“Fuck the tickets,” said Vera. “We’ll get in.” She laughed slyly and Miranda joined her, giggling nervously. The women marched off arm in arm to the front of the line where a large bearded doorman stood. When they got there, Vera threw her cloak back, exposing a low-cut black dress. A conversation ensued between her and the doorman. She leaned over, whispered in his ear, and laughed, as did he. He cocked Vera a look and gestured the two women inside.
“She knows how to work it, Ram,” said Devlin.
“If that’s what you want to call it.”
By the time Ram and John got through the door, the place was three-quarters filled. A tape was playing, Graham Parker’s “I’m Gonna Tear Your Playhouse Down,” and people were dancing. Near the front of the stage, Ram could see Vera and Miranda. They were dancing together suggestively, drawing a crowd of onlookers.
“There they are,” said Ram, nodding and pointing.
“Yeah,” said John laughing. “Who cares? Let’s do some of that coke.” Ram and John mounted the stairs to the balcony and moved took two seats, high and on the side near the front of the stage, where they could keep an eye on their women—for whatever reason neither of them could say. The women were on their own; that much was obvious, John and Ram were superfluous to them now, at least until the show was over when their escort and protection might be required. Both men knew this and let it go at that; they had been with their women long enough to know that they were beyond controlling, only responding to persuasion when there was an offer of something more interesting, more compelling than what they could find on their own. With the attention the women were attracting and a pocketful of cocaine between them, Ram and John were out of persuasive options. “Want to go somewhere else?” John asked. Ram loaded his fake inhaler with the cocaine, did three snorts, and passed it to Devlin.
“No,” he said. “I’m fine here for now. We’ve got a good view from here.”
Devlin reached inside his coat pocket and produced two cans of Heineken, passing one to Ram. “Mud in your eye,” he said.
Ram looked at him distractedly, shook his head, and laughed. “Or spit.”
John started laughing, then took the inhaler and snorted three blasts. “Almost show time.”
Dev fired up the joint and passed it to Ram, who looked out onto the floor where Miranda and Vera were writhing together. “You’re wrong,” he said. “Showtime’s already begun.”
The lights dimmed. A moment later, Lou Reed took the stage with his band. He was all in black—black jeans, t-shirt, and engineer boots. His hair had grown out a bit from the Rock-and-Roll Animal tour, but his skin tone was still cyanotic and his over made-up eyes made him look more zombie-like than usual. The band was heavy metal, with sound boosted to the maximum, the feedback from the guitarists giving off a dronish hum like amplified surf. After three songs of this, the audience began getting restless and started shouting for songs they knew. Reed ignored them and continued with the same amplified soup of unknown origin, only one song having any lyrics at all. It was a frontal assault of machine noise, close to white noise, and it was becoming painful to experience. John stood up and motioned for Ram to follow. They descended the staircase, got stamped at the door, and exited the building to smoke on the sidewalk. “I can’t take a whole night of this, Ram. I mean, what the fuck is this?” John asked, shaking his head. Ram said he didn’t know, and asked John what he wanted to do. Devlin shook his head and gestured, palms up. Ram said that he had an idea and motioned for John to follow.
Ram walked over to the bouncer with the beard. “Remember those girls you were talking with, the long-haired blond and the one with the cape?”
The bouncer’s eyes narrowed. They shifted from Ram to John and back again. “What about ’em?” he said.
“Well, they came with us,” Ram said. “We’re gonna leave here for a while. There’s a show down at the Great American we’re going to check out. Tell the women they can meet us there or at Henry Africa’s around midnight. Give the blonde one these keys and tell her to drive my car there.”
The bouncer looked back at Ram, hesitantly at first, then loosened and smiled. “Sure thing,” he said.
Ram flagged a passing taxi and directed the driver to head to the Tenderloin.
