How to Kill a Rock Star (15 page)

I am of the theory that al of our transcendental connections, anything we’re drawn to, be it a person, a song, a How to Kil _internals.rev 2/22/08 5:00

PM Page 122

12painting on a wal —they’re magnetic. The art is the al oy, so to speak. And our souls are equipped with whatever properties are required to attract that al oy. I’m no scientist so I don’t real y know what the hel these properties are, but my point is we’re drawn to stuff that we’ve already got a connection to.

Part of the thing is already inside of us.

That’s what I mean when I say fate. Fate is the magnetic pul of our souls toward the people, places, and things we belong with.

After leaving the church, I kept heading south down Sixth Ave., turned left on Grand, and went into a shop I’d gone into a dozen times in the past two weeks, where I had a long talk with Harry, the man behind the counter. Harry cal ed me Mr.

Hudson no matter how many times I told him Paul was fine.

“Al right,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

Now I’m back at home, waiting. I kil ed some time folding and putting away al the clothes on my floor. Fol owing that task I chewed up a piece of gum and used it to paste a note to the door that said: ON THE ROOF. Then I climbed up the fire escape with a pen and an envelope ful of index cards.

It’s been almost an hour. I’m stil up here waiting for her.

I’m cold and nervous as shit.

Over.

According to the weatherman, the day’s high was thirty-three degrees. I guessed it hadn’t reached that number, but when I found Paul on the roof he was perched near the edge wearing a black hooded sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. No hat, no gloves, no coat. He looked like a refugee from an Eastern Bloc country. And there was something about the way he was standing with his shoulders slumped, together with the bleak expression on his face, that caused me pain.

I couldn’t make out what he was doing. Al I saw were index cards that he seemed to be ripping up and tossing off the side of the building.

“Hey, rock star,” I said, hoping to generate some enthu-siasm.

He looked back, smiled tensely, and cal ed me over. As I approached, I noticed he was watching shards of paper dance to the sidewalk. And each of his index cards had different words written on them, things like:

FEAR

COMPROMISE

LONELINESS

ANGST

“What are you doing?”

“Getting rid of al the goddamn negativity in my life.” I looked down at the mess he was making.

“I know,” he said, his lips moving in frozen slow motion.

12“I’m going to clean it when I’m done.” After ripping up the last of his cards, he sat down on the ledge and pul ed me in so that I was between his legs.

He put his hands inside my coat, rested his head on my chest and squeezed. His whole body was shivering.

“I talked to Michael. He said everything went wel . He’s euphoric.” I lifted Paul’s chin. “Why aren’t you?” He sighed. “My name is Linus Van Pelt. It’s dawn, I’m standing in the pumpkin patch, I’ve been here al night, I skipped trick-or-treating for this shit and what do I get?

Nothing. Nada. The Great Pumpkin never showed up. The Great Pumpkin doesn’t exist.”

Paul’s uncharacteristic frailty was melting me. “Hey. Do you realize what you accomplished today? You’re supposed to be happy right now.”

“I am. That’s the most fucked-up part,” he said. “I’ve never been happier in my life. But when dreams come true in reality they never feel the same as when you imagine them, and you know what that means? It means that no matter how good things are, maybe they’l never be good enough, and there’s something seriously wrong with that.” I kissed him and tried to warm his ears with my mitten-covered hands. “Al your cocky-bastard nonsense, it’s an act, isn’t it?”

“If I said yes, would you love me less?”

“I’d probably love you more.”

“I’m
so
glad you said that.” He began to pace back and forth in a line, speaking to my feet. “Eliza, I need to ask you something. And al I want is an answer. Not an answer in the form of a question, not a goddamn soliloquy on my future as the savior of the heathens and pagans, just what’s in your heart, al right? I need to know that wherever I end up, in the stars or in the gutter, you’re along for the ride.” It felt like a trick question. “What do you mean?”
He actual y stomped his feet. “What did I just say about answering a question with a question?” He spun me around and made me sit in the spot he’d just vacated while he resumed his pacing. “It’s like this: What if I decided to pump gas for the rest of my life? Would you stick around?” If I’d had a hammer I would’ve nailed his feet to the ground. “Are you a gas pumper who plays guitar and sings, or are you a gas pumper who sits around smoking pot and drinking beer in his spare time?”

