by Leslie Wells
Jack was already asleep, an arm flung over his eyes. I went to the living room and looked around. He’d definitely changed clothes in here; several times, by the looks of things. I noticed a few neat stacks of papers on a table. Recognizing Mary Jo’s handiwork, I sat on the sofa and examined some piles of what looked like fan mail. Sure enough, loopy schoolgirls’ love notes were mixed with women’s monogrammed stationery, many sprayed with perfume.
I dropped the notes and picked up stapled sheets of The Floor’s itinerary. It turned out they’d been here for two nights instead of one. I looked at the list of cities: Minneapolis, Los Angeles, Cleveland, Houston, Phoenix…They were criss-crossing the country, zig-zagging back and forth. I wondered why they didn’t go in a direct route from West Coast to East, but there must be some method to the bookings that escaped a straight-line logic.
I replaced the papers and went to the little fridge, getting out a lukewarm can of beer. Popping the tab, I sat on the couch and picked up the first of a stack of newspapers. The one on top was folded open to an interior column. A photograph caught my eye. Right in the middle of the page, there seemed to be a familiar face. Jack, appearing completely out of it, was squeezed up against a glamorous-looking blonde in a low-cut dress. She had her arm around his neck, and her mouth was open in a vicious laugh. God, is she sitting in his lap? It was hard to tell, but I could see that her hand was tucked inside his open shirt. The caption read: Jack Kipling relaxes with actress Marissa Pfund after The Floor’s sold-out L.A. concert.
Snatching up the paper, I went into the bedroom. I started to shake Jack awake and demand to know what he’d been doing with this actress, whose name I recognized from a stray comment Patrick had once made. Jack was now lying on his stomach, his silky eyelashes brushing high cheekbones, thick hair draping his face. With the big concert just a few hours away, I decided to let him finish his nap.
I lay back on the pillow next to him and stared up at the ceiling. A long crack in one corner of the mirror slanted the room into separate refractions, making twins of our image and creating four people in the bed. Thinking about the neatly stacked papers, I realized that obviously Mary Jo had arranged them, knowing I was arriving today. Maybe this was some kind of setup on her part. Perhaps the thing to do was to play it cool and see what Jack said before I confronted him; I knew he reacted badly when cornered. Or maybe I should just pack my toothbrush and catch the next flight out.
I gazed up at the crazed halves of the mirror, each revealing a different angle of my wasted boyfriend. I wondered which account I would believe: his version, or that of the photograph. One of them had to be a complete illusion.
Jack didn’t wake up until the phone began ringing insistently an hour later. He cracked one eye and said in a parched whisper, “Can you get it?”
I reached over him for the receiver. “The limo’s leaving in forty-five minutes,” came Mary Jo’s tart voice. “Did you finally get some sleep?”
“This is Julia. Jack just woke up.” I sat upright, the cord stretched across Jack’s chest.
“Oh. He told me you were getting in today.” Her flat tone expressed a total lack of interest. I’d hoped we could put aside our unfriendly history and declare a truce during the tour, but that was being too optimistic.
“I got here a while ago. Do you want to talk to Jack?” I asked.
“Just make sure he’s downstairs in half an hour. Has he picked his stage outfit yet?”
“I have no idea. I’ll see to it that he’s ready,” I said.
“You do that.”
She was about to hang up, but I wasn’t going to let her off that easily. “I see the band’s getting good coverage in the local papers,” I said quickly.
I could practically hear her smirk. “They always do. The reporters got some nice shots, didn’t they?”
Now that I was sure she’d planted it there, I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of acting upset. “Yes, I like seeing all the press. Although the groupies seem so pathetic. I feel sorry for them, in a way.”
“Why is that?” Mary Jo replied in a frigid tone.
I got up and walked around the bed, kicking aside a pair of his jeans. “Because they’ll never get what they want, other than a passing fling. They should give up and focus on someone who’d find them interesting. As opposed to just a convenient way to get off.”
“Some of them are very good at getting what they want,” she said. “Maybe not the groupies, but I’m talking about the band’s more prominent fans. Actresses and models, for instance.”
I felt like wringing her pudgy neck. “Prominent in their own minds, maybe. Anyway, I’ll get Jack out of bed now. He was so happy to see me; we’ve just had a nice long…nap.”
