chosen track. Scott, what’s your choice?
SCOTT WALDEN: Just one choice? You’re an evil bastard, Chuck. OK. I’ll have The Boss, please. “Dancing in the Dark.”
CHUCK HEARNE: Why this one?
SCOTT WALDEN: It reminds me of good times on tour.
As we sit listening to Bruce unable to start a fire without a spark, I’m reminded of another legend who said it best. Miss Joni Mitchell. You don’t know what you’ve got, etc. Since our decision to go our separate ways, the band has been having the kind of fun we used to have way back in the days of “Phoebe Cates” and “Our Sodding Band” (Molotov cocktail–wielding frontmen notwithstanding). We’re making more new music, looking forward to rehearsals, and enjoying each other’s company more than we have at any point in the last year.
When I last spoke to Jess, three months ago, I put on a brave enough face to convince her I was OK with the decision. Or maybe I was struggling with the first emotion of grief: denial. It’s fair to say that whoever said there was an order to it, can stick it up their hole. Because not a day goes by where I don’t have some feelings of anger, bargaining, and depression all swirling to try to win the fight in my head.
The high of being together with the band in our final throes has made the lows of being alone much worse. My mind has been awful to me since the two big decisions were made. Even though I could make a strong case for neither of them being entirely within my control, my initial acceptance of them seems extrasupervery premature in hindsight.
I have—as my brain keeps telling me every sleepless night since we called it quits—opted for a life in which I will be alone for the foreseeable future. No band to meet up with. No Cara to come home to. The problem with the foreseeable future is I rarely foresee things optimistically past that. The thought of more solitude makes me sick. And short of half a bottle of Johnnie Walker, there isn’t a lot that’s getting my mind to shut up.
But it’s this sickness that’s inspired my biggest breakthrough. I can’t keep holding back with how I feel about Jess. Seeing her in LA, being with her again. Just spending a tiny amount of time in the same room as her, made me see what she means to me. She has to know, in a way that is clear and unequivocal. The chances are high that she will reject me, that I’ll have to deal with that rejection when I’m at my lowest. But I can’t keep it in anymore. No more pussyfooting around on this. But first…
CHUCK HEARNE: And we’re back. When we left we were discussing your formation and now, regretfully, we’re discussing your end.
SCOTT WALDEN: I know, right. It feels weird to say it.
CHUCK HEARNE: Why now, then?
SCOTT WALDEN: I can’t speak for everyone in the band, but, well, it’s been a pretty intense last three years.
TOM DELANEY:
I’ve been out of the country for a while and…
SCOTT WALDEN: But even then, we were still sending music to each other and putting it together. I think, again I can only speak for myself, I think it’s fair to say, when we did all meet up again, around autumn last year, it just felt a little different. Like that time before we left was now in the past. I’ve no doubt we’ll all make music again, either together or separately. It’s just…it just feels like the right time.
CHUCK HEARNE: And now, the end is near.
SCOTT WALDEN: But it’s not the end, really, is it? Like with any art form—a book or a painting or a record. It’s always there. I take a great amount of comfort in that. And I’ll always have my best friend. A lot of bands that carry on when they shouldn’t, they lose that.
CHUCK HEARNE: I warned you it might get emotional. Tom, you’ve been quiet for a bit. Anything you want to add to that?
TOM DELANEY: Nope. I think Scott’s said it all.
CHUCK HEARNE: Penultimate question. What’s next?
TOM DELANEY: The pub? Er. No. I think, after this, we fly back to the UK for the last run of shows. Then we’ll probably take some time off. Try to figure out what fills the gap. The pub? Right? That’s what fills the gap?
CHUCK HEARNE: All jokes aside, it’s been a real pleasure to follow your band. I wish you all the best with whatever you choose to do next, and we’ll be listening. The final track for tonight, chosen by Tom Delaney…I do need to ask one last time if you’re joking with this—
TOM DELANEY: Absolutely not. It’s a banger.
CHUCK HEARNE: OK. So. Here we go. For the first—and probably last—time on an indie music station, you’re listening to WTKX-FM, and this is “2 Become 1” by the Spice Girls.
35
Jelly and Ice Cream
Jess
Park Grange Court, Sheffield
June 1, 2018
I’m only back home because Mum told me she has a surprise for me. Since the singular awfulness of three months ago, I’ve become something of a recluse. Holed up in London. Not really visiting anyone. Even Julia. No agent means no gigs. And quite frankly, the idea of standing up in front of an audience at the moment fills me with dread. That thing I used to love, the crowd, the joy, it’s gone now. And I don’t know how to get it back.
Being home helps. To be able to walk through this little red door—the same red door I’ve been walking through since I was old enough to walk; the one I leaned backward on after my first kiss from James Swift; the one I opened after my first gig with Julia—it means so much to me.
I don’t know how many years I’ll have left of this comfort. This safe haven from all that is messed up. Mum will be sixty next year and it’s safe to say her body is closer to ninety. She’s still sober and eating well—she even joined some calorie-counting cult—but she did so much damage to herself in the past, I fear for her future. There’s the negativity that’s been a little too present of late. She’s here now, and that’s what matters. Her footsteps echo on the wooden stairs, as the sound of their creak vibrates through to the kitchen.
“Hi, pickle,” she says, taking my bag from me and placing it on the kitchen table.
Instead of responding, I grab her and I won’t let her go. I start sobbing and keep on sobbing and she doesn’t move. She is my rock. Finally, when the taps of my eyes run dry, I look down at her and see her mascara has run too. We each let out a tiny laugh at the state of the other.
