Tristan took my hand. “Come on, let’s walk.” We headed down Hennepin Avenue towards the river. Tristan wanted to get to the water and see the warehouses, if we could make it that far. I was starting to feel like we were on the warehouse tour of North America. It was amazing how many beautiful, desolate brick buildings still existed, even here. But for once, I wasn’t sure I felt like walking in some half-populated fiction of industry.
He wrapped his fingers around mine, and pulled me closer to him. “Don’t go crazy on me now.” We walked a bit further, then crossed the street. It was a normal day, in a normal town. All around us, people were getting through life, answering calls, kicking off their shoes surreptitiously under their desks, fighting for little successes, mostly wishing they could go home. And here we were, out in the daylight for what felt like the first time in a while, an anomaly in the normal order of life. Tristan put his arm around me. I stopped holding my breath, and leaned into him. He kissed the top of my head, and hugged me. “You get used to it, Lily love. And if you get a little more careful, a little more wary, then that’s the price you pay.”
I hugged him back. “It’ll be ok. I’ll be ok. It’s what I want, remember?” And I twisted a finger around the necklace that I wore all the time, that I hadn’t taken off since the night in that Lower East Side bar, where he’d found me again, and we’d vowed to stop fighting what we so obviously had together. I thought of AC. And then I didn’t.
Tristan smiled at me, that blazing grin that literally seemed to dissolve my vision, and reduce everything to a corridor of energy running between us. “You’re smart, and watchful and so am I. Although I might get Rick over here. Remember him? He frightens everyone. His network isn’t quite the same on this side of the pond, but he’s still a big guy.” He laughed. “Did you know he once pulled me out of the crowd and up onto the next balcony? The crowd was getting a little too excited.”
I gazed at him, all 6 foot 2 of skin and muscle and leather. It didn’t seem possible. “That’s kind of unbelievable.”
“Yeah, I didn’t quite believe it either. But he was worried. And when we’re worried, we do amazing things sometimes.” He pulled me up to him and touched his lips gently to mine, the faint scratch of stubble grazing my chin, before moving around my cheek, where he kissed me again. “I’m looking after you. Don’t worry. Don’t go anywhere.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
He turned us around and we started walking back the way we came, the large concrete blocks of the sidewalk making our steps seem slower, less productive than they would be elsewhere. The distances out here were starting to get to me, the endless landscape. “I really wanted to drive us out by Paisley Park. I would have liked to see it. But we’ve got sound check, the show, then dinner with the band, then the bloody DJ set. I promised them I’d be there.”
“It’s ok. We’ll come back. Or maybe we’ll steal the bus and drive out there. It’s like half an hour, right? They can all camp out while we’re gone.”
Tristan smirked. “Are you going to drive?”
“Damn straight. Just try me. Besides, Hank’s taught me everything he knows.”
He stopped again and kissed me before I had a chance to breathe. “It what makes you so incredible. You probably would do it,” he said, as he broke off the kiss. “But don’t.” He winked at me. “I’ll be watching you. No bus theft. It’s not on the rider.”
“Can I have our hotel rooms painted pink?”
“I’ve already asked for them to be painted black, sorry.”
“But no one can look at me as I walk by.”
Tristan laughed. “That already happens love, they’re all terrified of you. You vixen.”
I shook my head. “No, doll, that’s you. You’ve frightened them all off. You and your very tall, very angry, very crazy self.”
“I have no idea what you are on about. Speak to my manager. Actually don’t. He’s fucking useless.”
And we both started giggling like a bunch of kids in class who’d been told not to laugh. We kept bursting out laughing as we walked. I was sure that some of the people giving us filthy looks thought we were laughing at them. But we were just happy. And we turned around and walked all the way back like that, past the cars, the buildings, the people doing their everyday tasks. Then we found ourselves in front of the hotel. The outside was a strange sandstone color, with bars on one of the big windows—it had apparently been a bank. I thought it looked a little like a jail.