She hung up without saying goodbye.
“What was all that about?” Jack propped himself up on his elbow, and I handed him the newspaper clipping. “Oh. That.” He rubbed his face wearily and dropped it onto the floor.
“Nice picture. I guess that was after the concert in L.A.” I tried to strike a nonchalant tone.
“Must’ve been; I can’t recall.” Jack paused, but I didn’t say anything. “Listen, Julia. They cram you into these things after the show. ‘Oh, take my picture; now let’s get a shot with this one, that one.’ Half the time I don’t even know who it is.”
“Her name’s kind of familiar. Isn’t she the Marissa that Patrick mentioned last summer? The one that stripped in the hotel elevator?”
Jack looked at me. “How do you remember all this stuff?”
I met his gaze. “Certain things stick in my mind.”
“Yeah, she is. But I didn’t do anything with her.” He scratched his chin. “She’s just someone who likes the band. She always makes it to our shows when we’re in town.”
I guessed he could have been crammed into a photo op with this actress. Or he could have hooked up with her for a quick one after the concert, a green-eyed serpent whispered in my ear. But there wasn’t time to pick a fight now. “Well, if you’re going to make it to this show, you’d better get a move on.”
Jack sat up. “We have a few minutes. I’m doing me own face, this tour. I don’t like the new makeup girl; she lays it on too thick.” He grabbed a dopp kit from the table and went into the bathroom. He unzipped the bag, laid out some little brushes and pots of color on the shelf, and peered into the mirror. “Hell, it’s the morning after the night before,” he muttered as I stood in the doorway. “Shades of the living dead. Guess I’ll start by getting the red out.” He dripped eye drops into each pupil, then dabbed a tissue at the excess running down his face.
“Why isn’t Gary doing the makeup?” I mentioned the artist I knew he liked.
Jack frowned. “He’s sick with this weird disease, wasting away to nothing. Mark, Suzanne and I went to see him in the hospital in San Francisco. They think he picked up some virus on a flight. I really hope he’ll be okay.”
“Me too.” Gary had been nice to me when I’d met him backstage last year; I hoped he would recover quickly.
Peering in the mirror, Jack dabbed shadow on his lids with one long finger, then brushed color onto his cheeks. Expertly he added a streak of eyeliner. With his thick dark lashes, he never needed mascara. He turned to me with a campy swish of his hip. “Am I workin’ it, girlfriend?”
I was flooded with lust for my don’t-give-a-damn rock star, who wasn’t afraid to act silly despite being the epitome of cool. “You’re definitely workin’ it. And then some.”
“Here, let me do you.” He flicked the brush over my cheekbones, then lightly ran his finger along the curve of my jaw, setting off sparklers in my abdomen. “Now hold still. I’ll tart you up in no time.” He dipped a finger into one of the pots. I closed my eyes as he spread a thin coat on my lids. When I opened them, the blue of my irises flashed against the iridescent shade.
“Hey, you’re good at this,” I said.
“On our first few tours we didn’t have enough bread to hire anyone, so w
e did our own faces. I’ve always been good at the artwork. Why don’t you pick out a shirt for me?”
From a hanging wardrobe I chose a shimmery electric blue one, in keeping with the eye shadow. I put on a flouncy lavender skirt that I knew he liked.
Jack rummaged in my bag. “Why don’t you wear these?” He withdrew a garter belt and pair of lacy black stockings in a floral pattern; one of his many Christmas gifts.
I sat back in the bed and pulled them on. I guess we’ll have our sexual reunion later, I thought as I put on knee-high boots. Given the mild weather, we didn’t need coats.
We were only a half-hour late to the lobby. Sammy ambled over, his shaggy brown hair brushing the top of his shoulders. “’Bout time you got here.” His soul patch underscored his smile.
“Well, aren’t you the dog’s dinner.” Jack fingered the lapels of Sammy’s shiny green jacket. “Maybe a little flea-bit.”
“Was that a compliment? Hard to tell with these Limeys.” Sammy kissed my cheek. “I had to put on my struttin’ gear.”
“Watch out, ladies of St. Louis; he’s going on the pull. But hang on.” Jack went around behind him and lifted his coattail. “My god, are you wearing Jordache jeans? I thought you retired those.”
