by P G Loiselle
“Face it. They don’t want to talk to you right now. Give them some space,” he said. “They’ll come around.”
“Space? How can I sit here and wait for my best friends to be captured…or killed?”
“You have no choice, so stop it.” He took me firm by my shoulders, less inhibited than usual. “You have the next two weeks off, right?”
“That’s right, to go on tour.”
“Why don’t you use those two weeks to pull yourself back together and put things into perspective. You’ve been through a lot lately.” My eyes along with the rest of my face drooped. I felt despondent and wanted to crawl into a hole and die. How could they try to cast me aside like that?
“One more thing,” Mike said. “I, uh, don’t even want to tell you this, but I thought it best you heard it from me.” He took out a rolled-up copy of Monday afternoon’s East Side Edition, a Providence based, artsy-fartsy, boutique tabloid, from his back pocket and handed it to me. “Read it yourself.”
On page two, in big letters, was the headline ‘Local Band Blows Chance at Big Time.’ Below those words was a picture, taken from a bird’s eye view, of me in a restroom stall at JR’s Fastlane, sitting on the toilet and practically falling in. I’m shirtless, pants down around my ankles, chest jutted out, arms held like an orangutan, head tilted back, mouth wide open in an odd grimace, and my zombie-eyes were buried in their sockets. The worst part of it is that I wasn’t alone. There’s a female, roly-poly and shirtless, dressed only in a skirt and high heels, sticking out her bubble butt and squeezed between my knobby knees. A black circle covered the whole of her head, which is located around my groin area and it’s obvious what she appears to be doing. Not only was I drugged and locked up, I was also set up and am being made a mockery. Way down at the bottom of the article was the author’s name: Devon Scheister. That rat. My blood started to cook. I could only imagine the vile lies, fictional smut and concocted absurdities written about me, the band, the music, the fans, and anything and everything else we stand for. I hurled the paper to the floor.
“Is it as bad as I think?” I asked.
“Worse. But, Luke,” he said, “we know that none of its true. You made a mistake by staying. That’s all.”
“It was a mistake, wasn’t it? What would have happened to Amy if we had caught the bus on time and played the Garden show as planned? I almost want to believe that it all happened for a reason, like orchestrated by some higher power.”
“Who knows why it happened,” Mike said, “but what I think is strange is why Joey da Silva would purposely cause us to miss the bus and then try to capture Amy on the very same day we should’ve been gone on tour. Why take the chance? It would have been much easier without our interference.”
“Bizarre and depressing at the same time.”
“I’ve been contemplating this a lot,” he said, “and decided not to allow these people to determine my fate. Like I said, use the two weeks to clear your mind. Maybe you’ll feel the same. We had plans, Luke. Didn’t we?
“Yeah, big plans alright.” I was down too low to be cheered up.
“Look,” he said. “My father’s coming home from Florida in two days and I need to take care of some things. Let’s talk again tomorrow. Ok?”
“Guess so,” I said, my voice weak and raspy. I felt very small and vulnerable.
“And if you need me, call anytime.” Mike wasn’t the hugging type. He gave me a pat on the shoulder and left.
I went back in the house and the phone was ringing. I thought it might be Dale and ran to get it.
“Luke Moore?”
“Who’s this?”
“Joe Patado from the Providence Journal. Can you comment on the article in the East Side Edition today?”
I slammed down the receiver. The phone started ringing off the hook. Reporter after reporter called with questions. I listened to the first two on the answering machine and unplugged the cord. That didn’t stop them. Before I knew it, there was a major stir outside: lights, car doors slamming and a parade of newsmen marching towards my entranceway. They rang the doorbell incessantly until I was foolish enough to go out there to try to shoo them away. Those people were ruthless and didn’t try to listen to what I had to say. They barraged me with question-after-question, writing things down even though I didn’t give them any answers. Before I did something even dumber out of rage or desperation, I slipped back inside, bolted the door and called the Cumberland police.