We went in. It was only us, and AC had begged for a room too. The other two were staying on the bus. Tristan had told James he wanted a little private time away from it all, especially as we were about to do a five day long haul on the bus down to Texas. But even though the place was supposed to be a bit nicer, it was still a typical chain hotel, the big yellow diamond shapes on the polished white floor repeated in the oddly colored gold grey carpet around the edges, dotted with chairs where you could sit, if you wanted to hang out in hotel lobbies. I looked around, and saw a couple of hopeful fans notice that we were there, and start to approach us. I nudged Tristan, who looked up from asking the front desk staff to send up some sparkling water and a bottle of champagne. “For later,” he whispered in my ear. Out loud, he said thank you to the man behind the desk, and turned to face the four girls headed our way. He glanced around to see if anyone else was heading over, or noticed, and he advanced a little ways towards the elevators, watching them slow down, uncertain if they should approach him. He finally stopped. Taking this as encouragement, they came rushing over, as though this was their last chance. Which it possibly was. He moved me behind him, ever so slightly, as the first girl approached ahead of her friends, turning around to make sure they were still there.
“Is it really you? Tristan! Oh my god, I’ve wanted to meet you for so long. Oh my god! Shari, get over here, quick!” She stopped to catch her breath for a moment, her hand on her chest, which was rising and falling with an incredible rapidity. I hoped she wasn’t going to hyperventilate and pass out on us. I looked over at the people at the front desk, who were watching, somewhat amused. That reassured me—at least they were there, they could call someone, or act as witnesses if one of the girls passed out from the excitement. It had actually happened twice so far, once when he was signing autographs, and once when he had leaned down to touch hands with the fans pushed up against the stage. They had fainted dead away. I couldn’t really blame them. I knew what it could be like.
The girl was talking really fast now. “Tristan, Tristan, can we all get a photo with you? Please?” He nodded and she squealed. When he put his arm around her, her eyes closed in sheer ecstasy and she said, “Oh my god, he’s touching me. Shari! Andi! Melli! It’s amazing. Get a picture, get a picture.” Tristan smiled his killer grin at them, as one by one, they all came up to tuck themselves under his arm, as multiple pictures were taken on their phones. Nothing was real anymore until you had an Instagram of it. Tristan asked them all if they were coming to the show tonight, and they were. He signed a couple of mini-posters, and an old 7 inch from the first band. Tristan’s face lit up. “Where did you get this, and what’s your name, so I can sign it?”
The girl with the record was quiet, almost slinking back into herself, while her friends squealed and bounced around, showing each other the pictures, coming up to touch his arms again, then backing off. Melinda, for she was telling us that was her real name, stared at him, her eyes wide. “I don’t like Melli. But she always calls me that,” she said, approaching Tristan very carefully.
Tristan smiled at her. “I’ll make sure to write Melinda then. And where did you find this one? Are you sure you want it on this? It’s pretty rare.” She looked up at him, blinking, like she couldn’t really believe that Tristan was speaking to her. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, then shut her eyes. I wondered if she wouldn’t be able to get the words out.
“It
’s my brother’s—he’s overseas now—I promised him I’d come tonight and get it signed.” She sighed. “He played your music for me all the time, and now I love it too. But I don’t know when I’m going to see him again…” She broke off, and wrapped her arms around her thin body, her pale hands and fingers covered with rings disappearing into the pockets of a worn blue sweatshirt. Tristan was by her side in a second, pulling her arms out so he could take her hands. He squatted down and she followed him, and they seemed to be away from the others, who were now watching, curious. “What’s your brother’s name, Melinda?”
“Neil,” she replied.
“And where is he?”
“Afghanistan. He’s been there a long time. I’m really worried. Mom and Dad said he was right to go back again, but he looked so sad. They told me not to worry so much.” It was though the words were tumbling out now that the dam had been broken. Tristan frowned.
“Of course you worry. You care about him, right? Your big brother. Naturally.”
She nodded, a couple of tears slipping out and down her face. Tristan smoothed her hair away from her face. He suddenly looked older, and I could imagine him, just like this in years to come, giving out wisdom that he had won hard.
