Vol. 3: A Kingdom by the Sea I
Chapter 1: (Radio) Waves
See, here's the thing: life is not a cohesive narrative. It's made of puzzle pieces. It's layered.
Erase all documentary evidence on, say, Hitler, except for a letter written to him by Eva Braun in which she recalls that stroll that they took on that sunny Sunday last summer, mein Liebling. And if that letter was all that survived of Herr Hitler, then two hundred or two thousand years from now some historian could only conclude that Hitler was probably a charming, lovable man who took his lady friend out for walks back in the twentieth century.
And that'd be it.
All the bad things, all the shit and regrets and all that murder – erased.
Because one piece of evidence does not logically take you to the next one. You always have to stop and take in the bigger picture. Ask yourself what you missed.
Who you missed.
Because events just happen, unplanned and spiralling. People just happen.
And you can squint and turn and twist history around without ever figuring out how you got to where you are now.
Where that significant turn was.
And did you turn on your own or did someone push you?
The rain outside is torrential, accompanied by a loud, tree-abusing wind coming in from the Atlantic. It's the kind of a surprise storm that we get up here, and the beach will be white with snow next morning, before it melts away.
The phone line is shitty and keeps crackling. "What?" I repeat, and, "What? I can't –"
Vicky's voice is muffled, and a baby cries in the background, and she says something like "he wants" and "questions."
"No, no interviews," I say, standing in my living room, staring out of the window and onto the desolate beach. She knows I don't do interviews. I don't understand why she's even suggesting it.
The windows are double-glazed thanks to the rare spark of genius by the previous owner, but the cold radiates through and onto my bare skin. I keep the receiver to my ear and wrap my other arm around my middle, regretting that it's getting too cold to walk around in mere pyjama pants now.
It always was too cold, but now it's beating me.
"Ryan," Vicky says, sounding frustrated.
"Listen, there's a storm coming in from the ocean. The reception is shit. Put it in the mail, alright? But I don't do interviews. I do nothing. Remember that."
I wait for a second in case I receive a reply, but I don't. I place the receiver down, and then wrap both arms around my middle. Sink back into the silence and its comfort, staring outside.
The waves coming in are big, washing onto the shore with white, salty tips. It's late November, and the nature's getting brutal.
Good.
I go back to the kitchen where I was before the phone rang. The floorboards creak in a familiar way, and I step over the third one from the cooker because that's slightly loose. I should fix that, but don't. Some things just are better wrong.
The tea is still steaming in its cup, and I top it off with whiskey. Only three things can ruin a man: fame, men and twelve-year-old whiskey. Can't shake off all of my vices, can I?
I head back upstairs, where the wind battering the house sounds even louder. The record's finished playing, and I place the mug on the nightstand by the bed before patiently going through the LP stacks on the floor. I settle on Commodores, and soon the needle hits the vinyl.
The covers of the bed are still pulled aside, and so I slip back in and grab my sketch book and the pencil. The figure is disproportioned and not very humanlike, and I'm not good at drawing but it gives me something to do. Something to focus my energies on.
I focus on the eyes and the eyebrows, but I'll never get it right.
I try, anyway.
The wind and the music dance together. The tea is warm, and the whisky is warm, and the bed is warm.
And it's good like this.
A survival instinct.
Clifton is in his early thirties. He's a mechanic in town, took the business over from his father who passed away last year. Like mine did. We never talk about it, though.
The radio isn't on. He doesn't listen to music. He says he doesn't care for it.
His car slows down in good time and then turns left onto the dirt road leading back to the house. My groceries make clanging sounds of glass at my feet, and I look out the window silently. He's talking about some car part that he had to order all the way from Boston, and he sounds rather excited about it. I don't even hum. I don't have to.
"You ever been to Boston?" he asks.
"Yeah. On tour, you know."
"Oh, right," he says in this tone like he only then remembers. "On tour," he repeats. He sounds slightly despising. He's just envious, I think. And spiteful of the fact that I've seen so much in my life but still wouldn't know how to change a flat tyre.
We get out of the woods and the road takes us through dead land beyond which is the house, two stories of humble nothing wrapped up in faint blue paint by the beach, the first thing to greet migrating birds, the last thing to say goodbye to those who know better. He drives right up to the porch where his pickup truck creeps to a stop.
"Thanks for the ride, man."
"No problem." He scratches his nose and looks ahead and towards the sea that's the same colour as his eyes. He's strong built in that mechanic way and has short, black hair that he only sees as a nuisance. "You want to offer a beer?"
"I'm expecting a call," I say, which I am.
"Ah."
I get out and, after picking up the groceries, I slam the door shut and round the car, knocking on his window with my knuckles. He rolls the window down, and I say, "I'll see you on Thursday, then, as usual?"
"Yeah." He nods. "Don't drown until then."
"I'll try not to," I smirk, and he scoffs, rolling the window back up. He turns the car around as I get inside. The door isn't locked because it doesn't need to be. Not this far out from anything. We don't get it at first, urban people like me, from Las Vegas to Los Angeles to New York, and now here. In cities we learn not to trust anyone. They're all out to rob us or scam us or pull one on us, and we triple lock our doors and protect our property and will call the cops on you.
And then you move to a place with a population of – fuck. A thousand and then some? And you can leave your door unlocked. Because there are no strangers who might kill you in your sleep. There is no urban paranoia. And I kept my door locked for the first few months just in case, because you never know, maybe someone could track me down here and I'd wake up with a crazy female fan snuggling against me, but I've since ceased to lock the door. Learned to trust the unchanging nature of this place.
I fill up the kitchen cupboards with the canned meats and the liquor and then the fridge with the beer bottles. Only then do I flip through the mail that I picked up from the post office. The mailman would come this far out for me, but that's alright. I'm in no hurry to do anything, and this way it's safer.
I recognise Vicky's handwriting on the back of an envelope: G. Ross, General Delivery, Machias, ME, 04654. We omit the actual address in all correspondence. Just in case. The other mail has typed addresses, so they are bound to be more boring. I decide to see what Vicky has to say first.
