by Mercy Brown
“What the hell did you tell Jason?” he demands, and oh my God, he’s getting an earful from me now. “Did you tell him I’m quitting?”
“What did you tell him?” I shoot back. “That you’ll go be a fucking poser in the Pumps? Can’t you commit to anyone? Anything?”
“Of course I didn’t tell him that,” Cole says. “Get serious.”
“He says you’re taking some time to think it over.”
“And you fucking believe him?”
“With everything else you’ve lied about, why wouldn’t I?”
Cole gets so angry his face turns red and he stalks across the room, swearing until he reaches the door, and I think he’s about to leave. Then he turns to face me and I flinch, but fuck if I’m letting him see me afraid—I got good at this game long ago when my mother used to play it with me. I tighten my jaw, fold my arms across my chest.
“How much have you had to drink?” I accuse.
“Fuck you,” he says, pointing at me. “And fuck Jason, too. Fuck that imaginary world you people operate in. You want to judge me? Call me a liar?” He narrows his eyes at me and goes on. “Oh, how nice the view must be up there from that high fucking horse of yours. How sweet, knowing that when your little rock ’n’ roll fantasy goes down in flames, you’ve got the nice, soft cushion of Daddy’s bank account to land on. Some of us don’t have that luxury, you know.”
“You fucking bastard,” I say. My entire body is shaking with rage. No way am I talking to him when he’s in this state. “Get out of my way.”
Cole steps to the side and stretches his arm out as if ushering me through the door. I march past him and turn to say something else when the phone rings. We both look over at it, annoyed.
“You know,” I say, “if you’re so unhappy about quitting the band to get a job, then go join the Pumps. You’ll have plenty of money to pay for Rutgers then.”
“I’d rather pump shit from sewers all day,” he practically spits.
“Then shut the fuck up. The worst thing you can do is quit Soft so you can send your sister to college, and then be a pussy about it.”
He wants to explode, I can tell. He clenches his fists at his sides like all he wants to do is break something—probably me. His face is so red now I almost worry about his blood pressure. But I can only imagine what the hell he’s about to say, because Misty’s answering machine picks up.
“Hello?” a girl’s voice says. “I was told that I could find Cole McCormack at this number. This is his sister and I’m sorry to call so many times, but I have an emergency and I’m trying to reach him . . .”
Cole dives for the phone and manages to pick it up before she hangs up.
“Claire, it’s me, I’m right here,” he says, and he sure doesn’t sound drunk or angry now. He sounds just this side of panicked.
Everything I’d been thinking about disappears as I focus on his end of the conversation: mother, hospital, doctors, trouble breathing. He fumbles nervously, searching for something to write with. I pull a pen out of my pocket and hand him a piece of paper from the desk drawer. He takes it and writes down the number of a hospital room and another phone number. When he hangs up, he looks pale and exhausted.
“I have to go home,” he says.
“I know,” I say, my heart racing as I try to appear calm.
“It’s my mom—her asthma,” he says. “She was at work and had a bad attack. One of her coworkers found her and she couldn’t breathe.” Cole has to stop talking to collect himself, he’s so upset.
“Where is she?”
“Hackensack Medical Center,” he says. “I’m not sure for how long. Definitely tonight for some tests. Claire found out at the ER that she hasn’t been taking her medication to control it. She probably couldn’t afford it and never told us. She doesn’t have any health insurance.” When he says that, he looks like he’s going to be sick.
“I’ll get the others so we can figure out how to get you home,” I say, and then I go and rally Joey, Travis, and Emmylou to let them know what’s going on. We huddle by the gear stack in the corner of the dining room, dejected, sick, stressed out. The lowest point of the trip, by far.
“I’ll get some coffee in me and we’ll hit the road,” Travis says. “We can pack up and be out of here in an hour.”
“But what about the tour?” Cole says. “We’ve got nine shows left to play.”
I hate to seem cold, but I agree. If we cancel nine shows with so little notice, it’s going to be impossible to book these venues again, and we need to be back out here in the spring. And it’s not every day a band at this level gets a shot at Matador. I’m truly sorry Cole is having a family crisis, but Soft has to play Maxwell’s in a week, and they have to kill it. They need to play these shows.
“I’ll fill in for Cole,” I say, and everyone stares at me, not sure how to react. “We can put him on a bus home tonight, and I’ll spend tomorrow drilling the set. It’ll be fine.”
“Seriously?” Cole asks. “You’d do that?”
“Of course I would,” I say.
“But you said playing in front of people makes you vomit,” he says.
I glare at him, because he doesn’t need to be letting the world know that right now, does he? It’s damned embarrassing, and I don’t want the band getting anxious that I can’t manage his parts. Anxious bands do not get record deals with Matador.
“Sonia,” Emmy says. “You really think you can learn the whole set by tomorrow night?”
“She probably already knows it,” Cole says before I can answer. “That’s not the issue. But there’s something else we need to talk about—”
“Cole, I need to talk to you,” I say. “Now. Alone.”
“Everybody out,” Joey says, ushering Travis and Emmy through the door, giving us a concerned look over his shoulder as they leave. Cole crosses his arms defensively, ready to argue.
