I'll See You In Another Joint

"I liked my acid, I enjoyed it"  he was always almost misty about his past life in the eye of the storm.  Orgies, drugs, parties, for a few years-one in particular-he could do no wrong.  And he spent his year of glory a mile high.

She couldn't tell if it was the success he missed, or the drugs.

Now he had days where he couldn't look anyone in the eye or leave his house.  But back then, everyone wanted a piece of him.  His autograph, his kiss, his drugs, his parties. He was at the center of all the photographs, the bull's eye, the focal point.

When they drove into LA now, she could sense it was a ghost town to him.  A ghost of himself.  She knew scenes from Gidget, sun and sand and surf.  And your only job is to say stuff and smile for the camera.

Nowadays, he had to scrounge for every dollar.  And even then, last night's take didn't even make gas money.  California is huge and requires a lot more driving than New England, but still, it was not a good sign.  She was out of money, and knew he was saving every last bit for his retirement.  His house bills were sky-high and he was thinking of selling the Farmhouse back east.  His parents had left it to him, but it was more of a white elephant, and worse-he loved it.

She still made sure to stash the change from their rest stops in the glove compartment and places he'd never look.  She had $40 in her wallet, that would take them through dinner, breakfast and lunch until they hit his friend's house tomorrow.  Credit cards would take care of the motel, but still, it had to be cheap.  The kind of place where the rugs smelled and she was afraid to let the sheets touch her skin, in case of bedbugs, fleas or just the dirtiness/flith of other guests.  But when she reached for her stash, it was gone.

"Where's my money?"
"The guys needed a few bucks for smokes"
"But that was MY money.  Our emergency money!"
Who were these "guys" anyway?  The band hadn't been in his car for more than a year.  He was giving her/their emergency money to strangers?  To those groupies who were plotting to write his bio and then presented him a contract giving him 45% royalties for his own life story.  They seemed to be out of the picture now anyway, but she expected he had slept with her, and that a paternity suit would arise quickly.  He never wanted to reveal his hysterectomy, as he called it.  The thing that prevented his entry into fatherhood forever.  Just in case a kid showed up that he actually liked and wanted to claim.

They drove up to a toll booth that was asking for something just beyond their means. $4.50.  Maybe they could scrounge up $2.00 among the pennies on the floor.  Even after he tried his best to charm the tolltaker-who would not be charmed- she could only come up with $1.83.

His ATM card had stopped working.  She had assumed at first that he was being cheap.  Then that he had just forgotten his PIN number, stupid old man that he was.  And then she found a slip, $6.  There must have been other accounts.  And some of those were frozen from a past wife or for legal issues.  She wanted to curse a guy like him for not lining the roof of his car with $50 bills when he had them available.

She offered up the change with the nicest smile she could bear.  The tolltaker just gave them a stare.  And then pulled out a form.  "You could mail this when you get home.  But make sure you . . ."

He stepped on the gas.

"Why did you do that?!?!"  Anticipating police sirens.
"Putting a stamp on it would increase the toll by too high of a percentage,"
"So they'll send you a ticket.  If they don't arrest you.  Or stop you at the next toll"
"They'll send me a ticket, so what? Bernie is used to giving away my money"
"So, now it's gonna cost ten times what it would have cost if you had just accepted that piece of paper!"
"$1.83, that's all we have?"
"And the $40 for food, we could've"
"You have 40 bucks?!?!?"
"Yeah-"
Their eyes met.
And they started to giggle.
A little release of pressure.

Which lasted until later that day.  A truck stop with a restaurant.  Closed.  And they couldn't start the car.

She would have walked away, if there was anywhere to go.

By the time the car was towed to a (cash only) garage, it was too late and too far to get a motel.  They both crashed in the greasy waiting room, on a green plastic pseudo leather couch with stuffing coming out.  She curled up in a ball that would hurt her shoulders for the next day.  As if she had the weight of the world on her.  The weight of this tour that would never end.

This was the thin line between "Plenty" of Money, and enough to make life miserable.


Master of Disaster by John Hiatt

Lady's Baby, I Love You

Visiting his "goddaughters" was never easy.  Plus, he seemed to have lots of them, didn't quite claim any of them.  All their mothers were just "good friends", most seemed to be single, or partnered with guys who didn't seem to be these girls' fathers either.

The logical answer was that he probably sired close to 20 kids.  But, no matter how many times she tried to pin him down, he shook his head.  Sincerely, he'd claim that none of them were his.  Even the ones he had wanted.  "If any of them were, none of them or their mothers would have me anyway,"  It seemed more pitiful than logical, so she didn't press him.

And indeed, at every house, he was treated like a stranger.  A welcome stranger, one who would provide entertainment or good stories.  But not a father.  No matter how much he wanted to play that role, he was stuck with his aging-idol status.  Which made mothers, daughters and even granddaughters flirt with him.  But those that weren't attracted to his flame were also blind to him as a human; if they couldn't give him credence as a phenomenon, they also couldn't bear to put up with any other bullshit. No love, no hate, just apathy.

She saw some kind of ache in his eyes every time they left.  A life he never could manage somehow, no matter how hard he tried.  She certainly never let him take advantage of the 20 year difference between them to patronize her.  Or even act paternally.  But she thought it was different.  Maybe there was something about him that girls instinctively stayed away from.  He wasn't to be trusted for the long term.

He had far too many suspicious stories about girlfriends who seemed to arrive on the scene with children already.  He was a sucker for someone asking for help.  Especially someone with a child.  Never quite understood why his generosity was never reciprocated.  Why he failed, when he loved a woman SO MUCH that he would accept her child as his own.  It made him hard.

Lady's Baby

All these places have their moments

Something about how the truck had landed on her car triggered something in her mind.  Dying was easy and without any kind of pain.  Maybe the music influenced her brain chemistry. And the sound of dripping, maybe it was rain.

