Sweet Thing (27 page)

When we got to the restaurant, Rady came stalking toward us in his black mohair suit with Ray-Ban Aviators peeking from the pocket. He was good-looking in a clean way, but he was fat. He looked like he’d eaten Ryan Seacrest for breakfast. He waddled up to Will, holding the black Gibson.

“What the fuck are you doing with my guitar?”

“Shut up, Will. Give the execs something.”

“Why, you guys having second thoughts?”

“No, of course not—it’s a nice gesture. They’ve made concessions, we all have. Pull your head out before you fuck yourself into obscurity.”

“Charming,” I said to no one in particular.

“I came here to have dinner, I brought my girlfriend; I’m not a circus monkey.”

“Hey, doll.” He finally acknowledged me before looking back at Will. “One song, blow ‘em away, it’ll get everyone off your back.” Will begrudgingly snatched the guitar from Rady and walked away. I stood there, not knowing what to do with myself until I spotted Frank sitting at a table nearby. He motioned for me to come over and then he stood up and pulled a chair out for me.

“Are you working on him?” he said, gritting a cigar between his teeth. He was pickled in Polo cologne, which I loathe. I squinted, trying to prevent the smell from permeating my space.

“I don’t know what to say, he has his own agenda. Maybe he thinks he’ll get another deal.”

“Maybe, but once word gets out that he’s difficult to work with, labels will keep their distance. What’s this master plan he keeps ranting about?”

“Never heard of it.” I searched my mind for some mention of a master plan, but there was nothing. While Will tuned his guitar on the tiny stage, I looked around the dimly lit room. The walls were painted blood red, which caused me to repeat
REDRUM,
like the kid from
The Shining,
over and over in my head. Then I imagined Will decapitating everybody but me with his guitar like it was a machete. I spotted Sonja ogling him; I hoped he would get to her first.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see Nate. “Hey, how are you?” I said as I stood up from the table.

He hugged me and whispered, “I’d be a lot of better if he would sign the deal.”

I yanked my head back. “What’s in it for you?”

“They’ll keep me on, send me on tour with him. I’ll get paid for once. I hope you’re not the reason he’s fucking around with this,” he said derisively.

“I can assure you, it has nothing to do with me. It was good seeing you,” I said sarcastically before sitting down. I finally understood what Will was fretting about. Bloodsuckers coming out of the woodwork, pressuring him to do this and that—it was frightening.

Will cleared his throat into the microphone. In his soft, sweet voice he spoke. “Hi, everyone.” People clapped and cheered and a few said “Hi” back. It was a very casual atmosphere except for the elephant in the room, which was the table of execs from Live Wire. I half expected Will to burst into a punk-rock rendition of the Rolling Stones’ “Schoolboy Blues,” a song written as an “Eff you” to their label, but he didn’t. “This is the song we’ve been working on and it’s evolving still, so bear with me. It’s called “Lost on You.”

No apologies for what I’ve said before
I’ve told you time and time again
I’d sell my soul for something more.
You’ve left me standing here
a thousand times
waiting on this big world to make up your mind
But I promise I won’t get lost on careless thoughts
‘cause love’s lost on you this time.
So put me out, don’t put me down
I can’t wait another minute to be found
When no words have been spoken
They say still waters run deep
But not when mislaid plans are broken
With nothing left to give
I’ll fall fast out of my mind
But I promise I won’t get lost on careless thoughts
‘Cause love’s lost on you this time.
He sang a saccharine and predictable version of the song the way he knew the suits wanted to hear it. He couldn’t massacre it if he tried, but there was little passion behind his performance and it may have only been evident to the people who really knew him, because most of the crowd clapped wildly. Without acknowledging the applause, he immediately went into another song with a slapping motion over the neck of the Gibson. This time there was passion and he didn’t strum smoothly, he played with disconnected movements and dramatic passes over the strings. It gave the song a melancholy vibe with bluesy undertones; I decided I wanted to be eulogized over that type of guitar playing. When he started humming, I found the melody vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it. The humming went on for several minutes, albeit it was perfectly euphonic humming, but I saw a few bewildered expressions throughout the room. I thought it might have been a strange version of “Amazing Grace” until Will uttered the first words.

