For Two Nights Only Read online

  I wasn’t unpopular, you know, but I was always a bit off, if that makes sense. I was a quiet kid, I guess, which is never going to make you popular.

  What made you quiet?

  I just wasn’t sure what to say to people. I always felt different. In many ways. I looked at the people around me and I saw how they made jokes and laughed and I never found a way to do that, not in the same vein. I could laugh at and understand their jokes, but mine never landed with anyone. What I found interesting and different no one else noticed. I’d comment that it looked like our teacher had been up all night, not knowing at that age the signs of a hangover but still knowing when someone had had a rough night, and everyone else thought I was weird for wondering why the teacher’s eyes were red or commenting that her hair was out of place like she’d rushed to do it that morning. I really was interested in the secret lives of the teachers because that’s fucking interesting. More interesting than what people saw on TV the night before. I felt like I was faking my way through most social interactions, and it gave me peace to think that maybe some of the adults were also living different lives outside of school. I realized pretty early that no one else either cared or noticed those things.

  I made a note about Darin’s impressions of sticking out from his peers, his sense that other kids couldn’t relate to his way of thinking. Feeling alienated at school was hardly novel, however, and I needed more of a story than a misunderstood teen. I urged him forward.

  I find it interesting to hear you talk about being in school. It’s not a side most people will have thought about in a long time, but it’s relevant given how earl you started a professional career. Can you tell me other things you remember? Maybe another time you sensed you were interested in things your friends weren’t.

  I remember when I was in the eighth grade, so I was, what, I was thirteen, and hanging out with a group of kids. Not friends, more like people to spend time with in the halls between classes. We ate lunch together, killed time in those dead moments you have throughout the day. I didn’t hang out with anyone after school, I was always too busy with piano lessons or trying to teach myself guitar, once I got the inkling piano wasn’t cool. These weren’t people I saw outside of school, but you need others to socialize with during the day and because I wasn’t offensive, they sort of let me stand in their circle. Normally it’s the kids in your classes that you end up spending your free time with, but that’s not how it worked for me. I was a good student, my parents always stressed the importance of education and because I was sharp and applied myself, I was in the accelerated group from middle school on. In hindsight it’s funny because I was one of the best students in my class but I never used the education, not to become a lawyer or doctor or something white collar. Well, even back then I considered myself different, but the kids in that accelerated group were extreme. It was a conscious decision not to hang out with them, both because it was uncool to be smart and because they were awkward. I felt awkward, but there was a difference between us. I had to find other kids to hang around, and I found this group of guys that let me into their clique because, I think, I remained inoffensive. Inert.

  One day one of the kids, a short little fuck who could spontaneously turn cruel, he sees a girl walking down the hall that I knew from a couple of my advanced classes. She was unattractive, overweight, didn’t know how to dress or groom herself. I mean, that’s not her fault at all, right, because at that age it’s not up to the kid, her parents are responsible for making sure she knows to comb her hair or take showers. This girl, I don’t even remember her name now but it seems it was something old-fashioned. I could be making that up, but say it’s Annabelle. She walked by the group of us as we were wasting time in the hall and this little fuck comments on her gait. Says she waddles. Annabelle must have been used to this because I saw her flinch the slightest little bit and start to turn her head, but this is one of the things that’s burned in my memory: she stopped herself from looking in our direction. She had to cut herself off before she made eye contact because she knew that would only invite more attention. Everyone else was too busy laughing to notice her reaction, and although I was standing next to those guys we were miles apart. I was the only one, out of five or six guys, embarrassed for Annabelle. Do you know how much fucking control it has to take to hear a comment thrown at you and not look? That’s what I was thinking at that moment. I was different, because I was thinking about how she felt, and not about how I should be reacting to be considered part of the clique.

  Again a pause, and I let us sit in silence, waiting for Darin to continue.

  Maybe a year or two after that, after I’d sort of realized that what other people found funny was more hurtful than comedic, I tried it myself. I’d learned that standing around as the quiet one and not laughing at every joke only alienated people, so I started to play the game a little, both to see if I could and to make sure I’d have people to eat lunch with. I’ll never be able to recall all the details, but I was at lunch and I tried to make fun of someone at another table and the joke landed with a fat fucking thud.

  Darin picked up his glass and drained it with a third gulp before continuing.

  No one laughed. I don’t know, maybe it didn’t make sense, maybe it just wasn’t funny, maybe I was picking on someone that wasn’t on the pre-approved list of targets, but I felt awkward. That style of humor, that way of belittling others through verbal attacks, it was never practiced in my house and it never made sense to me, it made me feel bad instead of elevating me over the target, which is why I think people do it. In a way I never really learned what it was like to have a circle of close friends. Early on I had a clear example of what a family unit should look like and how that should function, at home those relationships were strong and ideal. But it’s hard to take that into the real world. These kids I never felt connected to, they probably didn’t have a close family like I did, so when I tried acting with them the way I would with my siblings, the way we did in our family, it came across as weird. We were always willing to do anything for each other; if my brother needed a ride somewhere I’d drop what I was doing and take him, or if my sister needed help painting her room I’d grab a brush. That was normal for me. But if you’re that giving with other people in your life, and it’s not normal for them, it’s off-putting. The person wonders why you’re so willing to help. And they’ll think it’s odd and that you’re odd. People are fucked up like that. They shirk kindness when it comes to them if they aren’t used to it. It’s like, I’m offering to help you. It’s not a trick, it’s not to get something in return. I find it sad, because the more we move away, societally, from kindness being the norm, the less we’ll see of it.

