by BJ Knapp
“And another thing,” he said, dabbing a bite-sized chunk of his prime rib in the au jus. “He gets to take off on his yacht while his poor wife is left to care for this kid on her own. Must be nice, not to have to deal with the consequences.” Then he popped the steak into his mouth.
Today in the pool, the debate continues. I hold the tiled side and let my legs float out behind me. “Yes,” I say, “he made some poor decisions. So many people do. But I think he’s trying to make it better. He donates all that money from the book to the Rainbow House. I am sure he’s got round-the-clock care and the best of everything for Damien. I think he’s looking for a second chance.” I pause for a moment to let that sink in before I go further. “Aren’t you always saying that everyone deserves a second chance if they are truly sorry for what they did?”
“But how do you know if he’s truly sorry?” Tim asks me.
“Because I just finished a three hundred page book where his guilt is spilled on every single page. He gets it. He knows he screwed up.”
“I don’t know, Bren. Guys like that are too big for their own good.”
“But you haven’t read the book at all. How can you possibly say that?”
“Obviously, he fast-talked his way out of going to jail for committing a crime. He should have been thrown in jail.”
“So, the only way to show that you’re sorry is to go to jail? I’ll bet that every day Keith regrets getting behind the wheel. That’s still kind of like a jail, isn’t it? At what point does he finally get forgiven?” I pause to wet my hair. “What about Jimmy?” I ask. “You gave him keys to the shop, even though he’s gone to jail for stealing cars. How can you possibly trust him?”
“Jimmy’s changed,” Tim said. “He’s not that punk kid anymore. He wants to move forward, and you think anybody’s going to hire him with his record? He’s a great mechanic, and he never would have gotten the chance to make a living from it.” Jimmy’s story is a pretty interesting one. He came out of jail armed with car mechanic skills but couldn’t get a job. What shop owner in his right mind would give a car thief a job, right? But Tim recognized Jimmy’s talent and hired him. One of Tim’s reviews on Yelp actually said that Jimmy is the car whisperer. And it’s true. That guy can fix just about anything.
“So, Jimmy wanted to change,” I said. “I think Keith does, too. You were quick to give an ex-con a second chance, Tim.” One of Tim’s most important issues on his campaign is the problem of finding jobs for people who get out of prison. So many ex-convicts go back to committing crimes because they have no other way to survive. Tim wants to set up a formal state-run program to change that.
“You know, you’re right, Bren.” Tim runs his fingers over the surface of the pool and makes small ripples. “I think that I have a bad attitude about this guy because he’s so famous. I hold people like that to a higher standard because I think they should be doing more with the position they have. Sure, he donates the money from the book, but what else has he done lately?”
I would love to know the answer to that question, too. I can’t stop thinking about Keith and his image problem. If someone like Tim—who’s not a fan—is barely convinced that Keith is really trying to be a good guy after having made some unfortunate choices, then how will the rest of the world ever be convinced? I would love to sit Keith down at my kitchen table and have a long talk about his behavior. Where is his publicist? Why aren’t they doing anything to quash the negative stories going around?
“I’m surprised that they just didn’t get another bass player and move on,” Tim says. He leans his back against the side of the pool and lets his legs float out in front of him. “Sounds to me like he has too much drama.”
“But he also writes the lyrics,” I remind him. “And these guys are like a family. You don’t turn your back on someone when they’re having hard times, right?”
“I guess. But there comes a time when you have to break up with a friend when they start dragging you down, you know?”
I don’t answer him. At that moment, a couple with a toddler comes into the pool area, distracting me. The mom lays down an enormous tote bag filled with everything the little girl could possibly need. I can just picture Tim doing that. He would have our child’s snacks alphabetized in the tote bag. Maybe he’d fashion a belt with holsters that would contain something to eat, something to drink, wet wipes, Purell, toys—nothing frivolous, only educational or nutritious. I smile as I watch the family settle in at the other end of the pool. The toddler stands waist-deep in the kiddie pool and smacks her palms against the surface, beaming into the sun. The dad snaps a picture, and I wonder if it’ll get framed and put up in their house. I would totally frame a picture like that.
