Chapter 10
Gene is sitting on the couch in the living room of their apartment, strumming a groovy rhythm on his acoustic guitar, singing, “I never stop, they never stop, everywhere I turn.” A chord change.
“I want it all, baby, all the wild girls.” A quick wisp of higher notes up the B string.
“Wild girls!” Another string of high notes.
“Wild girls!” A riff to finish the chorus.
He’d be onto the verse next, but he stops his hands before he can continue.
“There, like that. You can do those lead parts, work with them some more, and then I’ll add another layer behind it with the rhythm,” he tells Santiago, who’s sitting on the shag-carpeted floor.
“Sounds good to me,” Santi says. “Play that part again, I’ll repeat it.”
“Alright. Wild Girls!” He feels the need to hear himself say the lyrics first to get the timing right, and then he slides his fingers onto the notes. “Wild girls!” Another wisp of notes.
“Okay, okay, I got it,” Santiago says after astutely watching Gene’s fingers.
He mimics the notes perfectly. This is how Gene usually teaches Santiago songs.
It starts off bare bones with Ray’s lyrics and Gene’s chords and riffs, then he passes it onto Santiago to add another layer.
Recently they’ve tried going back and forth with their parts—Santi taking over the rhythm and Gene the lead, and vice versa—even within a single song.
They’d witnessed Ronnie Wood and Keith Richards doing it live at the Stones concert after the Dusty Brooms’ opening set, and were inspired enough to try and emulate the ancient art of weaving into their own music.
Turns out, it works rather well for them.
(And how funny was it, to open for Ronnie Wood in the Faces earlier in the year, and then to see him again with the Stones.)
This new song they’re trying out, ‘Wild Girls’, initially started off as a joke Gene had made about how promiscuous Ray’s become lately.
To which, Ray thought it was funny, ran with it, and ended up writing a whole song about the subject.
The song is more tongue-in-cheek than anything, not about any specific instance or person, and Gene really digs the groove he’s been laying down.
Sure, he doesn’t enjoy Ray’s promiscuity in the first place, but he can appreciate that some good music is coming out of it all, at least.
The Dusty Brooms’ debut album, titled Swept Away, is set to release next month.
It’s a pun—‘Swept Away by the Dusty Brooms,’ Gene chuckles to himself while he strums a backing rhythm.
And while ‘Wild Girls’ won’t be featured on it—they’ve already finished recording and now are simply wrapping up the logistics of it—they might include the song in their setlist for their upcoming tour.
Yes, a tour—finally as headliners. They won’t be touring the entirety of the country just yet, staying within the nearby states at first, but Dennis is already looking into venues for a second, nation-wide tour early next year.
He has enough faith in us to start scheduling a second tour before we’ve even set out on the road for our first. That’s crazy.
There’s a click on the lock—the front door opens. Ray’s home. But isn’t it a bit early in the afternoon for him to be back? Gene had thought he was going to spend the night at Harriet’s, seeing as it’s a weekday and they don’t have any gigs later today. What gives?
His question is somewhat answered by seeing the look on Ray’s face.
As he closes the door behind himself and shuffles his shoes onto the front mat, he looks exhausted.
Defeated. Melancholy. That’s not a good sign.
Ray doesn’t even look at Gene or Santiago, brows knitted with a frown on his face, keeping his gaze on the floor as he tries to sneak by them into the kitchen.
“Hey, woah, Ray, what’s going on? Did something happen?” Gene asks with worry, setting his guitar down on the floor propped up by the couch and standing up himself.
“It’s fine. I’ll be fine,” Ray says hurriedly, continuing to step toward the other room.
“No wait, hang on. Nothing’s fine when you talk like that.
” Gene reaches Ray, and grabs Ray’s upper arm to stop him from moving any further.
That gets Ray to look up. Gene can hardly believe it—Ray’s blue irises are surrounded by red, puffy and watery, as if he’d been crying.
Gene has never seen him cry before. Even with knowing him so closely the last few years, there’s been nothing to make him tear up like this.
Ray takes a stuttered breath. A few seconds pass between them before he speaks. “I, um…” Another deep breath. “I might as well just say it to get it out there. No point in hiding it. Me and Harriet broke up.”
“What?!” Gene and Santiago gasp in unison. Santi stands up, setting his own guitar down too and stepping closer to Ray.
“You heard me. We broke up.”
That explains things. Even though Ray had been sleeping around with girls since he was younger, Harriet had been his first true, steady girlfriend—and therefore his first, real break-up. “I’m… I’m so sorry,” Gene says, his hand still on Ray’s arm. “Did you wanna talk about it?”