Back inside, Miranda and Vera continued dancing. They were drawing an even bigger crowd of onlookers, Vera especially so, with her black low-cut dress and expanses of white skin glistening beneath beads of sweat. Eventually, the attention she and Miranda were receiving became too claustrophobic and Vera signaled Miranda to follow her. At the back exit door, she whispered something to one of the bouncers. He opened the door and let Vera and Miranda out into the parking lot where the band’s bus was parked. A couple of roadies made their way toward them. Vera stopped their progress with a stare. “We’re having a cigarette and getting some air,” she said. The roadies turned on their heels and went back to their posts alongside the bus.
“Where do you think Ram and John are?” asked Miranda.
“They’re here somewhere,” said Vera. “Probably watching us, making sure we behave ourselves. They’re predictable, all men are.”
“John, yes. Ram, I’m not so sure of,” Miranda said. “I’ve never been able to read him completely.”
“I can,” said Vera, “most of the time anyway. Despite his history, Ram’s pretty conventional. It’s one of the things that annoys me about him; it’s something I’m working on. He needs to change that, and I think he’s starting to see that—at least somewhat. It’ll be a good thing for him when he gets away from this Endymion thing.”
“What do you mean? That’s the best job Ram ever had, as far as I can remember anyway. He makes good money, doesn’t he?”
“He makes enough to keep us living in high style. But that’s not it. He’s like a pawn there. He’s their lightning rod, and they feed off of him. He’s their clown prince. He’s wasting his time and talent with that mob, pushing boards around and playing with saws. They’re all so juvenile, and that’s one of Ram’s biggest weaknesses. He’s puer aeternus, an eternal child, a dreamer, and I think his dreams could be put to better use.”
“I might agree with you there. Ram has always been a dreamer. His feet aren’t exactly planted in reality, if you know what I mean,” Miranda said laughing. “But on the other hand, that’s one of the things I like best about him. I know you think he’s conventional, and in one sense, I can see that—especially when it comes to women and relationships—but there’s also something about Ram that’s unique, and that’s his willingness to explore, to take on new challenges. I saw a lot of that in him when we were in Europe together, although not all those explorations were necessarily healthy, if you know what I mean.”
“I know about that. He told me all about that right at the beginning. Still, that’s not what I’m talking about, not really.”
“What do you mean then? Are you saying he’s insensitive to your feelings? That he doesn’t listen to you?”
“Not that either, not really. It’s more that he’s insensitive to his own feelings, his innermost instincts, to his truest voice. He’s a very good poet, I don’t know if you know that, Miranda, but he is. But he won’t take the risk to be one. He’s hiding behind those boards and saws and his jester routine. Sometimes, when I come home late from a rehearsal, I’ll find him sleeping on the couch and see what he’s been working on—poems and essays. They’re beautiful things, Miranda, full of vision and power. But he doesn’t acknowledge them as having any worth. He says they’re only for him—or me, if they’re sexual or romantic. I’d like him to share them. He’d be great if he set his mind to it.”
Miranda nodded. “Ram can do pretty much anything he wants to do. He knows so much about so many different things: architecture, music, film. But maybe he likes where he is. Did you think about that? Maybe he likes being in hiding, maybe he likes having fun with the boys pushing boards around.”
“I know that. But I am his woman, and he is my m
an, and I have to look out for his own best interests, our best interests, even if he won’t.”
Miranda thought of offering a comment that Vera might be overstepping her bounds, but when she saw the resolve in Vera’s face, she changed the topic to her own man.
“At least Ram does something other than pound nails,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “I can’t get John to do anything new. Drinking, smoking joints, and going to the bar and movies, that pretty well sums up our lives together. I’d like him to take me dancing, or to the theater, or to the symphony, even a museum. It was better when we met and we were traveling through Europe together. At least we went to museums. My life with him now is too much of a routine. I need more variety than that. I need more stimulation.”
“So where do you find it?”
Miranda took a drag on her Dunhill, exhaled the smoke through her thin lips, and laughed. “Wherever I can, dear,” she said, her eyes darting and beaming. “It usually comes around. After all, men do find me attractive, you know.”
“Ha,” Vera laughed, lightly at first, and then broke into deeper laughter when Miranda joined her. The two women hugged, shaking with laughter and attracting the attention of the roadies who looked on appreciatively. Miranda flicked her cigarette away and the women marched arm in arm back to the exit and were admitted into the nightclub.