Her letter is brief, and I open one of the beer bottles and sit down by the kitchen table to read it.
Ryan, Can you not fucking move somewhere with reliable phone lines? Just a thought. You could die and I wouldn't know for weeks, and you'd lie there rotting away with birds eating your insides. That's what you get for living in the middle of nowhere. What I tried to say on the phone last week –
Was it last week? Huh. The days just all blur together so nicely now.
– was that Gabe called the office about some kid that was trying to ask him questions about you. I called Gabe. Unpleasant, but I did it. It turns out that it's the same kid that tried to interview me last month. (I didn't tell you about that, but you're so paranoid that I thought it best to omit it.) It is likely that he might be trying to interview everyone from the old gang, I'm trying to find out who he's bothered so far. He seems harmless, just a very devoted fan, but you never know. I'm looking into it, but if you could call me, that'd be fucking nice. We miss you in New York, you know. Don't do anything fucking stupid. Love,
Vicky
I read the letter twice, unease stirring up in the back of my brain. Some kid's going around asking awkward questions? Well, that's no good. Even managing to get to Vicky or Gabe is worrying and more than the other ones have managed. I know I can't disappear without anyone raising eyebrows, I know that there was no warning, I know that one day I was there and the next I wasn't. People get curious.
But you'd think that they'd realise how I don't want anyone trying to solve the mystery. If I had, I would have left clues.
The letter is dated to four days ago. I wonder if she has looked into it.
I open one of the beer bottles and drink half of it with one gulp. It doesn't help.
I wish they'd leave me be.
The phone starts ringing just as I check the time, and it is five o'clock, and he is punctual as always. I head out to the living room and sit down on the large arm chair, sinking into it. I reach over to the side table and pick up the receiver. "Hey, man." I take another slug of beer.
"I always half-expect you not to answer."
"Thinking I'm dead? Yeah, Vicky does that same thing."
"Hmm, more in vain hope of you having decided to rejoin humanity."
"Humanity is overrated."
"So are you."
I scoff, although I hear the grin in Spencer's voice. He launches into the weekly question round of what I've been doing, what I've been thinking, and I tell him at length and ask the same in return, and we get sidetracked and talk about our favourite English lagers and how some states now have pushed the legal drinking age to twenty-one, and how stupid is that because Spencer and I both would not have survived our teenage years without beer.
Eventually I say, "I got some bad news from Vicky."
"Okay." His voice is expectant, so I go on.
"Well, maybe not bad, but just not nice. Some kid's going around asking questions about me."
"Who's he asking?"
"Gabe and Vicky, at least. Who knows?"
He is silent for a while, and I absently trace my thumb around and around the mouth of the now empty bottle.
"I wouldn't worry about it," Spencer says eventually. "We know how to keep our mouths shut."
"Do we?"
Because there are rumours. All kinds of rumours. And not just about me and my disappearance, but also about other people affiliated with me. And that might not be my fault because some of us, well. Some of us seem to flaunt it. Make it into a marketing trick for their new and upcoming band. And that in itself reflects on me because I am associated, and it's dodgy as it is, and so if someone goes stirring shit up and asks awkward questions... So I worry. I do get to worry, don't I? It's a bad idea, trying to dig up that stuff. It's toxic. And not just for me, but for a lot of people. It can ruin reputations.
"I don't care what they say about me, man."
"That's a lie."
"Well, yeah, but you could let me get away with it," I say. "I care less than I used to," I then add, quietly. That at least is true. "So how's the album doing now?"
He pauses when I ask this question, for a second, and I know what he's thinking and not saying. That my curiosity isn't healthy, that I shouldn't be asking. The thousand little implications of even mentioning it, but we'd both rather not acknowledge those.
"Number four this week. Moved up two places."
"Not bad for a debut album, is it?"
"Not at all, no. Our debut never made the top sixty, so they're doing really well. Good for them."
"Yeah."
And I see him, then, somewhere out there, on stage, spotlight on him, so bright you can't miss a single movement or smile or frown.
I see him, then, far removed from me, living a life on another plane of existence.
I see him. And Machias, ME, doesn't feel far enough.
I call Clifton on Saturday because I'm bored and out of beer and my drawings have started to go from 'not so bad' to 'really bad'. He comes in his pickup truck an hour later, and we head to the only bar in town. I get long looks from the locals, but they leave me be. A few of them greet me out of politeness, and I nod back.
We end up in a corner booth as usual, and I buy us beers. Clifton doesn't like that, but he's a mechanic scraping by whereas I am. Well. Not scraping by. Not financially, anyway.
We don't have much to say, so he talks about cars again.
They've got the radio on. I used to listen to the radio a lot, too, but reception is bad out here, only a few stations that I don't care for. Clifton keeps talking about exhaustion pipes as a new song starts, catchy and easy but with intelligent guitar hooks. And then the verse starts, a crisp voice belting out words confidently. The voice has got charisma and sex appeal, and the song is out of place in a small bar full of local men in their fifties, but the song sounds like it doesn't care and is going to make you listen to it, anyway.
And so he finds me, via radio waves.
The song is good. It's different from those few songs I heard him play back then, accidentally most of the time because he kept his music a secret. Didn't think it was good enough. I guess I made him think that, selling platinum records and strutting around with my record deal while he was juggling various shitty jobs. I guess that his ex-boyfriend made him think that, arguing that his photography had more chances of a breakthrough than his music. And this song is good, but it sounds more... calculated. Commercial. Sounds a bit manufactured when compared to the raw intensity of his earlier work. Sounds like it's about sex.
Maybe he polished his sound. Maybe it was polished for him.
It's not my business anymore, but it's thanks to me, you know. It's all thanks to me that he's out there singing songs.
His voice makes every hair on my body stand up. I sit still and let the song play, enduring the torture that someone's sanctioned me.
Does he ever receive the same punishment, of hearing my voice on the radio unexpectedly?
He must.
He starts the call with, "Listen, man," and then sighs. I can instantly tell something's off. He calls me once a week – a surprise call means that something's wrong. "I think this kid's interviewed my mom."
"What? He's interviewed Ginger?" I ask, confused.
