by Dish Tillman
Zee grabbed her by the arm. “Please, I just need you to stick with me till I meet Shay Dayton, then you can leave. I promise.”
Loni looked around at the empty, yawning neighborhood. Battered chain-link fences, a darkened strip mall, and a sinister-looking Laundromat were all she could make out. “Yes, I’m sure I can just come back down here and hail a cab, no problem,” she said. “That will totally happen.”
“Call ahead for one. Don’t be such a baby.”
“Me?” Loni laughed. “You’re the one who’s afraid to go to a party alone.”
“I told you,” she said, leading Loni into the building. “I’m not afraid. I just don’t want Lockwood to think I’m there for him.”
“Then you shouldn’t have flirted with him in the first place.”
They crossed the lobby toward the inner door. “I didn’t ‘flirt’ with him. Well…not per se. It was sort of pseudo-flirting. And anyway, if I didn’t, I’d never have gotten this chance to meet Shay Dayton. This party is only for the top tier of Underlings.”
The inner door resisted a bit, until Zee gave it a yank. “So, you used one guy to get to another,” Loni said, shaking her head. “Feminism marches on.”
They started up the stairs. “I’m sure he didn’t really take it seriously,” Zee said, barely audible over the squeaking of the steps. “I’m sure he knew it was just a little game.”
“Of course. Guys always thoroughly understand what women mean when they come on to them.”
“I don’t know why you’re being so horrible to me.”
“Because you’ve dragged me to this war zone of a neighborhood to chase after some preening windbag of a rock star.”
“Oh, you filthy bitch!” she said shrilly, then dropped her tone so as not to draw anyone out of the doors they passed on each floor. “Shay Dayton is the voice of his generation, and Overlords is the next big thing in music!”
“You could get a job writing their press releases.”
“You just watch. This is literally my last chance to get to meet him before he’s a celebrity. By the time they get back they’ll be superstars and will have whole teams of people keeping fans away from them.”
“I wish they had a team or two right now,” Loni muttered, but it was too late in any case. They were on the fourth floor, and she could already hear the music, chatter, and clamor seeping out from Apartment 414.
They found the door hanging ajar, so Zee gave it a little push and it swung open.
They were immediately hit by a wave of smells: alcohol, cigarette smoke, perfume, fried food. A little pocket of warmth tumbled out to envelop them.
People were strewn everywhere, lounging on couches, poured into armchairs, seated cross-legged on the floor, or—Loni noted with distaste—secluded in corners, in pairs, making out. Everyone was engaged in either earnest chatter or languorous appreciation of the music, which, Loni was grateful to note, was an old Moody Blues album. She didn’t think she could take any more Overlords tonight.
The lead guitarist greeted them at the door. The shyness Loni had noted earlier seemed to have fully evaporated in the afterglow of the show. “Hey, ladies,” he said with a wide grin, “welcome to my pad. I’m Baby.”
“Baby Cleveland, I know!” Zee blurted, as if it were the answer she had to give in order to get to heaven. “We were at the show! You guys rocked!”
He gave them a courtly little bow, then gestured for them to come in. “Enter my inner sanctum,” he said, “and partake of anything you find therein. Just please note, I promise you joy, but I cannot promise you clean.”
A moment later, Lockwood Mott noticed them. He left the pale-looking girl he’d been talking to and came over to greet them. “You made it!” he blared. “Come on in!” And before they could obey, he grabbed Zee and pulled her into a bear hug and gave her a large, wet kiss, the body language of which was oh so very this-is-my-lady.
From within his burly arms, Zee smiled at Loni, as though not at all concerned, but her panicked eyes told the exact opposite story.
When he finally released her, Zee took a moment to pop all her limbs back in their sockets, then turned and said, “This is my friend Loni.”
“Welcome, friend Loni,” said Lockwood, shaking her hand with uncalled-for vigor. “Come on, let’s get you fräuleins some adult beverages!”
He grabbed Zee’s hand and pulled her after him. Zee shot Loni a pleading look, so Loni felt compelled to follow.
