by BJ Knapp
I turn toward the house, but she keeps walking with me and talking. I stop, because I don’t want her to think that I am inviting her to follow me. My choices are to stand out here and talk to a complete psycho or have her follow me into the house. Either way, my options aren’t so great.
“He talks to me through the lyrics. It’s as clear as day. Look.” She pulls the liner notes out of the album. “It’s right there,” she says, pointing. She puts her finger on the stanza about a white dress and daisies in her hair. I am pretty sure I remember seeing a photo of Keith and Tamsen on their wedding day; that’s what she wore. “I wore that the first time I saw Hydra in concert. I was in the front row. It was before this album ever came out. He wrote it for me.”
I swear, I’ve become a freak magnet. People often tell me their life story, uninvited. How do I get this woman to stop talking to me? I am getting kind of nervous: the more she talks, the more determined she gets. What exactly will she do? Break a window and crawl in through it so she can finally meet her soul mate? I want to tell her that I want to go inside, but she’s still yammering away.
“But wait, there’s more.” She flips over the liner notes and points to another stanza. I need to shut her down. It’s entirely possible that she’s got Hydra’s entire discography in that tote bag; this conversation could last for hours—and I’ll never get those hours back.
“I have to go now.” I turn my back on her and walk into the house.
I expect her to say something like, “And now I’ll burn the place down. You should have listened to me.” But she doesn’t. I hear her mumble, “Okay. Later, then.” Maybe she’s one of those mild-mannered psychos.
As I make my way to the back door, I hear the sound of guitar and drums from behind the garage door. Jeff and Gill have started practicing. I wonder if they know there is a crowd of fans outside. I look up and notice that the curtains are drawn in all of the downstairs windows. The band is inside; they have to know these people are outside of my house. I am kind of annoyed that they haven’t done anything to get these insane people off my front lawn. Though I am not sure what can be done at this point. Is it the right thing to call the cops? Will that wreck Tim’s election prospects?
Once the crowd hears the music, they start cheering. Thankfully, they lose interest in me. “This is a new one! We’re hearing a new one before anyone else in the world!” They dance and high five as I sneak into the house and lock the door behind me.
“What the hell is going on out there?” I call out as I get inside the house. Vito is pacing in the living room; likely unsure how to handle the vibration in the floor from Jeff’s bass drum. I peek out the curtains and wonder how I am supposed to walk my dog with those freaks outside. Then I see Keith, sprawled and snoring on the couch; a half-empty bottle of vodka and a glass are on the coffee table. Crumpled balls of paper litter the floor. Gee, looks like our conversation on the stairs this morning was very inspirational and had a great impact. Not.
I’m kind of thinking of sneaking a shot of Keith’s vodka when Toni comes in. I tilt my head toward the front of the house. “Is it always like this, with people staking out the band?”
“I can’t say I’ve ever seen that,” she says. “I’m kind of scared to go outside.” She pulls back a curtain and peers out. “You ought to have Greg walk Vito.” She tips her head toward my dog pacing by the door. Of course, he has to go out right now, when there are rabid fans waiting to pounce on anyone coming out of the house. Nonetheless, Toni fetches Greg, and he takes Vito out.
“They want to come inside to meet the guys,” I say, raising my eyebrows. “There’s one out there who swears Keith is writing songs just for her.”
“Trisha’s out there?” she asks. “That girl gets around.”
“You know her name? Aren’t you concerned about safety? She’s a fucking weirdo. Please tell me that you’ve called the police.”
“No, I haven’t. Erik told me not to.”
“Why? Toni, I am freaked out. Those people know my name. They surrounded me when I pulled into the driveway. Do you have any idea how scary that is for me? Are they going to sleep out there?”
“I hope not.” Toni watches the die-hard Hydra fans playing Frisbee on the front lawn. Vito chases after it until Greg calls him back. Concern crosses Toni’s face, and I’m pretty sure she’s scared, too. “Erik said he’d handle it.”
“Tim’s going to be so mad when he gets home,” I say. Then I gesture to the living room. “So, what’s up with Keith? I have to say that this is the most interesting thing I’ve ever come home to—a crowd on my lawn, and a drunken bassist passed out on my couch.” I nod toward Keith. “So, is that how he always writes lyrics?”