“Brew?” she offers.
“Always.”
We sit in relative silence as I take in the sounds and smells of the only place I’ve really called home over the last three decades. As she runs the tap, the pipes behind the walls gurgle and hammer. She puts the kettle to whistle on the hob like it’s 1943. I can smell she had sausages for tea and I know she’ll tell me the points’ worth of each mouthful before I go to bed. There’s so much comfort in the familiar it makes me want to cry again. Our cat, Agatha, still going strong, slopes in and rubs herself at my feet. I pick her up and cuddle her close as Mum informs me she’s cut sugar out of her tea completely. I want to tell her that all she needs to do now is cut out the milk and the bag and she’ll be Kate Moss size in a fortnight, but I don’t have the energy. Not even for mild ribbing.
It’s the first time we’ve been face-to-face since I met with Frank. I really don’t want to talk about it, but I know we have to. For her sake as well as mine. Like ripping off a plaster, I opt to do it right away.
“Was it the right thing to do, Mum? To meet with him?”
She plops a mug of tea down in front of me and pulls up a chair.
“Only you know that, love. But I can’t see how it was the wrong thing.”
“I just feel dumb for even giving him that one drink.”
“You’re not dumb, Jess. You’ve never been that.”
I think about some of the mistakes I’ve made over the past few years. How I’ve successfully pushed people away. The missteps with Tom. The “New Me” and how she’s made me lonelier than I thought possible.
“I think I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” I confess.
She places her hand on mine and smiles. “Making mistakes doesn’t make you dumb. I’m sure even Einstein fucked the cat sometimes.”
I hold Agatha out at arm’s length and stare into her wide eyes.
“I think you mean ‘screwed the pooch,’ Mum.”
She winks and shoots me with her finger gun, like she’s done for the last fifteen years whenever I’ve corrected her. I’d got used to it so much, I’d stopped thinking about why she does it. Only now do I contemplate the thought that it’s her way of saying, I know a lot more than you think. She really does.
Her eyes widen and she asks, “Do you want some jelly and ice cream?”
“Mum, I’m not six!”
“But do you?”
I nuzzle Agatha and release her back into the wild of the other room.
“Of course I do.”
“With sprinkles?”
I nod overenthusiastically and Mum sets about assembling my toddler’s treat. I want to ask when she made the jelly and how long has she had the sprinkles, but I think the answer would make me sad. My guess is she’s been storing them. Waiting for this exact moment to come. It takes me less time to eat the pudding than it did for her to prepare it. When I look up from my bowl, I see her waiting, a question on the tip of her tongue.
“Was he what you expected?”
“Not really. I wanted him to be this angry boozehound wearing a string vest with questionable tattoos visible. He just seemed a bit…I don’t know.”
“Weak?” she asks, hitting the nail on the head.
“Yeah. I’m worried I’ve got that in me.”
Her face is pure concern as she shakes her head and corrects me.
“Oh, my love. You are one of the strongest people in the entire world.”
I let her know something that’s been on my mind a lot over the last few months. The source of much of my pain. “I feel like I’m not allowed to be angry. Like, I’ll be judged if I am. And in pushing it down, the anger always finds another way to get out. But with even more ferocity.”
She takes my hand again and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “You’re allowed to be angry, Jess.”
Just as I’m about to thank her for this and everything else, we both freeze as we hear a key in the lock. I jump up and grab a frying pan, ready to whack the intruder, but Mum’s grin reminds me that another person owns a key to this house. And suddenly, the surprise makes sense.
She flings the kitchen door open and near sprints into the room to see my brother, Dom, the epitome of a weary traveler, swaying in the doorway. Within seconds he’s overbalanced by a one-two of me and Mum hugging him and a ten-stone rucksack on his back. We all end up on the floor in a heap.
“Get off me, you weirdos!” he cries as we pepper him with the missed kisses of four years. Only when he stops struggling do we relent.
“My little boy! Back with us at last!” Mum exclaims. “Look at his tan! He’s got skin darker than—”
“DO NOT finish that sentence, Mum.”
“What?”
“Whatever un-PC comparison you were about to make.”
She flings her hands up in the air. “Fine. I’ll get the kettle on.”
I help Dom take his bag off and he slumps down into his old favorite chair. He looks more than a little freaked out to be back home. I recognize the worry and he sees it.
“You OK, bro?”
His eyes Manga wide, he replies, “Yeah. It’s just I’ve been traveling so long I’d forgotten what this place looks like.” He whispers this next bit so Mum doesn’t hear. “I’d forgotten how small it is. How low the ceilings are.”
I place a hand on his. “And. That’s. OK.”
He smiles, takes a breath and repeats the mantra. “And. That’s. OK.”
We take a moment in silence, before we talk for two hours straight. Mum makes teas at regular intervals, whether we need them or not, as we listen to all the people and places Dom has met and visited over the past forty-six months. Fueled by caffeine and absence, his stories only cease at eight thirty when he asks, “So, how’s my big sister superstar?”
“Very fine. Thank you.”
“I saw a few of your bits on YouTube. That’s some risqué material you’ve been doing of late. I didn’t think anyone had that much hatred for the Muppets.”
I shrug and a feeling of shame creeps in. I’m not sure I would have done and said some of the stuff I’ve said if I’d known he was watching. How did I kid myself into thinking he wouldn’t be?
Sensing the sadness in me, he insists, “I wasn’t having a go. After all, it’s not like you’re selling military equipment to developing countries. It’s just a few jokes.”
Perfect Timing Page 21