How to Kill a Rock Star (5 page)

He put the machine in my face, flicked the RECORD

button, and said, “Say hi.”

I thought I’d be over the dizziness by morning, but there was no way around it: being near Paul Hudson made me feel like I’d just stepped off a fast-moving merry-go-round. It was either a good sign or a very bad one.

“Paul,” Michael sighed, “we don’t have time to socialize.

Go get dressed.”

Paul finished his juice and wandered into the bathroom while Michael carried his half-eaten piece of pizza to the garbage.

“Who’s Mr. Winkle?” I asked him.

“Paul cal s al record executives Mr. Winkle.”

“Why?”

“I have no idea.”

Then, trying to sound nonchalant, I said, “Who’s Avril?” Michael rol ed his eyes. “Paul’s girlfriend. But her name’s not Avril, it’s April. She’s trying to break into modeling and decided she needed a classier name.”

“How long have they been going out?”

He shrugged. “A month, maybe.”

“Then who’s Beth?”

Michael shrugged again. “Eliza, a piece of advice: don’t try to make sense of Paul’s love life.” Paul exited the bathroom shirtless, zipping up a pair of jeans. His chest was gaunt and hairless, his arms were sinewy like the Jesus on the cross above my bed, and he had another tattoo, a Chinese symbol, on his right shoulder. The tattoo occupied my attention for entirely too long.

“It’s pronounced
wu
,” Paul said, fingering the black ink.

“What does it mean?”

“To awaken to righteousness.” He paused. I’m not sure what he saw in my eyes, but he said, “Yeah, I know. It’s an ongoing process for me.”

I glanced down into my glass and pretended to pick a piece of pulp from my juice. When Paul spun around, I watched him reach to the floor of his room, grab a random shirt, smel it, and then slip it over his head as smoothly as if carried by the wind.

It occurred to me then that I hadn’t had sex in six months.

3The last time was the day I found out Adam was sleeping with Kel y, when I’d come across a text message on his phone and realized he’d been with her less than an hour after he’d had his head between my legs.

Bal istic, I went straight to Starbucks, ordered my usual, and asked Kel y if she liked the way my pussy tasted. She threw the caramel macchiato at my head and cal ed me a psycho.

“Why do you cal record executives Mr. Winkle?” I asked Paul.

“Because that’s what they do,” he said. “They wink at you. Then they wipe their asses with their hands and shake yours, and they think you can’t smel the shit.” Paul started pacing near the door. He wasn’t wearing a watch but he glanced at his wrist, glanced at Michael, and said, “Let’s go.

We’re late.”

July 24, 2000

“This is a bad goddamn sign.”

That’s what I said to Michael when we arrived at the meeting spot designated by Mr. Winkle—a crowded, upscale micro-brewery in Midtown, fil ed with the grown-up versions of the guys I went to high school with—the shitheads who scored touchdowns, got al the girls, and cal ed me a fag.

The other two Michaels were already at a table. When Caelum and I sat down, Burke said, “Winkle’s not here yet.” This is where I should probably describe the band. For— what do you cal it when you want your kids and their kids to know? Posterity?

I’l start with Burke, our bass player. Burke’s a tal , gangly guy with more rhythm than John Entwistle and John Paul Jones combined. He just turned twenty-five; he and his girlfriend Queenie live in a studio apartment below street level, and they have this big laundry sink in their kitchen where they make ice cream in their spare time. Burke is obsessed with ice cream. His dream is to own and operate a homemade ice cream shop someday— he’s constantly talking about what kinds of “epi-curean” flavors he’l serve, and how the secrets to a custardy consistency are the use of fresh ingredients and a perfect ratio of cream to butter fat.

People always ask if Burke and Caelum are brothers because they’re both so tal , and neither Michael seems bothered by the How to Kil _internals.rev 2/22/08 4:59 PM Page 36

3question, but it drives me out of my mind because besides the height they look nothing alike. Burke’s got blond hair and freckles. Caelum has a mass of dark pubic hair growing out of his head. Plus, how the hel could they be brothers when they have the same first name? That only works if your last one is Foreman.

Caelum—what can I say about Mikey C? He’s the best friend I’ve ever had. A subtle but real y innovative guitarist who lives and dies by this band.