Toni rolls her eyes then goes to the kitchen and fills a glass under the tap. She goes into the living room and replaces the glass of vodka with the glass of water. Then, back in the kitchen, she dumps the vodka into the sink and tosses the empty bottle into the recycling bin.
Erik comes in through the back door; I can hear the crowd calling out to him until he squeezes inside and slams the door on the noise. He sets his iPhone on the counter. I’m impressed. That must mean he really wants to talk to me. “Brenda, before you say anything,” he says, gesturing toward the door, “I will handle the situation outside.” He turns to his phone before speaking again. “Oh, and who’s Portia?”
“Why? She’s Tim’s mom. Did she call here?”
I’ve lost Erik to his iPhone, so Toni speaks up. “No, she came over here this afternoon. Does she do that much?”
“Not really,” I say. “Were you here? What did she want?”
“Well, she came by to drop something off.” She points to a book of fabric swatches on the kitchen table. What the hell is she going to do to my house now? The swatches have Antonio Diego’s logo on them; he’s a big shot interior designer who has his own TV show—kind of like a male, Latino Martha Stewart. Has she hired him to redecorate our house? Just what I need. Why doesn’t Tim ever tell me about these things?
Oh, crap—Tim! Toni is peering out the window. I join her and watch the crowd approach Tim’s truck the same way they swarmed my car. I can see his face through the truck’s windshield, a blatant expression of disgust crossing his face. He gets out and forces his way through the crowd.
“It’s Tim!” someone screams.
“Tim! Can we come inside with you?”
“They’re in there, aren’t they?”
“Are you kidding me with this?” Tim yells. “No, you can’t fucking come inside. Get off my lawn!”
Out the window, I watch Tim trying to convince the crowd to leave. Yeah, good luck, pal. Trisha approaches Tim, and I see him glance toward the house with longing. She looks up at him with a twinkle in her eye; maybe someday she’ll think his campaign trail speeches were written for her.
Erik notices Keith on the couch. “Keith’s pissed, eh?”
“What is he pissed about?” I ask.
“Because he drank too much,” he says slowly, as if I am intellectually challenged.
“Huh? Oh! Here, we say that someone’s pissed when they’re angry,” I say.
“Well, he’s that, too.” Erik shrugs. “Doesn’t matter, so long as he’s writing.”
I wonder how long Keith has been passed out on the couch and exactly how long it will take for him to write lyrics for an entire album. Is he going to get drunk every day? Does that speed up the song writing process or slow it down? Hydra has been in the house for about three weeks at this point, and I am starting to get a bit antsy about when they’ll be done. I know Tim’s definitely over it; this is especially so, now that we have a fan club on the front lawn.
Toni is writing tomorrow’s schedule on the whiteboard as Tim comes in the back door and locks it behind him. “What the hell is that all about?” he asks, gesturing out the door.
“I’ll take care of it,” Erik replies while thumbing his iPhone screen. Not for the first time, I wonder if he does that when he doesn’t
want to fully participate in an uncomfortable conversation.
“You’d better,” Tim says to him. “I don’t want more people sleeping on my lawn.” This time, I don’t blame Tim for being irritated. I’m irritated, too; and I’m sure I won’t hear the end of it from him tonight, when we’re alone in our room.
Erik pulls out some stakes and yellow caution tape from a box in the living room then heads for the door. Did he go to Home Depot and get that stuff today? Just how long have these jokers been on my front lawn?
“What are you doing with that?” Tim asks.
“Now that they know where we are, they aren’t going to leave,” Erik says. “And God knows how many other people they’ve told. Over the years, I’ve found it easier to give them a section they can hang out in, so they won’t be disruptive. Most fans are respectful of that. It’s when you tell them to leave that things get nasty.”
“No. I don’t think you understand,” Tim says. “I don’t want strangers camped outside my house. What if they stampede and try to storm into my house?”
“Stampede? They’re not bulls, Tim. In all my years managing Hydra, that’s never happened. I’ve been in this situation many times. They want to be close by, but these people don’t have the courage to come up to the house. If they did, they would have done it by now.”