How many times have you heard someone say
If I had money, I do things my way.
It was the song “Satisfied Mind” and he was making a statement or a declaration, maybe to me, maybe to the suits, or maybe just to himself, because he didn’t open his eyes once. He had no restraint when he sang and I thought he might miss a note, but he never did, it was always right in tune, completely effortless like it was impossible for him to sing badly. The words gave me pause; I feared Will had made up his mind about the deal and that it wasn’t a favorable decision. I chose denial at that point; I wouldn’t interfere with his decision-making process like everyone else. I would not pressure Will—I loved him too much and if he wanted a satisfied mind over his own page on the iTunes store, more power to him. If he could see the value in having dignity over money, then I would love him more for that. At least that’s what I told myself at the time.

If the tone of his voice wasn’t so perfectly mellifluous, it might have seemed like he was screaming when he sang.

Money can’t buy back your youth when you’re old
Friends when you’re lonely, oh peace to your soul
The wealthiest person is a pauper at times
Compared to the man with a satisfied mind.
When he was finished, he smiled from ear to ear and then whispered, “Thank you,” like he was talking to God. He darted off the stage and out the door. I found him outside smoking cigarettes with Tony, the drummer from Second Chance Charlie.

“Mia!” He called to me and motioned with his hand for me to come over. It was jovial Will. He was lighter, like the five-ton weight of his future had been lifted. He was a man with answers now, one who had experienced the glimpse, as I liked to call it; someone had slipped him a copy of the CliffsNotes to his life and I could see it all over his face. It was the look of man who knew exactly what he was destined to do. I envied that look, the way I envied people who had a strong faith in God.

Once my grandmother told me I needed to find God and I said, “Why don’t you just tell me where to look and save me the trouble?” I was dead serious. Faith, destiny, all the shit you can’t see, but yet people are so willing to take the leap. Not me.

I guess it was during the song when Will was singing those words that he became the man with a satisfied mind because I never saw him waver again.

“This is Tony, the most talented guy in that whole bunch,” he said, pointing back dramatically at the restaurant. “Seriously, he’s gonna be big one day; he’s just gotta get out from behind that drum kit and Sonja’s bullshit.”

“Hi, nice to meet you.” Tony looked to be in his early twenties. He had big, round, liquid-topaz-colored eyes and brown, shaggy hair. He smiled with this innocence that made me think he must have had a really wholesome childhood even though he was standing outside smoking and listening to the ranting of a lunatic.

I smiled at him but turned my attention to Will. “Can I talk to you?”

He stared at me for a good twenty seconds before speaking. He had a way of tapping a direct line to my heart by simply squinting his eyes slightly as he gazed into mine. It was a kissing effect and it turned me to Jell-O. “Baby, no heavy stuff tonight, okay? Let’s go eat.”

I huffed but decided that was the best damn idea Will had had all day… denial, remember?

We sat at the bar and avoided Frank and Rady and all the other suits. Sonja took up residence on Nate’s lap two barstools down. When I saw him stick his hand up her dress, I turned my back and faced Will. “How many girls have you slept with since you met me?”

He said, “Two,” but held up four fingers.

“Which is it? Come on, this is normal girlfriend stuff. I realized we skipped right over it and went straight to comfort sex after our dog died.”

“I like that you called him
our
dog. He was the best, huh?”

“Yeah, Will, he was the best dog in the world and he died the best freakin’ doggy death, but I don’t want to talk about that ‘cause it’s gonna make me cry and anyway, you’re avoiding the question. How many?”

“I like that you said girlfriend, too.” He was adorable.

“Come on, tell me.”

“Three… okay, four.”

“Who?

