How to Kill a Rock Star (11 page)

The music defied classification. If I had been writing a review of the show, I would have labeled it progressive, guitar-driven rock ’n’ rol . But the guitars made sounds guitars didn’t always make. Symphonic sounds. Sacred sounds.

The music dug in so deep you didn’t hear it so much as feel it, reminding me of a dream I used to have when I was a kid, where I would be standing on a street corner, I would jump into the air, flap my arms, and soar up into the sky.

That’s the only way I could describe the music.

It was the sonic equivalent of flight.

And then there was the
voice
. I’d never heard anyone sing like Paul Hudson. Even Doug Blackman, master storytel er, whose passion and pain could be heard in every holy word he uttered, only wished for a voice like Paul’s—a voice that swept up and down the scale and was, at times, fil ed with deep, lush, apocalyptic emotion, and at other times was a burning falsetto of hope and love and seemed too big to come from his throat, lungs, or diaphragm.

From his soul, I decided.

Before the last song, Vera leaned over and said, “Would you ever think such a little guy could make such a big sound?” I couldn’t even blink, let alone turn my head from the stage and respond to Vera. Al of a sudden I was angry. It
was incomprehensible to me that bands like 66 were playing to sold-out crowds, earning thousands of dol ars a night, while Paul Hudson and probably so many other extraordinary artists were stuck in half-empty barrooms getting nothing but bogus attention from Winkles who wouldn’t appreciate musical rectitude if it spit in their faces.

“Welcome to America,” Doug would have said.

I set my martini glass down so hard its base cracked and water spil ed over the sides, soaking my napkin. “I need air.” Outside, there was a deli next to Rings of Saturn.

Through the window I watched a swarthy, heavily bearded man shoving a pastrami sandwich into his mouth, taking bite after bite before he finished swal owing what he was chewing. He had a glob of mustard on the tip of his nose and bits of meat stuck to the hair on his chin.

As the man washed down his food with gulps of soda, I knelt on the ground, let my head fal to my hands, and stayed like that until Vera found me ten minutes later.

“Hmm,” she said. “Kneeling Mecca-style outside the club.
Not
a good sign.”

I rose, brushing dirt from my skirt. “Why didn’t you
tell
me?”

Vera looked cautious. “Tel you what? I said he was talented.”

“
Talent
? That’s not
talent
. Talent is Liza Minnel i tap-dancing and singing at the same time. What I just saw was devastation. Dying man on the cross. Salvation in B minor.

An ejaculation of truth.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, it’s music. It’s supposed to be fun, not devastating. Sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ rol , remember?

Whew-hoo. And don’t get any crazy ideas about Paul. He’s the last thing you need.”

I fol owed Vera backstage, where Paul and the Michaels were huddled together in the corner, extol ing each other’s How to Kil _internals.rev 2/22/08 5:00 PM Page 88

8triumphs and picking apart their mistakes like a gang of school chums after a dodgebal game.

I avoided making eye contact with Paul. I wasn’t ready for him. Not with so many people around. I waved to Michael and waited until he came to me.

“I’m going to try and get
Sonica
to let me write about you guys,” I said. “If I have to sel my soul, I wil .” I eyed Vera and then refocused on my brother.

“You are
not
quitting this band. No way. I’l get another job if I have to.
I’ll
support you.”

Vera was not happy with me. She left the room in a huff.

But Michael’s face, usual y phlegmatic, had ignited. “
Sonica
would be
huge
.”

A wel -dressed man approached me. He had threadlike black hair, skin the color of a raw pork chop, and was a few pounds shy of being cal ed stocky.

“Hey, Peepers,” the man said, kissing the top of my hand.

“How much do you want for your soul?” I turned to Michael and said, “Did he just cal me
Peepers
?”

“Watch it, Feldman,” Michael said. “This is my sister.”

“Sister?” Feldman said. “You never told me you had a ravishing sister with
Sonica
connections.” I immediately had misgivings about Feldman, as I would have misgivings about anyone who dubbed me Peepers. And something about the way his eyes spun around the room reminded me of a propel er. I’m terrified of propel ers. If I’m watching a TV show and there’s a helicopter in the scene, I have to change the channel.