“What do you mean, they don’t have the courage?” I ask Erik. “They came up to my car, and they know my name. These aren’t normal people, and honestly, I’m concerned for my safety.”
“Right now, they don’t have any boundaries,” Erik explains. “So they’re roaming free out there. Once we corral them and give them some rules, you’ll see that they won’t be a bother.” I can tell Erik is trying to comfort me, but I’m not convinced.
“So, are you suggesting that we let them stay in their little designated parking area?” Tim asks.
“Yes. I’ve learned that, in a way, you just have to give the fans some of what they want, and they’re satisfied. They’ll hang around for a few days, and then they’ll get bored. You’ll see. You won’t even notice them after a while, and by next week, they’ll be gone.”
Tim and I exchange glances. I can tell he isn’t buying it; neither am I. But what else can we do? We don’t have experience in this kind of situation; Erik does. We pretty much have to trust him on this.
“Maybe Erik’s right,” I say to Tim. “I mean, if we tell them to leave, then they might trash our house. They’re here now, so I don’t really see what else we can do.” Though now I am starting to wonder if we can ever leave the house unattended with those people out there. What if Erik is wrong? What if, when we are at work and the band is at Del’s, the fans break in and try to score some memorabilia? What about Tent City? Nothing is secure out there. I imagine the people living in those tents will probably have to lock up their valuables in the garage, while everyone is out of the house.
“Fine,” Tim says, gritting his teeth. “But when I agreed to do this, I didn’t think I’d have to deal with screaming fans outside. I just thought you guys would crash here and that would be it. If they stray from their parking area just a little bit, I am calling the cops.”
“Tim,” Erik says to him, “you’ve allowed a rock band to stay in your house. What did you think would happen?” Good question—though I don’t think either of us imagined this. “Trust me, calling the cops would be infinitely worse on you. If you piss off rabid fans, they get ugly. Now, may I please borrow a mallet from your toolbox?” He holds up the caution tape and stakes. “I’ve got some crowd control to do.”
Tim turns to find the swatches on the kitchen table. “Oh, so my mother’s been here. Now she knows that Hydra’s here, too. Great. Can’t wait to answer that phone call.” He sighs.
Chapter 16
“GET OFF! GET OFF! GETOFFGETOFFGETOFF, you cretin!” It’s morning. Sure, the mornings are pretty hectic around here, but I’ve yet to hear someone screeching in the living room. Are they doing an imitation of Portia? If so, it’s dead on. I rush to put on my clothes and get downstairs. What the hell is going on down there?
By the time I get into the living room, I see Portia swinging her purse at Keith. “These raw silk cushions were imported from Paris,” she continues to screech at him. “They are not impervious to your drool!” She swings again.
Keith groans and covers his face with his arms. His words are slurred. “Unnnngh... stophiddingme... crazyfurginlady.”
A tall Latino man is standing next to her, dressed in impeccably-distressed jeans and a clingy black T-shirt. The sleeves can barely contain is sculpted biceps, and the sunglasses atop his head hold back sleek black waves of hair. Holy crap. Antonio Diego is in my house. He is glancing around my home, and I am immediately self-conscious. Somebody has left a glass and a plate with a pizza crust on the coffee table. Normally, I would rush to stash it in the kitchen sink, but I am frozen in the doorway as Portia slams Keith repeatedly with her purse, shrieking at him.
“What the hell is going on down here?” I ask Toni. But, like me, she is transfixed by the scene playing out in the living room. Portia swings her purse again and makes contact. Keith tries to sit upright but is knocked over from the weight of her blows.
“That is a Louis XIV divan,” Portia spouts, gesturing to the overly-fancy couch she bought Tim and me for a wedding gift. “Not some beanbag in a flop house, you imbecile. Stand up from there immediately!” The divan is a white raw silk Louis XIV-style chaise. Even I won’t sit on it, because I’m too afraid to mess it up. I always put down a throw blanket first.
Keith wobbles on his feet and rubs his eyes. I wonder if he even woke up from having passed out yesterday afternoon. Portia examines the side of her bag. There is a gouge in it from where it hit the studs on Keith’s jacket.
