Chapter 7 Friday, September 20

THUNDER BAY, ONTARIO

Friday, September 20

            This had to be the most boring video shoot we’d ever done. We were standing at various points around an old power station, and it was raining, much to the director’s delight because now he didn’t have to use the rain machine. I wondered if the station was totally shut off, because every so often sparks would shoot up from out of nowhere. I was wearing black leather pants, a black leather vest, and black boots, soaked to the skin, cold, holding an old Fender Precision with the electronics taken out. I wasn’t happy about my current condition because I never thought I looked good with my hair wet, and didn’t want look crappy in a video. But then again, this video wasn’t about me, it was about Steve, and the tall, busty, leggy model from Toronto. She and he were on the highest platform, just above Terry’s kit, a makeshift Pearl set that barely resembled the huge Custom kit he played onstage. I glanced up between takes, hearing Steve and the girl giggle, and I was pretty sure she’d end up at the hotel with him after the show tonight, or sooner. They were off to a pretty good start already.

And all Terry kept saying was, “How come we all don’t get girls to hang on us?”

It was six in the morning, and we’d been there since four-thirty. We’d had no sleep, and were expected to come back after tonight’s gig to finish. The director wanted to shoot at night, and was already starting to lose the darkness. And he was more than pleased that it was supposed to keep raining.

I was miserable.

Season had done okay defending herself against the “ladies who lunch,” but I still hated that she’d been out with her mother, discussing wedding plans with Carmen, just having lunch…then to have to hear that. And who was that woman who called me a pompous ass? I always tried to be nice even if I was turning them down…the Canyon…how many times did we play at the Canyon? Who would’ve been with me? I couldn’t even remember that one. Maybe…

Stop this. You have no reason to inventory your former sex life. Season said it didn’t matter, so what’s your fucking problem?

The video director, Blaine Van Dyke, who’d done four other videos for us, was hollering for playback.

“And Jon! How the hell did you come up with this shit?” he yelled, referring to the song’s lyrical content. “You’re one dirty-minded motherfucker!”

I flipped him off. I’d had about all the oral sex jokes I could take for one night.

“Tipper Gore’s gonna come after you bad!”

I wandered into the dressing room, exhausted. And still had a show to play.

I collapsed on the couch next to Terry. “Is it time to go home yet?” I complained, stretching out my legs and resting my head against the armrest. “I think I’ve got pneumonia.”

“Y’know, I used to love things that were wet, but after this video…” Terry stuck his drumstick in his ear. “I’ve got water rolling around in my head.”

“That’s all you’ve got rolling around in your head,” Randy muttered, his voice muffled by the cigarette in his mouth. He was sitting across from us in a folding chair, strumming his Ibanez. 

The drumstick flew into the air and caught Randy square in the temple.

“Ow!” the guitarist shrieked. “Fucker!” 

“Bite my ass!” The drummer answered.

I started singing a Vanity 6 song, complete in falsetto. “I think he’s got more water upstairs…”

“…than he’s got sugar on the candy cane…” Bryon, also seated in a folding chair near the dressing table, joined in. 

Terry stood up and thrust his hands onto his bony hips. “Okay! That’s enough! Stop picking on me!”

More singing. “Charlie Brown” by the Coasters. “Why is everybody always picking on me?”

“Fuck y’all!” Terry retrieved his drumstick and sat back down. 

“You’ve been hanging out with Rick and Trace too much,” Randy said. “What’s this ‘y’all’ shit?”

“I’m surprised Jon’s not the one saying that.” Bryon finished tuning his Jackson. 

“Ah ain’t quaht got the drawl down yee-et,” I replied, exaggerating a somewhat Southern Louisiana accent. “Ah’ll hafta work ahn that ‘un.”

“Ooh, you’ve almost got it!” Bryon laughed, standing up and placing his guitar in a stand. “I remember when Dad was stationed at Fort Hood. But Central Texas isn’t quite New Orleans.”

“I’d rather she spoke French all the time,” I said. Ah, Morticia…

“That would be cool,” said Randy.

“That she does very well.” Steve sauntered in, looking incredibly…satisfied. He sat down in the chair Bryon had left and tucked his hands behind his head, propping a snakeskin-booted ankle on one knee. “Among other things, I’m certain.”

I raised my head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He just grinned smugly. “I’m talking about her singing, of course.”

I scowled at him. He’d been making weird insinuations all day.

