Don't I Know You? (10 page)

“It's called a smoothie,” she says, handing it to Neil. “But with yogurt. I hope you like yogurt.” In Toronto, in 1971, yogurt was still an exotic import from unknown Slavic countries.

“Hey, I'm livin' on a ranch now,” he says to the jeans girl. “Cows are my people.”

“It has papaya too. It's supposed to give you enzymes or something.”

“Thanks, tastes good.”

He watches his son lazily flirt and wonders how things are going with the new one, the actress. But a movie actress with her own ambitions, trying to settle down with a musician away on tour, somebody whose father didn't exactly stick around—that's not going to be easy. Even if Neil has turned out to be more of a homebody than Scott ever was. Not many twenty-five-year-olds want to buy land, or can, for that matter. Three hundred and forty thousand dollars he paid for the ranch, in cash. But it was a smart move, Scott thinks, not to get too caught up in L.A. Although you can smoke a lot of pot out in the country too.

Land. The best thing he ever did when he came back from the navy, Scott thinks, was to buy those acres up around Omemee, through the vet land deal. Neil was eight or nine, and he spent the summer days fishing off the Mill Street Bridge. Then there was the one long season at Lake of Bays, when all their friends visited. Laughter and drinks late into the night on the porch. That's what he thinks about whenever he hears Neil sing “Helpless”—those summers up north with everyone there.

That was before the newspaper column, when all he wrote was fiction. It felt good being able to raise two boys just by writing short stories and sending them off to magazines. Getting rejections along with checks in the mail from the
Weekend
or the
Saturday Evening Post
. Some for $3,000—a lot of money back then. Surely Neil has some good memories from those days in Omemee, before his dad disappeared.

He doesn't regret leaving so much as the fact that he didn't talk about it to the boys. He should have said, “Remember, you can come live with me whenever you like.” He assumed they knew that. Anyway, frank talk wasn't the custom then. Now he knows that when a father leaves a son at the age of thirteen, everyone can seem to carry on fine, but it changes things pretty deeply. It meant, for one thing, that over the years they got in the habit of being out of touch, and so they have to work around that. Not that Neil seems to hold it against him. It's never come up in conversation, at least.

Onstage, Neil is singing “Cowgirl in the Sand,” his voice cutting through the words with an almost bitter sound.

Old enough now to change your name

When so many love you is it the same …

When Astrid gets here, he will definitely suggest they all get together afterward, at Ciccone's. To catch up. A lot has happened since Neil left town five years ago, in that goddamned Pontiac hearse—the cops had to call him in the middle of the night when they found it abandoned in L.A., with parking tickets due. Scott was sure that going to California was a foolish move and that Neil would be home before winter. But two weeks after he arrived Neil had somehow found himself a band and paying gigs. The next thing he knows, the first CSNY album is out and sells a million copies. Then his son—his skinny, chaotic, floppy-haired son—is playing Carnegie Hall with people like Jack Nicholson paying a lot of money to hear him perform.

That was when it hit him. He was standing on the street in front of a Carnegie Hall poster with a red Sold Out banner across it, and the words “Tonight. Neil Young—Folk Singer” at the top. Scalpers were selling tickets for $100 (you couldn't buy an obstructed seat for that now). As the tears came he stared at the poster and wondered how life had brought the two of them to this point. Later, sitting in the audience four rows from the stage, he felt too self-conscious to cry.

After the show, backstage, he stood apart from the people swarming Neil. Jack Nicholson came over to him. He had long muttonchop sideburns. “Your boy is very special, I hope you recognize that. You should be celebrating!” he said, clapping him on the back.

Scott did recognize it. He just didn't show it. That's why now, in the rehearsal, the sound of Neil's voice wraps around his heart like a lasso.

*   *   *

The snow has stopped well before the first concert, and Massey Hall is full of almost too-reverent fans. They applaud the smallest moment, including a request from Neil onstage not to take photographs when he's singing.