“What?”
“Cole, you can’t quit before you play Maxwell’s,” I say. “You have to play that show.”
“I can’t play that show,” he says.
“Yes, you can,” I say. “It’s a week away and it’s practically next door to your mother’s house. You can make it.”
“Sonia, I have more important things to worry about right now than playing rock star!”
Even with all the other shit on Cole’s plate, I’m upset that he, of all people, would belittle what we’re trying to accomplish out here. If he’s jumping ship, so be it. That doesn’t give him the right to fuck it up for everyone else.
“Look, by the time you finish playing that Maxwell’s set, it’ll be fine for you to quit. They’ll just be relieved they don’t have to fire you because I’m a lot better, anyway.”
Yes, I do stoop to goading him. Whatever it takes. And he’s absolutely floored when I say that, so mission accomplished.
“Then you play Maxwell’s,” he says, basically doubling down.
“But it won’t be the same,” I argue. “It’s Maxwell’s, Cole. It’s our homecoming and people might be there, you know? You want Soft to have a shot if there are important people there, don’t you?”
“What important people?” His eyes narrow as he questions me.
“We’ve gotten a lot of buzz off this trip, and it’s Maxwell’s, so you never know who might show up. We ran into Alice Cooper in Myrtle Beach, didn’t we?”
I guess he suspects there’s more I’m not saying, but he doesn’t push it. He’s quiet as he studies me, and I silently beg him, Please, Cole. Please, please, please don’t be a dick about this.
“Fine,” he finally says. “I won’t tell the others I’m quitting until after Maxwell’s. But I can’t promise I can play that show. I have no idea what I’m walking into when I get home.”
“Fair enough,” I say.
“And you’d better play so well th
is week that they forget I was ever in the band.”
“I can do that.”
“I’m sure you can,” he agrees. “I just don’t believe you want to.”
“We worked our asses off for this tour,” I say. “And I’m not going to let it fall apart now.”
He nods his head, looking less angry now. Then he walks over, gets his bass out of the case, and holds it in his hands for several minutes, just looking at it before he brings it to me. I hold it in my arms, put my fingers against the strings, wrap my left hand around the neck, so much thicker and flatter than my cello. He stands right in front of me, and it hurts to have him so near.
“Let me hear you play ‘Loud,’” he says, pulling a pick out of his pocket.
That’s the easiest one, because it’s my favorite. I play it all the way through, start to finish. No problem. He points out where the distortion comes in, the reverb pedal. Now I play “Fire in the Empire,” start to finish. I play “Fake Tan.” He nods his approval.
“You have one hell of an ear, Sunny,” he says.
I nod, because this is true. And I’m really glad I do right now, because it’s going to come in handy.
“Look,” he says, his tone more serious. “I’m sorry for what I said earlier. I was angry and out of line. I never meant to hurt you, all right?”
“Then why didn’t you just tell me the truth?”
“Because I didn’t want to face the truth,” he says. “But it wasn’t fair to you, letting you think I’m someone I’m not. And I’m sorry for that.”
I can’t tell him it’s all right, because it’s not all right. It fucking sucks. And he sucks for leading me on this way. I have no idea what to say, so I just stare at the floor.
“Take care of her, okay?” he says, running his hand along the bass. “She’s been good to me.”
“I’ll give her back shipshape.”
“Nah,” he says. “She’s all yours now. Treat her right and she’ll see you through those sets in one piece. Even Maxwell’s.”
“But . . .”
Then Cole turns and walks away before I can say another word.
Chapter Eighteen
Sonia
Friday, August 25, 1995
Caledonia Lounge, Athens, GA
With Crown the Robin and Fire Setters Anonymous
Soft Tour—Day 16
The guttural, retching sound of a dying animal echoed off the cold, white tiles. It was fifteen minutes before my Juilliard audition, and I was on my knees in the ladies’ room, heaving my lunch into the toilet. My mother stood outside the stall, fumbling in her purse for my Valium, but there was no way I could manage the audition if I took that.
“Maybe just a half,” she said.
“I’m not taking it,” I said.
I got up, walked out, washed my face in the sink. I took a hard look at my red eyes in the mirror. It was the most important day of my life. I did know it, and would have known it even if my mother hadn’t reminded me of it twenty times an hour, hadn’t recounted her own audition for, and acceptance to, and graduation from Juilliard.
“Look, Sonia,” my mother said, trying to take a more supportive approach. “It’s okay that you’re not as good as I was at your age. I was a special case. You got an audition, right? It’s difficult enough to get in—don’t sabotage yourself.”
“You really think I can’t get in?” My lip twitched.
“I didn’t say that,” she said.
Maybe she knew if she pissed me off enough, I would go out there and kick ass. And I did. I blew that audition out of the water. My Pezzo Capriccioso even brought my mother to tears. But it took so much out of me I had to sleep in the car on the way home. It did get me into Juilliard, though. Because I wasn’t as good as my mother was at eighteen.
I was better.
That’s what I’m telling myself now as I hork my grilled cheese into the toilet at the Caledonia Lounge, minutes before I have to get on stage to play bass for Soft. My head is spinning and I feel like I can’t breathe. I’m hoping it’s going to pass, and I’m just trying to think about my happy place, and not think about my fucking mother or Cole or anything else that’s got my stomach in knots.
