Kurt
March
New York, City
1976
The top of the kitchen table is an irresistible resting place. My bleary eyes drift over the circular coffee stains left by countless mugs set there morning, noon and night. To my left is the ashtray made of sea glass a pretty little girl of seven with red-pig tales handed me after a show in Atlanta. She was so damn beautiful. She didn't wear her innocence like an extra layer of make-up the way some of the older kids do. Goodness and simplicity flecked her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. The usual gaggle of topless women and men made no impression on me. I wanted to bottle up the sweet essence of this wide-eyed girl so that I could take it out during the times I needed to remind myself that I didn't need to get plastered or high or live only for music!
Now, I think as my heavy head falls closer to the wood surface and the yellow pad of paper I've been scratching song lyrics on. I've three gallons of adorable in a two gallon bucket! But, the music doesn't care. At least, my bandmates don't give a shit about what's in my bucket, so long as I leave go my protective grip on the foreign youngling and get my yellow pad filled with the long awaited new material and my ass on the road.
As my hair makes contact with scattered napkins, Earle, the band's basest and worldly sage, (he smokes the most hash!) floats above my head in the form of cloudy words from an earlier conversation.
"Ya can't just be a songwriter and jump on the road to play when the spirit moves ya. That's not how it works."
"Why the hell not?" I take a toke from his joint. "The people want good music, our music, what's the difference who sings some of it?"
Earle looks at me like I'm a two headed snake.
"Are ya kiddin'? Like I just rode in on a turnip truck! You're the guts of this band." He tosses the joint onto the concrete under our folding chairs. "Much as I hate to admit it, people wanna see you, hear you. Otherwise, we're just like all the other idiots with instruments."
"Bullshit!" I snap. "Much as I hate to admit it, y'all are a bunch of fine musicians."
"Kurt," Earle cracks his big bass player knuckles then folds his hands on his knees. "You've any idea who's returned to the charts lately?"
"Like I give nickel bag, Earle. Music ain't a popularity contest or a fuckin' fashion show."
I'm calling to mind the magazine covers that catch my eye whenever I make a quick run into the market, pharmacy, or even the damn gas station. Musicians covered in spangles, feathers and sequins. Reminds me of the goddamn Miss America pageant rather than anything to do with music!
"Brian Slade." Earle aims his twice broken nose at me. "That sit right with you?"
The name is from another lifetime; one where I paid my dues and then some.
"If you wanna make this about who is the fairest one of all, then ya best move on without me. I'm not yer queen."
"Kurt, I..."
"No man, I mean it, Earle."
When I get myself up from the frayed lawn chair, I examine Earle's face, eyes squinting from the sun. We've both changed in the span of one year. We're after very different things.
"Kurt," Earle's hand shields his eyes from the light. "I'm tryin' to remind you…ya can't just-"
"Can't what, Earle?"
"Ya can't spend the best part of yer career mooning over that French kid. Hell! Are you two even together?" What is it he does for you that music don't no more?"
I don't have a clue as to how or exactly when, but, I've lost Earle. I've probably lost the whole band. It's not their fault, it's me.
"This ain't only about Julien."
"Oh really?"
"God, Earle! How can y'all stand it out here?"
He takes a quick check under his chair, then around the little courtyard of the apartment building.
"Out where?"
"This city- this stinkin' fuckin' city where nobody would trust ya far as they could throw you."
"The hell ya talkin' bout, Kurt?"
"You good as accused Jude of taken somethin' from me. You're so far afield, man. He reminded me how much I have and how much I've been wasting."
"Still not in the loop with ya."
"He's on like some serious, mystical journey. He desperately needs to find the core of himself, where he began. He searchin' for those first few notes that open the doorway to the whole song."
Earle laughs. The sound carries a memory of humid, wild nights.
"So, ya got some confused kid who probably tripped too much acid and is feeding ya his jive."
"Fuck no," I shake my head. "Jude's as clean as a whistle. You and me Earle, we got what he wants so bad."
"Which is?"
"Home, we know where we come from. It's in our DNA. We can't forget that." I scratch at my nose to stop any mistimed tears. "I miss it. I miss bein' home."
"Jesus, Kurt. Call yer mama, tell her ya love her and let's get back to what's also in our DNA which is the fuckin' music."
I can clearly see the past like a stage when the lights are all but turned off.
"It's your music now, my friend."
Earle's chair tumbles over when he stands to face me.
"You sayin' yer quitin'? You're leaving us, yer band...yer friends?"
"I need a break; a clean one. I could come back. Maybe y'all will want me then, maybe not. That will be up to you and the boys if and when the time comes."
Earle stands his full six feet. His brown eyes could burn a hole through my T-Shirt.
"And meantime you'll be doin' what...rolling in the hey with Frenchie until ya get board of him too?"
"Fuck you, Earle! I'll call ya from Georgia. Best we settle up the business end of things from a distance."
"Kurt...Kurt?"
A faint touch to my shoulder shakes me back into consciousness. The papers with scribbled lyrics and notes are stuck to one side of my face.
"What?" My mouth tastes like I've been chewing on my hair. "Jude?"
"Why are you awake far into the night?"
I crack my elbows and back on my way into a sitting position.
"What time is it? Did I wake ya? Are you O.K.?"
"Two in the morning, no you did not, and yes I am, but I am concerned for you."
"Fuck Jude, don't do that."
His voice is light with a smile I can't see, but know is there.
"Do what?"
"Act all awake and aware and wiseass when I'm three sheets to the wind."
"Should I return to bed and wait additional hours to be wiseass?"
Before I'm entirely awake, I slide back my chair, almost taking out Julien's legs. He's wondering what the hell I'm doin' is my guess. That's when I grab him by the arms and kiss him. I've been living with this beautiful man-child for almost a year and I haven't so much as gone further than hugging him. It's a modest kiss by my standards; closed mouths, but slow, and experimental. He is the first to gradually pull away.
"Kurt?"
He holds my eyes with his silently asking for a reason.
"Julien," I'm suddenly hesitant to touch him until I can ask, "will you come home...to Georgia that is, with me?"
Delicate fingers stroke my cheek and a few days' worth of stubble. I could melt into a mass of tepid bathwater for him to sink into. Our wet lips connect again. His open mouth hungrily searches mine. It's as if I'm feeding him light and warmth.
Whispered words are delivered into my ear.
"I will come to Georgia with you, Kurt."
Afraid that this is a dream or that I'll spoke him like a timid foal, I run my lips over his face, kissing his nose, eyelids, even the spirals of dark hair. I'm being greedy. If this is the one and only time I will have this incredible pleasure, I want all I can get.
But, it isn't right to overwhelm him with my desire if he doesn't understand.
"Jude," I barely have breath enough to speak. "I don't want to take ya away from your search." I smooth a patch of curls from his forehead. "I just wanted ya to know that I'm not tryin' to run away."
This has got to be the best damn dream I can recall. He presses his body against mine making the next kiss unbearably strong.
"I am certain now."
His accent sends chills throughout my body. Deep in my center grows an unfamiliar fire.
"Certain of what?"
"You and I are connected. There can be no search for me, if we are apart."
I take his hand leading him through the short hallway to my bed.
"You can have anything of mine."
I undress myself in front of his fiery blue eyes.
"You can have me."