Chapter 3
“I didn’t know you smoked,” Kylie’s nose scrunched up and he thought how cute she was, in a kid sister kind of way.
“Only when I’m stressed.”
“What are you stressed out about?”
“Everything. I haven’t written a single song since I’ve been back, the guys in my band aren’t talking to me, my girlfriend puts a load of pressure on me, I’m detoxing myself from alcohol and all the other shit I put into my system.”
“Shouldn’t you be doing that with a doctor or a sponsor?”
“I’ve done it so many times with doctors, I could open my own clinic.”
“Why do you want to die?”
“I dunno. Sometimes the pain is overwhelming.”
“What pain is that, Jesse?”
“I dunno. I just know it’s there. Don’t you feel it, too?”
“Yes. I do. I can’t find what I’m looking for.”
“Yes. Yes. That is exactly it.” He was astounded that she understood.
“You smell like a goat.”
“I smell like a goat?”
“Yeah, those cigarettes smell like goat shit and you smell like a goat.” Kylie smiled at him.
“A goat,” he mused, laughing. “You just told me I smell like a goat.”
The hand on his shoulder was rocking him hard. “I have to go. C’mon, Jesse, wake up, I have to go.”
Rolling over, his hand raised to shield his half-stuck lids, “You’re a goat?” he asked, quickly trying to bridge the gap from his dream to the screwed-up face of Claudine’s early morning wrath.
“I’m not a goat. I said I have to go.” She was annoyed. “You knew I was leaving for Paris this morning. It’s 7:15 and I have to go.”
“You’re taking a day flight?”
“Ugh, Jesse.” She tossed her long blonde hair over her shoulder with the mere flick of her head. “You are still planning on meeting me there in two weeks, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, sure.” He sat up in bed and ruffled his hair. “Martin,” he said aloud, not meaning to.
“Martin?” she repeated, regarding him suspiciously.
“Yeah, it was just a name I couldn’t remember.” She had told him to Google her. It seemed like a lifetime ago, on the other side of his detox. The initial physical trauma was already behind him when they had met, and that day had been a good day, a rare early good day, that was finally becoming more the norm.
Three weeks had passed. Each Tuesday he had planned on going to Starbucks and wait there, hoping to catch her as she passed by after her appointment with Dr. S. But he couldn’t do it. The anxiety, nervousness, and mood swings during that phase of his detox were not pretty. Getting his ass to Dr. S’s and to the holistic center that was guiding him was work enough. Calcium, magnesium, and herbs were helping him sleep a lot, easing the conscious hours, and he knew that was what would get him through.
His mind had felt dulled, and for the life of him, he could not remember her last name. As hard as he tried, it was out there but he couldn’t quite grasp it. He thought about calling her in a few weak moments when things got overwhelming, but what would he say? When she had gotten up to get them coffee, he had programmed his number into her phone, taking a selfie of himself in camouflage. He could see her face so clearly these last few weeks, but his mind felt too vacuous, incapable of making the necessary connections to remember her name.
Kylie Martin.
Later in the day, he dragged his laptop onto the bed and Googled the name.
Miss New Jersey Tossed Out of the Miss America Pageant. There was the headline, almost two years old, and the image was of a beautiful redheaded girl with green eyes and an enticing, full, pouty mouth.
The mocking wit in her eyes and lustrous wave of her dark titian hair were the giveaway. Wow. What made you do this to yourself? And Jesse instantly knew she was hiding. He could almost feel her trauma. The Kylie Martin pageant queen he was stalking on Google images, had to have been at least sixty to seventy pounds, or more, lighter than Dr. S’s patient, the girl he’d met up with at Starbucks.
Examining screen after screen of the poised beauty in pageants and fashion shows, he kept expecting to find a light in the girl, something to show him that she was happier when she was thin and successfully building a modeling career. But there was no such light. Her eyes flashed vacancy, her vacuous, camera-perfect smile confirmed the void.
What are you hiding from, Kylie? Women would give their left arm to look like you. Rare beauty, were the two words resounding in his brain.
Setting the laptop on the bed, he reached over and plucked his old Gibson acoustic from its home, leaning against his nightstand.
