Baton Rouge: November 15th, 1996
Another day, another hotel room. Marc woke up only half aware of where he was, stumbling blearily from the bed to the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face. It came back slowly.
Louisiana. That's right... Baton Rouge.
And how had he gotten here? He had vague memories of taking Wilderlands and Cashmere out drinking in Atlanta after the show. He thought back, and saw flashes of several different upscale bars and taverns in his memory, a whirl of light and sounds and colors and laughter. It had been a good time, hadn't it? Nothing terrible happened that he could recall.
The show had been incredible. Wilderlands had won the crowd over, just as Marc had predicted. By the end of their brief set the whole audience had been roaring, and they were still applauding when Cashmere took the stage. Maybe it was the crowd, maybe it was left over energy from the little band, maybe it was just something in the air, but Cashmere had played better than ever. By the end of the show, everybody had been in a celebratory mood, and Marc said he'd pick up the tab.
He remembered seeing Cal when Cashmere had finished playing. He'd been sitting there, just off the stage bent over his guitar with a dazed expression on his face. He'd looked almost shell-shocked, and Marc had been worried for a moment, until Cal had looked up and seen him coming, his blue eyes shining.
"You feel alright?" Marc had asked.
Cal had smiled. "Never better."
Everything after that was a blur.
Christ, he had a hangover. He shrugged on one of the hotel's complimentary bathrobes and stumbled across the room, almost tripping over his luggage and banging his shin on the corner of the bed. He didn't have to play today, did he? No, not until tomorrow. The schedule was too damn aggressive, they were still touring like it was 1975 for some reason. If they did this again he was going to make sure to leave a little more down time. At least they've have a few days off coming up, their next show after this one wouldn't be for almost two weeks.
He dragged open the curtain and fumbled with the handle on the glass door leading out to the balcony.
It was a gorgeous day, and then some. Something like sixty degrees out, thank God he wasn't back in New York. The rosy sunrise painted the November sky a brilliant pink over the vast expanse of the Mississippi river while the glittering city arose. Far too beautiful for Marc to possibly appreciate in his current state. What the hell was he doing up this early? That was the trouble with all this travel, it fucked up your sense of time and your natural rhythms. He usually made it a point not to so much as stir until well after eleven o'clock in the morning.
He leaned on the railing tried to convince himself that he was enjoying the breathtaking view. Two more minutes, then he was going back to bed, screw it.
Then he heard a sound, something rising above the gently swelling clamor of the waking city and the distant roar of the great river. It was a guitar, and a very familiar guitar at that, playing a soft chiming chord that seemed to echo up to the sky.
Each room in the hotel had its own little balcony. There was a man sitting on the edge of the next room's balcony, his bare feet dangling into space as he sat on the little eight-inch ledge, his back leaning up against the wall and his eyes shut. He strummed idly at his instrument, letting the notes fall like rose petals to the street below. They were on the eighth floor.
"Are you trying to get yourself killed?" Marc called over, not quiet having to shout, which was good because just talking made his head feel like it might split open.
The man started, and for a sickening moment Marc thought he might have surprised the man into losing his balance and tumbling over the edge. He caught himself, however, looking over with his pale blue eyes wide. "Oh Jesus. Marc, I didn't hear you come out."
"Morning, Cal."
Cal squinted into the rising sun, taking a hand off the rail to shade his eyes. "What are you doing up so early?"
"Dying, I think. Not quite ready to throw myself off the building yet though, so I'm ahead of you."
"You really tied one off yesterday," he leaned back and strummed a little more.
"Would you please get down from there? You're making me fucking dizzy just looking at you."
Cal laughed. "Wouldn't have pegged you for being so squeamish, Marc. I thought you were the crazy rock star guy. All those old stories exaggerated, or are you getting soft?"
"Is that a joke? A joke by mister serious artist himself, or do my ears deceive me? Lovely. Perfect."
"Hey now," Cal pulled a face.
Marc waved him off. "Look, I don't like heights, alright? Gives me vertigo. I prefer to do stupid shit safely on the ground floor. That's why I'm still alive. Now come on, if you climb off there I'll buy you a coffee somewhere."
Cal seemed to think it over. The tendrils of red were fading in the sky to a deep cool blue. He nodded slowly. "Yeah. I could go for a coffee. Alright."
"Great," Marc said, grumbling just a little. "Meet you downstairs in twenty minutes."
* * *
"I thought you said twenty minutes, Marc."
"Shit, how long's it been? I think I feel asleep in the shower."
Cal laughed. "Never mind. You promised me coffee, let's go."
Marc made a little mock-bow. "Oh, after you, sir, after you."
It was a lovely morning in Baton Rouge. The streets seemed almost to hum with an energy which had always seemed to him to be completely unique to this particular city. The smells of Cajun and Creole seasonings began to shimmer in the air from the carts of a thousand street vendors, and a burbling patois came softly from inside the cafes.
