Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

My mother gave birth to me in the back seat of a cab on the George Washington Bridge, banking traffic back for miles. As a young boy they often told me how my father had a panic attack, while the cab driver called for an ambulance and ended up delivering me as an emergency operator talked him through the birthing procedure.

That cab driver’s name was Noah.

Sixteen years later, my parents banked up traffic for miles on the George Washington Bridge once more. This time, their car was one in a six-car pile-up.

I was home with a babysitter at the time. I don’t remember her name, but I remember the knock on the door.

I remember looking down the hallway when she opened the door to see two police officers standing there on the porch.

Surprise.

“Noah? Please tell me you’re in a cab.”

“I’m in a cab. There’s traffic on the bridge, but I’m coming, I promise.”

Margot sighed audibly with relief. “Thank fuck for that. Because you know you’ve canceled three times on me already. I’ve had this publisher in a holding pattern for ten months now while you…”

“While I what?”

“You know. While you… reset. This is our last chance to lock in a book deal with them. After this they’re walking.”

“They’re talking about walking?”

“Not yet. Not unless you really pull it out of the bag today. I know you can do it. Just please tell me you’re not wearing a tie. Please tell me you dressed for this?”

I pulled Joel’s tie from around my neck and jammed it into my pocket. “Of course, not wearing a tie,” I said. Before asking, “Why wouldn’t I be wearing a tie?”

“Because these guys want a bona fide music guru. They wanna see someone they can market the fuck out of. They want the enigma of Kurt Cobain, the wisdom of Bob Dylan and the fuck-the-world attitude of Leonard Cohen. If you’ve got some Jim Morrison puke on your shirt, even better.”

“I don’t have puke. But I haven’t shaved in a week.”

“That’s good. Now mess up your hair. Unbutton your shirt.”

“Unbutton my shirt? What is this, an Only Fans audition?”

“It’s a shitload more lucrative than that. Just do what I say. And jewelry… Do you have jewelry?”

“No.” I glanced at the wooden-beaded rosary hanging from the cab driver’s rear-view mirror. “Let me see what I can do.”

Hanging up the phone, I felt in my pocket, past Joel’s tie, for some cash. “Excuse me… driver?”

“Ah, here he is… at last.”

The restaurant was a fancy one, overlooking the East River with Manhattan views that I was certain would be reflected in the price of the food.

I hurried to the table where Margot and two men, both in suits, rose to meet me. “Sorry I’m late.” I shook hands with the men, and the wooden rosary dangling long and loose against my chest clattered.

“Brad, Mike, I’d like you to meet Noah.”

“Pleased to meet you both.”

“Pleased to meet you ,” said Mike, I think. “Now that we’ve finally pinned you down, we’re looking forward to chatting. Margot has been talking this book up, but we can’t wait to hear your thoughts, your vision, your raw energy. Let’s see just how far we can take this thing, huh?”

“Say, you wanna drink to start?” Brad pointed to me and signaled a waiter before I could even respond.

“Sure. Whiskey would be great. Neat.”

Brad grinned as the waiter approached. “I could have picked you for a whiskey man. Why don’t we get a bottle and really let your creativity flow.”

“Oh. Um, sure.” I saw the look on Margot’s face. I could practically hear her scream at me, where’s your fuck-the-world attitude? I edited my response. “Fuck yeah, let’s get a bottle.”

Brad and Mike might as well have high-fived, grinning enthusiastically at my response. “A bottle of your finest whiskey and four glasses,” Brad told the waiter who hurried away.

Mike clapped his hands excitedly then rubbed his palms together, like he’d already counted the money he expected this book to bring in. “So… the one hundred greatest rock, pop, and blues musicians of all time, as told by the man who has been chasing music legends across the globe for his entire career. The inside scoops, the untold stories, the secrets to their chart-topping success… Music lovers everywhere will want to lap this the fuck up. Am I right?” He gave his colleague a back-handed slap on the chest.

“I hope you’re right,” Brad said as the waiter returned with a bottle and four glasses. “Otherwise, we’re about to blow a very expensive bottle of whiskey.”

