Mayluna

12 EVIE #2

“When you’re writing, do you have a sense of when you’ve created something really special? Did you know it when you were recording ‘Moonstar’?” I asked.

“Do you like it, then?” His eyes glowed, and for a moment, I saw a boy wanting approval.

I nodded.

“It came to me very quickly, around four o’clock in the morning on a particularly low and dark night. I’d say that it has to do with something from childhood, but it would make the guys a bit nauseous to know I’d admitted that.” He looked as though he instantly regretted saying it and looked away.

I was still slightly caught off guard by the similarity between our history with the moon, and I wanted to ask more but didn’t.

“Four a.m. huh? So you’re a night owl.” I saw then, the hint of sleepiness in his eyes that I could see being described as bedroom eyes in the right light. Or maybe just melancholy.

“Always have been.”

“And in the rare moments when you do sleep, do you ever dream about what’s next for Mayluna?”

“Do you always talk like this?” He joined me again at the table, wrapping both hands around the cup of tea. A group of braided leather bracelets rested on his wrist.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re playing the character of an interviewer for a magazine.”

I smiled. “Are you always like this ? A rock star?”

“I’m not a rock star.” Not even the beginnings of a smile there.

Oh, he most definitely was. Put him in a room with ten other men dressed in exactly the same clothes and you’d still be able to pick him out in an instant as the one most likely to be the lead singer of a famous band.

“Well?” I said, pushing the question.

“I just am who I am. And I do my job.”

“There you go. Same with me,” I said.

He laughed then, a rich, warm sound that went to my toes.

“So? Do you?” I asked again. “Dream of what’s next?”

“I do dream, but hopefully none of it comes true,” he said, growing more serious. “I have more nightmares than dreams.” As a shadow crossed his face, I believed this entirely.

He took a sip from his tea and then let the silence settle, regarding me closely. “So what about you, Cameron Leigh? What do you dream about at night?”

I shook my head. “I’m not the one being interviewed.”

He raised a brow. “I thought you said it was just a conversation.”

“It is. But I’m on the clock.”

“And I’m not?”

We were in a standoff, and I resisted laughing, but just barely.

I sighed. “Well, right now, today, my dream is to get an interview with a band that hates to do interviews and hopefully write something that isn’t terrible so that I can get the chance to do more interviews with more bands and write even more words and do more films and somehow eke out enough of a living to not worry so much about paying my rent and hope that somewhere along the way, someone will think that the stories I tell matter. ”

Light hit his eyes, and a moment later, I got the first real smile, just for me, and somewhere in the universe, time stopped.

“So we’re the same, then,” he said. “You just answered all the questions.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everything you just said. That’s us. That’s our band. And our future, all in one sentence. To keep the dream alive and make a living at it and hope that somewhere along the way, someone will think that the music we made mattered.”

“I like that.”

He nodded, shifting the ice back onto my wrist. “You mentioned ‘films’ before. What’s that about?”

I shrugged. “Just something I’m working on.”

He narrowed his eyes with that look of his. “And ...”

“Don’t get me wrong, I love what I’m doing here, and I’m lucky to be able to do it. But filmmaking is the bigger goal.”

“Really? That’s very cool, actually. What kind?”

“A music documentary eventually. Music. Words. Films. They’ve always kind of gone together in my mind.” I made a camera shape out of my hands and peered through them at him with one eye. Then waved it off. “We’ll see.”

“You don’t like writing?” he asked.

“I do like this part. I like telling someone’s story. But I like doing that with a camera even more. So ... hopefully one day. It’s a dream, I guess.”

“Dreams are good. Don’t lose sight of them. The best ones seem to come through in the most unexpected ways, don’t you think?”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Any projects you’ve worked on?” he asked.

I told him about the work I’d done over the years.

A couple of music videos. Producing some local things.

Nothing groundbreaking, but still, work I was proud of.

My last project had been a thirty-minute piece I had directed with an indie label for a New York band called Green Witch to promote their debut album.

I realized I had been talking as much as he had.

“I hate to break it to you, but this interview seems to have turned into a legitimate conversation. You’re going to have to live with that, you know.

” I leaned over and whispered, “The fact that you actually had a genuine conversation with the enemy.”

He smiled warmly. “Well, to my surprise, it has been a pleasure. I’ll never admit it, though.” He looked over my shoulder then as a bass guitar began strumming from the stage. “But on that note, so to speak, I’m afraid I’ll have to be off.”

At one point in the years that followed, he told me how much he’d wished that I’d had the batteries in that tape recorder.

To have recorded that first interaction on a sunny afternoon on a day in June.

But what he didn’t know at the time was that while he’d been gathering ice, I’d spotted the missing battery under the table and popped it into the recorder—its light having cracked and broken in the fall, giving nothing away that might spook him.

I wasn’t proud of it; it was exactly the kind of smarmy thing he worried about with journalists.

But all was forgiven when I eventually wrapped the little microcassette in gift wrap and sheepishly presented it to him as a surprise years later.

The beginning of a story that mattered, frozen in time.

“Think the others will talk to me?” I asked as we both stood.

He chuckled. “Doubtful. But I’ll put in a good word for you. You might have better luck after our set. Maybe.”

“Right. Okay then. Well, thank you.”

He bowed slightly.

“No, really. I mean it. Thank you so much.”

“You’re very welcome.” He disappeared around a corner, and after a moment, I did the same, heading in the opposite direction, still reeling from the fact that he’d talked to me as much as he had.