"You been here before, Marc?"
"Baton Rouge? Couple times. Never long enough. I love this place. Feels... alive, you know? Even for an inert old bastard like me." He winked.
Cal groaned. "You're really not going to let that one go, are you?"
"Nope."
"Fine. It was a dirty trick though. You should have said who you were right from the start."
"Yeah, I know. What can I say? I'm an asshole."
Cal grinned a little. "No, you aren't."
"You might not find all that many people who agree with you about that."
"Who cares what other people think?" Cal said.
They stepped inside the coffee shop before Marc could think of a reply to that. It was a nice little place, very charming and local in a slightly artificial sort of way. Marc ordered an espresso with sugar and cream. Cal asked for a cup of coffee, the blackest they had.
"Quite the purist," Marc observed.
Cal shrugged. "Just like what I like. And what about you?" he pointed at Marc's frothy beverage, "As ostentatious as ever."
"Well, one must keep up appearances," Marc said, with one eyebrow raised.
"Cheers," Cal lifted his cup.
"Here's to another five shows as good as last night."
Cal shook his head. "Man... I don't know. Don't know how it could ever be as good as last night."
Marc grinned. "Nothing like your first time, is there?"
"It wasn't my first time."
"Ah, but it was your first time with me."
"Fair enough."
They sat down at a little table in the corner by the wide window. "What did you really think though, tell me. When I saw you after the show you looked like you'd just come home from the war."
"I... I don't know. I guess I was just dazed, or something. It was like an out of body experience, almost. I remember I was up there, and I looked out at this... sea of faces and... everything went blank. I thought I was dead... thought I'd just sit up there with my mouth open and a stupid look on my face for twenty minutes. I probably would have if not for Dance. She just started playing, just picked a song and went for it. So I started playing too. It just happened, kind of automatically."
"And that got you through? Instinct took over?" Marc was genuinely curious. He'd never experienced stage fright before. The stage was where he felt alive, it was the rest of the world that frightened him, to be brutally honest. From their very first show all the way to Atlanta last night, he had felt completely present and in the moment each time.
"I guess so... The faces just melted away. Even Dance, the stage, everything. It was like I was in a fog, just... drifting in clouds. But it was good, like a sort of high, but more intense than anything I've felt before. It still doesn't seem real. It's like a dream, and it gets harder and harder to remember."
Marc stirred his coffee. He watched the lighter colored cream swirling, slowly beginning to blend with the darker shade of the coffee. "I felt something like that too, but only after I'd been drinking for a few hours."
Cal scoffed. "I'm serious, Marc."
"Sorry, sorry. I get it, I do." He didn't, at least not entirely, but he could see that it had been an intense experience for Cal. How could it not be? He'd just gone from playing run-down clubs and dingy bars to performing in a packed stadium over the course of a single night. That was bound to spin a person's head around.
The little bell over the door rang and a man came in. Just a man, same as you might see anywhere. Maybe forty, his hair neatly combed over his bald spot and his suit scuffed at the elbows and knees. His tie had little dancing Snoopy's on it, that dog from the comic Peanuts. He came in, fussing with his pager, and when he saw Marc he did an almost comical double-take. Marc fought back a sigh. Oh boy, here we go.
The guy went up to the counter to order his coffee, but he kept glancing back over at Marc's table. Marc tried to ignore him, but he could still feel it, the attention on him like an itch he couldn't scratch. It was only a matter of time before the guy worked up his courage to approach.
Usually Marc welcomed such encounters. He liked being famous, getting recognized, singled out in a crowd by some awe-struck fan. Especially after the band had broken up, it had been a regular reminder of the way things had once been. He had needed that; it had kept him going. The thing about fame that a lot of people didn't realized was that it was addictive. Once you had it you started to feel like you needed it, started to crave the experience. When people didn't recognize you, it was like an ache, like you were being denied something which you'd earned. That famous asshole phrase, don't you know who I am? It wasn't like people thought it was, wasn't just arrogance or pretension. It was a cry of desperation, of irrational anger. Like a junkie hungry for a fix.
Today, however, he didn't want to be approached. He didn't want to have anybody gawping at him and asking questions and pawing at him and begging for an autograph. Today he just wanted to sit across from Cal and drink his coffee. He looked at the young guitarist and he realized that he didn't need anybody else. Cal was enough.
Of course it didn't work that way, you didn't get to pick and choose which days you were famous. You either were or you weren't, and you just had to deal with everything that went along with it.
"Excuse me... but... are you... Marc Warner?" Right on schedule.
He nodded, feeling a bit resigned to the situation. "That's me."
"Oh my God!" the guy grabbed hold of the back of the empty chair between Marc and Cal, "Oh my God, I knew it was you, I knew it! Man, I used to listen to your records when I was a kid."
"Hey, you're making me feel old here."
"Ha ha, no kidding. Time flies, time flies." The guy pulled out the chair a little. Don't sit down, don't sit down, don't sit down.