“You’re not about to blow anything,” Margot said as Brad handed out the whiskeys and we chinked our glasses. “Noah’s unique insight into this industry is second-to-none. Ever sit in a Swedish sauna and listen to Jagger talk about Marianne Faithfull till he cried? Noah has. Ever go rock-climbing with Chris Martin and twist your ankle so badly that Chris had to bandage you up and get his private helicopter to chopper you both out of Monument Valley? Noah has. Ever sift through drawers in Alanis Morrisette’s attic, going through old lyrics with her until she found the original list of things that truly were ironic? Noah has. Noah’s done it all. He holds the rights to more than four thousand sit-down interviews with the world’s biggest stars. He can shine a light on their talent like nobody else has ever done, and because of his reputation within the industry, he’ll do it with the blessing of each and every one of those music icons, or in the case of those legends who have passed, he’ll have the blessing of their family and estate. Gentlemen, what Noah brings to the table is going to be your next bestselling blockbuster, I guarantee it.”

I took a gulp of whiskey.

Then another and another, and suddenly my glass was empty.

Mike laughed. “Wow, you really know how to drink like the best of them. Let me help you out there.”

He poured me another and I took another swig before saying, “Actually, I’ve decided to change direction with the book.”

“What?” Margot was the first to lean forward, trying not to let her surprise show.

I raised the glass to my lips again, then helped myself to my next top-up. “I’ve decided there’s a better story, a much more personal story I’d like to tell.”

Brad and Mike exchanged glances. I couldn’t tell if they were curious or concerned.

“We came to discuss the pitch that Margot has been pushing,” said Brad.

“But go on,” interjected Mike. “Let’s hear this out.”

All eyes narrowed in on me.

“I wanna shift the narrative, change the title. I guess I’m in a different place than I was when I began the book.”

Margot reached out and gripped my forearm, hard. “You’re shifting the narrative?”

I nodded. “And changing the title.”

“To what exactly?”

I took another drink then theatrically spread my hands across the air in front of me like I was revealing an invisible billboard. I guess I was starting to feel the attitude that Margot wanted me to exude. “It’s now called—the one hundred people who completely fucked over the greatest rock, pop, and blues musicians of all time.” I sat forward eagerly and my rosary clanked against my whiskey glass. “Imagine it. A no-holds-barred exposé of the murderers and fucking morons who robbed us of the world’s most gifted people. Imagine finding out the identity of the guy who gave Freddie Mercury HIV… Imagine crucifying the bastard who gave Amy Winehouse her first hit of heroin… Imagine tracking down the boyfriend who told Karen Carpenter she was too fucking fat. There are countless musicians who died before their time, who could have made the world a better place. But the people who cost them their lives… these fuckers, these murderers… they smashed the spotlights. They closed the curtains. They need to be called out for the damage they’ve done.”

I drank again… then filled my glass again. Margot made a subtle attempt to stop me, but I pulled my glass and the bottle away from her.

“Maybe you should slow down a little,” she suggested quietly.

“And maybe these people I’m talking about need to be strung up? Don’t you think those fuckers deserve to be named and shamed for what they’ve done?”

Brad squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. “It’s an interesting… development. It’s just not what we discussed. Our marketing department has already started focus groups.” He turned to Margot. “Did you know about this… ‘shift in the narrative?’”

Margot glared at me. “No, I didn’t. Noah has been going through some… changes… in his life.”

I laughed out loud. “Changes? Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“Noah, lower your voice.”

“Am I too loud? Seriously?”

“A little,” Brad said, glancing around the restaurant. “Maybe we could take it down a notch.”

“I thought you wanted my raw energy.”

“We do,” Mike cut in quickly. “And we love your authenticity. But perhaps we need to just reign things in for a moment and discuss this recent change of heart… and what it might mean to book sales.”

“It’s not recent.” My tone was firm. Stark. Harsh. “It’s been stirring inside me for ten months now. Simmering. Festering. Bubbling away like a fucking poison.”

Margot put her napkin on the table and moved to push her chair out. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us, I’d like to have a word with Noah outside.”

I slapped my hand on hers and stopped her from getting up. “Actually, I’m perfectly comfortable right here. Mike said he wants to discuss my change of heart and that’s exactly what I’m doing. What would you like to know, Mike?”

Mike wriggled awkwardly in his seat. “Well… um… I guess to start with, who do you think this new book is aimed at? It seems kind of… dark… don’t you think?”