I’m sure that Tim has caught me staring, so I turn my gaze to him and see that I am right. It comes out before I can even stop it: a longing sigh.
“Bren, come on. We’ve talked about this.”
“I know. But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m ready for that.” I point to the family. The mom and dad are sitting in the shallow kiddie pool, trying to teach their daughter to put her face in the water and blow bubbles.
Here we are again: the Dunkirk family impasse. Though, lately, with how busy we both have been, who would parent this kid? What I really want is for us to be that family in the kiddie pool. The mom and dad are laughing and splashing with their daughter and working together to teach that little girl how to interact with the world. I want that to be Tim and me, an infallible wall of family. But will it really be like that? I’d wanted just one weekend for the two of us to reconnect, and he couldn’t even do that. Maybe he’s right: it’s not the right time. Tim and I are just not on the same page. Hell, we’re not even in the same book right now. Sometimes I look at him when I come home from work and think, Who the hell is this guy? I don’t even know him anymore.
“Can we please talk about this after the election?” Tim asks. “I just have way too much on my plate right now.”
“Why would the election matter? It’s not like you’re going to have morning sickness while you’re campaigning. It’s not like you’d have to take maternity leave from the state Senate. Getting pregnant won’t really affect you, Tim. Why is it all about what’s on your plate?”
“You have a lot on your plate, too,” he says. “How the hell do you expect to become a vice president in your firm if you’re just going to turn around and immediately go out on maternity leave? Vice presidents of PR firms don’t leave work right at five to pick up the baby from daycare.” He swirls his fingers through the water. “It’s one more thing to think about, one more thing to worry about. I’ve got a lot going on, between the shop and the election. And what about your job? Won’t it stress you out, knowing that our kid is in daycare?”
“So, what you’re saying is that women who have executive level jobs can’t have children? It won’t stress me out that the kid is in daycare, Tim. That’s just what people do—it’s a part of life. When you have a family you find a way to make things work. It looks to me as if you aren’t even interested in trying to become a family. You’ve been on the phone this whole trip, and frankly, I’ve mostly had to sit around and wait for you to pay attention to me.”
“Bren, come on. You know I have a lot going on.”
“I do, too, Tim. The difference is, even with as hard as I work at my job, you are still number one on my list. Where am I on yours?”
I see the stricken look on Tim’s face; I think I need to stop. This disagreement won’t get resolved today. I just hate waiting around for him to make a decision that will affect my life. I feel like he’s not hearing me lately, and I hate that, too. I don’t want to turn into some nagging wife who has to beg her husband to pay attention to her. We float in silence for a few moments, not knowing how to change the subject. I don’t want to change it, because I want his answer to change. He probably won’t move on from the conversation because he probably thinks he’ll look insensitive. Then there’s the awkward pause,
while we both silently try to decide when would be an appropriate moment to move on. I decide I can put us out of this misery right now. Radical subject change.
“When we get back,” I announce, “I want to see if I can find any underground copies of the album that Hydra tried to write without Keith Kutter.” I recall having read that they’d tried to produce something new but then scrapped it because it just wasn’t the same without him.
Tim smiles at me, looking relieved but trying not to show it, and pulls me close at the side of the pool. He kisses me deeply, but it still feels like a mercy kiss. “So,” he says, “are you now going off on one of your research projects?” He knows me well enough to know that I am heading toward one of my full-blown mini-obsessions. I get that way sometimes: I investigate the hell out of a particular topic until I make myself sick of it. Then he gets to hear about every single piece of new information I uncover along the way. He’s usually pretty supportive while I bombard him with it all, but I am sure that gets annoying after a while. Still, it’s nice to have a new hobby while he’s on the campaign trail.
