“I know things haven’t gone your way for a while,” David said, “so it’s about time you caught a fucking break. I sure as hell know you could use the money.”
Sean felt a burning sensation pulsating from the back of his eyes and in utter frustration started pounding his fist against the dashboard. Pain and anger bubbled inside him as he witnessed the last shredded vestiges of his professional reputation ridiculed and minimized.
“No!” he shouted. “No! No! No!” His hands twisted into a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. “I won’t do it, David! No way will I ever let that happen!”
A long moment of silence followed on the other end.
“What the hell is your problem, Sean?” David asked, his shock obvious by his tone. “I thought you’d be ecstatic about this. Don’t you realize how much money you stand to make?”
“Goddammit, David! ‘Looking Glass’ is a song about confusion and disillusionment as we grow up. Don’t you understand how I feel? I’ll be going from someone who actually wrote a song of substance into some brainless asshole writing about a window cleaner!”
“Oh, give me a break, Sean. People don’t think about that stuff. All the company wants to do is highlight the line about being stuck inside the looking glass when someone looks through a dirty window. I give them a lot of credit for picking out your song and running with it.”
Sean stamped his feet, the dull echo of the floor mat accentuating his downfall. With his hand shrouding his face, he asked, “Do you know who John Densmore is, David?”
Sean heard a loud sigh through the phone.
“No.”
“He was the drummer for The Doors. The other two guys want to sell their songs to the big companies, but not him. He remembers his rock ’n roll roots, and I respect the hell out of him for that.” He nodded to himself. “I’m pretty sure Jim Morrison would, too.”
“You’re forgetting something,” David said. “The Doors were one of the most successful bands of all time and John Densmore doesn’t have to sell cars for a living.”
His shoulders sagging at that painful reminder, Sean listened to the rest of his brother’s comments.
“You told me yourself there isn’t much money to be made anymore from ‘Looking Glass,’ so what are you acting so high and mighty for? Even your heroes like Pete Townshend and Bob Dylan have let their songs be played for products. Why not you, too?”
Sean shook his head in disgust. “‘Bargain’ is one of my favorite Who songs,” he said. “A meaningful rocker about spiritual enlightenment, and Townshend let it be used to sell fucking cars, can you believe it?” Without waiting for a reply, he continued. “And Dylan? Don’t remind me. I still remember the first time I heard ‘The Times They Are a-Changin’’ on a commercial for Kaiser Permanente. Man, I couldn’t believe it! Kaiser Permanente. One of the most inspiring and influential songs of the sixties being used to remind that same generation they’re getting old and creaky. Every time I think about it I want to puke.”
A few moments of silence followed. “Well, bro,” David said, “it’s been a long day, I’m beat, and I can’t begin to tell you how disappointed I am by your reaction. But I’m going to do you a favor. I’ll keep this conversation a secret and hope you come to your senses. It’s a great opportunity that’s still open, so I don’t have to let them know about your refusal right now. But I’ll be embarrassed as hell if you don’t change your mind on this.”
Sean took a final drag on his cigarette before tossing the burning stub on the ground. “There’s a song by Tom Petty called ‘Money Becomes King,’” he said. “It shows how the corporate mentality has taken over rock ’n roll. How it’s all about money and not the soul anymore. At the end of the song he expresses the feeling of a fan that went to see his hero in concert but realized things would never be the same, and how the only thing he thought about after the show was downing a light beer that the singer was now doing a commercial for. You should listen to it, David. You might understand where I’m coming from.”
“Welcome to the real world, Sean,” David said. “The corporate world. Whatever you would make out of this may be dirty money to you, but a whole lot of songwriters wish they were in your shoes right now.”
Sean acknowledged David’s accuracy about one thing: the corporate world ruled the roost, and when they pull and tug, the puppets are the ones forced to dance. Too many great songwriters sacrificed integrity for the all-mighty dollar by allowing the significance of their songs to catapult from distinctive to destructive.
