It took me all of an hour to read the outline.
The necessities were simple. Well, they should have been simple. Prisoner Productions wanted to produce a documentary about a month on the road with a band. But not just any band, something crazy, something interesting, something wild. Where could I find that? I wasn't sure just yet, but I was sure that I couldn't turn this down. This was the first thing that had been HANDED to me. I had been asked to do this. I was their first choice.
This inflated my ego just a tad. My last film hadn't been exactly a box office smash, but it sure as hell didn't flop. I finally had the money to move out of my shitty loft and into a rather nice apartment. I bought furniture, I bought a car, I got cable...hell I could put food in my fridge every week. I started to actually sit down and write again. Having the money from Sally Falling jumpstarted my bank account, and my muse.
Now I was being asked to do a documentary again. I hadn't produced a documentary since Today 4U: Proof Positive, and I wasn't sure I was ready for the emotional strain filming real life was going to put on me again. But at least this time it wouldn't be such a personalized piece of work. All I had to do was go on the road with a band for a month and film their every waking moment.
Where the hell was I going to find a band? The outline of the documentary had sent me a list of bands that were interested in the publicity, so I pulled it out and sat at my desk, propping my feet up on it and flipping through.
Madonna's Whore. Yeah, they sounded like real winners. Ringo. Hmmm, a band filled with bad drummers. Blank Serpent. A modernized name for White Snake. Real creative. I sighed, leafing through page after page of bad band names and their managements phone numbers. There was no way I could make a decent documentary with these drunken fools. This was obviously not a happy realization. Where was I going to find a band that was legitimate about their music and were a group of interesting people? I pulled my feet off of the table with a huff of anger, and clumsily knocked over a stack of magazines. Groaning, I leaned over to pick up the ones that sat sprawled on my study floor. Turning the top one over, an article caught my eye.
Well Hungarians
make a sensational splash at CBGB's reunion, despite new fame.I had known about my former roommates success with his band for years now. He had moved to LA right after the release of Today 4U, and he had shown up to the premiere of Sally Falling. I would get the occasional phone call and the traditional cards on holidays and birthdays. But the truth was, I hadn't seen Roger Davis in two years.
No. There was no way he'd want to do this, and there was no way I'd escape unscathed. I quickly closed the article, but not before I saw the last line written.
The Well Hungarians will be touring from March 1 to May 31. Check your local arena for show dates.
No. No, I wasn't going to call Roger. There was no way this idea would fly, there was no way I could convince him to let me do this. I let out a heavy sigh. Back to the drawing board it was. Back to my original idea of auditioning bands.
Then why was my hand reaching for the phone? Why was I dialing Roger's cell phone number? Why was I falling into this trap? I let out another sigh, more to prepare myself for Roger's decline than out of misery as it sounded.
"This better be an emergency." A gruff, tired voice quipped. I inwardly groaned. Already off to a bad start.
"Roger? It's Mark..." I said, trying to sound alert and excited to hear from him. Which I was, of course, but my voice was too nervous to portray it. I leaned back in my chair and ran a hand through my sandy curls, pushing them from behind my glasses.
"Marcus!" The voice immediately cheered up, using the full name that wasn't really mine, but familiar anyway. "How goes it, brother? It's been ages...but I guess seven in the morning is better than never..." he laughed that familiar friendly chuckle that I had been certain was reserved for my company alone.
"I'm sorry...I forget that you know, you're in a different time zone and all, should I call back later?" I begged he would say yes, because then I could conveniently forget to and this would resolve itself.
"Nah, Pete's going to be in here in five minutes yelling at me to get ready. I have a flight back to New York at ten...I was going to call you! I'm gonna be in town for a few days!" He said, newly reminded. I winced. I was doomed.
"Well that's great!" I said gritting my teeth. "Because I need to talk to you..."
"About?" he replied, obviously shifting position from the bustle of sound on the other end. "Something wrong?"
