Before the Flock

by David Inglish

  “Mr. Franklin? It’s Priscilla Franklin. Your daughter-in-law.”

  Wayne surveys the room with the corners of his eyes. “I didn’t do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Whatever you said I did.”

  “I didn’t say you did anything.”

  “As long as we’ve got that straight.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “I know, Mr. Franklin. I was hoping you could talk to Kurt for me.”

  “Kurt?”

  “Your son.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It’s about psychiatric medication. I think Kurt needs to go back on medication. Maybe lithium. Could you talk to him?”

  “Of course he does. Gotta take your meds. I take mine.”

  “Could you talk to him?”

  “He doesn’t listen to me.”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “Okay, put him on.”

  “He’s not here right now. Can you call back later?”

  “I didn’t tell Kurt to steal your car. It was his idea.”

  “Mr. Franklin? Do you mind talking to him?”

  “No problem.”

  Wayne doesn’t call. A couple days later Priscilla calls Felder and asks, “Could you tell Kurt to try the meds?”

  “Sure.”

  When he hasn’t called in a few days, Priscilla gives up on Felder. She asks him herself. “Kurt, would you just try lithium, it’s a salt, it’s not a drug.”

  “Okay.”

  It takes a couple of weeks for his levels to stabilize, and then there are fewer rants, fewer gigs, not too much practicing—the physical need to play is under control. Felder says it is good for the band. Kurt is still himself, but now he’s an edited version, sort of like a movie you might see on an airplane. You get the general story, but there’s no bare breasts, no foul idioms, no bodily fluids. The spark that made Kurt incendiary is now a twenty-five-watt bulb. There is something gentle about him, almost vulnerable, almost mortal.

  Kurt walks over to Eric’s house. “I’ve got a new song.”

  “Great.”

  Kurt sits on the couch and starts strumming and singing. The song is a benign three-chord dud. When it is over, Kurt looks at Eric and asks, “What do you think?”

  “That’s good.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Really good.”

  “What do you think of that change?”

  “Kurt, you’re the best songwriter alive. I’ve never written a song in my life. It sounds really good to me.”

  “I don’t know. These songs I’ve been writing, they sound really good the day I write ‘em. Then the next day, I just don’t know. I wonder if I’ll like this one tomorrow?”

  “That’s just part of the process, right?”

  “Never used to be.”

  “It’s normal.”

  “Normal? Normal—stable?” Kurt chuckles to himself. “They told me I would still be able to write music on the meds.”

  “You can! You just did!”

  “Yeah, I can, but is this song as good as the ones on the album?”

  “Um…maybe.”

  “This stuff I’m taking—it isn’t like Mellaril. It’s just a salt. I’m just a little bipolar—nothing else. I’m not crazy.”

  “I know you’re not. Are you happy? You seem happy.”

  Kurt shrugs his shoulders, strums a different chord. “What do you think of that? Maybe that’s better. Does that sound better?”

  “Yeah, that’s better.”

  He plays the other change. “No, I think I like the first one.”

  “The first one. The first one, for sure.”

  He strums the two chords back and forth with increasing speed. “At least I can sleep now.”

  “Where’s the Jovi? You should play it for the Jovi. Write songs together, you know.”

  “The Jovi? My brother hates that guy. I don’t want to ask him. I hope he’s not with that chick. He isn’t around here. That’s all I know.”

  Felder tells Carol to call Jaime Seller’s office and get Seller on the phone. Carol dials the number. Sheryl answers the phone. “Mr. Felder would like to speak to Mr. Seller. Is he available?”

  “Please hold. I’ll check.”

  Carol holds.

  “Yes, Mr. Seller is available. Is Mr. Felder on the line?”

  “Please hold for Mr. Felder.” Carol puts the phone on hold. “Hey, Adam. He’ll talk to you.”

  “I know he’ll talk to me, but is he on the line? I’m not gonna get on the fucking line and wait for him again—that’s fucking bullshit. The last time I called, he had me sit there on hold for a full fucking minute. That was fucking humiliating. I’m not going through that again. Get him on the phone.”

  Carol presses the hold button. “Hi, Sheryl, this is Carol, I have Mr. Felder ready for Mr. Seller. Is he on the line?”

  “Is Mr. Felder on the line?”