They sent a squad car right away. I threatened to sue each of those reporters for trespassing if they didn’t get off my property immediately. At that point, with the police in my yard ordering them to leave, they had no choice.
When everyone was gone, I dragged myself to the living room and here I’ve been sitting, all night long, huddled in a corner with a sharp cleaver by my side, waiting for the chance to defend myself. Nobody came back, but who knows how long they’ll leave me in peace. It’s 6:00 a.m. and I can’t anymore. I can’t write. I can’t sit, and I can’t be awake. I’m going to bed now and I’ll get things rolling again when the new day resurrects me. If someone wants to break in while I sleep, be my guest. I just can’t…
Wednesday, August 19, 1987
My grumbling stomach forced me out of bed after only a few-hour snooze. Besides some assorted can goods and freezer burned meat, the kitchen was bare. Anything palatable with an expiration date had long passed the tipping point and needed to be pitched.
After throwing on some basic apparel and crowned with a baseball cap, I hopped into my 1975 Chevy Nova, the reliable old Grey Beast, and took off towards Best Breakfast. It was late enough for the typical rush to be over. Nevertheless, there were still a good number of stragglers lingering over their coffee. The counter, fitted with about ten swivel chairs, was completely empty, and I sat down towards the center. The waitress came over and, with a typical Rhode Island accent, took my order.
“Howya doin, hun? Whatchya havin?”
“I’ll take the number two, eggs over easy and a side of oatmeal.”
“Want kawfee with that?”
“Please, and a large orange juice too.”
She left to put in my order, and I reached over for the newspaper, which lay on the far end of the counter. It would indeed be a smart move to heed Mike’s advice and use the two weeks to clear my mind while trying to get the band back together. I skimmed through the pages. Like usual, it was mostly filled with bad news. The local section, I thought, would at least have stories I could relate to such as ‘Town Council Approves Plans to Build Playground’ or ‘Local Veteran Gets New Lease on Life.’ Instead, the page one headlines read, ‘Cumberland Rock Band Goes from Top to Flop.’ There was a picture of me at my door, squinting from the camera flashes, looking exasperated. Without reading a single word, I folded up the paper and flung it back on the counter. I wasn’t sure if I should start bawling or scream at the top of my lungs.
“You alright, hun?” the waitress asked, towering over me with coffee, juice and a bowl of oatmeal.
“I’m ok.” I gave her a half-hearted smile. She reciprocated and set my breakfast down in front of me.
I heard the diner door open but couldn’t be bothered to take a gander at who came in. When they neared, I sensed their presence. Two men, perhaps together, sat down next to me, one on each side. I glared straight ahead, but it was impossible to ignore them. What now? Did Stone’s mercenaries come to kidnap me or get rid of me for good? What better bait would there be to flush out Amy and Stevie than to use me? They both asked for coffee and one of them ordered a multigrain muffin. The newspaper was inconveniently placed in front of the guy to my right, and he picked it up. I was about to move to an empty booth when the man addressed me.
“Such a shame. Isn’t it?”
I kept staring ahead, getting ready to elbow him in the teeth.
“Five young fellas with bright
futures ahead of them, and what do they do? Throw it all away. An overrated bunch of punks anyway. Don’t you think?”
I jumped to my feet and got ready for a round of fisticuffs. “Listen, you prick. Don’t know who you are or what you want, but if you’re here to dick me around, you better be willing to deal with the consequences.”
He stood up. The rotund man, about five and a half feet tall with a low-sitting potbelly; a sparse crown of ginger ringlets; a two-bit handlebar mustache and thick-rimmed spectacles, must have been approaching his fifties. Although it was almost eighty degrees, he had on a yellow turtle neck covered by a brown corduroy sports jacket, non-matching checkered pants and shoes of a circus clown. “You and I have never met, Mr. Moore, but I know who you are, and you certainly know who I am.”
“Honestly, I don’t care who you are. I’m going to eat my breakfast and you’re going to screw. And if you come anywhere near me, I’ll bash your face in, in self-defense.”
