For Two Nights Only Read online

  Yes, of course. I don’t know how I’d do it, but I would let her know what my friend told me. Although even now I wonder if she would’ve taken me seriously, if she really would’ve stopped seeing him or if she would’ve patted me on the head, told me she loved that I cared about her so much, and gone and done exactly what she did. Maybe. Or maybe she never would’ve slept with him. Or I would’ve gotten my ass kicked by Paul. Life keeps most of its mysteries, you can’t choose option C and know how A and B would’ve turned out.

  You never attended her wedding. It made a lot of press, I’m sure you know.

  I had my reasons for not being there.

  I’m sure you did. Will you share those reasons?

  I won’t get into it now.

  Later?

  I didn’t say that, just right now I won’t. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe if I let you do a book. Maybe there won’t be a book. Right now there won’t be any talk about Doris’ wedding. It was a fucked up situation I maybe should’ve done differently.

  Okay, I’ll respect that. Can you tell me about Don? How was your relationship with him?

  Darin turned and looked out the window. I studied his face, the concave area between his chin and cheekbones, unhealthily gaunt, and his smooth, youthful skin. There were two Darins to be found in his silhouette, one aged and worn, the other crisp, fresh and strong.

  You know what, I’m sorry Chris, this whole conversation has made me a little introspective. I have to call it a day.

  I was hoping for a few more hours. But if you insist.

  I have to. I need to get down into the studio, sometimes I feel when a song is coming. I am sorry, I hope you don’t mind the rudeness.

  No, you do what you need to. Maybe tomorrow I can listen to what you come up with.

  Yeah, maybe. He nodded and, with sorrowful eyes, tried to smile. Let me see you out. You’re fine to get back to the hotel? Or did you plan on doing something else this evening? Oscar could give you directions to somewhere. There are some clubs, you could find some live music.

  No, just back to the hotel.

  I see.

  With an arm around my shoulder he walked me down the hall, this time without stopping to high-five John Lennon. In the foyer he shook my hand before opening the door. Again, apologies. I’ll call you tomorrow. Can we get an early start? I think clearly when it’s early. Maybe ten?

  That’s early?

  You’re speaking with an unemployed musician, Chris. Anything before noon is early. Be here at ten, okay?

  I will. Thanks for your time.

  Looking forward to tomorrow.

  He shut the door.

  Click.

  Side B

  Track 3

  I turned on the car stereo and inserted a CD. A date three weeks in the future had been neatly written in felt marker across its top. Eight seconds in, after the guitar and drums both made their appearance, I adjusted the volume and settled into the drive.

  Three years earlier at a rock concert I’d met a young man from a record label. I was writing an article about the headliner, and he’d just started at the label and was repping the opening act of the night. We chatted, found we shared an affinity for a few obscure bands, and wound up staying in touch. Over time, we developed a mutually beneficial arrangement. This was how it worked: every few months he put a few songs from four different bands on a blank disc, wrote a date on it indicating the deadline for feedback, and I came back to him with my opinion on who I thought was worth a recording contract. My ears were introduced to the latest trends in music, bands I’d normally not have the opportunity to hear, and he got feedback that he found helpful, from someone in the very industry meant to criticize his choices. It worked.

  Respect for my opinion had not been immediate in my career, and though I worked hard to earn my status within the small world of music journalists, I couldn’t discount the presence of luck along my journey. The interview that broke me, carrying my name across the desks of music journalism’s major editors, had taken place in a dark bar in the East Village of Manhattan. It was just over a year into my professional career, and I was somewhat unprepared when an aging frontman, after too many beers, grew nostalgic for his glory days and confessed he quit music altogether because he was unable to write songs without his former guitarist. He simply didn’t know how. Everything he came up with was of embarrassingly poor quality, there were no riffs, no hooks. It had been generally understood – because he’d always given the impression – that he’d stepped away from music much like other artists after their bands break up: he’d earned a lot of money, he’d lived hard and fast, he now wanted to relax and enjoy the benefits of his youthful endeavors. That night I learned, as a few surprising and unsettling tears ran over the scruff on his face, that the guitarist he’d often bickered with was the only person who could help him write. It didn’t work with anyone else, and certainly not alone. After their band broke up, he’d put out one album, and to this he told an equally surprising story. Unable to compose on his own, he turned to a collection of old blues recordings on 45’s that his grandfather had left him. He stole the guitar riffs, sped them up and rewrote lyrics. Artistic integrity of the highest order, No. But it could be argued that most modern rock does essentially the same thing, and that’s how I presented it. I could’ve written a cold article painting him in a harsh light, but instead I framed his story as a man experimenting with music’s roots, eventually to discover he had lost his passion for it.

  He was still well connected from the heights of his fame, and word of the delicate manner in which I’d handled his story traveled through certain channels into select circles of eighties and nineties icons. His old guitarist read the article and reached out. Reconciliation and a reunion tour followed, and eventually the band reformed and released a new album. I turned around his career, and he knew it. He made sure anytime a magazine requested an interview with anyone he knew, my authorship was demanded. My career took off, as did my understanding of how to tell someone’s story. It may not have been the most truthful way to present reality, but it was a reality everyone could accept. People shared their best-kept secrets because they knew I’d offer some control over how to present it. They all wanted the release and catharsis of an unburdened soul. They wanted the skeletons out of the closet. Most wanted attention. As far as I was concerned, so long as the truth appeared in print and with my name on it, I didn’t care if it was bent to endear the reader to the subject. At least the light finally shone down on what had come to pass.