"It does indeed, Mr..."
"Oh, I'm Nathan Harrison, just Nate, Nate's okay. But hey, I heard you guys are back together, right? That's amazing. Amazing."
"Thanks, Nate. We're pretty jazzed about it ourselves."
"Ha ha! I bet, I bet. That's great. Wow. I can't believe I'm seeing you, just... just sitting here. I mean, I come into this coffee shop every morning on my way to work and I've never seen anybody. You know, it's like you hear about people who living in LA, right? And they see movie stars every day just at the dry cleaners, or something. Like my cousin saw Danny DeVito eating a hot dog once, just standing there eating a hot dog like it was nothing. But I've never seen anybody. This is crazy!"
Marc took a sip of coffee. "It sure is something."
"Listen, listen. Could you, uh... do you have a pen."
"Afraid not."
"Let me get a pen. Excuse me! Waitress! Can I borrow a pen, please? Thanks, thanks. Do you know who this is?"
The waitress fished a pen out of her apron dubiously, glancing at Marc and Cal and popping a bubble of chewing gum. "Can't say that I do," she said laconically, her eyes dull and listless. She glanced at Cal. "He's cute, though..."
Cal blushed a little, and hid his face in his cup.
"Huh? No no, not him. This is Marc Warner! From Cashmere."
The waitress shrugged elaborately, eyeing her pen and looking like she was regretting having ever handed it over and wanted nothing more than to snatch it back out of his hand. "Never heard of it."
"The band? The rock band? Seriously. Jesus, what are you, twenty?"
"Nineteen."
"Yeesh. Kids these days. Uh... could I borrow a, you know, from your order book? Just one sheet of paper. Thanks."
She rolled her eyes and tore him off a page, making quite a show of it.
Nathan, just Nate, smoothed the little sheet of paper out on his arm and held it tentatively out towards Marc. "Would you? Do you think? I mean, you don't mind, do you?"
Marc took the pen, and he took the paper. "I don't mind. Of course not." He clicked the pen, talking under his breath as he wrote. "Hey Nate... keep on rocking... your friend... Marc Warner." He finished off the signature with a flourish and handed the paper back.
"Wow. Jeez, wow. Man, my wife is going to freak out when she sees this. God, she's going to be so jealous, let me tell you. I've never seen anybody. Wow. Thanks man, thanks. Keep on rocking. Ha ha. You too, man, you too."
"We're playing tomorrow, Nate. Come on down."
"Oh man, yeah. Maybe man, maybe I will. The whole band? You're all there?"
"The whole band. Together again."
"Wow."
Nate had to tear himself away from the table, looking quite reluctant to leave. He kept leaning back in and grinning, looking like he wanted to pinch himself but didn't dare. But he had work and he didn't want to be late, so eventually he did have to tear himself away, clutching his coffee and his autograph and stammering. Marc waved to him as he went out through the door.
The waitress was chewing on the inside of her cheek, tapping one foot. "So... you're like famous or something?"
Marc smiled. "Yeah, I guess you could say that. Why, you want an autograph too?"
She made a face. "Just the pen, thanks." Then she shot another look at Cal, eyebrow cock. "Unless he's offering. You can put your number on there too, handsome."
Cal sputtered a little, choking on his coffee and dabbing at his chin with a napkin. The waitress smirked, waggling her fingers at him as she drifted off to serve another table.
Marc couldn't help laughing. Cal shot him a glare. "Oh, shut up."
"Come on. You must get that all the time."
"What, girls hitting on me? Not really."
"I'm surprised."
Cal finished his coffee; he set the cup down on the table with a little clank. "What's surprising? I spent my whole life living in a hippie commune, remember? All the women there were like mothers to me, and all the girls were like sisters. Would have been too weird."
"So you're saying you never..."
Cal really blushed this time.
Marc held his hands up in a conciliatory sort of way. "Hey. If you don't wanna talk about it..."
"No, no. Whatever, it's cool. Just... not really my thing." Cal shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"Sex, or girls?"
"Huh."
That wasn't much of an answer. Marc searched Cal's face, but found it totally cut off. Like trying to figure out the emotional state of a brick wall. His hair was down in his face again, and he was playing with his fingernails nervously and biting his lower lip. Marc hadn't seen Cal show any interest in women before, but he supposed that he hadn't been in much of a position to observe any such behavior. Maybe the kid was just that shy. He decided to try a different approach.
"Look, if you want I could talk to her."
Cal blinked, looking confused. "The waitress?"
"Yeah. I could get her number for you, no problem."
His face clouded, and he slid his chair back. "Come on, let's go."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. I'm done with my coffee, that's all. Unless you wanna wait around for some more of your fan club?"
Well, this was something. Cal was usually so placid, so cool and collected. He seemed rattled now, emotional in a way that Marc hadn't seen before. He picked up his coffee, still half full, and he went after Cal, back out onto the street.
