How to Kill a Rock Star (10 page)

Over Paul’s shoulder, Alicia was glaring at me.

“Let’s get out of here,” Paul whispered.

We walked home in silence. When we got to our build-7ing, Paul said, “I’l race you,” and went flying up the stairs.

I ran after him. On the fourth floor I found him standing in front of the bleeding door like a barricade, his arms in the shape of a V, the cocky-bastard smile plastered across his face.

“Eliza, do I make you nervous?”

“No.”

He took a step forward. “Then why are you shaking?” I lowered my chin, swal owed hard, but said nothing.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “I can’t be responsible for what happens in the next thirty seconds if you keep looking at me like that.”

“Get out of the way.”

“First you have to pay the tol .”

Reaching around the back of my head, Paul leaned forward and planted his mouth on mine. He kissed me until he ran out of air, took a quick breath, kissed me again, and was grinning wildly when he final y set me free.

It occurred to me then that he kissed the same way he ran up the stairs—fiercely, passionately, and with complete commitment.

“I haven’t had sex in six months,” I said. Why I felt the need to blurt out that little tidbit of information, I’l never know.

“
Six months
?” Paul cried, as if it were impossible that I could stil be alive after six months of celibacy. He leaned in and toyed with my earring. “Are you just making conversation, or was that an invite?”

“Phone’s ringing,” I mumbled, but I was only vaguely conscious of the sound coming from the apartment. I stood frozen while Paul spun around, opened the door, and went straight to it. “Hudson’s house of il -repute,” he said into the receiver. Then he groaned. “It was a joke, Avril. Do you understand the meaning of that word?…I told you, we had practice tonight…” I walked into the room and Paul lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “Yeah, I miss you too. I’l
see you tomorrow, okay?”

I kicked him in the shin as hard as I could. As he simultaneously doubled over in pain and laughed, I stormed off to my room, slammed the door, and bit the sides of my cheeks so that I didn’t cry.

Paul entered my room without knocking. He sat down on my window ledge, rol ed up his pant leg, and said, “My leg’s turning black and blue.”

“Why did you tel her you were at practice?”

“What was I supposed to say? That I was busy making out with my roommate?”

“Get out!” I yel ed, tasting blood in my mouth, and chris-tening myself the biggest fool in al of Manhattan.

He laughed again, limping over to me with his pant leg stil rol ed up to his knee. “Hey, no one said you had to kiss me back.”

“I didn’t kiss you back.”

“You most certainly did.
Twice
.” He clutched his side and moaned. “Ow. Shit. Now it’s my leg
and
my pancreas.” I held the door open.

“Say you’l come to the show on Thursday.”

“I mean it
. Out!
”

He stomped off to his room like a pouting child and then reappeared in the hal with his little tape recorder.

“Thursday.” He pointed at me. “Be there.” He left the apartment without another word, and from the window I watched him walk toward Houston Street. I stood there for a long time, even after he was gone, struggling to process the night, the last couple of weeks, my life, and where Paul Hudson might fit in to the equation.

I tried to tel myself he didn’t fit in at al , but I had a sinking feeling that no matter how hard I tried to remain on the periphery of the country that was Paul Hudson, I had already wil ingly crossed the border.

August 1, 2000

Dreams can change histories and songs can alter destinies—

two ideas that on good days I believe wholeheartedly and on bad days I denounce as a bunch of bul . It must be a stel ar goddamn day because I was positive, as I wandered down Houston Street and away from the girl I knew was standing in the window watching me, that someday I’l look back on this night as a turning point. The convergence of my past and my future.

History and destiny crashing together like the Big Bang.

I was having an epiphany. A moment of supreme clarity, leading to what I dubbed a “realization of solitude” that goes like this: I’m lonely.

I rarely notice it. The loneliness. I’ve learned that my mood remains steady when I’m completely oblivious to my isolation.

But when I left that girl in the window I was sure I’d never felt more godforsaken in my life.

There’s a big difference between being alone and being lonely. And I’m guessing that once you’ve discovered this dis-tinction you can’t go back to solitary confinement without serious emotional repercussions.

As I walked away trying not to limp, my shin stil kil ing me from where Eliza had kicked me, al these ideas started coming in waves and I felt the kind of high I figure can only come from three sources: art, love, or narcotics. And that last one doesn’t count because even I know it’s a cop-out.