Colors Fade came out a few years ago. What I want to know is what has happened since then. The way it stands right now, Keith isn’t in contact with his family, and the world hates him for driving drunk and being rude to his fans. There’s got to be more to the story than that. Is he just donating to the Rainbow House because it makes him look good? Or is he actually out there doing good? Based on the band’s lousy reputation, how can they ever hope to fill an arena again? I doubt I am the only inquiring mind that wants to know, but maybe I can be the one to find a way to change the world’s mind about Keith Kutter.
Chapter 4
WHEN WE GET BACK FROM FLORIDA, I start with a Google search—normally I get home from work before Tim, so I have time to research uninterrupted for at least an hour. I find an article about the accident in Australian People. There’s a picture of the car; it’s completely mangled, and the telephone pole he hit is splintered and looks like it’ll break in half and fall at any second. The article states that Keith was escorted from the scene by a private security detail. It’s interesting that he wasn’t arrested on the spot, despite the fact he refused to take a breathalyzer test. The comments at the bottom of the online version of this article are scathing; there’s even one that calls him an attempted murderer. I think that goes a little too far. Yes, he did something very careless by getting behind the wheel that night and not letting Tamsen drive. But to call it attempted murder? Talk about a stretch. But these are the comments that the readers notice.
In a later article, I learn that another Australian celebrity who was pulled over for drunk driving is said to have “pulled a Kutter.” After the outrage died down, Keith Kutter became a punchline on late-night talk shows. Then I saw Twitter hashtags about non-celebrities pulling a Kutter, and the joke spread like wildfire. It’s not funny at all. I am sure it was absolutely humiliating for him to have to confront that noise every time he turned around. The accident occurred years ago, but it still comes up in more recent articles about drunken-driving incidents. I even learned that a chapter of Students Against Drunk Driving in Oregon still uses it as a cautionary tale when reminding students about drunk driving on prom night.
I wonder why his publicist didn’t release a statement from Keith to defuse some of the growing indignation. What would I do if I were his publicist? I know from my job that making a comeback from any sort of scandal is very difficult. As a publicist, I’ve dealt with a few scandals, but nothing as intense as the lynch mob that wants Keith thrown in jail. His publicist must have realized that this was a losing battle and decided to let it blow over instead. That’s usually the absolute last resort; I wish I could have been a fly on the wall in the meeting when that decision had been made.
But maybe he could make something positive out of the situation by being a willing cautionary tale. The accident happened; there’s nothing he can do about it. Why not own it and be that voice that says, “Drunk driving ruined my life, don’t be like me”? Instead, it looks as if he’s just waiting for everyone to forget that it happened. Sure, the outrage has died down, but the jokes haven’t. I mean, everyone thinks that Mama Cass died from eating a ham sandwich. The joke was that she was overweight, and the sandwich did her in. But it’s not really true: it was a heart attack. Sure, people are going to joke about “pulling a Kutter,” but I think he should tackle it head on instead of hiding and letting people talk trash about him all over the Internet.
It’s probably gotten to the point where Keith is scared to leave his house, not knowing if some crazy person out there intends to do him harm because of his mistake. Most famous people, I think, have that fear in the back of their minds, because they just don’t know what will happen to them when they go out. John Lennon didn’t know, did he? He’d even signed an autograph for his killer before he was shot. I imagine it’s still pretty scary to be in Keith Kutter’s shoes. Never mind the fact that his wife hates him, and he’ll probably never get to see his son again. I wonder if he still feels like he’s wearing a bull’s eye on his back. He probably still gets tons of hate mail; that must be horrible.