Cal seemed jumpy and agitated, rocked back and forth at the crosswalk and waiting for the light to change. He glanced at Marc and quickly looked away again.
"You didn't like her?"
"What? Whatever, she's fine. She seemed fine to me."
"But you weren't interested."
"No, I wasn't."
"She not your type, or...?"
Cal stuck his hands in his pockets. "I know what you're doing, Marc, alright? I know what you're doing, so just drop it, okay? I am, alright? I am."
Am what? Gay? Might be best not to push it right now. "Okay."
The light changed, and Cal hurried out across the street.
Marc stepped to the edge of the curb. "Why did you write a song about me, Cal?" he called out.
Cal froze, halfway across the street. He turned around, slowly, and he looked back. The light behind him changed from white to red, and started blinking its countdown. "That... uh... that would take too long to explain."
Marc shrugged. "Well, I've got all day."
Cal swallowed hard. He was alone now, the other pedestrians were standing on either side of the street, leaving him by himself. The lights were going to change in a moment. When he spoke, he sounded halfway timid. "You... said you've been here before, right?"
"Couple times. You looking for a tour?"
"You offering?"
"Yeah. Guess I am."
"Okay then... Okay. I suppose we could do that."
Marc smiled again. "I suppose we could."
* * *
"You ever think about what it must have been like back then?"
"Back when, exactly?"
"You know. Riverboat days. A hundred years ago. Who would we be, you and me, if we were standing on the deck of a river boat in eighteen ninety-six?"
"I dunno. Some things the same. Some things different. I'd still be an old bastard. You'd still be beautiful. Talented. Probably just sit on the shore playing music all day. Not me. I wouldn't have had a chance before electrics. Probably be working on a farm somewhere or a factory... live to the ripe old age of fifty-seven and have about twenty kids."
"I don't think so."
"Which part?"
"I don't think you'd end up like that. You would have been something. I don't know what."
"Maybe." Marc turned around, leaning his back against the railing and looking up at the puffs of white steam billowing into the sky. They'd come upon one of those old time riverboat cruises, the sort that ferried tourists up and down a little stretch of the Mississippi all day long, the tour guide dressed in old-fashioned clothes. It had been Cal's idea to go for a ride on it. Marc had seen enough of this sort of thing before, but he supposed that maybe Cal was sheltered enough that this sort of kitsch struck him as magnificently novel.
Cal was sitting on the deck of the steamboat, legs dangling over the side, his arms laced around the barristers of the railing, just watching the flowing of the great river beneath his feet. "I think you would have found me then."
Marc cocked his head. "What do you mean?"
Cal shrugged. He didn't seem to want to elaborate, and for a long moment neither of them spoke. On the other side of the boat the guide was droning on about nineteenth century commercial shipping to a group of Japanese tourists armed with Nokia cameras and phrase books. Then Cal spoke up again. "It's crazy, right? Like, this kind of thing isn't supposed to happen."
"What kind of thing?" Marc bent out a little and looked down at the other man's face.
"You and me. I mean... what are the chances that you would walk into that bar, at just that moment. It's too big to be down to just some random coincidence."
"What, like God or something?" Marc made a face. Outside of his own churchgoing childhood, his entire experience of religion had been of angry preachers calling for his records to be banned and his shows to be protested.
There had even been a big event once, back in the early eighties when a bunch of local churches had banded together to have a record burning outside one of their outdoor shows. They hadn't even noticed at first, but then the wind shifted and the whole stage had filled up with this noxious black smoke. They'd all stopped playing, thinking the place had caught on fire something, and when the music cut out they'd heard the chanting and singing coming from the assembled protesters. Burn in hell! Burn in hell! It was one of the more unsettling moments of his life. They'd named their fourth album after that, Rock Show Burning. The cover had been a picture of Marc's face wreathed in flames with satanic blacked-out eyes. That had gone over like gangbusters with the protest crowd, of course.
"No, not God. Just... the universe. It makes things happen sometimes."
"To what end? The universe wanted us to meet? Why? Why should the universe care?"
Cal was quite still as he sat and looked out at the water. He seemed almost to be in a kind of trance. "The universe just wants to be whole. It's a kind of underlying mechanism. People's hate tears everything apart, so the universe just tries to heal itself again."
"Okay, so I believe you now when you say you were raised by a bunch of hippies. What does that stuff have to do with me? If hate is ripping up the universe, what's going to put it back together again?"
Cal shrugged. "Well, I mean, you know. Love, right?"
Marc looked out at the water. The sunlight rippled on the surface, dancing like scattered diamond. Love. "Yeah... I guess that makes sense."
* * *
Cal's weakness for the tourist junk continued unabated, and he insisted on going into half a dozen curio shops and flea markets and rummaging around for what struck Marc as an inordinate amount of time. They got lunch from a street vendor and ate together in the park, watching the old men play chess and feed the pidgins. After that they walked around downtown, taking in the sights and smells and flavor of the city. It was almost five o'clock in the evening when they went into a music shop advertising 'the finest handcrafted instruments.'
Cal became quickly enamored with some sort of clamorous wind chime thing that looked to Marc a bit like the aftermath of a bicycle collision.
"Oh, I'm supposed to say thanks from Dance."
Marc flicked a wooden flute with his finger, putting his ear next to it to listen to the reverberation. "What for?"
"The van. I mean, we never would have been able to afford that."
"You will be when I'm done with you."
Cal shook his head. "No, no... I don't care about the money."
"You just played a show for hundreds of people, Cal. You're going to get paid." That had proven to be something of a sticking point with Gregory. Of course the tour hadn't been budgeted for an opening act, and now Marc wanted Wilderlands to get paid for playing more than half the tour. Cal had agreed to perform gratis in Atlanta while they worked out the details. Marc arranged to have the van repaired and transported down to Texas to meet them on the next leg of the tour as a means of recompense.
"Anyway, she was really grateful. We came a long way in that thing. She didn't really like leaving it at Pat's."
"I was happy to do it. Still think it would have made more sense just to buy a new one, but..."
"She never would have gone for it."
"Yeah. I picked up on that."
Cal went back to playing with the instrument. He trailed his fingers across the chimes, producing a tinkling melody.
"What do you think of this thing, anyway? I mean, what would you use it for?"
"I could figure out something. It's got serious potential."
"For a song?"
"Yeah. Just look at it! It's unique, nothing else like it. Doesn't it make you want to write?"
Marc eyed the jumble dubiously. "Not exactly. Kind of makes me want to run for cover."
"It's beautiful. I could do a lot with this, I think."
Marc leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms. "Have you thought about recording, Cal?"
"What, our music?"
"Yeah. Wilderlands. Ever thought about getting into a studio?"
Cal shrugged. "Couldn't afford it, I don't think."
Marc sighed, waving his hands dismissively. "Stop worrying about the money. I'll handle the money, okay?"
"I'm not asking you to do that, Marc."
"I know, I've noticed. You should be, though. You should be doing whatever it takes to make this happen. Your music's too important not to record."
"Important?" Cal laughed. "Jesus, Marc, it's just a couple songs."
"It's important, okay? Trust me. Look, the second to last stop of the tour is Los Angeles. Our recording studio's out there and as soon as we arrive I want you in the booth. Just play, we'll cut a demo. Shop it around, get you a proper recording contract. I know everybody, I'll make sure to put you in touch with the right people. Good people, not the sharks. The ones who will appreciate what you're doing."
"And what is it that you think I'm doing, Marc? Why does this matter so much to you?"
"Because it woke something up in me, Cal, Jesus. Don't you get that? I was dead before. You said it yourself, totally inert, and you were right! It wasn't just the music, either, it's everything. My whole life, nothing. We're only doing this tour because I'm going to lose my house if I don't. I didn't care about the band, I didn't care about anything. I was killing myself, Cal, dying one day at a time until I heard you. Your music brought me back when I didn't think I was ever coming back. I didn't think I could feel this way about anything. If it can do that for me, if you can do that, then it is important."
Cal's expression didn't change throughout the whole tirade. He didn't move, or say anything at first. Finally, he blinked. "Oh. Okay."
Marc rolled his eyes. "Fuck it, I'm starving. You wanna get something to eat?"
"Sure."
"Come on. I'll buy you a steak."
* * *
They ate at a gorgeous old bistro on the water, their table on a deck outside overlooking a long pier that led out twenty feet into the river. Cal turned down the steak, opting instead for some sort of vegetarian gumbo. Somewhat reluctantly, Marc ordered the same. He wouldn't have felt quite right slicing up a sirloin in front of somebody who didn't eat meat, though Cal said it wouldn't bother him if Marc wanted to have it.
They didn't talk much at first. The gumbo turned out to be quite good and the two of them were content to eat in silence.
"Why Wilderlands?" Marc asked as they were finishing their meal. "Why that name, what's it mean? It's not in the dictionary, I did actually check."
Cal scratched the back of his neck. "Uh, I dunno. I found it in this old paperback book of my uncle's. It was this name on a map in the back page. I just thought it sounded good, and I've always liked it. When we started the band Dance said we needed a name and I suggested it and it just kinda stuck. She hated it at first, I think. Probably wanted something more... I don't know. Different. What about you? Why did you guys pick Cashmere, of all things?"
Marc leaned back with a sigh. The city was turning blue, sliding into a gloomy dusk as the fat yellow moon rose over the river. "Ah... God, you wouldn't believe all the shit we've gotten for that name."
"You serious?"