"And Haley," he then adds, and I get the visual of him grimacing just by the sound of his voice. This guy's interviewed Spencer's ex-wife? But how does he…? How has no one even…?
"He interviewed Haley," I repeat, feeling oddly hollow.
"Tried to. She wouldn't have any of it, you know how she is with fans and how protective of Suzie she is. But my mom, she never mentioned a word to me. Apparently this was way back last summer, but I compared the description of the guy with Haley's and, Ry, it's the same guy. Mom said he was lovely, just some kid. She invited him in for a tea and showed him childhood pictures, the whole nine yards."
"Has your mother learned nothing from your career?!" I ask, horrified of the thought of Ginger Smith spilling secrets about me to complete strangers.
"Don't take it out on her, man. She thought he was just some fan, she didn't know he was stalking all of your old crowds."
"Still." Ginger does not like me and never has. I don't even want to know what she'd say about me when asked. "So this happened last summer. This kid has been interviewing people since last summer and no one's realised it until now? I've got the excuse of being up here on my own! How could you have possibly missed this?!"
It's not Spencer's fault, I know this, I know, I know, but this entire thing has escalated from unwanted yet harmless stalking to potentially catastrophic stalking. How big is this thing? How long has this been going on for? No one seems to know. No one.
"How was I supposed to notice? I don't talk to The Followers crowd anymore. I don't keep in touch, you know that. And as for your New York crowd, you know they kind of scattered when you left."
"But surely they still fucking talk," I object before I realise that maybe they don't. Vicky's married now, has a kid, Patrick's become a session musician, he moved to Los Angeles, Gabe's gotten sucked into some never-ending, spiralling world of New York parties and drugs and booze, and Eric moved to London when his record store chain went transatlantic, and Jon –
Well. We all know what Jon did. And I'm not mad, I'm not, good for them. Both of them. I still talk to Jon. Or I would. It's not like I am actively not talking to him, but it's awkward. It's hard.
Spencer sighs heavily. "You were the one thing that kept things together, even when you were trying hard to rip things apart."
I bite on my bottom lip, my stomach sinking. "Don't. Don't make me feel guilty for bailing out on you guys."
Maybe it's a pattern. Things get too tough and I run for it. But it's not like it was with The Followers, when things got so dark that I was losing sight of myself. It didn't get dark this time. It was all clear, oh so clear, in sunlight, everywhere. Reminders. Constant, constant reminders.
"I'm not trying to make you feel guilty, man," he says apologetically. "Hey, whatever. Sure, I'd just gotten you back, but - Yeah, I know, I was there. I know. And we're talking now. You didn't bail on me, that's not what I'm trying to say."
"Okay."
"And this thing with the kid will get taken care of. Don't worry about it too much."
"Okay."
A pause. "I love you, man."
"Yeah, I love you too."
"Take care of yourself."
Everyone always assumes that I don't.
It feels like a hunt. Like the days just roll by, and the catastrophic proportions slowly dawn on us all.
I make a list of people that I can call or have someone else call. And it gets worse every day, like the world is shrinking, like a sniper's rifle aiming at me. I start smoking obsessively, two packs a day when I was down to half a pack. My lungs burn like it doesn't agree with the sudden change, but my body will learn to live with it.
The list is not very long at first: Gabe, Vicky, Ginger and Haley. Out of the three, it seems only Ginger indulged this kid.
But Vicky makes some calls, Spencer makes some calls, and I make some calls. And the list is suddenly a lot, lot longer.
Pete Wentz. I haven't seen that fucker in years and don't want to, but Pete Wentz, that weasel, quickly gets added onto the list. Vicky says that apparently the kid even stayed with Pete for a few days back in August. And then Jac Vanek. Hell. I have no idea what she's up to these days. She works in fashion, I think, riding off of my fame. Ryan Ross's ex-girlfriend is making hats for all of America. She's doing pretty well, actually. She never was the type of girl to remain lying in the crossfire. And then Brent Wilson. We lost touch big time. No idea what he does. Maybe he's pursued a career in professional assholeism. And the list also has a whole, whole handful of people from the early Followers crowd, people I have long since forgotten existed.
Some names are fresher. Keltie Colleen. A familiar sense of guilt rings in the back of my head at the mention of her name. She never deserved what... Well. There's no use crying over spilt milk. Had I known, had I been able to see into the future... maybe Keltie and I would have turned out differently.
That is a lie, and I know it. Keltie and I were not a good match even when we were. She was a great girl, though. That's all.
But the list gets longer, from acquaintances and short-term friends to former band members and managers and girlfriends. It's an impressive list. I get a name too for this kid: Siska.
I bet he is glad now. This is probably what he wanted: for me to be aware of his existence.
Well I am.
I feel like I'm getting cornered in by an invisible force.
And yet I do not move.
The mail I get is always sent by Vicky's people, and they always use the same anonymous looking brown envelopes. This one is white and the handwriting is messy, and I twist and turn the letter around outside the post office. A single car goes down the main road, which is mostly full of residential houses. The grocery shop is further down, and the bar is further up.
I pull the collar of my coat up and head along the street. It's windy, the first of December. Frost is on the ground, crunching under my boots. I'm not used to this weather.
I hitchhiked to town but it took a forty minute walk to a bigger road to catch a ride. I couldn't sleep this morning, and I couldn't work on songs and I couldn't listen to music and I couldn't draw, and I felt restless. This entire business with this kid no one seems to be able to find. Is it too much to hope that he packed it in and went home?
After a long pale morning, a Scotch seems like a good idea. When I get to the bar and pull on the handle, however, the door doesn't budge, and I realise that the bar's not open yet. "Fuck," I sigh, wiping at my numb nose.
The door opens, then, even with the 'Closed' sign hanging. Tommy, the guy who runs the bar, peers at me. "Oh, it's you. What do you want?"
"A Scotch would be nice."
He looks disapproving, but I make a show of shivering. He sighs. "Oh, alright, then." He holds the door open for me, and I thank him kindly. He mutters something about unreliable spoiled rockstars under his breath, but he wouldn't have let me in if he actually minded. On my third visit to his bar, he reluctantly asked if he could take my picture, saying it might boost sales. My picture now hangs behind the bar, me and Tommy shaking hands outside, awkward half-smiles on our faces.