Ray looks down to Gene’s hand, then back up into his eyes. “Well…” He sighs. “I guess so. You guys are the only ones I’d wanna talk about this with, anyway. So it might as well be right now.”
“Were you hungry?” Santi asks. “I can grab you something real quick if you need it, man.”
“No, I’m not actually hungry,” Ray admits. “I was just going into the kitchen because… Well, I don’t have an excuse. I just feel really strange, is all. Wait, actually, get me a beer. I could use that.”
“Alright.” Santi hurries into the kitchen and opens the fridge.
“Let’s all sit down, then,” Gene suggests. “Here.”
Gene grabs his guitar and places it on its proper metal stand next to the couch, locking the neck in place, and Santiago does the same with his own.
Ray walks over and sits in the middle of the couch, and soon Gene follows suit, taking a spot at Ray’s right side while Santi takes Ray’s left, handing him a bottle.
“So… what happened?” Gene asks.
Ray sighs again after taking a sip of his beer. “It’s all because I’m so fucking stupid. I should’ve known this was gonna happen sooner or later. I should’ve broken it off before this even happened, but no, I thought I could just get away with it, I guess. And I think you guys know what I mean.”
“You mean, with the others…?” Gene says.
“Yeah. I’ll even show you.” Ray sets his bottle in-between his legs and unbuttons the top three buttons of his shirt, exposing his neck.
He pulls the fabric aside to show the top of his chest and collar bone, revealing…
a brownish-blue mark on his skin. “I forgot this was here. Harriet saw when she took my shirt off, and, understandably, she freaked out.”
Gene winces and hisses through his teeth. He can only imagine how shocked Harriet must’ve been. “Ouch.”
“Yeah. Ouch,” Ray repeats.
“What happened after that?” Santiago asks.
Ray doesn’t bother buttoning back up his shirt, and he grabs his bottle to take another swig of it.
“She was yelling at me, saying things like,” he pitches his voice up higher, “‘Is this what you’ve been doing every time you go to Detroit? I should’ve fucking known, you being a musician and all that.
’ It was a punch in the guts. Made me feel like shit, because, yeah, that is what I’ve been doing.
And I wasn’t thinking of how I was hurting her in the process—I’ve been super fucking selfish and only thinking of myself and my own feelings… ”
Gene can’t think of what to say that will make Ray feel better. Because, yes, it was incredibly selfish, what Ray was doing. Gene agrees with Harriet. But he also hates seeing his best friend so distraught. He rests his hand on Ray’s thigh, as a means to comfort him.
“I mean… that was really shitty of you,” Santiago says what Gene’s afraid to say out loud.
“How come you never stopped me, then?” Ray snaps back.
Santi throws up his hands in a defensive gesture.
“Hey man, the last thing I wanna do is get involved in someone else’s relationship drama.
None of my business. But if you would’ve come to me for advice, that’s a different story, and I would’ve gladly told you.
But you never talked to me, or any of us about it. Until now.”
Gene can see in Ray’s expression how Santi’s words only made him feel worse. Ray’s face scrunches up, his lips curling downwards in a frown. He takes another drink. “Sorry,” is all Ray says.
Gene rubs his palm on Ray’s leg, feeling the soft fabric of his corduroy pants. “You know you can talk to us if you need to. We’re your friends.”
Ray looks up and makes eye contact with Gene.
His stare is intense—frustrated, but also…
sad. Gene can’t tell what’s going on in his head, but it pings a peculiar melancholy feeling within his own chest too.
One he can’t really place. He’s felt this before when thinking of Ray, but now it’s enveloped him tenfold seeing those blue eyes tear up.
All he knows is he wants Ray—he wants to protect him, to be close to him, regardless if whatever Ray did was right or wrong.
“Yeah, for sure,” Santiago says. “I don’t mean to sound harsh. We’re your friends; we love you, man.”
“Yeah. We… we love you,” Gene says. Admitting that out loud is something he’s never done—to say that word—love. But it’s not wrong. He wouldn’t take it back. He does love Ray. He loves Santiago, too. It’s not strange to say you love your friends, especially those closest to you.
Ray huffs out a vocalless sob. He takes a sip from his beer, then carefully sets it on the carpeted floor.
Then he leans forward, throwing his arms around Gene’s middle, and pulls him close in a tight embrace. He leans his face on Gene’s shoulder, nose buried in his collar, sobs wetting his shirt.