Page 11 of Caught in a Storm
Margot thinks of that day in Queens now as she’s driven through downtown Baltimore in a big black SUV. It’s easy to remember being a little girl, because that’s how she’s felt all day, like a kid being led around by a hypercompetent mother.
“You’re getting all this, right?” Rebecca asks Todd, the camera guy.
Todd shoots Baltimore’s passing cityscape through the window. Earlier, back at Penn Station in New York, Rebecca told Margot to pretend Todd wasn’t even there. “Just think of him as a fly on the wall,” to which Todd smiled and went, “Bzzzzz.”
When the tires hit cobblestone, the SUV shakes, and Margot still can’t quite believe she’s doing this. On that rainy Tuesday morning back in Margot’s apartment, Rebecca had delivered a surprisingly impassioned speech about Margot’s place in the history of rock-and-roll music. “I’ve read about your band,” she said. “Like, in detail. You were freaking legends, Margot.”
It’s odd to be so thoroughly shrouded in the past tense—so much so that this adult human who’s old enough to have a real job needs to read up on them, like Burnt Flowers was Watergate or disco.
“Those albums stand up, too,” said Rebecca. “We were listening to them at the office yesterday. Shit. Every song slaps. The interns were like, ‘Who is this?’ And you know what? I think people miss you.”
The rain had turned wild against the window, nearly unmeasurable in terms of tempo. “Yeah, I guess we had our moments.”
“I don’t just mean Burnt Flowers, though,” Rebecca said. “I mean you. Margot, I think people miss you.”
“Me?” Margot wished she had more coffee. “But I’m a recluse.”
Rebecca stood up from the couch and sat on the arm of Margot’s puffy chair. “This little drummer chick, Mazzy? She was right. ‘Power Pink’ is the band’s sickest song. By a mile. That’s why Netflix focused on it in the documentary. It sounds like it could’ve come out this week. It’s more relevant than ever. And you—your story? That’s relevant, too. It’s compelling. I think people wanna hear it.”
Over Rebecca’s shoulder, Margot caught a glimpse of her drum kit. Perhaps she regretted being vulnerable and telling the research assistant from Netflix that she missed the music. That didn’t mean it wasn’t true, though. She missed playing.
“Okay,” she said. “So, what are you proposing?”
Rebecca smiled. “Do you know what it means to go viral?”
She did, generally. Videos of cats falling into bathtubs, children dancing.
“We go to Baltimore,” Rebecca said. “And then you, legendary drummer Margot Hammer, rock out with a bunch of badass little girls. We bring a camera guy. He films the whole thing. We cut it into a shareable video, put it on social. And then you catch viral lightning in a bottle.”
* * *
—
They hit a pothole like a bomb crater, and the driver calls back an apology.
This isn’t going to be a show, of course; it’ll just be four kids in a record shop. Still, since leaving New York, Margot’s entire body has been buzzing with the kind of preshow jitters she hasn’t felt in years, like electrical currents shooting back and forth through her arms. She used to pace, to play intros on her thighs, to close her eyes and hold her breath and listen to the sound of the crowd waiting for them.
“One minute away,” the driver says. “Assuming we don’t fall into one of these goddamn potholes.”
People on the street look at the big SUV, and Margot thinks of rushed TV appearances, being whisked into buildings by production assistants. And yes, although she’s not psyched to admit it to herself, she thinks of Lawson. In her mind, she replays the moment when Lawson picked her up as she climbed out of that limo outside Radio City Music Hall. She never did find her left shoe, so halfway through the Grammys she ditched the right one, too. When she, Nikki, Anna, and Jenny accepted their best new artist award, Margot stood barefoot on national television.
Those first few years after their divorce, she often imagined Lawson coming back. She told herself that if he did, she’d kick him squarely in the balls or jam a set of drumsticks down his throat. When he didn’t come back, though, she took to wondering what kind of space she occupied in his mind. Beyond her being the mother of his child, did he think about her at all? And now, as the SUV weaves around a stopped delivery truck, she imagines him taking a moment from his life of fame and Willa Knight’s lithe body to watch her tear shit up with four cute kids in Baltimore.
They stop beside a murky harbor. Todd aims his camera out the window at a place called Charm City Rocks. “Is that…it?” he asks.
“It’s smaller than it looked online,” says Rebecca.
“Parking’s a no go,” the driver says. “I’ll cruise around. Text me when you’re done.”
Everyone turns to Margot. “You ready?” asks Rebecca.
Margot rubs her hands together, feeling the permanent calluses, like worrying stones, from her drumsticks.
They step out of the vehicle, and the street smells like beer. But then a breeze pushes the hair off Margot’s face, and she smells something better: baking bread.
“You should go in first,” says Rebecca. “Maximum impact. Todd, I’m thinking a sick over-the-shoulder shot. Get Mazzy in the frame as fast as you can. We want her reaction.”
Todd says “bzzzzz” again, and everyone aside from Margot takes a big step forward.