When the conversation ended, he remained in the parking lot, taking deep, slow drags on another cigarette. Once upon a time, Sean Hightower’s songwriting echoed pride and independence, but if he followed his brother’s urging, his self-respect stood to dangle like a stripped carcass, another casualty to the new world order. David was all about the money, incapable of understanding the emptiness Sean felt as his dignity floated away on a cold, cruel breeze. He thought of lines he wrote about people like his brother who viewed the world from a perspective that failed to consider individual differences:
The answers are clear, in black and white
Don’t waste my time with gray
Just keep it simple, it’s alright
So much easier that way.
Chapter 4
Getting the boot from Rocco had its upside. Instead of arriving at Merissa’s place in the early a.m. to find her asleep, she’d still be awake at this hour.
He called her at home and on her cell as he walked to the car, repeating his attempts leaving the parking lot. With no voice mail messages on his cell or home phone, his bewilderment increased.
“Where is she?” he wondered aloud.
His need for her love and companionship took on an added urgency after David’s news about “Looking Glass.”
“What a day,” he whispered, voicing his feelings about the exasperating conversations with his mother and brother and that whole annoying scene at Rocco’s.
Thinking about his family depressed him. He felt exiled much of the time because none of them shared his sensibilities about the value of life. Money represented the center of their universe, but to Sean, love and self-respect mattered more in the end. Merissa understood that, he loved her for it, and tonight he’d make love to her with a passion he longed to express. He shook his head and chuckled, thinking about Rocco’s admonishment over his refusal to consider marriage.
Most weekends they alternated staying at each other’s place, so after stopping at home to collect some clothes, a toothbrush, and his dog, Hendrix, he figured to arrive at her place in about an hour. He couldn’t shake his anxiety, battling disorientation from his inability to contact her or know her whereabouts, but he had a key even if she wasn’t there. Driving through the street-to-street signal lights of late night Los Angeles, Sean reflected again on more regrets.
When “Looking Glass” entered the top ten, the corks had popped on the bubbly, and by the end of the evening he’d asked his girlfriend to marry him. Why not? Valerie not only appeared to be his lucky charm, she had a gorgeous face, a perfect body, and wanted sex anytime, anywhere. Young and stupid, Sean expected the good times to last forever. When they made their vows a few months later, however, the song had dropped from the charts, a second single wasn’t released, and rumors swirled of an impending buyout of his record company.
In the midst of this discouraging period, Valerie had started talking kids, but Sean convinced her to postpone that idea until he signed a new record deal, providing the financial security they’d need. As his career stalled, their frustrations mounted. In less than three years another type of signing occurred: divorce papers. His dwindling savings took a hit from the settlement and Sean promised himself he’d never make such a foolish mistake again. Another foolish mistake later, the curtain dropped on that second marriage like a bad play.
He met Merissa on his first day of work at the dealership and, within a few weeks, had spent a memorable night at her p
lace. More than a year into the relationship, they carried on like a happily married couple, but without the rings or sharing the same living space. Merissa broached the subject of marriage a time or two, but Sean avoided any kind of serious discussion. In his mind, the situation seemed perfect. Each had a key to the other’s place and they came and went as they pleased. Discovering Merissa in this look-at-me-but-don’t-touch impersonal city offered him a chance at love again, something he hadn’t thought possible.
As he drove down the short ramp into the garage, Sean smiled but shook his head when he spotted Merissa’s metallic blue Mustang. “What do you think, Hendrix?” he asked, addressing his dog in the front seat. “Was it asking too much of her to call me back?” Gathering his things in one hand, he clutched Hendrix to his chest and walked up the stairs to the first floor. His hands full, he knocked on the door and waited, listening to the muted sound of the television. Sean rapped his knuckles on the door again, but Merissa still didn’t open up. “Must be in the bathroom,” he whispered, placing his bag on the ground. Removing his keys, he found the right one and stepped inside.
