Saturday, January 27
(Franco)
My cell is vibrating on the nightstand next to Gemma's bed. I've been awake for a while but my arm is under Gemma's sleeping head and I don't want to wake her so I'm still in bed. I pick it up with my free hand to silence the noise.
It's a text from Gus, We're on the road headed home and I just realized I forgot my black hoodie at the studio. If you have time before you leave town can you grab it?
Followed immediately by another text, If not, no worries.
And another, It's only my favorite.
And another, I'll probably cry for days if I lose it forever.
I reply to stop the whining, If you shut up I'll stop by and grab it.
His response is quick. It's a link to the YouTube clip of "Holding Out For a Hero" by Bonnie Tyler.
I can't help but laugh because I know the song and video in all its eighties gun fighting glory. Gus and I smoked some weed one night years ago and stumbled upon this little nugget of gold. We watched it over and over. What began as pure cheese was somehow brilliance after an hour of viewing it repeatedly. The weed was good. Obviously.
Another text comes in right behind it, My hero accompanied by several dozen emojis starting with a pink heart, kissy face, thumbs up, and party hat, but when I get to the bowling ball, Australian flag, and pineapple, I realize he's just poking buttons to fill up the screen and I stop reading, but my chest still rumbles with amusement.
"What's so funny?" Gemma's sleepy voice asks as her face tilts up to look at mine.
I stroke the hair out of her face and whisper, "Gus texted. It was funny. I'm sorry I woke you."
Her eyes are still hazed with sleep, but her smile is bright. "S'okay. I need to get up." She traces the lines of the tattoo on my chest. "Just don't want to because when I do you'll have to leave."
I wrap my arm that's already under her head around her and rub her upper arm. "We should shower first."
The shower sex was spectacular.
The goodbye that followed wasn't. It was the opposite of spectacular. It was shit-tacular. Because this is where it ends. We both know it.
I go home today.
She goes home tomorrow.
The temporary us remains here. A memory.
In a funk driving out of the L.A. apartment lot I almost forget Gus's sweatshirt, but I make a U-turn and go back for it.
The red lights are all lit inside the studio when I enter, so I take it slow and quiet. Our producer, MFDM, is at the controls in the sound booth. Tape is rolling on a guy playing acoustic guitar in the booth opposite. He's probably Gus's age and his sound is soulful. He's not wearing headphones, which is strange for many reasons. His eyes are closed, the lids barely touching, as if he's walking a razor's edge of deep concentration. The body of his guitar is held flat against his torso, the hold on the instrument unconventional. But the longer I watch, it's not. He's one with the guitar, like it's an extension of him. His body sways slightly in response to the music he's making. Every musician I've ever known, no matter the instrument they play, reacts differently to music. Playing and creating is one of the most intimate acts a human can engage in. It's personality and heart projected, that's what art is. But this guy, there's something different about him. There's something about watching him that reminds me of Gus. They're nothing alike in the way they look or play, but there's this feeling that what you're witnessing is special. That there aren't many people in the world who have the gift like they do.
I have goosebumps by the time silence descends on the room.
MFDM holds his hand up in the air as if signaling him to stop and then quickly gives him a thumbs up and waves him to the booth. He never talks, which I guess makes sense since the dude doesn't have headphones on.
I clear my throat to let MFDM know he's not alone. "Hey, sorry to interrupt."
He startles, regardless of my warning, with a hand to his chest. "Franco, what are you doing here? Gus wrapped up the last piece this morning. We're done."
The door opens, and the guitarist from the booth enters.
I don't want to drag this out any longer because I need to get out of their hair and let them work. "Yeah, I know. Gus forgot his hoodie and asked me to pick it up. Mind if I take a quick look around for it?"
"No, go ahead."
"Thanks." When I turn the guitarist is sitting on the couch behind us, his attention on the phone in his hands. "Nice work, man. That was clean."
When I move he looks up at me. He's wearing an easygoing smile.
I step forward and extend my hand, not wanting to appear rude. "The name's Franco."
His focus is on my mouth, not my eyes.
While we're shaking hands MFDM says, with his back to me, "That's Ridge." And then he adds, "He's deaf."
At the same time I say, "What?" and feel like a jackass for doing so, the door opens and a blond woman walks in and hands Ridge a bottle of water and interrupts the whole scene. I'm thankful because I need a second to start over with Ridge and make this right.
He touches his fingertips to his chin and quickly signs thank you. I recognize it because my sister taught my niece to sign before she could talk. Thank you was one of the signs.
She signs back. It's more than one word.
