How to Kill a Rock Star (37 page)

Feldman held onto my sleeve and I glared at his hand until he let go.

“I can’t see many ways out of this,” he said. “Either someone talks Paul into making a few concessions, or something
very bad
is going to happen. I don’t want it to come to that, and trust me, neither do you.”

There was something sordid in Feldman’s eyes—a silent warning I couldn’t decode. “What do you mean
very bad
?”

“Paul’s not thinking straight. I’m afraid of what he might do. I don’t want it to get ugly and I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

The cheek biting counterbalanced al the emotions. It was another innovation, using physical pain to redirect the train of memory.

“I wish I could help,” I said, my voice firm. “But like I already told you, I’m the last person Paul wants to talk to.” How to Kil _internals.rev 2/22/08 5:00

PM Page 324

October 11, 2002

There’s nothing worse than fal ing in love with a person over and over every time you lay eyes on them, especial y when you hate their goddamn guts.

It happened yesterday at rehearsal. We’d al been given designated slots for practice. Mine had been set for noon and Loring’s wasn’t until later so it never occurred to me that I might run into either of them.

Actual y, that’s a lie. It did occur to me, which is why I’d gone to considerable lengths to avoid an encounter. I looked before I turned every corner, stayed in the hospitality room until the producer told me they were ready for me, kept my eyes to the ground anytime I had to venture down the hal , and al was wel until a certain uppity British musician took longer than his al otted time, throwing the whole schedule off.

It’s bad enough when people I know fuck with my life, but when pretentious bass players interfere with my destiny, then I real y get pissed.

What I’m trying to say is if I’d left the theater when I was supposed to, I never would’ve seen her. But there I was, loitering around the catering with a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips in my hand, waiting for my turn, and here comes Eliza waltzing into the room with Loring hanging al over her.

They didn’t see me at first, they were too busy talking, and they looked so goddamn intimate I almost coughed a mouthful of food at their feet.

Doug was behind them, along with some other guy who had a camera in his hands. Doug waved. He was trying to distract me, I’m sure of it, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of Eliza.

She had this black knitted shawl around her shoulders, and with her chin down and her eyes blinking toward the sky, she looked like a falcon about to spread its wings.

It was al I could do not to fal on my knees and weep like the bastard she always said I was, and I was a breath away from begging her to run away with me. I can’t believe I’m admitting this on tape—I was standing at that table, she hit me with that look of hers, and I swear to God al I wanted to do was grab her hand, press it into my heart and say, “Let’s get the hel out of here.” I was even wil ing to ride the 6 al the way to Houston Street. No kidding, I was going to take the subway to prove my love. And if she said no, I was going to kidnap her until she agreed to stay.

But then Loring slipped his arm around her waist, she took his hand, and I came to my senses.

Note to self: The past is gone. Let it go.

So there I was in the hospitality room, eating my potato chips, my heart breaking al over again, then Doug goes and throws his arm across my shoulder and for a fleeting second I made believe he was my dad. This felt good until I realized it would’ve made Loring my goddamn brother and Eliza practical y my sister-in-law, which put a tragic, Shakespearean spin on the whole fantasy and I dropped it.

Doug told me I looked wel and I announced, more for Eliza’s ears than Doug’s, that I’d quit smoking. Three weeks without a cigarette. I told them how I’ve also been running. I could tel Eliza didn’t believe a word I was saying.

Doug wanted to know what song I was going to do. He was stil trying to distract me. I answered his question as loud as I could, and the guy holding the camera, a photographer whose name I didn’t catch, told me “The Day I Became a Ghost” was one of his al -time favorites.

32“What a coincidence,” I said. “Loring’s girlfriend likes that song, too. Don’t you, you lying bitch?” After that little outburst, Loring left the room, but not before he gave me a look of reigning superiority. Believe me, it was no skin off my back to see the guy go, but the way he was able to hold his head up and play Mr. Innocent real y burned me up.