Randy took a drag from his smoke and tapped the ash onto the floor. “So how’s…what was her name?”

“Brandy,” Terry said, elongating the syllables of the model’s first name. She and Steve had disappeared into his hotel room almost immediately after the shoot. He was almost late for sound check.    

“Yeah, like the drink,” I muttered.

Steve grinned. “She’s much better now, since she got so cold being out in the rain all day.” 

“Like all the rest of us.” I turned from my side onto my back and put my feet in Terry’s lap. He started drumming on the soles of my boots. 

Randy gave a har-rumph under his breath. “At least you got plenty of screen time like you wanted,” he said. “You didn’t have to share the girl with anybody.”

“Like I have before?” Steve winked at him. “And I’m not just talking about you.”

Steve and Randy had a habit of “sharing” women a lot, sometimes during the same night in the same room…but like he said, he wasn’t talking about his old friend from high school who’d helped found this band. He was talking about the only other founding member in the room.

“Isn’t that right, Jon?”

I sat up almost immediately, staring straight at him, and feeling the room spin a bit because I was so tired. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You’re not the only one who slept his way to the big time.” He turned to admire himself in the mirror, pushing his fingers into his white-blond hair.

“Hold on,” I said. “Number one, I didn’t sleep my way to the big time…”
            He laughed hysterically. “Come on! What about that girl who tended bar at the Rainbow? And that promoter’s daughter who got us on the bill to open for Quiet Riot?”

I bristled. The other band members were silent: Terry doing paradiddles on his thigh, Randy still plucking away at his Ibanez, and Bryon…standing quietly. I remember those instances, vaguely. I didn’t want to think of those instances as “screwing my way to the top.” I was just in the right place at the right time. And…well…

Truth be told, the women came on to me. I know that sounds like I’m copping out of a real explanation but it’s true. The bartender at the Rainbow just happened to be interested in me.

“You look as good in person as your voice sounded on the phone,” she’d said. “And you’re so polite.”

I’d simply said, “Uh, well, thank you. Did you hear our demo?” Then one thing kinda led to another…

And I got conned into sleeping with that promoter’s daughter. Barry had just sent me over to her bungalow talk to her. At two in the morning. The sex just kind of…happened. 

Hell, I was twenty-years-old and in Los Angeles for the first time…

“So what?” I said. “I still don’t hump every female that’s ever spoken to me. And what’s that gotta do with “sharing” women? I don’t think we have that in common, Steve.”

“Oh, but we do,” he said smugly. “She probably just forgot to tell you about it.”

I was on my feet immediately, wide awake. “What the fuck…”

“Hey!” Randy stood up, placing his guitar on the dressing table. “You know he’s lying. Bite my ass, Steve.”

The singer just laughed. “You think I mean Season? Well, that’d be more than perfect but no.” He turned away from the mirror. “This person knew who to turn to when you weren’t worth the effort anymore. C’mon, you know about it.”

I stared at him, feeling my blood curdle. Terry’s drumsticks stopped diddling.

“Oh, you don’t?” Steve’s eyes brightened. He seemed to really enjoy messing with my head this week. “I figured you were smarter than that.”

Randy shoved him in the shoulder. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“She was always available for you when we played the Mustang, but there were other days in the week, Jon.”

Renata again. So, I guess it wasn’t enough for me to emulate Geddy Lee for her. She liked bagging Robert Plant and Ian Gillan also, in the form of Steven Ivey. Why did I even care? Renata meant nothing to me, she never did. But still…the thought of her rolling around with Steve…and what was with that off-hand thing about Season?

Steve eyed Randy, then me. “I could’ve had Season, too, if I’d had the chance to persuade her a little bit more…”

Terry flew out of his seat, and grabbed my arm, anticipating my next move, which was a quick step forward, my hands ready to reach out and snap Steve’s neck in two.

“Don’t you ever say shit like that again,” I said through clenched teeth. “If you so much as look at her the wrong way, I’ll break your fucking skull.”

“Hey! I’m just kidding, asshole.” Steve crossed his arms on his chest. 

“That’s not funny, Steve,” Bryon warned.

Steve ignored him. “Y’know, Jon, your temper’s really starting to become an issue. What are you gonna do if Season tells a joke you don’t think is so funny?”

We all knew exactly what he was doing but none of us could figure out what to do about it without causing a big scene before the show.

