Behind the Song

by K. M. Walton

As for me, I turned anger (at my parents) and guilt (about Harmony) into black drifts of music, with lyrics that said nothing but explained everything, at least if you could get to their meaning. Most people couldn’t. That included my girlfriend at the time. Sarah was naturally pretty and sweet as cream, but as hard as she tried, she couldn’t help my emotional turmoil. And as my music grew darker, Sarah began to pull away.

  “You used to sing such beautiful songs, ballads and such. Now it’s all death and destruction.”

  I liked Sarah a lot, and really wanted to apologize, but what came out of my mouth was, “I’m working stuff out. If it bothers you, there’s the door.”

  After she was gone, I went back over my most recent efforts and had to admit she was right. Death and destruction. As far as I was concerned, I was a genius, anyway. Not long, I thought, until I would be a wealthy genius, all on my talent.

  As soon as I decided my path into the future, I cleaned out a decent bank account (yuppie parents gift chunks of money in lieu of actually shopping for presents they’re pretty sure you won’t like anyway) and bought a well-used TR6, positive the classic Triumph was the perfect car for me. Had I really considered it, I would’ve picked something with a back seat. Something I could sleep in.

  Three weeks ’til summer break would officially start, I took an unexcused leave of absence from school, thinking I might go back for my senior year in the fall, but probably not. Genius musicians don’t require diplomas to make their millions.

  I knocked on the flap of the teepee, which was ridiculous as it made no noise, but somehow it felt necessary. “Hey, Becky? I’m off in search of fame and fortune. I’ll send postcards.”

  “Lennon?” came her reply. “That you?”

  “None other.”

  “Thought so. I’d kiss you goodbye, but I’m naked.”

  “Yeah, that would be weird. See you.”

  “Don’t get arrested.”

  That was it. No when will you be back? No how will you take care of yourself? Just, don’t get arrested.

  I stopped by Dad’s alternate universe, requested he join the one I was currently standing in so I could tell him so long.

  “Where you going, son?”

  “LA, I guess. When it comes to music, it’s that or Nashville, and country isn’t my thing.” I wasn’t sure how accurate that was, but it sounded like I’d done my research.

  “You okay on cash?”

  “If you’ve got some to spare, I won’t say no. Oh, and maybe a little bud, too?”

  Weed was all I’d tried at that point, and I figured I shouldn’t show up on the music scene without some sort of substance in hand. Dad was happy enough to oblige.

  “Careful,” he said, as I walked out the door. “All kinds of cons in LA.”

  Fair warning. Too bad I didn’t heed it.

  Armed with five hundred dollars, one of Dad’s credit cards (for emergency purposes only) and a half ounce of excellent Oregon weed, I hit the road, and since I had the entire summer ahead of me, decided to take a scenic mountain route. I’d seen the coast before. Southeast from Portland, the highway meandered through Bend and Klamath Falls. With stops to piss and eat and toke, that took most of the day.

  I might have gone farther, but the weed was pretty good, and I found I didn’t like driving wasted on a strange stretch of road in the dark. Rather than squander money on a motel room, I slept in the car, or tried to. Even with the seat pushed all the way back, it was an uncomfortable night.

  The next morning, I dropped down into Susanville, California, and then on into Reno, where I added to my cash stash, playing Dora (my precious Martin guitar) in the riverside park for tips. I didn’t earn much, but it felt good, like my talent did have value. And it made people smile. I hung out in the Biggest Little City for a few days, and struck up an acquaintance or two, which is easy enough to do when you’re the one supplying the smoke. In trade, I got to sleep on their couches.

  Eventually, though, I figured I should get back on track. The music industry waits for no man. I loaded Dora into the passenger seat of the TR6, and off we went, south on Highway 395. There were places to stop along the way, things that must be seen, according to my pre-trip planning. The weird tufa towers of Mono Lake deserved a look, as did Mammoth Mountain, though it was the wrong time of the year for anything like skiing. It was a very long day of travel.