  “He’s ready for Mr. Seller. Is Mr. Seller on the line?”

  “Mr. Seller will get on the line after Mr. Felder is on the line.”

  “Please hold.” Carol punches the hold button. “Seller won’t get on the phone until he knows you’re waiting.”

  “That fucking, cock-sucking motherfucker. You tell Sheryl to put that bag of shit on the fucking phone right now.”

  Carol presses a button on the phone. “Hello, Sheryl? Mr. Felder says to put that bag of shit on the phone right now.”

  Felder lunges for the phone and grabs the receiver. “Hello? Hello?”

  Carol presses a button and says, “Hi, Sheryl, Mr. Felder is on the line for Mr. Seller.”

  “Thanks, Carol, I’ll have him on in a second.”

  “You tricked me, you fucking—”

  “Hello? Adam? Are you there?”

  “Jaime. It’s me, Adam. How are you?”

  “Good. Good.”

  “So what do you think of the new songs?”

  “New songs?”

  “Yeah. Thunderstick? My band? You asked us to give you some new songs. More hard rock, you said—like Bad Company you said. Songs—”

  “Sure. Those songs. They’re fine.”

  “So are we back on the calendar?”

  “Sure. How’s April twenty-sixth sound?”

  Felder smiles. “Sounds great.”

  Seller knows that New Romantic is dying out, and from its ashes the weed of Glam-tainted Metal is rising. This is in no small part thanks to the monstrous success of Led ‘n’ Lilacs. When they opened up for the Cult at SDSU in 1988, the front man, Otto, was wearing pink spandex pants tucked into white knee-high boots, and a row of feathers adorned the mic stand. The drummer was pretty solid, but nobody was buying it—just another screeching hair band from L.A., everyone thought. A year later, after some Tiffany Tucker type told them to toss the spandex in favor of ripped jeans, and after Arty Azimoff twisted the arm of every program director in the country, they are a phenomenon—selling out Wembley Stadium, opening up for the Stones.

  Kurt hates them, but Kurt hates everyone. Kurt hates them so much that he is willing to play hard rock just to prove he can do it better than Led ‘n’ Lilacs.

  For Thunderstick, a release date is good news. Felder restarts negotiations over the publishing deal.

  April 25, 1989, the band gets dolled up in their gig gear and drives to L.A. We walk into Felder’s office. Felder is surprised. “What the fuck are you guys doing here?”

  “We’re here for our album release party—like that thing they were doing for Depeche Mode over at Warner Bros., right?” Kurt says. “You know, where you get to meet all the people that work for you.”

  “Release party? There’s no fucking album!”

  “What?”

  “DCA hasn’t asked for the artwork. The designer has been waiting for the go-ahead. Nothing. From the time the artwork is in, it’s a four-week turnaround. We’re probably looking at June. June at best.”

  “No fucking way!
” Kurt puts his hands above his head. “I’m not going to make it to June.”

  “Kurt, you gotta. You know who Bang Tango is?”

  “No.”

  “They’re his band. Seller signed ‘em in January. Their album-release party is tomorrow, April twenty-sixth, our release date. Coincidence? No. Everyone at DCA is mobilized on this thing. They got Bang Tango T-shirts and hats on every suck-ass in town. You know what Seller is saying?”

  “What?”

  “He’s saying fuck you, Bernie! Fuck you, Felder! Fuck you, Thunderstick! DCA is mine! You want your album released? Fine, come in here, lick my balls, suck my dick, and I’ll think about it! That’s what he’s fucking saying.”

  “Then go in there and lick his balls!” EJ yells. “C’mon, Adam, do—”

  “So he can humiliate me again? Have me wait in his office? Put me on hold? No. His bands are already signed, recorded, mixed, mastered, and released. He ate ‘em, and he’s already shitting ‘em out. I don’t eat other people’s shit. I’m gonna get us a new record deal.”

  Kurt drives home in a rage, but he knows how to handle this. He knows how to get a little respect. He gets home, plays a song, puts down the guitar, lights a smoke, and calls information. “Give me the number for DCA.”

  “We have several listings. Would you like DCA Worldwide Studio Tours?”

  “No. The record company.”

  She gives him the number. He holds the smoke in his mouth. The pen in his hand has no ink. He presses really hard so the numbers are indented in the back of the phone book.