“Dark? No, not at all. This book is about justice. It’s about uncovering the truth. It’s full of hope.” Even I could hear the crazy in my laugh and tried to tame my brewing rage; the rage I had failed to tame time and time again since the day I saw that cassette tape in the shoebox. “The way I see it, the world has endured far too many losses. Too many times we’ve mourned greatness. Too many times we’ve bowed our heads and simply accepted the passing of someone whose extraordinary talents should never have been taken from us in the first place. John Lennon, Whitney Houston, Prince, Janis Joplin. These people changed the world, they changed the way we listened to music, and they could have continued doing so if not for someone who got in the way, someone who turned the tables, someone who tipped the balance of fate.” I drained my glass and slapped it down on the table. “I wanna know who that person is.”

“Noah, I really need to talk to you right now.”

I ignored Margot and grabbed the whiskey bottle, splashing booze into my glass once more. “And make no mistake,” I slurred through another mouthful. “Tragedy travels down the line like a fucking freight train. How many dreamers were robbed of their chance to change the world because the one person who could have guided them to greatness died, his life cut short by the interference of someone who probably doesn’t even know the damage they’ve done? How many songs will we never know? How many voices will we never hear? How many stars will never get to shine because of one stupid letter?”

Mike and Brad looked confused.

Margot tried to take me by the hand. “Gentlemen, I’m sorry but we’re going to have to—”

“No!” I yelled, wrenching my hand away. “You wanted me to pitch my book so I’m pitching my book. This is the book I need to write. These are the wrongs I need to right. This is for all the people who need to hold someone accountable for something.”

Brad leaned over to Mike. “We should go. We’ve got that two o’clock meeting back at the—”

“Bullshit you do. You’re lying. Trust me, I’m great at spotting lies these days. I know now that I’ve spent years lying to myself, telling myself that so many things mattered when they actually didn’t… or that so many things didn’t matter, when actually they did. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Brad moved to get up, but I laid my hand on his shoulder and firmly sat him back down. “Let me show you what I mean. Let’s play a game, shall we? I’ll say something, and you tell me if it matters or not. Let’s start with say… mirrors. Do they matter or not?”

Mike shrugged. “I guess… yes? They matter… if you wanna look—”

“Wrong. They don’t fucking matter at all. Who cares what you look like? Next… showers.”

“That’s just basic hygiene,” Brad answered, sounding timid.

“Wrong again. They don’t matter a goddamn iota.”

“Noah…”

“We’re still playing the game, Margot. Oh, how about this one… the ashes of your dead husband-to-be. What about that one? Do they matter or not?”

“Noah.”

“They matter!” I answered for the table. “Oh yes, they fucking matter all right. Which is why when your cunt of a sister-in-law shows up and demands half of her brother’s remains, you take her fucking urn, and you fill it with kitty litter instead.” The laugh that came out of me was hysterical in more ways than one. “Oh man, when she finally takes a peek into that urn is she gonna be pissed.”

“Noah, we’re leaving,” Margot said firmly.

“Mike, we’re leaving,” said Brad.

I slammed my fist down on the table and the cutlery jingled. “Nobody’s leaving! I’ve had nobody but the dog to talk to for almost a year now, so nobody is leaving until you hear what I have to say… until you understand why I need to write this book… until you understand what’s happening here.”

“Noah,” said Margot in the voice of a negotiator. “What’s happening here is you’re yelling. You’re crying. Do you even know you’re crying right now?” She turned to Brad and Mike. “I’m sorry, this is my fault. This was too soon. I thought he was ready.”

“I am ready! I’m ready to tell the world that sometimes people die because of someone else’s stupidity.”

Brad’s napkin landed on the table. “We have to go.”

“Of course you have to go.” My nostrils flared in frustration. “Because talking about someone else’s grief is fucking boring to you. Because grief is awkward and embarrassing, and I see you looking around the room… and I see the room looking back at us… and I don’t give a damn. Tell me, Brad, what the fuck do you know about grief? I bet you don’t even know if the ‘i’ goes before the ‘e’. Well? Do you? Tell me Brad, do you even know what grief is?”

He sat there speechless for a moment.