I drop the pile of mail onto the table by the window, and Tommy says, "Don't sit there. Do we want the sheriff to see me serving you out of hours?"
I roll my eyes when he's got his back turned, moving to the back table instead. I take my jacket off as he brings a Scotch over. "Thanks, man." He just scoffs and goes back to stocking up the bar.
I go through the familiar brown envelopes first, things I need to sign and send back, authorising the use of a Whiskeys' song in some movie that's coming up, another signing that I understand the few loose ends from my father's will and so on. I don't have a pen so I just go through the papers, fold them nicely and evenly, and then put them in my breast pocket to sign later.
Lastly, I open the white envelope. I don't know why I save it for last but something about its unfamiliar appearance feels threatening.
There is a single piece of paper inside which I pull out and then I notice a rectangular piece of thicker paper still in the envelope. I tip the envelope, and a ticket drops onto the table, and then it's there. A yellow concert ticket. Radio City Music Hall. 9th of December.
I stare.
I quickly reach for the note with a shaking hand, my eyes flying over the brief text: In case you're in town. – Jon
Jon.
I drop the note, exhaling shakily. My eyes are glued to the ticket. An invitation. I take a big sip of Scotch. It burns my throat and warms me up, but it doesn't calm me down.
Why would Jon send me a ticket when he knows? And is Jon operating on his own? Fuck, what does that mean? And what if I went? Does Jon want to see me or does someone else want to see me? Is he aware that Jon's invited me?
Suddenly, the questions are swirling in my head, creating chaos.
I'm not ready.
I picture myself backstage after the show to say hi to the band, squeezing Jon's shoulder in approval, and then he'd be there, sweaty from the show, eyes widening at the sight of me.
God, I'm not ready.
And who says that it's me who has to do the grovelling?
I never signed up for that. I put it all behind me.
But somehow it keeps catching up with me.
After further days of anxiety, Vicky tells me that it's been taken care of.
"Let me tell you what I did," she says, sounding amused. "So I finally hunt this kid down, right? He said he's twenty but man, he looks like he's seventeen. He's this twitchy little overenthusiastic thing. And I have him brought into the office, and he's babbling about how amazing it is to be in the headquarters of Asher Management – he's floored, let me tell you. And I make him wait outside for two hours to, you know, make him know he's not significant, and then I have him brought in. I've met him before, it's the same kid that was waiting for me outside my apartment once, asking about you, of course. And so I ask him what the fuck he thinks he's doing, right? And get this: he says he's writing a book."
"What?" I ask, bewildered.
"I swear to god that's what he says. He's writing a book. So I quickly go get our lawyers into the room, and he gets a grand speech on slander and privacy laws, and he's pale by the end of it, trust me. Legally, we would not be able to stop him from writing that book, but boy, did he lose interest. He's just some crazy fan. I doubt he could string two words together on paper."
"So he decided to back off?" I clarify.
"Yeah."
"And that's that? This kid is- is trying to write a book about me, he's been interviewing people for months, but then he agrees to drop it just like that? What about his notes and all the things he might have found out, and –"
"We took his notes from him. We asked, and he just handed them over. There is absolutely nothing for you to worry about."
I bite on my fingernails obsessively, trying to sink into the armchair as much as I can. I've got a fire roaring, keeping the room nice and warm. I still feel restless. Always restless. "And he went home."
"He did. Chicago, I think. We caught this one pretty late, it's true, but it's been taken care of. He's determined to forget whatever he happened to find out."
I exhale, feeling myself relax a little. "Okay. Thanks, Vicky."
The idea of a book, of guilty pages smeared with gossipy ink, sends a chill down my spine. It's absurd – who would buy something like that? Who would even think it worth writing?
"Don't worry about it. It gave me something to do. Have you any idea how boring this maternity thing is? The little poo machine just cries or sleeps. I mean, I love him to death, but my god babies are boring."
"Shouldn't have accidentally gotten knocked up, then."
"Fuck you! My husband and baby are perfect."
I laugh, the sound almost echoing in the living room. My thoughts stray to the hallway side table, its drawer, the white envelope that is hidden there. I bring my knees up, huddling together. "So I heard that, uh. That Jon's band is playing Radio City."
It's not Jon's band per se, but the euphemism serves its purpose.
"Yeah, they've kicked off their North American tour on the East Coast. A few of the shows have been sold out already. They're doing really well." She pauses as if to let me comment, but I don't know what to say to that. "Why are you asking?"
I've started using Spencer as my confidante. Usually with Vicky I feign indifference.
"Jon sent me a ticket," I then say.
"Oh. Are you going?"
"No," I say instantly. "No. I just, like..." I sigh, card through my hair nervously. "Do you think... I mean. Do you think Jon sent it without consulting anyone?"
"You mean if Brendon knows that Jon invited you?"
I take in a deep breath, hating that something as insignificant as a piece of paper has thrown me off balance so much. "Yeah." I rub my face. "Yeah, I suppose that's what I mean."
"I can't know that. But forget about it. Because you're thinking that if Brendon knows, maybe he wants to see you, or then again Brendon just might not care. And if Brendon doesn't know, then it might be a set up, and it could get ugly. Jon's not trying to play matchmaker, you know he's not like that. So my guess is that Jon just misses you, and I think that you should call him to say thanks but you won't be able to attend. If you want, I can get the number of their next hotel. But don't think about it too much, honey. That's all done with. No reason to stir up something that's dead and buried."
Dead and buried, done with, yeah, I know. I tell myself that all the time.
But haunting. Does she understand that it's haunting?
She wraps up the call when Baby Alexander starts crying. I go to the hallway, get the ticket and get my lighter, and then I stand in the kitchen, the flame flickering, the corner of the ticket hovering not too far from the fire.
I look at the ticket, read His Side.
Yeah, what about mine? What about all the wrong that was done to me?
I pocket the lighter and drop the unburned ticket onto the kitchen table. A stupid piece of paper that changes nothing.