“You need to lighten up, Jonny.” Steve stood, looking me straight in the eye. “Or maybe you’ll make the same mistake you did with Renata.”

“That was no mistake,” I said, knowing full well what he meant. She must have told him everything after that last night. “She got what she deserved.”

Randy shook his head. “Don’t listen to him, Jon. He’s just trying to rattle your cage.” He gave Steve another shove. “Though I don’t know why.”

Steve shoved Randy back and kept on rattling the cage. “I could’ve had her that night in Shreveport,” he said, now back to talking about my fiancée. “But I kept my cool then.”

“How much heroin did you shoot up today?” I asked. “Why don’t you go top yourself off?”

“You ever gonna tell her the truth, Jon?” he countered. “How maybe you’re not so honorable?” 

I just stared at him, livid, trying to maintain my composure before I tore his face off. 

“If any more of your women turn up, she may start having second thoughts.” He tossed his head, making his hair fall around his shoulders. “She’ll find out her “rock star in shining armor” might be a little tarnished.”

“Shut the fuck up, Steve.” Randy started pushing him out of the room. “Go plug yourself into your syringe.”

“She deserves better,” the singer said, sauntering out as if this whole episode didn’t phase him. “You better make sure you can give it to her.”

I drew in a hard breath, grinding my back teeth. Terry’s hand was still on my arm. 

“He’s full of shit, you know that,” the drummer said as Randy followed Steve out, and was most assuredly on his way to berate the singer for his stupid outburst.

I sat back down on the couch, even more exhausted than before, rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands. “Why the hell is he doing this?” He started something similar to this last summer, right after Season and Rampage joined the tour. Then later on he acted as if he didn’t even remember. And he probably didn’t, what with his growing smack habit. Was he just jealous? Because of the publicity? My pending marriage? Tipper Gore’s attack on my rock lyrics? 

Who the fuck knows.

“Don’t let it bother you,” Bryon said, removing his t-shirt to dress in his stage clothes. “Steve doesn’t even know what planet we’re on anymore.”

“Yeah, he’s just…a crap head.” Terry twirled his drumsticks in both hands. “You think that model has a sister or something? I could really use a good lay myself.”

I wanted to laugh, but I had a funny feeling, like something wasn’t quite right.

With the video shoot postponed until the next morning, and still stewing over Steve’s comments, I drank too much Crown when I got back to the hotel and ended up losing my dinner. My ulcer was definitely acting up again, but as long as it wasn’t bleeding, I was okay.

I wiped a wet washcloth over my face and checked the time. Two-thirty a.m. Thunder Bay time, meaning eleven-thirty p.m. yesterday, Arizona time. No wait, ten. Arizona wasn’t on daylight savings. I picked up the phone.

Twelve rings. The machine didn’t even pick up. That meant the phone was unplugged.

I checked my watch again, as well as the digital on the nightstand. There was only about two minute’s difference.

What the fuck.

Suddenly that joke about the “pool man” wasn’t so damn funny.

Damn. Maybe Steve was right…

I rested my elbows on my knees and held the sides of my head. Okay, okay, pull it together. Maybe she’s just tired and didn’t want to be wakened. Maybe the phone lines are down; it happened a lot out in the country. Maybe…

Where the hell was she?

Terry stumbled into the room, with a giggling, and very young, blonde girl in his arms. He had a bottle of vodka in one hand and her ass in the other.

“Oh, shit, Jon…” he gurgled when he saw me. “I thought you were still downstairs…”

I stood quickly, with effort, and grabbed my shirt off the bed, where I’d tossed it when I came in, running for the toilet. “It’s okay, I’ll stay down in Bryon’s room.”

He frowned, reading the scowl on my face, and dumped the girl on the other bed. She continued to giggle.

“What’s the matter?”
            “Nothing. I’m all right.” I pulled the shirt on, buttoned a couple of buttons in the middle and leaving the rest undone as was my custom. I messed with my hair for a second and headed for the door.  “I’ll get out of your way.”

“Wait! Wait!” He followed me, shaking a finger at his…companion, telling her he’d be just a sec. “What’s wrong?”

I took a deep breath, my hand on the doorknob. “Season won’t answer the phone.”

“Won’t ans…Aw, c’mon, man. She’s probably just asleep. She popped some Percodan and she’s out of it.”