  And so I wanted it to be with Darin, and the deceased girlfriend, and the odd familial relationships. I hadn’t cracked into it far enough, had yet to unearth the parts I could use to build a reality that was both honest and ingratiating. Just as I’d started to get him there, as he’d teetered upon opening up, Darin pulled back from the cozy safety I’d tried to provide.

  The drive back into London was easy, though the CD lacked ingenuity and promise. Soon I was pulling into the hotel’s drop-off lane, gathering my leather satchel from the backseat and giving my keys to the valet attendant, a young, olive-skinned boy with a shaved head and bushy eyebrows. He looked me in the eye as he handed me my ticket and I thanked him. Before I could offer a tip he’d hopped into the driver’s seat and pulled away, leaving me standing on the sidewalk watching my rental disappear around a corner. Weeks before my arrival Darin had demanded, with rather profane language, to set me up in a hotel after hearing where I’d already booked myself a room. He told me my choice wasn’t nearly classy enough for my first visit to England and, since I was his guest, he felt it necessary to ensure I had top-notch accommodations. To that extent he’d succeeded, getting me the penthouse suite at The Goring Hotel. From the window of my living room I could see Buckingham Palace; a luxurious terrace extended from the back of the hotel to overlook the estate’s gardens; and the staff ambitiously tried to accommodate any request.

  I zipped up my jacket against the chilly English air and sauntered down the str
eet in search of a bar that suited my unrefined tastes. I reasoned such a place would be hard to find in the ritzy district around The Goring and set my mind to walking. Darin had graciously paid for my hotel, but being dropped in the middle of the poshest area of London meant I’d be explaining to Claire the depletion to our bank account was part of the gig. Though we weren’t yet married we shared incomes and expenses, reasoning it was easier that way and not wanting to dig into the details of who made what and who spent how much. Claire’s point was that if we were truly serious, we should take that one step to simplify our lives, paying rent and bills out of one account and not worrying about who was picking up the check at dinner. Though we were both self-employed and our monthly billings fluctuated, by the close of the year we inevitably ended with about the same income. This did make it easier – when I was having a slower month (which did still happen) and she a great one – for us to afford our rather lavish West Village apartment and the lifestyle to which we’d become accustomed.

  After a long stroll westward I came upon a park. Set precisely before the gate, a bronze plaque let it be known that I stood at Belgrave Square Gardens, one of the grandest and largest 19th century squares in London. There would be no cheap burger and beer in the immediate vicinity. Turning away from both the Square and the nearby gardens of Buckingham Palace, I made my way south, passing a number of leather goods shops and high-end boutiques – most, I imagined, occupied by tourists – before turning onto a quiet side street. I didn’t need to walk far before I recognized the usual markings of a basement pub, namely a Newcastle sign hanging above the door and warm, dim light through thick window panes.

  As I reached out for the door handle the clicking of heels rushed up from behind, and I turned to find a smartly dressed woman in jacket and skirt. She had taut skin, few wrinkles, but her eyes betrayed three decades of life. Her blond hair, loosely curled, disappeared behind her head into a tan scarf, framing her face with soft yellow. I held open the door so she could enter and was met with a warm smile as she passed, catching me by surprise; she seemed more at home among the boutiques and expensive salons of the main streets than at a tiny, cramped pub, but she nodded her appreciation and offered thanks before disappearing into the subdued lighting inside.

  I headed to the back and took a seat at one of the wooden tables against the far wall. From my bag I pulled two notebooks, one black and one red, and a thick binder of photocopied articles, laying them out across the table. It took me a moment of digging in the satchel’s side pocket to find my favorite pen, black ink with a thin point. I flipped open the red notebook, located the notes I wanted to review and placed the pen between the pages before shutting it.

  I approached the bar, where an older gentleman made quick eye contact to let me know he was listening, though he kept his head turned to a soccer match on the lone television in the corner. I ordered a tea and a whiskey, using the opportunity while he gathered my drinks to glance around. Out of the corner of my eye I watched the blond woman remove the scarf from her head, fold it neatly and bury it inside her handbag, from which she withdrew a glossy magazine. Nonchalantly she flipped through the pages, at a pace indicating she paid little attention to the words. I couldn’t tell if she was waiting for someone to join her, or simply wasn’t in a rush to order. At a corner table, beneath the television, a white-haired man turned over page after page of a newspaper until he found something that interested him and relaxed into his chair, holding the paper up to hide his face. I paid the bartender for my drinks and carefully carried them back to my table.

  The red notebook contained my preparatory notes, gathered often by myself and sometimes with the help of a gifted researcher friend, and I started there. The black I reserved for observations during the time I spent with Darin. This was how I always worked. I settled in and began to review what I’d gathered about Darin’s sister.