“Peepers,” Feldman said again, trying to hand me a wad of bil s, “you would do us a big favor getting us mentioned in
Sonica
.”

I gave Feldman a look and shoved the money back at him.

“Come with me.” Michael took my arm. “I want you to
meet the band.” We went into the dressing room. “You already know that guy,” he said, pointing at Paul, who was slumped on a chair, wiping his face with his shirt, staring at the floor and looking spent.

Michael introduced me to Burke and Angelo, and Burke monopolized the conversation campaigning for basil as a tasty additive to ice cream.

“Think about it,” he said. “It’s an herb. And mint is an herb. And mint makes a hel of a combo with chocolate.”

“Chocolate Pesto Chip,” I said. “I think you might have something there.”

“You’ve gotta meet my girlfriend,” Burke said, galvanized.

Burke’s girlfriend, Queenie, was a tiny, streetwise girl, with eyes that fluctuated from vigilantly independent to utterly vulnerable with every blink. She told me about her latest ice cream concoction, which she cal ed The Movie Star, The Professor, and Mary Ann. “Ginger ice cream base,” she explained, “with a shot of gingko biloba and chunks of coconut cream pie. Get it?”

I nodded. “
Gilligan’s Island
.” Over Queenie’s shoulder, I watched a blond girl in black motorcycle boots loitering near Paul. Eventual y the girl pul ed up a chair beside him, leaned in close, and touched his knee, and I darted off to the bathroom because I couldn’t bear to watch whatever was going to happen next.

Paul walked into the bathroom right behind me. “It’s about goddamn time,” he said, standing so close I could feel the dampness of his sweat-soaked shirt. “I’ve been sending you telepathic messages for ten minutes.”

“I don’t know if I can do this,” I said.

“Do what? We’re just hanging around a urinal.”

“Al the girls. I can’t compete with that.”

“I told Avril, it’s done. With al of them. I’m over it.” I reached out and put my hand on his chest, but I didn’t How to Kil _internals.rev 2/22/08 5:00 PM

Page 90

9find the drumbeat I’d expected. Instead I found a flutter.

Paul, I swore, had a butterfly trying to break free from his rib cage.

He put his hand on top of mine and leaned in, but the door swung open and I quickly pul ed away, pretending to be washing up as a guy Paul cal ed Judo invaded the moment.

“Great show,” Judo said, unzipping his pants and peeing into the urinal. “You guys were
en feugo
tonight.” I moved toward the door and Paul said, “Hey.” As I looked back, a pertinent soundtrack began playing, courtesy of John the Baptist, who had slapped Depeche Mode’s
Violator
on the sound system downstairs.

Your own personal Jesus. Someone to hear your prayers.

Someone who cares
.

“Where are you going?” Paul said.

“Home.”

“Wait up for me.” His head was bobbing to the music.

As I walked out I heard him chime, “
Reach out and touch
faith
.”

I was sitting on my bed, feet flat on the covers, staring at Jesus on the wal , imagining that he and I were lovers, that we walked around New York holding hands, Jesus in a brown robe and sandals, and me with henna designs painted on my arms and feet like Barbara Hershey in
The Last
Temptation
of Christ
.

I made a gun with my fingers and pretended to shoot Jesus.

If Paul grew a goatee and got a tan, I thought, he’d look just like that guy.

Reach out and touch faith
, al right.

Checking my watch for the umpteenth time, I wondered how long it took a bunch of guys to throw their equipment into the back of a van, haul it half a mile down to the rehearsal space, and unload it. After that I counted the myriad reasons why I would not be having sex with Paul when he got home: He was my roommate. He was my brother’s friend.

He probably had a sexual y transmitted disease. I had no condoms. And last but not least, I hadn’t had the time or money for a bikini wax.

I had just dozed off when I heard Paul’s shoes col iding even quicker than usual with the stairs. Twenty-four steps until he hit the fourth-floor landing.

There were twice as many stairs, but Paul usual y took them two at a time.

He was humming when he came through the door. I listened as he went into his room, and then walked into mine How to Kil _internals.rev 2/22/08

5:00 PM Page 92

9carrying his acoustic guitar.

A voice inside my head whispered: No healthy, twenty-six-year-old woman should go six months without sex.