“She hasn’t been taking Percodan,” I said. “Not since…the first night in L.A.” I shuddered a moment. I didn’t want to remember that first night in L.A. The second one, though...

He raised his eyebrows, rubbed the back of his neck, his silver bracelets jingling together. “You leave a message?”

“Machine didn’t come on.”

He knew what that meant as well as I. “Maybe she’s hanging out with Gina.”

I almost laughed. “Gina’s with us, moron.”

Gina, Tarax’s make-up artist, and Season had become great friends, so much so that Gina was in full charge of Season’s bachelorette party, scheduled a week before the wedding. But Gina was still on the road with us. I guess in his drunken stupor, along with the four lines of coke he just couldn’t pass up earlier, he forgot she’d been putting make-up on him for the last four days.

He giggled with as much enthusiasm as his party guest. “Oops, well, yeah, I guess I should pay closer attention to my surroundings, huh?”

I just shook my head. “I’m outta here.”

“No! No!” He took my arm. “Hey, look, it’s probably nothing. Maybe she went shopping…”

“At ten-thirty at night? In Fountain Hills, Arizona?”

“Well…or she went to a movie…or something. Look, it’s okay, man.” He looked at me earnestly, chewing on his bottom lip. “She’s okay. I doubt she’s run off with the Domino’s guy.”

No, that would be the pool man… “They don’t deliver to my house,” I joked. Sort of. 

“Terry?” The giggler was getting restless, standing at the foot of the bed with one foot on top of the other and her hands behind her back.

“Y’know,” I began, sizing her up. She was…cute… “I think pedophilia is just as illegal in Canada as it is in the U.S.”

“She’s seventeen,” he whispered.

I took another look at her and she grinned, waving at me. Hmm… “That’s not eighteen,” I said.

“Close enough.” Terry ogled her, then put a hand on my shoulder. “Come back in about an hour. I could really use this.”

He had a strange look in his eyes, and I wondered if he’d heard from his mother today. Her cancer prognosis wasn’t looking good, and though he’d tried to be “normal,” not drinking, or doing coke, or doing really young girls…he wasn’t holding up as well as he was letting on. He looked lonely, and scared for a second, and I knew I was the only person he was going to reveal those feelings to.

Yes, there are people in the world who have bigger problems than I.

“It’s cool, Terry. Have some fun.”
            He smiled, looking much more like his old self again. “Thanks, man.”

I left the room, and wandered down to Bryon’s. He was propped on the bed, drinking a can of Guinness and watching a rebroadcast of some football game on ESPN.

“You get kicked out of your room?” he asked.

“Yeah.” I grabbed the phone, dialed home again. Ring…ring…ring…three football plays transpired, plus two commercials…I slammed the receiver back down into the cradle with a bang.

Bryon actually jumped. “Hey! No answer?”

I didn’t respond. This was starting to piss me off.

Bryon studied me curiously. “She’s probably asleep.”

“Yeah.”

Suddenly the door swung open and Randy poked his head in. “Jon, are you available?”

“That depends,” I muttered.

Randy cleared his throat nervously, reading my mood. “There’s someone who wanted to meet you.”

Great. Another giggly, yet pleasantly nubile and extremely willing under-aged female wearing nothing more than a pair of tight jeans and a low-necked tank top maybe?

“She’s from the Lakehead University press,” he said. “She speaks French better than she speaks English and I thought you might be able to talk to her.”

I hesitated, wondering just how true that really was, but I knew Randy was usually pretty honest about that kind of thing, and wouldn’t have steered her in my direction if he didn’t think she was legit. Reluctantly, I said, “Where is she?”

“Down in Barry’s room.”

Okay, that was another safe bet that she wasn’t just scamming to bag a rock star. If Barry had allowed her into his suite, she was the real deal. I left Bryon and Randy, and went downstairs, pushing past the usual crowd of hangers-on that seemed to gravitate toward Barry’s lodgings.

She was sitting on the couch, talking quietly to the road manager, who stood as I entered. ”Jon, this is Camille St. John. She writes for the Lakehead U. newspaper.”

She extended a slim hand and I shook it, and tried not to look at her face for too long. She was terribly attractive, looking a lot like Natassia Kinski, with an exotic face, brown hair, green eyes. She was about average height, wearing jeans, a black velveteen blazer, and a thick wool scarf around her neck. She reminded me a lot of Season.

