Catherine (10 page)

Hence looked down at it with something like wonder. “Joe Strummer? Are you serious?”

“It’s my prized possession,” I said. “Or one of them, anyway. I want you to have it.”

His smile disappeared. “You don’t have to do that, just because…” His voice trailed
off, but I knew what he meant. “Anyone would have helped you. It was nothing.”

“Anyone wouldn’t,” I said. “Anyone didn’t. It was more than nothing. That guy was
about to…” I paused, unnerved by the memory. “I don’t think I could have stopped him
without your help. But that’s not why.” I pressed the pick back into his palm and
closed his fingers around it. “I knew you’d appreciate it. Maybe more than I do.”

Hence looked at me for a moment. He moved his lips like he was about to say something,
but he didn’t speak. Then he slipped the pick into the pocket at his hip bone. The
gesture seemed oddly intimate, as if he’d put a small sliver of me in there. “Thank
you,” he said. “I’ll take good care of it.”

A moment later he was back to mopping the floor like the whole exchange hadn’t even
happened. Even so, for days after, my pulse sped up each time I thought of him carrying
my pick, pulling it from his pocket, looking at it with wonder, and maybe thinking
of me.

From that moment on, it felt like Hence and I had an understanding. Every day I’d
pop into the club at least once to say hi. And
while he still wouldn’t say much about himself, I could get him to talk about the
bands he admired. X, Bad Religion, The Shaggs, The Del-Lords, The Ramones. The list
was long and varied. And he would listen to my tales of woe—my angst over calculus,
whatever humiliation had happened that day in gym, the ins and outs of coediting the
Idlewild Prep literary magazine with a peppy sophomore whose taste favored syrupy
verse about butterflies and rainbows. I’m sure my problems seemed bourgeois and boring
compared to whatever Hence had known before he arrived on our doorstep, but he never
made me feel fluffy or overprivileged. He listened as though he really heard me, and
I wanted to do the same for him, if only he would let me.

“Where do you go on your days off?” As secretive as Hence was about his past, I wasn’t
at all sure how he’d feel about the question, but I was dying to know. “I’ve seen
you heading out with your guitar.” We were sitting side by side on the stage, our
legs dangling. There wasn’t a show that night, so the club was relatively quiet, and
Hence had more time than usual to chat.

To my surprise, he answered eagerly. “I’ve been jamming with some guys I met at Sweet
Daddy’s Music.”

“You’re in a band?”

He shook his head. “They’re great guys, and decent musicians, but they just play for
fun.” And though we had the main room all to ourselves, he lowered his voice and leaned
in closer, and I caught the green-apple scent of his shampoo and another, fainter
scent—like baking bread. “I’ve been looking for something more serious. In fact, I
just lined up my first audition.”

“That’s fantastic! Who with?”

It turned out to be a band I hadn’t heard of, but Hence had done his research. “The
Pickup Sticks are feel-good pop—heavy on the synth. They mostly play covers. They’re
kind of lightweight.”

“But trying out will be good practice,” I said. “So when the right band does come
along…”

“Exactly. I’ve never auditioned before. Even though the stakes are low, I’m all keyed
up. I don’t want to look like an idiot.”

“You’ll be fine,” I said. “Just ask ahead of time what they want you to play and what
equipment you’ll need. The equipment is key; if you don’t have your own, they won’t
take you seriously. When you’re warming up, play the kind of stuff they play, because
they’ll be listening even if it seems like they aren’t. Oh, and see if you can get
the scoop on who you’ll be replacing, and act as much
un
like that guy as possible.”

Hence’s eyes grew progressively wider as I spoke.

“What? I may not be a musician, but I’ve been hanging around in their world my whole
life.” A harebrained idea occurred to me, but I quickly dismissed it. “Too bad I can’t
come along to the audition and give you feedback afterward.”

“You can’t?” Was it my imagination, or did he actually sound disappointed?

“I mean, I could. I’d love to. But I’ve heard stories… a guy brings his girlfriend
along and she makes suggestions, or talks a lot, and it drives the band crazy.” Had
I just implied I wanted to be Hence’s girlfriend? I rambled on faster to distract
him from my slip. “Even if she sits in the corner and says nothing, most bands assume
there’s something wrong with a guy who brings a
girl to an audition. Come to think of it, the whole thing’s kind of sexist.”