“It kinda distracts me from what I'm trying to do here,” he drawls. “When the song is over and something's happening, like, people are applauding, then you can take your pictures, okay?” They laugh and applaud again. He's wearing yellow work boots and a plaid shirt that hides his back brace.

Scott sits near the front with the Astrids on either side. Maybe it's the hometown effect or the acoustics of Massey Hall, but Neil's voice sounds especially strong, and he attacks each number with a somber force. He seems to be singing to them from far inside the songs. Most are unfamiliar.

“I've written so many new ones on this tour, I don't know what to do with them, except sing 'em.”

It's funny how so many musicians adopt that country inflection, Scott thinks. Nobody from Omemee really talks like that. Bob Dylan, Neil, both sounding like sheep farmers when they're actually downtown kids.

Scott is shocked to see his quiet, comical, thin son pouring out so much grown-up passion. Then Neil starts talking about a song he's just written about the old foreman who manages his ranch. “That's right, I live on a ranch now,” he murmurs apologetically, “and this guy kind of came with it. Louis Avila is his name.” He starts to sing the song, his voice soaring like a big bird floating on thermals.

Old Man, look at my life, I'm a lot like you …

Astrid looks sideways at her husband and smiles. Scott knows he's singing about someone else, but it feels partly about him too. Not that he's so old! Anyway, he knows that's how a good song works; each listener feels the words are a private message, aimed directly at him.

He wonders if the people around them are thinking that it's a song about his father and he feels a storm of things inside—pride, embarrassment, relief. His son does love him after all. Breaking up the family wasn't done much back in the 1950s. It was unusual. And he could have managed it better.

Then the concert ends and he's on his feet with the rest of the audience. Something in his chest that has been tight for a long time unfurls.

The three of them go backstage.

“Good show,” says Scott to his son, immediately regretting the silly, British-sounding phrase. He puts his hand on Neil's skinny arm.

“Thanks, Dad,” says Neil. “It felt good. Hope it wasn't too loud for you.”

Then people begin to swarm around Neil, and they say goodbye. The tiny woman in the white jeans is there, flushed with excitement. Out in the lobby the audience for the second show has begun to arrive. Scott lingers, in case his ex-wife turns up. In the crowd he recognizes the blond woman who was taking notes at the rehearsal. A journalist just out of college; now he remembers talking to her about his hockey book. Before Neil was famous. She sees him, smiles, and starts heading his way. What the hell is her name?

“Mr. Young,” she says, holding out her hand. “It's Rose. Rose McEwan. We did an interview last year.”

“Yes, I remember. How are you?” He keeps an eye on the people streaming in. He doesn't want to miss Rassy.

“You must be so proud of your son tonight,” Rose says, not letting go of his hand. “Wasn't he fantastic?”

“Yes, yes he was. Very impressive indeed.” Why did he end up sounding like a naval officer in these situations? “Are you writing something for the
Star
?”

“No, for
Rolling Stone
, actually. Just a little sidebar on ‘the hometown concert.'”

“But it's
Rolling Stone
, good for you.” She was quite pretty, he thought, despite the big glasses and the cowboy shirt.

“I did something for them on Ronnie Hawkins and the Band.”

“Rompin' Ronnie? No lack of material there.”

“A little too much, actually.” They laugh.

“Do you have time for a drink or something?” She touches his sleeve. “I'd like to talk to you about tonight.”

“Yes, well, I'm with some people…” Just then his wife comes up and slips her arm in his. He introduces them. Astrid gives Rose a cool smile, one she is practiced at. Scott is handsome, with a fine head of hair, and women like him.

“It was very nice to meet you, Rose,” she says as Neil's sister catches up and the three of them head for the door.

Rose stands alone in the lobby. She feels a little bruise of rejection, then dismisses it as unprofessional. Tomorrow, she'll call him at the
Globe
, set up something. She has the feeling there's a lot he wants to say about his son, that no one ever asks him.

Scott leaves without ever catching sight of Rassy, and they hurry through the cold night air to the parking lot, where he scrapes the ice off the windshield of their car.

