by BJ Knapp
“An oldie but a goodie from Hydra,” the announcer drones over the end of the song. Then, “Let’s all cross our fingers for Keith Kutter’s safety.” The station immediately switches over to an ad.
“What the hell?”
I press the next preset button on the radio, just in time to catch another announcer on the local alternative rock station. “This is Rebecca Green with your entertainment news,” she chirps. “Bassist Keith Kutter from ‘80s band Hydra has been missing since last night. He was last seen having dinner with longtime fans Brenda and Tim Dunkirk here in Rhode Island.”
Holy shit. They’ve just said my name on the radio. Normally that would be cool, but are they suggesting that Tim and I had something to do with Keith’s disappearance? I am amazed at this: a rock star doesn’t check in for one day, and everyone thinks something bad has happened.
The announcer interrupts my thoughts. “Band manager Erik Murtaugh released the following statement.”
The man’s recorded voice is heavy with an Australian accent. “For all we know, he could be in a ditch somewhere.”
Really? Talk about overreacting. Then the announcer moves on to the next big entertainment news story of the day: pop tart Jamie Fire’s twelve-hour-long Vegas marriage. But at least Keith’s story came before Jamie Fire’s in the news. I am sure it’s nice to know that, for one day, something was more compelling than Jamie’s public deflowering and coming of age saga.
I admit: it’s pretty cool that I know something nobody else in the world knows—Keith is working on a new song. I am completely in love with that idea, though I wish I could call up the radio station and say, “Keith’s fine. He’s in the studio at Del Riccio’s house, recording a new song. I’ve heard it, and it’s incredible!” The last thing Del needs, though, is a crowd of fans and media on his front lawn. I laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation: his manager doesn’t know where he is, and he’s milking the media, trying to get some attention out of it. I’ve seen it before; hell, I’ve even done it before for my own clients. It’ll be interesting to see how this plays out. Hydra management is crying wolf. It could make them look silly, if it’s not done right.
The house is dark when I pull into the driveway. I figure Tim is in bed. I pull into the garage and hear Vito baying from the bedroom, which is probably waking Tim up right now. When I get inside, I see the “new voicemail light” blinking on the phone. “You have eight new messages,” the robotic voice drones. I press the play button.
“Brenda? It’s Toni Wallace. I am just checking to see if you have heard from Keith. He hasn’t checked in. Please call me straight away.” She sounds worried.
The next is from Erik Murtaugh, whose voice I recognize from the radio interview. The rest are from Toni, each sounding more frantic than the last. I guess I should be the one to call and check in, seeing as how Keith cannot be bothered. I dial.
“Toni, it’s Brenda Dunkirk,” I say into the phone when she answers. “Keith’s fine. He’s in a studio recording a new song.”
Chapter 10
I AM LATE FOR WORK and scrambling out the door when the phone rings. I debate as to whether I want to pick it up until I see Del’s number on the caller ID. “Hey, Bren, listen, I have to go to New York for work. Keith and Greg are still here, and I have no idea how long they plan on staying.”
“Are you serious? Del, I am so sorry!” I haven’t heard from any of them in a few days. I had just assumed that Keith had found his own way back to his hotel room in Newport and moved on. I am not the only American fan he’s meeting; I think he was supposed to go to Indiana next. “So what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to work. Keith and Greg have largely fended for themselves, anyway. They’re actually pretty good roommates. They clean up, keep to themselves. Keith’s a pretty good cook, too.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re having a good time at summer camp,” I say with a laugh.
“Oh, and Keith called the mothership to let them know he’s okay. Apparently, he’s no longer bleeding in a ditch.” Del roars with laughter.
“That’s good news.” I laugh along with him. “I was worried for a while there. God, how do these rumors get started?” I know exactly how: it all goes back to an overzealous publicist. In this case it could go horribly wrong and make Keith look like an attention whore, or it could be brilliant, and he could practically come back from the dead in the public eye. These are the things we debate in staff meetings just about every day at work—the fine line between just trying to get attention and trying to keep the world interested. Work. Crap, I’m late!