“I’m the first guy, mostly.” There was an innocence and sincerity on his face that made me ache. “Bottom line, Eliza— you’re my home and my family, and I don’t want to lose you.

I could lose everything else, and as long as I stil had you and a guitar I know I’d be al right. Do you get what I’m saying?” In the six years Adam and I were together, he’d never said anything so important to me. I’d only known Paul for five months and already I was sure I never wanted to spend a night without him.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m al yours.”

“Good. Okay. Perfect.” Paul began trying to remove the mitten from my left hand, but the shaking of his own was making that difficult. Once he managed to get the mitten off, he reached into his pocket and pul ed out a ring that looked as if it had been made a hundred years ago. There was a pearl in the center, surrounded by eight tiny diamonds cut into triangles, set to form the shape of a flower.

“If you don’t like it, Harry said you could come in and pick out another one.”

Before I knew it, Paul had slipped the ring on my finger, and my mouth fel open as if the hinges to my jaw were loose.

“I know what you’re going to say.” He put his hand up to keep me quiet. “This is the last thing I should be thinking about now, right? It’s supposed to be al about my career, the band. But one thing I’ve realized is that my life in its
12entirety is more important than any one aspect of it. And the sad truth is that until I met you I didn’t
have
anything else.

So, if you love me and want to be with me…Wel …What do you say?”

I was a second away from jumping into his arms and screaming
Yes!
But a wave of anxiety stopped me, and threatened to split my chest in two.

Paul must have sensed my apprehension. He backed up and shoved his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt, then jammed his fists together, stretching the cotton tightly across his shoulders. He looked like he was trying to hug something that wasn’t there.

“Silence,” he said. “
Not
a good sign.” It was my turn to pace. I walked in a four-by-four square pattern, turning the corners at sharp, ninety-degree angles.

Inside my coat I was sweating.

“Shit, Eliza, don’t do this to me.”

I covered my face with my hands, which felt weird because I was only wearing one mitten. Closing my eyes, I bit my cheeks and tried to imagine al our possible futures, but I couldn’t escape a shattering hunch that Paul’s future, as I suddenly foresaw it—the fame, the women, and most daunting of al , the traveling—made little room for me.

“Here’s a bonus,” Paul said. “If you marry me, I’l have to tel you my last name.”

In his eyes I saw al the other possibilities. The dream-world possibilities. The fairytale possibilities. The seemingly impossible possibilities. Maybe Bananafish’s record would go platinum; Paul and I would buy a townhouse in the West Vil age, one with a stoop out front where Paul could sit and strum on his guitar and write songs; I’d be doing cover stories for
Sonica
, and we’d have a kid or two—boys with shag-gy hair and cool rock ’n’ rol names like Rex and Spike; Vera and Michael would live next door, and everything Paul and
I needed, wanted, and loved would be within a five-block radius. We would never have to leave the neighborhood, let alone leave New York, let alone leave the ground.

“Eliza, say something.”

Over the ledge I could see the little bits of index cards pirouetting in the wind like tiny bal erinas on the sidewalk.

“I’m scared, Paul.”

“Look at me,” he said.

I shook my head, and an army of tears made its way down my cheeks. A stronger breeze scattered the papers into the street. Paul was never going to be able to clean them up now.

He held me against his chest and said, “Tel me what you’re scared of.”

“Getting left behind.”

“I’m not going to leave you behind.”

I stepped back far enough to look Paul in the eyes. The longer I looked, the more the tension drained, first from my face and then down my body, and I began to nod.

“Is that a yes?” he said.

“Yes.”

He put his hands on the sides of my face and kissed me like a drowning man gasping for air.

We celebrated at Balthazar that night. The Michaels were al there, along with Vera, Queenie, Feldman, and the woman known only as “Feldman’s wife” because Feldman hardly ever brought her around, and when he did he never introduced her to us.

“Her name begins with an M,” Vera said.

“Cheryl.” I was sure her name was Cheryl.