“Such a shame,” the little Professor Pudgeball said. “I thought that you and I could converse, and I would give you the chance to possibly clear your name. You see, Mr. Moore, I’m a well-respected writer and readers believe what I happen to publish. That’s called credibility. And that’s what you just ruined for yourself in a single night of excess and stupidity: a ton of solid credibility, built up over years through hard work and determination, toiling over your lyrics and compositions, giving it your all, concert after concert, now dried up into a puff of dust, just like that, in a single night.” He removed his glasses and held them in his right hand against his temple. “It’s well documented that lots of musicians are drug addicts, although most don’t get caught in the act like you did, Mr. Moore. Such a shame.” He put his glasses back on and extended his hand. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t get to introduce myself, Scheister, Devon Scheister.”
The whole time he was carrying on, I was able to deflect all that bullshit from sticking to my psyche, until he revealed himself, and that’s when I lost it. My fingers curled and hands instinctively clenched tight. Before I could even swing a fist, I was grabbed from behind by the other guy, Mr. Muscle. I couldn’t break free no matter how much I squirmed.
The waitress, looking on quietly during the entire scene, butted in. “You two assholes get the hell outta here before I call the cops.”
“No need,” Scheister said and dabbed the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “We were just leaving, ma’am.” He placed the exact amount of money on the counter needed to cover the two coffees and the muffin.
“You wait, Meister Scheister,” I yelled as he walked towards the door. “I’ll never forget that face of yours. I’ll get my revenge. Can promise you that much. You picked on the wrong guy.”
He didn’t stop to listen, and as soon as the bell dinged, indicating that the door was closed behind him, Mr. Muscle pushed me away so hard that I slid to the ground, skinning my knees.
The waitress ran over and stooped down to help me up. “You hurt, hun?”
“Just a scratch,” I said, but I was clearly shaken up.
“Have a seat, and let me get you the rest of your breakfast.”
She hooked me up with two eggs, home fries, toast and bacon and warmed up my coffee. My stomach was in knots, and as soon as I was able to force it all down, I paid and left.
Where to though? The only destination that made sense was Mike’s warehouse. I had to tell him about my encounter with Devon ‘Professor Pudgeball’ Scheister and see what he makes of the situation. I parked out front in one of the visitor spots and was met at the reception by an attractive, stylish woman in her thirties.
“Can I help you?” Her voice was warm, almost motherly.
“Looking for Mike. Can you tell him Luke’s here?”
“Michael’s out for the day, visiting customers. You must be Luke Moore, right?”
“Yep, that’s me. Who are you, may I ask?”
“The office manager.”
“Susanna?”
“Susanne.” She smiled. “Michael talks quite a bit about you, and the rest of the band.”
“We’re kind of on the skids right now.”
“He did say you’re having some difficulties. I’m sure it’ll all blow over soon.” Her smile glimmered as though she truly believed it.
“We’ve had our ups and downs before,” I said. “This time it’s rough. Maybe we all need to face reality at some point, grow up, be responsible.” I thought of Tommy and his baby on the way.
“What does providing enjoyment to the world have to do with growing up and being responsible?” she asked. “There are entertainers of all ages that are as grown up and as responsible as it gets.”
“True. I just have to think about what’s really important in life, and where things are heading.” We talked as if we’d known each other for years and it felt unpretentious. “Amy said you helped her out while she was stuck in the apartment upstairs. She’s a close friend, and I want to thank you for the support.”
“She’s a sweet girl,” Susanne said, “and very determined. But really, I didn’t help much. Just some food shopping and was there to listen from time-to-time. She had a lot on her mind, like you, and needed someone to take her serious.” Her eyes exuded kindness. “She thinks you’re a great guy, Luke, and have the potential to go all the way to the top, as a musician, I mean, a real entertainer.”