  Beyond the beauty of the mountains, and before heading west toward the congestion of LA, 395 flattened into a long stretch of desert. I’d smoked weed all afternoon, could smell the remains of a blunt in the ashtray. Buzzed, dog-tired, I was considering spending another uncomfortable night in my car when ahead in the distance I saw a shimmering light that promised the possibility of food and a toilet, if nothing else. Peeing in the desert is one thing…

  As I approached the shimmering beacon, the night closed in around me, dark and disturbing. No moon. No stars. No light at all that I could discern, except the one. It lured me off the main highway, onto a rutted road, but by then it had become my only hope for a peaceful night’s slumber. Or something.

  If I’m absolutely honest with myself, at first sight I should have turned around, motored on out of there, and not looked back, not even in the rearview mirror. The aura hugging the place was blood red, anything but illuminating. And yet somehow still inviting.

  The hotel itself appeared ageless, its architecture a strange blend of baroque and Frank Lloyd Wright. All the windows I could see were lit, and so, I soon found out, were the people behind them. The entrance was a grand revolving door, the kind you see gracing expensive properties in major metropolitan areas. Beside it was a sign that said: WELCOME TO CALIFORNIA. Considering I’d been driving in the state for hours (hadn’t I?), I found that slightly unsettling.

  Dora and I went inside, anyway.

  The bellman, who’d been nodding off, looked up and turned sleepy eyes in our direction. “Luggage?”

  “Just Dora here and my backpack.”

  “Need any help?”

  “Lots. But not with my stuff.” The joke thumped almost audibly.

  “Suit yourself.” He licked his lips suggestively, reminding me of a jungle cat on the prowl. “If you change your mind, my name is Harry.”

  His name tag said “Night Man.” I didn’t ask, or argue.

  As I started toward the front desk, Harry said quietly. “Watch out for our proprietress. She’s Tiffany-twisted.”

  I assumed it was her very cool name, so when the woman looked up and smiled, I greeted her that way. “Hey, Tiffany. I’m hoping you have a room for the night.”

  Her face hardened immediately, and she seemed to age a decade. Still, she was hot—all chiseled and blond and tan. “So happens accommodations are available.” She studied me for a moment. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-one,” I lied.

  “Huh. Isn’t everyone? Well, go ahead and fill out a registration form, please. Just be aware that once you’ve been entered into our system, you’ll remain permanently in our database.”

  My writing hand paused. “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing, really. You’ll get special offers once in a while. We like repeat customers, and hope to entice you back. In fact, since this is your first time here, I’m prepared to offer you a discounted rate.”

  “That’s very nice of you. How much?”

  “Depends on your preferred accommodations. Would you rather be up, or is a lower floor more your style?”

  “Hey, why go down when you can fly, right?”

  She smiled. “My kind of man, uh…” She glanced at the register. “Lennon. Huh. Well, coo coo cachoo.”

  The reference wasn’t entirely lost on me. I mean, who doesn’t know “I Am the Walrus”? Still, of all the Beatles songs she might have chosen, why that one? “What do you mean?”

  “I am he as you are he as
you are me and we are all together.”

  Okay, the chick was weird, but rather incredible to look at. A real pornographic priestess, as John Lennon himself might have said. And the way she was staring at me made me wonder if the interest in her eyes was real. This music thing had definite possibilities. “Uh. Yeah.”

  “How long will you be staying with us?”

  “Oh, just one night. I’m on my way to LA.”

  “Isn’t everyone?” she repeated. Then she pointed at Dora and sang the first line of an old Byrds song, though she sounded more like the Patti Smith version. “So you want to be a rock ’n’ roll star.”

  “Well, yeah. Gonna give it a shot, anyway.”

  “Some of our other guests might be able to help you with that. We’re incredibly connected here. And you look like you’ll fit in just fine.”

  I had no idea what she meant by the last sentence. Still, it was interesting to know there were other musicians staying in the hotel. “That’s great to hear. Hope I’ll meet some of them.”