We hang up, and I peel out of the driveway and speed to the highway. The wind whips through my rolled-down windows. I slip my sunglasses onto my face and rest my elbow on the window frame. In record time, I pull into the parking lot. I know I should get inside and get to work. But how great would it be to just not show up to work and go to Del’s, instead? I could sit on the basement stairs and listen to new songs unfold all day long. I could be the first one to ever hear the new songs he’s working on; and then he’d take me aside and ask me what I think.
Offering my opinion on his new song is a very important job, and I’d take it very seriously. I’d sit at Del’s mixing board with my eyes closed and concentrate intently on the music. And then I’d offer some incredibly insightful piece of feedback, without which the song couldn’t ever possibly be a hit single. And then Keith would thank me in the liner notes on the CD. And I’d get interviewed by Rolling Stone magazine. They’d call me the Hit Whisperer. Then other bands would hire me, and I could make a career out of making rock songs into solid gold hits. I could live a life of unbridled creativity and travel the world. I see myself storming into a studio, casting aside my luxuriously-expensive purse, taking command of the room, and everyone in it standing up and taking notice.
It’s so quiet in the car, I can hear my watch ticking while I daydream; with each tick I am another second late. No, I can’t drive to Del’s today. I have a huge pitch meeting to prepare for that Amanda’s letting me take the lead on. I have to report back to my clients with focus group findings on their new test campaign. So much to do. And I love my job, really. But what would it be like to not have to go there and, instead, be the Hit Whisperer? I take a deep breath, pull my bag off the passenger seat and glance at my watch: five minutes late. Not too bad for a Wednesday. My footsteps echo in the stairwell as I walk up the stairs to the second floor, swipe my access card in the security door, and enter my workplace.
Today is the day that I need to prove myself worthy of that promotion. The Smile Airlines product launch that I coordinated right before the dinner with Keith is proving to be amazing. Every flight out of Providence has been full, and the standby lists have been out of control. Everyone in Rhode Island and Southeastern Massachusetts is dying to fly on Smile, and it’s all because of me. If I can get a few more wins like that, then Amanda will have no choice but to promote me. Amanda is normally an ice princess when it comes to work. She takes her business very seriously, and she projects a very cool, “don’t fuck with me” exterior. With her white-blonde hair, freezing blue eyes, and chiseled jaw, her poker face is impermeable. But the Smile Airlines launch broke through that icy exterior. She’s been smiling ear to ear, and the client has been singing our praises in the press, as well. We’re sure to get some more high-profile accounts out of this.
I blow through my emails so I can clear my deck for the rest of the afternoon and begin working on the pitch for Baxter Corporation. They are a Rhode Island-based furniture manufacturer and retailer that wants to go national. They need a few solid product launches in key markets like Chicago and L.A., and Amanda wants to ride on my success with Smile Airlines.
Email is tedious as hell, though. Email leads to procrastination for me. I’d rather research for hours before I answer the fifty emails in my inbox. Before I know it, I am daydreaming at my desk about how exciting it must be to work as Keith’s publicist instead of Baxter’s.
Improving the reputation of a rock legend is way more interesting than trying to get the nation to buy furniture that is really an Ikea knock-off. There it is: my first order of business is to convince the world that Baxter is affordable and superior to Ikea. Okay, time to get these emails out of my inbox and get all up in Baxter. I turn off everything else in my head and focus.
“You ready for your practice session?” Amanda asks, popping her head into my cubicle. I will be taking the lead on the Baxter pitch, and she wants to make sure I am perfect before I do. This is my second of three mock pitch sessions. She completely dismantled me in the first one, so I’ve been preparing like I am getting ready to defend a dissertation. I am confident that I will be bullet-proof this time.
I follow her into the conference room, trying to mimic what I call her Viking Ice Princess Walk. Her back is straight, her gaze is straight ahead, and I am convinced that her eyes will bore frozen holes into anything in her path. We walk past the row of low-wall cubes, and I can see my co-workers’ puzzled expressions as two ice princesses walk by.