  It sounds like you think about this a lot.

  I think about everything a lot.

  Do you remember the joke you tried to make?

  Not anymore. Maybe I made fun of someone’s lunch, that was a common dig. I myself always brought a lunch from home, routinely a sandwich and a piece of fruit and maybe some cheese and crackers, real generic. Nothing that could get singled out and made fun of because everyone kind of had those things, or variations on that theme. Isn’t that the most amazing thing? To really succeed in life you need to set yourself apart. You have to. It’s the only way to ever achieve greatness, but we go through these years and years of conditioning that leads us to do exactly what everyone else does so we don’t get ridiculed by people who will later grow up to be fucking normal. Ordinary fucking people, all of them, but because they’ve got the numbers and no one has any power but strength in numbers, those of us that are a bit different have to fall in line. So I made fun of someone for their lunch and it bombed. That was the second moment in my young life where I realized I wasn’t like everyone else.

  And what conclusion did you draw from that? I don’t mean now, I mean then. Did you think about what that meant?

  Yes, that I needed to figure out who I was and be confident with myself, because I was no good at being a chameleon
or playing to other people’s mores. I’m going for a refill, you sure you don’t want anything?

  He picked up his glass and shook the small cluster of ice in the bottom.

  What are you drinking?

  I stick to the J’s. J Beam. J Walker. J Daniels. J Jameson. But you can have whatever you like. Oscar keeps us well stocked.

  I’ll pass. Thanks.

  Suit yourself.

  Darin lifted himself from his seat and strode out of the room. I heard his bare feet pad down the long hallway into some area of the house I had yet to see.

  Click.

  I gazed out the large picture windows and saw, off in the distance, as a small outline against the backdrop of expansive green, a gardener. He was on his knees, stooped over a patch of brown, his hands periodically diving into the soil. Black plastic trays of flower flats sat beside him. I stood and crossed to the window to get a better view and saw that the row of trees lined the entire grounds. Off to the right was a fountain with a baby cupid holding a bow, aiming to shoot into the water. From his penis a small stream of water arched into the pond, white lilies shining in a circle around it. To the far left was the swimming pool where it had happened, serene, alone and empty. I wondered if Darin still used it, or if the memories it contained had left him estranged from that section of the property.

  Small flower gardens dotted the grounds, each with vastly different colors and varieties of varying heights. The sun crept to the center of the sky, imparting a serenity to the canvas of greens, reds, purples and oranges.

  Staying still, I tried to detect the sound of approaching footsteps, but the house was quiet.

  I moved to a wooden dresser set against the wall and picked up a picture of Darin, probably in his early teens, with his arm around another young man about the same age. The camera had been focused to capture their torsos and unabashed, carefree grins. Off in the distance a large stone structure, out of focus, rose over the younger man’s shoulder and disappeared off the side of the photo. I guessed it had been taken in a European city, a memory of the two subjects’ happiness.

  I set it down and picked up a much smaller frame with an oval interior. The picture had been cut out of a larger print and didn’t line up against the frame’s edges, but it didn’t matter; it was clear that whoever had wielded the scissors didn’t care about the context of the photo, only the subject. A girl in a striped red and white bikini posed in front of turquoise water, most of which had been discarded in the editing. Her eyes were nearly shut, her smile too large to keep them open. She was giddy, playing to the camera, her arms spread out wide, one leg kicked back behind her as if she were balancing on a beam. She didn’t possess a model’s beauty of perfection, but the fun she was having for the camera – or more likely for the sake of the photographer – was infectious. I found myself smiling with her, wanting to be there in her company. It was the pull of someone who could lose themselves in a moment, guilelessly.

  I set the picture down and surveyed the rest of the dresser. A few small items, keepsakes, sat scattered around the pictures. I found a small cross on a chain, a green wooden top, and an ornate box. Slowly and deliberately I tried to open the lid, but the lock held tight, though it was no larger than the nail on my pinky. The key was nowhere to be seen and I set the box back where I’d found it.

  I took in the other furniture of the room and decided it would’ve fit better in a castle or museum exhibit than a musician’s home. One chair was upholstered in a rough beige fabric patterned with thorned red roses. A second chair, further along the wall (they weren’t even next to each other so that two people could sit and converse) was a simple design, reminiscent of a bar stool with four thin wooden legs, a seat and a tall backing board. I ran my hand across the seat of the chair and noticed knots and imperfections in the wood. It too was old, and I guessed its production date vastly preceded everything else in the room. On the opposite side of the picture window stood a hutch, similar in style to the dresser, though besides a thick, tan cloth that covered it and hung down over the sides, there was nothing on it.