I thought about an unanswered phone located over a thousand miles away…

“She wanted to do an article for the French-speaking students,” Barry explained. “And since you know the language…”

I simply nodded, and hoped he wouldn’t…

“Why don’t you two step into that bedroom over there so you can have some more privacy?”
            …suggest that. It wasn’t because he was trying to put me into some compromising position, it was because he knew how tough an interview might be with all these extra people milling around. And unfortunately, the only other rooms in the suite just happened to have beds in them.

Why this suddenly had become a problem for me…I wasn’t sure. Regardless of the ongoing discussion of my former indiscretions that weren’t really indiscretions because I was a carefree young lad when I committed them, I never took advantage of women in the past, unless they just insisted. Even if they did insist, and I didn’t find them attractive, I didn’t normally oblige them. That wasn’t my style. If they weren’t really “doing” it for me, I sent them on their way, unlike Steve, who just wanted to sleep with everybody whether he liked them or not. 

Unfortunately, Camille was “doing” it for me, only because she looked incredibly like someone else that I missed desperately.

Why wasn’t she answering the goddamn phone tonight?

I tried to remember my language skills. “Bon soir.”

She looked relieved, and started rattling on in her own language. “I’m so glad I’ve found someone else who speaks French around here!”

“We’re tough to find in this business.” 

Barry steered us toward the bedroom, and I prayed there was a table and a chair in it.

There wasn’t.

He closed the door behind me, but I reopened it, keeping it ajar.

She sat down on the bed, and I opted to stand, leaning against the window sill. She took a pad and pencil out of her bag and started asking questions, mainly about how the band got started and how the tour was going. Then she asked about my personal life.

“You’re getting married?”

“In October.”

“How do you know French?”

“My grandparents were originally from Mont-Laurier.”

She nodded, wrote something down. “What does your fiancée think about you being on the road so much?”

“She’s on the road a lot, too,” I said, not really wanting to address that issue. “We just…make it work.” Bold statement. This was the first time we’d ever had to make it work. Not having that phone answered was not making it work for me.

Camille seemed satisfied with all her answers and stood up, thanking me for the interview. I escorted her to the door, and she “accidentally” dropped her notebook. We both reached down to pick it up, and my arm brushed against hers, the first intimate female contact I’d had since I’d stepped back on the bus last Sunday. My body responded accordingly.

I held my breath for a moment, kneeling on the floor and catching a whiff of perfume. In another time and place, which would’ve have been any day before June 19, 1985…this moment would’ve ended very differently.

She apologized for being so clumsy, and looked up at me, embarrassed, her face just inches from mine. I made a comment about dropping things all the time, and she smiled.

Shit. A carnal thought flashed through my head, and I wanted to kick my own teeth in. Somebody pulled the door shut and I immediately stood, and reopened it.

She thanked me again, said something about my language skills that I didn’t quite get because I didn’t recognize a word or two, then she stood awkwardly for a moment, giving me a long, almost seductive look as if she were expecting something else to happen.

And…it didn’t.

Still in French, she said, “We could talk some more if you’d like.”

In English, I said, “I’ve had a really long day. I think I’m done for a while.”

She frowned, though I was pretty sure she understood what I said, because her English was pretty good, probably even better than she was letting on. Now I wondered how legit her interview really was, because she’d made a pretty good show of it at that point. I would never read a publication from Lakehead University, so I would never know.

“Thanks again,” she said, in English, and showed herself out.

I leaned against the wall, staring at the ceiling, fighting down the erection in my jeans. It’s the nature of the beast, I suppose, but I was a little ashamed of myself, for even thinking about…what I was thinking about.

Barry walked up. “How did that go?”

I shrugged. “An interview’s an interview.”

He calmly raised his cigar to his lips and clamped it into his teeth. “Of course it is. Aren’t you glad you know two other languages?”

“Whatever.” I didn’t like his tone.

“Comes in handy, I think.” He removed the cigar and exhaled smoke. “It’s gonna be real helpful in Europe.”

“Uh, huh.” Can I leave now?

“You do remember Europe, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Not him, too, please…

He looked at me hard, like a parent trying to get into the mind of a reckless teenager. “You’ve got four months of this, y’know. Your wife miles away and beautiful women making advances on you.”

I was so sick of this. “Fuck you.”

He grinned. “You’re not gonna make it.”

“Fuck you twice.”

“Get used to it,” he said. “You made your choice. So you’d better stick with it.”