How to Kill a Rock Star (40 page)

It was a terrible idea, and Loring deemed Lucy a terrible person for suggesting it. “You’re not going to do it, are you?”

“Of course I am,” she said with no trace of emotion. “And then I’m going to quit.”

“Quit?”

“I can’t write about Paul and then go back to writing about heathens and pagans.” Loring wondered what Eliza would do if she didn’t write. He remembered how, in Vermont, she’d gone out beyond the apple trees to gather flowers, which she’d arranged in an old pewter pitcher. She’d said then she thought she might like to work with flowers someday. Loring considered offering to buy her a flower shop.

“Winkle paid for the memorial service,” she said during the next commercial. “He sent out invitations and everything, like it was a New Year’s Eve bash or one of his obnox-ious Labor Day picnics.”

Another few minutes went by. Eliza leaned on Loring’s chest and said, “You know the worst part? Winkle told Michael he’s going to release the album—the very same album that, two months ago, he deemed commercial y unsat-isfactory. I guess Paul’s death was enough to convince Winkle it’s a masterpiece. He’s probably going to market the shit out of it and send it soaring to the top of the charts.” She disappeared into the kitchen, came back with a glass of water, and set it next to Loring as if he’d asked for it.

“I bet Winkle’s glad Paul’s dead. I bet he clapped and did a flip when he heard.” At this point, Loring wasn’t sure she was speaking to him, or just to hear herself talk. The way her shoulders were shaking, he knew she was trying not to cry again, but her voice could have been that of a local newscaster giving a traffic report.

“Loring,” she said in the same, unaffected voice. “Why are you here?” On the screen, the female lead was trying to teach the alien how to eat with a knife and fork. “The night of your Dad’s birthday you acted like you never wanted to see me again.”

“I’m here because I’m your friend, regardless of what happened between us. I don’t want you to have to go through this alone.”

“Do you feel guilty?”

Until she said it, it had never occurred to Loring that he might have had any bearing on Paul’s decision to fling himself off that bridge. “He wasn’t pushed. He jumped. You need to remember that.”

The alien was shooting something at a cashier. His ray gun made the same sound as one of Sean and Walker’s toys:
Pfew, pfew, pfew
.

“I tried to talk to him that night but he wouldn’t let me,” she murmured. “Then I fel asleep…And I thought I’d have another chance…I real y thought…”

35
Don’t we all
, Loring wanted to say.

“How come you haven’t asked me what happened that night?”

“Asked you what?” Loring said. “If you slept with him?

It’s not something I want to think about. And anyway, what difference does it make now?”

She put her hand on his cheek but it was too much. He had to take it away.

“Loring, you and I, we can never be. You know that, right?”

Interestingly enough, it was the first thought Loring had after Michael cal ed him the morning Paul kil ed himself.

Notwithstanding the fact that Loring had ended his relationship with Eliza at the theater the night before, he’d done it on an I’m-at-the-end-of-my-rope whim, preserving a smal amount of hope that maybe she would wake up the next day, realize how much he cared about her and come back.

But as soon as Michael broke the news, Loring knew he’d lost Eliza for good, that Paul’s death would only push her farther away.

Loring noticed that the star of the movie, the girl giving the fork-and-knife lessons, was a now-famous actress who had once sent him an email, via his manager, inviting him on a date.
I find you very attractive
, the girl had typed.
Maybe
we could meet for a drink sometime.

He’d never responded, and the girl turned up backstage at his Hol ywood Bowl show a few months later. She was flashy and puerile and he’d pawned her off on Tab.

“I have blood on my hands,” Eliza said, examining her palms as if they were covered in the stuff. “I can blame Winkle and Feldman, but it’s my fault.”

Loring lifted her chin. The way her eyes smoldered under her tears made his heart ache. “Listen to me: there had to be forces at work inside of Paul that no amount of love and support would have saved. You’ve been there. You know this.”

“I don’t know anything,” she said. “Except that desperation and fear make a person do real y stupid things.” She loosened Loring’s tie and used the thicker end to catch her tears. And as she continued to weep on his chest, Loring knew he was never going to be this close to her again.