  She was currently a nurse in Oregon. Four years ago she’d married a doctor, which had only made news because certain tabloids had hoped to cash in on pictures of Darin attending the wedding. A shot of his latest girlfriend could earn the photographer upwards of $50,000. When the photos didn’t materialize it was thought he’d eluded the press, but shortly thereafter rumblings began, or so it was reported by the same trashy tabloids seeking his picture, that Darin hadn’t attended. One source, anonymous as usual, was quoted as saying the betrayal was too enormous for him to show. The exact nature of the supposed betrayal was either never known or hadn’t been interesting enough to print.

  In the margin next to those notes I’d jotted down the date of an article from a teen magazine, from when Darin was just starting out and the media adopted him as their next pop darling. It was an image he’d soon shake off. I remembered that the interview stood out drastically when placed next to his others in how forthcoming he was with his answers. The filter he’d later use as a necessity hadn’t yet formed.

  I pulled open the binder and found a photocopy of the article.

  In it Darin talked about his family and the stress of being on the road, how the time away made him feel he was losing touch with his siblings. When pressed for detail he’d expressed empathy for his younger brother Donald, who was suddenly without two members of his family since his sister had gone off to college and Darin was touring most of the year. The interviewer generally seemed much more concerned about the wild times Darin was having on tour than with the familial complications it caused, but there was a section deeper in the interview where, when asked whether he felt ready to be out on his own at eighteen and whether he’d always been independent, he confessed to having a hard time making decisions without guidance from people he trusted. He hinted at a time earlier in his life when he’d made a wrong decision, which came back to haunt him, and another moment when he leaned heavily on his younger brother for moral advice, though he didn’t say what it was. When asked if he looked up to his sister for advice, he changed the subject to songs on his album, saying only that one of them was written especially for her and he hoped she liked it. The interviewer either shirked the opportunity of asking which track, or the question and answer never made it to print.

  A soft voice broke my concentration. “I beg your pardon, but I know you, I’m sure of it. I’m afraid I can’t recall your name and it’s driving me crazy.”

  I looked up to find the experienced eyes in the young face. They were hesitant, which struck me as odd since a female as lovely as her had no reason to be nervous about breaking the ice with a stranger. The situation caught me off guard, and when I didn’t respond quickly enough she rushed forward to explain herself.

  “I apologize, I shouldn’t have interrupted. I just, I was sure I know you.” Her accent was crisp and educated.

  “I’m afraid not. I’m not from here. England, I mean, I’m not from this country. I’m American.”

  She smiled, a bit embarrassed, and again apologized. As she did she rubbed her hands together as if unable to bear her mistake.

  “It’s quite alright,” I reassured her, “not a problem at all. I’ve just never been to England before, and if we’d met I’m quite sure I would’ve remembered.”

  This seemed to put her at ease, and she nodded and excused herself, adding before she left that she met a lot of people through her job and must’ve gotten mixed up. I watched her cross back to her table and wondered what line of work she was in. Her clothes were elegant and her walk regal, shoulders back, back stiff, head high, everything contrasting sharply with the awkwardness she’d displayed while standing beside my table. I found the small paradox intriguing and wanted to call her back to learn more. The brevity of the encounter left me at a loss, and I felt like asking where she thought she knew me. The desire to engage her was difficult to push down. I was always interested in conversation, any amount of expertise in a topic foreign to me could hold my interest for hours. My ceaseless desire to learn tallied as one of my strengths, a driving force in my decision to become a journalist. But I had my things spread ou
t before me, and the woman was already past the other end of the bar. Years earlier I might’ve chased after her, but not anymore.

  I flipped back and forth through the red notebook to be sure I had nothing else on Doris. My gaze repeatedly rose from the pages to the woman across the room, now speaking emphatically to someone on her cell phone, but I finally forced my attention back to my work. When I was sure there was nothing more on the sister I moved to my notes on Donald.

  I’d made only two entries under his heading: his age in relation to Darin (one year younger); and that, in all of my research, I hadn’t found where he currently lived or what he did. Under those two items I listed a number of articles in which Darin mentioned him. I checked the references I’d made against the binder of photocopied articles.

  The first reference came in an article published shortly after the release of Darin’s second album. It was, overall, a puff piece, a quick one-page, twelve-question rundown in a mass-appeal music magazine. At that time Darin wasn’t being taken seriously as a musician and artist, instead lumped with boy bands along the scale of musical artistry, on which NSync and the Backstreet Boys represented one end and the Beatles, Led Zeppelin and Rolling Stones the other. Darin started out too young, too good looking and with songs too catchy to land anywhere else along the spectrum, confined to the side he would later speak out against. In retrospect, looking back on the exchange with fresh eyes, Darin was rebelling by being – up to that point – the brashest version of himself he’d ever presented.

  But at the time he came across as rehearsed, as if his responses were proofed and edited by a manager’s hand. The questions were softballs, and the responses cut short anytime they started to carry off into actual personality and earnestness. The person asking the questions was likely inexperienced, since no established journalist at that time wanted to associate their work with the teen sensation. The section I’d highlighted on the photocopy read as follows: