Is there anybody out there?
That can see what a man can change?
It's better that you don't care
Because he knows that he's in his state
All American Rejects, "Top of the World"
Early the next morning, Mark went into the kitchen to make some coffee, but found that Roger had beaten him to the punch. It was odd seeing Roger so early in the morning, but after having lived with him for so many years, it seemed right at the same time.
"You're up early," he remarked.
Roger shrugged. He was leaning against the kitchen counter, his ankles crossed. He wore a white tank with his lounge pants. He had a coffee mug in one hand and the other was scratching Spike behind the ears, who had somehow gotten on top of the counter.
That damn cat, Mark thought to himself as he went to the coffeepot to pour himself a mug. He took a sip and went to sit at the kitchen table where there the newspaper was resting. Jesus—how early did Roger get up if he had time to go get a paper? Mark then figured he never got back to sleep after he left the rooftop.
"Cute cat," Roger remarked, rubbing Spike's head. Mark could hear the kitten purring from across the small kitchen.
"He likes you."
"He yours?"
"Steph's. I don't know why she abandoned him. A final 'fuck you', I guess."
"What's his name?"
"Spike," Mark answered. "You want something to eat?"
"No thanks. Hey Spike," Roger cooed to the kitten. Spike's eyes were half-closed and he appeared to be smiling in the way that cats could.
"I don't think he's ever acted like this around anyone except Steph," Mark observed. "He hates me."
"Mark! I'm sure he doesn't!"
"Oh, really? If I come within two feet of him, he runs away and hisses at me. Or uses me as a scratching post. He's a psycho-kitty."
"Well, if he likes me, he must not be all that much of a psycho."
"I don't know what to do with him. Let him loose? Send him to Steph in New Jersey? Take him to the pound? Maybe Joanne and Maureen want a kitten for the kids."
"Keep him."
"That is not happening. The damn thing makes me sneeze."
With an insulted mew, Spike leapt off the kitchen table and pranced into the living room.
"Well, no wonder why he doesn't like you," Roger accused. "You insult him."
"Roger, it's a cat."
"Cats have feelings too!"
Mark just shook his head. "Anyway. I hope you have plans tonight. I have a lot of work to catch up on."
"You don't need to entertain me, Mark. I'm a big boy."
"All right. If you're sure."
"Yeah, I'll be fine."
Around ten PM, after a few hours of wandering and riding the subway, Roger found himself on the Bowery, not far from CBGB's, his old stomping ground. On a whim, he stopped by to see who—if any—of his old comrades still worked there—bartenders, managers, it didn't matter. He needed a connection.
The antechamber between the street and the club had hardly changed. The walls were still covered with posters, glossy and new ones covering up the old and faded; and the hanging black curtain was still there, doing little to muffle out the sound of blaring bass lines, pounding drums and wailing guitars. A new addition was a flat-screen television set up off to the side, showing The Exorcist on DVD. The bouncer Roger didn't recognize: a 300-pound white guy with no hair, his arms sticking out of his black tee, covered in tattoos.
"Ten dollars," he said, when Roger approached.
"Is Bradford here?" he asked, taking a swing and picking the name of his favorite bartender.
"Bradford?" the bouncer looked over his shoulder at another guy with spiked blue hair and a lip piercing, sitting off to the side. Roger hadn't seen him before, either. The blue-haired guy shrugged. "Listen," the 300-pounder said to Roger, "you want to come in, it's ten dollars. Otherwise—"
"No, you don't understand," Roger said. "I used to play here. The Well Hungarians? Get Bradford, he'll tell you."
"I don't care if you're Joey Ramone incarnate. There's no Bradford here—"
"There a problem out here, Shane?" an older gentleman emerged from the club, pushing the black curtain aside. He was forty, maybe fifty, with salt-and-pepper hair, wearing ripped jeans and a Jack Daniels logo tee. His voice was gravelly.
"Naw, Bobby," Shane said, "just someone trying—"
"Bobby?! Bobby Granger?!" Roger exclaimed around Shane's massive frame.
Bobby crossed his arms over his chest. "Who wants to know?"
"It's me, Roger! Roger Davis, from the Well Hungarians!"
"Very funny. Roger Davis is dead," Bobby sneered.
"What?! No! I'm Roger Davis! I played in the Well Hungarians, on a Vintage White Fender Mustang! I played with Leland Hawke, the drummer—a Pearl drum kit! Uh…bass! Curtis Morello on bass! And—"
Bobby stared hard at Roger. "You're serious? You're Roger Davis?"
"Yes!"
Another glare. "Curtis Morello said you were dead."
"Come on, Bobby. How else can I prove it to you?"
Bobby just shook his head. "Shane, let the man inside."
Shane complied with Bobby without argument, shifting aside to let Roger through.
"Jesus, Bobby," Roger gripped. "Never knew there came a time you'd make me dangle for entry."
"Look, Rog, you gotta understand—for me, this is like seeing a ghost. Curtis—"
"Curtis is an asshole, Bobby. Always was," Roger explained as Bobby ushered him inside the club. They didn't quite walk through the club and its crowd, but veered slightly to the left towards the basement, where Bobby's office was.
"Ten fuckin' years, I'm thinkin' you're dead and you show up like this, causin' trouble," Bobby muttered as he practically shoved Roger into the office chair across from the semi-circle desk. Bobby Granger ran the show in Hilly Kristal's absence, and had been a friend to the Well Hungarians when they were regulars on the bill. Roger had been in this office more than once—especially when Bobby had his dealers around.
Like the rest of the club, aging and peeling stickers smothered the office walls. Also displayed on the walls were signed and framed photographs of famous musicians that had passed through the club's doors over the years since its inception. The Well Hungarians were not displayed.
