Wyatt was a jovial, teddy bear of a guy in a Seattle Seahawks jersey and, despite the iffy weather, flip-flops. His long, dark gray hair was pulled back into a coarse ponytail that looked like steel wool. And instead of shaking my hand he gave me a big, back-cracking hug and said, “Any brother of Chris’s is a brother of mine.”
Walking into the venue from the top of the hill, we could see the Bay Bridge and the cityscape of San Francisco in the distance. And just behind the theater was Campanile, the bell tower on campus, looming above all the other buildings in Berkeley. The window of Sid’s old office was visible a few streets away, as was the dorm where I’d lived freshman year.
I pointed out the dorm to Cal, and he wanted to know what it had been like to live there, as if it were an exotic experience compared to his adventures in New York. He listened while I gave him the dull rundown, and he asked specific, funny questions: Was there a cafeteria in the building? Were the bathrooms coed? Did you have a curfew? Did you sleep with a lot of girls? Then he wondered aloud why the massive gap in our friendship didn’t make us strangers, but before I had a chance to ponder that, he said, “Because we aren’t strangers. We’re brothers.”
“You know, for as long as I lived in Berkeley,” I told him, “I’ve never been to the Greek Theater.”
“Me neither.”
We walked through the gate together, and the rush of tenderness I felt for him in that moment was suffocating, like a hand over my mouth.
Wyatt escorted us in through the back so that Cal could see the stage from the farthest point. The theater, built in the Greek Revival architectural style, is a near replica of the one in Epidaurus, and it feels historic and holy, like an ancient ruin in the middle of a city, the kind of place where Aristotle might have given lectures about how to live up to one’s potential as a human.
“It’s gonna sound epic in here tonight,” Wyatt said.
We walked down the steep cement bleachers and climbed onto the stage. A couple of roadies had just unrolled a big Persian rug, and another was setting up the drum kit. Cal stopped to introduce me to his guitar tech, a good-looking African-American kid, Justin, who was so skinny he looked flat from the side, like a piece of paper, his thick, sphere-shaped afro the only dimension noticeable.
I turned around and scanned the empty venue. “What does it feel like? Standing up here during a show, knowing all the people out there are here to see you?”
Cal didn’t answer. He just gave me a wily grin and shrugged.
Wyatt walked us backstage, where big oak trees were strung with bright blue strands of lights, colored paper lanterns hung from wires that dangled over couches and chairs, and a big bar was being set up in the corner.
We followed Wyatt down a flight of stairs and into a long hallway that ran underneath the stage. He pointed out the bathrooms and showers, the band’s green room, and a separate room that said “CHRIS/PRIVATE” on the door. That room had a couch, a wall-mounted TV, and a minifridge filled with snacks and drinks.
Wyatt told us the catering was ready and took us to a large rec room where a copious buffet was set up.
Cal and I got in line and filled our plates with poached salmon, steak, mashed potatoes, and salad. I grabbed a beer, Cal grabbed a bottle of water, and we sat at a round table with the sound engineer, a British guy named Simon, who looked like a young Steven Spielberg and showed us pictures of his two miniature schnauzers while we ate.
After lunch we went back to Cal’s private room to hang out until it was time for him to soundcheck.
“I have something for you,” Cal said, rummaging through his duffle bag.
He pulled out a moleskin notebook and shuffled through it until he located a photo stuck between the pages. “Found it when I was in Brooklyn a couple weeks ago.” He handed me the photo. “In a box of stuff my mom saved from high school.”
It was the two of us, taken during an open mic performance at the old Sweetwater. Cal and I were sitting on stools, sort of turned toward each other, guitars in our laps and smiles on our faces. On the back, Terry had written: Blood Brothers July 1996.
For a moment I was transported back to that performance, to a time when Brooklyn was still a possibility and what could have been wasn’t as concrete as the cinderblock walls of the room we were in.
“Wonderwall,” I mumbled.
“Right! That was the night we played ‘Wonderwall’!”
“Bonnie Raitt was there. Remember?”
Cal nodded, smiling. “She told you that you played guitar like a boss, and your face was red for an hour.”
I felt like I was blushing again just thinking about it. “She was hot. I couldn’t even say thank you to her.”
“Yo, I saw her at the Whole Foods on Miller last year. She’s almost seventy, and she’s still hot.”
I sat on the couch and stared at the photo. “Jesus. We look like babies.”
“We were babies.” Cal grabbed a bottle of unopened whiskey from the minibar and sat down beside me. “I don’t normally imbibe before shows, but this is a special occasion.” He took a drink right from the bottle, handed it to me, and we passed it back and forth a few times.
“Harp,” he said, once we were both on the verge of being buzzed. “I need to say something to you.” He turned slightly toward me, and I dreaded whatever he was about to reveal. “I want you to know that I know I wouldn’t be playing here tonight if it wasn’t for you.”
“What?” I shook my head. “That’s ridiculous.”
“No, it’s not.” His eyes were trained on my face, full of sincere effulgence. “You were the only person besides my mom who believed in me. From day one.” He rubbed the stubble on his chin, bit the inside of his cheek. “I was a stupid kid with no father, no friends, and a bad haircut, but for some reason you thought I was cool, and that made all the difference.”