“That’s why you’re so brave. You’re being brave for him. And you know he’s proud of you, right?”
She nodded again, watching him with a kind of wonder on her face, her eyes big and sad. Another tear dropped down her cheek. He stood and pulling her up with him, wrapped her in a big hug. I was close enough to hear him whisper in her ear. “You come backstage after the show. Come up to the stage at the end, and I’ll send someone out to find you. Ok? Then we can get the whole band to sign stuff for you. AC is there too. Remember him? Ok? Don’t forget.” He kissed her cheek, and gently took the album from her, signing it to Neil and Melinda.
She took the record from him, and looked up at him, standing up a little taller.
“That’s right. Braver than the rest.” And he waved at the group, and took my hand. “Sound check. See you ladies later at the show.”
We walked off to the elevators, I held on to his hand. “You’re amazing, you know that, right? That was incredibly kind of you.”
He walked into the elevator and punched at the button for our floor. “No, it wasn’t. It was normal. That poor kid. Who knows what could happen.” He looked at me. “It was human. That’s what I want to avoid. Not being able to do that. I mean, it’s crazy that I can, and it’s wrong. I’m nothing special, just a person. But I would have liked to have a brother, and if I can do something that means something, makes her life and maybe his a little less painful, then I will.” He kissed me. “Five minutes of my charmed life. That’s all it took.”
He took my hand as the doors opened and we walked down the hall to our door at the end. “But you. Thank you for staying there. For watching.” He hesitated. “She wouldn’t have done that. Alixe. She thought the fans were an annoyance.” His mouth tightened in a hard line for a moment, his eyes focused on a moment that was far away and out of sight. “But you. Are different. And. Should be careful. Now a quick shower, and it’s back to work.”
He unlocked the door, and started removing his clothes the second the door shut. “I’ll only be a few minutes. Will you get the door when the room service comes?” I’d already forgotten that he had ordered a bottle of champagne from the front desk. After that whole scene with the girl. And I watched his long streamlined body cross the carpeted floor over to the green and blue tiles in the bathroom, his legs a series of hard, flexing curves up to his perfect ass, his back a long stretch of tight muscles and smooth skin. As I watched him move, watched him shut the door, and heard the sound of the shower starting, I realized that he never stopped working. That even now he would be thinking of the sound check, and what to ask for, what to tell the band, remembering to get someone to fetch the girl from the front of the stage. And he hardly ever shared what he was organizing in his mind, and he never asked for help. All that thinking went on in that beautiful head. And the kindness he had shown was so simple and straightforward, like he understood. But it was something that she might remember her entire life.
Not for the first time, it struck me how lightly he carried the enormous responsibility that he placed upon himself, to get it all right.
* * *
The sound check went well, and I watched them fool around with a cover of the Blondie song “One Way or Another.” I had no idea why they had chosen that one, but it was amazing to see Tristan stop them and explain what he wanted the rhythm to do, actually taking off his guitar to play a couple of bars on the bass, before heading over to the drum kit to show Pete how he wanted more high hat, and a steady beat except for the last two beats of the 8 beat section. I just watched. As usual, I saw a couple of the roadies keeping an eye on me. When I caught them at it, they just turned away. I had the feeling that even though I here doing a job as well, writing it all up, they still saw me as the girl. They thought I was only there because that’s what the band girlfriends did. The girlfriends brought beer, they held things, they found wallets, they watched the men in adoration. I did have the last one down, I thought.
But things had changed, were changing. And even though there were still plenty of women out there ready to be picked up and taken advantage of in exchange for sex with a famous, or even not so famous musician, that really wasn’t me. Not really. After all, I’d spent a lot of time, back in the day, trying to convince people that I was actually listening to the music. There were a few times I’d been severely disappointed by someone I’d been able to meet, who wanted one version of woman. On the other hand, it took such incredible devotion and dedication to get anywhere, to put something out there for the critics and fools to jump on, that you had to cut them some slack. Just because someone was an artist didn’t make them a saint, sadly. Realistically. But there were a lot of fools out there.