“In what language does Cheryl begin with an M?” Paul and I often visited Michael at Balthazar for free coffee and croissants, but we’d never been able to afford a
12meal there. The restaurant was large, crowded, and noisy, but with its red leather upholstery and Parisian-brasserie decor, it reminded me of the places Hemingway wrote about in a book Paul had given me,
A Moveable Feast
.

When Paul and I arrived, the champagne was flowing; there was a plate of raw oysters in the middle of the table and two dishes of fried calamari at each end.

I took the seat next to Vera while Paul tapped Michael on the shoulder and said, “Need to talk to you for a sec. In private.” He wanted to be the one to tel Michael. He thought it was more chivalrous that way.

Grabbing a tentacle, Paul dipped a piece of calamari in marinara sauce, tossed it into his mouth, and then dragged Michael around the corner.

They were out of sight for no more than a minute. When they walked back to the table Michael had a blithe, if not surprised smirk on his face.

“I hope you know what you’re getting into,” my brother said, kissing the top of my head. Then he looked at Paul. “Maybe I should be saying that to you; I’m not real y sure anymore.” Everyone bel owed to know what was going on. Michael pointed at Paul and said, “Ask my future brother-in-law.”

The table fel silent as Paul slid in next to me, plucked an oyster from the platter, sucked the meat from its shel , and then lifted my ring finger.

“Jesus, do we have to write it out on a goddamn chalkboard?”

Vera caught on first. She eyed me with apprehension, and then she surrendered, cheering, and the rest of the party fol owed suit.

For the first time in my life, everything felt like it was in its right place. Paul and I were in love, my brother had a career to look forward to, and Vera would be starting law school in another month.

It was a good night.

Even Feldman looked hopeful.

July 28, 2001

I’m a man of principles. A decent-enough guy. And confrontation, believe it or not, does not come easy to me.

Is this goddamn thing working? Check, one, two, three. It’s been like, six zil ion months since I’ve used it. Okay, it’s moving. Shit, where was I?

Getting my ass kicked.

No kidding, I probably would have received less of an ass-kicking squaring off with Mike Tyson than I did when we final y headed into the studio in February. And just to make myself feel better, I’m going to blame everything on Winkle. I’m going to say he instigated al the conflicts, because who the hel likes to admit they should’ve watched where they were walking when they find themselves sinking in quicksand?

The problem with Winkle, he has this phony-sycophantic, leader-of-the-pack mentality that irks my last nerve. His modus operandi while we were recording went something like this: He’d start off by tel ing me how great a song was, going on and on until he’d used every thesaurus entry for the word

“incredible,” then five minutes later he would give me a dozen reasons why that very same remarkable fabulous awesome amazing astounding song couldn’t go on the record. But his reasons could always be whittled down to one—it doesn’t sound like the shit that’s sel ing now.

I’ve come to a conclusion though. This is al just a game to
13Winkle, a game he has to win or else he’s out of a job, and he resents me because I won’t play along.

Our first big run-in happened when I came up with the idea to record the entire album on eight tracks with a twenty-five-thousand-dol ar budget. I’d read that the Drones debut had been made for less, so I knew it could be done wel . And as I’m stil conscious of the recoupment factor, I wanted to be efficient. To my genuine surprise, this plan didn’t sit wel with Winkle. I guess he wanted me to waste as much money as possible.

“Eight tracks?” he spouted, his eyebrows ready to burst forth from his forehead. “We’re offering you a state-of-the-art studio and you want eight tracks?”

I told him I was pretty sure
Abbey Road
was recorded on eight tracks. So were Doug Blackman’s first two records. He said I had a better chance of being struck by lightning. He also laughed at what he cal ed my naïve budget plan.

“Paul,” he said. “The Sykes Brothers alone are going to cost that much.”

Welcome to blowout number two. Winkle had hired the hit-making team known as the Sykes Brothers to produce the record. Listen, the Sykes boys are nice and al , but they have serious pop-pagan tendencies. They also put their stamp on everything—in other words, they go into a project intending to make a Sykes Brothers record, not an insert-band-name-here record.

Winkle wanted to know who I thought should produce the record and I proposed myself. Again, it would have saved a lot of cash. Again, I got nothing but a laugh in the face.