When they were inside, Vera stopped and whispered in Miranda’s ear. “I’ve got a great idea. Let’s find our men a present to show our appreciation,” she said, her eyes glancing around the room and assaying the occupants. She lighted upon a young redhead. Miranda’s smile grew wider and her eyes glistened.
“I’m game. I don’t know about John or Ram though. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Who cares? It’s worth a try.”
Miranda followed Vera onto the floor of the club, stopping alongside her when Vera stopped near the redhead. Eventually, the woman became aware of the women observing her. The women smiled suggestively at her, and she returned their look and smiled back. “We’ve been watching you,” Vera said. “We like what we see.”
At The Great American, Ram had the driver circle the block and directed him to stop near the liquor store on the corner. Devlin paid the fare while Ram went in and bought cigarettes for both of them. When he rejoined Devlin, John had another joint lit and the two men strolled around the block to the entrance, passing it between them. When they reached the front door, Ram told the girl at the booth they were on the guest list. The girl checked the list, confirmed it, and called an usher over. “These guys are backstage, Billy, total access. Give them passes.” Then she looked back at Ram and John appraisingly, smiling, wondering why they had such cachet. “Enjoy the show, guys. I think he’s already gone on.”
Ram and John followed the usher down the side aisle while Zevon and his band tore into Midnight at the Switching Yard. The usher opened a side door alongside stage right and said something to the security guard posted at the portal. He waved them through. They walked through roadies and groupies gathered together in three different knots. Ram saw Rogers and Samuels standing near the curtain stage left and Ram approached, tapping Rogers on the shoulder. “Hey, Peach,” he said. “We decided to take you up on your offer.”
Rogers and Samuels turned to Ram, who introduced them to John Devlin. Handshakes were exchanged, pleasantries offered. Inhalers were passed and the smiles grew wider. “Welcome to the party,” said Rogers. “These guys are absolutely killer.”
The show ran another hour or so, the band going through most of the songs from Zevon’s three albums, finishing with “Lawyers Guns and Money.” After an encore of “Werewolves of London,” the band shuffled offstage and headed to the dressing room. Ram and his friends chatted with soundmen and groupies and the two head roadies. After a while, the dressing room door opened and Ram and his friends were asked inside.
The crowd around Warren Zevon cleared and Ram sauntered over. “Don’t know if you remember me, Warren. The Kentucky Bar.”
Zevon’s mouth dropped open. He did a double take and Ram could see his mind shuffling through images of scenes from years past. When the dumbfounded expression grew to a broad smile, Ram could see that he remembered.
“Sure, I do. You’re Mac’s friend, right? Him, I don’t remember,” said Zevon, indicating Devlin. “But you, you I do. Goat or something like that, right?”
“Close. Ram.”
“Ram, oh yeah. Damn, that’s been awhile. How are you, man?”
“I can’t complain; great show.”
“You like the band?”
“They’re great. We got in a little late, but from what we heard, it was killer.”
Zevon nodded. “It was a good show. Now it’s time to party.” He tipped up a bottle of Stolichnaya, took a gulp, and handed it to Ram. “Here’s to Sitges and Mac and The Kentucky Bar and The Tennessee Club and The Paloma and all the others.”
Ram took a gulp from the bottle and handed it back to Warren who passed it to John. “Were you in Sitges too?” he asked. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“It’s Devlin,” said John. “John Devlin. No, I was in Morocco at the time, a little beach town called Essaouira.”
“I know Essaouira,” said Zevon. “Been there, done that, smoked it, ash it.”
“That’s Essaouira,” laughed John.
“Who was that other guy that was a part of your gang?” asked Zevon. “He was a blond-haired guy with a beard.”
“That was Jaime,” said Ram.
“Is he still around?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Zevon looked at Ram and caught the drift.
“He did like the Dormos, didn’t he?”
“A little too much,” said Ram. “It’s worse now.”