“You were cool. You didn’t need me for that.”
“Actually, I did.” Cal’s brow rose and I noticed three sharp wrinkles in his forehead, saw the small scar under his eye from where I’d caught him with the fishing hook. “I don’t think you ever realized how alone I was back then. You came along and made me part of your family, dysfunctional as it was. And after that I didn’t have to give a fuck about anyone else, because I knew you had my back. That was a fucking gift.” He leaned forward and set his elbows on his knees. “Harp, I wouldn’t be playing here tonight if I hadn’t run into you on the trail that day. I know that for a fact. And I guess I just want to say thank you. I’ve missed having you in my life. And I’m really glad you’re here.”
Cal stood up quickly, grabbed his wallet from his duffle bag. “One more thing and then I’ll shut up.” He slipped a piece of paper out from the billfold and handed it to me. “It’s obviously not the original. I made a copy for you.”
The paper had been folded in half twice, but as soon as I had it partway opened I knew what it was. I recognized Cal’s handwriting and could see my fourteen-year-old-kid signature alongside his at the bottom.
I felt myself getting choked up. “I can’t believe you still have this.”
It was the contract he’d written up the day we met.
To who it may concern. This agreement herebye states that Cal Callahan and Joseph Harper are band mates and best friends for life. Our band will be called ________ (to be determine). We will be the bosses of it and no body will ever tell us what to do or what kind of music to make. We promise to practice every day. We promise the band will always come first. Girls second. We promise never to do anything to screw up the band or our friendship. As soon as we sign this nothing will break this bond NOTHING. Forever in truth and music.
x Joseph Robert Harper x Christopher A Callahan
I sat on that couch in the Greek Theater, holding the contract, looking up at Cal and thinking, I can’t do it. I can’t.
TWENTY-TWO.
> When I think about the Whitefish Community Library, the first thing that comes to mind is the color green. The tables are green, the chairs are green, the air ducts in the ceiling are green. And more often than not, Patty the librarian’s pants were green too.
I often spent Monday afternoons at the library, not only to check my e-mail but also to work on weekly writing assignments. Sid offers a free writing workshop for veterans at the community center in town—he believes in using creative writing to help men and women heal from PTSD—and even though I wasn’t a vet, or much of a writer, he’d insisted I sign up for the workshop. To process my shit.
“Do it as a favor to me,” he’d suggested, once it was clear I wasn’t leaving Montana anytime soon. “And if that doesn’t work, we’ll call it your rent.”
Sid said everyone is fighting his or her own personal war, and he thought that if I put my thoughts to paper I might learn something crucial about myself and find the courage I needed to go back to California.
Every week we were given a theme and encouraged to explore that theme any way we saw fit—essays, poems, stories, you name it. There was a woman in the class who could draw cartoons really well, and she turned the themes into comic strips. Another guy was obsessed with cartography, and all of his assignments looked like treasure maps.
During REGRET week, I decided to write about the night of Cal’s show at the Greek Theater.
It was early summer in Whitefish, late in the day, but the sun was still saturating my little corner of the library, casting a bright yellow light over all the green in the room, the colors echoing the canola fields that pop up all over the Flathead Valley in June.
I’d been sitting in my usual chair, with my usual book about trees as my desk, trying to capture the details of that night before Patty the librarian, in her peach-colored cardigan and camo pants, came over and said, “Wrap it up, Mr. Harper. We’re closing in ten minutes.”
But I didn’t know how to wrap it up. Was it enough to say I was a coward and I walked away? Or did I need to include all the gory details?
When I thought about how that night unfolded, my chest was vibratile in its reminiscence, as if the cilia in my airways were clinging to the memories of that night, trying to hold them back, to sweep them away from my lungs, to keep them from reaching my heart.
October and Rae had shown up during soundcheck. I was on the platform in the middle of the theater, at the sound booth, watching Simon dialing everything in while Cal rehearsed with the UC Berkeley Jazz Choir. Cal ended all his shows with a song called “Turn the Lights Out,” the big hit from his most recent album, and he brought a local choir onstage to perform it with him every night.
I saw Wyatt escort October to the left side of the stage. She was wearing a fisherman’s sweater over jeans and green rain boots, and her hands were clinging to their opposite shoulders like she was cold. I watched her look around and then take out her phone. Seconds later I got a text from her that said Where are you? but I didn’t write back because I didn’t know what the fuck to say.
Cal was finishing up with the choir when he spotted her. He handed his guitar to Justin, rushed over, and swept October up in his arms. When he put her down, he whispered something in her ear; she shook her head and touched the side of his face. Then he took her hand and they walked backstage together.
“There you are,” Rae said, suddenly beside me.
She had a small red box of raisins in her hand and big tortoiseshell sunglasses on, even though it was overcast and drizzly.
For the past month, Rae and I had maintained a copasetic, if not affable, relationship. I’d won points with her for the birdcage, and we’d bonded over the fact that we were both fans of the experimental post-rock band Godspeed You! Black Emperor. Meanwhile, I made sure to leave October’s house earlier than necessary every morning so that Rae didn’t catch me there and go back to considering me the enemy.