The weather is horrible in the morning, just like it was the night before. Staying in bed seems like a good idea, and I pull the covers over my head and try to get back to sleep but it's in vain. I put a record on, my bare feet on the Oriental rug that matches the heavy satin curtains. They help to keep the place warm. 40s blues comes on, and I light a cigarette, pull on jeans and grab one of my sketchbooks. I start with arms this time, and it's a little boy that I'm trying to draw, one with messy hair and a wicked grin, afraid of nothing, not having lost anything. I wonder if it's a kid I've seen in town or if he's just a figment of my imagination.
I'm working on his mouth when a song finishes, and I stop. Frown. I hear noise from downstairs, a thump. It's barely noon and there's a strong wind throwing snow around outside, but that was not the sound of the wind battering the house. That sound came from the inside.
I throw a shirt on as I head downstairs to investigate, buttoning it up as I go. The stairs creak as I try to figure out if one of the picturesque seaside paintings has come falling down or maybe –
Someone's in the living room. A young man is in the living room. Standing in the middle with his back to me, a thick winter coat on and an old brown leather satchel hanging on him. He's looking around the room curiously. He has a messy, curly entanglement of brown hair on his head.
"Who are you?" I ask, and the kid jumps, literally jumps, and he swirls around and freezes.
"Ryan Ross," he breathes out, his boyish face as white as the snow outside.
"Yes, that's who I am, thanks, but that's not what I was asking."
He's not some random hiker who got lost, but I don't recognise him from about town either.
"T-The door wasn't locked." He motions to the hallway with a shaking hand, eyes unnaturally wide.
"No. It's not an invitation to come in either, though."
"I- I'm sorry. It was just... cold outside. I cycled in from Machias. I got lost a few times." His voice is hollow, though, like he's not really aware of what he's saying – he's far too busy staring at me. A state of shock. "Wow, your hair's gotten really long. It's never been that long."
And I know what that means.
"You're a fan," I say in realisation. My hair that brushes my shoulders isn't that long. Not really.
But here is a kid saying otherwise. Longer than ever. Here is some fan who's cycled from Machias in a snow storm, helped himself into my house, who knows where I fucking live. And then I take in his face: two overly enthusiastic, sparkling eyes even as he is clearly shocked, slightly hollow cheeks, dirt road brown hair that's naturally curly but relatively short, and he looks fucking tired but awed and like he's about to faint.
It matches a description I've heard before.
"Fuck. Are you that fucking kid who's been bothering everyone I've ever known?"
He frowns. "No. No, I don't believe that's me. I don't bother people, I –"
"You're that guy writing a book about me."
"A biography!" he says happily. "A biography. Yes. Yeah. I'm Sisky. Call me Sisky. Your biographer." He grins madly. "You know about me. God. You knowabout me. Oh gosh. I'm so – Gosh."
I try to deal with this intrusion and shock. I thought Vicky sent him home – clearly not. Instead he managed to find out where I live. And he just decided to pay a visit. If I had a fucking shot gun...
"Look, kid, you're not my fucking anything."
"That's not true."
"Cute. Listen. I have no idea how the hell you tracked me down, but clearly you have some issues. Okay, here I am, in my home, alive and well. And now I'm gonna call the sheriff to kindly escort you out of town. And because I'm feeling charitable, I'm not suing you for trespassing this time. Alright? So now turn around and fuck off. You've had your fun, and this stupid little project of yours is over."
He has been having fun, too. I've been losing sleep over this mysterious being chasing me – him. This short, tiny eager kid staring at me with devout admiration, but now clearly with hurt too.
"Mr. Ross, I came up here because those people in New York told me to stop! I realised that I had to come straight to you, because they didn't get it, but you do! And I need to interview you for the book, I need to..." He frantically goes through his satchel and pulls out a paper and pen. He then stares up at me joyously like now he's ready, now he can write down everything I say.
"Are you on drugs?" I ask disbelievingly and approach him. His eyes widen like having me this close is surreal to him. "Here, let me help you." I place a hand on his shoulder and then push him back into the hallway. He staggers, craning his neck to look at me, clearly upset.
"We've gotten off on the wrong foot!"
"We haven't gotten off at all."
"I'm not some stalker!"
"I beg to disagree."
"Mr. Ross!" He breaks free of my hold and swirls around, pressing himself against the wall by the front door like that will make it harder for me to move him. "You need to hear me out."
"No. I don't."
I open the door, grab his shoulder and push him out into the cold, the wind ruffling both of our hairs. He looks crestfallen.
"Go home, kid," I say and slam the door to his face. He instantly knocks on it. I lock it. He twists the doorknob. He knocks again.
"Mr. Ross! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to barge in on you!" Knock, knock. "...Ryan? It's really cold out here!"
I lean against the door and slide down it to sit on the floor, exhaling heavily. Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ.
"I'm not going!" he then exclaims. I rub my face tiredly and fight off a headache. "Are you calling the cops on me? Please don't call the cops on me! Oh man... I've lost my hat. It's cold. Please, Mr. Ross?"
He bangs again, his voice still muffled.
My life is fucking absurd. The sheriff doesn't even like me, but he will come and collect the kid, I'm sure. Escort him out of town, glare at him and threaten to call his parents. Someone like that should not be left wandering around America without some kind of parental guidance.
I feel a thud against the door, but it's not knocking this time. It feels like he's sliding down to sit on the porch.
"I just thought I'd set the record straight," he says, now mumbling to himself, words muffled but decipherable. "You don't know what they say about you. They say such horrible things. But you're not like that. I know you're not really like that." He sounds choked up.
My mind goes over the people he's definitely managed to get something out of: Brent, Pete, Jac, Keltie... Well, shit. They won't have anything good to say, will they?
"Fuck," he swears, his voice breaking, and the wind blows loudly enough to drown it out but I get a horrible feeling that now the kid is crying. I quickly get up to get away from the door, the realisation making me uncomfortable. I'll give it five minutes, and he can pick himself up and go home. It's not my business. It's not my concern. It's not my fault if some fan is disappointed in me, if he went in search of his idol only to discover that he didn't deserve to be worshipped.
