Page 4 of Dead Rockstar

Money, probably. Well, unfortunately for both of us, I didn't have any. And I had no plans to take his bait. But once Tess realized that going through Sloan wouldn't work, he'd be contacting me directly. I could count on it.

I'd deal with that when I came to it. I'd lock my doors and pretend I wasn't home if he came knocking. I couldn't deal with Tess tonight. Or any night. My days of dealing with him were over, even if I secretly wanted to see him so bad it made me ache.

I wanted to hate him, just like any good, newly-divorced young woman who had been made a fool of would. I wanted to bash his head with a frying pan, run him over with my car, set fire to his clothes on the lawn. I wanted to humiliate him, hurt him, make him suffer for what he'd done – filling my house with drugs, losing his job, cheating on me – but simmering beneath the hatred and hurt was love. I hated myself for it, but there it was.

Never again would I wake in the middle of the night with Tess' fine brown hair tickling my face. Never again would we take snacks and wine to Driftwood Beach, getting blissfully drunk while feeding the seagulls. Never again would I feel the light touch of his hand on my leg as we went for a drive in his dusty old pickup. That part of my life was over, and I didn't want it to, but it hurt.

Fumbling with one hand, I managed to locate the auxiliary cable, plug it into my phone, and press the 'shuffle' button on Spotify without crashing the car. Phillip Deville's sultry, velvet voice came through the speakers and I turned it up loud, drowning out all thoughts of Tess Spooner and my replacement.

Two

The first thing I did when I got home was kick off my weather-beaten burgundy chucks, followed by my equally weathered bra, and throw them in the corner. When Tess first moved out it was agony being alone all the time, but I soon assimilated to life on my own. I'd turned into a full-fledged slob. There was nobody around to judge me except Blinken, my cat, and he was thankfully silent. I looked at my purse, thrown haphazardly onto the chair, not bothering to take my phone out since I didn't feel like talking to anybody. Instead, I walked into the tiny kitchen, pulling my dishwater hair into a messy ponytail as I went. I flipped on the dim overhead light and started rummaging for the makings of a cocktail.

Gin, rum, half a shot's worth of tequila. Ancient sour mix, a jar of maraschinos soaked in brandy. Things were looking dire. I'd been drinking far too much lately, and my measly salary wasn't enough to replenish the top shelf stuff. My eye fell on the giant bottle of Merlot that Sloan had left the last time she'd been over for one of our slumber parties. Yes, we were grown women who still had slumber parties. One of the perks of being two single women in our early thirties, with no attachments and no real lives to speak of. Once a month or so we'd throw on our jammies, order takeout, and get shitfaced while watching romcoms and listening to 80s metal and new wave.

I'd hoped for one of our slumber parties tonight; being alone wasn't a good idea when I felt like this. But I didn't begrudge Sloan her date. Sloan was happy being perpetually single, but she started to get salty when she didn't have regular boning. She liked her boys, Sloan. Still, I was lonely and wished she was around. I grabbed the bottle of wine and popped out the cork, marveling at my own talent for doing so. I took a swig out of the bottle, deciding not to waste a glass on little old me, then sighed and grabbed one from the cabinet. Being lonely and sad was no excuse for trashy.

I ventured into the living room, which wasn't really much of a room, just a small square in the middle of the trailer. My bedroom, off to the left, was even smaller, and the bathroom was so tiny you had to turn sideways to use the toilet. One day I planned to move. The thought that I'd shared such a stifling, dusty place with Tess seemed unbelievable now. He was the one who had talked me into renting it. I'd scoffed at the thought of living in a trailer, much less a miniscule singlewide that had been standing crooked since the early 90s. But he had won out in the end – as he had for most of our short-lived, pitiful marriage. “Don't be such a snob,” he had admonished me. “There's nothing wrong with living in a mobile home.” While that was true, now I was stuck living in this rusted tin can on my own, with nobody to fix the constantly broken faucet in the tub or reinforce the sagging beams in the kitchen floor. At least I had a wooded, private yard.

I was lucky, really, if I could stop the pity party long enough to admit it. Just a few miles down the road, over the bridge, was the ocean. I lived a hop and a skip from Jekyll Island, one of the most beautiful stretches of beach in Georgia. The weather was always mild, the sand soft and pale, the slate-blue sky calming and beautiful. Even when the sun bore down in the dead of summer, the beach held a dark aspect that never failed to calm me. The sand was always cool to the touch, the stark, stripped driftwood beckoning to me like kindly skeleton fingers. Even having grown up here, I wasn't immune to its charms, but it had been a long time since I'd ventured out to the water. I used to go running on Driftwood Beach every day. Now, I'd do anything to avoid thinking about the place.

I stayed on the mainland, went to work at the library, and came home to my cat and my solitary life in the little trailer, weather-beaten by the damp sea air more and more every day. Before long, it would crumble into the ground, hidden by pine trees as the earth reclaimed it, and I'd have to move to a shitty apartment.