“Well, there was Audrey… and her friend.” I choked on my vodka-soda-cran.

“The Russian? At the same time? With Audrey?”

“Yep,” he said with arched eyebrows and a cheeky grin.

“What about the other two?”

“You don’t know them—girls I met at work. It might have been spite sex after I walked in on you and the banker… and the whipped cream.” Smiling, he playfully threw his hands up in a defensive gesture. “What? I’m not proud of it. Anyway, I thought I said no heavy stuff.”

“Were you careful?”

“Of course.” He said it like it was a ridiculous question.

“Well, you weren’t with me.”

“It’s different with you.”

“Well, I’m on the pill in case you’re wondering.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to me. I trust you.” I didn’t know what he meant, but I didn’t press. I wondered if he was saying it didn’t matter if I got pregnant, but I thought the last thing Will needed on the back of his tour bus was a Pack ‘n Play and a wailing baby.

“Don’t you want to know about me?”

“Yes, I want to know everything about you, but I don’t care about who you’ve slept with. It’s in the past and I don’t want to think about you with anyone else. You’re mine now.” He said it with surefire confidence.

Normally, possessiveness would repulse me. I remember in high school when I discovered feminism. I would beg my friends to let me take pictures of them in all kinds of artsy statement photos. I made my friend Ruthy stand naked with a frying pan on her head while I snapped away. I wrote “Fuck Your Kitchen” across the photo with a big, black Sharpie and then I projected it on the wall at the talent show while I covered PJ Harvey’s “Sheela-Na-Gig” on the piano. Everyone thought I was lesbian after that, which explains why I never had a boyfriend. I thought it was very avant-garde, but it just got me in a heap of trouble. I had to write a ten-page explanation to the principal about how I didn’t fully understand the impact of projecting a picture of a naked girl along with the word “Fuck” on the gymnasium wall. Needless to say, everyone got the wrong message and Ruthy got a bad reputation.

That time is what I will refer to as the deafening era. It’s when I learned that being artistic came with a price, the price of being misunderstood. It’s probably around the time that I tuned my heart out of what Martha would refer to as the soul-harmonizing shit. Still, I remained a die-hard feminist until my feelings for Will took over. All I wanted to do was wash his underwear and fold it into neat little packages that would smell like Snuggle and remind him that he was loved. I wanted to take that frying pan and make food that I would regurgitate and feed to him like he was a baby bird. I wanted to be his; I wanted him to own me. I would nourish his body with mine. I would feed his heart; his mind… his soul, and I wanted to do it while screaming, “What do you think of me now, Gloria Steinem?” That’s how bad I had it for Will, so I guess it’s sort of ironic that I was willing to throw it all away…

* * *

“Wake up sleepyhead.” I yawned, peering at Will through squinted eyes. He looked invigorated and way too sunny for seven a.m.

“Jesus, what kind of vitamins do you take?”

“I prefer lord savior, but Jesus is fine,” he said with no trace of humor.

“Ha ha. Why are we up so early?”

“I’m taking you somewhere special before I have to meet with the label.”

“Where, where? Tell me. I hate surprises.”

“Not telling, but I’ll give you hint… Irises.”

I jumped out of bed. “We’re going to the Getty?”

He hugged me from behind and trailed kisses up my neck. “Or we could stay in bed all morning?” It was a tempting offer…

The Getty Museum is a palatial spread that sits atop a massive hill overlooking the 405 Freeway in Los Angeles. When you arrive in the parking lot at the bottom, people in white shirts usher you onto a white tram that zigzags up to the top of the hill. It reminded me of the movie
Defending Your Life
where Meryl Streep and Albert Brooks ride a white tram to heaven. I pretended that Will was my angel and that he was going to give me a guided tour. Inside the museum all the dead artists would stand next to their works to answer my questions, except their answers would be void of any artist narcissism. I would ask Van Gogh why there is one white flower in
Irises
and he might say something like he ran out of blue paint. Will caught me spacing out.