His dedication is inspiring, real y. He makes fliers for al the shows, he designed us a website, and he’s polite and friendly to Winkles, which is more than I can say for myself. I respect Caelum. He’s a good guy and I hope we don’t lose him.

Incidental y, Michael’s sister just moved in with me. Eliza.

More on Eliza later.

Angelo, our drummer, is the stereotypical rock star of the band. He drinks like a sailor on leave, has a penchant for wel -endowed co-eds, and bears a strong resemblance to a serial kil er named Richard Ramirez—you know, that goddamn Night Stalker guy. Believe it or not, this makes him a real hit with the ladies.

The Michaels and I, along with my manager, Tony Feldman, had met with the tardy Winkle twice before. The first time, he came to a show and made us a bunch of promises that got our hopes up. Second time he took us to a big industry party and got us drunk. But Winkle’s eyebrows look like caterpil ars trapped in cocoons, and I’m pretty sure someone catching bugs over their eyes can’t be trusted.

Needless to say, the guy gives off a bad vibe. Being around him inflames my pancreas like nothing else. But the multimedia company that employs him happens to be the same company my favorite band, the Drones, signed to. The Drones are Winkle’s big claim to fame. He discovered them in a garage in Fresno and a year later their first record went platinum. So did their next two. And they’re no walk in the park. They’re fuzzy How to Kil _internals.rev 2/22/08 4:59 PM Page 37

guitars, feedback, and electronic experimentation, not the breezy pop music that’s been saturating the airwaves, so their success is no smal coup, believe me. Very little of the good shit ever makes its way into the mainstream.

When Winkle final y walked in, he craned around the restaurant like an ostrich until he found me. As he approached the table, I detected a look of surprise on his face. Standing above us, he eyed the Michaels like they were part of a police lineup and said he didn’t realize we were al going to be there.

The waiter came over to take our order. I wanted chicken fingers but he said they were on the kids’ menu and apparently you have to be twelve or under to eat strips of fried chicken. The guy even had the bal s to ask me how old I was. Winkle slipped him two twenties and a ten and said: “He’s fifty. Bring him his chicken.”

After that, Winkle stood up and said—and this is his exact voice, like he has a dozen rocks in his throat—“Gentlemen, would you excuse me and Mr. Hudson for a few minutes?” He looked at me, and the little imprisoned caterpil ars straightened into one long chrysalis. “Let’s you and I go have a drink.” I gave the Michaels an iffy look and fol owed Winkle to the farthest corner of the bar.

“You’ve got an incredible voice,” he said. “And some great songs. Real y powerful stuff.”

I thanked him and tried to convince myself the bad feeling I had was just nerves.

“I’m ready to offer you a deal,” he said. “Right here, right now.”

My heart pounded like a bongo drum, the kind of beat you can feel from your head to your toes, and strangely enough, the first thoughts that ran through my mind involved my new roommate. I imagined sprinting up the stairs, bursting into the apartment to tel her the band had just signed a record contract. Her cheeks would be flushed like they’d been this
3morning from running. Her skin would be warm and salty. She would throw her arms around me and kiss me and then she would drag me to the ground and we would do it like dogs on the kitchen floor.

“However,” Winkle said, knocking me out of my little insta-fantasy as I began anticipating some sort of ludicrous stipulation I desperately hoped I could live with.

Then he goes: “We only want you.”

My stare stayed total y fixed on that asshole’s eyebrows. I told him I wasn’t sure I understood what he meant, even though I had a pretty good idea.

He told me to can the band. He said, “You’re better than they are.”

According to Winkle, signing four guys to one contract is asking for trouble. And anyway, as far as he’s concerned, Paul Hudson
is
Bananafish.

I didn’t speak or move until Winkle looked like he was about to resume his discourse-o-shit, then I raised my hand to keep the silence in tact, and to halt the world as it spun around me.

“We’re talking about the opportunity of a lifetime, Paul.

Not to mention a lot of money.”

Three hundred and fifty thousand dol ars—that’s the number he threw at me. Let me repeat: Three hundred and fifty thousand goddamn Gs.

I dropped my forehead to the bar, then I looked up at the table of Michaels across the room. I pointed their way and said, “Those guys are my friends.”

Winkle said he’d make sure I had more friends than I knew what to do with, then he went on to outline the main points of the contract. I listened to al of it, feeling like the acid from the orange juice I’d had an hour earlier was eating away at my insides. Maybe it’s kil ing the cancer, I thought hopeful y.