“My Calvins are dirty.” Sammy yanked his coat away. “How the hell are you, Julia?”
“I’m good. I just got in a little while ago.”
“You’re a sight for sore eyes. Where’s Mark? He doesn’t know whether to check his ass or scratch his watch,” Sammy said.
“Here they come.” Mark and Suzanne stepped out of the elevators in sunglasses. “In-cognito,” Jack added with a laugh. Mark’s roosterish spiky hair was dyed pink and green, and he wore tight stretchy pants with a chartreuse jacket and no shirt underneath. Suzanne towered over him in a yolk-yellow jumpsuit and see-through heels, her brilliant red hair in striking contrast to the bright eggy color.
Suzanne gave me a big kiss. “I’m so chuffed that you’re here,” she said, her posh pronunciation doing little to hide her Cockney accent. “I’ve been stuck with these barmpots for three bloomin’ weeks. And Patrick’s little twits are getting on me last nerve.”
“It’s great to see you too,” I said as we walked outside. I took a deep breath of fresh air and looked up at the stars, which you never got to see in New York with all the bright lights. A gaggle of young girls rushed forward with autograph books. The guys quickly scribbled in them, then we hurried into the limo and the driver squealed out.
“Whew, who’s wearing the musk?” Jack complained. “Did you douse yourself in it?” he leaned away from Sammy.
“It’s that new deodorant they’re promoting,” Sammy said. “Didn’t your bathroom come stocked with it? The concert tickets have the ad on them: Clover Spray-on. Make her go crazy.”
“‘Make her gag like crazy’ is more like it.” Jack held his nose.
“Yeah, in spite of the great reviews, they’re afraid we’ll stink.” Mark rolled his eyes. “Another one of Patrick’s poxy ideas.”
“If he ever got a good one, it would die of loneliness.” Sammy drew a joint from his pocket and fired it up. “This’ll get you higher’n a Georgia pine,” he said, handing it to me. I passed it to Jack, wanting to retain my wits.
“You’re right not to smoke that Rastafarian stuff,” Suzanne said. “I have some that’s a lot smoother.”
“Weed lite,” Mark commented.
Suzanne made a face. “Yours would knock an elephant for a loop.”
“Julia doesn’t do too well with the maryjane.” Jack waved a cloud away from me.
The driver fiddled with the radio, and Elvis Costello’s “Alison” came on. Mark said, “Hey man, switch stations, okay? Find us some blues.”
“But I love that song,” Suzanne complained.
“Show me one gal that don’t,” Sammy said. “Go figure, a tune about shootin’ your old lady.”
“It’s a chick song, like ‘Stand By Me’. Never met a woman that didn’t love that.” Jack took another hit and passed the joint to Mark.
“Yeah, like ‘Killing Me Softly’.” Mark’s voice strained over his inheld breath. “Or ‘It’s Too Late.’”
“Those are great songs!” Suzanne said.
“Chick tunes.” Sammy shook his head dismissively. “‘Brass in Pocket.’ ‘Roxanne.’ That song about the rollerskate key.”
“Bang a Gong,” Jack added with a smirk.
“I was crazy about that when I was thirteen,” Suzanne said.
“See?” Sammy said. “I bet you liked ‘How Deep Is Your Love.’ And ‘We Are Family.’”
“You hear that once, it gets lodged in your brain.” Jack drilled his finger into his temples.
Sammy examined the tiny nub of joint that remained. “I got ‘Dancing Queen’ stuck in my head for a whole week in the mid-Seventies. ’Bout drove me around the bend.” He put out his tongue, extinguished the roach, and swallowed it.
I laughed. “I guess it’s no surprise you’re all music snobs.”
“I prefer to think of it as discriminating.” Jack rolled up the window as we drove through the gates of the huge arena. The driver stopped at the backstage entrance, where a guard stood waiting to usher us inside. We rushed past other security and people with clipboards, into a large mirrored room. Their lead singer was in the makeup chair, surrounded by people. A young man was blow-drying the curlers on top of Patrick’s head; a girl in a micro-mini was dabbing on foundation, and another was giving him a manicure. Mary Jo stood nearby, wearing a tailored pants suit that did nothing to disguise her solid shape. She was gesticulating at Patrick with a sheaf of papers in her hand.