I've done a lot of bad things, but his shattered dream is not one of them.
I go into the kitchen, put the kettle on. Draw the curtains to the backdoor in case he decides to circle the house. Never mind. Forget about it.
Another knock on the door. I ignore it. He keeps knocking and calls out something I can't make out, so I reluctantly and slowly move from the kitchen to the living room and then to the hallway. I stare at the door like I would at a ticking time bomb. "Mr. Ross!" his voice calls out. "I, uh. Did you call the cops or not? Because if you did, I'll just wait here if that's alright. At least I'll get a ride back into town!"
I stare at the door in bewilderment and then laugh. This utter embodiment of a failure has been the person hunting down all of my old enemies? I can't believe it. My life has turned into a bad joke. Not saying that it wasn't one before, but this? This is something else.
"I just wanted to tell the truth. That's all," he then calls out.
The water is boiling, the kettle letting out a whistle in the kitchen. I stare at the door intently. Mull this over.
When I open the door, the kid flinches, not having expected it. He stares at me expectantly, blinking too much with puppy eyes.
"Come the fuck in, then."
"To wait for the cops?"
"I didn't call them."
"Oh!" His expression lights up like I've just told him he's won the lottery. His eyes then narrow. "Then what for?"
"I don't – know, I – Look, just come the fuck in from the cold, alright?"
"Are you going to kill me?"
"Do you think I would?"
"No!" he then laughs and saunters back in rather confidently. He drops his satchel and starts unbuttoning his coat and starts talking a million miles per minute. "Are we having tea why do you live out here is it always so cold do you live alone I think you've got nice views –"
I stare at him in astonishment. This house has never heard so much speech in one day, let alone a week.
Maybe murder isn't off the list completely.
"Is that boat out there yours?"
"No."
"So do you ever go fishing?"
"No."
"Hiking?"
"No."
"Swimming?"
"No."
"...Walking?"
"No."
He's frowning. He looks around the room living room. "So, you just... stay in all day, doing what?"
"Reading. Drawing. Thinking. Sometimes I think about walking."
"You've got a lot of books," he amends, nodding towards the full bookcases. His Dictaphone is on the table between us. He's brought in one of the kitchen chairs and is now sitting on it, opposite my armchair. I'm armed with a beer bottle and feel horribly out of place. It's not an actual interview, I keep telling myself. I'm letting this kid have his go at me, and then he will be happy and can piss off. "What kind of stuff do you read?"
"Poetry, I suppose. Like –"
"W.H. Auden!" he interrupts, beaming. "You quote his Funeral Blues in one of your songs, 708? You know how you quote him?"
"...Yeah. I do know."
"Yeah. Man, that's great. At first I was confused because, like, it's a love song, right, but then the Auden poem's about a dude, so I was like 'what?' but then how you just referenced the loss, you know, compared it with death. That's some amazing, deep stuff. So powerful." He stares at me dreamily.
"Uh."
He blinks. "So who is 708 about?"
That answers at least one question I've had concerning him: he doesn't know. For all his digging around, he doesn't know. I'm surprised. Jac didn't rat me out? Brent didn't? Wow. That's... almost kind.
"Look," I say, wanting to distract him. "I said that I'd set the record straight, answer your silly questions. I thought I'd deny some nasty rumours, right? So let's just focus on those."
Sisky looks at his notes. Vicky told me that they had confiscated them – lies. Sisky handed over copies of his notes. What a sneaky little thing. Sisky might seem harmless, but he's not. He's dangerous. He's cunning. Makes it all the more worrying that he plans to write a book about me, but I haven't agreed to that. I'll set lawyers on him, find some dirt on him, blackmail him, something to get him to stop. But for now I'll sit here and answer his stupid questions because god knows he won't go away otherwise.
"We could start at the beginning." He looks up. "Tell me about your childhood."
"I was born in 1950. I grew up in Vegas. I was an only child."
"I know all that." He sounds very unimpressed.
I frown. "Well what do you –"
"You're stating facts. I need anecdotes! I need you to tell me what you did, how you felt. Not the name of your first grade teacher – Mr. Buckner, by the way – but what you thought about him. Like, here. Okay here," he says, now looking at his notes. "Ginger Smith. She describes you as a quiet, anti-social child. You were talkative with people you knew, like Spencer, but when she walked into the room you'd quiet down. During your teenage years, she says that you became quieter, but also stubborn. You seemed like a thinker. She thought you exhibited aggressive behaviour. Just seemed angry. Later you became arrogant." Sisky looks up. "Do you think that's accurate?"
"No." Quiet but still stubborn, aggressive and arrogant?
"Okay, what's your best childhood memory?"
"Uh..." I rake through my brain. "My ninth birthday, I guess."
"Tell me about it."
"No!" I object, confused. I don't need to tell him anything. Sisky again looks rather unimpressed. He clearly worships me in some way, and he's nervous, sure, but I think I am pretty quickly helping him to get rid of his inhibitions. Well, considering he has travelled this country far and wide, interviewing people, he clearly never had many inhibitions to begin with.
"You need to give me something. Why does that birthday stand out?"
"The old lady next door baked a fucking cake. Happy now?"
"Did you usually get cake for your birthday?"
"No."
"Your father wasn't very affectionate, was he?"
"No."
"And how did that make you feel?"
"Are you my shrink?" I ask disbelievingly. He instantly writes something down. I'm affronted.
"You and Spencer worked as paper delivery boys to get money for your instruments, correct?"
"Yeah."
"Was that your first ever job?"
"Yes."
"What was your first guitar?"
"A 1960 Martin D-18. Bought it second-hand. I still have it."
"You used it on 708!" he beams, again accurately. "I didn't know that was your first." He writes it down happily. "Is it true that you refused to play that song live?" He glances at me quickly. "Why? Too personal? It seems like one of your most personal songs. Is it about Keltie? How did you meet Keltie? Is it true you cheated on her? 708 seems to reference an affair, so is it about your mistress? Who was she? Were there several? Would you describe yourself as 'sexually daring and promiscuous'?" He smiles at me. "That's a quote from Keith Dixon."
