CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
It’s too damn hot but the terrace doors are wide open to let out the fumes as a handful of painters prepare Gavin’s apartment for its transformation. I shut Jasper in my room and he whines but eventually settles down. I do not want to deal with basenji-prints tracked in paint across Gavin’s hardwood floors.
I approve all the test-swatches and one of the painters leaves to pick up mixed paint while several other guys stay behind to do the prep, lay drop cloths, tape off moldings, and remove fixtures and switch plates.
The furniture is pushed to the center of each room and covered with paint-speckled canvases like little hills flecked with wildflowers. They lay on a thick coat of white ceiling paint to cover the dingy mess made by tobacco smoke.
Fresh start, indeed.
I’ve ordered the rest of Gavin’s new furniture and it’s due to arrive on Friday, so I’m crossing my fingers that two days is enough to finish this. My mom comes on Saturday, my birthday.
I’m cutting it close.
As the painters work, I’m alternately calming Jasper and organizing, going through closets and cupboards and making a list of what’s needed. New towels—Gavin’s are stained and ratty-looking. I make a list to restock his pantry and replenish the crusty condiments in his refrigerator.
All of Gavin’s laundry was done and delivered by a place that charges by the pound. I put away dozens of T-shirts and jeans in his drawers. It looks like that’s pretty much all he wears.
I sort through his bathroom stuff and add more things like toilet paper and toothpaste to my shopping list, then decide to get the whole mess delivered. That will save me more than one cranky trip in a cab. I start up my laptop and punch in my list. Boom! I’m on fire.
I check in with Dan via email and update him on the progress at Gavin’s. He tells me not to worry about making a trip to the James’s apartment to water plants today, he’ll send Joel over.
Yes, that Joel.
When he made good on his promise to clean up his parents’ apartment, I followed through with my promise to tell Dan about Joel. I gave him the whole truth—the party aftermath, Joel’s lousy track record and the fact that Joel needs enough money to replace a crystal vase before his parents get home.
When Dan met Joel face to face, something clicked. It was like they were kindred spirits united by neglectful, wealthy parents who had more money than time for their children.
Dan offered Joel a summer internship on the spot, but warned him he’d be doing the absolute lowest-level grunt work. To his credit, Joel didn’t flinch. He accepted immediately.
When I’m sure work is under control, I write Gavin another story, telling him about a camping trip in the mountains, fly fishing, and a lazy canoe trip down the Upper Deschutes River in central Oregon. I try to paint the picture vividly, sharing my landscape just as he shares his with me while I’m living here.
Soon after I hit send, a chat window pops up.
Gavin: I just wanted to say hi and I’m thinking about you.
Me: Awww. What are you doing up so late?
Gavin: I hijacked a Wi-Fi signal. Don’t tell.
Me: Naughty boy. The painters are here today. I hope you like hot pink!
Gavin: You wouldn’t.
Me: Try me.
Gavin: Seriously??
Me: I had them paint the trim chartreuse for a nice contrast.
Gavin: I’m gagging over here, B. I may never come home.
Me: Now you’re playing dirty. Hang on while I pop my head into the living room and have them change it…
Gavin: And?
Me: Crisis averted. No pink.
Gavin: Thank God.
Me: I was thinking about your two truths and a lie. You got anything good? I’m a good guesser.
Gavin: OK. One. I’ve never been camping. If I had to pitch a tent to survive a night in the woods, I’d be a goner.
Me: We’ll have to fix that. I’ll take you to Oregon and we’ll camp by a hot spring.
Gavin: Would you protect me from bears?
Me: You watch too much TV. I’ve never seen a bear or a wolf or anything scarier than a coyote. You’ll be fine.
Gavin: OK, then. Two. My parents have never been to any of my concerts.
Me: Three?
Gavin: The best part of being a rock star is the money and the girls.
Me: Lie.
Gavin: Yeah. That was too easy.
Me: Your parents have really never been to your concerts? They’ve never seen you play?
Gavin: I left home when I was seventeen. My dad was a mean drunk and my mom drank almost as much to cope. So as soon as I had enough money to buy a truck, I left. The only time they’ve ever contacted me was a couple of years ago. For money.
Me: Oh, Gav. I’m sorry.
Gavin: Don’t you dare feel sorry for me.
Me: It’s not that. I’m just sorry they hurt you. You don’t deserve that. No one does.
Gavin: I try not to think about it. After all, if I hadn’t run away, I never would have met Tyler and the band. My life would have been totally different.
Me: So tell me the truth, then. What’s the best part of being a rock star?
Gavin: It’s the moment before you take a breath and sing your first note. Anything is possible and everyone’s tuned to your frequency. It’s like you’re the Pied Piper, and you can lead the crowd anywhere you want to go.
Me: I saw a concert clip on YouTube where you told the audience to get naked.
Gavin: Ha! That’s just part of our act. I take off my shirt and say I’m going to charm their clothes off with a love song.
Me: Does it work?
Gavin: Usually. There are always a few girls in the front row who take off their tops and add a little something extra to the show.
Me: That’s such a guy thing to say.
Gavin: I can’t help it—I’m a guy. So why do you want to be a writer?
Me: I have no idea. It’s kind of an antisocial thing—not like music, when you can connect with people when you perform. I write, and then maybe someone, somewhere, days or months or years from now reads it. If they ever do.
Gavin: Beryl, they’ll read it. You’ll write something great and you won’t be able to keep a lid on it. But your answer is a cop-out. Why write?
Me: For one thing, writing is daring—making stuff up, putting yourself out there—it’s a huge risk. I’m not daring, but I want to be.
Gavin: What’s the other thing?
Me: Writing is an adventure. I can invent characters and make them do stuff I’d never dare to do.
Gavin: I think you’re getting braver.
Me: I am. But my life’s been pretty sheltered. I came to New York because I wanted an adventure.
Gavin: And?
Me: And I love it! I’m obsessed with trying new things and discovering new places.
Gavin: You’re getting out of your comfort zone.
Me: I think that’s the only way to discover a new world.
Gavin: I need a new world. I thought if I got away from life in New York and constant reminders of Lulu then I’d get some peace.
Me: You ran before. Did it work then?
Gavin: Nope. Guess I’m not that smart.
Me: So, maybe the answer is not to run. Maybe you’ve got to get out of your comfort zone by standing your ground and facing the hard stuff rather than running from it.
Gavin: So my comfort zone is running, and your comfort zone is staying put?
Me: Something like that. Gavin, what do you think makes you so good at music?
Gavin: Nothing special. You practice enough, you get so tight that you can stop thinking and just feel the music.
Me: Practice? Come on. That can’t be all.
Gavin: Oh, it’s not. I don’t just mean practicing every day. I mean making it part of you, so it bypasses your brain and just comes out of your heart and feelings and fingertips.
Me: That sounds like magic.
Gavin: It’s the same as when you write. You don’t think about every letter as you type it. You don’t look at the keys. You trust your gut and just do it.
I get an error message and Gavin’s bubble goes gray. I guess the Tattooed Wi-Fi Thief got caught.