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Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
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Chapter Nine
Mom Wakes Up
She was practicing on Knox’s drum set when her phone rang.
She could barely hear it. She was practicing to Tom Petty’s “Runnin’ Down a Dream” and had the volume turned almost all the way up. Knox and his mother were both out: Knox was interviewing a potential bassist for the group, and his mom was taking a “girls’ getaway” to Costa Rica. The photos she regularly sent back were breathtaking.
She had hugged Laurie the day before she left. “This may be a bit forward, but I think of you as my daughter too. You are welcome here anytime.”
She showed her where the spare key was (under a loose brick that was part of a low wall bordering the front yard’s garden), and added, “This home is your home too. Okay?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Mulloy,” said Laurie, feeling very awkward.
Mrs. Mulloy gently grasped her forearm. “I just wish I’d known you when I was growing up. Maybe then I’d’ve not gotten myself so trapped by … well, being a woman. All the silly expectations. Don’t know.”
The song finished; she picked up the remote and turned the stereo off as she hurried to the phone, which was atop it.
Whoever it was didn’t leave a message, the phone informing her that it was an UNKNOWN CALLER. She never answered those calls, and so was grateful she didn’t do so in the middle of practice. The only people she wanted to hear from was the hospital, who was bringing Mom out of her coma later today, or someone interested in joining the band.
She went to turn the phone off, but decided to check the video’s stats. Knox had told her the number might “knock you on your ass, so be ready.” What was it? 200K? More?
“Some really nice comments too,” he’d added. “Of course, the haters are out in force. Just ignore them.”
She dialed into YouTube, clicked her history, and scrolled down to the video left by the mysterious benefactor. She clicked it.
Her mouth dropped.
“Jesus …”
The view count … 643,291.
“What? This … this can’t be real!”
More than half a million views of the song? It had only been up a week! And nearly sixty thousand upvotes!
She held up, then watched the video again. Truthfully, it was a good performance of that classic GNR tune, but not as good as she hoped it would be. But that clearly didn’t jibe with the mass of viewers, who apparently loved it.
She thought of reading the comments, and almost did, but decided not to. She had read comments posted over past performances when she played with Meadowlark, and always regretted it. Yes, the nice comments were lovely, and they made her feel really good—but never enough to overcome to slate of negative ones, which always appeared, as though a huge percentage of the human species lived for nothing else than to piss down the backs of creators and performers.
She went to click out, but decided to click the link of the person who posted it—AUBURNBRITE85. His or her profile (no pic of them, but of a sunset) under the ABOUT tab read:
San Diego native. Gardener. Work at the zoo.
“That’s it?” she murmured. She clicked the VIDEOS tab.
He (or she, or they) was a big Miyazaki fan, having posted many short clips from his animated films. Also posted: ambiance videos for sleeping or gaming, Sandra Bullock excerpts, The Matrix excerpts, and original videos of San Diego sunsets, which were occasionally spectacular. He/She/They had set those to pleasant, down-tempo music.
He (or whatever) had many videos of bands or buskers; Laurie and Knox’s video was the last one he had posted. A random sample of a dozen or so suggested that their video was by far his most popular.
Its popularity had actually helped her and Knox: several viewers had called in the last week asking if they were in the market for extra players. It was how the bassist Knox was currently interviewing at a nearby coffee shop had been found. She and Knox had set up their own YouTube channel and Patreon subscription channel; Knox had immediately linked the video to both.
She really liked their logo, one she had helped him create using his Paintshop program.
“It’s simple and pretty. Like you,” he commented as they looked it over once both decided more wasn’t needed to be done.
She backhanded his shoulder. “Simple, eh?”
He backhanded her back. “Simple, as in uncomplicated. Not stupid. Maybe someday you’ll learn how to take a proper compliment?”
“Whatever.”
He gave her the stink eye for a moment, then chuckled. “Seriously, dude.”
She grunted and said “Whatever” again.
They had played a total of four gigs at Tat’s. The crowds after the first show were really good: before they even started their set, the bar was standing-room only. When they were introduced that second night, and each night following to this point, an enthusiastic round of applause greeted them. Knox had insisted on changing the playlist up, something he admitted he’d never even consider “were we not getting some serious interest.”
“This doesn’t feel organic to me,” she said after they took their bows after the fourth night this past week.
“You think someone is artificially boosting us?”
“It sounds crazy, but yeah, I do.”
