Before the Flock

by David Inglish

  She pushes him away. “Why’s it always me? Everyone wants something from me. I’m sick of it.”

  “I don’t want anything from you.”

  “You just want everything.”

  They hear a knock at the door. They look at each other. Then Sophie says, “It must be my dad. He must want another check.”

  The Jovi gets up and walks over to the door. He looks through the glass and sees Kurt standing on the porch, staring at the floor, pushing his fingers into his temples, locking and unlocking his jaw. He looks up at the Jovi with a dark stare, the whites in his eyes illuminated by the moon. The Jovi cracks the door open. “Hey, dude, what’s up?”

  “Hey, man, can’t sleep.”

  “Sorry, bro, bummer.”

  “Can I talk to Sophie?”

  The Jovi looks over his shoulder. He sees her down the hall, sitting up in bed. She shakes her head and lifts the sheet to her neck.

  “No, man, she’s asleep.”

  “Look, it’s really important. My wife—she’s gone—I did like Sophie said. I want to talk to her about fame, fame and the demons that give me songs.” Kurt rubs his face as if it were a big piece of putty.

  “Sorry, dude. Call us tomorrow. Sophie’s tired.”

  “You have no idea what I’m going through, man, the pain, no one believes me anymore. I need to talk to her about that book and…”

  “Kurt. Look. No. Nothing. Go to sleep. Call us in the morning.”

  “I can’t, man. There’s this thing in my living room and—”

  “Kurt. Stop. She’s pregnant and asleep.”

  “Look, man, if it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t even have her. It’s ‘cuz she sees you up on stage playing my music—that’s why she loves you—that’s how fucking powerful this music is. And when that music is just in my head, all that power goes around and attacks all the good things in my head too—and I think she needs to fucking respect that and get out of bed and help me out with this fucking thing. It’s important.”

  “Good night, Kurt.”

  “She told me to leave my wife. I need to know what she meant by that.”

  “She just meant that if you’re happy, stay. If you’re unhappy, leave.”

  “Look, man, that’s not good enough, I need to ask her myself. Why won’t she do that for me?” The veins in his neck start to bulge. “I mean, after all this, and she goes off with fucking Eric?”

  “Who went off with Eric?”

  “Summer did.”

  “Is that what this is all about?”

  “Where is she?”

  “She went to Japan to model.”

  “Is she really in Japan?”

  “Yeah, man, she is.”

  “Look, man, it’s about time people in this band started to respect me. None of this would have ever happened if it wasn’t for me. I made the whole thing happen. I quit the drugs, man. I didn’t do it for me. I did it for the people who are going to hear our music and be saved. Can you even understand that?”

  “Good night, Kurt. Let’s talk in the morning.”

  The Jovi closes the door on him. Kurt doesn’t move from the porch. The Jovi walks back into the bedroom and lies down next to Sophie.

  “That’s it. We need to move to L.A.,” she says.

  “No, baby, Kurt’s just having a tough night, and he really likes you. But, you know, if we need to, I’m cool and all…”

  “My mom was right.”

  “Okay, babe, I’ll watch our little one.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about people who steal—and don’t even know they’re doing it. A poor man will take everything you have and not even realize he’s stealing from you—that’s what my mom said. She was right.”

  “That’s bullshit. Rich or poor I would never steal from you.”

  “Let’s just go to sleep. I’m tired.”

  At the end of his hand Felder’s chrome-plated MTV Astronaut turns from side to side and moves backwards – a moonwalk of sorts. “I’m Adam F and I’m here to say/I’m a bad mother fucker from around the way…”

  “Adam! Adam! Pick up the phone, Adam!” Carol says through the speakerphone.

  “Okay. Okay.” He fumbles with the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Adam, it’s Arty Azimoff here.”

  “Arty! Golden-Eared Arty. How the hell are ya?”

  “Good. Adam, listen to me, I’m sure you’ve heard, DG is giving me my own label. I’m looking for bands. I’ve heard the Thunderstik album. That song “Bleed Me”—that’s a signature song right there—that should be on every AOR station in the country.”

