"You should have gone on that solo tour. Your voice was a real gift."
She looked over at the man who deserted her. He chose to push her away when his Cash Cow went on tour. They could have been the opening act. The Boys loved her, they were a smash. And very funny to boot. But he was too cautious. He was . . .
"You had a gift." he repeated.
"We had a a gift," she reaffirmed.
He looked into her eyes for the first time that day. He didn't understand why she was still talking to him. Sure, she had disappeared for 17 years. Most people disappear on him. No, she had called. And now, here she was, visiting him, in person. More than anyone else had done. Nursing him during this long slow decline. Into death, if he was lucky. Damn, why was he always cold?
He looked down to see her hand around his. When did she do that?
"I never wanted to tour by myself,"
"You would've had that piano player . . . what was his name?"
"That guy who burped all the time?"
"He was on some medication," guiltily he made a mental note not to burp in front of her. Just when he thought he was in a safe space.
"He wasn't you,"
Was this the time for explanations? Now or never. He wasn't sure if he wanted any explanations. Why didn't they understand each other?
"How come you didn't marry me?"
"How come you stopped touring with me?"
"You first,"
He always seemed to get his way. But it was always a false concession. She was good at flipping his questions over like flapjacks.
"I didn't marry you because you didn't love me. Except onstage. And that was all I wanted,"
"Everybody likes me better onstage," he grumbled, turning his face to the wall.
"Because when you leave, you turn into an ass! You ALWAYS had a groupie or two in your room, in OUR room. And when I needed you, when our roads diverged in the wood, and you had the chance. you didn't take me with you,"
"You would have hated it. They are cruel. Besides, I wasn't gonna hold you back from that deal."
They sat in silence. She didn't feel like rehashing this old argument. Especially when he was wrong and wouldn't revise the narrative to reflect reality.
He had the power to bring her on tour and he used it to keep her away. There was no DEAL. Someone said something one night, which he interpreted as an opportunity. She had some vague kind of offer, some solo gigs, from someone she didn't trust. Something that would've faded easily and quickly. She said yes. That's the crazy thing. She TRIED. And he still blames her for never seizing her career. She exhaled, knowing there was no career without him. Without THEM. They were the act. And they were damn good.
A duet which was the opposite of his other Band. The Cash Cow. Something he had fallen into. A story which had yet to find a satisfying narrative.
"I was walking in the East Village. And I had a vision. Go to California!"
Like any other drug trip taken in the early 60's. And then his friend bugged him to go. And then money, fame, girls, music, everything he ever wanted. A wish come true. It lasted 3 years. And then *poof*.
20 years later that Band got back together, found out they were even more beloved. Did a tour. And then every 4 or 5 years. And then one of them died. That's when they began the final push. Roll themselves out every year. A series of tight, 2 hour concerts. Full band backing them, everything easy.
But he still stubbornly did his solo gigs. He was lucky to fill up a bar. Somehow, the Cash Cow had nothing to do with his own music. He used up all his magic in LA in the early 60's.
And that's where she found him. At a DJ job he had. And the shows he'd do on the side. She'd help out. Be his roadie. Or a planted audience member. They'd drive together. Sing in the car.
And when the audience wasn't paying attention, he'd bring her up onstage. Or she'd introduce him. They'd work up an act. Something silly.
And when the Band came around, they actually performed for them. She went with them once. As his "assistant". They'd do the schtick during sound check. Jokes, stories, some songs.
The first song she did for them was "With Plenty of Money" in her stripper voice. The first 15 seconds were agonizing, meant to make everyone question why he had brought her along. But then she'd belt. And do the gravel-voiced impression of him. Ventriloquism gets 'em every time. By the end, the Band asked her to perform.
And he hated that. He hated that they liked her better than they liked him. Hated that he was always the wet blanket. The guy who wouldn't drink. (HE went off the wagon on his own gigs sometimes, but wouldn't drink around those guys. They were downright assholes when they got drunk).
He hated to see her among the Other Women on tour. The Wives, the Girlfriends, the Roadies and the Groupies. He was dictating his life to her, he had his own version of history. And seeing her watching him in context, he was embarrassed. This was him as a millionaire, as The Most Famous Person IN The Room, and everytime, he felt like an ass.
He was jealous of her. Of them, The Duet. Afraid that Their Act would supercede his Solo career. There was that tiny part of him who wanted to save that piece of performance for himself. He liked the bit where he flew solo. On tour with The Boys, he always had a few songs to himself. She knew that it was lonely, and worse, the audience didn't like it.
She felt it, heard the shift. They went from a cheering mass to a restless one. His solo songs were the moments when people got up to go to the bathroom.
But he had to keep that space sacred for himself. Fall or fly on his own. She had been so angry about it. Because when they performed together, in all those noisy bars, they were magic. They could have gone on touring the rest of their lives. She used to have fantasies, of him and her being normal, growing older together. But they fought. He was pushing her away, and like a fool, she kept leaving.
