12 EVIE
E VIE
A moment later, he strode over to the table where I stood.
He had on a pair of well-worn jeans, resting on sharp hips, and standard-issue black military boots that were part of a look that was his usual outfit.
It was by no stretch an original style, but he wore it so well that it could’ve been all his.
If the weather was chilly, he’d wear a fitted, long-sleeve white thermal or maybe a black hooded sweatshirt.
In winter, it was dark, woolen fisherman’s sweaters.
No fuss. Nearly every photo I had of him from that time period included some variation of that combination.
Running down the length of his entire right arm was an intricate pattern of geometric circles and lines in varying shades of black and gray ink, so flawlessly woven into his overall look that I could hardly imagine him without it.
But despite his good looks, he often made a person pause before approaching him.
It was a persona that followed him throughout the years.
He picked up a cloth napkin and gathered a fistful of ice, twisting it into the napkin, then brought it over to where I stood and gestured to the table beside us. Triumphant, I took a seat, and then, to my surprise, watched him take my hand and place the ice pack on it.
“Okay,” he said. “But if this goes badly, then I know I can deny it, because you can’t write with that hand, and I know you don’t have batteries in that recorder.”
“Well, how do you know I’m not left-handed?”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Okay then.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “You must have had some very bad experiences in the past with interviews. You really hate this, don’t you?”
“It’s not my favorite thing, to be sure. I think we’re our publicist’s worst nightmare,” he told me.
“Why do you hate it so much? Surely you must like talking about the music, if not yourself.”
“I don’t, actually. Like it, that is. And I don’t have faith in the interpretation of my words.
You spend all this time building an album that you’re proud of, and then a ten-minute interview goes wrong and ruins it all.
Suddenly the music and the band take the back burner, and all anyone cares about is how the lead singer said something stupid one time, and it all goes to hell.
Just because I wasn’t in the mood to talk or had a shit night’s sleep or was focused on the show, or maybe I just didn’t like the question. I’ve seen it happen too many times.”
“Did you have a good night’s sleep last night? Or should I be ready for you to say something awful that I can quote?”
He laughed, raking a hand through his dark hair—short and tousled. He had a two-day beard and looked like a person who often saw the early hours of dawn. “I rarely sleep through the night. And as for the rest, I guess we’ll see.”
“But surely you must know it’s kind of part of the job, isn’t it? Talking about the music?”
“Sure, I could talk about the music, but it’s not about that, is it?
Like right now, you’re pretending we’re having a conversation when in reality, you’re dissecting everything I’m saying, distilling it into sound bites.
People like you love to act as though they’re your best friend and love to say they like the music.
But then people who don’t like the music make us sound like idiots.
So there’s this mixture of gratitude and panic when it comes to the press covering what we do. ”
I didn’t take offense. He wasn’t wrong. “People like me, eh? Journalists?”
“Reviewers.”
“I’m not a reviewer. I’m here to learn about the story behind the music.”
“Oh, you’re reviewing. And you know it.” He held my gaze for a moment as the corner of his mouth turned upward just slightly.
Heat flared in my stomach, and I suspected this guy knew the effect he had on people, when it suited him. All the girls he must leave swooning in his wake on a daily basis.
I gave him a look. “Ahem. Don’t worry—it’s just a conversation between two people.”
He laughed then, the spell breaking. “I always worry. It’s like my superpower.”
I thought of the others who had been in my place, trying to interview him. It was as if one minute he was searching for an escape, afraid to speak, and the next, you could tell there was so much for him to say.
“Sorry, this probably isn’t helping. Complaining about being interviewed during an interview.
Very meta,” he said finally. “It’s just that it feels a little ridiculous.
All these questions, over and over, with a false sense of intimacy, when in truth there’s another journalist waiting outside the door.
And another. And another. It’s just ...
not who we are. But we have to do it, the promotions, and then if there’s too much of it, it’s embarrassing and everyone gets sick of us. We can’t win.”