I chuckled. “Yeah, she can be sweet and you’re right, she’s very, very determined.” Sweet if she wants something and determined like a mule, is what I was really thinking. And if I was such a great guy, why would she want to banish me from her life after all I did for her? Because I pushed Stevie off the bed while he was pissing all over us? I saved her ass and that’s the thanks I get? I started to fume about the whole situation and needed to move on. “Well, Susanne, nice meeting you. Tell Mike to give me a call, will you?” I didn’t even wait for an answer or trade any additional niceties. I only turned and dashed out towards my ride.
Dale was next on my list, so I set course to Magic Cars only to find out that he was also gone, hauling a trailer full of vehicles to a car rental company in upstate New York. He wouldn’t be back until Friday.
I asked Uncle Rick how to find Amy and Stevie, but the guy refused to squeal. He said he was staying out of their affairs, and it wasn’t his business to divulge their location. In the middle of my attempts to reason with him, the jerk slapped on a pair of safety muffs and started cutting underneath a beat-up van that was thrown up on the lift. He stopped responding to my pleas and, wary of his rotating saw, which was firing off a blazing tail of sparks, I capitulated and left for the local library.
I thought there’d be a chance of finding the address in a local phonebook. After wasting almost an hour, the only information for Rick Bixby I unearthed was for the car lot. Next stop was a gas station for a map. How many lakes could be in Northern Rhode Island? The answer was ‘too many’. The Beast and I trawled every accessible road of every water mass in that area. Talk about a ridiculous goose chase that pilfered hours from my day and yielded a whole lot of nothing.
My final hope was Tommy. Manville was on the way back to my place anyway, so it wouldn’t be a detour. I didn’t expect much: just someone to listen. Once off the highway from my ride to nowhere, I snaked down past Manville Park, took a left onto Summer Street, passing by Lou’s Café and parked outside of their brick-block apartment. I was about to exit the Beast when I saw Tommy coming out his front door. Tina followed. She was showing. There was a baby in there, I thought, a living being. Instead of intercepting him from whatever mission he was on, I started the car and went home.
In the evening, I was back in my living room, on the couch, gaping at the swirls on the ceiling. It was another shit day in what’s panning out to be the shittiest period of my adult life so far. My journal seemed to be the best therapeutic relief available to let out steam. It certainly
didn’t help me make sense of any of it, but at least it’s written down for another time, when it might matter or when we can all sit back and laugh at this madness. Maybe Susanne’s right. Maybe everything will blow over soon, and we’ll all live happily ever after. Maybe…
“Get You Back”
There’s no more time for begging / There’s no more time to cry
There’s no more time to listen / To the way you say goodbye
The days are gone for singing / Someone else’s song
I could have done it better / But I didn’t do it wrong
Chorus:
Not crazy about your mother / Not crazy about your dad
Not crazy about your makeup / Or the play things that you had
Not crazy about the way / You left me in my tracks
But I’m crazy and I know, I’m going to get you back
I’m crazy and I know, I’m going to get you back
You said to take the low road / Cuz you were going high
You said that it was history / But never told me why
But I’m not the kind of man / Whose gonna pack it up and run
Wanna be your one and only / But I’m not the only one
[Repeat Chorus]
Friday, August 21, 1987
It was exactly one week ago to the minute that we were standing on stage at JR’s Fastlane showing everyone, once again, why we were the victors in the Rocky Point Battle of the Bands. Four-n-Moore was on top of the world. When the clock struck midnight, the fairy tale disintegrated, and reality smashed me in the head. One week ago, to the minute, I was surrounded by my people, the ones who loved and respected me and whom I could count on to be there when I was in need. Now, I sit here by myself, isolated, with nobody to turn to.
Piano Mike was supposed to call me on Wednesday and didn’t. I wondered if he got my message. So, yesterday morning I drove back over to the warehouse to meet up with him in person. Susanne swore she told him to call and informed me that he’d be away for several days. It turns out that his father cruised up from Florida to Newport in his friend’s yacht, and Mike had to spend the weekend with his dad mingling with high society. Rubbing elbows with the rich and famous wasn’t Mike’s type of gig, but his dad apparently jacked up the pressure. All that schmoozing was supposedly good for business and Mike as heir apparent needed to learn the art of kissing ass.