"Who?"
"Keith Dixon? Your old drum tech."
"Big Keith!" I say in realisation. "How the hell did you find Big Keith? Fuck, I haven't seen him in... five, six years. How is he these days?"
"He's found Jesus," Sisky says solemnly.
"Oh."
When we decided to check whom Sisky had talked to, we asked the most obvious people. Sisky's scope, however, has been far greater than that. He's not ignoring all the people I've forgotten.
Funny. They remember me, but I don't remember them. For how many people is that true for? Hundreds of insignificant handshakes that have meant the world to them and nothing to me.
"Is it true you and Joe had a bet on which one of you could sleep with more girls on your '72 tour?" he now asks hesitantly. Yes. We did. We were young, famous and no one was there to tell us not to.
"No. Absolutely not."
He looks at me sceptically but then writes something down.
"Look, is there any logic to this? You keep jumping from one thing to another," I complain. From my songs to my childhood to Keltie to who I've been fucking.
"Well, you're not answering any of my questions!" We glare at each other. How dare he glare at me? I haven't done anything wrong. I've been kind enough to let him in, to indulge him, and here he is glaring like I'm letting him down. "What would you like to talk about?" he then asks.
"The music," I say easily. That's the only thing worth talking about.
"Okay." He starts chewing on the end of his pen. "What exactly happened to The Followers?"
"Life," I shrug.
"Okay. And by 'life' you mean...?" He arches an eyebrow. I shrug again. "Okay, see, I've heard different accounts of the break up, and it all seems dodgy to me. What really happened that summer? What about the car crash?"
"You're not asking about the music."
"But I am! What about The Whiskeys? Why did you quote retire unquote last year? All of a sudden, when you were more successful than ever? Who retires at a time like that? Why was there supposed to be a documentary of The Whiskeys but the project got scrapped last second? Why are you living out here in the middle of nowhere when you're one of the most famous musicians alive? I mean. Surely you understand why I've been interviewing people! It doesn't add up. You don't add up!"
"Look, I don't owe you anything, kid."
"You do! You owe the world an explanation! You owe me one!"
Well someone's taking this personally.
"I can't help you."
His brows knit together angrily, and although I've only known him for a very short time, it looks uncharacteristic on him. He stands up. "I'm going for a walk," he announces. "We'll try again when I come back." He marches out into the hall and puts his coat back on, buttoning it hastily. He glares at me from the doorway, and fuck. He was all sunshine and puppies when he first arrived, but now he seems to hate my guts. How did I manage that in such short a time? I was being damn considerate! "In the meanwhile you should consider the fact that I can't interview you if you don't want to talk," he declares, and he sounds hurt like I've somehow betrayed him. I roll my eyes at my beer bottle, and then my eyes move to the stack of notes on the coffee table.
However, he seems to have the same thought as me because he hurries back into the living room, grabs his satchel, stuffs it full of his notes, and then hurries back out with a hurt look my way. The front door opens and closes.
Well.
He's a bit insane.
I slowly get up and walk to the big window. Sisky's marching onto the beach, shoulders hunched. The storm has quieted down but it's still windy. He clearly wants to make a statement. His footsteps mix sand and light snow together.
I light a cigarette and pick up the phone, dialling Spencer's number. He and I have been talking more frequently now because of Sisky. I suppose that's one good thing that's come out of this mess.
Spencer replies after a few rings and I say, "So the kid is here."
"What?"
"Yeah. I told him to piss off."
"Good!"
"And then I let him back in and let him interview me." I suck on my cigarette greedily, estimating the silence on the line.
"I – Wha – Why?"
"He's not giving up. He found me, man. I'll give him his dream interview and then send him home."
"I don't know," he says sceptically, and I know it probably won't be that easy. But the kid said it himself, didn't he? That I can't even begin to imagine the things people say about me. If I don't talk, he might just go ahead and write that goddamned book of his based on faulty information that demonises me. I mean, clearly it'd be a lie. Because I'm not a horrible person. I have never done anyone wrong.
Yeah. Sure I haven't.
"He can't force secrets out of me," I then say to reassure us both. I glance towards the window again, just in case the kid's back with his face pressed against the glass. "And he doesn't know much to begin with."
"So he doesn't know about...?"
"No." I pause, then, take in a deep breath. "But all those things we don't talk about? Yeah, those are the ones he wants to talk about."
"How do you plan to distract him from those, then?"
I sigh heavily, shrugging although Spencer can't see. "Not sure yet. Lie. Cheat. Distract him."
All the usual stuff.
I fix us dinner later on that evening, having shown Sisky to the unused guest room where he can stay for tonight. Just tonight. His room faces the front of the house and the beach whereas my bedroom is at the back, and it's not that much space that's between us and I can only hope that I don't wake up in the middle of the night to see Sisky watching me sleep.
It's not healthy if your heart fills with a calming sensation just from watching him sleep. Knowing that he's safe. That does you no good.
"Are you going?" Sisky asks from behind me. I remain by the cooker, stirring the soup. One can of tomato soup, the other chicken soup, straight from cans. I'm fairly certain that it's okay to mix different types of soups together. It'll bring in different flavours or something. I don't know. I've never had to cook until I moved out here. "It's tomorrow night. New York's far away."
"What?" I glance over my shoulder.
He's holding the ticket to the His Side show. He hasn't been his happy-go-lucky self since he walked out earlier – he seems to be sulking. I've got half a mind to throw him out for good. I don't need some fan guilt-tripping me.
"I'm not going."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm busy."
"...Busy with what?" He looks around the empty kitchen, frowning.
"Stuff," I say defensively. The soup has started to boil, so I pour it into the two bowls that I've set on the counter. It's a brown-pinkish colour, like someone's vomit with processed chicken chunks in it. Sisky looks unimpressed by it when I set it in front of him. I snatch the ticket from his greedy little hands and tear it in two. He looks surprised. I pocket the pieces and breathe out shakily.
Well, that's it, then. That's that.
I sit down and grab a spoon. "Eat," I order him.