"No, no nothing's wrong." I assured him, and myself. "I just needed to ask you some questions for a new...project I'm working on." A half-truth. Better than a lie, right?
"Sounds interesting...I'm getting in at..." A pause. He was checking a clock or watch or something. "I'll get in the city at six, your time. How about dinner at the Life at eight? I miss that old place..." A hint of nostalgia wavered in his voice. I leaned forward.
"Yeah. Sounds like a great idea..." I said, adjusting my glasses out of habit. "You'll be settled in your hotel by then?"
"Settled in? Mark, we just throw the suitcases on the floor and go to bed." he laughed again. This time I laughed with him.
"Alright then...I'll see you at the Life at eight. And I'll even give you a half an hour's grace time." I teased, knowing Roger's punctuality impairment.
"Sounds good, my brother. I'll talk to you then..."
I hung up with the sinking feeling that I was in over my head.
* * *
I tapped the side of my glass of water at the Life Cafe. 8:20. Typical Roger. He had ten more minutes, and to pass the time I pulled out a pen and started scribbling on the napkins. I bet the waiters hate that.
The flurry of movement as the door opened caught my attention, and I looked up to see my guest of honor standing in the door way. All eyes in the cafe went to him. Some murmurs from high schoolers went up throughout the room. They knew who he was. His trademark leather jacket was unzipped and his Beatles t-shirt looked like it hadn't been washed in days. Again, typical Roger. The boy could live in a Laundromat and never get his laundry done. His hair looked surprisingly un-dyed. It was his normal shade of dirty blonde, and most of it hung in his cobalt eyes, which searched the cafe menacingly. He didn't see me, so I decided to gain myself some attention. I let out a sharp whistle.
The eyes that were on Roger now shifted to me, and he finally spotted me, sitting at a booth in the back. I stood as he approached the table out of courtesy, not expecting the bear hug he laid on me. Nonetheless, I hugged my best friend back and took my seat, watching as the people in the cafe stared annoyingly.
"So how's life treating you?" he asked, grinning widely. I smiled and shrugged.
"Same as usual..." I answered, hoping he understood that "same as usual" meant no dates, no social life and no work. "Anything interesting going on with your band?"
"Just our new tour..." he said, his face lit with obvious excitement. After at least a half an hour of catching up (I told him about Sally Falling's success, he told me about his new album, and his new groupies) he remembered I had asked him here to talk about something. I was hoping his faulty memory would kick in, but no such luck.
"So what's up? You wanted to ask me some questions?" he asked, taking a huge swig of the beer he ordered. I silently cursed.
"Yeah...um...I got an offer to produce another documentary..."
"COOL!" He shouted with a wide smile. "What on?"
I inhaled. "It's supposed to be a month spent on tour with a band..."
"No." Roger quickly quipped. "No way, you can't come on tour with us, I will not expose you to the shit that goes on in that tour bus..." he leaned back, as if to finalize it.
And I found myself begging. I didn't want to go on tour with them, did I? No. I wasn't anywhere near ready for the life of sex, drugs and rock and roll. That wasn't my scene. But I was making a damn good argument for it.
"Come on, Roger, it's only a month and it'll be amazing publicity for your band. I need this job, and I can't do it without your help. The money from my last film is only going to last for so long...please, Roger I can't do this without your help..." I hoped my pitiful whine was getting through to him like it had in the past. It didn't look it. So I decided to add the stinger.
"And besides. I need to get laid."
Roger found this the most hilarious thing he had heard all week and began laughing like a drunken fool.
"Alright, alright. I'll talk to the other guys about it and call you tomorrow..." he smiled. I grinned back with a lopsided friendly smile, and agreed that I'd call him tomorrow to find out if I was going to go on this...absurd journey.
* * *
I was packing my bags Friday night, and we boarded the tour bus Saturday morning. Roger had introduced me to all of his bandmates. There was Luke, the bass player who donned a shocking head of blue hair and a goofy attitude that I was sure Roger was fond of. Luke was immediately warm and welcoming to me...I wonder if it was because I was holding a camera.