Loring looked back at Eliza like he expected her to fol ow him, but she and I were too busy playing a game of war with our eyes.

Doug cleared his throat and said, “Bonnie Raitt once told me coincidence is God’s way of staying anonymous.” At that, Eliza let out a pshaw and told Doug she’d see him later. She scurried away. And I don’t know what I was thinking but I actual y cut my conversation with Doug short so I could fol ow her.

Unfortunately, my journey ended in front of a door with Loring’s name on it. I stood there for a long time, wanting to knock, but eventual y I just walked away. It’s too late. My plans have al been made and the last thing I need is Eliza and her dreamy falcon eyes fucking everything up again.

Part of me feels like I owe it to her to say goodbye, but I also know I’m not strong enough to do it in person.

Today, when I got back to the theater, I came straight to my designated area. Of course they gave Loring a legitimate dressing room. This hole they’ve got me in is smal er than my bathroom and looks like a closet where props are stored. There are al these Western costumes hanging on a rack behind me, along with ten-gal on hats, chaps, and holsters with cap guns.

I put one of the holsters on and tried to see how fast I could draw. Put it this way: I would’ve made a shitty cowboy.

I stil had the holster on when a stagehand named Rick came in and set me up with a fold-out chair, a bucket of ice, two beers, and a bottle of water.

“Cool belt,” Rick said. He was being an asshole so I decided to leave it on.

Did you hear that click? I just locked the door. And I’m not unlocking it until it’s my turn to go on because Eliza’s somewhere out there and I can’t risk running into her again.

In less than ten minutes, Rick is going to come back to get me, and once I get on stage I think I’l be okay, but right now I’m shaking so hard I can barely stand.

It’s weird—I’m about to perform in front of an audience for what wil probably be the last time in my life and I have to say, it seems appropriate, not to mention grimly poetic, that the music that began my career is also the music that’s going to end it.

To take that idea a step further, how about the fact that the man who spawned the sounds that saved my life also spawned The Thief who took it away.

Holy Hel , there’s my knock.

Over.

The performers had al been bil ed according to their popularity. The earlier you went on, the less popular you were. Paul was second on the bil .

The guy who went on before Paul was an unknown folk singer married to Lily Blackman’s niece.

Right before Paul took the stage, a guy with lamb-chop sideburns tested the standing mike and pul ed a thick, quilt-ed tarp off of a piano.

I watched Paul as he walked out. He looked absurd, wearing a holster around his waist and a ridiculous orange wool hat, the kind they sel to hunters in the Army-Navy store.

The hat was tight-fitting and covered his whole skul , as wel as both of his ears. In the front, it was pul ed down al the way to his eyebrows. In the back, it reached his neck, and not a speck of his hair was visible. His head looked like the number five bil iard bal .

“First things first,” Paul said into the microphone. “Happy Birthday to the Man.” He bowed to Doug, who was sitting in the front row, off to the right.

The audience clapped and Paul waited until they quieted down before he continued.

“It’s such an honor to be here tonight. And I need to say thank you to Doug, not only for asking me to be a part of this extraordinary evening, but for giving me so much more than I could ever express with the appropriate level of gratitude.” His voice was shaky. “I know I’m not the only one here who feels this way, but there’s been so many times in
my life when I didn’t have anything except one of Doug’s songs to help me make it through the night…He’s been a friend, a teacher, a shoulder to lean on…” Paul took a drink of water and I noticed his hand trembling. I had never seen him so nervous on stage.

“Shit. Al right. Enough sap.” He cleared his throat, rubbed his palms together and said, “God knows where I’d be right now if I’d never discovered this song. Or maybe it discovered me, whichever the case may be.” I was surprised Loring hadn’t pouted over Paul’s choice of songs. He knew how much “The Day I Became a Ghost” meant to me and could have easily claimed it as his own. As Doug’s son, he would have received preferential treatment, but he’d made the mature decision, selecting “Son of Mine” instead—a little ditty Doug had penned as a sixth birthday present to his firstborn.