It was a soft, pleasant feeling, as if she had just been made love to.  Cradled in the steel, she had no sense of the limits of her body, or gravity, or cold or warmth.

Like being held in his giant hammock bed. There was lots of laughter and tickling, they hadn't kissed for years-and then suddenly, they were.  Everything was white and bright and lovely.  The rain outside was music enough; they listened to it before and after, and then snoozed in each other's arms.

Often after orgasm, she would fall into a light sleep and be woken up by a sudden snore or grunt of his. It woke her up just enough to bring her to the edge of consciousness.  Like she was swimming, and breaking the surface.  Just enough to remind her how lovely her body felt, just enough to make her aware.

And then she slipped under again.

In My Life by The Beatles

“We die to each other daily. What we know of other people is only our memory of the moments during which we knew them. And they have changed since then. To pretend that they and we are the same is a useful and convenient social convention which must sometimes be broken. We must also remember that at every meeting we are meeting a stranger.” 
― T.S. Eliot, The Cocktail Party

We Can Share The Women, We Can Share The Wine

There was a lot of misogyny on the road.

A lot.

And so, initially, when they were touring and she was supporting the band, she dressed all in black.  In layers, hiding everything, never fixing her hair, except to tie it up.  No makeup.  She wanted to be taken out of the equation.  She didn't belong to Him and she didn't want to be thought of as an option for the rest of them.  She wanted them all to forget she was a woman.

Most of the time it worked.  Weeded out the guys who were looking for a one night relationship.  Any conversations she had were about what she knew.  The only thing she would blow was their minds. (BLEW MY NOSE AND THEN SHE BLEW MY MIND-Rolling Stones)

The transformation when she started doing "The Act" onstage was amazing.  Nobody recognized her.  She pulled off the Marilyn Monroe act without a hitch.  (Of course, coming at it from the angle that Marilyn herself was playing the role of a sex goddess, giving the men what they wanted.  Much smarter than she let on.  Until the drugs got out of control)

In the 60's, he used to have a button: "Orgy Organizer". It would've been funny if it wasn't actually true.  Although he tried to deny it to the women he met now, he was the centerpoint of getting laid.  His parties were legendary.  Memories of hedonism used to overwhelm him, mixed in with drugs and alcohol.

But everyone wanted to relive it.

A Naked Party.  No promises about what it would turn into.  No drugs.  No alcohol.  Bring the 60's back.

The boys all thought it was a great idea.

She got some of the girls together.  They had their own great ideas.  Sure, the groupies wouldn't mind being naked.  The only rule was that there could be no touching.

The idea of it drove all the guys crazy.

Usually, guys being naked in front of other guys was awkward.  And invited bouts of insecurity.  Especially when women were brought into the picture.

But they gathered in the motel room the girls gave them the key for.  No touching-sure, whatever.  Just a party.  Public, honest, open.

The girls never showed up.

The guys ended up watching reruns of ball games and falling asleep.

No such thing as control when it comes to women.  Rock & Roll boys humiliated again.

From
Jack Straw by The Grateful Dead

The Luckiest People In The World

The first time she drove him somewhere.  She freaked.

"Listen, I'm really sorry.  I have to sing.  I'm a terrible driver otherwise.  I lose focus.  I was trying to be good, and I wouldn't have stopped except . . . "

"Except you didn't see that truck that nearly killed us,"

"Right.  And I don't want to go down in the history books as the girl who killed the rock star,"

What a sweet kid, he thought.  Any history book that included him was only good for toilet paper.  He cringed at her choice when he saw the "Best of Barbara" cassette, gritted his teeth at the idea of having to listen to her.  This unknown quantity that held his life in her hands.  And he needed to pretend that he liked it, she was his only option for an assistant at the radio station.  This one time he could be nice, or risk her spitting in his iced coffee for the rest of the summer.  His ears could suffer for the safety of the rest of his body.

She began shyly, whisper-singing the words, but she gradually forgot herself as the city turned to highway and then country.  He was pleasantly surprised.

Her voice was easy, able to high notes easily, even though he could tell she hadn't warmed up.  There was a faint scratchiness in her voice, she probably hadn't sung in while.  And her voice was better than his. It wasn't hard, his career was based on his versatility on instruments and clowning around to distract from his singing.  He'd go off key rarely enough, but when he was at his best, he knew he sounded like a pubescent boy.  Even in his 40's.

"I love him more each day/When years have passed away"

He recognized her kind, one of the talented few who weren't Crazy enough to do it professionally.

As they sped around the corners, he was brought back to a time and place where everything was round and gentle.  The women, the dancing, the curls of smoke, Laurel Canyon. When everything good was just around the bend.  He remembered an acid trip where he spent 5 hours traveling in the golden curls of a naked nymph passed out next to him.

Her voice sounded like wine. Easy, as you lean over and pour that first glass into your partner's glass, anticipating sex. Or a dinner party with friends, your crystal goblet getting refilled again and again, the smoothness and the color of stained glass toasted against candlelight.

When life was glorious.  When all those friends accepted him easily, back when he drank and was still fun. In the time before everyone was uptight, back when it was okay to consume everything laid out before him.

He wondered vaguely if this moment was a portal, a new path for him in his career.  To play Svengali.  The moment seemed strong for him, like he was given access to a great gift, a nugget of knowledge.  He could make or break her career.  He relaxed in the car seat, smiling broader than he had realized, allowing himself to feel powerful again.

She seemed to take it as encouragement, and proceeded to act out some novelty songs that came up. Suddenly her eyes were ablaze with flirtation and her voice dipped into a scratchy register, and went slightly off-key, intentionally.  Driving her Cadillac of a voice against the median, knowing it would escape unscathed.  She was in full control of her voice, knew its edges, its valleys and mountains.  Knew that you'd go on the journey, even when she drove through a river, because she'd emerge on the other side in full sun, holding you in a single long note, like the spot on top of the mountain.