With more desperation than I care to admit, I asked Winkle if we could work something out, if we could at least start with How to Kil _internals.rev 2/22/08 4:59 PM Page 39

the band and see how it goes.

He said he sees me as a solo artist, plain and simple. But even a solo artist needs a band, right? The next twenty seconds went something like this: “Paul, we’ve got the best studio musicians in the country lined up and waiting.”

“I don’t want a bunch of goddamn studio musicians. I want the Michaels.”

“It’s not open to negotiation.”

I said I needed a minute to think. I hit the bathroom in a daze, locked myself in a stal , put the lid down on the toilet seat, and sat with my head in my hands, staring at the piss stains on the concrete, pondering the proposition that had just been laid before me, and also wondering why the idiots who used that stal couldn’t aim their dicks into a bowl wider in cir-cumference than my head and Winkle’s ass put together.

A thick lump had formed in my throat, I wanted a cigarette, my pancreas hurt like hel , and for one pathetic instant I thought I was going to say yes.

I’m not sure if I spent five seconds or five hours like that, and I have no recol ection of returning to the bar, but when I was back in front of Winkle I heard myself mumble, “I can’t do it.” I didn’t even turn around when Winkle cal ed my name because I was afraid he’d be able to change my mind.

My chicken fingers were waiting for me, with two little bowls next to the plate. One had ketchup in it; the other had some kind of creamy salad dressing shit. Normal y I’d never in a zil ion years put salad dressing on chicken, but I picked up a finger and dipped.

Burke asked me what happened and I said, “I’l tel you outside. Let’s just go.”

Angelo, who’d ordered a rib eye and the most expensive wine on the menu, said, “Can’t we eat first?” I dragged them outside. In the cab ride back downtown, I
4told the disappointed Michaels that Winkle didn’t understand the direction of the band. They asked a zil ion questions and I repeated the same answer: “I don’t want to talk about it.” The suckiest part was I felt almost as bad about lying as I did about the truth.

To be continued. I’m late for work.

Over.

The
Sonica
offices occupied the fifteenth floor of a tal , unre-markable building below Columbus Circle. Terry North, the editor in chief of the magazine, was on the phone when I walked in. He invited me into his cluttered office using a fly-swatting hand gesture and nodded for me to sit.

After finishing up his cal , the first thing he said was that I looked just like his kid sister, Maggie, who had been kil ed by a drunk driver at the age of twenty.

I didn’t know what to say to that. “Mr. North, I real y want to thank—”

“Cal me Terry. And don’t thank me. I didn’t hire you because Doug said you know your stuff, I hired you because your piece was smashing. I’ve known that guy since 1970 and I’ve never been able to get him to talk like that.” Terry was as an amiable but blunt man, mid-fifties, tal , with a head of bristly dark and tan hair like an Airedale.

From behind me, I heard a woman’s voice, replete with sharp, hypercritical insinuation. “So, you’re Doug Blackman’s little
friend
.”

Terry introduced me to Lucy Enfield. “If you want the good assignments you’l have to be nice to her,” he said, “even if she isn’t always nice to you.” Lucy Enfield was the creative director of the magazine.

She had a reputation for being tough, and her obvious hau-teur, combined with her sharp, uptown style, told me she How to Kil _internals.rev 2/22/08 4:59 PM Page 42

4thought she was better than al the music geeks who worked beneath her.

Lucy had long legs, tiny slits for eyes, and an ambushing smile. She made it a point to tel me she was
the
authority on the New York music scene and said, “If I don’t know who they are, they’re not worth listening to.”

“Have you heard of Bananafish?” I asked, hoping my job would present me with an opportunity to help Michael.

“No,” Lucy said. “But that’s the dumbest name I’ve ever heard for a band. Who do they sound like?” I found it revealing that Lucy said
who
instead of
what
.

Furthermore, Bananafish was not a dumb name for a band.

And even if it was, the greatest bands in the world have the dumbest names.

One glitch: I had no idea what Bananafish sounded like.

I hadn’t heard them yet.

“Radiohead,” I told Lucy. To my knowledge, Bananafish sounded nothing like Radiohead, but this seemed to be the thing to say if you wanted to impress a critic.