She found herself stepping gingerly over sprawled-out partygoers, propped up on their elbows or draped over throw pillows—or over one another—drinking liquids of various strange hues: milky green, sky blue, crimson. She waved away acrid smoke, screwed up her nose, and managed to knock only one glass out of someone’s hand. To be fair, the guy was waving it around as he told a very animated story, but she apologized quickly and moved on before he could react.
She could see the kitchen at the far end of the apartment and presumed that was where the drinks must be. Despite herself she felt she could use one—just one—to help quell the feelings of not-belonging and not-wanting-to-belong that were now gripping her like a too-tight sweater. She really ought to be used to those now. She’d felt this way ever since grade school. Whenever people gathered together to hang out, laugh, and relax in their own company, something inside her got a little more starched, a little more rigid, and she’d end up standing off to one side, all by her lonesome, longing to be back home with a book.
They’d come tantalizingly close to the kitchen, where bright fluorescent light shone like a miner’s headlamp in the dark apartment, when Lockwood Mott suddenly pulled Zee over to a small circle of bearded, sullen musician-types and hugged her to him so hard that her eyes seemed to bulge out. “This is the girl I was telling you about,” he said. “This is the fabulous Zee.” And the musician-types looked at Zee as though not 100 percent convinced of her fabulousness—or maybe they were just jealous of Lockwood for scoring such a hot number when they were all stag—but either way, it was clear Lockwood had completely forgotten Loni’s existence. And even though she would much rather be forgotten than drawn into that little scenario, something about it still stung. Rather than stand around awkwardly outside the circle, she continued to the kitchen on her own. She could feel Zee’s eyes casting after her, like lassos trying to draw her back.
The kitchen was so bright that Loni couldn’t avoid seeing what a complete dump it was. There were cans and bottles and fast-food boxes piled everywhere. A few hipsters lingered among the debris, chatting in cool, muted tones. Something about Loni’s jagged energy must have made them uncomfortable, because they soon ambled back out to the party, leaving her alone.
She took a beer from the refrigerator, popped it open, and had a sip. Her face contorted as it went down; she really didn’t like beer. Too sour. She was a fine wine girl, and champagne was her favorite. But it was silly to think of champagne in a place like this.
She leaned back against the kitchen counter as she drank, slowly and without pleasure. She wondered how much longer she had to stay. She’d promised not to leave until Zee had met the infamous Shay Dayton, but that could be a good, long while. It was clear Lockwood Mott wasn’t going to let her out of his sight—hell, out of his grip—any time soon.
She sighed. And she wondered, once again, what it was about rock front men that made girls like Zee dissolve into puddles of romantic sap. She herself had been relatively unmoved at the Overlords concert, even as Zee wailed and writhed and moaned at the foot of the stage. The music hadn’t been bad, really. The songs were very well constructed, and some of them had a complex harmonic structure. Shay Dayton’s voice was fine, though he appeared not to know how best to use it. But the lyrics still bothered her. So simplistic—she might even say pandering. And the way he had strutted across the stage—thrusting himself at the audience like he was the yummiest dessert anyone would ever taste—had been mortifying.
Of course, Loni had been the only one in the audi
torium who appeared to think so. Maybe the problem was with her. She was willing to consider it. But only because she was fairly certain she could convince herself otherwise.
She was turning the issue over in her head when someone entered the kitchen—lean and muscled, in a threadbare T-shirt and ruined jeans, with dark hair tumbling down around his shoulders—and Loni realized, almost matter-of-factly, that it was Shay Dayton.
She blushed guiltily, as though she’d been caught at something, but of course the singer couldn’t have any idea she’d just been thinking about him.
She turned away from him and, pretending not to have recognized him, leaned against the refrigerator. With great concentration she took out her phone and checked her e-mail.
But this wall of private business meant nothing to Shay Dayton, who leaped right over it. “Hey,” he said.
She looked up at him, as though seeing him for the first time. “Oh. Hey.” She looked back at her phone.