“Sunny?” Emmylou says, coming in. I retch again at the sound of her voice, completely humiliated. “Oh my God, Cole was serious? You really do throw up when you have to perform?”
“I’m fine,” I say. I wipe my mouth again with a piece of toilet paper and get up off the floor. When I walk out of the stall, Emmy is leaning against the sinks, looking worried.
“I can play the set, no problem,” I say.
“I know. I’ve been hearing you play it all day long. But do you actually want to play it?”
No, I think. I really, really don’t. If I wanted to play bass in a band, I would play bass in a band. I want to manage a band, not play in one. But I guess I’m learning that there are times when being part of a band means you just do what has to be done, even if it’s not exactly what you want.
“Sunny, you don’t have to do this,” Emmy says. “Really.”
“I can do it,” I insist. “Come on, it’s my big chance to play rock star.”
She gives me a hug.
“Okay, look. This is indie rock, so for your first set, you can get away with putting your back to the crowd and keeping your eyes on Joey, all right? Just like we practiced at Misty’s. If you get lost, look at Joey and he’ll get you back on track. If you get nervous, look at the floor. The crowd isn’t even there.”
***
She wasn’t kidding. The crowd literally isn’t even here. I’ve been to funerals more upbeat than this empty room at the Caledonia. I mean, Crown the Robin are playing cards at the damn bar while we play, not even pretending to pay attention. I can’t remember if Stars on the Floor have ever played such a shitty Friday night anywhere.
Why is this club so empty on a Friday night? The fucking Pumps, that’s why. The Pumps are playing the 40 Watt, literally right around the block. That place had a line that went clear back to Atlanta tonight. Sold out. Everybody from last night’s party is there. Meanwhile, we’re in this great room playing to Crown the Robin and two bartenders. I guess since it’s our first set without Cole, it’s better that it’s empty. And every time I think of Cole, which is the entire time I’m up here in his place, my stomach knots with anger.
When I manage to look over at Travis and Emmylou, they’re playing like there are five hundred people out there—doesn’t even matter to them. They don’t feel anxious or demoralized like I do. That’s why they’re the musicians and I’m the manager. They’re happy when they make music come out of their amplifiers, no matter what the hell else is going on around them. The club could be flooding and they wouldn’t care.
I do manage to play all the notes of the songs okay, but fucking hell, keeping up with the pedal changes adds a whole new layer of confusion. I miss many of them and the songs don’t sound the same as when Cole plays them. These guys don’t play with any charts, so there are none for me to follow. Hell, how do they even do that? How do they keep all that information in their heads?
When we finish the set, I’m so rattled by how much I really don’t know about playing electric bass. Cole makes it look so damn easy, that bastard. I hate that I have a whole new level of respect for what he does up here night after night. Yes, I can figure out where my hands go on the bass, and yeah, it’s got some very serious mojo going on with it. In rock they call it “butter” when a guitar plays like this. The strings melt right in your hands. But my hands aren’t Cole’s hands. They are smaller, softer. I’ll get my calluses but I’ll pay dearly for them. The painful blister forming on my index finger at the end of the night is the first installment, and I’m not sure I packed enough Band-Aids to get me through the week.
“Don’t use Band-Aids,” Travis warns. “You need the ca
lluses. I know it hurts but you just have to keep playing.”
“You did all right,” Joey says. “Seriously, Sonia, for no actual practicing, that was phenomenal.”
I was practicing all day, I think, but I don’t say it.
“You definitely know the set,” Emmy encourages. “You’ll get those pedal changes in a day or two.”
They’re working so hard to make me feel better, but all I can think about is Maxwell’s, and how much better I’ll need to be to pull that show off if I have to play for Matador. Maybe I should cancel.
But no, fuck that. If I can get into Juilliard, I can get Soft signed to Matador, damn it.
I have to.
***
“Oh my God, what the fuck is that smell?” Emmy says when we open the van door the next afternoon to make the drive up to Charlotte.
“It smells like someone took a shit that came to life and then died, and then while dead took another shit, and then died again,” Joey says. “Shit and death, that’s pretty much what I’m smelling.”
“I think it’s coming from the door,” Travis says.
Trap, being the god of dipsticks and wrenches, decides to whip his toolbox out before we get on the road, and he’s got the driver’s door panel off in two minutes. There, behind the inside panel, we discover something that smells even more like shit and death, only now with the distinct essence of rotting fish, too.
In fact, it is rotting fish.
“I think this was a sandwich,” Travis says, holding it with a plastic shopping bag.
“Yeah, tuna on rye, to be exact,” Anton, who has just appeared out here in the driveway all of a sudden, says, nodding. “I lost that about two weeks ago. Thanks for finding it for me.”
“But how . . . ?” I ask.
“You dick!” Travis snaps and lunges at him. Emmy shrieks because I think he’s going to shove the sandwich right down Anton’s throat, but Anton manages to outrun him and he locks himself in the Ram van. Travis leans against it, sweating in the ninety-degree heat.