Blinken was lounging on his cat bed, licking at a paw. He blinked his yellow-green eyes at me. “Hello, Mr. Blink,” I said to him, and he resumed his bath, unfussed. I sat the glass of wine down on the coffee table and perched on the couch, feeling like a buoy, full of air, unable to relax. I had smelled the salty brine of sea-rain on my drive home; the pinging of an oncoming migraine and the ominous gray of the sky ocean-side had only confirmed my suspicion – a storm was coming, and it was going to be a doozy.

I was having trouble keeping Tess out of my mind. I wondered if I’d ever forget the shock of brown hair that fell over his blue eyes, the way he always slouched, tall and skinny, too skinny near the end. Of course, that had been because of drugs, but I'd stupidly fallen for his excuse that he was just working too hard. All that supposed overtime, all those late nights. The musty smell coming off his skin as he'd lay with his back to me, seemingly too tired for closeness. I'd just assumed that any unfamiliar smells were from the chemicals at the plant, that the extra cash in his wallet was overtime pay. I never guessed that the money was from selling drugs, the weight loss was from using, or that he'd lost his job months before and the musty smell was the perfume of another woman, a voluptuous, dark haired confection named Roberta who only lived a few miles down the road at St. Simons.

I wish I could say that I'd figured it all out, confronted him and kicked him to the curb, but I hadn't. Even after I knew the whole truth, I still loved him, believed his apologies and assurances that he wouldn't do it again. I hadn't even waited a respectable week before taking him back, letting him back into my house and my heart. I'd believed his lies, hook, line and sinker because I hadn't known what else to do. Where would I be without Tess? My relationship with both of my parents was strained and I hardly ever saw them. I had no siblings to speak of, only a toddler half-sister who I barely knew and didn’t much care about, and not many friends other than Sloan. Without Tess, I didn't know who I was, or worse, what I might become.

It took Sloan sitting me down and telling me point blank what everyone else had known for months: my husband was cheating on me (still), and worse, he and his side piece were running drugs. There had been a raid on Roberta's place, and the rumor was that the police would be coming for Tess soon. That's the thing about the “salt life” - living in a small coastal town, news travels fast, and it doesn't take long for your demons to come for you.

Still in shock, I’d taken no justifiable pleasure or humor in the situation as I sat in the corner of the room, on the same couch I sat drinking on now, and watched them cuff my husband and take him away. I hadn't cried or yelled or done anything other than just watch. After he was gone, I carefully packed his things in boxes and sat them gingerly on the front stoop. I went down to the jail and used the last of our savings to pay his bail. This time there were no reassurances, no pleading, no “I'll change, I promise.” He only gave me a pained look, a small, brotherly pat on the shoulder, then used the pay phone to call Roberta's brother, who came and picked him up – or I assume he did, because I'd fled in tears soon after. That he could reject me at such a moment was a humiliation I could not get over.

I'd barely spoken to Tess since it'd happened, other than one ill-thought-out text where I'd commanded him to “Never come back, if you know what's good for you,” though I had no idea how I'd make good on that threat. He'd seemingly taken it to heart, though, because I hadn't seen or heard from him since. I'd had to file for divorce and get the lawyers to serve the papers. Tess was nowhere to be found. He'd just disappeared. Like he'd left me, which, I suppose, he had.

I took a sip of my red wine, settling back on the cushions, reaching over to grab my phone out of my bag. I was tempted to call him; I assumed the number would be the same. Tempted to tell him to leave my best friend alone, and if he knew what was good for him, to leave town. I'd heard through the grapevine that he was living in Savannah now, which gave me an ache in my chest – Savannah was no place for a drug addict with a sordid past. But that wasn't my business now, and he didn't deserve my worry.

I decided against calling. I knew once he picked up and I heard his voice, I'd lose my nerve. Not worth it. And why give him the satisfaction?

I grabbed the remote and turned on my ancient disc-changer stereo, which I'd had since I was a teenager in the late 90s. It was a wonder the old dinosaur still worked. Iggy Pop and the Stooges ran loud and rambunctious through the speakers. “I Wanna Be Your Dog.” It seemed appropriate. I settled back against the cushions and closed my eyes. I wished I had some pot – before, Tess and I had smoked most days, and after he'd left, I swore it off, determined not to be like him in any way. But hell, what was a little spliff now and again? Sloan got the good shit, medical grade, but not the kind that makes your brain fall into a reverse spiral; rather the kind that takes away pain and fills you with fuzzy bliss. But it was expensive, and I was broke. I tipped the bottle up instead, toasting my poverty and broken heart.