"Dead serious. All the rock people thought we sounded too frilly, too soft. Might as well have named ourselves Miss Belvedere's Garden Party, as far as they were concerned. And the popular radio stations were always accusing us of trying to get one over on them, like Cashmere was this deeply sexual code-word that was going to get them fired or make them sounds like idiots. Of course they were idiots already, but that's neither here nor there."
Cal laughed. "Code for what?"
"I don't know. Pussy, I think. It was always kept real vague. They just knew that they wanted to be offended by us."
"So whose idea was it? Was it was code for something?"
Marc looked out at the water, at the fractured moonlight dancing on the blue-black surface. "Honestly, Cal... I don't really remember anymore. Probably me. Maybe Roger. But I don't know what it was supposed to mean." He shrugged. "I don't know. It's like any other name, eventually it just fits, and the why doesn't really matter anymore."
They finished eating and walked out onto the pier beyond the restaurant. There was nobody else around out there, just a lonely bench at the end of the walk. Marc slumped down into it with a groan. "Jesus. What did we do all day? Where'd the time go?"
Cal perched on the edge of the bench beside him, leaning forward and watching the water between the floorboards. "I had a good time."
"Yeah, well. I guess I'm not much of a tour guide."
"Nah, it was nice."
"I'm glad."
"Me too." Cal scuffed his shoe on the walkway.
Marc shut his eyes and leaned his head back. Christ, he was tired. It was a warm evening though, unseasonably temperate. He'd take it. This was the sort of moment that he wanted to hold onto. The kind of thing that would get him through when everything was falling apart, as it so often did. He thought that he could probably fall asleep right here at the end of the pier. He'd just slid off the bench and into the water, float downstream with the current and take off, riding on the bosom of the ocean.
He felt something. Cool fingers brushing against the side of his hand. He didn't move, didn't react, didn't open his eyes. The fingers stayed there, only barely touching his own. He just laid his head back and soaked up the glow of the moon.
The hand shifted slightly, touching him a little more. He turned his hand over and let it rest palm open on the bench. He felt Cal's hand slid over his own, fingers lacing between his, and squeezing softly.
He squeezed back, and he felt a smile tug at the corner of his lips.
What a sight this made for. Here he was: Marc Warner, official card-carrying rock star sex god, conqueror of a thousand groupies, the perverse corrupter, the leather-clad Satan of middle-America's worst nightmares, the gender-bent pansexual queer archetype. He'd done things so filthy he didn't even want to remember them, fucked so many people he couldn't keep track of the number, much less their names or faces.
After all that, sitting there on the bench at the end of the pier holding hands with Cal was making his heart race faster than it had ever beaten before. He didn't look, he just took the moment, just held onto it, willing it to last forever. He felt like something broken inside him was starting to knit itself back together. Maybe Cal was right, in the end. Maybe there was something to all his hippie-dippy bullshit after all.
Maybe love really could make the universe whole again.
* * *
Wilderlands didn't end up open for them in Baton Rouge. Marc and Gregory, that stick in the mud, couldn't quite come to terms on it. All the money, all the contracts, all the lawyers. God, it was enough to make a person crazy. The tour manager said he needed to hear back from some more people before he could give them the go ahead. Just be patient a little longer. Cal said that it was fine with him, he was still jumpy about the size of the crowd.
It worked out alright in the end, though. Marc was able to find a venue across town that was more than happy to do him a favor, in exchange, naturally, for him making a public appearance at their place on the night. It was a hell of a lot nicer than the dumps they'd been playing in before, but not quite the arena-size madness of a Cashmere show. Everybody wins. Marc and Cal agreed that, if they could make it work, this would be a good way to go for the rest of the tour. Even Roger seemed happy with the compromise, when he heard about it. "Good idea," he'd said, "let them get their feet under 'em a little more first." And then he'd vanished off into the night for his post-show drinking.
He'd been hoping to spend more time with Cal after Cashmere's show, but Dance beat him to the punch. She kidnapped him to go watch some World War II romance at the theater downtown.
He paced around in his hotel room for a while, restless and pumped up with nothing particular to do. His body was still coursing with all that performative energy; he needed an outlet of some kind, some sort of way to blow off steam. Normally when he was in this kind of mood after a show - at least back in the old days - he would have gone looking for someone to take to bed, and he'd never had any difficulty finding someone. He found that he didn't really want to, though. He wanted... well, he wasn't going to go there yet, wasn't ready to jump down that particular rabbit hole just yet. Not tonight.
"Fuck it!" he said, speaking aloud for the benefit of his reflection in the hotel room television set. He shrugged on his leather jacket and hit the street.
He walked without purpose or destination for a long while, just wandering. He was jumpy and amped, but he felt good. He felt clean in a way that he hadn't in a long long time. Clean. Now that he thought about it, he hadn't done any blow since... Well, since he'd met Cal.
Huh.
That's when he got the idea. It was a stupid idea. A crazy absurd what-the-hell-are-you-thinking-Marc kind of idea. But once he had it in his head he knew that there would be no getting rid of it. He jogged across the street and into the closest phone booth. Did he have change? Yep, there were quarters jingling in his coat pocket, his change from the coffee place the other day. That was a sign, wasn't it?
He dropped the quarters into the slot and picked up the receiver. Then he dialed.
It rang four times, and he was just starting to wonder if he should give up when he heard the click.
"Hello?"
"Hey, pumpkin."
Silence. A long silence.
"You there, Daphne?"
"Hello, Marc."
Shit. So it didn't seem like she'd cooled down any since writing that letter. Had it really only been a couple weeks since then? It felt like lifetimes.
"Why are you calling?" she asked, sighing heavily into the phone. It sounded like static in the wire.
Why was he calling? Nothing had changed between them, things hadn't magically gotten better just because he felt better. This was pointless, wasn't it?
"Marc?"
It felt like his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth all of a sudden. "I... uh... Look, I wanted to apologize."
"Apologize."
"Yeah. For... a lot of things. Things I should have said sorry for a long time ago."
Another heavy sigh. "Are you drunk, Dad?"
"No, honey. I'm not. Do I sound drunk?"
"No, but you only talk like this when you don't know any better. You only call me when you're feeling sorry for yourself and want me to pat you on the head and say that it'll all be okay in the end. You're not calling because you want to say sorry, you're just looking for absolution, Dad. I don't want to start this cycle again. It's... exhausting for me, and what's the point? You always forget about it all two weeks later. So... why shouldn't I just hang up right now?"
Marc slumped heavily against the wall of the phone booth. God, how did she do that? He felt like he'd been cut right down to the bone, felt like all the blood had poured from his body and pooled around his feet. His knuckles were white gripping the receiver. "I... I don't know. You're right. You're right about me, Daphne. You've always been right."
"What's going on, Dad? I mean, I'm not trying to make you feel bad. I'm just... tired, alright? I'm tired of being your crutch. It's not fair."
"No. I don't suppose it is."
"Look... I'm not sure what you want from me here."
"Like I said, honey. I just wanted to say sorry."
Where was she right now? Standing in her kitchen with the phone cord wrapped around her wrist. She'd be dressed casually, her hair messy and loose, her kitchen strew with post-it notes and mechanical pencils. He'd missed most of her childhood, missed half her life. What right did he actually have to try and be her father? He just couldn't help it, though. There was something, some kind of pull she had on him, something that kept her in the back of his mind no matter how much he tried to convince himself they'd both be better off not talking. She was a part of him, forever.
Her voice softened a little. Maybe it was just weariness. She worked too hard, always had. "Well... thanks for calling. I don't know if I believe you, but... thanks for saying it."
"I would have done a lot of things differently, Daphne. If I'd... I don't know. I would have made different choices."
"Oh my God."
"What?"
"Are you in love?"
Someone knocked on the glass of the phone booth, startling him. Some guy in a baseball cap. He tapped his wristwatch and held an imaginary phone up to his ear. Marc shot him a glare. God, he'd only been on the line for a minute or two. He turned his back on the man and spoke into the phone. "What do you mean?"
"You're not drunk. You fell in love with somebody. That's why you're calling. I get it now."
"Daphne, that's not..."
She laughed. Half bitter and half just tired. "I should have known better. You never call for me, Dad."
"That's not true, hon, I-"
"I know how this goes, Dad. You fall for somebody and you think you're going to put your life back together, you think you can just snap your fingers and everybody's happy again. Then you fuck it up, and it all goes back to how it was and nothing ever changes. Who is it this time? Someone you know, or is it a new person? Doesn't matter."
"It's not like that."
"What? It's going to be different this time? Why should it be? Who do you think you're fooling? This new person is going to end up just like Mom, just like all the others. Used up and thrown away. It's what you do, Marc, and it's not going to change."
He set the receiver gently back on the cradle. The wind moaned down the street, like a howling ghost.
She wasn't going to forgive him. Not now, not ever. He stood in the booth with his forehead pressed against the glass, just listening to the city.
* * *
Wanda was sitting on the floor outside his hotel room, rocking back and forth with her arms wrapped around her knees and her chin on her chest. She looked up when Marc came down the hall, and he saw that she was crying. Her mascara was running down her cheeks in long black streaks. He had never seen the makeup woman looking anything other than totally composed, and he felt an icy dagger of panic.
He'd been wandering around the city, lost in a maze of streets and sidewalks as darkness fell, consumed by his thoughts. Calling Daphne had been a mistake. There was no place for him there, and there never would be, that was clear to him now. He'd blown a lot of opportunities in his life, but none of it nagged at him like this one did. She was his only child, and he didn't expect he'd ever have another. He'd had no business having one in the first place. It was only good luck that she'd turned out as well as she did, and no thanks to him.
It was after midnight when he returned.
"Where have you been?" Wanda wailed, scrabbling to her feet and patting at her eyes.
"Wanda? Jesus, what happened? What's wrong?"
She just stared at him, trying to force the words, her face crumbling. "It's Roger," she finally spit out, "he was attacked..." Her voice dissolved into breathless sobs, and she fell forward against Marc's chest, burying her face against his shoulder.
He grabbed her arms, leaning back and trying to look at her, "Shit! Is he all right? Wanda! Wanda, what happened? Is he alright?"
She leaned back, sniffing and gasping. "He's... he's in the hospital..."
"Wanda. Where?"
She handed him a scrap of paper, her hand trembling. There was an address scribbled in shaky pencil, tear drop stains on the paper. He closed his fist on it and he took off at a run. Wanda sank back down to the floor, crying softly.
He hit the elevator button, then ran for the stairs when it didn't come right away.
He got lucky, there was a taxi waiting outside the hotel. He threw himself inside and shoved the paper at the drive. The car tires squealed as they pulled out into traffic.
* * *
"God, Marc, where have you been?"
"Sorry. How is he?"
Joanna just shook her head.
"How'd it happen?"
She shrugged. "I don't know... he was at a bar or something. Drank too much."
"Jesus."
"Yeah, right. You know how he gets. Apparently he got in a fight with somebody. The other guy got kicked out of the bar, but he was waiting outside when Roger left. He had a knife, Marc."
"Oh fuck. What happened?"
"It could have been a lot worse. A lot. The police have the guy in custody now. Somebody saw from inside the bar and called the cops. If they hadn't had a car nearby... I don't know. It could have gone a lot worse than it did."
The band and most of the crew were scattered throughout the waiting room of the hospital. They looked strange there, all dressed in leather like a biker gang or something, sitting in the sterile white room, all miserable and worried. Tony was pacing back and forth by the hallway to the O.R. and looking like he was going to wear a hole in the carpet.
"Is he in there now? What are they doing for him?"
"I don't know, Marc, I really don't. Stitching him up, I suppose. Nothing we can do but wait."
And so they waited. It was the most torturous hour Marc could ever remember having experienced. He kept thinking that he should talk to Joanna or Tony, say something. He tried, again and again. He'd think of something to say and open his mouth and it would vanish before he could produce the words. So they sat, in silence, listening to the humming and beeping and whirring of the hospital equipment.
What a fucking night this had turned out to be.
He'd been on top of the world six hours ago, feeling like he could take the whole world on. Goes to show you. Hate tears the universe apart.
A doctor came out, pulling his blue gloves off and looking like he hadn't slept in a week. The three of them went to him right away. "Are you Roger's family?" he asked.
They all answered yes.
* * *
"Bastard got me pretty good. He's still wrong, though, Jimmy Paige is a better player than Van Halen any day of the week."
Marc burst out with a snort of laughter, a nervous dissipation of the overwhelming tension.. "Christ, Roger."
"Is that really what you were fighting about?" Joanna asked, mouth agape.
"Well, he said I didn't know what I was talking about. Had to defend my honor," Roger said, rather wryly.
"Sensible," Tony nodded.
"Men," Joanna fumed.
Marc took a seat beside the hospital bed. "You're alright though, that's what's important."
Roger shrugged awkwardly, wincing as he did. "Well... more or less."
"Take more than a pocket knife to put our boy down," Tony drawled.
"Maybe, but he took a good shot." Roger pulled his hand awkwardly out from under the blanket. He held it up to show it to them. His whole hand was swathed in bandages. He turned it awkwardly, hissing with pain at the slightest motion. "He was trying to cut my throat, I think. Managed to catch the knife. Remind me to grab it by the handle, next time."
"Oh my God, Roger," Joanna's hands flew up to cover her mouth. She went pale.
"Might give me some trouble with the music and all," Roger observed dryly.
Marc shook his head. "We'll cancel the tour. Or delay it, something. I don't know. Take all the time you need."
"We can't cancel the tour, Marc. Cashmere doesn't cancel, remember?"
"This isn't like that marijuana bullshit, Roger, this is serious. How long did the doctor say you needed?"
"He recommended two months at the least, assuming the damage isn't more serious than it looks."
"Christ. Forget it, we'll cancel."
Roger crossed his arms over his chest and gave Marc a flat stare.
"Well what the fuck else are we supposed to do? We can't go up there without our goddamn guitar player, Roger!"
He grinned, though it may have been a grimace. "Well then, I guess you're in luck."
"In bad luck, maybe..." Tony grumbled.
"How are we lucky, Roger?" Marc asked, though he had an inkling that he already knew the answer.
"Well, Marc. Thanks to you and your little obsession, it seems to me that we've already got a backup guitar player traveling with us."
Joanna frowned. "Are you serious, Roger?"
"Sure, why not? The kid's good. I'll make sure he knows what he's doing up there. Let Cal take over for me while I recover."
Nobody said anything to that. But none of them objected, either. It was up to Cal now.