How to Kill a Rock Star (19 page)

We didn’t leave the apartment for three days. We sat in front of the TV, ate in front of the TV, slept in front of the TV, made love with a be-al , end-al frenzy in front of the TV, we cried in front of the TV, and we wondered, in front of the goddamn TV, if the world was about to end.

It was the longest I’d gone without a cigarette in eight years. By the second day I had the shakes and a headache that wouldn’t go away no matter how many Advil I popped, but Eliza was stil too terrified to go out, and I couldn’t leave her like that.

We spent a lot of time pondering the meanings of al the things we hold sacred. The record, the single, al my self-righteous integrity. It suddenly feels so stupid to me.

Only time wil tel , I guess.

One thing’s for sure: the events of last week did not bode wel for Eliza as a future airline passenger of the world.

This is Paul saying goodbye. And God bless.

Over.

The streets were practical y deserted when I left for Loring Blackman’s apartment. A few merchants were hosing down their storefront sidewalks, a couple dour-faced people were walking dogs, but there wasn’t a soul on the subway car that took me uptown.

The city was always quiet on Sunday morning, and normal y this had a calming effect, but I didn’t feel safe outside yet. I didn’t feel safe anywhere except in the apartment with Paul. The hush of the city was stil too dark, the air stil smel ed like a funeral pyre, and every sound made me jump.

For the last two weeks I had gone to work, hurried home, and made few additional excursions beyond Ludlow Street.

Going any farther downtown was out of the question, as Ground Zero was maybe two miles southwest of where we lived.

It was supposed to be a big deal. A cover story. I’d been waiting over a year for an assignment that would promote me to feature-writer status and potential y garner me some respect with Lucy. But there I was, on my way to the interview, and it didn’t seem to matter. Regardless of how badly I wanted it to matter.

The inimitable characteristics of New York City—the skyscrapers, the subways, the people, the barrage of art and culture—had al been turned into memento mori. Excitement had been replaced with fear, certainty replaced with doubt.

Hopes and dreams replaced with a basic instinct to survive.

I studied the few faces I passed near the park. They were sal ow and afraid. They were the faces of orphans. There were orphans al over the city, just like Paul and I were orphans.

Loring lived on 77th between Central Park West and Columbus Avenue, on the top floor of a charming prewar building across from the Museum of Natural History. The bald, droopy-eyed doorman knew who I was as soon as I walked in. He greeted me by name and escorted me to the elevator, where the press of a button and the turn of a key took us directly into Loring’s living room, the backdrop of which was two wal s of windows affording views of the museum and the park.

“Mr. Blackman wil be back in a few minutes,” the doorman, a spitting image of Uncle Fester from
The Addams
Family
, told me. “He says make yourself at home.” The first thing I noticed was the central air-conditioning.

After walking in the warm sun, Loring’s apartment felt like December in Cleveland.

Uncle Fester left, and I wandered around the apartment.

Despite being furnished in shades of blue and gray, the place was luminescent with natural light. And it had a comfortable, lived-in feel, due in part to the occasional presence of kids—Loring had twin sons, evidence of which was scattered around in the form of toys and the cutest little pair of Doc Martens.

Making my way into the master bedroom, I was sure Loring had a housekeeper. His bed had been made in that plush, perfectly neat, five-star-hotel style that looks inviting and untouchable at the same time.

I played detective in Loring’s bathroom: gray slate floor, ecru marble sink, beige towels, and a three-headed shower.

The only drugs I could find were Ibuprofen and children’s chewable vitamins. Loring wore al uring cologne that How to Kil _internals.rev 2/22/08 5:00

PM Page 164

16smel ed green and peppery, used waxed dental floss, a Gil ette razor, cheap drugstore shampoo, and had Mark Twain’s
Roughing It
next to the toilet.

The room across the hal from Loring’s was a sparsely furnished guestroom that also served as a storage space for platinum records, instruments, and other various music-related paraphernalia. The other bedroom had a set of bunk beds, two smal desks, two high-end desktop computers, and a glow-in-the-dark solar system on the ceiling.

A large sectional sofa took up most of the main room, and on the floor in the middle of the couch there was a dis-assembled tent, pil ows, and a box of Legos.

When Loring showed up he was dressed like he’d been running, and he greeted me by apologizing for half a dozen things al in one breath—being late, not having any food ready, making me work on Sunday, the mess on the floor. He seemed uneasy, as if he’d walked into my apartment, not his own, and in so doing he’d made me nervous.

I only seemed to make things worse by hugging him, which I considered common courtesy since we knew each other, and because 9/11 inspired a we’re-al -in-this-together mentality. But Loring returned the gesture awkwardly, and I hoped his reserve wasn’t going to carry over into the interview, otherwise it was going to be a long day.

“The boys slept here last night,” he said, nodding toward the middle of the couch. “They wanted to go camping. We compromised.” He had a bag of bagels and muffins under his arm. “Does this seem stupid to you? An interview, I mean. In lieu of what’s going on in the world.”

“I was thinking the same thing on the way here. But Rudy wants us to try and get back to normal, right? So, let’s do it for the mayor.”

I forced a smiled and he smiled back. It was as if we’d made a pact.

“For the mayor,” Loring said.

I fol owed him into the gal ey-like kitchen, where everything was made of stainless steel. Opposite the refrigerator, there was a smal breakfast bar with four stools that backed up into the living room. Loring fil ed a teakettle with water and explained his reasons for being late—he’d taken his sons for pancakes, gone for “a quick run,” which turned out to be eight miles, and then stopped for groceries. “I’m sure you have better things to do than wait around for me al morning, but do you mind if I take a shower?” I wondered if he would use al three shower heads.

Before Loring sped away, I asked him if I could borrow a sweater.

“Are you cold?” he said.

“I’m about three degrees away from being cryogenical y frozen.”

Laughing, he fiddled with the thermostat in the hal way and then disappeared. While he was squandering the city’s water supply, I took a plate from one of the cupboards, arranged the bagels and muffins, and finished making the tea.

Loring reappeared in less than five minutes, bringing the scent of his cologne with him, which smel ed even better on him than it did in the bottle— like sex on freshly cut grass after a summer rain. He handed me a gray cashmere pul over and I slipped it on. The sleeves hung inches below my fingertips.

Loring, barefoot, wore a chocolate-colored T-shirt and navy blue pinstriped slacks. His skin was stil dewy from his run, and just tan enough to highlight his soft brown eyes.

The guy was stunning. Real y. I didn’t think there was any harm in admitting this, at least to myself, and most likely to Vera later on. His face was so perfect I felt inadequate, as if I needed to be cool and beautiful to be in the room with him.

“Are these your kids?” I asked, referring to the numerous photographs on the refrigerator.

16“Yeah.” Loring stepped behind me and pointed over my shoulder. “That’s Sean, and that’s Walker. They just turned five.”

Undoubtedly identical twins, both boys had cute, mis-chievous smiles and floppy hair that touched their shoulders, much like Rex and Spike, the sons I imagined Paul and I would have some day.

“Your wife?” I asked, al uding to the woman in one of the photos.

“Ex-wife,” he said.

The woman’s face was vibrant and approachable. “She’s pretty.”

Loring nodded with no semblance of malice or regret and explained that his ex-wife, Justine, lived three floors down.

She and Loring had lived there together, and when they divorced he bought the penthouse so he could stay close to the kids.

“Doesn’t that get weird? What if you bring a girl home and you’re in the elevator, then it stops on her floor and there’s the ex?”

He chuckled. “Unfortunately, I haven’t had to worry about that lately, but Justine and I are good friends. We get along real y wel .”

Loring picked up the tray I’d prepared and headed to the living room. I fol owed close behind, to ride the wave of his cologne.

“Right,” I said. “If you get along so wel , why did you get divorced?”

He set the tray down on the coffee table and tried to kick the col apsed tent out of the way. “Can’t you beat around the bush before you hit me with the personal stuff?”

“Sorry. I’d rather not pry into your personal life, believe me. But considering every song on
Rusted
seems to address the topic of crumbling love, it’s a pretty unavoidable topic.

In other words, you either resign yourself to talking about it, or send me home without a story. And please don’t do that because my boss lives to see me fail.”

“Lucy Enfield?” Loring’s tone was subtle but managed to convey his negative feelings toward the woman.

I nodded. “The day I got this assignment she was so mad she sent me to Office Depot to buy her a stapler, just to remind me who was in charge.”

“In that case, I’l talk.”

I moved from the couch to the floor, impel ed by a nostalgic yearning to be closer to the Legos. Loring fol owed me to the carpet, attached two blue plastic squares together, and then continued adding pieces while I prodded him about his marriage.

His responses were reticent at first, but eventual y he got sidetracked by his project and started rambling about col ege.

I couldn’t remember where he’d gone and when I asked him, he muttered “Yale” as if it were the local vocational school.

“What did you study?”

“Art history,” he said, digging through the Lego box.

“Wel , specifical y, it was humanism in renaissance art and architecture, but don’t you dare print that.”

“Is that where you met your wife?”

“Ex-wife,” he said again. “And no. I spent my junior year studying in Florence. I met her at the Uffizi. We fel in love staring at Botticel i paintings.”

“Is she Italian?”

“Uptowner,” he said, pointing in a direction that must have been north. “She actual y grew up eight blocks from here. She was supposed to be backpacking around Europe and ended up staying with me the whole time.” He fixed two yel ow Legos together to form what looked like an arm. “I know the media wrote a lot of crap after we split. They said Justine was seeing someone else and then I was seeing How to Kil _internals.rev 2/22/08 5:00 PM Page 168

16someone else. None of it was true. There were no third parties involved. Nor did I say I hated being married like the
Daily News
al eged.” Loring’s intonation conveyed how important it was to him that I understand this. “Hel , I want to be in love just as much as the next guy.” I checked to make sure my tape recorder was running. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

He didn’t raise his head, just his eyes.

“No joke, Lucy gets orgasmic over statements like that.

She might even be nice to me for a day. And I’m warning you now, she’l probably put it on the cover.”

“Can I take it back?”

“Not a chance.” I laughed. “So, where did it go wrong?

Your marriage, I mean.”

I was trying to construct a multilayered Lego building in which every floor was a different color. The level currently under construction was red. As Loring responded to my question, he passed me half a dozen red rectangles. His hands were distracting. They were lean and strong and perfectly symmetrical to the rest of him.

“Nothing ever real y went wrong per se. There was just stuff that was never going to work. Stuff we never discussed until it was too late.”

“What kind of stuff?” I pressed, and when he looked flus-tered, I said, “May I remind you this was your idea?” He yielded with a smirk. “The life of a musician, mainly.

Justine had no idea what she was in for, like breast-feeding in the back of a tour bus. She wanted a nine-to-five husband whose travel schedule consisted of a Christmas timeshare in Vail.” Loring was searching for a specific Lego. “Eventual y she just started staying home, and we grew apart —Justine learned how to say that in therapy—
we grew apart
. The thing is, we loved each other, and on some level we always wil , but when you’re twenty-three and you fal in love, you tend
to think that love wil supercede any problems. That’s what
Rusted
is about. Realizing that no matter how much you love somebody, no matter how desperately you want a relationship to work, life can act as an oxidizer and corrode it to pieces.”

I was saddened by Loring’s sentiments, mainly because what happened to him and his wife was exactly what I was afraid was going to happen to me and Paul.

“Can I ask you something? Why did you agree to do this interview?”

He put his Lego creation on hold to slice a bagel and smear it with a thick layer of cream cheese. “My manager had been bugging me to do it forever. Then I met you and, I don’t know, I figured you could be trusted. Doug was the one who actual y suggested it. He said you were worth talking to. Even if you are a stalker.”

“Don’t start that again,” I said, laughing. “Or I’l write that you were rude and difficult, and you waste water with your three-headed shower.”

He cleared his throat and a smile completely devoid of offense appeared on his face. “Someone’s been snooping.”

“Uncle Fester told me to make myself at home. Do you always refer to your father by his first name?” I said quickly.