Tristan was very different. I thought of the way he had acted with that shy young woman. His sense of compassion, of connection, was incredibly strong. I watched him as he got the band to go through the last song of the encore one more time before finally calling it quits, and letting everyone relax before the show. He was a perfectionist, but the rare kind who made himself work too, fighting off his own inner brutal criticism to try and reach something transcendent. He was flawed—obviously. When he threw an arm around AC, and squeezed him tight, his easy smile lighting up the stage, I already knew I’d keep his secrets forever. Tristan was something special. An artist, strong enough to know the depths of his own heart, and brave enough to sink into that darkness. And come back.
Because the tour was off to a good start, and to celebrate the unexpected nomination, Tristan had told James to organize a dinner after the show somewhere different than the hotel dining room, or the inevitable catering in another backstage room. He had been looking forward to coming to Minneapolis, and happy that we were playing First Avenue. And he was doing the DJ set there later tonight as well, which he thought would be fun. It was one of those places in rock history. Tristan thought Prince was a genius, and deeply admired his determination to carry on, to stand up for what he believed in, to follow his own vision even when people and the record company said, no, too much, not right, won’t sell. Perseverance. To keep going and follow your own path, despite the odds.
The last time I’d spoken to Dave, I’d mentioned that it might be good to go out to Paisley Park, get some comments from Tristan on the legacy and continuing legend that was Prince. Dave offered to make some calls. But Tristan had shut it down completely, saying Prince probably didn’t know who the hell he was, and he wasn’t going to make a legend like that think that he was trading on his name to get publicity for the tour. Dave tried to talk to me, told me to mention it again, which I did, because I thought maybe Tristan was being a little too careful. But he was adamant. He wouldn’t do it. On his own time, maybe. Pr
ince didn’t need his shit. He’d maybe try to meet him at a concert. Someday. And so on.
So here we all were, at the restaurant, instead of getting a tour of Paisley Park. I watched Tristan chat to everyone, trade jokes with drum and bass, as he had started to call Pete and Jack, tell them not to drink too much, his arm casually thrown around the back of AC’s chair. AC always sat next to him now. I was on the other side. Especially after what I’d seen in Chicago, it made sense. They had this indelible bond, and it was clear to anyone with the eyes to see. AC really was a kind of fragile soul, quick to react, his emotions scratched across his face, a second later hidden, his dark stare into the distance, the open wound flushed out later with a bottle of wine. Unfortunately, all the wine seemed to do was sew up the top, and leave a big gaping hole underneath. Tristan seemed to know this, and once he realized that I wasn’t going to come between him and his friend, gravitated instinctively towards AC when he was hurting, and finally, as he had done for me, made it clear in a number of ways that AC was under his protection, and to hurt him was to risk seeing Tristan at his worst.
So I wasn’t expecting anything but a nice dinner, a couple of glasses of wine and some of Minneapolis’ best cooking. Everything seemed calm, Tristan and AC sitting side by side, the focal point despite the round table, me next to Tristan, facing the drummer and bassist, James next to the drummer, and the PR person from the record company who had flown out to see the band, sitting on my right. The food was really good, and everybody seemed relaxed and happy. The show had gone well and the Blondie cover had received a rapturous reception. AC was coming up with a list of potential covers and singing pieces of them in a ridiculous voice. Tristan was cracking up. I was half listening to the PR person, Annie, talk to me about the response rate to the tour blog, and the tracking numbers they were getting from the new followers, and how surprising it was that the numbers held steady across various age groups. I had just been thinking about how things were changing. That considering you now had a few generations of people who had been listening to rock music their entire lives, it wasn’t that surprising. It was almost as if the record companies were acting like the parents from 30 or 40 years ago, claiming you’d grow out of it, surprised when you didn’t. Maybe. I was just telling her that it might be better if the companies didn’t act as though the entire market was born in the 21st century, when we both stopped.
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