“Who would that be? Certainly not Reuben Kincaid!”
She shook her head. “Yeah, that does sound pretty dumb. I’ve got a big swollen head now that I got to meet him and sit with him. You’re right. We got really lucky: we caught a wave for once! Woohoo!
He studied her. “You have a hard time with success.”
It wasn’t a judgment. She knew that.
“I suppose I do.”
“I don’t blame you. This world does everything it can to bury you, your hopes and dreams. When some success comes along, you are terrified of it, because you know how easily it can be taken away. So you access that ol’ Catholic guilt program and run it: best to damn that success and feel guilty for it, and believe you have no business earning it.”
“I’m not Catholic.”
“Does it fuckin’ matter? Protestant, Catholic, Big Spaghetti Monster … it’s all based on guilt, shame, and control. Whatever, you know?”
She sighed. “Whatever.”
She had just closed the door back home when her phone started ringing. Knox was just behind her. She stopped and withdrew it from her pocket and answered it. The caller ID said it was the hospital.
“Hi, honey.”
It was Mom!
She squealed and ran to the couch and sat, Knox breathlessly behind her. He must have heard Mom’s voice.
“How are you?” cried Laurie.
“In some pain. I’m going for more surgery to reset some bones that didn’t heal quite right. But I wanted to say hello to you first.”
She sounded awful, speaking so quietly and hoarsely at times that Laurie had to press the phone to her ear as hard as she could.
“I’m coming there right now,” she declared.
“No, no, honey. Stay home. Come tomorrow. I think I will be sleeping the rest of the day after the procedure. I really want to see you. I just got done talking to Terry.”
Laurie waited for the hammer to fall. She didn’t respond before Mom continued: “He was just here.”
Laurie didn’t know what to say except, “That’s good … I guess …”
If he had told Mom of her vicious beat-down of him in the hospital parking lot, she didn’t let on. Instead she said, “See you tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” said Laurie immediately. “First thing.”
“I love you, sweetie.”
The waterworks had already begun, but now they flowed like a flood. She managed to get out, “I … I … love you, Mom.”
The phone went dead.
Laurie tossed it to her side and leaned into Knox, where she cried as he held her.
His name was Daniil Najib, and was not what Laurie expected as he set up his bass guitar in Knox’s garage as she and Knox waited.
He was 22, of Kurdish descent, dark of hair and eyes, with a pleasant, wide smile that set off double dimples in his cheeks. He had kind, bushy eyebrows and was well-groomed, his hairdo almost a mullet but not quite, loose knee-length cargo shorts and an oversized black t-shirt. He was skinny, his hands bony, his knuckles prominent. He looked up at her. “Ready.”
“Anytime,” said Knox as Laurie nodded encouragingly.
His musical selection was “Come As You Are” by Nirvana. He launched into it as Laurie and Knox stood to the side and watched.
Daniil Najib was … talented. Better, his stage presence was magnetic. He smiled almost continuously (which, frankly, was kind of weird given his song choice); he glanced down at his instrument only rarely, and he moved like he had to, like standing like a robot was just bad taste. His demo tapes confirmed these things as well.
And he could sing! He had a nice tenor voice, which would layer well with hers and Knox’s deeper baritone.
He finished and waited as Knox turned the player off, which had the ability to mask out things like bass or electric guitar or lyrics.
Laurie was sold. Knox had kept his opinion to himself, in order to keep from swaying her. But it was clear he was excited. He glanced at her.
“What?” she said.
“The group is named Laurie,” he said, exasperated.
“Meaning? Ah.” She glanced at Daniil. “Welcome to the group,” she said, standing and offering her hand, which he took with a broad smile.
“Awesome!” returned Daniil. He seemed genuinely excited.
“Let me help you with your gear,” said Knox, who stood and also offered his hand with: “We can iron out the details later, I suppose. When are you available for practice again?”
Daniil worked as a porter at one of San Diego’s swankier downtown hotels, as they had discovered during the interview.
“It’s pretty set, really,” answered their new bassist. “Most of the time it’s the weekend, Thursday through Monday, noon to six or so. Anything to keep from paying anybody full-time, I guess.” He shrugged.
“Morning practices it is,” said Laurie. “You said you can start the day after tomorrow, 10 AM?”
“We should be back by then,” replied Daniil, whose family was headed up to Santa Barbara to see relatives, one of whom was apparently very old and not doing well.