“That’s too bad. The affliction does go around, I guess,” said Warren, taking another pull from the vodka bottle. “Is he back in the states or still overseas?”
“Back here, not far from here. Sagrada.”
“You’re from there too, right?”
A group of gorgeous young women who had just arrived wandered over to Zevon and the conversation shifted from the past to the present. Party arrangements and limousine logistics back to the Miyako were being settled. Then Zevon motioned to Rogers and Samuels and the three men huddled together discussing something private. When it was over, Zevon came back to his dressing table and motioned Ram aside. “We’re at the Miyako. You and your friend are invited.”
“I don’t know if we can make it,” said Ram. “We’ve got to round up our women first and see what they want to do.”
“They’re invited too, of course,” said Zevon, cracking a wicked grin.
“We’ll see what they’re up for.”
“Well, if they’re not up to it, these ones coming with us sure are.”
“It ain’t quite that way, Warren. These women are our girlfriends.”
“I understand,” said Warren. “No offense?”
“None taken. Great show, man,” said Ram, extending his hand, which Warren took and pumped three times, Bro’mine fashion.
“If you’re ever in L.A., look me up,” he said, grabbing a piece of paper and jotting down a number. “It’s my home phone. Call me anytime. And anytime you wanna come down, you’re welcome there.”
Ram smiled wanly and nodded. “Thanks,” he said. “Same here,” he said, handing Warren a Mad Dog card.
“I like this,” said Zevon grinning broadly. “It’s appropriate somehow.” Then he reached over, shook John Devlin’s hand and told Samuels and Rogers he’d see them at the hotel.
A moment later, the room was cleared of everyone but the roadies, a couple of the club’s staff, Samuels, Rogers, Ram, and John. Rogers told Ram to phone him at the hotel if he and his party were coming so he could notify the front desk that they were welcome. “You should all come, Ram,” he said. “It’ll be a good time.”
“I’d like to, Peach, but it’s not all my call.”
“I understand. Believe me, I do.”
Rogers and Samuels headed out the back door, leaving Ram and John alone in the backstage area.
“What do you want to do, Devlin?”
“Are you kidding? What do I wanna do? Are you fucking insane? What I wanna do is go to the fucking Miyako! But what will we do? We’ll go to Henry Africa’s and do whatever the women want us to do.”
Ram smiled and shrugged. “Let’s go then, John. It’s getting toward midnight.”
They walked down Polk under the banners announcing the Street Fair they’d be attending the next day. Disco music poured out of the bars along the route and in the alleys were knots of men inhaling poppers.
“This is Miranda’s favorite place to party,” Dev said, shaking his head. “She thinks it’s chic. She’s become a fag hag. I told her that and she told me that I’m just an uptight asshole. I’m not uptight, Ram,” he snickered through his teeth. “I just don’t like being surrounded by a bunch of queers looking at my ass.”
Ram laughed.
“Is Vera into this too? Hanging out at gay bars?”
“Not that I know of, but she doesn’t tell me about every place she goes. And I don’t ask.”
“You’re probably better off.”
“Sometimes, I wonder what I let myself in for with her. She’s unpredictable. She goes off to places… in her head, I mean. At least in her head is all that I know about. But sometimes, she’s out most of the night with her actor friends and I get the feeling that it’s more than I wanna know, so I don’t ask.”
“Sleeping around?”
“Some, I’m sure. She hasn’t brought it home yet though, so I’m happy about that much.”
“Miranda’s always fucking other guys. I know that for a fact.”
Ram thought of asking John how he knew, but he knew Miranda well enough to know it was true. Miranda responded to attention from other men like a moth to a flame, and Ram knew from experience that her response to this kind of attention was likely to be rewarded with what she thought a new admirer expected. Anything that was novel, sexual, spiritual, or pharmacological drew Miranda’s interest and attention, and it was one of the aspects of her character that Ram found most flawed. Ram looked at Devlin and saw him seeing what he was thinking and felt bad about it. He came out of his digression into judgment and lied. “Come on, John. She’s your woman. You know that.”
Windwhistle Bone Page 22