I stand up from my computer and pop After into the CD player. I’ll have a chance to listen to it without interruption until Tim gets home. I set my laptop aside and lie on the couch. This was the first album they released after Keith’s accident and the band’s hiatus. Yet, in reading the liner notes, there doesn’t seem to be any reference to the accident. And it looks as if Keith didn’t write any songs about it, either. The lyrics in here are no more meaningful than any other pop album. What happened to the depth of the lyrics on the Friendly Fire album? That song “Almost” that he wrote for Tamsen was exquisitely raw. What happened to lines like “One look from her and I am stripped bare/tossed in the sea under her stare?” After is a huge disappointment. It sounds as if Hydra is trying to be younger than they are, trying to compete with the boy bands. I look up the reviews on Amazon, and sure enough, they average just two stars. Ouch. I can imagine that the supporting tour looked a lot like the movie This Is Spinal Tap, where nobody shows up to events or concerts.
So, the world hates Keith Kutter. Creatively, he’s in a rut and doesn’t know where he fits in the rock-and-roll genre anymore. This is exactly the kind of artist I’d want to take on professionally, to help him repair his reputation. If only I could convince Amanda that there is a viable revenue stream here.
I think I might have to take on a pet project like Keith so that I can build my case. A handwritten note to Keith might be just the thing to cut through the noise. Do people still write fan letters? I need to stroke his ego a bit to get his attention.
I pull out some stationary that Portia had bought for me for Christmas one year. I haven’t even opened it yet; I’ve been saving the thick, creamy paper for a special occasion.
Dear Keith,
I’ve been a fan of yours since I was a teenager. You were an original voice that stood out from all the others, and you wrote the words that moved me in so many ways. I’ve just finished reading Colors Fade on vacation. Yeah, I know, it’s not really a beach read, but it still struck a chord with me. You have been through a great deal of heartache, and experiencing it while in the public eye has, I am sure, only made it worse. I know the accident was a few years ago, and I imagine so much has happened to you since then. I hope that you have since found some peace.
I am writing because I feel like your story is incomplete. As it stands right now, the listening and reading public was left hanging by Colors Fade. What is happening now? You have silenced your own voice, but we want to know how the accident has changed you. How has it affected your work as a musician and lyricist? Have you made any attempts to reconcile with your wife and son?
You are a brilliant musician and an excellent writer. Please don’t let the accident define you. As a member of your fan base, I care about the music you create, and I care about your story. We are all waiting to see how it ends. Wi
ll you please tell us?
Thanks again for all the music. I’ve recently rediscovered Hydra. I’d forgotten just how amazing you all are. I drove way too fast to your music back then, and now I can’t wait to hear what you’ll put out next.
Kindest Regards,
Brenda Dunkirk
Chapter 5
IT’S TAX DEADLINE DAY; people are snaking out the post office door. I know I can’t stop to think or I’ll chicken out, and then the letter will end up under the seat of my car, where things like lost pieces of candy will stick to it. Unfortunately, I can’t just put a stamp on this letter, since I have no idea how much postage to Australia even costs. I shuffle ahead with the line, puffing out my cheeks as I glance at my watch. This is taking forever. Is it worth it? I look up and see my mother-in-law passing me on her way out. She glances in my direction then quickly looks away. I can tell that she’s seen me, but she’s trying to make like she didn’t. I kind of wish that I could dodge her, as well, but I’d have to leave the line to do that. I’ve already been here fifteen minutes, so I might as well wait it out.
Portia’s dressed in her standard Chanel-suit uniform with her three-strand Mikimoto pearls. I imagine her closet is a tribute to Coco, with miles of Chanel suits in every color, each pressed within an inch of its life. She steps toward me resignedly and looks me up and down with that searing look that says I married well above my station. I’ve seen that look before; in fact, I receive it every time I see Portia. Portia and I have never really seen eye to eye on anything. She absolutely tortured me while Tim and I were planning our wedding, so much so that I finally convinced Tim to elope to Vegas. It’s not like we would have even been able to have our wedding in Rhode Island anyway. We’d had three venues cancel on us; then I found out that Portia was behind those cancellations. Tim didn’t believe me until she actually admitted to paying the venues to cancel.