Is Eliza feeling even half of what I am? I don’t know. What I do know is that she’s searching for something too. It’s in her eyes. It’s in her scar. It’s in her reverence for music, which I saw al over her face when she listened to that Van Morrison song in the bar. The girl is a real believer. That she doesn’t yet believe in me is only a minor problem. If she’s the kind of person I think she is, I’l win her over with one verse. One chorus. Maybe even one line. It’l be a goddamn test. I’l test her the same way she’l no doubt test me—with a song. Because believers know the truth when they hear it.

Epiphanic moment of supreme clarity number two came half a block later, after I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window of Katz’s. Circles under my eyes. Skin the color of a poached chicken breast. I look like a goddamn junkie and I swear over my life I’ve never touched that shit.

Epiphanic moment of supreme clarity number two was this: Eliza makes me want to be a better person. And not for her sake either, but for my own, which seems pretty monumental considering I haven’t even fucked her.

Eliza has the sky in her eyes and I’ve always wanted to touch the goddamn sky.

My supremacy of clarity was unprecedented and cal ed for a lot of resolutions to be made, which I rattled off down the sidewalk. On my index finger I resolved to cut down on the smoking.

On my middle finger I resolved to cut down on the weed—no, I resolved to cut out the weed. Wel , I’l at least put in the effort.

And the shirt-folding. On my ring finger I resolved to be a better shirt-folder. The best goddamn shirt-folder the Gap has ever seen, because life is short and a man should take pride in his work, even if his work makes him feel like a total loser.

A kid went by me on a scooter and said, “Shut up, freak.” He didn’t even look old enough to drive, let alone old enough to be scooting Manhattan in the middle of the night, and I was going to tel him so, but right then a blast of hot, rank air shot up my How to Kil _internals.rev 2/22/08 5:00 PM

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8legs and hit me in the face. I hadn’t been paying attention to where I was going and shit if I wasn’t standing on a subway grate.

My heart started pounding, and I experienced an admittedly irrational fear that I was about to be sucked underground—I’d never get to kiss Eliza again, or see her matching goddamn underwear, or run my goddamn tongue along the inside of her goddamn thigh.

A homeless guy pushing a shopping cart passed me, pointing and shouting, “There’s a cyborg among us! There’s a cyborg among us!”

Great, I thought. I’m morphing into something half human, half machine, and the magnetic suction of the underworld is trying to drag me down. The breath of Hades is deep, heavy, and rancid. One great inhale and I’l be a soggy piece of toast.

“There’s nothing down there but cigarette butts.” That’s what Eliza said to me when we were on our way to St. Vrain’s. As soon as she figured out the grates creeped me out, she skipped and pranced over every one of them. I think I loved her for that. Especial y when a train pul ed in, her skirt did a Marilyn Monroe, and I almost saw her underwear.

“Take a look,” she said, pointing into the ground. “Just for a second, you can stil stand on the sidewalk. Just LOOK.” I peeked over the edge. It was six feet down, tops.

“Even if you fel through,” she said, “it’s not like you’d die or anything. You probably wouldn’t even break your leg.” She pul ed me over until I was on top of the grate and I stood there for like, fifteen whole seconds. I’d like to say it was an act of bravery, but I was only able to do it because she was holding my sleeve.

This is what I mean about epiphanies. With her, I’d had the strength to stand there. Without her, I would have run.

People who have something against cities, people who don’t like New York, they’re always whining that you can’t see stars at night. This is no exaggeration—as I was having my epiphanies I
counted thirty-three stars above the block I was on, and they seemed so bright and so close I was sure that if I held a match up as far as my arm could reach, it would have caught fire.

I looked down and realized I was back at Rings of Saturn.

John the Baptist laughed when he saw me. He fil ed a glass with ice and lifted Captain Morgan from the shelf, but the last thing I wanted was a goddamn drink. I asked him for coffee and his operative eye glanced in the direction of a portable burner fil ed with something that looked like molasses. He said it’d been there since noon but I didn’t care if it’d been there since the goddamn bicentennial.

He said, “Ever jumped out of an airplane, Hudson?” I told him I had not.