And he knew she knew it, too. That they were going to say goodbye sometime after the sun went down and he was going to walk out the door and catch a cab to 77th and Central Park West and he wasn’t going to come back. Not unless she asked him to come back. And she was never going to ask him to come back.

By the end of the movie, the girl and the alien were madly in love. The last scene was a shot of them flying off in the standard, saucer-shaped UFO.

“Where are we going?” the girl asked her buff, alien Prince Charming.

“Home,” he said in a boxy, computerized voice.

“But where’s home?”

Then came the most pathetic part of the whole film. The alien showed the girl a pil ow he’d swiped from a gift store in the mal . It had a saying crocheted on the top that said: Home Is Where the Heart Is.

Eliza remained riveted, even as the credits rol ed.

Final y the music started to fade and the picture cut to black.

October 21, 2002

For the record, I didn’t go to Michael’s with the intention of fal ing into bed with Eliza. I went because one of the most painful needs in life is the need to tel someone how you real y feel about them, especial y if you’re pretty sure you’re never going to see them again.

That’s the reason I ended up on Michael’s doorstep. Because my last words to her had been words I didn’t mean, and I couldn’t exit her life without tel ing her the truth.

The truth is I was never, not for one goddamn second, not even when I walked in on her in Loring’s arms, sorry that I’d met her.

I’m a better person for knowing her.

I fucking loved her.

No, it’s more than that. Not only did I love her, but I’m pretty sure I’ve never loved anyone
but
her.

Shit. Maybe I didn’t exactly
tell
her al this crap. It would have been too risky to say it out loud. But I showed her. Believe me, I rocked her world.

Getting out of that bed that night, getting dressed and walking away, was the hardest thing I ever had to do. But you know what did it for me? I thought about something she said once, it was after a gig at Rings of Saturn. She and I, and Michael and Vera, we’d stopped at Katz’s for a late dinner, and someone had left a box of crayons on our table. Eliza picked
out a shade cal ed Purple Mountain Majesty and started scribbling on her placemat. Al the way across it she wrote the word BELIEVE in big block letters, and she colored them in on the sides the way amateur artists do when they’re trying to make letters look 3-D, except the L, the I, and the E

were about ten times bigger than the B, E, V, and other E.

BELIEVE

She held it up and said, “Get it? Inside every believe, there’s a lie.”

I think I told her that was the worst thing I’d ever heard her say, but a few months later I found her sucking Loring’s face in my apartment and it made a lot of sense.

That’s what got me out of bed that night. Al I had to do was remind myself that she was a liar, a cheater, and that she’d single-handedly destroyed al my beliefs with lies, and I was gone. Wel , after I stood in the doorway staring at the outline of her body under the sheet, that is. Trying to memorize the image for future use in my dreams. And I did it too. I burned her so deep she’s as vivid as a painting on the wal in front of me. I don’t even have to close my eyes to see her. I can just blink her into focus.

Before I cal it a day, I want to document the memorial service.

I know, I know. Showing up at Rings of Saturn was stupid, if not whol y narcissistic. But let’s face it, who wouldn’t do the same thing if given the opportunity? Besides, I was careful. I slipped in at the end when the crowd’s attention was focused on the stage. And it’s not like anyone recognized me. Holy Hel , right now I don’t even recognize myself when I see my ridiculous goddamn reflection. Mostly, it’s the hair. The hair’s real y throwing me off. You know what, though? I did notice Caelum looking around a lot. He seemed nervous and I wondered if maybe he felt my presence. I doubt it. He’s too grounded for that. He was probably stil freaking out over the general absurdity of the situation.

36I’l tel you who real y pissed me off—Angelo. He didn’t look sad at al , and he spent the five minutes I was there flirting with some girl near the bar. I was dead and the only thing that asshole cared about was getting laid.

Burke made up for Angelo. He bawled like a baby the whole time. Queenie, on the other hand, had a scowl on her face, and she kept rocking back and forth on her heels like she was ready to attack someone. I could tel she wanted to kick my ass, and she was probably thinking up a new ice cream to express her rage: Chocolate Hudson Shit for Brains, Brooklyn Bridge Bul shit, something like that.