“See you then,” said Laurie, shaking his hand again.
“Yeah! Cool! Bye!” said Daniil, walking out of the garage, Knox following.
She cried as Mom stroked her hair. Knox, sitting in the chair next to the window, looked on. His eyes were wet too.
Mom was exhausted and in pain, and so didn’t say much. After a time she licked chapped lips and croaked, “I want you to try to forgive your brother.”
“Never!” Laurie cried. “Never!”
“He’s very sorry about what he did.”
“I don’t care!”
Mom brought a trembling hand up and put it on her chest. “Don’t let your anger towards him blacken this beautiful heart. Please, sweetheart. Please.”
Laurie grasped that hand and closed her eyes against the urge to wail. When she thought she could speak in coherent sentences, she said, “I will never, ever forgive him. I’m sorry, but I won’t. I can’t!”
“I know he put a restraining order on you. It just crushes me to see you two so divided.”
Laurie peered into her eyes, and knew then that Terry had told her that she had beaten the shit out of him, but wasn’t willing to bring it up.
“I wasn’t the divider,” declared Laurie. “I never in my wildest fantasies would ever consider doing what Terry did to me—to Knox!—and to you! I never in my wildest fantasies would get stoned and boozed out of my fucking gourd and then drive my mother home! Never!”
“Your brother is a lost soul,” said Mom. “He’s angry at the whole world—at you, at me, at Knox … He feels he hasn’t gotten the attention he deserves. When I saw him just a few hours ago, he told me—and I’m not kidding—that he’d sell his soul to the devil in order to make it, to get famous and rich. He’s not the same sweet boy he used to be. He’s … he’s just so lost …”
A tear streaked from her eye down her cheek, but she rallied: “Tell me about the new group. Knox said you might have a bassist.”
She smiled in that encouraging, pleading way that told Laurie to quit trashing Terry, so Laurie did.
Knox had come up behind her. “He’s awesome,” he said. “Really, really talented. I’m surprised he wasn’t snatched up by someone else.”
“Did he say why he wasn’t?” asked Mom.
“He played with a Middle Eastern metal group for two years,” reported Laurie. “They broke up when the lead singer got deported. Yeah …” she continued when she saw the look of horror come over Mom’s face. “ICE actually came and deported the guy and his family back to Saudi Arabia!”
“I’m glad he didn’t get deported as well,” Mom said, frowning.
“He’s got some sort of special Visa,” answered Knox. “It kept him free from those thugs’ grasp. His father is an engineer, kind of important, apparently. I think he and his family are relatively safe. But who knows?”
“This country,” Mom said after sighing. “It’s … becoming a nightmare.”
“He can really sing,” said Knox. “We’re looking for singers through and through.”
He lightly hit Laurie’s shoulder.
“What?” she said, looking over her shoulder at him.
“Did you tell her about … you know … The Dude?”
“The Dude?” asked Mom.
Laurie was confused for a moment, but then: “Oh, right! Holy crap! I forgot to tell you! The night of your concert I sat with—you won’t believe this—Reuben Kincaid!”
Mom’s face scrunched into a disbelieving grimace. “What?”
“Yeah!” exclaimed Laurie. “He was waiting in line! He even introduced himself to me! He knew all about Meadowlark and the break-up, everything!”
Mom chuckled. “You’re not having me on, are you two?”
“I swear, Mom!” shouted Laurie as Knox said, shaking his head, “Not me …”
“Amazing,” said Mom.
“He’s a really nice man,” Laurie went on. “He really seems to have his head on his shoulders.”
“How did he like the show?”
“He didn’t. He was upset that Knox and I and you were kicked out. He could tell you were really angry up there.”
Mom chuckled again, this time darkly. “I was. I had caught Aaron and Terry tokin’ it up in the back, and really let them have it. Terry said, ‘You’re gone after tonight; who cares what you think?’ ”
“That fucking dickhead!” spat Laurie.
“I wish I had known that you were sitting with Reuben Kincaid. I think I would have left the stage and come out and sat with you two! He’s an amazing producer and manager, way ahead of his time. I’ve always wanted to meet him.”
“I would’ve loved that,” said Laurie sadly.
Mom reached and stroked her hair. “What’s done is done, honey. Let’s try to move forward, shall we? Now why don’t you fill me in with your shows at Tat’s. I want to hear all about them.”
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