He starts stirring the soup with his spoon, eyeing it with mild disgust. "So you discovered Brendon, right? The singer of His Side? Everyone knows you did. All the interviews of them say so." If he knows this, why is he fact-checking with me? I only do a half-shrug that's as good as admission. "But you're not going to see them on their first tour. Huh. One would expect you to care about your own creation."
"Not my creation," I say, blowing on a spoonful of soup before swallowing it down. It doesn't taste half bad.
"And Jon's in that band, too. You and Jon were pretty close, right?"
"I suppose."
"Is that why you're not going? Because you're angry Jon jumped ship?"
"Why would I blame him for that? It was sinking, anyway."
He hums but doesn't look like he buys what I'm saying. If he thinks Jon is my problem with His Side, I'll let him think just that.
He's playing with his food. I feel the urge to tell him to stop it, like I'm his mother and he's a disobedient child. "They're a good band," he then says to himself quietly. "Not genius like anything you've done, but they're good. I love their album. That Brendon Roscoe is damn charismatic."
I stare at my soup and listen to the grandfather clock in the living room ticking. "You ever met him?"
"No. I've seen him, though. With you."
A sudden chill runs through me. Maybe he's been playing me, beating around the bush when he knows.
"On the Diamonds and Pearls tour," he then says. "I just saw him around. I didn't really put the two together until recently. Now that he's all famous."
"Oh. But you saw him with the band."
He nods. "With you, yeah." He takes a spoonful of the soup, makes a face and pushes the plate away from himself. I try not to be offended that my culinary skills do not impress him, but mostly I wonder where he saw us. What he saw. At what point. Did he see us before he had left me or before he lied to me, saying that I had a chance, or maybe after that, when he left me again. Played me. Like a fucking puppet. An insignificant little fucking thing.
I laid it all out there for him, and he just –
I realise that I'm squeezing my spoon too hard, like I'm trying to murder it. I loosen my grip slightly, embarrassed because I think Sisky noticed. The soup, I have to admit, is not particularly tasty, and I give up forcing it down and push it away like Sisky did.
I scratch my nose and take in what he said. That he saw Brendon on the tour. How exactly? If you're standing in the crowd, you wouldn't have seen Brendon. No, you'd need to break beyond that barrier and catch a glimpse of what goes on backstage.
"Have we ever met?" I now ask him and, for the first time since his arrival, Sisky seems truly taken aback. He's been fidgeting and overly enthusiastic and hurt looking and then sulking and playing the martyr, but now he looks uncomfortable.
"Does it matter?" he asks, sounding... defensive. He won't look at me.
"I'm curious."
"No. We never have."
"You sure?"
"Yes," he almost snaps, and I smirk. So that's his deal.
"How many times have we met?"
His mouth forms a thin line. "Four." Then, "Depends on how you count, I suppose."
"And how do you count?"
He seems unnerved that the tables have turned, and now I'm the one interviewing him. "Well, I don't count... seeing you. Because I've seen you plenty. But this one time you shook my hand. That was number one. Once you signed my album just before you got back on the tour bus. That's two. Once Melvin and I bumped into The Followers in one of your hotels and you looked at me, so that was three. And then. Then on the Diamonds and Pearls tour, Gold and I were in one of the hotels, and you, uh. Gold was at the reception, I was in the sitting area, and you just came over and bummed a cigarette off of me. You were upset about something. I don't know. You barely even looked at me. I could hardly understand what you said, I was just awed at you sitting there." He looks lost in the memory, but his tone is slightly bitter. "You just. You didn't know, man. You sat there, and you clearly just didn't know what you meant to us. To people like me, people who followed The Followers and later just you. We thought you were guiding us, but you were just stumbling blind. And the funny thing is that... when I started this project, you were such a godlike figure. But you're just a man. Flaws and all."
"Disappointing, eh?"
"No," he says. "Confusing. But not disappointing. It's almost comforting."
My tone was sarcastic because I thought he was complaining that I didn't live up to his unrealistic expectations, but he says he's not disappointed, surprising me.
"I thought that everything would make sense once I started digging around. But the more I did, the more confusing it was. There was no master plan in your head when you started with your music, there was no ultimate message like we thought. But I'm not... mad that I believed in something that you hadn't crafted because it was real to me. And I guess that's what matters, right? That you gave me something to believe in when I needed it."
"Music's the only thing I've ever believed in," I say solemnly, and he nods slowly. We fall into silence, but it's not that awkward or tense silence from before. I feel like we're on the same page for the first time.
I've met him several times but I don't remember him and he meant nothing to me. Whereas to him, I must have been it. His purpose for so many things.
"I'm more interested than ever in what you have to say," he says eventually. "I'm not expecting it to be pretty. By now, I know it's not. I just..." He sighs restlessly, twisting his hands. "I just want to know what happened. And why. Because people try to tell me what they think you were thinking, and let me tell you, they all contradict each other. And maybe I was wrong earlier, maybe you as you are here, sitting in this kitchen, maybe this you doesn't owe me anything. But the one I saw on that stage does. He owes me. I spent my youth listening to that man."
"But he didn't ask you to."
"I know. But if he didn't want anyone to listen, why did he say anything at all?"
It's not often someone manages to corner me in an argument as quickly as he's just done. I don't know what to say to that that wouldn't be an obvious lie.
"Okay, how about this," I say slowly. "I have the right to not answer if I don't want to, but... I'll tell you. Without that Dictaphone recording everything. I've been interviewed hundreds of times, man, and I'm so sick of it. But... We can talk. As people."
He considers this, brows knitting together. "As people," he repeats.
"About the music and the bands. My private life's private. But we can talk about the music."
"As people," he says once more.
We can try.
He nods eventually, though. "Okay. We can do that." And then he smiles – not quite as wildly as when he first waltzed in, but he smiles, anyway. His eyes sparkle just slightly, and that. Makes me feel good. That I've restored some of his faith to whatever I once made him believe in.
"Now eat your damn soup," I order.
"I'll make us some real food," he declares, but ten minutes later, we're munching on buttered toast. He says, "I'll have to make some changes around here."
I'd like to see him try.