  “Oh you will. You definitely will. And since you don’t seem to be in a real hurry, I’ll go ahead and hold your room an extra night, just in case. You can cancel any time without penalty.” She ran Dad’s credit card. Yeah, I knew it was supposed to be only for emergencies, but I didn’t want to spend a big chunk of my cash on a place to crash for the night. She handed me my key. “There you go. You may now enter the kingdom.”

  What the hell was she talking about? I chalked up my confusion to not enough sleep and too much weed. “A-okay, Tiffany.”

  That drew a scowl. “I’m Pearl. If you’re interested in Tiffany, I can arrange that. Why don’t you take your stuff up to your room, and then join our celebration in the ballroom on the ground floor? It’s gonna be a blowout.”

  Party? Oh, yeah. “See you in a few.”

  I exited the elevator on the fourth floor to find the entire hallway lit with gas lanterns. Considering the glare of the lobby, the low light was unsettling, like stepping into another dimension, one where finding the correct room number proved something of a challenge. Especially since every door seemed be numbered 420. “What the…” I said out loud.

  “Something wrong?” The voice, like the girl holding a candle, materialized out of thin air. At least, I never saw her coming.

  I turned and almost bumped into the most exquisite creature I’d ever been that close to. My breath caught in my throat at her pale china-doll beauty, and it was all I could do to choke out, “I’m having a hard time finding my way.”

  “Let me help you.”

  She took my key and led me down the corridor. I followed, focused on the slight sway of her narrow hips beneath her gauzy white dress, and was suddenly gripped by desire so bold it almost dropped me to my knees. This could be paradise, or a clear path to hell, I thought. Not that I cared either way.

  “Are you Tiffany?” I managed to ask.

  She stopped in front of a door, turned, and smiled. “No. I’m Candy. How do you know Tiffany?”

  “I don’t. Just something I heard about.”

  “Be cautious, Lennon. I don’t recommend Tiffany for beginners. Ditto Mercedes.”

  How did she know my name? And what did she mean by that? This was the most confusing place ever. But at that point I was more intrigued than scared. Candy opened the door to Room 428—turned out I couldn’t see that well by lantern glow—and used her candle to light a gas lamp hanging on the wall of what appeared to be a windowless cubicle. “They don’t want people to see out or what?”

  “Or what. Our guests prefer privacy.”

  I glanced around the sparsely furnished room—one king bed, a small chest of drawers, a single nightstand with another oil lamp. No clock. No TV. No radio. “You guys definitely save money on electricity. But what about entertainment?”

  Her laugh was the chime of a mission bell. “Plenty of that here, sweetheart. Are you coming down to the feast?”

  “Oh, there’ll be food, too? Great. I’m starving.”

  “You won’t leave hungry, that I promise.”

  “Awesome. I’ll freshen up. You’ll be there, too, won’t you?”

  “I will if you want me.”

  I wanted to throw her straight down on the bed and take her right there. Didn’t think that would be prudent, though, so I watched her leave, hungrier than ever, and not for food.

  The bathroom was little more than a closet, but at least it had running water. I used the toilet (which was what had drawn me toward the hotel, after all), washed up, and combed my hair. That proved pointless, because by the time I joined the revelers, most of the party had spilled out of the ballroom onto a breezy courtyard, where they danced to live music provided by a group who seemed able to handle all requests.

  What a crowd it was. Pearl was there, and Candy, who was immediately at my side. She pointed out Mercedes, Molly, and Tiffany, who sparkled in a short, tight dress the color of pink champagne. But what struck me most were the guys, every one of whom was almost as pretty as the women. Somehow, I’d stumbled across an assembly of the beautiful folk.

  “Wow,” I commented to Candy. “Do you screen your customers according to their looks?”

  Her melodic laugh lifted into the cool evening air. “Those are the faces they want you to see. Underneath, there’s plenty of ugliness. Now, what can I get you?”

  Loaded question. “You.”

  “Excellent choice. But not on an empty stomach.”