He extended his hand. “I saw you come in,” he said. “I’m Shay.”
She felt a little twinge of pleasure at this. It was nice that he was letting her pretend she didn’t know who he was. She shook his hand and said, “I’m Loni.”
“Welcome, Loni.” He leaned against the butcher-block table that had clearly made its way there from IKEA.
They stood staring at each other for a moment. Loni began to feel uncomfortable. What was going on here? Was he coming on to her? Was her pose of ignorance of who he was some kind of challenge for him?
She was just starting to get a little irritated—and a little panicky, too, if she was honest about it—when he gestured past her and said, “Sorry, I just need to get in there.”
“Oh,” she said, suddenly embarrassed. She moved away from the fridge. “Sorry.”
“No worries,” he said, opening its door now that Loni had stepped aside. He bent over and looked inside. “Jesus, what the hell is going on in here?”
She peered in after him and said, “Whoa.” The shelves were packed—beer bottles, jars of pickles, mayonnaise, five different kinds of mustard, Worcestershire sauce, capers, aromatic bitters. “Doesn’t he ever throw anything away?”
Shay crouched down and started rooting around inside. “This is kind of amazing. He’s got eight thousand things in here, and not a single goddamn thing to eat.”
Loni crouched down next to him. “What are you looking for?”
“Eggs,” he said, moving aside an ancient-looking box of Arm & Hammer baking soda.
Loni blinked. “Eggs…?”
He chuckled and looked up at her. “Someone dared Trina—our rhythm guitarist—to see how many raw eggs she could eat before she ralphed ’em up. She’s already downed half a dozen and isn’t slowing down. They sent me for another carton. It’s all going down in the bedroom, if you’re interested.”
“I am the opposite of interested,” she said.
He laughed, and said, “Yeah, I get that.”
At that moment Baby walked in, and Shay stood up. “Hey, dude,” he said, “you got any more eggs? Trina’s working a bet.”
Baby thought a moment, then said, “I think I got some pickled eggs somewhere. Probably way past code. I think I bought them in, like, 2008.”
Shay looked at Loni, who looked back. Then she laughed and said, “Don’t you dare.”
He shrugged. “She’s just going to throw them up anyway.”
“I want no part of this.”
By this time Baby was on a stool, rummaging around in a cabinet above his stove. “Here they are,” he said, taking down a glass jar from deep within. He stepped down and looked at it, then scowled. “I don’t like their color.”
Shay looked at Loni, and laughed. “All right, you win. I can’t.”
“I’ll take them to her,” Baby said. “She should at least do the sniff test first.”
He left the kitchen, leaving Shay and Loni alone together. Shay reopened the refrigerator, took out a beer, and pried off its cap.
“Cheers,” he said.
“Cheers right back,” she replied, clunking her bottle against his. She considered adding, And best of luck on your tour, but decided against it. She didn’t want to appear to be an Underling.
“Were you at the show tonight?” he asked, as if reading her mind.
“What show?” she asked, casually tossing back her hair.
He smiled at this, and she realized she was trying too hard to be nonchalant.
“The Bolshoi Ballet at the Civic Center,” he said. “Heard they were phenom.”
She pursed her lips to keep from smiling. “Very droll. Yes, I was at your show.” Then she added, “A friend took me,” to make it clear it hadn’t been her idea.
“Oh, good,” he said. “This party’s kind of a thank-you for our local fans. Just want to make sure we don’t have any freeloaders crashing.”
She almost gasped. “Do I look like a freeloader?”
“The best freeloaders don’t,” he said, smiling.
She put down her beer and slung her purse higher up on her shoulder. “Well, if you have any doubt, I can always put your mind at rest by leaving.”
He raised a hand to calm her. “No, no. I don’t want that. I was just joking.”
The tension had ratcheted up rather suddenly, and Loni was aware that she was pretending to be offended more than she felt any actual offense. She had to wonder why she was doing that—and how she could manage to scale it back without looking like some kind of idiot.