Em, G, Gm
Jesse closed his eyes as his fingers took flight over the strings, a warm bass tone emanating from deep in the body of the forty-year-old six-string.
Where ya gonna run when there’s no place left to go
Where ya gonna run when there’s no place left to hide
Those are skyscrapers I can’t scale
Chasms I can’t cross
Shells that can’t be broken
Oh, baby, I’m at a loss
I want to tell you all my secrets
I want to bare to you the depths of my soul
I want to take you on a journey
If only you would go
Who would have ever thought that the former Miss New Jersey would be his muse? With his favorite acoustic spooned under his arm, paper, journal, pen, pencil, and laptop strewn about around him, Jesse Winslow sat in the middle of his bed, in an empty apartment, and wrote the first four songs for his next album.
In interviews, he would later describe the experience as if he were being guided and comment that this newfound sobriety was the greatest and most creative high he’d ever experienced.
Filling the apartment with soaring guitar riffs, haunting piano solos, honest words from deep, dark places and empty take-out food containers, the bones of Jesse Winslow’s next album, Fade to White, were born of a wanting, a need to know, and a deep-stirring gnawing at his soul begging to be recognized, as the lead singer reveled in two weeks of solitude.
••••••
I felt something today. He texted after a session with Dr. S.
Jesse?
Yes. I put my number in your phone when you went to get us coffee.
You sneak! ☺
I’m hoping by that smile it means you’re not mad at me.
Not mad. What did you feel?
It was only a passing glimpse. The buildings were old and stone. Maybe Ireland.
So, you saw something?
Yes, but it was really fleeting and the feeling was stronger than the visual. You know how when you think of a certain time in your life, there’s a whole “feeling” that goes with it. It’s like multiple senses all come together to form that imprint that will always signify that time.
Yes, I think I know what you are talking about. Sometimes a smell can bring it back for me. She wrote back to him.
Well, that is what it was. For a split second, it all came together. And then it was gone. And I wracked my brain, was it something I know? And it’s not anything I know. But it was real and it was part of my memories. Does that make sense?
Totally. I totally get it. I’m so excited for you. You’re chipping through.
LOL. Break on through to the other side. He couldn’t help himself and wondered if she’d get the reference.
Now you’re stealing the other guy’s material.
Jesse smiled at her response. Miss New Jersey knew the classics. Impressive, indeed.
LOL…he’s dead, he won’t know. Or maybe he will. It is real, isn’t it?
I think so.
I think you might be right. He found himself nodding as he typed the words. Have you seen more?
Yes. But nothing major.
Gunther?
You remember ☺. No, not Gunther. A different time. In France.
Really? I’m headed to Paris for a few days. Need me to check out anything, Miss New Jersey?
Ah, so you stalked me?
Yeah, it was weird. I’m usually the stalked, not the stalker.
I’ll bet you’ve had your share of stalkers.
The stories I could tell you!
When there was no response, he pinged her again. Want to meet at Starbucks after your next session with Dr. S. I’ll be back from Paris by then.
Okay. Hey, go have an éclair for me at Patisserie Stohrer when you’re in Paris. I love that place.
I’m more of a Napoleon kind of guy.
LOL. Nah, you’re way too tall.
LOL. That’s true. You are funny. Okay, I’ll see you next Tuesday.
Jesse was smiling as he tossed his phone onto the bed and grabbed his laptop.
Patisserie Stohrer. There it was. He clicked on the link. Perusing the pastries, Jesse’s mouth watered. A gorgeously photographed fruit tart nearly jumped off his screen. He could taste the fresh raspberries, both tart and sweet on his tongue, feel the little seeds crunch between his teeth.
Putting the address into his phone. 51 Rue Montorgueil. Second Arrondissement. He’d have plenty of free time while Claudine was working. Back on his laptop, he clicked on Google Maps and dragged the little person icon to street level.
As he navigated through the cobblestone streets, past alleyways and sidewalk cafés, attempting not to slam into buildings, while trying hard to negotiate Google Earth on the laptop’s touchpad, there was one prevalent thought ricocheting through his brain, loud and clear, so clear that it felt as if it were on a frequency that was being broadcast from deep within his temporal lobe. The message kept repeating as if it were on a loop.
I’ve died here before.