It wasn’t that I didn’t understand Jeremy getting a new band while I was missing/dead/etc. I was sure I would have done the same thing in his position. Well, I would have started one, not joined one, because I don’t really like team sports unless I’ve invented both the team and the sport. But I didn’t begrudge him for finding some new people to play music with.
It’s what we do, after all. We can’t get this out of our blood. The music.
But it didn’t make me feel any better about having to share him. Especially since I wanted better for him than this: a fairly boring band playing inside a fairly boring garage attached to a fairly boring house in a fairly boring part of L.A. I could hear their efforts as I pulled the Saturn up to the worn curb. They were clearly just a high-class cover band with an unimaginative guitarist, a drummer who had learned everything he knew from pool halls, and a singer named Chase or Chad.
That bass player was top-notch, though.
I got out and stepped over a hose snaked across the concrete drive. It was attached to a listless sprinkler that showered the small, brown yard.
That sprinkler, I thought, was a lot like Jeremy. That water wasn’t going to improve that yard any more than Jeremy was going to improve this band. What a waste.
The music died as I approached. The only sound was the cha-cha-cha of the sprinkler. The dim interior of the garage reminded me how much I wanted the Mustang. The smell of it reminded me how much I missed Victor. Our garage practices had been works of art.
“I’m here for Jeremy,” I announced. “Jeremy Shutt. In the case that there are two Jeremys here.”
The humans in the garage simply stared at me, so I explained a few self-evident facts. (1) A band practice is moveable, while a wedding is not, and (2) no amount of practice was going to make this band interesting enough to get a label on board, so (3) really I was just saving them all a lot of time.
The singer, who looked even more like a Chad or a Chase up close, didn’t seem to appreciate my insight. The drummer and guitarist just sort of waved. It turned out I knew both of them, even though I couldn’t remember either of their names.
The drummer used to play for a band called ChristCheese, which had been more successful than you might imagine, and the guitarist had been with Pursuit Ten until their percussion guy had OD’d in a bathtub in Oklahoma, which is a sad story no matter how you look at it.
To the singer, I said, “In conclusion, it will make no difference in the relative scheme of things if Jeremy comes with me now.”
The singer was clearly trying to behave himself in front of my cameras, but his voice was a little strained. “You can’t just disappear and then expect to come back and find all your toys where you left them.”
I said, “Don’t be like that. I will not break Jeremy. He’s clearly too valuable for that. You’ll have him back, and you can continue on this grand old path to playing high school proms.
We all have to share.”
“Don’t play all, whatever, high and mighty now,” the singer said. “You can’t act as if you’re being gracious while you diss my music.”
“Diss!” I replied. “If you want to hear a proper diss, I can prepare some words for you. But no, my friend. I was merely placing things in perspective for you. You are doing that, in there. And I am doing this, with them.” I gestured to T and Joan.
Even with the dimming presence of the Saturn, it seemed quite obvious to me that Cole > Chase.
The ChristCheese drummer and Pursuit Ten’s ex-guitarist both looked at singer Chad/Chase to see what his next move would be.
“Yeah, I know what you’re doing. I know about the show,”
he told me. “You think you’re all that because of who you were.
But no one cares if you were big once, dude. Your singles are so old that grandmas are humming them. You’re only famous now because you’re a total loser.”
Very evenly, I said, “Also because of those three multiplatinum albums. Let’s be comprehensive.”
“Oh, come on! Don’t pretend you don’t know why people are watching the show. You know I’m right,” the singer scoffed.
“Or you would be with a label instead of Baby North. Come on, man. Don’t even pretend it’s about the music.”
His words wedged their way into my heart. Once upon a time, I had written the soundtrack for everyone’s summer. Once upon a time, my face had been on the cover of magazines. Once upon a time, all of these guys in this garage would be shitting themselves to hear my voice in person. What was I doing now?
Just get the show over with. Make the album. Disappear into the Los Angeles sunset with Isabel. But that didn’t feel quite right, or true. I asked, “Don’t you have an Eagles cover to be practicing, or something?”
ChristCheese drummer rattled a cymbal. Pursuit Ten guitarist looked at him sharply, as if warning him not to get ugly.
I kind of hoped it got ugly. I wanted to hit something, or to get hit.
The singer said, “I’m not going to take that kind of shit from you.”
“You just did. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to go do a real job now. Jeremy, what’s the verdict?”
I turned to him. It wasn’t a challenge. It was just a question.
There was no point gaming Jeremy. Did you game Gandhi? No.
“Jeremy, if you go with this joker,” the singer said, “don’t bother coming back.”
“Chad,” Jeremy said gently.
I knew it.
“I’m serious,” said the guy. The Chad. I knew it.
I said, “Don’t make Lassie choose, Chad.”
“You, shut up. Pick, Jeremy.”
Years ago, I’d dated Victor’s sister, Angie. Pretty seriously.
Our breakup after my first tour had been ugly and nasty and entirely because I had slept with anything that took its shirt off in my presence. It was the first time I’d really realized I’d lost my soul and that the beauty of not having a soul was that you couldn’t seem to care that you no longer had one. Even though the band had just gotten back, we already had studio time booked for the next album. Angie had wanted Victor to quit. I had wanted Victor and his magic hands to come with me and never return to Phoenix, New York.
I made him choose between us.
I didn’t think it would kill him.
I didn’t think at all.
Dirt kept falling over the wolf’s muzzle. Somewhere, Victor’s grave was always being filled in.
My day was approaching ruination.