Fortunately, at that moment Trina, the rhythm guitarist, ran past the kitchen, clutching her mouth, followed by a quartet of whooping guys. Baby entered the kitchen a moment later, screwing the top back on the pickled eggs, and said, in a completely casual voice, “Yeah, turns out these are no good,” before dropping the jar in the garbage.
When he turned around and left again, the tension was broken. Shay and Loni laughed together, long and hard.
When the moment subsided, each took a swig of beer. Then Shay said, “So you’re not a fan, then.”
She blushed again. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t say anything. That’s how I can tell.” He smiled again, and she felt it harder and harder to resist that smile. Its complete unself-consciousness was winning her over. “Most fans make fools of themselves when I walk in a room. They gush and babble on and on and keep touching me. It can be very embarrassing.” He gave her a brief, appreciative nod. “This is kinda cool.”
She tossed back her hair again, like it was a whip she was using to keep him at arm’s length. She didn’t like the way he was forging a little society of two with her. She suspected this was a trick he pulled on a lot of people—he was simply too smooth at it.
“Well, you won’t get that from me,” she said boldly, determined not to let him think he had any power over her. “I mean, you sing well enough, but that’s all you do. Any good rock-and-roll front man plays an instrument, too.”
“Mick Jagger,” he said with a grin. “Robert Plant. Roger Daltrey. Jim Morrison.”
Apparently he’d been hit with that criticism before. “The exceptions that prove the rule,” she said, and she knew it was lame even as it came out of her mouth. “And your lyrics,” she added, eager to change the subject.
“What about my lyrics?” he said, a touch defensively.
Loni had said, “your lyrics,” meaning the band’s lyrics; but by the way he responded, it was clear they were really his lyrics.
“Well,” she said, not quite as eager to press her point now but too far in to withdraw, “they’re a little…conventional. First love, lost love, unrequited love, blah blah blah.” She made a face.
“What’s wrong with love?” he asked, utterly sincere.
She blushed again and wished she could stop doing that. “Nothing’s wrong with love. It’s the way you position it. It’s so…shopping mall.”
He scowled. “I think you’re being a little hard on me. I have to keep the market in mind, you know.
I have to sell CDs, you know. I have to sell downloads.”
“But that’s not rock-and-roll! Rock isn’t about the market. You should be ashamed, selling out your talent that way.”
It was his turn to go red in the face—though seemingly from anger, not embarrassment. “That’s an interesting thing to say,” he said between clenched teeth, “while you’re eating our food and drinking our booze. All paid for by my ‘selling out.’ ”
“I haven’t eaten any of your food,” she said with a sneer. “And this is cheap beer, and I don’t want it anyway.” She put it down.
“What do you want?” he asked, and it was not entirely a friendly question.
She glared at him. “I want rock to be what it was meant to be. It’s revolutionary. An art form. It has the capacity to change the world. In fact it did change the world. All those people you mentioned, Jagger, Plant, Morrison. They didn’t sit around fretting about the market. They tapped into the subculture of the great poetic visionaries. They studied William Blake, they learned to—”
“ ‘Hear the voice of the Bard, who present, past and future sees,’ ” he said, interrupting her, “ ‘whose ears have heard the Holy Word that walk’d among the ancient trees…calling the lapsèd soul, and weeping in the evening dew, that might control the starry pole and fallen, fallen light renew!’ ”
She stared at him, unable for a moment to respond. She hadn’t expected him to throw Blake back at her like that. It completely derailed her rant. And it did something more. It made her feel…what? What was that small vibration, at the very base of her spine…?
Before she could put her finger on it, Zee burst into the kitchen, followed closely by Lockwood Mott, who said, “Oh, hey, Shay, there you are—got a sweet thing here just dying to meet y—”
Before he could even finish the sentence, Zee hurled herself at the singer. “Oh, my God, Shaaay,” she wailed, “I can’t believed I’m meeting you, ohmigawd, I am your total biggest fan I swear I listen to Grief Bacon constantly I know every song by heart I was at the concert tonight singing along with everything of course not like you because your voice is incredible and you are a god…”