Two thirds of the Merlot gone, and I was still laying against the couch cushions, but I was a lot less anxious. I felt muddy and numb. Blinken had taken his leave of me, off to the bedroom to steal my pillow. I was too grim, even for him, tonight. I'd gone through the entire Stooges record. The CD clicked as it changed, and then it was onto the Bloomer Demons album God is Dead. One of my favorites, and the one most likely to make Sloan groan and get up to leave. Dark and gritty and full of existential angst, it was an acquired taste. But, like I told her, “You can't fight true love.”

I'd had it on CD since I was a teen and had a digital copy on my iPhone. But it was the super-rare turquoise vinyl edition that I'd found scouring the flea market recently that was the real treasure. With my heart in my throat, I'd managed to haggle the pimply, leather jacket-clad guy into selling it to me for twenty-five bucks. It was such a rarity that only a few of them existed. The guy, admitting to me that he wasn't a fan - “I'm more of a Megadeth person” - had no idea what he had. The outer sleeve had been pockmarked with ancient grains of dirt, and the sea-air had slightly warped the record, but there were no real scratches, and I suspected it would still play. I would have bought it no matter the condition, though. My hands were shaking as I handed him the money.

I had called Sloan on my way home with it, screeching in excitement - “Oh my god, oh my GOD, I found it, I found it,” and she'd yawned and said, “Jesus Christ, you're a loser.” And hung up on me.

The album starts out with crickets chirping. Then the soft slush of waves lapping in a body of water. The croak of bullfrogs. Then, after what feels like an age, the gentle, melodious sound of a violin. By the time the fuzzy, nuclear sound of the bass kicks in, followed by the pounding drums, you're a minute and thirteen seconds into the track. When Phillip Deville's smooth-but-razor sharp baritone makes its introduction, it's been another two minutes and five seconds.

Part of Sloan's problem is that she hates songs that are in “parts.” Those long, epic, sweeping saga songs that tell a story, that have more than just two verses, a bridge and a chorus, are dead to her. She hates them. “I just want to listen to a good song, maybe dance a little. I don't need fucking Lord of the Rings on my Spotify playlist. Bands like Rush make me want to kill myself. It's musical diarrhea. When do we get off the toilet?” I love Sloan because I have to at this point, but sometimes I want to kick her in the face. The saga songs – musical novels - are the best.

Bring Me Back, the first song on the God is Dead album, was definitely a saga. As I drank the last drop of wine from my glass, the music was churning its way toward the third part, where Phillip almost sounds like a demented monk, reciting lines of poetry, monotone and devoid of vibrato. I wrenched myself awkwardly off the couch, feeling just how drunk I was as I stood up, and grabbed my phone. Over in the corner, propped up against my bookshelf, was the album. Weathered a little around the edges, with a faded circle on the front where the record itself had started to wear through, it was pretty worse for wear, but I didn't care. I sat down on my old brown carpet and gingerly pulled the liner notes from the sleeve. They were delicate and had been ripped a little by some previous owner; I cursed them inwardly.

Bring Me Back was a weird song. I'd read in an interview with Philip that it was inspired by T.S. Eliot's “Prufrock” and was all about man's preoccupation with death – how we fear death more than anything else while simultaneously flirting with the thrill of it. And it made sense, since Phillip was thirty-six when the album was recorded and coming off some pretty serious drug addiction and a divorce (I knew a little something about that myself) and confronting middle age. But what puzzled fans was the single line he sang in Italian, his deep voice skipping over the words in a clipped, clinical baritone as though his voice itself was the record needle. It's just one line, but it's strange, a weird one-off in a sea of darkness. Translated, it meant something like, “Find the spell and bring me back (at least, that's what it said in his obit from Rolling Stone. I don't speak Italian)”. But there was no spell. The lyrics of the song were just reworkings of the Eliot poem, musing on death and middle age.

Bless and curse the glorious beast that is the internet; a buzz started on Reddit or somewhere a few years back that proved helpful. Someone had snagged their mom's old vinyl copy of God is Dead, the rare one with the turquoise record, just like mine. They were practicing sketching by tracing the artwork on the liner notes, an elaborate Celtic pattern with dragons, snakes, flowers and a crescent moon, when they discovered that it was actually letters they were sketching. Olde English letters, hidden in the artwork. When written out on paper, they formed four lines of poetry. Since then, the rumor had spread like wildfire among Bloomer Demons fans and people had started snapping up the remaining God is Dead albums, desperate to get their hands on Phillip's last unknown lyric. And I had been lucky enough to find one at the flea market from some stoned guy who preferred Megadeth. Imagine my luck.

I traced my hands over the old letters, then opened my cyan-colored composition book, the closest I'd found to turquoise, where I'd written out the poem in my own script a few nights ago. Any good witch needed a grimoire, right? This would be mine. I read over the lines a few times, smiling. I was sure there were other fans who had figured it out by now, but I still felt smug. This wasn't a poem or a lyric. Phillip Deville had left it right under our noses. Find the spell and bring me back.

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