The next one I met was Sal. He was the drummer, and I think it was pretty obvious. His brains must have been rattled around too much from all that pounding. He was tall, with short cropped, black as night hair and his hands always in his pockets. I made a note to stay away from him.
Then there was Noah, the keyboardist. He seemed like he didn't really fit in with the rest of the group. When we met he was sitting complacently on the small couch, staring out of a window, not socializing with Roger, Luke and Sal...just watching as the cars rolled past us in the parking lot. I knew I was going to get along with Noah.
The bus was huge, a front sitting area with a couch and table, a hall of bunks (a free one for me, which I thought was pretty cool) and a back TV and radio area. Our bags were stuffed in the cargo space underneath and I made sure to bring everything on board that I needed for the drive to New Jersey. Toothbrush, blankets, notebooks, film, a book in case I get bored. I was set to go.
Until it was performance time, that is. Our first stop was CBGB's. I had been to this place many times before...it was a frequent haunt of Roger's and mine back before he had left for LA. But now it was different. Something about the way that the lights looked from backstage instead of from the audience. I had been dubbed the official "equipment-carrier" while the rest of the band decided to haul amps and plug in the already pre-set material onstage. I opened the back of the bus as I had seen Roger do before and my eyes fell upon the pile of guitar cases and drum set pieces, keyboards and spare amps.
I lugged in Luke's clean black bass first and he grinned at me appreciatively as I set it down before him. My next chore was to help Sal set up the drums, and I found it odd how quickly it came back to me. I remembered setting up Dave's old drum set back in the loft, back when the Well Hungarians were a no name underground band barely scraping by on 20 dollars a performance.
After preparing Noah's keyboard and amp, I trodded back to the bus, spying one last item in the back.
Roger's guitar.
It was littered with stickers, most I remembered, some new ones. There was the "Hello, My Name Is: Loretta" That was the day we finally named his guitar. He had been wracking his brain for an idea for a name and as soon as I handed him the spare stack of ID stickers that I had found in my desk drawer he just scrawled down Loretta and slapped it on the case. And that was the name.
The other stickers were mostly band advertisements, some of his friends, some famous ones, some were just pieces of paper taped to the stiff black case. I knew that what I was doing next was highly illegal in Roger's law.
With a careful glance over my shoulder, I flicked open the metal latches and lifted the huge case. I saw her. The pearl colored, Fender six string that Roger held closer to his heart than family. All of his earthly possessions-anything that meant anything to him-were kept in that case. Tucked in the red felt were pictures of his brothers and his mother, papers, phone numbers...
But they weren't what grabbed my attention.
After a moment of sifting through the case, I opened the small compartment where he kept his picks and spare strings. Inside lay four or five pictures. Of he and I.
The one that lay on top was a candid, probably taken by Collins or someone, of us at the Life Cafe. Roger stood next to a table pointing at me and laughing about something, which, from the expression on my face, I found either completely hilarious or completely disgusting. The next picture was another candid of us the day we moved into the loft. I flipped through them and finally came to the last picture of the bunch.
We sat on the steps of the crumbling loft, Roger had me in a tight headlock and I was grinning stupidly at the camera. We were happy. We were laughing.
It was the day he left for LA.
"What are you doing?" came the bass voice from behind me. I tossed the pictures in the case and slammed the lid shut, whirling around to come face to face with Roger.
"Nothing..." I lied in my strong tenor, hoping it didn't sound as obvious to him as it did to me.
"You were touching my stuff..." he said, putting an arm past me and snatching up his guitar.
"I was just...fixing it. I picked it up and something rattled around inside..." Much more convincing. Quick thinking, Cohen.
"You were touching. My. Stuff." He accentuated it in a way that made me want to cringe. He wasn't happy. And Roger Davis' temper was a force to be reckoned with. I didn't reply, didn't protest. He continued for me.
