When Sarah went to the ladies room, I wasn’t entirely surprised when the next person who sat down next to me was Jordan Travers, who I gathered was also something of a regular at this hangout.
(Notice to Kickstarter backers! Surveys are out! Please respond ASAP: look for email from Kickstarter asking to confirm your address and other info! More below… -ctan)
Since I’d last visited Sarah her career had taken a couple of leaps and turns. (I forgot to say: we did go out to dinner once or twice when she came to LA but nothing of consequence to report there.) She’d moved into a new apartment: this one on Central Park East, and not a sublet, so it had a lot less stuff in it and felt a lot less homey, but she hadn’t been there very long. She assured me she’d fill it up with things soon enough. She was going out on tour that coming summer, North America and Western Europe, and she had this plan she was going to come back with souvenirs from everywhere she’d been.
I cried through most of my next therapy appointment. That isn’t as bad as it sounds. They were basically tears of relief. Even though Ziggy and I hadn’t really resolved anything, somehow, my heart still felt better about everything. Some kind of weight had been lifted. Or something.
It’s my inability to make a good explanation of what I felt–or why–that leads to those obscure songs with lots of oblique references to poetic visuals. The ones that, when you hear them on the radio in your car, that one time you finally figure out the words make you say, what the hell is this song about?
My home away from home, eh? I was feeling fancy so I heated up the soup in a pot on the stove instead of in the microwave. We sat at the counter on the island, eating it silently, each absorbed in our own thoughts for a while.
You know, it wasn’t just that Remo’s house was a home away from home for me: Remo was a safety net of all kinds. I felt pretty confident that if I ever needed a gig, I could get on Remo’s bandwagon. If I ever needed a place to live, I could move in here. I mean, I’d probably always be too proud to, but knowing that safety net was there… That gave me a kind of footing that a lot of creative people don’t have. For all I’d said to Ziggy that guitar was the one thing I had, I actually did have more options than some people we knew.
My fingers filled up the silence between us with a wistful drizzle of notes.
“What’s that you’re playing?” he asked,
Whoops, I missed September’s liner note entirely. It’s been kinda busy. I do have some site news to catch you all up on, though, regarding Daron’s Guitar Chronicles and related stuff:
1) Livejournal mirror works again. — Turns out the WP to Twitter plugin I installed when I upgraded WP somehow broke the LJ plugin, but I’ve nuked it now. Those of you who read on LJ or Dreamwidth at work because DGC itself is blocked, rejoice! Sorry about the interruption.
2) Wattpad re-read barreling along! — Thanks to ChrisK. who has been helping me keep a new chapter hitting Wattpad every day, including Saturdays and Sundays. That means every day you guys can “star” a new chapter over there (Wattpad’s version of “like” “upvote” “favorite”) and help us find new readers. If we keep it up, we have a good chance for DGC to become a Wattpad “Featured Story”! (And please comment? Comments count for a lot.)
We went into the studio. The feeling of calm that having him in my arms gave me–quieting the annoying part of my brain that cried like a lonely puppy whenever he wasn’t there–gave way to the unsettled feeling of walking across unknown terrain.
Except writing together was familiar enough ground, wasn’t it?
Not when I didn’t know what was going to become of the song, maybe. I wondered if I could put that out of my mind and just “get in the zone” despite that.
“Is this where you did it?” Ziggy said, poking around the studio curiously.
Ziggy was silent for almost the entire drive. I could feel he was holding back saying something, but I couldn’t guess what. Maybe what he was going to say was going to depend on what I said first.
But I didn’t want to be first. So instead, inside my head, I made guesses about what Ziggy might be feeling. That was an effective way to forget about what I was feeling. Was he afraid to say something because I seemed angry? I had flashes of my own child/teenage self pretending to be invisible in the passenger seat while Digger drove. Or was he sharpening his knives, waiting for the right moment to cut me up? The possibility that maybe he was simply tired also flickered by. Or maybe he was horny and waiting to find out whether he could maneuver me into bed.
It took Digger a second to recognize me, and then he said what I was thinking, “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I heard the ribs here are good,” I deadpan improvised. I’m pretty sure he not only hadn’t expected to see me at this party, he hadn’t expected to see me on this coast. I don’t know why I didn’t expect to see him since I knew he was Galani Gilliman’s agent. I wasn’t thinking, I guess.
Or maybe I expected either Ziggy or Tony would have warned me. Whatever. I was staring at the motherfucker now.
I looked up on the map where the place was that I was supposed to meet Zig. Then I paged Antonio.
He called back quickly and I grilled him. “Okay, so where are you and what should I be wearing when I show up?”
“It’s a kind of publicity stunt party for Gallani Gilliman,” Tony said. “Supposedly her birthday but it’s more like an excuse to get a lot of supermodels together in one place with their sullen, punk-ass boyfriends.”
I wondered what brought on that comment. “You don’t sound too thrilled…”