  “DCA Global, how may I direct your call?”

  “This is Kurt Franklin of Thunderstick and you need to release my album. You said you would release it on April twenty-sixth, and I want you to live up to your word.”

  “Please hold.”

  There’s music. It’s Bang Tango.

  “Hello, DCA Records, how may I direct your call?”

  “Yeah. This is Kurt Franklin of Thunderstick. You need to release my album like you said you would. It used to be that somebody’s word meant—”

  “Please hold.”

  Different music—Jody Watley.

  “Hello? DCA Records.”

  “This is Kurt Franklin, I’m the lead singer of Thunderstick, who is this?”

  “Please hold.”

  Is that Debbie Cherry? Kurt thinks.

  “Hello? DCA Records.”

  “Debbie Cherry? Bang Tango? Jody Watley? Why don’t you play some Thunderstick on your phone thing? People would like to be put on hold if they could listen to the pretty singing.”

  “Sir? Hello? DCA Records, how may I help you?”

  “THIS IS KURT FRANKLIN. GIVE ME JAIME SELLER!”

  “Mr. Seller is in a meeting. May I take a message?”

  “YOU TELL HIM THIS IS KURT FRANKLIN OF THUNDERSTICK. MY BAND MADE THE BEST ALBUM ANYBODY HAS MADE IN TWENTY YEARS, AND HE NEEDS TO BE A MAN, A REAL MAN, AND RELEASE IT LIKE HE SAID HE WOULD! ON THE DAY HE SAID HE WOULD!”

  “I will give him your message, Mr. Franklin.”

  “Good. Thanks. Thanks.”

  Kurt hangs up and calls Eric. “Hey, man, I just wanted to let you know, everything’s cool with DCA. I just had to straighten some people out.”

  “Full on.”

  “Yeah. I know how this business thing works.”

  It’s May and still no release date. But Kurt still needs to play. So the blue folding chairs at the Vine Church are treated to a world-class concert two nights a week.

  After three hours of practice, EJ says, “Kurt, I think that’s enough.”

  Kurt puts down his guitar and holds his hands like a praying mantis. “He who works his lands will have abundant food, but he who chases fantasies will have his fill of poverty.”

  “Fuck. That’s heavy,” the Jovi says, and drops a lit cigarette on the concrete floor. He presses the toe of his black boot into the ember.

  “You want poverty?” Kurt asks the band.

  “I want to go to a titty bar,” EJ says. “We’ve practiced enough. C’mon, Kurt, you know you want to go too.”

  “That’s exactly why I won’t go. Those who are given to lust, the devil has power over them.”

  The Jovi nods and turns away. “What about you, Eric, are you down with it?”

  “What are those places like?”

  “Eric’s never been to a strip club?” The Jovi smiles.

  “Jesus Christ!” Jesse yells under the giant crucifix. “C’mon, Eric, I’ll introduce you. Those chicks fucking love me. They fucking call me Kid Salami! Look at this.” He grabs his inner thigh through his leather chaps.

  “He’s not kidding,” the Jovi says. “He’s got a fucking kielbasa in there.”

  “I’ll go.”

  “Look, man, I don’t like where this band is headed. The Lord said: ‘My son give me your heart and let your eyes keep to my ways, for a prostitute is a deep pit and a wayward wife is a narrow well. Like a bandit she lies in wait, and multiplies the unfaithful among men.’”

  “Whoa. That’s deep. You’re just full of the Holy Spirit tonight, aren’t you?” the Jovi says.

  “Yeah. Somebody has to be.”

  “So we’ll see you on the rack at Dirty’s?” Jesse laughs.

  “I’m married.”