I slammed my hand down like I was hitting a buzzer. “Time’s up, because if it takes you that long to think about it, then your answer is no. Because if you’ve lost someone, you know it’s more than just grief. It’s the loneliness… it’s the fear… it’s the reminder of the life you lost… it’s everywhere . You set the table for two and realize, there it is. You walk into the dry cleaners to pick up his clothes and you realize, there it is. You hear his favorite piece of music on the radio… or you get a bill in the mail addressed to him… or you hear a laugh that sounds exactly like his and a spark of hope goes off in your heart until you realize, there it is. You become terrified to say his name in case you burst into tears, but if you don’t say his name you’re terrified he’ll somehow disappear and one day you’ll wake up and won’t even remember what he looked like, or smelled like, or tasted like when you kissed him… and you realize, there it is… it’s fucking everywhere . It takes you over, like a cancer growing inside you, turning you into a shadow from the inside. It unravels the way you function, it poisons the way you think, and all you can do is wonder how long… how long will it be before this completely consumes me?”

“Sir.”

“What!”

Suddenly the waiter was standing beside me, his stance nervous.

“Sir, we’re going to have to ask you to leave if you don’t lower your voice.”

“Why? Because I’m making everyone uncomfortable? Because my partner died and nobody— nobody —seems to get it? Am I the only person on the planet who’s ever experienced loss, because it sure as fuck—”

“Sir, I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave.”

Margot stood. “It’s okay, we’re going.”

“No! No, we’re not. I’m not finished yet.”

“Oh, I think we’re all finished here,” declared Brad.

“The fuck we are! Sit down! Sit the fuck down, I’m not done yet!”

My own voice was ringing in my ears.

I somehow realized the front of my shirt, the rosary clinging to my chest, was wet with tears.

The entire restaurant had gone dead silent, even the whispers, as everyone stared in our direction. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the waiter signal to another wait staff at the front counter who picked up a phone.

Margot tried to pull my chair out.

“No, Margot! I said I’m not done.”

“Trust me, Noah. You’re done. Come with me now.”

“Or else what? Somebody will call security? Too late, I think they already have. There’s no turning back now, like just about everything else in my life. Love… joy… a lifetime of happiness. It all ended in a second, the second a bus came along and…” My voice faltered and the sobbing began to take over. “The second a bus came and took him away. Now he’s gone. Now…”

My chin sank against my chest.

My tears fell faster than my hands could swipe them away.

My chest heaved and it hurt.

It hurt.

So much.

“Now I have nothing. Nothing but rage.” I sniffed and raised my head. “If that’s all I’ve got… if the anger is the only thing left in his place… then I guess I’ll have to learn to love it. Right?”

There was a commotion near the door as two security guards hurried into the restaurant.

I felt one of Margot’s arms wrap itself around my shoulders while she hooked her other hand under my arm, helping me up out of my chair.

I stood unsteadily.

The guards approached, but Margot shook her head. “Please don’t. We’re leaving. We’re sorry for the disturbance, but we can see ourselves out.”

We left Brad and Mike sitting at the table.

We left the stunned stares of the other patrons behind.

And slowly Margot carried me out into the cool September day.

When I ran out of the tissue supply in Margot’s handbag, I used my sleeves. When there were no dry patches left on my sleeves, I used my forearms and hands until finally I managed to dam up the tears, gazing blankly at the East River from the park bench on which we sat.

Margot lit her fourth cigarette. “Wow. That was…” She exhaled a plume of smoke. “That was really something.”

“Well, you did ask for fuck-the-world attitude.”

“Remind me to rephrase that next time.”

“You think there’ll be a next time?”

Margot shook her head. “Not with Brad and Mike. I think it’s fair to say that contract has sailed. You know they’re going to talk to other publishers about this. This isn’t something we can hide under the rug and hope nobody trips over it.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

She rubbed my hand. “You don’t have to be sorry, my darling. I’ve never been to the place you are right now. I try to imagine it, but I know I don’t even come close. I wish I could do more, but I don’t know—”

“There’s nothing you can do.” My tone was matter-of-fact. Resigned yet not defeated. Tearless, now that the well was dry and waiting for the next top-up of emotions.

Margot paused and turned her face to the sun, its warmth fading in the lateness of the season. “I just wish I could fucking hug you till this whole thing is over. I want it all to be over. This fucking grief. This craziness. This unhinged version of Noah that I don’t know.”