"I'm not the only one causing trouble, Bobby," Roger protested. "Hell, I didn't even know you were still in touch with Curtis. I lost touch with the guys—"
"I'm not completely out of the loop here, Davis," Bobby said, reaching over to a cooler sitting in the corner of the office and pulling out two beers. He handed one to Roger, still talking, "The guys kept me and everyone else informed on your habit and that little crack whore you hooked yourself up with."
Roger's stomach lurched when Bobby referred to April as a "crack whore". "You know, despite what you or my bandmates thought of April," he said icily, "I had a pretty deep, spiritual relationship with her—"
"Yeah, I bet it was pretty deep," Bobby mimed shooting up, and Roger was mildly insulted. But instead he sighed, defeated.
"I've made a lot of mistakes, I know. Which is why I've been trying to set things right before it's too late."
"Too late? You dyin' on me?" Bobby raised an eyebrow. "I mean, for real?"
Roger chuckled wryly. "Well, I'm not dying tomorrow at least. I have AIDS, Bobby."
Bobby's face occupied a strange look of shock, expectation and tranquility. "You're serious."
"Why would I joke about that?"
Bobby took a long swig of his beer and contemplated this. "I had a feeling it would come to this."
"How did I die, Bobby? What did Curtis tell you?"
Bobby paused. "An overdose. In the bathroom."
A mixture of falsehood and truth. Roger silently commended Curtis. "April killed herself. She slit her wrists in the bathroom."
"Jesus. Shit, Roger. She leave a note?"
"'We've got AIDS'."
"Goddamn it," Bobby slammed his beer bottle onto the desk. "Goddamn it. That little bitch. That fucking—"
"Bobby. Don't."
"Sorry, Rog, but if it wasn't for her—"
"It's just as much my fault as it is hers. I loved her; I never even thought about the consequences, how dangerous this was. I was more concerned about getting my next high. It's all I ever really cared about," Roger thoughtfully sipped from his beer bottle. "I guess I never got my priorities straight. My pull for heroin overtook my affection for the band and I just…stopped showing up for rehearsals and gigs and…well, the guys got fed up with me and kicked me out of the band. I guess that's when Curtis told you I was dead."
Bobby nodded slowly. "Yeah. About ten years ago."
"I cleaned up soon after April's suicide. Went through six months of withdrawal, met another girl, got married and was widowed all within the period of two years. I never really made an attempt to get back together with the Well Hungarians."
"They were fine without you, I'm sorry to say."
"What?"
"They're not the Well Hungarians anymore, either," Bobby said. He went around behind the desk and opened a drawer, pulling out a demo CD. He handed it to Roger. "They've moved on. They call themselves the Molotov Cocktails now."
"Wow…I expected that, but I didn't think—" Roger held the CD in his hands. He and the Well Hungarians didn't even get close to recording a demo. "Can I keep this?"
"Sure. Go for it. They're not bad."
Roger gave Bobby a sarcastic smile, "Better than when I was with them?" Bobby took a long drink of his beer to avoid answering. Roger just shook his head. "Okay, I think it's time for me to go. Thanks, Bobby."
"Nah, Rog, don't go," Bobby urged. "Come on. Finish your drink, come watch the show. There's a chick band coming on in a few minutes. They're easy on the eyes, I gotta say, and pretty rockin': part Courtney Love, part Debbie Harry. They call themselves Epiphany."
"I dunno, Bobby…"
"Come on. You haven't been here in ten years. Hang out a bit, will ya?"
Roger sighed and gave in. After about twenty minutes, they emerged from the downstairs office and discovered the club nearly full with teen- and college-aged kids. On stage were four girls: a blonde, a brunette, a redhead (Roger grinned) and a black girl. He assumed this was the band Bobby was talking about. They were all punk-looking, pierced, tattooed, and dyed, wearing tight shirts and tighter jeans. They were currently playing a decent cover of Pat Benetar's "Heartbreaker". The redhead was at the microphone, while the blonde supplied bass and backup vocals, while the black girl ripped up the guitar. The brunette sat behind the drum set. Your love has set my soul on fire, burning out of control. You taught me the ways of desire, now it's taking it's toll...
"What do you think?!" Bobby shouted over the music.
"Not bad!" Roger replied, bobbing his head to the beat. Heartbreaker, dream-maker, love taker, don't you mess around with me. "They definitely know what they're doing!"
"You want to get closer?!"
"I don't think we can! This crowd's pretty dense!"
"You forget who you're talking to!"
Roger laughed as he and Bobby forced their way towards the stage, where off to the right side a cluster of tables and chairs were set up two feet away from the bar. However, Roger stopped laughing once he got a good look at the girls in the band. Playing the bass like she was born with it attached to her fingers, the blonde with her hair streaked with pink, was Lucien.
You're the right kind of sinner to release my inner fantasy...
A/N: I hope you guys are liking these fast updates. I leave for vacation on the 30th and I want to make this complete before I leave. So, I will tell you now, there are 3 more chapters to be posted and then it will be complete! I hope you can all keep up with me!
Also, Bobby Granger is an original character. I don't know if there is anyone like him at CBGB's. I kind of made that up. Hilly Kristal, please don't sue me?
Oh, and most of the descriptions of CBGB's are pretty much true to life. I was there twice in 2005, before they shut down forever, to see friends of mine perform. For future reference, in case anyone wants to know: there are no such things as bathroom stall doors at that club. Ever wonder why girls go to the bathroom in pairs? I think that concept originated at CBGB's—you need a partner to block the doorway for you!
PS: The Molotov Cocktails is taken from the name of my friend Adam Streicher's band.