She glares at me. “Brenda, I don’t know why you didn’t tell me that you are having house guests,” she says. I can tell that she’s trying to come off polite, but the tone of her voice is clipped. She’s clearly pissed. Before I get the chance to say anything, she starts in again. “Get off of there! You are filthy!” She swings again. Keith groans and rubs at the stubble on his face, clearly trying to make sense of the situation. “Off!” Portia screams. “Immediately!”
“Ow! Fuck off, you crazy bitch!” he yells back at her. He moans then holds his head. “Quieter, please...” he grumbles. “...head is pounding.”
I know I should just tell her right now that guests in my house are none of her business. But she barrels right over me before I can even speak. “I expect that your houseguest will replace my Birkin.” Oh, shit. That’s Portia’s obnoxiously expensive handbag—the one that cost her tens of thousands of dollars. She was on the waiting list for five years for that thing. There’s no way Erik will buy her a new handbag. Antonio’s mouth falls open, but he has yet to say a word.
I examine the bag with her, while she continues to rant. “They’ll be hearing from my lawyer. My Birkin now has a scratch in it, and I demand that it be replaced.” I am about to tell her to calm down when I hear the front door open. It’s Keith. Leaving. Where is he going? Is he still drunk?
Portia continues to bluster. “I have never seen such behavior in my entire life,” she says, pointing her finger at me. Clearly, Keith’s passing out on her divan was my fault and is the sort of behavior that perfectly illustrates just how far beneath her station I really am.
I ignore her for the moment and watch Keith out the window, willing him not to do anything stupid. The fans have all stopped what they were doing and are watching Keith stumble down the front walk. I watch as Trisha approaches him and then stops a few paces away. She is talking to him, but I can’t hear what she’s saying.
Portia continues, oblivious: “Well, as you know,” she says, “Antonio is reupholstering the sofas to match the divan.” Really? That’s news to me. I’ve been thinking of putting those awful couches on Craigslist and buying something that better suits Tim and me—you know, like something we won’t be afraid to s
it on. What use is a divan? It has no back; we can’t even flop onto it while we watch TV. “So, I thought I’d drop off the swatches for you and Timothy. I put paperclips on the ones that I want you to pick from. As you can imagine, Antonio Diego is a very busy man, darling. And then I saw your drunken friend sprawled upon the divan. Oh, I do hope he hasn’t sullied the fabric.” She bends over to inspect the surface of the divan. “Antonio, darling, what do you think?”
“I think it’s fine, Portia,” he says, running his fingers over the drool spot. “This’ll come out with some goat’s milk upholstery cleaner.” He glances around, and then wipes his hands on his jeans.
“Oh, Keith,” I mutter under my breath. “No. Nonononono.” I knock on the window, but he doesn’t look back. Trisha has retreated, a look of horror on her face. Keith staggers to Portia’s BMW. She had it specially shipped from Germany—the model is not available in the U.S. She is insanely protective of it. I once touched it, and she immediately pulled a special microfiber cloth from her purse and meticulously rubbed at where I’d laid my hand.
“Keith! Shit! No!” I run out the front door. Portia, confused, looks up from the divan and follows me out the door. “Keith!” I yell again. “Stop!”
It’s too late. He is bracing himself against the roof of her car. His frayed jeans are around his ankles, and he’s letting out a loud, exaggerated sigh of relief. He looks over his shoulder at Portia and sneers. I see the stream of urine splash against the driver’s-side door of her car. The crowd points, gasps, titters, laughs. For good measure, he thrusts his hips and traces a loopy pattern of pee down the length of her car. Antonio’s jaw drops further. Yeah, let’s see you clean that with goat’s milk.
That has to be the longest pee I have ever witnessed. The sheer mortification of the moment probably made it feel twice as long. Portia gasps in horror and disgust. For the first time since we met, we agree on something.
Without a word, Keith pulls up his pants and zips his fly. He strides up the front walk and pushes past us on his way back into the house. He turns and faces Portia. “Hit me with that bag one more time,” he hisses at her. “I dare you.” I am at a loss for words. Portia’s face grows redder by the second; I know she’s going to blow her top. I need to say something. I need to do something.