"I'm glad you're here," he said.
"Me too," She said.
"I'm cold,"
"I've given you all the blankets,"
"Um, could you, ah, get in?" Sure, now he was hesitant and shy.
"Of course," She took off her sweater but left her tank top and pants on. In any other context, she'd hate showing off her neck and batwings; she couldn't remember the last time she shaved and she smelled faintly of sweat from moving all those boxes in the living room to clear a wider path for him.
Somehow, armpit hair and aging fat never mattered. She was a good 20 years younger than anyone else at all the hippie concerts anyway. Being in his orbit was like crossing over into the Woodstock movie. First nude beach. Brought her to her first orgy. How bad could the world be if people were still having orgies?
He tried to wrap his arms around her, and even so, she could feel how hollow he seemed. His chest was a rib cage, like he was melting down into a skeleton. He finally acquired that old-man smell. Like that bent old guy down the hall from her in her first NYC apartment. It was the smell of someone who was unloved.
The house seemed to shrink into silence as they held each other and the sky outside got darker. Even though they were both awake, he didn't ask her to turn on a light. The first time she entered the room, it had been decorated by his previous girlfriend. The carpets still smelled brand new and the ceiling had a boarder of "Country-Style" hearts that seemed to scream out Dolly Parton or Kenny Rodgers every time she looked at them. No, the house wasn't getting smaller, she thought, he just had more crap. More boxes, a television, piles of papers and neglect. Broken things.
When was the last time anyone else had come to visit him? If she was kind to him, would he-HORROR-leave everything to her? Would she be the one stuck cleaning up his house? Would she have to make the calls for his funeral? Did he even have a living will?
"I'm gonna have to get up to go to the bathroom."
"Just a few more minutes, don't go yet,"
"What if I come back?"
As she got herself out of his bed, he kept a tight grip on her hand.
"Okay, as long as you come back. You always come back, don't you?"
He winked at her like the teen idol he once was. Somehow, he even resembled Cary Grant.
She stumbled down the dark hallway to where she remembered the bathroom to be. His gold records peeked out from behind the cardboard boxes. She saw a postcard with a younger version of herself on it. A promo for their record. She had told him not to print so many.
The audiences and touring all seemed like such ancient history. She didn't have many regrets, just that they should have sung together more. This was not a house for singing now. This house smelled of death.
"Hammer and A Nail"
From listening to the Indigo Girls on
http://www.onbeing.org/program/indigo-girls-on-music-and-finding-god-in-church-and-smoky-bars/6008
She looked over at the man who deserted her. He chose to push her away when his Cash Cow went on tour. They could have been the opening act. The Boys loved her, they were a smash. And very funny to boot. But he was too cautious. He was . . .
"You had a gift." he repeated.
"We had a a gift," she reaffirmed.
He looked into her eyes for the first time that day. He didn't understand why she was still talking to him. Sure, she had disappeared for 17 years. Most people disappear on him. No, she had called. And now, here she was, visiting him, in person. More than anyone else had done. Nursing him during this long slow decline. Into death, if he was lucky. Damn, why was he always cold?
He looked down to see her hand around his. When did she do that?
"I never wanted to tour by myself,"
"You would've had that piano player . . . what was his name?"
"That guy who burped all the time?"
"He was on some medication," guiltily he made a mental note not to burp in front of her. Just when he thought he was in a safe space.
"He wasn't you,"
Was this the time for explanations? Now or never. He wasn't sure if he wanted any explanations. Why didn't they understand each other?
"How come you didn't marry me?"
"How come you stopped touring with me?"
"You first,"
He always seemed to get his way. But it was always a false concession. She was good at flipping his questions over like flapjacks.
"I didn't marry you because you didn't love me. Except onstage. And that was all I wanted,"
"Everybody likes me better onstage," he grumbled, turning his face to the wall.
"Because when you leave, you turn into an ass! You ALWAYS had a groupie or two in your room, in OUR room. And when I needed you, when our roads diverged in the wood, and you had the chance. you didn't take me with you,"
"You would have hated it. They are cruel. Besides, I wasn't gonna hold you back from that deal."
They sat in silence. She didn't feel like rehashing this old argument. Especially when he was wrong and wouldn't revise the narrative to reflect reality.
He had the power to bring her on tour and he used it to keep her away. There was no DEAL. Someone said something one night, which he interpreted as an opportunity. She had some vague kind of offer, some solo gigs, from someone she didn't trust. Something that would've faded easily and quickly. She said yes. That's the crazy thing. She TRIED. And he still blames her for never seizing her career. She exhaled, knowing there was no career without him. Without THEM. They were the act. And they were damn good.
A duet which was the opposite of his other Band. The Cash Cow. Something he had fallen into. A story which had yet to find a satisfying narrative.
"I was walking in the East Village. And I had a vision. Go to California!"
Like any other drug trip taken in the early 60's. And then his friend bugged him to go. And then money, fame, girls, music, everything he ever wanted. A wish come true. It lasted 3 years. And then *poof*.