“It’s still the same me. Some pieces have just been switched out for other things. Things neither of us were expecting. Like crying myself to sleep instead of dinner plans. Or having no idea what time it is before realizing that I don’t even care. Or the days of silence, endless fucking silence, instead of the sound of the Steinway, or the constant humming of showtunes that sometimes drove me nuts, or the yelling and fighting over stupid little things that didn’t even matter. What I wouldn’t give to fight with him again… just to hear his voice… just to say I’m sorry.”

I closed my eyes and turned my face to the feeble sun too.

“I have a friend who’s a counselor,” Margot said. “A good one. I’m kicking myself for not making you go and see her earlier, but I think she could really—”

“I don’t want to see a counselor.”

“You need to talk to someone. If not a counselor, join a group. There are groups out there. There are people who can help you.”

“Actually, I think there’s only one person who can help me.”

“Who?”

“Lovesong. His name is Lovesong Valentin. He lives in Louisiana, at least that’s the address he wrote on the tape he sent to Joel.”

“What tape? And who the hell is Lovesong Valentin?”

“That’s what I need to find out. He sent a cassette tape to Joel for an audition and Joel wrote a letter—”

“Wait. He sent a cassette tape? As in…”

I nodded. “Yes, as in an actual cassette tape. Hannah from Joel’s work gave it to me. Joel had written a reply and was trying to mail it the day he died.”

“Oh shit. Did the guy ever get Joel’s letter?”

I shrugged. “Nobody knows. Hannah says there’s been no response from the guy, so I can only guess the original letter never made it into the mailbox. All that’s left is the stupid tape he sent. I’ve been sitting on it for months now, taking it out of its box every night and just staring at it, not knowing what to do with it.”

“Have you listened to it?”

“Are you kidding? No. I’m not sure I want to. All I want is some kind of answer, although I don’t even know what the question is. I just need… something.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t fucking know. Closure. Enlightenment. Vindication. Revenge. A pin prick to let the steam out before it blows me wide apart. I need to know who this person is. I need to know why Joel died… why he was at that mailbox that day. I need this person to see that he’s broken my whole fucking world and nothing’s ever going to put it back together again.”

“Why? Noah, listen to yourself. Ask yourself, what good could possibly come of this?”

“What good is left? There is no good left. There’s only rage… and the sound of me smashing things… or the sound of me crying… or no sound at all, just a deafening silence that fills every corner of the fucking house. Do you have any idea how empty that feels? Fuck, I don’t know who’s lonelier, me or the dog. And so, we’re leaving. I’m covering the furniture and packing a suitcase… and the dog… and renting a car. We’re driving to Louisiana and nothing’s going to stop me.”

Alarm set in on Margot’s face. “Oh, Noah. This is a bad idea. You can’t.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because you don’t know this guy at all. You don’t know how he’s going to react. What are you even going to say to him? ‘Hey asshole, my partner got hit by a bus trying to mail you a letter?’ How the hell is someone supposed to respond to that? What are you even trying to do, spread the misery? Make this guy feel guilty for something he’s not responsible for?”

“What the fuck do you mean by that? Of course he’s responsible. The only reason Joel was there on the street that day was because of this guy! The only reason Joel is dead is because of this guy!”

Margot shook her head. “Noah, it was an accident. Joel was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“And who put him there?”

“Noah, you can’t blame someone a thousand miles away for what happened that day. You can’t let this anger get the better of you, or you’ll lose more than you’ve already lost. You need to give yourself time to heal. Maybe someday you’ll even find love again… maybe there’s someone out there who needs to love you as much as you loved Joel.”

“I don’t want love. I want retribution.”

“You can’t do this.”

“Oh, no?” I stood from the bench. “Just watch me.”

I started to walk away when Margot stood too, although she made no attempt to chase after me. Perhaps she knew it was no use. Instead, she called after me. “Noah, stop. Where are you going?”

“Home to pack.” I barely glanced over my shoulder.

“At least let me give you a ride. We can talk about it on the way.”

“Actually, it’s such a lovely day, I think I’ll walk.”

“Walk? From here? Are you crazy?”

She couldn’t see, but I smiled by way of a response.

Perhaps I was.