  In his BMW with the missing window, Eric follows Jesse and the Jovi down Mira Mesa Boulevard. EJ follows close behind in his mom’s station wagon. The Jovi’s hard-tail purple chopper with ape-hangers rumbles and growls. Jesse’s factory Sportster hums. The two bikes are side by side. The two red taillights become the enchanting and evil glowing eyes of a harlot. Yes, Eric thinks, a red-eyed, nylon-clad stripper slithering across a dance floor, writhing on her belly. He grins, remembers the road before him, looks up, and watches the Jovi hit a significant pothole at about sixty miles per hour. Because his bike is a hard-tail—no shocks in the back—the back of the bike bounces the Jovi perpendicular. He’s still holding the handlebars, his feet pointing to the sky like he’s doing a handstand. It would be a magnificent circus trick if it wasn’t for the fact that the tail of the bike is three feet in the air. The Jovi only stays on his hands for half a second. The wind and momentum push his body back toward the ground. He curls his legs and reaches for the footpegs. He finds them. The pieces come down together. For a split second it looks like the Jovi is going to pull it off. Then his bike goes sideways in a rapid, fishtailing action that flings him out of the saddle above the handlebars. When he comes down this time, there is nothing beneath him but blacktop. He lets go of the bike, extends his left leg, and skids on his side, his head up and alert. The bike, the beautiful bike, tumbles and spits sparks. The Jovi turns his body, gloves down, head up. Eric slams on the brakes only to be jolted forward then backward as EJ crashes into his back bumper. The Jovi spins on the blacktop then hops up, running in giant, elongated lunar strides. He’s running with a broken leg, Eric thinks to himself. The chopper is still spinning and shooting golden sparks in the night. The years of work, the chrome, the handlebars, it is all being compressed into a tube of scrap metal. As the chopper tumbles and slows, Jesse stays by its side. As the chopper moves toward the shoulder, Jesse moves with it. He is constantly looking at the riderless machine until his own bike smacks into the back of a parked Ford. Jesse travels headfirst over two cars and disappears into the darkness. EJ and Eric stop, certain that Jesse is dead. The Jovi is standing on the other side of the boulevard. He seems to be okay.

  “Fuck it, Eric. You fucked up my car. Oh shit, is Jesse dead? I’ll bolt to Burrito Barn and call an ambulance.”

  “What should I do?”

  “I don’t know.” EJ runs toward the restaurant.

  Eric kneels by Jesse’s massive body. Jesse is facedown in an expanding pool of blood, unconscious, one arm up, one arm at his side, the heels of his cowboy boots turned outward. Eric thinks to himself, Don’t move the body. What is left of the Jovi’s chopper is now colorless and leaking fluids. Jesse’s bike
is crushed, sticking out of the ass of the black Ford. Eric listens in the stillness and hopes for a distant siren.

  Instead he hears a gurgling groan and looks down. Jesse the Giant has brought his hands to his head and is trying to push himself off the tarmac. Eric grabs his shoulder and says, “Don’t move.”

  Jesse slowly turns to Eric, his powerful forehead caked in blood and hair. “How’s my bike? Where’s my weed?”

  Eric mumbles something about incomprehensible miracles. Jesse grunts and drags himself over to a sapling planted by the sidewalk.

  “Jesse, man, are you okay?” the Jovi yells, as he runs across the boulevard.

  “Smoke.” Jesse groans.

  The Jovi fumbles with a pack of cigarettes, takes two, lights them, and hands one to Jesse. Jesse’s shoulders are now propped up against the little tree. He takes the cigarette with a trembling hand and breathes in the smoke.

  The sirens get closer, then arrive.

  The paramedics ask a lot of questions. They wrap Jesse’s head in white gauze and help him to his feet. Jesse towers over the paramedic who holds his forearm. If the paramedic was wearing a crinoline dress, it would look like prom night in Calcutta. Jesse’s cigarette dangles from his mouth. “Sir, you can’t smoke that in the ambulance. Sir. Sir, you can’t…” Jesse throws the smoke on the ground and puts both hands on the chrome railings, stepping into the back of the ambulance himself to join the Jovi. EJ and Eric can see the two of them through the back window, lit in an eerie fluorescent glow. The ambulance pulls away and Jesse the Giant and the Jovi ride off together into the night.

  “Why should the Devil have all the good tunes?”

  —Rowland Hill

  The Jovi and Sophie are out to dinner at Chuck’s Steak House on Prospect. Sophie tips the goblet and the last few drops of red slide into her luscious mouth. Her teeth outlined in crimson, she smiles at the Jovi like a happy vampire. The bill comes. The Jovi throws down his Gold Card.

  It comes back, but there’s no receipt and no Gold Card.

  “Hey, I think you forgot something.”

  “Oh really?” the waiter says.