I was already formulating words in my head and was on my way to find a place to scratch down notes before they disappeared into the ether.

But I hadn’t gotten far when I heard him call after me.

“Hey, wait.” I turned to see him walking toward me. “It’s my turn to ask for a favor,” he said.

“Don’t worry. I won’t say anything to make you look bad.”

“It’s not that. Something else. We’ve got some time off coming up in a few days, sticking around New York before we jump back on the tour. What do you like to do around here?”

“Here? Well, I mean, it is New York. It’s like the world’s biggest all-you-can-eat buffet of things to do.” I bit my lip to stifle a laugh. I found it humorous that a somewhat famous rock star was asking me, of all people, for entertainment tips.

“What?” he asked, apparently taking notice of my reaction to his question. “What did I say?”

“Sorry. Nothing. It’s just ... I’m probably not the best person to ask.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t really get out much, so I’m not sure where I’d even suggest. But you can ask Gary, the production manager here. He can give you some ideas of what tours coming through here like to do.”

“You don’t get out much? What—you don’t follow bands to all kinds of amazing places for all kinds of debauchery and fun?” He gave me a look that clearly showed he was joking.

“Hardly. Well ... sometimes.” I laid a hand aside my face and whispered, “But I just watch.”

“Of course. The image of propriety, no doubt.”

“I hear there’s a gardening expo at the convention center going on this week. Maybe try that?” I joked.

“Ah, now you’re talking,” he said a beat later, rewarding the humor with a laugh.

Reminiscent of a smitten schoolboy on a playground, he tucked his hands into his pockets and gazed down at his boots, the barest smile still lingering on his lips.

He cocked his head to one side and regarded me for a moment.

“Okay, in all seriousness, I don’t want to know what everyone else coming through this place likes to do.

I’d like to know what it is that you like to do.

That is, when you’re not rushing back to your notepad to avoid talking to riffraff like myself. ”

I smiled, considering my answer. “I drive to my favorite beach. Cupsogue. It’s about an hour drive from here and tends to be more secluded and quieter than the other beaches.

I take a good book, enjoy a slow drive with some good music, and spend a day being lazy on the beach.

That’s about it. Nothing terribly exciting. ”

“Okay then. I’ll keep it in mind. Thank you. Also, just to make it formal—by the way, I’m Carter.” He extended his hand, and I laughed.

“I kind of sussed that part out. But it’s nice to meet you, officially, Carter.”

“This is the part where you take my hand and introduce yourself, officially, in return.” The moment I did so, I felt it all the way down to my feet just as we both looked curiously at our entwined hands.

I know people say things like that happen, electricity and such, but it was honestly exactly that way.

“Cameron Leigh,” I told him, suddenly hating the way the name sounded on my lips.

“Hmm.”

“What?” I asked.

He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t look like a Cameron.”

“No?”

“No. But it was still nice to meet you.” He paused, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. “Well, I have to get back. Some radio promotion thing we have to do before sound check.” He shook his head, and I could tell he wasn’t happy about it.

I hesitated for just a moment, then: “Can I offer some other advice? Not about the beach.”

“Sure,” he said.

“Most bands starting out in this business are greedy for press. Not all, of course. But a lot. They’ll shun the attention but crave it at their core and do anything to keep it.

When there’s too much of it, they get annoyed at the tedium.

But when there’s not enough, they’re crying for it.

The promotional machine tumbles them into shiny, smooth stones.

They lose some part of whatever made them interesting to begin with.

If you’re genuinely the opposite of all that, if you really do hate it, then maybe you should use it to your advantage. ”

“How do you mean?”

“Make it work for you. Be the antithesis of it. Let that be part of your story. The antidote to all the mindless repetition of media interviews and the hamster wheel that keeps you on it. You can’t completely avoid it.

So do a few interviews. Do a few promotions.

But on your own terms. Choose who you let in, but keep a little of the mystery behind the curtain for yourselves.

Choose your own narrative. Reinvent the model.

The wisest aren’t usually the ones who talk the most, wouldn’t you agree? ”

He pondered this. “I like that. Okay. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Just an idea.” I’d later learn that this little impromptu bit of advice, just a few words really, had made an impact when he shared it with the others. Ripple effects.

He’d been having a difficult time that day, I learned later, sticking to himself and in one of the dark places in his mind that he often went to, like many songwriters.

He could be like that, which probably isn’t surprising if you’ve ever read his lyrics.

He told me I’d quieted the demons. As if his nervous system required a missing element, and he’d found it in my presence that day.

He had a similar effect on me. Maybe that was part of what drew us to one another so quickly.

“And now I really should let you go,” I told him. The front gates would be opening shortly.

“And you have an important article to deal with,” he replied, “and some truly awful bandmates to hunt down. Terrible bunch.” I wondered if I would be able to translate his understated humor to the written page and suspected not quite. “So I’ll see you later. Be careful with that tea,” he added.

I watched him walk away. “Have a good show. And a nice time off, whatever you decide to do,” I called. He turned to glance over his shoulder at me, twice—just before disappearing through another door as I stood there staring at the empty space. Then, like a bubble popping, the moment passed.

A few minutes after he’d gone, I took a seat amid a sea of empty chairs, beneath puffy white clouds on the horizon and the descending sun still bright.

On the other side of the sky sat the hazy white moon high above, visible in the day.

I began to formulate my initial words, scratching a pen across a lined notebook.

Oddly, I remembered wondering if sometime later that day, he might end up doing the same—scratching a few thoughts on paper about a girl he met once.