“Take this to heart,” he said. “If you’re gonna jump out of a plane, remember you’l be fal ing at terminal velocity, and that’s nothing to monkey around with. Check your gear and make sure your parachute is operational.” As usual, he was spewing a lot of crap, but I got the feeling he and I were on the same wavelength. I asked him if he’d noticed the way Eliza listened to the music, how she’d gazed at the speakers like God was talking to her.

He told me terminal velocity is about one hundred thirty miles per hour.

I could fal hard for a girl who listens to music like that.

“Sometimes when you open the chute at a high speed,” John said, “the G force is so strong it breaks your arms. It’s not common, but it’s happened.

Happened to a buddy of mine in

’Nam.”

I asked John if it was a crime to want to live in a world where girls with falcon eyes and pretty underwear believe in the saving grace of rock ’n’ rol and he said, “Just check your chute before you jump, that’s al I’m saying.” Gotta get some sleep.

Over.

Vera gave me a sticker to put on my shirt. An al -access pass al owing me to roam Rings of Saturn as I wished. “Michael makes them,” she said with pride.

The pass was electric yel ow and shaped like a banana.

But it was a suggestive, tongue-in-cheek banana. A penis disguised as a piece of fruit, to be exact. I stuck it to my chest and, in lieu of actual y using it, e.g., possibly running into Paul in the dressing room, Vera and I made our way to a smal table to the left of the stage.

“
Yay
. You’re here,” Vera said, patting me on the back.

“Michael’s nervous. He real y wants you to be impressed.” I was nervous too, though surely not for the same reasons as Michael.

Minutes before the band was scheduled to go on, a girl dashed out from behind the curtain. She was striking in a brazen way, with dark, Cabernet-colored lips, Medusa hair, and she burned down the stairs in a violent flash.

“Oh, boy,
she
didn’t look happy,” Vera said. “Then again, would you be happy if you were dating Paul?” I heard an involuntary noise escape my throat.

“Dear al Paul Hudson lovers,” Vera said to no one in particular. “Give it up.”

Most of the people who had been down at the bar were swarming up the stairs for the show, but the place was stil only half ful as the lights dimmed and Michael walked out.

He saw Vera and smiled, but it was quick and inadvertent, as if he had to maintain a level of coolness that showing affection for his wife did not al ow. I stuck my tongue out at him and he gave me the finger.

“Doesn’t he look sexy up there?” Vera said.

As Michael plugged his guitar into an amp and tinkered with the knobs, his presence conveyed a spartan detachment that was not at al what I would cal sexy. Regardless, I was reassured Vera thought otherwise.

“Another reason why you can’t let him quit,” I said.

“Back off,” she piped.

The drummer swaggered out next. Vera cal ed him Angelo in a disapproving tone. Angelo was drinking a beer, mirrored sunglasses hid his eyes, and a smal group of girls whistled at him. He reminded me of a serial kil er, only I couldn’t remember which one.

Burke, the blond, baby-faced bass player, was behind Angelo. “Oliver Twist,” Vera whispered. “Doesn’t he look like Oliver Twist?”

“I don’t know what Oliver Twist looks like.” Paul walked out last, causing a downpour of rainy applause to sweep through the crowd. He was wearing the pants to his green suit, and a T-shirt on which he’d written:
Fuck you, Mr. Winkle
.

“I gotta hand it to him,” Vera said. “The guy sure knows how to win friends and influence record execs.” Paul had a black Gibson around his neck and a bottle of water in his hand. He approached the microphone and adjusted it down toward his mouth. “Thanks for showing up,” he said using his pretend bashful voice, greeting a group of fans up front, two guys and a girl who looked like runaways.

“They take the train in from Jersey every Thursday,” Vera said. “Paul is their god.”

Shielding his eyes from the light, Paul cleared his throat
8and peered around the room until he found me. “This first song,” he said, his eyes locked on mine. “We haven’t real y practiced it much but we’re gonna play it anyway.” He winked, and Vera’s chest inflated. “Did he just
wink
at you?”

I was able to disregard the question because the band had launched into a spacey, moving rendition of “The Day I Became a Ghost” that pricked open my ears and set me on the edge of my seat. But it was the next nine songs, the Paul Hudson originals, that raised me up and never set me back down until the band left the stage.