Maybe he would get her vocal classes for her birthday, hook her up with one of his perennially underemployed musician friends. He wondered if she would be upset at that. Take it wrong.
He noticed where she cheated. The Broadway sound, maybe that's what she was going for? He reassessed the situation again.  So many great kids have amazing voices, even if he tried he wasn't sure he still had any kind of power to get her noticed.

He knew one thing.  He hadn't been smiling this long or this large for a long time.  It was a strange, yet good feeling.

In that moment, he knew he didn't want to ever let her stop.

People by Barbra Streisand

He hoped that she'd forget that question

When she had first began staying with him, she had put plastic-doll-googly-eyes on a few of his framed photos.  He had laughed at first, the way she hoped.  In the same way he had joked about those days to her in the first place.

But now he had lost his sense of humor.

Initially, he was comedic and cynical about those days and she'd ask leading questions, allowing him to make fun of himself and the monster called FAME.  But now, lately, he seemed to give it more respect, a place of honor in his conversations.  As if it were a certain master he began to serve.

She realized now that he saw his life as historic, and all his time was to be "invested".  She began to realize that being alone with him, taking up his time, was a right that could now only be "earned".  The illusion of FAME didn't interest her, nor did his sudden irrelevant vanity.  Some things he could still joke about, but somehow, his legacy became serious.

She finally began to understand what the curse was.  Not some big romantic Dorian Grey thing.  But the fact that he was so old, that he had seen so much.  How painful it was to get close to someone, and have them die, or disappear on you. Normal people want to settle down with someone else who can mirror their lives, a 75 year love affair and marriage.  But he only found a partner suitable for a few months at a time.  Not so bad, in terms of curses.

Every so often, he'd remember he was famous, and that she was not.  And that she was just another girl.
But she always remembered that he was just a man.

The Curse by Josh Ritter

The Dearest Things I Know

"Wait until the horn comes back in,"  they would dance furiously during the bridge, as if it were a musical number from Fred and Ginger.  Semi-choreographed, they'd jump and twirl around whatever furniture/set surrounded them at the time.  She had a way of balancing herself on one leg, holding herself in midair, floating longer than gravity should allow.  There were a few bars where they could catch their breath, before the horns.

Standing in his living room, or at a check-in desk at a motel, or in the lobby, their eyes would meet, daring the other to dance.  There usually wasn't enough room, and it was silly to do in front of others at first, but the dare became bigger than the embarrassment.  Especially the twirls.

For both of them, it was a primal physical memory of childhood, losing control of gravity and being spun by another body.  Nonsexual, yet almost incestuous in the reaction. Almost hyperventilating because you are laughing so hard and can barely keep your breath.

"Close as you can get to orgasm while keeping your clothes on, " he said
"Almost better than singing with you," she said.
"Wait, wait.  NOW!"  He'd put his arms around her and spin her, gracefully, tightly.  She could never not laugh.  His smile was bright and innocent, close enough to kiss; her face would brush against his beard harshly, scratching.  A casualty of the fun.  A bruise she'd still feel hours later, even when she could no longer remember the details of his embrace.

The single greatest physical joy brought to her by another body.  Spinning in their orbit.  Feeling their gravity and control over your momentum.It was a game, to spin her as quickly as possible.  Although she played it too, so she was never sure who was the instigator, or who was winning.  They were evenly matched here, and the music stopped short for the singer to continue.

"You are . . ."  it could easily have been a song of insults.  And sometimes, when they fought, and he wanted to call her names, she'd sing to him.  Slowly, taking all the drama out of the recording.  Now the listener was being complimented, and the singer quickly ran out of comparisons.  "The dearest things I know are what you are,"  Trust me, it's not that you are JUST the miracles of nature, those perfect moments that create the beauty, you are all the stuff I can't even name.

That should cover it.

Jerome Kern sang it as part of his dying breath.  She always thought of that.  You are better than anything I could ever do or write, and I'm still trying to sing your praises.  I'll never finish.

And appropriate to the movie they imagined they were in, they'd finish in a flourish.  Which also sometimes resulted in applause by bewildered bystanders.  They'd land with a laughing sigh, their game completed.

No matter how tired, she'd always ask to do it again.  Like a little child realizing the difference between earth's gravity and centripetal force, pulling you into another human's orbit.  And who loves the idea that there is all the time and energy in the world to do it again and again.

"All the Things You Are" performed by Keely Smith
written by Jerome Kern and Oscar Hammerstein II

I'll be Damned, Here Comes Your Ghost Again

Another big birthday approaching with dread. As usual these days, she was driving on the highway for week of meetings with a client. And, thankfully, a favorite song came on the radio.

Alone this time, she began absentmindedly singing along.  At some point she heard herself encounter an unpredictable note, and tackle it sweetly. It could have easily gone either way, a bite of charcoal or chocolate. Even she was impressed.

Her destination was a hotel.  These days, she’d have the fanciest suites all to herself, her preferred chain because it offered you cookies and points.  The corporation was good to its traveling consultants.  It was Sunday afternoon and tomorrow, she’d begin work at a new client.  Her business suits slept inside her suitcase like armor.  The internet was either a series of billions of countries, or one giant nation, she couldn’t figure out which.  Regardless, she was a mercenary, going to war for whichever king was richest. She imagined herself a well-educated servant, who knew enough to get herself into castles on a regular basis.

At this moment of her life, she was unremarkable.  Looking into the rearview mirror a few minutes earlier, she saw an older woman who rarely smiled, a woman set to intimidate her peers.  How did she grow into this hard woman who gave withering glances across the boardroom? Now when she attempted flirting glances with herself, it was not only her mouth singing. Her eyes belonged to someone who was clever at a party, a woman you’d want to get to know.