"Just remember whose time you're on here, Mark. Remember that if you want this documentary done..." he paused, unsure how to finish and then began again. "You're not alone in your little film world anymore. This film is going to require you to interact with people. I know it's a foreign concept to you, but maybe we can work on it..." he said dryly, turning heel and stomping back into the club.
I was shocked. Stunned. How DARE he accuse me of...
No. I wasn't going to get mad...I wasn't going to freak out, I was just going to get in there, film some performance footage, film some fan reactions and get the hell out of there with as little conversation as possible.
I clomped back inside, my worn Vans barely making a noise in comparison to the warming up of Roger and his band mates. I lifted up my camera, focusing in on Noah, pan left to Luke...
"Welcome everybody!" I heard Roger shout from onstage. He plucked out a few notes and the crowd roared in response. "My name's Roger Davis and we're the Well Hungarians..." Another cheer. "On bass, we have Luke Potter!" Another cheer. "On keyboards, Noah Fairway!" I was growing bored with the cheering. "And on drums, Sal Edwards!"
I zoomed in on each member, and then found myself filming Roger again as he started their first song, "Follow". The crowd around me began jumping in response and I began to assume that this wasn't the best place to be to get footage. I had set up my tripod backstage, so I began to shuffle my way over. I'd have to get action shots at some other venue. Tonight would have to be still.
Placing my camera on the tripod, I decided to get back into the crowd. I wanted to watch the show, get ideas for good songs to film for, figure out who the groupies were to talk to, and who the groupies were to stay away from. As soon as I got into the masses again, I felt someone try to pull on the hem of my gray t-shirt. I backed away and towards a calmer crowd.
"Hey!" Shouted a rather intoxicated sounding voice. I looked up. "Yeah you!" A giggle. Oh no. My eyes fell upon a rather attractive blonde who was slinking up to me in a way that she thought would look incredibly sexy. It looked foolish and drunk. She slid up beside me and grinned. "Can I buy you a drink?"
"I don't drink..." I lied. I just wanted to get her away from me. Far away. She pouted her heavily painted lips and put her hand on my arm.
"Oh come on, are you here alone?" Her voice sounded like one of those phone-sex operators from Girl 6 or something. I shook my head no.
"I'm with the band." I answered. A line that I had always wanted to slip to a dame, but never in a situation like this. I never thought I'd be telling someone I was with the band to get AWAY from them.
"You're in the band?"
"No, I'm with the band..."
"A roadie?"
"You could say that..." I mumbled, my eyes back on the stage. She grinned.
"I love these guys...this is the fifth time I've seen them..." So THAT was it. At first she was just looking for something to do, but now she had a mission. Sleep with the "roadie" to get to the band. Clever plot, but I wasn't falling for it.
"Do you know them personally?" She persisted, breaking my silence. I gritted my teeth before replying.
"Sort of...I'm new."
"What's your name?" Why wouldn't she leave me alone!? I racked my brain for some sort of excuse, some reason to slip backstage. But all I came up with was...
"Mark." Good job, Cohen. Now she has something to address you with.
"I'm Amy." She grinned, her hand still gripping her beer. I was physically repulsed by this woman and all I wanted to do was run away.
"So...you single? Being on the road must be really trying on a relationship..."
"Actually, I have a girlfriend..." Okay, so it wasn't the FULL truth. Having a crush on someone who sort-of-kind-of-high-school-giggling-flirting-likes-you-back isn't exactly a relationship, but hell, it was close enough for me. Her face fell.
"That's a shame..." she purred. I inwardly screamed that it was a bloody miracle. "I was hoping to be seeing a lot more of you..."
I heard the crowd roar as the song ended. "Sorry, that's my cue..." I grinned at her. "See you around..." And with a flash I was backstage, sitting Indian style by my beloved camera.