  I crossed back to the table where we’d started the interview and sat down, pulled out my phone and saw that almost two hours had passed since I’d arrived. My phone had updated to the time in London and I did the math, subtracting five hours to see that Claire was possibly now up and about. In the midst of rushing out the door to meet the honking taxi outside our apartment, I’d said I would call to let her know how the interview was going. Though her life wasn’t lacking for its own sources of entertainment and excitement, she found a childish happiness in living vicariously through me as I set out across the country, sometimes the world, speaking with those fortunate enough to have become famous.

  I unlocked my phone and started navigating through my contacts to her name when Darin reentered. I pocketed it and clicked on the recorder.

  He dropped into his seat and tossed one leg over the other. A grin played at his face, and before setting his glass down with a careless thud he gulped down half its contents.

  I feel like a million bucks. Sorry for the wait, but as I was pouring this I realized a shower was in order.

  I looked him up and down. He wore an expensive pair of dark jeans with a brown, large-buckled belt. A faded yellow t-shirt, worn to the point the fabric was nearly transparent, hugged his torso. Printed across the front in black italic letters was the word “Yes”. His mop of dark hair was still wet, and hung down around his ears and across his forehead.

  Nice of you to clean up for me. I wasn’t sure if the robe was commonplace.

  It is in the AM, very much so. But I have a rule: no second drink without showering.

  Did that rule come about because you were neglecting to shower?

  Isn’t that what rules are for? To stop current behavior you know isn’t a good idea for the long term? I don’t have the rule because I want to wash up before I get a second one in me, but otherwise I’d be a fucking cliché, you know? And the pool doesn’t count, remember that. I had to veto that right off, I was trying to bend my own rule with a dip in the chlorine each day, but that’s not the same as soap and shampoo. Not that I didn’t try to bring soap and shampoo into the pool, but that upset my pool girl. Not good for the pH balance, you see.

  Of course. If we could get back to it?

  Oh, excuse me. All business. Proceed.

  I’m wondering what it was like for someone who felt he didn’t fit in at school. Does that person search out people in other places? Do they turn to their family? Become introverted? What did you do?

  I found other friends.

  People you shared some commonality with? What were they like? Also considered outsiders?

  They’re incredible. You might know them, their names are Mick, Paul, John, Bono, Bruce, Michael, Robert. I could go on.

  I follow. But I mean real friends, ones you could talk to.

  They were the best of friends, and we had loads of conversations. I learned their songs, I sang every note they sang and strummed exactly how they did. Do you have any idea what that’s like?

  He waited for an answer.

  Not really, no.

  No, you don’t. You listen to their stuff, you analyze it, you write it up in a shiny magazine and call yourself an expert but you don’t know what it feels like to shift a major fifth while singing the exact words someone else meticulously chose to explain a specific emotional state.

  He was jockeying for position, authority. I wouldn’t let him have it. I read you started with the piano. Did it come easy to you?

  Yes and no. I picked up the basics quickly, but I fucking hated it. When I was young my father made me take lessons. He wasn’t especially musical himself, but he wanted his kids to be. We had a baby grand that came from my grandmother. She passed away when I was seven so I never really knew her, but my father spoke highly of her. It was clear she’d meant a lot to him, and I was told the piano was the only thing he wanted when it came time to divvy up her stuff. It was the onl
y thing he fought with his siblings over. The piano was kind of always there in our house, and he had me start lessons early. He could never really play, I mean, he could sit down and tinkle out some easy little thing, you know, but he’d long since forgotten how to read music or play anything challenging, if he ever could. I despised the thing. I wasn’t particularly athletic but I wasn’t a homebody and I preferred to be outside rather than sitting on that hard wooden bench, focusing on keeping my back straight and my arms bent at the correct angle. Which is a shame because it’s a beautiful instrument, you can do so many things on it that you can’t do on any other instrument. Do you know who Bartolomeo Cristofori is?

  I don’t, no.

  He’s credited with inventing the piano. What a fucking mind that guy must have had, to take what was already there, the dulcimer, and think bigger. Grander, you know? He pushed the boundaries, thought outside of the ordinary. Now you know his name.

  How long did you stick with the lessons?

  Eight years. I found a good teacher, that’s why. Though it’s still a long time doing something you don’t like just because someone else finds it important.

  What made you finally give it up?

  He broke eye contact briefly, shifted in his chair and moved his glass an inch across the table.

  A few things, but mainly the guitar. At that time it seemed all the rock stars played electric guitar. I grew up in the time of hair bands and what is now considered terrible rock and roll, but back then those guys were shooting videos with girls in hot tubs and groupies backstage and I wanted in on it. To a kid hitting puberty, it was just that simple. Another fucking cliché, but I learned to play guitar for the girls. The path of least resistance, in some ways.