Paul dove heart-first into the song, and I did everything in my power to stay detached, but my arms were covered in goose bumps before he even started singing.

Ten goddamn seconds.

The difference between the real stuff and the crap.

And the more I heard of the song, the farther back it spanned into my history. The deeper it reached, the more intense the feeling, turning over every experience I’d ever associated with it, swirling the past in with the here and now, moving it toward the future, and yet remaining so time-less that a belief in the infinite nature of things seemed obvious, if only in those brief moments.

By the time Paul got to the end of the second verse, tears were fighting their way down his cheeks and I was sure he was feeling it, too.

I was sitting in the third row, dead center, wil ing him to look my way. Something told me he knew exactly where I was, but he never glanced in my direction.

33Paul finished the song and stood stil for an inordinate amount of time. Then he took off his guitar and sat down at the piano.

This was another first. I had never seen Paul play piano on stage.

“I recorded this next one about a month ago,” he said. “It was going to be the title track on our new record. It’s cal ed ‘Save the Savior’ and it’s a little long so bear with me, or feel free to go to the bathroom, get a drink, whatever blows your hair back.”

I was afraid to hear the song, but I couldn’t seem to move or run or, at the very least, plug my ears.

The melody was poignant and overly sentimental right from the start, like an ultramodern, atmospheric version of one of the bal ads Elton John and Bernie Taupin wrote for the
Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy
record. But the voice and the conviction was al Paul, and it came out of him like an efflux of flesh and blood and, ultimately, of what I could only describe as surrender.

I’ll say this much for him

The guy knew when to quit

But Jesus had more guts than me

He carried his cross

And cried to the boss

Who deserted him to set him free

And for what?

The crowds that now gather

Pretend it matters

But the infidels get the last laugh every time
So much for deliverance, right, angel?

Save the savior, she cried

But as she bowed her head and stared at the sky
She left me alone

Left me to die

Judas has nothing on you, babe

But I guess it’s not as easy as we thought it would be
A bastard was bound to falter
When even love couldn’t erase that scar
On your wrist or in the stars

Or in the sacrifice I’m leaving at the altar
I still think about those nights
Living warm inside of you

Never wanting to say goodbye

Now all I can say is, God have mercy on my soul
The sweetness of the flowers always fades with time
Nobody zoned out. For seven minutes and twenty-two seconds every heart in the theater was ripped wide open, their contents spil ing themselves at Paul’s feet.

He stood and the audience stood with him, clapping like a rainstorm. Even Doug got up and applauded with his hands above his head.

By then I was racing down the aisle, hoping to catch Paul before he disappeared into one of the dressing rooms. At the backstage entrance I was halted by a security guard and wasted a minute digging through my purse for my pass. When I final y found it, the guy made me peel off the backing and stick it on my shirt before he would let me go in.

I rushed down the corridor in search of the room with Paul’s name on it, but stopped when I felt a hand on my elbow.

“We need to talk,” Loring said.

“In a minute.”

“Now.” He steered me into an empty bathroom and
33waited until the door closed on its spry hinge. “You didn’t even see me, did you?”

I looked back at the door, imagining it had sealed shut.

Airtight. To abscond was no longer an option.

“I was standing to the left of the stage during his set, forty feet away from you. At one point, I swore you looked right at me but you didn’t even see me.”

I was reminded of Phil ip Oxford. I thought about how he put his hand on the emergency exit so as to flee the burning plane as soon as it came to a stop. I slid my hand behind my back and tried to reach the door handle. It was too far away.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Loring said. “I can’t pretend that someday you’re going to look at me the way you look at him.”

I covered my face and shook my head, a dual action born out of self-loathing. Not even when I’d slit my wrist had my self-loathing been so strong.

But I hated myself—first, for what I’d done to Paul, second, for what I was doing to Loring, and third, because I had been so unbelievably wrong about everything.

Al the decisions I’d ever made were screaming inside my head.