One of the coolest surprises had to be Doug. Having my hero show up just about kil ed me al over again.

I didn’t see Eliza anywhere.

But the biggest shock of al was the fans. They made an altar outside the club and sat in a circle with candles and flowers, talking and singing and analyzing my songs. Some kid even made a poster that said I’d changed his life.

What do you know? There are stil people out there who believe music is more than just something to dance to. I’m glad I got a chance to see that.

Incidental y, I’ve been keeping up with the news, surfing the net a lot since my death. It’s not like I have much else to do, and I’m stuck here until January.

Besides the handful of aforementioned fans, people are pretty much over me. And rightly so. I didn’t expect to make the cover of
Time
or anything.

Our goddamn idiot-in-chief is too busy stealing al the thunder anyway, trying to convince the world to let him bomb that evil freak who tried to kil his dad.

I’m long gone and long forgotten.

One advantage to cashing in the chips this early: Chances are I’l never be popular enough to be the subject of a
Behind
the Music.

Holy Hel , I stil can’t believe I actual y went through with it.

Like most of my outlandish ideas, the first time this one crossed my mind—it was that day I sat on the bench in front of Loring’s building—back then it seemed so ridiculous, so unbelievable, I assumed I’d never have the guts to make it happen. And even if I did have the guts, it was what I cal a “futuristic unthinkable.” Like when you’re ten and someone tel s you you’re going to be thirty one day. Or you hit puberty and you hear a rumor about this thing cal ed a blow job, but you can’t believe any girl is ever going to put your dick in her mouth.

That’s the stage I was in on that bench. The “futuristic unthinkable” stage. Nurturing the possibility but stil unable to imagine it ever coming to fruition.

Now look at me.

I should go. I’m starting to feel depressed.

Next time, remind me to talk about the body.

There wasn’t supposed to be a goddamn body.

Over.

Jesus was waiting with open arms. He was stil there, up on the wal , right where I’d left him. But Jesus didn’t look so sexy anymore. Jesus looked soggy and worn out. Jesus looked like he’d broken free from his home on the cross, jumped into the East River, swam around in the muck, climbed back up and reinserted the nails, ready to resume hanging in tortur-ous limbo for al of eternity.

I didn’t care what Paul said in that song. Jesus was a coward. He’d taken the easy way out. Given up. Surrendered.

Wimped out.

Maybe we al had.

I took Jesus down and put him in a box. Then I put Jesus on a shelf in the closet. Jesus and I were over. Finished.

Kaput. Ex-lovers to the tenth power.

Across the hal , the door to Paul’s room was open. I could see the foot of his bed, where his
Jive Limo
T-shirt lay next to two CDs and a pile of unopened mail.

I walked apprehensively into the room, breaking the vow I’d made to Vera and Michael an hour earlier, when they’d begged me not to move back to the apartment and, losing that battle, made me promise to at least stay out of Paul’s room.

“It’s too soon,” Vera said.

But I knew that “too soon” was a fal acious phrase, implying that I would, in the ful ness of time, segue far enough into stage-five acceptance to walk up the four flights of stairs
and across the threshold of the bleeding door with the capacity for happiness.

How long does something like that take?

Another month? Another year? Another lifetime?

Desperately wanting to communicate with someone who no longer exists is essential y a lesson in gravity. No matter how hard you try to overcome it, it wil always pul you down.

That’s the real reason I agreed to write the article. It gave me the opportunity to inundate myself with al things Paul.

It was a way to keep him alive for a while longer.

And it didn’t take me long to amass an entire folder of information, including but not limited to a copy of the police report that had been filed the morning Paul dove off the bridge, as wel as the statement from Wil Lucien—the eyewitness who’d been the only other person besides Feldman to see Paul jump. And, as soon as it became available, a copy of Paul’s autopsy report, which arrived from the medical examiner’s office in a manila envelope, and remained there because I couldn’t bear to acknowledge its existence.

Over the course of a week, I interviewed Paul’s friends and associates, and even managed to have a civil discussion with Feldman, which wasn’t something I’d wanted to do, but since he’d been the one driving the car it was inevitable.