  Candy took my arm and steered me toward a huge table, loaded with platters. Most of the offerings were designed to appeal to a sweet tooth, but I managed to score some fruit, cheese, and crackers before moving on to dessert. I was nibbling on a sugar cookie when Tiffany and an older dude wandered over.

  “Hey there,” she cooed seductively. “I’m Tiff and this is Ron. Pearl said you’re looking to break into the music biz. Ron happens to be a producer.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Candy. “He’s an icon.”

  I gave the guy a once-over. He was maybe forty and obviously worked out. His clothing was Armani casual, and his salt-and-pepper hair was expensively cut in perfect layers. “Good to meet you, Ron.”

  “You play? You sing? What?” he asked.

  “Both.”

  “How ’bout you take a turn with the band and let me see what you’ve got?”

  “Dora’s upstairs.”

  “Who’s Dora?” sniffed Tiffany.

  “My guitar.”

  “Oh, good. I thought maybe you were spoken for.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Ron. “Mick over there will let you borrow his.”

  I broke out in a bad case of nerves. I was good, yeah. And people in that Reno park liked me, yeah. But this could jump-start my future, and if I didn’t comply my career would remain on hold. “What should I play?”

  “Show me some lead. Clapton, maybe?”

  Honestly, most of my guitar work was acoustic, but I’d played a little electric and figured it couldn’t be all that hard to sound like Clapton. Yeah, I know better now, but that night bravado made up for a lack of practice. Then Candy offered a little incentive.

  “Just a taste for now.”

  It was the sweetest kiss I’d ever enjoyed, not that there’d been all that many previously, and those were with girls, including Sarah, as inexperienced as I. But I didn’t have to know anything special that night. Candy taught me everything I needed to know. Her mouth was cool and the tip of her tongue icy-cold as it darted across my lips, chilling their overheated skin instantly.

  I went numb. “Wow,” was the best I could do.

  “There’s a whole lot more where that came from. Now let’s hear you play some rocking guitar.”

  Mick was accommodating, and so was the rest of the band. I played a few licks to get used to the unfamiliar instrument, and then consulted with the other
guys about which Clapton song, of the few I knew fairly well, would be best.

  Fittingly, we chose “Spoonful.”

  High on Candy, bolstered by ego and fine backup, I launched that Cream song without hesitation. What I didn’t know I faked, and faked it with everything I had. We played for damn near ten minutes, growing sweatier by the second. The crowd danced and a few sang along. By the time I finished, my fingertips were sore and I was tugging breath, but totally exhilarated, especially when raucous applause broke out. I’d never felt so great in my life.

  Candy rushed over, gushing, “That was incredible.”

  Right behind her came Tiff, who took the guitar out of my hands and gave it back to Mick. “Ron would like a word with you inside, if that’s okay.”

  “Well, sure.” I was gonna go far, gonna fly. I could feel it.

  That was confirmed by Ron. “Come on in. Have a cigar. I’m impressed by your talent, and you’ve got the look. I’ll need another audition or two to sign you on the dotted line, but I don’t think that will be a problem, do you?”

  “I sure hope not.”

  “Oh, listen to him, Tiffany. We’ll have to do something about that fresh-from-the-Oregon-woods demeanor. I say we show the boy an out-of-this-world time, boost his self-esteem. You up for that, Lennon?”

  A better time than I’d already had? “Hell, yeah.” I didn’t even ask how he knew where I was from.

  What followed was something a boy my age could not have made up in his most lust-fueled imagination. It was like walking straight onto the set of an unrated movie, one populated by the beautiful folk.

  Girls.

  Boys.

  Undecideds.

  Everyone in various states of undress. Everyone indulging in various substances. Everyone celebrating la dolce vita.

  Candy.

  Molly.

  Pearl.

  Mercedes.

  Tiffany.

  I tried valiantly to leave the last two alone. Too hardcore for beginners, that’s what Candy said, and watching the old-timers made me believe that was true. With Tiffany, especially, anything went. It was a sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll orgy. Mick and the band played their instruments, and then played. Ron directed, and the things he asked for opened my eyes to the underground world of the music industry.