“We can stop somewhere for a drink if you like,” his wife says on the way home, with a hand on his knee. Some sort of celebration seems in order.

“No, we should probably head home while the weather's clear.” He looks over at her, grateful for her company and the gleam of her dark hair—the way she dressed up for the occasion and now is perfectly happy to call it a night. The way she handled that Rose woman. Sidebars in
Rolling Stone
? When was the last time he saw a girl's byline in that magazine?

He should write something about tonight, though. He feels like rushing to his typewriter the minute they get through the door. Instead they drop off Neil's sister and head home, where they pour a nightcap. They sit on the couch side by side to watch the news.

Later in bed, he keeps hearing Neil's voice, twisting and bright like a small flame inside him. For years he's carried a heavy feeling of having failed his son. It's lifted now.

Astrid stirs beside him.

“Neil was wonderful tonight, wasn't he?” Her low, unwounded voice.

“Yes, he was.”

Her arms go around him, her breath is warm on his neck. Down in the city the second show would be over and people would be leaving Massey Hall, fanning out into the snowy night, satisfied. Neil might be backstage with Rassy right now. Or heading down to Ciccone's for something to eat.

Early tomorrow, before the column, he would type a few notes about this miracle of an evening. The night his son came home.

 

The Bill Murray Effect

The year I turned thirty, I spent the summer working in a Kingston, Ontario, restaurant where my friend Zalman was the chef. His wife, Rose—another Rose, obviously—made the desserts, including a legendary Spanish flan. I was the “salad girl,” washing greens in the deep zinc sink, and sometimes I worked out front too, taking cash or making the fancy coffees (the words “latte” and “barista” were not yet part of the language). Zal and Rose were dear longtime friends who were hoping that Roberto and I would stay together.

But the breakup was already in motion, like a car rolling back down a hill in neutral. You didn't want to get in the way of it.

They had invited us to rent the small apartment at the back of their farm for July and August, with the idea that this sojourn in the country might salvage our relationship. A plan that was not working out so far. I had an assignment from
Outside
magazine that was overdue, and the writing had stalled. It was hard for Roberto, a news photographer from Colombia, to find much work in the small city of Kingston. The mood at home was sullen, and my response was to book extra shifts in order to stay out of the apartment. Communication was not our strong point.

During lunch shift one August day, one of the waitresses came into the kitchen with a bottle of white wine. “This is for you,” Sherry said with a slight eye-roll, “from the boys by the window.”

The hungover guys. They had ordered two double espressos from me when I was out front earlier. I went back into the dining room to thank them, and this time I recognized one as Dan Aykroyd, of early
Saturday Night Live
fame. The fish in a blender guy. I knew his family had a cottage on a lake north of Kingston. But I didn't recognize his friend, who looked strikingly ordinary. It turned out to be Bill Murray. He had just finished his first season on the show and wasn't famous yet. This was pre-
Ghostbusters
too. He was just a guy with nice brown eyes and a roundish nose, hanging out with his TV buddy.

I thanked them for the wine. The three of us kibitzed back and forth, and then Bill Murray asked for my phone number. Oh, that would not be appropriate, I said with a flirtatious smile, swatting him. I didn't bother to explain that I was living with someone, my waning boyfriend. Then I went back to the kitchen and my sink full of lettuce. At this point, I believe I made a decision, although I wasn't ready to admit it at the time. The fog of denial, when you are avoiding a breakup, can cover many sins. I dried my hands, wrote my name and number on a piece of paper, folded it inside a fresh hamburger bun, and put it in my apron pocket. As if I had no plans for it.

When I finished with the lettuce, Zal asked me to take over at the cash, which I did, just as Bill Murray and Dan Aykroyd came over to pay their bill.

“If you don't have a phone, that's a whole other matter,” said Bill Murray.

Which is when I took the hamburger bun out of my apron and tucked it into his shirt pocket. He acted like this was normal behavior for a cashier in a restaurant and I thought we were just playing out our little scene. It was fun to flirt with someone so nimble, really fun, but by the time I left work later on I had forgotten all about the exchange.