I keep my mouth shut as I watch him reply.
The blond looks at me with a friendly smile. "I'm Sydney."
"I'm Franco. It's nice to meet you."
She finger spells something to Ridge.
"Franco?" Ridge says apprehensively, like he's trying it out to make sure he's saying it correctly.
Sydney smiles and nods.
"Sorry, names are hard to lip read sometimes. It's nice to meet you, Franco. I'm Ridge." His enunciation is surprisingly clear for someone who can't hear.
I shake my head and smile. "No worries. It's nice to meet you. You're incredible, dude. It was an honor to eavesdrop on your session."
Ridge nods and the smile that looks like it's probably a permanent fixture widens. "Thank you. We have a lot of work to do, but it's getting there."
"Are you a solo act, or are you part of a band?" I ask. It doesn't matter which, this guy just needs to make music regardless.
"I'm in a band with my brother, Sounds of Cedar, and I play a little on my own too."
"Awesome, I'll check you out. I wish you all the best." I extend my hand again and he shakes it. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but thanks for taking a few minutes out to talk."
"Thank you. Do you play guitar?" Ridge asks.
I shake my head. "Nope. Just admire those who can."
Ridge nods to accept the compliment.
"Take it easy, Ridge. Sydney."
"You, too," they say in unison.
"Later, MFDM. I'm gonna look for Gus's hoodie in the booths and then I'm out."
"Franco, do you have plans? Think you could hang out for a few hours and help me out? Jake's gone home, family emergency, his daughter fell off the swings at the park and they think she broke her arm." Jake owns the recording studio. And though MFDM can handle most everything on his own, especially when he's working with a full band and has extra sets of eyes, ears, and hands, working one on one with an artist is more difficult.
"Sure. I can stay." I love performing, but the technical side of making music has always interested me. MFDM encouraged Gus and I to get much more hands on with the album we just finished and we enjoyed it. I think MFDM did too. He's a quiet, serious guy, the opposite of Gus and I, but the contrast works. "You missed me, didn't you, you big softy?"
"I need help is all," he corrects with a hint of amusement in his voice.
"It's okay, stop, you're making me misty." I swipe at non-existent tears just to rile him up.
He shakes his head. "Go find Gus's hoodie and then come back in here and we'll run through Ridge's tracks we recorded this morning."
I find Gus's beloved hoodie balled up on the floor in one of the booths. I take a photo of it looking pathetic and unloved before I pick it up and text it to Gus along with, This is fucking disgraceful, to shame him.
He replies immediately, Word. Finder's fee is my undying appreciation—that shit's for life.
And it opens up banter. What if I'd rather have beer?
Gus: Beer is a half-assed replacement for my gratitude. My feelings are hurt. But ok.
My mission accomplished, I return to the booth.
It's different listening to music critically that isn't your own in the studio. Different perspective, when you remove personal attachment and investment. But equally intense process because I want to see this guy, Ridge, succeed and put out the best songs he can. I'm one of those people who wishes success for everyone, no matter what they do, because life isn't a competition. It doesn't require that one person lose because another one wins. We can all win.
Six hours later, I'm walking to my truck to head home and pull my phone from my pocket to check it. There's a text from Gemma. It reads simply, Goodbye, with a YouTube attachment. I hit play before I start the engine. The song is called "Goodbye Los Angeles" by Future Husbands. I've never heard of the band or the song and maybe that's one of the reasons it punches me in the face unexpectedly. The woman's voice is brilliant and the lyrics are eerily fitting...
Goodbye Los Angeles, I've had the time of my life
Farewell dear Sunset Strip, Goodbye to Hollywood lights
Hey La Cienega, Guess I'll be seeing ya, but not tonight
I've got to hop a plane, drag myself back to them, it's not alright
They say home is where the heart is
I'm leaving mine with you
Goodbye Los Angeles, seems like it happened so fast
One day we fell in love, I moved in but it couldn't last
The odds were against us, we tried but it turned to dust and slipped from our grasp
Would I do it all again if I knew that it would end? Please don't ask
They say home is where the heart is
I'm leaving mine with you
Goodbye Los Angeles, I've had the time of my life
Farewell my friends, you know I couldn't forget if I tried
Hollywood Boulevard, I'll miss you and all your stars they shine so bright
Now I've got to hop a plane, swear I'll be back again, it's gonna be alright
They say home is where the heart is
I'm leaving mine with you
I'm leaving mine with you
I probably listened to the song fifty times on the drive home to San Diego. And I smiled the entire time. Because Gemma has the power to make that happen.