Suddenly struck with dejavu, she spotted a familiar sign. 2 miles to the highway leading to His House.   She had last spoken to Him a year, (or maybe two?) ago.  Near New Years.  He was still on her speed dial.  

She heard his voice as she was approaching the familiar hill, she could continue or divert for him.

“Um, yeah, sure,come over.  Come over,” he coughed.

He sounded not quite enthused.  She diverted, a quick decision which took very little thought at all. Even if he was cold to her, like their last conversation, then she would make excuses for a quick escape.  She decided to pick up ice cream to soften him up. After all, he was a very old man by now. And she didn't want their last conversation to be a bad memory. She refused the possibility of regret for a 10 mile detour.

==

So this is it, she thought.  This is where all that glory gets you.  His once immaculate farmhouse was disheveled, like it had been out all night drinking.  She had to clear a spot on the couch so her pants could make contact with cushion rather than paper.

He seemed even skinnier than usual.  And surprisingly frail, somehow, but it could have been effects of some medication he was on.  Something that made him look, well, drunk.  Like before his AA days.  

He smiled at the ice cream and put it away without serving it.  Instantly, she knew something was seriously wrong.  

“Last I saw in the papers, you were touring with The Group again,”

“Yeah, that was maybe 3 years ago now.  Funny Man went blind you know, and the Chief's diabetes has really taken a turn for the worse."  

“No, I didn’t know!  Wow, that’s too bad.  And what’s wrong with you?"

He was quiet for so long that she began to think she had only imagined asking the question out loud.

“I’m sick.   There’s something wrong with me.” At last, with a certain vagueness that seems to be typical of the senile.  Except he wasn’t senile.  She probed.  Tried to pin him down.  He tried to be slippery.  She got sick of the game quickly and tried to make him get to the point.

“But you ARE dying?”

The words hung there, his sunken eyes avoiding hers.  He tried to play innocent, to change the subject.  She felt bad but kept chasing him down.

“Have you been to a doctor?

“They can’t help. They can’t give me a new body"

“Are you in pain?

“Only ever since the day I was born,"

“Do you have anyone who comes to check on you?"

“I had a cleaning lady coming in 3 times a week, but I forget to pay her so she stopped coming."

Over the next hour or two, a flood of half truths and lies came out, as well as the ice cream from the freezer.He did what he could to put up a fight for his dignity. From the looks of it, he had been preparing to die completely by himself. Only his face betrayed the annoyance at being caught at something which now seemed so self indulgent.

Soon he showed signs of fatigue and she helped him into bed. Pulling over a chair to stay talking to him, she soon heard him only responding in snores. She threw a blanket over her legs to stop the chill and to avoid having to make her goodbyes so quickly.

She was startled awake later that night, hearing keys in the lock.  The “cleaning lady” turned out to be an Unlicensed Visiting Nurse, who had even been coming in on her days off to make sure he was okay, according to her version.  But she was busy, with 4 kids of her own, plus 7 grandbabies that  . . .

She emptied out her wallet to this woman, suspecting he had intentionally lost his checkbook.  Or had stopped paying.  It flashed through her mind that she might be encouraging women like her to come back and seek out more money from big hearted fans like her. But somehow the Farmhouse didn't seem to be an obvious place of opportunism.

The cleaning lady seemed to nod and smile, understanding that this was a one time only occasion of generosity. Even asking to be repaid for groceries past and future. The wallet was empty and even after her own well had run dry, she wanted to give more, if only to keep away the temptation to steal the real valuables. She gave a glance in the direction of the Gold Record in the hallway, but it wasn't where she could see it.

She wouldn't know what to do with it anyways. Anything else of value around? No. . . My god, has he really pawned everything?

She ushered the stranger out the door and did what she could to clean. He lay silently in the former dining room, beeping like the warning sounds of a truck backing up very slowly.

The cleaning lady never came back. And nobody else did either.

Diamonds & Rust by Joan Baez

Stick my hand in your front pocket and tighten up your screw

The green room was setup for a party, stocked with the healthy food required by the locavore singers and just enough junk food to keep the traditionalists happy.  Running the backstage lineup was not a hard job, except when it meant trying to figure out who the latest young star WAS.  She'd just knock on the dressing room and make eye contact with whomever seemed to be in the bull's eye of the storm of hangers on.  They all looked alike to her nowadays.  Associate Producer was still just a fancier title for Backstage Slave.

He came up on her from behind.  "Woooowie!!" He whistled and greeted her like she was Marilyn. She felt that way.  Not seeing him for a few years was good for her, but she worked hard on polishing herself up, just in case.

She was wearing her traditional black, but this dress was especially shapely on her.  It made her feel like the differences between her and the people actually in the spotlight were not that big.  She was freely allowed onstage, was an important person backstage, greeted warmly by everyone.  She even got up to the mike, to check it for sound.  She just wasn't the one the audience wanted.  It was this, the "passing" that she loved.  If your friends are glittery enough, then it rubs off on you. She was infamous for being the one with the most biting remarks at the after-parties.  Her wits got her by, even if her looks weren't always fully up to snuff.

Her skin was freshly tanned and delicious, his fingers seemed to be tasting chocolate for the first time as they brushed against her arm.  He turned his smile on full throttle as he beamed in her direction.

Even though his girlfriend was standing next to him, burning a hole through the floor.

She quickly introduced herself to the girlfriend, twisting the knife by ignoring him just enough.  He hated being deflected, hated when his charms failed.  But he had the instincts of a shark and kept moving to a fresh flock across the room, where he knew he'd be eagerly devoured.