As Hendrix squirmed to be freed, Sean released the dog from his grip, enjoying the thought of her furry little friend making the announcement of his arrival. Heading toward the refrigerator for a beer, a sudden series of unusual, rapid-fire barks emanating from Merissa’s room startled him, and he scurried down the hallway in sudden concern.
Several minutes later, through his tattered awareness of time and space, he heard another type of sound.
Sirens.
Chapter 5
Sean sat stone-faced on the couch with Hendrix’s black muzzle perched on his lap, preferring seclusion rather than listening to the inane bullshit from Roger and Adam, his two friends from the dealership. Right now, their good intentions mattered little to him and helped as much as a cup of water tossed on a forest fire.
“We’re never going to forget her, Sean,” Roger said, “but right now we’re thinking of you. We wanted to make sure you’re all right.”
“Whatever we can do for you, just name it,” Adam added. “We want you back whenever you’re ready.”
Sean glanced at both of them, nodding his head in a single subtle motion of insincere acknowledgment. The overwhelming trauma from Merissa’s rape and murder just two weeks before had rendered him drained of feeling about anything. If the entire world disappeared in a mushroom cloud tomorrow he wouldn’t care. He covered his face in one hand, gripping hard as he slid his fingers down from his forehead to the unshaven stubble on his cheeks and chin.
“I’m not ready for much of anything right now,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper.
Sean rose to his feet and walked to the window. He observed that lemonade-selling little girl again, noticeably frail, with a cream-colored beret, sitting on a chair on the sidewalk behind a rectangular folding table covered by a white cloth hanging down on both sides. A man, perhaps her father, neared completion of the stand assembled around her, stacking two upside-down piles of paper cups on each side of a large barrel-shaped red container. The family had moved in the previous month and Sean had spotted her selling lemonade a few times as he drove past. Looking closer now, with a chance to study her features, he realized she seemed quite pale, possessing no more than a few strands of hair under her cap. He surmised what he hadn’t deduced before.
Just a little girl, he said to himself. What the hell did she ever do to deserve that? Sean closed his eyes, trying to shut out another reminder of life’s cruelty. It’s getting harder to take.
“Everyone from the bowling group wanted me to say hello,” Adam said, piercing his thoughts like a spear.
“If you need anything for the house,” Roger added, “Anita and I can do some shopping for you. It’s no problem.”
After a long silence, the hourglass of his patience released its final grain. “Thanks for coming, guys,” he said, turning from the window, “but I’ve got something I need to do.”
Before closing the door, he agreed to call them if needed, speaking the words without the slightest intention. He entered the spare bedroom where Merissa’s clothes, that she brought and left at his house, remained stuffed in trash bags on the floor. Her sister, Megan, had suggested he bring them to the Donation Depot at the Directional Center where she did volunteer work for women and their children from problem homes. The bags lay bunched together at haphazard angles secured with twist ties except one. Sean stared at the sole item of clothing that didn’t belong to Merissa, sickened by the acute awareness of its significance. His unfolded gray sweat top, strewn on the floor with her panties and his sweat pants that night, crested the top of the opened bag.
Through the choking mist of his memory, he remembered seeing that top by the bed and instinctively clutching it against his chest and then his face, knowing that his sweat suit had been a favorite item of hers to slip into after work. Without a second thought, he’d put the top on, zipping it all the way and not taking it off until he returned home.
Now he wanted to rid himself of that item of clothing forever but had delayed sealing it in the bag. That hooded top represented the last thing Merissa had worn, and he recalled how cute she looked in the oversize sleeves that hung past her hands. As he stood looking down at the crumpled gray material, he saw nothing but a silent reminder of the beautiful woman who’d once filled those empty cotton spaces.
Stooping to gather the hooded top in his hands, Sean cradled it against his chest. Tears surged from his eyes as another levy of restraint collapsed. He fell to his knees, wailing into the soft cotton now covering his face. “Why did this have to happen?” he asked out loud. “Why? Why?”
Sean’s hands squeezed the sweat top until all color drained from his fingers, his anger shoving the tears aside. He leaped to his feet and clasped both hands around the crumpled hood, whipping the floor and walls as if wielding an ax, over and over in a rage of frustration and excruciating acceptance. He staggered toward all four sides of the room, swinging away toward anything that got in his way: a desk lamp, a framed photo of Hendrix and him, a stack of CDs, a long, newly used candle, a cigarette-filled ashtray, an empty coffee cup, and a Vin Scully bobblehead Dodger doll. He staggered forward and back, side to side, his disoriented state of sober reality rendering him weak and unable to catch his breath.
Sean grabbed the armrest of his wooden chair and crumpled into the seat, his suffocating anger disintegrating into exhaustive helplessness. His glazed eyes, open and tearful, stared into the vacuum of his own desperate thoughts for several long moments. Or was it minutes? As he reentered the consciousness of his surroundings, his eyes lasered toward what appeared to be a playing card at the far end of the room. Walking over, he reached down.
“The Jack of Hearts,” he whispered. Even through the cavernous depths of his grief, his discovery reminded him of one of his favorite Bob Dylan songs, “Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts.” Sean turned the card over and peered at the recognizable Bicycle design found on many store-bought decks. Was this in my sweatshirt? he wondered. Was it Merissa’s?
“Fuck it!” he shouted, flinging the card away like a mini Frisbee. “What goddamn difference does it make now?” Sean rushed to the open trash bag, shoved his sweat suit inside, and tied a double knot as fast as he could.
Chapter 6
Determined to place Merissa’s volunteer days into his literal and figurative rear view mirror, Sean waved away an employee’s attempt to speak with him as he dropped the bags onto the counter of the donation center and left. As he approached his car for a quick getaway, however, a man in a dark gray Honda Accord pulled into the parking lot, honking his horn and waving.
Sean’s shoulders sagged as he whispered a curse, preparing for a few undesirable moments with the director of the Mid-Valley Youth and Family Directional Center, Elliot Hayden.
Elliot Hayden: part humanitarian working toward bettering problem family lives and part annoying know-it-all for working toward buttin
g into everyone else’s problems. Merissa respected him to the point of idolatry, but Sean disliked the man’s seeming moral obligation to dissect decisions by others as his to analyze, accept, or reject.
Standing approximately six foot, four inches, Elliot reminded him of a haughty college professor peering down at you from atop his lectern. Opinions, wanted or not, sprang from his mouth like a broken waterline.
After exchanging the usual pleasantries and Sean’s explanation of his appearance at the center, Elliot wasted no time being...Elliot.
“You need a healthy outlet, Sean,” he told him. “Something worthwhile.”
Elliot removed his dark, silver-framed sunglasses and stared, the crow’s-footed corners of his dark brown eyes lengthening into pronounced crinkles as he smiled. For a man in his mid-to-late fifties, his face remained boyish with a naturally bemused expression, punctuated by a stylish, silvery-white cropped beard matching the color of his full ponytailed head of hair. Merissa admired his LA cool style of dress, remarking more than once that he reminded her of an older male model out of the pages of GQ.
“Let’s face it,” he continued, tugging on the sleeves of his black corduroy jacket, “much of your work day is spent wooing potential buyers who think a car’s ability to accelerate on the freeway or make a sharp turn is the most important thing on earth.”
Sean angled his head downward, pinching the bridge of his nose as an added resentment crept over him. Elliot’s lack of sensitivity and pompous preaching jack-hammered his tolerance into crumpled remains. “I don’t want to hear any more of your holier-than-thou shit, Elliot,” he said, his fingers stiffening from dangling hands. “I’m trying to find my way again, all right? You think you know what’s best for me after what’s happened? You have no fucking clue!”
You Say Goodbye Page 4