I close the conference room door behind me and proceed to demonstrate to her how Amanda Dixon PR will propel Baxter into the national spotlight. I whip out sample press releases, media schedules, web site mockups and an event schedule for store openings.
When I am done, I pause, waiting for her feedback. Her poker face is dead straight. Great, does that mean I sucked? Is she trying to figure out how to tell me that I can’t pitch them? Come on! Put me out of my misery.
“Bren, that was...” She pauses. I lean forward in my chair. “...incredible. It was perfect. My only recommendation is to lighten up a bit. You were folding your hands on the table so tightly I thought you’d break your own fingers. Yes, you need to be dialed in to the client’s agenda, but don’t forget to be personable, too. Show a little pizazz with your personality. Smile, for God’s sake.” After she says that, I cannot stop smiling. I fight the urge to skip all the way back to my desk. Vice presidency, here I come!
The adrenaline of nailing my mock pitch courses through me. I am like a caged lion until five, and I take off right at the top of the hour.
“Night, Bren,” Joy says as she’s loading her coffee cup into the dishwasher in the kitchen. “You have been a complete spaz all afternoon,” she jokes. “Get outside and enjoy that sunshine. Go run a marathon, for crying out loud.”
I think I could. In the car, I fight the urge to go to Del’s. I turn on NPR and hope that listening to All Things Considered will keep me from fantasizing about listening to Keith recording all night. When I get home, I spring Vito from captivity; we play outside until the phone rings. A male voice with an Australian accent introduces himself as Erik Murtaugh, Hydra’s manager. His voice doesn’t sound as authoritative as it was on the radio the other night. Instead, it’s a bit humble, and I am suddenly curious to know why.
“Brenda, I’ve got a favor to ask. If it’s too much of an imposition, I understand.” He pauses. “As you know, Keith’s been recording a new album at your friend Del’s house.”
“Yes, a solo album, right?”
“No, it’s a new Hydra album.”
“Wow, that’s fantastic,” I say, gushing.
“Yes, it is. The boys will be flying to Rhode Island to record in Del’s studio next week.”
“Are you serious?” I ask, but then I realize, of course he is. Erik is the band manager: he doesn’t joke about stuff like this. “Del must be thrilled!” Why hadn’t he said anything this morning? I would think he’d have wanted to shout from every rooftop.
“Yes, it’s very good,” Erik acknowledges, but he sounds distracted. “It’s always been Hydra’s policy to record in independent studios all over the world. So I am sure Mr. Riccio is thrilled to be selected this time around.” Is he reading from a press release?
I start to speak, then decide to wait for him to continue. I am beyond excited for Del; what an awesome opportunity for him. And to have Hydra recording so close by! The idea of crashing their recording sessions and hearing all the new songs before anyone else is now closer to a reality. My name in the liner notes is looking a lot more likely right now. Maybe Keith will put some sort of inside joke in there that nobody else reading it will understand. I need to make an effort to develop that inside joke. Erik is still talking; I need to pay attention.
“See, the guys prefer to stay in a house together, in close proximity to the studio. It has also always been their policy not to live where they are working, which is why staying at Del’s would not be suitable, and I understand that his house is far too small to accommodate all of us. How far is it to drive from your house to Del’s studio?”
“It takes about ten minutes. He lives about five miles away—“
“And Keith tells me that your home is large enough to accommodate the boys. How many bedrooms do you have?”
“Um...” I stammer, realizing suddenly where this is going. “Uh—we have four bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms.” I converted one of the bedrooms into an office, because I sometimes work from home when I want to focus on a project.
“Would you be so kind as to open your home to the boys?” he suddenly blurts out. He obviously feels nervous about asking me, a complete stranger, to house the men who he’s been in charge of for decades.