"I love how boys are puppies around pretty girls", she said as they watched him begin to flirt at the cheese table.  There were several teenage girls who had piled their hair on top of their heads as if the gym look were suitable for dress-up events.  They had no idea who he was, only a vague sense of who he thought he was.  They didn't even care enough to watch the concert, daughters of the venue who helped to sell popcorn during the summers. He began to fumble with his plate when she and her skinny body slumped away from him, leaving him off center enough to knock his cheese onto the carpet.

"Yeah, it must be fun to egg them on, when you are pretty.  When you are cruel."  His girlfriend was a plain jane, which meant a few things.  Obviously, she was eager to return to being a wallflower, and the one who would help him with all the details, from making sure he had water onstage to keeping his guitar case stocked with condoms.  "To store the mic", he said.  It was an old technique from the sixties, to keep the dust off when they were packed away.  The cruelest Sound Guys spent performances taking a safety pin to their supply- hoping to reward any thieves with a surprise Fatherhood.  The girlfriend did not look like the type who would poke holes in any of his condoms, even as a warning.

He was just one of many celebrities, singers, has beens and wannabes that were on the schedule.  But he was playing his part valiantly, moving on to the next victim, who was turned to stone as soon as he spoke to her.  The other end of the spectrum, no wonder famous people go crazy.

"This is me in costume.  I'd never been pretty until last year.  At least now I'm trying.  My hair, my outfit. I'm the shy one, but I'm good at pretending.  He's the one who was pretty when he was young, and now fame still sticks to him.  And he's kept looking good, different, but good."

"He's got a dark side, though,"  the girlfriend surprised her by claiming his troubles, agreeing to them publicly.  She wouldn't even have to dig to find out how mean he was these days.

"I know.  I worked for him for a few years.  At the radio station.  He'd put me on the air when he couldn't make it through a whole show,"

"So you are HER?" The girlfriend sized her up in a full frontal approach.  More questioning than attacking.  Both looked at a reflection of themselves.  They were not the pretty birds of prey.  They were attractive for their qualities of working hard, of persistence.  And they both knew that he glittered like gold to all the other girls. Surface attracts surface. The pretty ones would scatter in the morning, if he hadn't kicked them out the night before.  Guys like him didn't have friends or girlfriends, so much as he had "handlers".  People who had to "handle" everything.  They recognized this in each other quickly.

The show ran fine, without much incident after that.  Except one thing.

He pulled her up onstage for the finale.  Had the audience clap for her, even though she wasn't the main organizer.  But he kept holding onto her arm and had her sing on one of the 5 shared mics.  Nobody could hear her, even if she was good or bad, it didn't matter. He knew she'd like it, and he made her remember that she sang.

Besides, he was always afraid of alliances among his women.


From
"That's Who I Am" recorded by Neko Case, written by John Mellencamp
From "Ghostbrothers of Darkland Country"
http://www.mellencamp.com/discography.html?dd_id=46

As Long As Love Still Wears A Smile

As usual, they were lost.

But there was plenty of time and miles before they had to make a decision, and the road seemed to stretch out endlessly. It was an expansive feeling, including every cornfield, tree swing, mansion and simple shack they saw.

But this would be the moment he came closest to proposing to her. Proposing that they get married. Proposing that they consider themselves partners in the long term. Propositioning her, in every way. Begging her to give into the romantic impulse rather than to laugh it off. Their harmonies existed in so many ways, but he needed for her to acknowledge it as well.

He was suddenly gripped by the idea of singing sincerely to someone for the rest of his life. He was fairly certain that she'd be the one to take care of him on his deathbed and even more certain that she'd be less bitter about it if he posed the question now rather than later.

He gripped her hand. A half reassuring caress and half awkward friendship shake.

She started singing, and he got so sentimental that he nearly couldn't stand it.  Just as quickly, she switched off the music.

"I know that The Group is going to be touring in the Fall,"
"Yeah?"
"Yeah.  You had said before that you wanted to bring me along.  That the guys would really love me,"
"They would, they do.  They love hanging out with you,"

He was hedging suddenly.  She had every right to bring this up, he was dreading it actually.  That time that one of the guys brought along their girlfriend.  How horribly that had ended.  He trusted her, but he didn't trust them.  Even when they had the original conversation, he felt this shadow creeping in on his optimism.  He hated that she had to ruin such a lovely moment by bringing it up.

He hated himself even more for taking the moment away from her.  From them.  He suddenly hated everything.  He screwed up his face to swallow back the tears that were still in his eyes.  God, he wanted a drink.


Two For the Road Nancy Lamott

And the Moon Rose Over An Open Field

"And the Moon Rose Over An Open Field"

When he first knew her, she was young and full of affectations.

Now, she was older, and still full of pretensions, just different ones.

Back then, she had to stop the car everytime "America" by Paul Simon came on the radio.  She'd get out, and wander around, like acting out the part of a young girl in a poem.  In a song, the one with the long ponytail, young and flirtatious. A sprite, a free spirit, the kind he had so many of so many years ago.  Back then she was a generous lover, letting him take the lead, allowing him everything.

Now, she had dropped the innocence, and was now a know it all.  Which he hated on principle.  The worst part was, she was always right.  Which he hated more.  What was attractive was her incredible patience with him, and her persistence.  When he was mean, he recognized himself from his little boy days.

And he hated her because she laughed at him.

15 years since he last touched her, he gave her The Eyebrow.  The secret moves that he saved for the girls he really liked.  For the women he WANTED in his life.  And he even kissed her-she had been pulling away at the last minute every time-but then he had caught her.  Kissed her, deeply.  She didn't seem surprised, and this-this one moment was the moment that made him hate her deeply and truly.  She emerged from the kiss, and seemed to ponder.  And then she opened her big lovely eyes, eyes which he should have been able to seduce, and she laughed.  A casual thing, she brushed him away.  Walked away, laughing.