Paul folded his stringy bangs behind his ears, sat down and said, “I want you to hear something.” For the record, if I were Superman, a pale, scrawny guy holding a guitar would be Kryptonite. Just watching Paul tune the thing was rendering me powerless.

And there was something mesmerizing about his face.

That’s what I was thinking as I sat there waning. Especial y his nose. Aside from his translucent eyes, his nose was his most arresting feature. It was conspicuous, a size too big, but al of his other features were so delicate, it added a marked quality of strength to his character.

“What are you looking at?” he asked in his pretend-bashful voice, his eyes stil focused on the neck of the guitar.

“Your nose.”

He ran his fingers down the bridge. “What about my nose?”

“It’s sexy.”

That’s al it took. The bashful act vanished and everything about Paul’s smirk told me he knew he’d won me over.

“Fuck, it’s hot in here.” He put the guitar down, stood up, whipped his shirt over his head and tossed it to the floor.

Then he pul ed off his belt like D’Artagnan drawing a sword and dropped it to the ground, causing his pants to slide down so low I could see the thin, glorious trail of dark hair that led to his groin.

Reach out and touch faith
.

After kicking off his shoes, Paul repositioned himself on the bed with the guitar. I could smel rum and ginger ale and I wanted to lick his neck.

“The Michaels haven’t even heard this yet,” he said. “I want to know what you think.”

After licking his neck, I wanted to dive into his throat and slide down his esophagus and swim around inside his hands while he strummed. Or maybe I just wanted to rest my head on his shoulder, close my eyes, and listen to him sing. I wondered if he was as nimble-fingered with a woman’s body as he was with a guitar.

“Pay attention,” he said.

I scooted closer. To hear better.

The song didn’t have lyrics yet, didn’t even have a title, but it was so haunting it almost put a damper on my mood.

I said almost.

“It sounds like a requiem.”

Paul nodded. “It’s about my mom dying.” He set the guitar down and we looked at each other, neither one of us moving nor speaking. But the hush carried the weight of words. In his face I saw the pain of memory—a pain he did a good job of hiding most of the time—as wel as the lust of the present moment. I wondered if he could see the same in me.

Final y he leaned in, almost like he was fal ing, and kissed me. His tongue was a fire in my mouth.

We kissed for a long time. When we started undressing, Paul’s hand stroked my thigh and I could feel the little guitar-playing cal uses on his fingertips.

He kissed my chin, my nose, my eyelids as he unbuttoned my shirt. “Red,” he said when he saw my bra. “Red is good.” I ran my tongue along his col arbone. He tasted the way Rings of Saturn smel ed—like smoke and sweat and stale beer, which under normal conditions I would never find arousing, but I suppose there are exceptions to al rules.

“In my pocket,” he whispered.

His pants were beside me. I reached into the right pocket and found a pack of condoms.

“I stopped at Duane Reade,” he said. “Just in case.”
9I opened the box with al the right intentions. It never occurred to me that I wouldn’t be able to do it. I
wanted
to do it. But somewhere between the kissing and having the condom in hand, my mind wandered off to the place where my past lived, where Adam lived, and I felt myself close down.

“I can’t,” I said.

Paul covered us in the sheet and cuddled up behind me.

“It’s okay. No big deal.”

I wondered if he meant having sex, or not having sex.

He ran his fingers over my wrist. I could feel him breathing, and I could feel him hard against my leg.

“You know what I was thinking about on my way home?” he said quietly. “How different my life would be if you’d made that gash a little deeper. Or how different yours would be if I’d vaulted myself off a roof nine years ago. Do you ever think about things like that? Like, if either you or I wouldn’t have made it, where would the other one be
right now
?” It was something I thought about al the time: how death changes every remaining moment for those stil living. “Are you glad you made it?”

“I’m glad you made it.”

That’s when I let go. I rol ed over on top of him, reached for the condom I’d discarded minutes before, and put it on him as if it were an erotic sex act in and of itself. Then I slipped him inside of me and moved as slowly as I could above him. I wanted it to last as long as possible. Eventual y every muscle in my body felt like it was tensed to its breaking point and Paul’s eyes looked like they were upside down.