“Oh, fuck.” Jack rushed over, Mark and Sammy trailing behind. “Tell me you’re not changing the set list again,” Jack said. He took the drink from Patrick’s hand and gulped it. Patrick’s lips were momentarily stilled by the makeup girl applying gloss.
Mary Jo made eyes at Jack. “He’s reversing the last two numbers. And possibly the opening. I’ll leave you to it.” She handed him the papers and came over to me.
“You’re forty minutes late,” was her greeting. She tucked her shoulder-length brown hair behind her ears and fixed her piercing hazel gaze on me. “Jack’s been having so much fun on tour, he’s been late for every show. But I thought with you here, maybe he’d be on time for once.”
I ignored her implying that now that I’d arrived, Jack wasn’t enjoying himself. I also resisted the impulse to ask who he’d been having fun with. “He did his own makeup, so he’s ready to go. Is Patrick changing the order of the songs?” Bait-and-switch was often the best way to deflect his manager’s sharp tongue.
“His Royal Highness has decided his voice needs a break, so he’s moving the numbers around. You’re all dolled up.” She scrutinized my outfit.
“Jack bought this for me,” I said.
Mary Jo glared. “Yes, I saw the bills.” I could never figure out if she hated me because she thought I was mooching off him, or if it was just generalized animosity toward anyone who took up too much of Jack’s attention.
“What time do they go on?” I knew the tickets for the first show said “9 pm”, but I also knew that time was fluid with these guys. They’d been known to start concerts over an hour late. However, Jack had told me Mary Jo was determined to keep them on schedule for this tour, since the contract stipulated that they had to pay a fine for every five minutes’ delay. With a second show at eleven, and two shows per night for thirty cities, they needed to march to a strict drumbeat.
Mary Jo grimaced. “It’s supposed to start at nine. The sponsor’s about to shit a brick because they were a half-hour late in Minneapolis.”
I was confused. “Why would a deodorant company care about that?”
“They like to sweat the details.” Smiling at her little joke, Mary Jo stalked off to accost an official-looking guy in a suit. I went to find Suzanne, who was touching up Mark’s face in the makeup chair. Jack and Patrick laughing
ly offered suggestions; it seemed they were over their tiff.
“I’ve done all I can,” Suzanne said, putting a fluffy powder brush on the tray. “Let’s go get our seats.”
We kissed the guys’ cheeks—all except Patrick, who didn’t want his makeup mussed—and followed a guard down a long echoing corridor. He led us up some steps and we made our way to the middle of the front row, which seemed to be all-girl. The opening act had left the stage, and the crowd was getting rowdy. Mary Jo slipped into her reserved seat next to a group of young women wearing tee-shirts with the band’s logo. I sat between her and Suzanne. The stomping and shouting grew to an unbearable pitch as the announcer’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker.
“A-a-all right. Give it up for—FOUR TO THE FLOOR!”
The noise behind us was so thunderous, it was almost frightening. A piercing scream sounded as Mark and Sammy sauntered over to the drums and keyboard. Jack walked onstage, head down as he tuned his Telecaster. Women were sobbing behind me, screaming Jack’s name. Then people started chanting, Pa-trick! Pa-trick! After a few minutes, he sprinted to the middle of the stage and took the microphone.
“Good to be back in St. Louis!” Patrick shouted, his voice almost drowned out by the frenzied roar.
Jack struck a razor-sharp note that singed my ears. The crowd went berserk as he ripped into the opening chords of one of their recent hits. As Mark came in with a driving downbeat, Patrick snarled the lyrics, underscoring his words with a funky bass line. Sammy banged out the melody, occasionally playing one-handed when he took a sip from a glass resting on top of the keyboard. The song wound up with a cymbal smash. Patrick bowed low as the others briefly ducked their heads.
The second number was one of their huge hits from the past. Jack was playing hard, eyes closed, muscled chest bare under his open shirt; the epitome of Sexy Rock Idol. I felt like pinching myself: Am I really with him? It was hard to reconcile the super-cool onstage image with the joke-loving, down-to-earth guy in torn jeans that I’d been living with for the past two months. The guy who liked dogs and bugs, and adored his little nephew. And who made love to me like we were the last two people on earth. What does he see in me? I thought with a pang as I watched the women around me practically having orgasms every time his fingers stroked the strings.