“You’re not very comfortable with fame, are you?” I found this endearing, though I didn’t add that out loud.
“Well, again, I wouldn’t say it’s my favorite part, but I’m doing my best. It certainly beats the alternative—playing in dismal clubs to an audience of three and a drunk guy who wandered in off the streets.
The thing is, our lives are pretty great.
It would be much worse to be doing all of this and be completely ignored, so I won’t complain.
But even saying that makes me sound bad.
We have to be grateful, but not too grateful, otherwise it comes off as arrogant. See what I mean?”
“So you’ll just avoid.”
It was his turn to smile.
“If I can. How’s the hand?” He looked at where he’d placed the bag of ice as I sat awkwardly pinned down to the table with one hand.
“Getting better, thanks.” I brought the subject back around. “Success often causes a person to get a narrower view of the world, building walls and creating a kind of learned distrust of those from the outside. Would you say this has happened to you?” I asked, finding my stride.
“Has the world become narrower? I’d say it’s the opposite, actually.
It’s become grander and wider and more colorful.
I’ve come across some real asses along the way, so I tend to be cautious, as I’ve mentioned, but my being quiet and reserved is more due to predisposition and life than it is the result of being in this band.
If I ever get to a point when I let the bad side of this job affect who I am as a person, then I’ll find a new job. ”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “You don’t seem quiet.”
“Believe me. I am.” He gave me a look. “Usually.”
As he briefly brought up the past, I wanted to ask him about Jacob, the fifth member of the band, his brother who died in 1996.
But instinct told me to tread very carefully.
Had I asked, I suspect our story would have ended that day with him immediately walking off.
It wasn’t a subject he readily discussed.
“Your star is shining pretty brightly right now. Are you worried it’ll burn out?” I asked instead.
“I don’t think anything could really stop us at this point.
Not in a way that matters. Even if we lost our record deal and the album tanked and everything went to hell, we’d carry on like we always have, playing and being the best of mates and enjoying the music we create together.
If anyone ruins it, it’ll be us, because we decide to or because we screw it up.
There won’t be anyone to blame but ourselves. ”
“I see what you mean now.”
“About what?”
“I could easily take that first sentence on its own as the pull quote and leave out the rest of the statement if I wanted to make you sound like an arrogant jerk. But I won’t.”
“And why is that?” He gave me a sidelong look.
“Because the rest of it is what’s going to make this band special.” The bunker-like brotherhood among the four of them that was already apparent.
“Hmm, maybe we should be paying you to be our publicist instead. Give us press tips. How to not mess everything up.”
He stood then, and I thought the interview was over.
I was often left midconversation by someone I was talking to once they got bored.
But to my pleasant surprise, he went to make himself a cup of tea with honey.
Something I eventually learned he did every day before a show, without fail.
Later in the day, he would add scotch. While he made the tea, I jotted down a few notes with my stinging hand.
“Was that true?” he asked as it brewed and he leaned against a wall.
He crossed his arms, and as he did, the bottom of his white T-shirt pulled up slightly, revealing the top of a circular gray tattoo that disappeared down the curve of his hip beneath the waist of his jeans.
“The story about the moon when you were little. Or did you just make that up to get my attention?”
I remembered the night I’d sat on the beach with my mom when we saw the crescent moon.
We had very little money when I was little, but we’d taken one vacation together in May during the offseason.
A priceless trip to a modest little cottage on the shore, lent to her by a friend she worked with, where we listened to music on the drive east and snuggled under a blanket on the beach beneath the stars for one week that I treasured like the greatest of jewels in a box of memories.
She’d pointed out constellations and told me that was where she would go when she was old and gone.
All I had to do when I missed her after that was look up.
The real reason I ended up on Long Island, I supposed.
Like maybe the ghost of that week still lived somewhere in the past.
“It was true,” I replied simply.
Maybe it was also one of the reasons their hit song had caught my attention in a way that made me pitch the story harder than I had any in recent history. It was that golden moment of personal connection that I craved in music.