  “Oh, yeah, fucking yeah, good song.” Felder rubs his face. “I agree.”

  “So I heard you’re off DCA, is this true?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But I heard you’re talking to Josh Weiner at Polygram. You know I don’t get in the middle of these things.”

  “Weiner? Fuck Weiner. You’re Golden-Eared Arty! You want Thunderstik. I’ll get you Thunderstik.”

  “I want to see them play.”

  “You got it.”

  Priscilla’s things are gone. Kurt surveys his bedroom in disgust. He hears the lump on the floor in the other room. “Where’s your wife, Kurt?”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “She’s probably at her mom’s. Did she take the car? That car belongs to you. You bought that car. We told you to steal it when you could.”

  “Shut up.”

  “You can’t live half-in and half-out, Kurt.”

  “I’m all good.”

  “Half of you belongs to us.”

  “I rebuke you in the name of Jesus Christ.” Kurt slams the door.

  There’s a big thick magic marker in Kurt’s hand. He draws a line down the middle of the wall, down the middle of the bed. He takes everything that is evil and puts it on the left side: pornography, cigarettes, the lyrics to a pop song, a picture of Sophie torn from a magazine. And he puts everything good on the other side: a wrinkled picture of Priscilla, a can of peach-flavored Kearn’s Nectar, a microwave burrito that Priscilla had left in the freezer. He places his guitar in its rack in the center of the black line, and he lies down in the middle of the bed. He takes the black magic marker and presses it against his crotch, dragging it up his torso through the middle of his chest and up his neck all the way to his forehead. He lies on his back and makes the sign of the cross.

  The phone rings. It’s on the evil side. It rings and it rings. Kurt reaches over with his evil hand and puts the evil phone to his evil ear. “What.”

  “Kurt. What’s going on down there?” Felder asks.

  “My wife left me. I’m trying to purify.”

  “Look, man. Pull yourself together. I’ve got some good news.”

  “What?”

  “Golden-Eared Arty wants to hear the band.”

  “Good.”

  “So I booked us some time at a rehearsal studio up here in the Valley.”

  “No, man. I can’t rehearse anymore.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “When we play, and there’s no one there, I can’t deal with it.”

  “Why?”

  “You see, this band puts off so much energy that if there isn’t a crowd of people there to soak it up, the energy goes to the back of the club or church and bounces off the wall and comes back and attacks the band.”

  “Kurt. Are you taking your meds?”

  “I’m writing songs. Songs that will last forever.”

  “Okay. I’ll find somewhere to play where there are people.”

  “Mexico, man. They’re Catholic down there. They still believe in God down there. I need people who believe in God in the audience.”

  “Kurt. I need you to pull it…what’s that? Fuck, I gotta go…” Felder hangs up.

  Kurt hears a knocking on the door. He opens the bedroom door tentatively. The lump isn’t there. The knocking persists. He opens the door. Two jocks stare at a naked Ku
rt with a black line running down his body.

  “Are you Kurt Franklin of Thunderstik?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve been served.”

  Kurt casually reaches for the brown-paper envelope but grabs the jock’s arm instead. He pulls the guy in and slams him in the eye with a solid short left. The guy stammers. The other jock kicks Kurt in the shin and pushes him to the ground. The jocks hold hands and jump down big sections of the stairs then take off running down La Jolla Boulevard.

  Kurt opens the envelope. It’s the accountants. They’re suing Kurt for the loan money.

  The Jovi finds Sophie in the bright morning light, in the kitchen filling a cardboard box with mismatched dishes and books. He runs his hands from the back of her waist around to the middle of her belly. The little mound fits perfectly. He waits for a kick.

  “What are you doing?” He asks quietly.

  “This is the first step.”

  “What is?”

  “These are giveaways. It’s the first step before you move.”

  “Nah.” The Jovi looks out into the yard. The low December sun has a spotlight effect on the glistening dew-covered grass. “It’s so nice here.”

  “It was nice here.” She lifts up the book that Phoenix gave her. She puts it in the box.