Hence leaned back on his elbows and looked up at the ceiling. “But since I don’t really
want the job…” he said, letting the thought hang in the air above our heads.

I waited for the rest of it.

“I want the music part of the audition to go well,” he continued. “I’d be embarrassed
if it didn’t. But I don’t care if they like me as a person.”

I leaned back on my own elbows, and we both scrutinized the ceiling’s track lighting
and pockmarks.

“I want you to come with me,” he concluded. It was exactly what I’d been hoping he’d
say. He scooched a hair closer, his arm brushing mine, but only for a second. “That
is, if you don’t mind.”

If I didn’t
mind
?

Over the next few days, Hence and I talked strategy. He would introduce me to the
band as his girlfriend—his idea, not mine. I wouldn’t say much, but I’d watch closely
and take notes. I’d be able to help him prep for bigger auditions in the future.

I coached Hence on what to wear—a black-and-white checkerboard T-shirt we picked out
together at Unique Clothing Warehouse and regulation skinny black jeans. That Thursday,
I put on a slinky leopard-skin dress I’d stumbled on at Vintage Threads. I did my
hair up in a high ponytail, and even put on lipstick. Though I normally wasn’t all
that into fashion, I couldn’t resist the
chance to dress up for Hence, if only to see what his reaction would be.

By the look on his face when I met him in front of The Underground, I could tell he
hadn’t expected me to dress the part of a rocker’s girlfriend. “You look…” He seemed
to struggle for the right word. “Convincing.” The expression in his eyes was as appreciative
as I could have hoped.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said, trying to sound flippant. “I’d offer to
help you carry your equipment, but in these heels it will be all I can do to stay
upright.”

There wasn’t time to bask in the moment; we had to get to Chelsea. We caught the A
train at Canal Street and found two side-by-side seats, but he seemed too preoccupied
to talk, so we fell silent. We arrived early, just as we’d planned, with time for
Hence to set up. The guitarist before him—a big-haired glam-metal guy who apparently
hadn’t gotten the memo about dressing the part—was finishing up his audition as we
arrived.

When Hence introduced me to the guys in The Pickup Sticks, saying, “She’s going to
sit in—I hope that’s not a problem,” the bassist and the drummer rolled their eyes
at each other. But any annoyance I felt was wiped away by the thrill I got from watching
Hence play. The drummer had pulled up a folding chair for me to sit on, and I perched
as far from the stage as I could get in that shoebox of a room, trying to look blasé
and probably failing spectacularly.

Hence had taken my advice and asked what songs the band wanted him to play at the
audition, and he’d practiced them for hours; all week I’d been able to pick out bits
of “Come On Eileen”
and “Blister in the Sun” wafting from behind the basement door. Now he played them
like a pro, and it was easy to see he could have outplayed the others if he let himself.
Instead, he was focused on blending in, the way I’d suggested… but not so focused
that he didn’t look over at me from time to time, as if making sure I was still there.

After the audition, we walked to a diner up the street. Hence was oddly quiet, considering
he’d just had such a great audition. “You were awesome,” I said once we’d placed our
orders. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they called you back, even if you did bring your
‘girlfriend.’ ” I surrounded the word with air quotes.

“If I get called back, it will be because the keyboard player wants to get your phone
number.” Hence had been tapping his fingers rhythmically against the Formica tabletop,
as if he couldn’t stop making music once he’d started. Now he slapped both palms down
on the table and looked at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. There was
a coldness in his dark eyes that took me by surprise.

“Ha,” I said breezily, though I, too, had caught the ultraskinny keyboard player watching
me more than once.

“I’m serious,” Hence said, his voice very still. “I didn’t like how he was looking
at you.”

This was a side of Hence I’d never seen before. Was he jealous? A thrill ran through
me—equal parts excitement and fear, though of what, I couldn’t say. “He’s not my type
at all,” I said.

Hence’s expression softened, but I still detected doubt in his eyes. How had I hurt
him? That was the last thing I’d intended to do.

“I wouldn’t go out with him on a bet,” I continued.
He’s not you
, I thought, the words echoing in my head so loudly that for a moment I worried I’d
actually said them aloud. As soon as they took shape I realized how true they were.
I didn’t want anyone but Hence.