“Um...” I stammer again. “You mean, they’ll stay here?” I look around my house and try to imagine four aging rock stars sitting around my kitchen table. What would they possibly expect out of staying in my house? What kind of accommodations are they accustomed to? They’re probably used to room service coming and going at all hours, leaving wet towels on the floor, concierges to cater to their every whim, and mints on their pillows. I could probably get a box of mints. Hell, I could even splurge for new towels, the big fluffy ones that are the size of blankets.
My mind is spiraling until Erik interrupts my thoughts. “Keith insists on staying at your home,” he says, speaking noticeably faster. “The first song began there when he heard your wind chimes. He feels it is vital to the work to start and finish writing all his lyrics for a new project in the same place. Obviously, we would compensate you for the trouble and hire a housekeeper for the duration. How does fifty thousand American sound to you?” He pauses and then says, with more emphasis, “It is imperative that he resume the work on this album where it began. It’s his process, and we cannot afford any disruption to that process.”
“Um...” I stammer, yet again. “I need to discuss this with my husband first.” It surprises me that Keith is so superstitious about his process.
I take a look around at our house. When Tim bought this place, Portia made sure to help Tim buy a house large enough for a family of children that could fill out a soccer team. Obviously Erik knows that we don’t live in a hellhole; he probably looked it up on Google street view. Fifty grand. Wow. We could redecorate this entire house with that. Never mind what I could fetch on Craigslist for those stupid divans and chaises.
“Talk it over with Tim. They don’t need any disruptions to their work, so you would be obligated to put them up for the duration of recording. But just know that I need an answer by tomorrow, so we can make other arrangements, if need be.”
I click off the call and try to collect my thoughts, but my mind is racing. Wow. I mean, it was weird enough to talk to Keith on the phone and go to dinner with him. Serving him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in my kitchen was, in my opinion, on the outer orbit of bizarre. But to have Hydra stay in my house? There is no way this is happening to me.
I look around my house and wonder how Tim and I can possibly accommodate a group of people who’ve grown so successful that they can afford to stay in—and trash—the finest hotels. Erik tried to downplay their expectations, but I am not stupid—I know they’d expect nothing short of perfect. Would the band think my house was a hellhole compared to where they live? It’s going to take more than big fluffy towels and mints. Maybe I should get the fancy chocolate-dipped mints, like the
ones Tim’s mom finds at that gourmet chateau place where she buys all her food.
I should probably just call Erik back and say no, we can’t do it. It really is a crazy idea, and we have Tim’s campaign to think about. What if it gets out that Hydra is living here, while he’s trying to make a name for himself politically? Will that help or hurt his campaign? I also have Tim’s anxiety to think about. Tim gets edgy when we have friends stay for more than two or three days. At first, he passive-aggressively switches off the lights as our guests leave the room; then, toward the end of the visit, his jaw is clenched, and he’s tossing wet towels into the hamper moments after our guests are done using them. Honestly, Tim can’t deal with having others in his space for too long. How would he possibly deal with having four rock stars and their entourages around? And for how long? Erik didn’t say. How long does it take to produce an album, anyway? We’re expected to house them for the duration. But what does that mean?
I roam through the house and end up in one of our guest bedrooms. We certainly have enough bedrooms to accommodate the band, if we convert my office back to a bedroom. I sit on the bed and try to imagine how this room would look to Keith, or even to Ben Taylor, Hydra’s lead singer. Is my house even good enough? What will they think of it when they first arrive? It’s thrilling to imagine Keith sleeping here. His head would rest on this pillow, and these sheets would barely cover his naked body, night after night, just across the hall from the bedroom I share with Tim. Again with the teenage groupie fantasy stuff. Why am I imagining Keith sleeping naked? He has those freckles on the edge of his T-shirt, and I wonder if he has them all over his body. I run my hands over the starchy duvet, also courtesy of Portia.
The possibility of the band staying here is pretty exciting. All I can really do is flop onto the bed, press my face into the pillow, and laugh. I’ve pretty much made up my mind: I am not calling Erik back to say no.
