Page 14 of Caught in a Storm
She passes bars and restaurants. A tattoo parlor. Some weird-looking trash wheel spins in the harbor, churning up junk. A kid up ahead is playing a set of strung-together Home Depot buckets for spare change. Billy is catching up to her fast. Years ago, she and the band were flanked by security every time they so much as left their tour bus. Now Margot is alone in a city she doesn’t know at all.
“Margot! Please don’t be upset!”
She stops. She has no idea where she’s going anyway. Billy stops, too, and stands ten feet away and waves. “Hi,” he says.
Margot relaxes a little, because at least this man, who is wearing a Neil Diamond T-shirt under his cardigan, probably isn’t a murderer. A block away, the front door of the record shop opens. Rebecca points at her. Todd is still filming, the bastard. The owner is waving a Sharpie.
“Miss Hammer,” says Billy, “I want to—”
“Will you please stop saying my name?” She takes a few steps, closing the gap between them. “People don’t always recognize me. I’m not Rihanna. But if you keep yelling my name…”
“Oh, right. Sorry.” He looks around. “Do people really not recognize you? I recognized you right away. You…you look like you.”
The drummer kid up ahead keeps playing. A few seconds pass, and the lookie-loos move along, leaving them alone. A pigeon stands at the curb watching, cars roll by with their windows down, and there’s a sign for Domino Sugar across the water.
“Where even am I?” she asks.
This could be a literal question, because Margot doesn’t know. It could also be a figurative question, because Margot doesn’t know that either.
“You’re in Fells Point.” Billy points across the water. “That’s Federal Hill over there. And that’s Harbor East. It’s nice. Kinda touristy, with the Inner Harbor and all, but…” To his credit, he seems to suddenly get that maybe she wasn’t looking for a rundown of the surrounding neighborhoods. “Sorry. I’m babbling. Do people get nervous when they meet you?”
Margot looks down the long cobblestone street, which fades into urban blur, and she wonders what she’s going to do with the rest of her life, because there seems to be finality to this moment. She hasn’t recorded music or performed in front of anyone in years. Somehow, though, she’s never stated, even to herself, that her career as a musician might be over, and it’s a suddenly devastating thought. Because if she isn’t a musician, what is she?
“Well, I’m nervous,” says Billy. “I’m a…a big fan. But that’s beside the point. Obviously. Again, hi, I’m Billy. Billy Perkins. My son lied about who he was. I know that’s bad. Also, creepy, in context. I’ll talk to him—ground him, maybe? Can you ground people who are half a foot taller than you? I don’t know. But it’s kind of my fault, too. I had these edibles behind the cereal. I’m not a big drug guy. My friend Gustavo gave them to me. He thought it’d be funny. Caleb thought they were candy. He’s smart. He’s really smart, actually. His SAT scores are nuts, especially the math part. He created this app for a school project that aggregates basketball statistics. It’s pretty amazing. But you know how sometimes really smart people can be complete idiots? That’s him. And I may’ve told him…we were watching this thing on Netflix about you. I let it slip that I may have had a crush on you back in the day, and…”
Margot realizes that if she doesn’t say something to stop him, Billy will just keep talking until he passes out, like those goats that faint when they’re startled. He looks nice, actually. Maybe it’s the cardigan. “Just stop, okay?” she says. “I get it, I guess. Not really, but, what’re you gonna do?”
“Margot, you okay?” It’s Rebecca, shouting from outside Charm City Rocks. She has her phone to her head.
“Are you gonna sign the wall?” the shop owner asks.
“Jesus, he really wants me to sign that wall.”
“Yeah, he’s pretty proud of it,” Billy says. “I’d consider that spot next to Cal Ripken. That’s prime real estate in this city.”
Margot watches the drummer kid. Some ladies in jogging shorts drop change in his bucket. “He’s not bad,” says Margot.
“I know. The tempo, right?” Billy cups his hands to his mouth. “Hey, Daquan, do you know ‘Power Pink’ by Burnt Flowers?”
Daquan stops playing, thinks, then shrugs. “Nah, man. Never heard of it.”
“Oh,” says Billy. “Well, shit.”
“Nice,” says Margot.
“Yeah, I imagined that going differently,” he says.
Daquan starts playing something new. In seconds, his hands are a blur, and Margot remembers playing “Enter Sandman” by Metallica at her junior high talent show five hundred years ago. Her stunned classmates stood and cheered for her for two full minutes. Her principal had to finally shout at them to stop.
“He reminds me of you,” says Billy.
“Who, him?”
“Yeah. That intensity. Like he’s got a personal vendetta against each drum. It doesn’t matter that he’s playing buckets. That sound, you know? Pure percussion.”
The big black SUV pulls up to the curb. Rebecca is in the front seat, hanging out the window like a terrier. Todd, whom Margot would like to throat-punch, is still filming.
“Let’s get out of here, Margot. And you.” Rebecca points at Billy. “Don’t be surprised if you and that lanky creep hear from our lawyers.”