  “I’m glad to see that thing go.” The Jovi says.

  “Oh are you? Maybe I should keep it.” She smiles.

  “I wonder if Pastor Ron knows that he’s the last one who believes in witchcraft?”

  “Kurt too, kinda.” The phone rings. Sophie reaches for it and puts it to her ear. She turns away and huddles with the phone held in close.

  The Jovi pours himself some coffee and says, “We should keep this place. It’s nice.”

  The Jovi hears Sophie say, “Oh… Okay… That’s great…” She turns back to him. Her sleepy eyes are glossy and distant. She puts the phone back on the receiver.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It was Giuseppe. GQ wants to shoot me for the cover. Pregnant and everything.” She starts crying.

  “Why are you crying? That’s good news.”

  “I’m fat.”

  “You’re pregnant.” The Jovi reaches out to hug her.

  Sophie pushes him back. “You know what I mean. I’m fat.”

  “Baby, you’re fat in all the right places.”

  Eric answers his phone. It’s EJ. “I just got off the phone with Felder. Arty Azimoff wants to sign the band. He wants us to showcase this Saturday night in Mexico. We’re going to open up for one of Golden-Eared Arty’s bands.”

  “Which one?”

  “Sally’s Strung Out.”

  “That’s awesome. What about Weiner at Polygram?”

  “Felder said fuck him. This is Golden-Eared Arty. He found the Crüe. Get ready for a real record deal. That’s what Felder said. None of this DCA bullshit.”

  “Sweet.”

  “Hold on, it’s the other line.” Eric waits. EJ clicks, comes back. “This is bad. Come over here right now. We’re having a band meeting.”

  “At your mom’s?”

  “Where else?”

  EJ’s mom is an interior designer. Colonial reproduction furniture is strategically arranged around a formal sitting room. If they had white wigs on, EJ, Sven, and Kurt would look like they are about to sign the Declaration of Independence.

  “What’s up?” Eric asks.

  “It’s the Jovi,” Kurt says.

  “Is he okay?”

  “No.”

  “What happened?”

  “He’s an asshole. That’s what happened. Sit down and shut up.”

  Eric sits in a Queen Anne settee. The grandfather clock tocks but doesn’t tick.

  “It’s just like when we were kids,” Kurt says. “I should’ve known he’d let me down.”

  The Jovi drives up in Sophie’s Jeep and parks it outside. He walks down the fuchsia-lined slate walkway in a pair of tight ripped jeans, comes in, and sits in a leather wingback chair. “What’s up, guys?”

  “You heard about the show Saturday?” EJ asks.

  “Yeah, man. That’s just not going to work for me.”

  “What the fuck do you mean by that?” Kurt asks.

  “I mean I can’t do it. We need to reschedule.”

  “You think you decide? You don’t decide! I decide!”

  “I can’t change this. Herb Ritz is going to shoot Sophie pregnant and naked for GQ—it’s a big deal. Let’s play for this guy Arty some other time.”

  “This is the most important thing in my life—this band,” Kurt says. “We need to play for this guy and get another record deal. You can go with that chick some other time.”

  “That chick is my wife.”

  “So?”

  “My family.”

  Kurt nods. “This is so fucking typical. You know, you’re always going to have a perfect life.”

  “Dude. What the fuck do you mean by that?” The Jovi eyes Kurt.

  “I see where this is going.” Eric interrupts. “Can I say something?”

  “No,” Kurt responds.

  “Let him talk,” Sven says. “Go ahead, Eric.”

  “I know I’m the least worthy of the knights. I know I can’t contribute much to this band musically, but I also know you guys belong together.”

  “How do you know that?” The Jovi asks.

  “Remember my first gig at Poseidon’s Place? Remember when we came out of the solo on “Rain Fall”? I played my three notes. Kurt kept playing his acoustic solo on the through the break. And I started crying.”

  “Yeah. I remember,” The Jovi says, “you cried ‘cause he was stepping all over your part. That’s what he does. He did it to me in the studio. What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “No. That’s not why I cried. I cried because it was the first time I’ve ever been part of something really good. This band is really good. Don’t throw it away.”