Even later, she'd touch him, and he'd spring to attention.  Was she more in command of herself nowadays?  What did she let other men do to her? He imagined every detail, even the painful ones.  It was better than nothing.

He watched her now, as he did these days, with such an obsession.  Every fiber in him aching to touch her.  She was like a string, quivering beneath his fingers.  Once you touched it, you silenced it.  He'd continue to love her, because she continued to love him.    But he would hold back.  And let her have her moments, without holding her back-with him.

He couldn't imagine traveling this seventh circle of hell in Hampton Court Inns with anyone else.


America-Paul Simon & Art Garfunkel

You Don't Know How Many Times

You Don't Know How Many Times

"I think that's a bedbug,"
"Where?" He was absentmindedly scratching his cheek.
"I mean a bite, you were bitten by a bedbug!"
"No I wasn't." It was a reflex now, to disagree with whatever she said.
"I can see it oozing."
"I'll get a bandaid. You screwed up the song again last night."
"I told you I can't always hit that note. Either I drop my voice out & cheat it, or you play louder."
"No, we'll practice again today at sound check."
"Sometimes I get it & sometimes I don't. Practice hasn't been helping."
"You just need to try harder."
"I'm trying as hard as I can. Stop picking at it!!"

He knew his face couldn't afford any more injuries, but he couldn't stop playing with scabs or bites. Never could stop, not even as a kid. Nervous habit. He still had an infection on his hip that wouldn't heal where the guitar rubbed against him. Everything hurt, but as long as nobody saw it, he'd do whatever he wanted.

Right now, he wanted to stop the car and kick her out.  The show last night was awful and he was pretty sure he'd have to fire the band permanently.

She turned the radio on, effectively silencing their conversation. A blues riff was playing and she let the dial rest there until the static got too bad.

He yelled when she changed it. His obsession with Blues was bigger than her tolerance for static.

"Stop at the next rest area. I'm hungry". Or "I have to go to the bathroom."

They were both cranky to the point they were ready to kill each other.  But they didn't.  Survival mode, tolerating each other moment to moment.  But still, each was keeping track of the other's failures.  Keeping score of all the items they overlooked.

She could never identify the smell in his car, but she thought of it as death. Stagnant food odors. Rotting newspapers. Him after he hadn't bathed for a week. Being in his car was like rattling around inside his brain sometimes. Or his stomach.  Blues books lay dusty and undigested. CDs fallen out of their cases, things which were once useful or full of promise, collected and drying out in the heat of the car, baking in the sun.

She felt sick.

Last time she went to his house, he didn't want to get out of bed. She'd jump into her rental car and drive. Wondered why she was attracted to people who turned stagnant. Easier to drop them, she thought to herself. Even when she was madly in love, she wanted an escape clause. And she got them.

But when they pulled over, it was them against the world.  Asking a waitress to hold the bread.  Charming the waiters to make sure they didn't spit in their food.  Battling the audience.  They rehearsed the song and he played louder during the actual show.  She threw him a few extra straight lines and he got the audience to laugh.  She had to stop herself from throwing her arms around him a few times.

That night, he had trouble saying goodnight to her at the motel room door.  But they had gotten a deal on the 2 for one rooms, and she was determined to get their money's worth.

Cherish-The Association

Murder Is Just a Shallow Way

Murder Is Just a Shallow Way-Mondegreen

When she made breakfast, she usually would go to town.  She called them "Crazy Eggs"

He'd lay out a series of leftovers, bits of salad trimmings, salsa, cheese.  This went over especially well if there was a party the night before. It was all about the taste, never the looks.

Especially when she added leftover red wine, turning the eggs pink or purple.  He was plenty happy not to cook at all.  And he loved sitting back to watch the reactions from the newbies in the band or other guests.  A means of torture, or a test.  Or an initiation.  Anyone else who wanted to make their own were completely welcome to do so.  He was more uptight about it than she was.

And when they were discussing intricacies of music, he was still amazed by her level of erudition.  And sheer innocence.  "Murder is just a shallow way"

You Murderer, so shallow.

So funny.

When he corrected her, she honestly seemed disappointed by the real lyric.

"Of course.  Just a shot away.  Gun murders, that's so obvious!  But, if you consider how shallow it is to try to take over the world by rape & murder, it's tremendously shallow.  Take over the world with ideas.  With music.  That's power. Isn't that what you guys were trying to do. And failed?"

This made the rest of them shut up and twiddle nervously at their coffee.  He still felt some sense of shame about his generation.  The idea of peace had disintegrated into sex and drugs.  Rock n Roll was still around, but it had turned commercial.

They exchanged looks around the table.  She had a point.


Gimme Shelter by the Rolling Stones, this line is sung "Murder is just a shot away", by Merry Clayton

No Buttons On My Shoes

She was great about lyrics.

Maybe too great.  A stickler.  Plus, to make things worse, she was well-read.  And always reading something new.  Or doing research.

"Hey, did you know the zipper was invented the same year that Grand Central Terminal was opened?  1913?  That makes them even older than you!"
"Thanks,"
"No, you know that line in that song?  About the buttons on the . . ."

It was the one where she'd wiggle her pretty little foot. He knew the exact line, but feigned ignorance.

This conversation was getting to him.  She was picking at it, every detail of the lyric.  It doesn't matter, just shut up and sing!  It reminded him of fans who wanted to know every fact about him.  And how she was once one of them.  She was still coming out with random facts about his life, including stuff he never even knew.  Or things he just couldn't remember anymore.  Another line from the song:"I don't know enough about you", except she did.  She knew plenty.  More than he liked.  But she sang it so seductively.

She sang it like as if there were more to know about him. And as if she was still eager to discover it, to seduce it all out of him.  It was nice to be considered such an object of interest.  As a person (not as a figurehead).