20 years later that Band got back together, found out they were even more beloved. Did a tour. And then every 4 or 5 years. And then one of them died. That's when they began the final push. Roll themselves out every year. A series of tight, 2 hour concerts. Full band backing them, everything easy.
But he still stubbornly did his solo gigs. He was lucky to fill up a bar. Somehow, the Cash Cow had nothing to do with his own music. He used up all his magic in LA in the early 60's.
And that's where she found him. At a DJ job he had. And the shows he'd do on the side. She'd help out. Be his roadie. Or a planted audience member. They'd drive together. Sing in the car.
And when the audience wasn't paying attention, he'd bring her up onstage. Or she'd introduce him. They'd work up an act. Something silly.
And when the Band came around, they actually performed for them. She went with them once. As his "assistant". They'd do the schtick during sound check. Jokes, stories, some songs.
The first song she did for them was "With Plenty of Money" in her stripper voice. The first 15 seconds were agonizing, meant to make everyone question why he had brought her along. But then she'd belt. And do the gravel-voiced impression of him. Ventriloquism gets 'em every time. By the end, the Band asked her to perform.
And he hated that. He hated that they liked her better than they liked him. Hated that he was always the wet blanket. The guy who wouldn't drink. (HE went off the wagon on his own gigs sometimes, but wouldn't drink around those guys. They were downright assholes when they got drunk).
He hated to see her among the Other Women on tour. The Wives, the Girlfriends, the Roadies and the Groupies. He was dictating his life to her, he had his own version of history. And seeing her watching him in context, he was embarrassed. This was him as a millionaire, as The Most Famous Person IN The Room, and everytime, he felt like an ass.
He was jealous of her. Of them, The Duet. Afraid that Their Act would supercede his Solo career. There was that tiny part of him who wanted to save that piece of performance for himself. He liked the bit where he flew solo. On tour with The Boys, he always had a few songs to himself. She knew that it was lonely, and worse, the audience didn't like it.
She felt it, heard the shift. They went from a cheering mass to a restless one. His solo songs were the moments when people got up to go to the bathroom.
But he had to keep that space sacred for himself. Fall or fly on his own. She had been so angry about it. Because when they performed together, in all those noisy bars, they were magic. They could have gone on touring the rest of their lives. She used to have fantasies, of him and her being normal, growing older together. But they fought. He was pushing her away, and like a fool, she kept leaving.
"I'm glad you're here," he said.
"Me too," She said.
"I'm cold,"
"I've given you all the blankets,"
"Um, could you, ah, get in?" Sure, now he was hesitant and shy.
"Of course," She took off her sweater but left her tank top and pants on. In any other context, she'd hate showing off her neck and batwings; she couldn't remember the last time she shaved and she smelled faintly of sweat from moving all those boxes in the living room to clear a wider path for him.
Somehow, armpit hair and aging fat never mattered. She was a good 20 years younger than anyone else at all the hippie concerts anyway. Being in his orbit was like crossing over into the Woodstock movie. First nude beach. Brought her to her first orgy. How bad could the world be if people were still having orgies?
He tried to wrap his arms around her, and even so, she could feel how hollow he seemed. His chest was a rib cage, like he was melting down into a skeleton. He finally acquired that old-man smell. Like that bent old guy down the hall from her in her first NYC apartment. It was the smell of someone who was unloved.
The house seemed to shrink into silence as they held each other and the sky outside got darker. Even though they were both awake, he didn't ask her to turn on a light. The first time she entered the room, it had been decorated by his previous girlfriend. The carpets still smelled brand new and the ceiling had a boarder of "Country-Style" hearts that seemed to scream out Dolly Parton or Kenny Rodgers every time she looked at them. No, the house wasn't getting smaller, she thought, he just had more crap. More boxes, a television, piles of papers and neglect. Broken things.
When was the last time anyone else had come to visit him? If she was kind to him, would he-HORROR-leave everything to her? Would she be the one stuck cleaning up his house? Would she have to make the calls for his funeral? Did he even have a living will?
"I'm gonna have to get up to go to the bathroom."
"Just a few more minutes, don't go yet,"
"What if I come back?"
As she got herself out of his bed, he kept a tight grip on her hand.
"Okay, as long as you come back. You always come back, don't you?"
He winked at her like the teen idol he once was. Somehow, he even resembled Cary Grant.
She stumbled down the dark hallway to where she remembered the bathroom to be. His gold records peeked out from behind the cardboard boxes. She saw a postcard with a younger version of herself on it. A promo for their record. She had told him not to print so many.
The audiences and touring all seemed like such ancient history. She didn't have many regrets, just that they should have sung together more. This was not a house for singing now. This house smelled of death.
"Hammer and A Nail"
From listening to the Indigo Girls on
http://www.onbeing.org/program/indigo-girls-on-music-and-finding-god-in-church-and-smoky-bars/6008
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