  “Every band I play in is really good,” Kurt says.

  “Me too,” the Jovi adds.

  Sven and EJ shrug their shoulders and nod in agreement. Eric shrinks back into the corner of the settee.

  “Like I said, it’s just like it’s always been.” Kurt says to the Jovi. “Your family is perfect and mine’s all fucked up. Yeah, I can come over when it’s convenient. Well, sometimes you have to do things that aren’t convenient—do you even get that?”

  “How long did you stand out there last night?”

  Kurt seems puzzled. “Life isn’t just a bunch of…I mean…Your dad’s a fucking doctor.” Kurt stands up and lifts his hands in the air. “My dad’s nuts! Is that what you want me to say? Do you feel better now? You got a real tough life, huh?”

  “Kurt, I’ll ask you once, and I won’t ask you again, leave my family out of this—don’t ever fucking mention them again. Don’t ever fucking come to my house again.”

  “What about my family? What about James? You fuck my brother’s chick like it doesn’t mean a thing. I’m just supposed to take it? If it’s your family, it’s sacred—if it’s mine, it’s shit.”

  “Dude. That’s enough. I quit. I’m out.”

  “Are you gonna play the gig or not?”

  “No. Didn’t you hear me? I quit.”

  “Then that’s it—fifteen fucking years—and that’s it?”

  The two of them stare at each other; the grandfather clock strikes noon with a reticent chime.

  “Don’t do this,” Eric says.

  “It’s done,” Kurt says.

  The Jovi walks to the door and looks at the band. “I’ll be seeing you guys around, I suppose.”

  Kurt asks the Jovi, “Do me one favor?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t tell Felder a fucking thing. Don’t tell him you quit.”

  “Okay.”

  In the fifteen months since he left Thunderstik, Lunky the Loyal has seen the world. After Raymo was done with him, Lunky went on tour with a heavy-metal band. He was the
builder of the beast. He set up and broke down a gigantic, mechanical, fire-breathing, satanic Cyclops. There was glory in this position; Lunky met tender Japanese girls and girls with rough calluses who could milk cows by hand; but it wasn’t Thunderstik. Lunky would often sit in the back of the beast during a show and watch the enchanted faces of the audience. Life was pretty good until the beast got to him. Lunky blew a fuse on crystal meth, pulled off a few of his own fingernails with some needle-nose pliers, and the circus dropped him off in Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

  Lunky has run out of money and meth. Sober by default, he finds himself standing at a bus stop, staring off at a frozen cornfield. The bus stops. Lunky has no ticket. The bus leaves. Lunky walks into town and calls Eric collect from a pay phone. “Eric, it’s Lunky,” he says in his bird-like voice. “I want to get clean. I need help. Can you get me a bus ticket?”

  The remaining four members of Thunderstik assemble on the blue-carpeted stage beneath the crucifix. Kurt stares at the back wall. He grinds out a chord, waits a second, and shudders. “I can’t do this. I know all the songs. I wrote all the songs. That’s just going to have to be good enough.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Without an audience to soak it up, the energy bounces off the wall and attacks me. We’ll just have to wing it in Mexico.”

  “Kurt, if we can’t practice,” EJ says, “maybe we should just put this gig off for a few weeks. Maybe you can stabilize on your meds and the Jovi can come back to the band.”

  “We don’t need him.”

  “What about the meds, Kurt? I’ve never, ever heard you say you can’t play music before.”

  “I can play—better than I’ve ever played in my life. It’s just that I might attack one of you or myself.”

  Eric slides his keyboards to the back corner of the stage. “Dude. If he says he can’t play, he can’t play.”

  Lunky gets off the bus in downtown San Diego. He has no bags, no magazines to read. He sniffs the air, looks down, and spots a smoldering cigar on the ground. He picks it up and takes a puff. He places his massive frame in front of a bulletin board. In the center is a flyer.

  Saturday, December 10th. One night only!