Because he was certain that he wasn't that deep.  Except in her eyes, she could make him do things that surprised him. (SCENE) Made him laugh. He liked that man she seemed to be in love with.  Or who SHE thought he was.  Like with the audiences, he was always afraid of not living up to expectations.

And lately, it was getting harder. His medication wasn't working.  He was getting more cranky.  He saw a breakdown coming. If only he could tell her that the alcohol was his last hope, that a little could calm him down.  Too much wasn't good, but she shouldn't get in between him and his drink.

And THAT was the one thing she didn't want to know about him.  Pesky kid poking around a haunted house.  The biggest danger is that you'll find something.  Or collapse through the floorboards.  Get killed not by the ghost, but by the reality.  (Poor kid.)


"I Don't Know Enough About You" sung by Jessica Molasky

Crazy for Tryin'

Crazy for Tryin'

She had certain genius instincts for music.  When pushed during interviews, she giggled and feigned ignorance.

"I tell him to do all the fast songs slow, and all the slow songs fast. He thinks I'm brilliant," Their eyes met and they both agreed on this superficial creativity. But there were hours of trial and error behind them.

He wanted her to try the Patsy Cline song.  Pushed and pushed, knew she could do it.   She wanted to do it sped up, as a joke.  Somehow that version caught on and became a joke.  A classic, and easy encore.

But when they were first breaking it in, she was still fragile.  Smiling, but never far from tears.  That was the tricky issue with music, sometimes you do a song so much that finally you begin to actually listen to it.

After doing it uptempo, he asked her to slow it down.  With lots of air around her, suddenly the meaning came brilliantly clear.  She WAS crazy after all.  In love with someone who could never return her love.  There was no hiding behind the fairy tales, him as a prince in a tower locked away.  He was on heavy medication, in therapy, working to get to a place where he can even be around people.  She needed to stop hoping that she could break through.  And he was bringing her into his world of crazy.  It was the real word, a word indicating madness, losing your head in a literal fashion.

No more a fun label for what musicians were, or a way of being creative.  "Crazy" equals madness.  And no amount of love songs could make up for that.

She was in tears after a few lines and ran from the room.

The bass player asked what was wrong.  He replied that she was just tired.

And if she was tired of the madness of the young man she was in love with, how long would it take for
her to get sick of him?  How long would it take for his own insanity to come back, the caged animal escaping again?

He couldn't break the news of his own diagnosis to her.  Maybe he'd be able to keep it in hiding.  Or give her up when it came back.  Right now she was distracted by this other guy.

"She's trying to get over this crazy guy," he said without a hint of irony.

Crazy-Patsy Cline

Don't confront me with my Failures/ I had not forgotten them

When you are on Tour, nothing is entirely private. He found a letter she had written in her bag.  It was dated a week before the Crazy Boy's Suicide.  She had never sent it.

Dear Mr. Man,

I want you to know that everything is forgivable.  I made that commitment to you, to our friendship, all those years ago.

This is probably yet another mistake, writing this letter, holding on to you, going over it all one more time in my mind.  But I won't be sending it.  Which may be another mistake of a different kind.

I'm well aware that you cannot offer what I require in a friendship.  That we have had a series of fights and disagreements.  Repeatedly.  To the point where I cannot remember the good times.  Well, not easily.  (I do remember them, which is-of course, why I'm writing this.)

You love me. But you refuse to admit it.  I love you, and I can't stop trying to prove it.  We do best when neither of us is being stubborn.  Those are the moments I live for.

Your face when we meet.  Your open smile when you shake my hand.  When push comes to shove, you always come through.  I just can't keep shoving you.

As always, I'll wait for you to come to me.  Even if it doesn't happen this time, which is entirely likely, I'll keep waiting.

You are right (as usual) that I have my own issues.  There's been so few successes, I cannot afford to give extra kindnesses away to other people.  Especially if they are not in a position to give back.

When I was a child, and there was something to terrible to contemplate, I used to imagine it inside of a steel box.  Locked, wrapped in more steel mesh.  Put into a trunk, tied with ropes and chains.  Dumped into the ocean.

I imagine your heart.  There is a lock, but also a key.  A box, small but highly reflective and easy to find in a stream.

When you are ready to be found, you can come to me.

Love,

Me

These Days by Jackson Browne

If it was a straight mind you read/we wouldn't have known you all these years

If it was a straight mind you read/we wouldn't have known you all these years

The first time it happened, she was slightly stunned.

"Happens to the best of us," he grinned, completely unfazed at the change in her.  She was struck completely silent.  Trying to remember an obscure word ("Gregorian, GREGORIAN!! Damnit!"), she went from her precarious perch as a devoted but intellectual fan, to yet another human falling victim to his Medusa stare.  He quickly recognized the syndrome and indicated to his handlers to move the Stone Girl along.  She had driven 250 miles for her five minutes, and lasted for only 30 seconds.

She also suspected it was related to her penchant for losing the power of speech on her way to orgasm. She had noted her ability to talk, make conversation, offer minor corrections during the escalation, but at some point she was elevated to a place beyond words.

Her sexual excitement levels coincided (incongruously enough) levels of a video game.  Boring lovers barely brought her to the second level.  After a certain number of points, it was standard to promote someone just for persistence.  The best lovers (and inspirations) were so skilled that she got to victory screens quickly and suddenly, digital fireworks and endless rolling numbers.  Standing in front of his smile, she found herself mortified yet enjoying the thrill of her most successful game to date.

Years later, she watched him retract his smile from the world.  There comes a time when sex is not only no longer exciting, but also irrelevant.  Add his bipolar instincts and the fans were most certainly all doomed.

He was performing but completely without charm or vulnerability.  Pinocchio going through the motions, but with the animating spirit of Chucky.  Allowed himself to be posed as a prop for pictures, hating them as much as they loved him.  "Done. Done. Done." was all he kept saying, trying to end the dream for everyone as quickly as he could.