* * *
A week passed and the altercation between Roger and I faded. We never addressed it, never spoke of it until the morning after the first Boston show. Only Roger and I had returned to the bus that night, the rest of the band deciding to get a room at some hotel. I woke to the sounds of Roger coughing. My eyes fluttered open, I pulled back the long curtain and crawled out of the bunk I was sleeping in. Roger stood in the kitchen area, bracing himself against the counter. He was eerily pale and his whole demeanor seemed limp and weak. I stood, pushing my glasses on my face and keeping a respective distance. He began coughing again.
"Have you been taking your AZT?" I asked in a tone that I knew Roger recognized. He let out a dry chortle and sat back on the booth at the small table.
"Things don't change with you, do they, Mark..." he barked slowly, his gruff voice raspy and dry. I started to fix myself tea and sat on the counter that Roger had been gripping just moments before.
"Things don't change with you, either, Roger." I said, a tone of bravery in my voice that partially scared me and partially fueled me to continue. I knew he had to have been slipping on his dosage. That was the only reason he could be this...sickly.
"No...I mean you don't change." he answered. "You still feel you have this obligation to mother me." He leaned back in his seat. "Well don't. Because I don't need it. I never needed it."
I ran an angry hand through my hair. "Never needed it?" I stuttered. "You needed me to remind you to breathe, Roger. You wouldn't have taken your medication if it weren't for my constant reminders. You wouldn't have eaten. You would have self destructed if I hadn't been on your back 24 hours a day..." My long fingers had closed over the edge of the counter, my tendons taut and my wrists locked.
"What do you want, a fucking medal?" He shot back, weak, but not as weak as he looked. "It's not like you had much else to do."
I didn't think words could fuel such anger in one person. Especially me. I knew how to block out Roger's banter, I knew how to weave away from his temper and avoid conflict. Why wasn't I utilizing my skill at all? Why was I fighting with him?
"I cared about you, that's why I did it! Do you know how many times I just wanted to go away and leave you to your own devices? How many times I wanted to give up on you because you were too damn stubborn for your own good? How many times I wanted to get a life that didn't revolve around your AZT schedule and when you needed meals and sleep?"
"No one asked you to be my personal nurse, Mark."
"What was I supposed to do, Roger, you were dying!" My voice rose an octave and I looked down at the floor.
"I am
"Whatever. All I'm saying is that without me you wouldn't have made it to Christmas. You needed me." My voice was relatively calm again.
"I never needed anyone." He said, like a child defiantly assuring a parent that he can cross the street by himself. I blinked.
"Right, like you never needed heroin?" I shot back insensitively. "You needed me! That night at CBGB's...when I saw those pictures and you freaked out...those pictures were of how you needed me. That's why you got angry. Big rock star Roger can't be seen depending on a friend."
"Fuck you, Mark, I never depended on you!" He stood, I stood in response. He was a good head taller than me, a good 20 pounds heavier. He could level me with one shot, sick or healthy.
"Like hell you didn't!" I yelled back, clenching my fists. "You leaned on me for everything. Who asked me to move in? Who actually left the house to get food and your medicine? Who was the one to..."
"Fuck you..." he muttered.
"Yeah, fuck me, Roger. Because I was the one who left his best friend high and dry for three guys he barely knew." I could feel the angry tightening in my chest again. "I didn't bail on the guy who held me up for half a year of fevers and cravings and dizzy spells. I didn't leave my sick girlfriend..."
"Stop. Stop right there..." he warned. But I stupidly persisted.
"I didn't leave my girlfriend to die in the city so I could go score a record deal!" Before I knew it I was against the counter, my left jaw throbbing with unbearable pain. I looked up at Roger, whose dark eyes were furious.
"Talk about Mimi again. I want you to." He invited. I shrank away from him.
"You're angry because I'm right." I hissed, holding my face as if it would fall off when I let go.
"And you're angry because you're alone. Want to know why you're alone? Because no one wants a pretentious, insecure, diminutive little twerp to be up their ass for every breathing moment." And with that he stormed out, slamming the bus door.