“If The Pickup Sticks call, it won’t have anything to do with me.” I chose my words
with care. “It’ll be because you rocked the audition.”

This seemed to do the trick. Hence’s jaw muscles relaxed. “You really think so?”

I smiled, resisting the urge to grab his hands and hold on tight. “I totally do.”

The Pickup Sticks did call Hence back, and he told them he wasn’t interested. “They
couldn’t believe their ears,” he reported. “They couldn’t imagine me not jumping at
the offer.”

“There will be other bands,” I told him. “Better ones.”

Hence nodded, and his smile made my heart do a little flip in my chest. In the few
days since the audition, I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about what had passed
between us, obsessing over what would—or wouldn’t—happen next. If Hence liked me enough
to be jealous when another guy looked at me, why didn’t he just ask me out? But I
was his boss’s daughter. Maybe he thought that made me off-limits?

I’d worked out a little speech, and now I took a deep breath and tried to sound breezy.
“Do you have anything lined up for this
coming Thursday?” I happened to know that was his next day off. “I know you like to
get together with your friends from the guitar store and jam, but I was thinking maybe
we could go to the Angelika for cappuccino and a movie. Or check out the Strand bookstore.”

The reluctance on Hence’s face made me wish I hadn’t asked.

“I’m saving up for a better guitar,” he said. “I’ve got my eye on a starburst Telecaster
I saw at Sweet Daddy’s.”

Of course: Money was an issue for Hence. Why hadn’t I thought of that? I could offer
to pay for us both, but would that be rubbing his lack of money in his face? “It doesn’t
cost anything to window-shop,” I ventured.

But still he looked doubtful, so I tried another tack. “Is there something you’ve
always wanted to do in the city but haven’t had a chance?”

To my relief, Hence snapped to attention. He told me that ever since he’d started
reading about the seventies punk scene he’d imagined himself living someday in the
Hotel Chelsea. “You know—where all those musicians and writers lived. Patti Smith.
Leonard Cohen. Iggy Pop…”

“Where Sid Vicious stabbed his girlfriend?” I asked. “We could pay it a visit. I’ve
never been inside, but I’ve passed it. It’s not that far from here.”

“Seriously?”

So that Thursday we made a trek uptown. Like me, Hence was a fast walker, and I loved
keeping pace with him, the brisk wind blowing our hair back as we walked. When we
reached the Chelsea, we stood across the street and stared at the hulking redbrick
exterior, the ornate black balconies, and the familiar hotel sign. Nobody went in
or came out for a long time.

“Look.” I pointed at Chelsea Guitars, a narrow storefront tucked into the hotel’s
ground floor. “We’ll have to check it out.” I turned my attention to El Quijote, the
funky-looking restaurant beside it. “And maybe that place, too.”

Hence nodded. “People still stay at the Chelsea?”

Just then, a couple stepped out through the hotel’s glass doors, he in a black trench
coat and with slicked-back hair, she in red heels and a black miniskirt. We watched
them disappear into the sidewalk crowd.

“Let’s get closer.” I grabbed his arm. Across the street, we could read the bronze
plaques dedicated in memory of Dylan Thomas, Thomas Wolfe, and Arthur Miller.

“I wish I had a camera,” Hence said, still sounding awed.

I released him. “We’re going in, right?”

“They’ll let us in?”

“It’s a hotel. People come and go all the time. Just act like you know where you’re
going, and they’ll think we’re staying here.”

Hence looked doubtful.

“The worst they can do is kick us out.”

The hotel lobby was dark and grungy, not at all glamorous, but its walls were hung
with colorful paintings. We hurried past the front desk, where the burly clerk was
absorbed in a phone conversation and seemed not to notice us at all.

“Over here.” I slipped around a corner, out of sight of the few hotel guests in the
lobby, and Hence followed. “Shhh. Close your eyes.”

“What are we doing?”

“Take a deep breath.”

He complied.

“We’re breathing in the air all those poets and musicians exhaled,” I told him. “We’re
taking them into us… and adding our breath to theirs.”

There in the dim corridor, I could swear an electrical current charged the air between
us. I was
almost
sure he felt that charge, too. But almost wasn’t enough. We stood there a moment,
just breathing, until someone behind us cleared his throat. We opened our eyes and
an older man in a worn tweed suit slipped around us to get down the hall, breaking
the spell.