She watched him, and she watched the fans.  Wishing there could be a way to stop him.  Better to keep him as a fantasy than to meet this version of reality.  There was the stereotypical bitter rock star, but this was him beyond the drugs, beyond the alcohol, into his Dark Soul.

To whom much is given . . . much is destroyed as well.


Dear Mr. Fantasy by Traffic

***Read at Writer's Group, June 18

"Oh lord, I can't remember if it's September or July"

"Oh lord, I can't remember if it's September or July"

Sometimes the enormity of the country astounded her.

All the stories in every apartment window, in every car.  "Each time 2 or more are gathered in my name", 2 or more are a church service.  This human drama, worship of life.  The miracle of conversation.  Of friends and history, all the things you take for granted.

And music on the radio.  Sometimes you forget and get stuck on your iPod. But then you turn the radio on.  A new song by a favorite singer that you had never heard before.  Bringing back such a specific flavor of air.  That was the sound of 1972.  All these moments, before and happening now.

Being on tour, you get a strange sense of detachment, almost pathological.  Like a reporter in a war zone.  In a war zone that is your home country.

How did all those people create a life?

What was she missing, sitting here watching the sunset?  Taking an act around, frozen in concept, fun-cure, but static in its own way.  Looking at him as he crashes on his friend's couch.  An empty apartment in NYC.  Other people's lives.  They want to be on your stage, in your skin.  And you want . . . what?

When will you feel as if you own your life?  Is it a wedding ring?  The signature on a mortgage?  A PhD?  A weekly paycheck?

There were too many days of wandering.  She "lost the plot", according to the English saying.  When you go crazy from not being able to remember who you are or what your goals are.  But she wondered if she had ever had known.

Wherefore and the Why by Gordon Lightfoot

"I Say I'll Go Through Fire"

"I Say I'll Go Through Fire"

Sitting in their hotel room.  She's crying.  Tracing the lip of her water glass.

He doesn't know whether to attribute this to her lovely stubbornness or her own version of insanity.  What about her attracts the Crazies?  Why does she let herself seek them out?  And then fall for them?

He first thought that her mood swings were her period. Because that's what she told him.  Eventually, she confessed about the Guy.  How she was in love with him.  Even though this idiot Guy usually only communicated to her through emails.

"Is the sex good, at least?"

He was hoping for a laugh, a break in the tension. For her to deny any sex.  He wanted her to be a virgin.  Or a whore. Or both.

"We don't have sex.  He can't.  He's impotent."

He wanted to ask about more details.  But he didn't have the heart.  He wanted to recommend- or suggest alternatives, or offer advice.  This was worse than he had suspected.  This man got her with his heart.

Her story was inconsistent.  The last time, she had said it was incredible.  And cried harder.  Something about cyber sex.  Or her imagination.  Which made him worry even more.

"Crazy He Calls Me" sung by Anita O'Day

Then Why The Hell Are You So Sad?

" 'Never stick your dick in Crazy and never let Crazy stick his dick in you'  Isn't that how the saying goes?"

This was way before he had even thought to tell her, way before he let it become relevant to the conversation.  Besides, he was fascinated by how she dealt with "Crazy".  He wanted to know how she'd deal with him when the time came.  Her first rule: Know the rules, and break them.

"Is he Crazy?"
"Mixed-Bipolar.  He was diagnosed at 25.  Some big "Episode", which he doesn't talk about.  A bunch since then.  And he's chosen to live his life very carefully.  He's very accomplished, but has very few friends,"
"And you like him because he's accomplished or because he could still do with some rescuing?"
"Honestly, it started out as both,"  She went into some long reverie while he tried to look attentive and consume his diner veggie burger.  It had a coating of breading and oil, which rendered the whole thing inedible.  But it was either this or go back to meat. He'd rather stay hungry.

"So the short of it is, you are still in love with him,"
"Yep.  Although I know better.  And I don't even want to be.  But nobody's seen him in a month. And he's started to write to me again,"
"You let him?"

There were so many answers in her eyes.
I'm not as mad at him anymore.
He doesn't have anyone else.
But I love him.
He'll always have me in an emergency.

"It's a pattern," she said, putting down her luscious burger.  "He's not sleeping well. He's agitated and quick to anger.  He accuses other people of mental illnesses-"
"Is he right?"
"Yes, that I'm neurotic and depressed and could use some therapy.  But he's approaching another "Episode", and I want to be there for him,"
"From 2500 miles away?"
"I'm in touch with his therapist.  In case he goes overboard..."
"Suicide?"
She looked him in the eye.

"He's talked that way before.  Now, I think he's just full of energy, not violence.  Maybe. He didn't tell me what happened last time. His cycles are getting shorter.  Maybe it's like giving birth, when the contractions get shorter, something's going to happen,"
"What happened last time?"
"He got mad at me a few months ago.  Cut me off.  Now he's ready to see me again, eager, he's in a Manic phase.  All the contact I wanted when he was a block away. Now,he wants to talk, to write.  I can't keep up with his emails.  And he's not sleeping."
"Do you really think it's helpful to him or you?"
"The important thing is that he's talking to me!  He's reaching out."
"And when he stops?"
"It's a relief.  I prefer it when he gets angry at me, when he pulls away."  She stopped and picked up her burger again. " 'It's not the man, it's the ghost', we have to finish that song."
"I have a new one for you, "How do you Unlove Somebody", the opposite of the Love Potion song trope."
"That's funny.  Hmm, I can imagine sitting there and not being able to drink it"

He had his answer there.  Once she got hooked on someone, she couldn't get out.  They sat there, chewing on their burgers, both their minds with someone else.


"If it makes you happy"-Sheryl Crow