“You’re coming backstage, yeah? October’s looking for you.”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
Rae gave me a suit-yourself shrug and walked away.
I wasn’t ready to be in the same room with Cal and October, and I went back to my truck to kill some time. A sharp rage was scratching at my insides. Usually my rage was silent, heavy and immobile, but that afternoon it was a panther pacing around a cage.
I took the friendship contract out of my pocket and read it again.
Forever in truth and music.
The way I saw it, I was going to break a promise that night, and I had a choice. I could break the one I’d made to Cal or the one I’d made to October. When I finally got out of my truck and headed back into the theater, I honestly didn’t know which way it was going to go.
The doors had opened by then, and people were everywhere. At the north entrance I heard someone call my name and was relieved when I turned to see Thomas and Mr. P behind me. They looked out of place in their fancy suits and slick overcoats. I told them to follow me, and I escorted them backstage. I felt safer walking in with them.
When we entered the room, Cal was pouring whiskey into little Dixie cups and passing them out. “There you are!” he said cheerily, handing me one.
The room had filled up with people clamoring for face time with Cal, and he was gregarious and hospitable to all of them. As I walked by, he whispered, “Bear with me while I shake some hands and kiss some babies,” as if this was all part of his job.
October was alone on the couch, and she looked as uncomfortable as I felt. But when she saw me she smiled with hopeful eyes, like she still believed everything was going to be all right. She gestured for me to sit beside her, but I went to the corner and kept to myself.
The opening band was onstage by then, and before their set was over Wyatt came in and told everyone to follow him to the section of seats he’d reserved for Cal’s guests. I got in the line behind Thomas, but Wyatt put his arm out to stop me and said, “You can stay.”
Wyatt shut the door on his way out, and then it was the three of us, and I was so anxious my skin itched from the inside. Fortunately, Cal was too preoccupied to pick up on the energy in the room. He concentrated on his vocal warm-ups, singing them just like Mr. Collins had taught us, while I sat on the arm of the couch, as far away from October as I could get, and scrolled through the Redwood National Park Instagram page, because I thought looking at trees might calm me down.
When Wyatt came back, he told me and October that he’d cleared a space on the left side of the stage for us to watch the show away from any other people, and then he told Cal it was time to go.
Cal took October’s head in his hands and kissed her forehead. Then he grabbed me by the shoulders, caught me with his pointy eyes, and said, “This one’s for you, brother.”
Most of the music Cal and I listened to when we were kids was what Bob Harper used to call the music of whiners and wallowers. But Cal doesn’t whine or wallow—neither in life nor in music. His voice is like smoke at a campfire, but his presence on stage is energetic, affable, and charming. Watching him perform is like watching someone palpably releasing tension. The sonic counterpart to cracking your knuckles or jacking off. Nothing he does is showy or over the top. It’s simply good. Cal is a star, but for people who don’t like stars.
Nevertheless, watching the show was a roller-coaster ride. The culmination of everything Cal had done and everything I had not, each moment was a forensic study, viewed through a microscope, of Cal’s successes and my failures, his bravery and my fear.
Emotions dipped and swelled inside of me as if they were dancing to the beat of the drums. I experienced everything from respect to resentment, jealousy to pride, anger to overwhelming affection, with a steady stream of saudade and desiderium above it all.
The most crushing moment came after I spent an entire song studying the guy playing lead guitar. While he wasn’t dog shit, he was hardly rema
rkable, and for the first time in my life I knew for a fact that it really could have been me up there, and the despair that overtook me then made me sick to my stomach.
I still hadn’t spoken to October. By then, I’d convinced myself that our relationship had been a mistake. I was going to call the whole thing off. I didn’t want her. I didn’t care.
And she could feel me crashing, I was sure of it, because she took my hand—to comfort me, to glean information, or both—not minding that Cal was just a few feet from us.
I pulled away with a sharp jolt and hissed something unkind at her. And for a long time afterward it wrecked me that I couldn’t remember what had come out of my mouth, because it was the last thing I’d said to her before I left.
The drizzle was picking up, and although we were under cover of the stage, sheltered from the rain, it was cold enough that when October spoke I could see her breath in the air.
“Let’s go back downstairs and talk.”
I crossed my arms in front of my chest and pretended I hadn’t heard her.
In other words, my destiny had come full circle.
I’d reverted back to the shithead I was when our story began.
For the first half of the show, Cal had a four-piece band backing him. About an hour in they left, and he played a solo set. Three songs later he thanked the audience and exited the stage.
Wyatt scuttled up beside me, animated, as we waited for Cal’s encore. “Chris tells me you’re quite a guitar player. Favorite acoustic—Martin or Gibson?”
I gave Wyatt what Cal would have called a guitarded answer—his made-up, politically incorrect term for when we geeked out on guitars. “Most Gibsons are more brittle sounding to me; I grew up playing a Martin, so they hold a special place in my heart. My Martin grabs every note I touch and hands it to me like a gift.”
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