Chapter 15
Theo
I confront Bowie as soon as we climb off the bus in Haight-Ashbury.
It’s one a.m. and the San Francisco air is cold and dense with fog, which I hope lends me gravitas.
“Seriously, Bowie—where are these new songs coming from? I can barely get the band to concentrate during practice. It’s like herding a bunch of bickering, stoned cats.
And as far as I can tell, the cats aren’t making new music. ”
We’re the first ones off the tour bus—the band’s still in the back, playing Matt some home videos that no reporter has any business seeing.
I’m letting it happen because I needed to get Bowie alone.
It works: facing my glare in the swirling mist, he finally cracks.
“They’ve been holding secret practices without you.
” “What? When?” From where I stand, the Future Saints’ schedules are packed with drinking, smoking, skating, complaining, and inventing new ways to make my life difficult.
He blinks nervously. “Sometimes early in the morning before you check in with them. Sometimes at night, when they tell you they’re going to the bar, they actually go play.
” It’s the last thing I expected to hear.
“Am I . . . Jesus, am I proud?” “You should be,” Bowie enthuses.
“I haven’t seen them this purposeful in almost a year.
No offense, but banding against you is exactly what they needed. ”
“Glad to be of service.” Matt and the others are tumbling off the bus, so I shut my mouth and paste on my appeasing-the-reporter smile.
“And that song you played at the end, ‘Little Beasts.’” Matt’s shak-ing his head.
“The lyrics were brutal. That drum solo was brutal. It’s so unlike your old stuff.
Sorry, but I wasn’t a huge fan of your previous work—too much like Wavves.
Most bands can’t pull off this kind of creative pivot, but somehow, you’re doing it. ”
A frown deepens on Hannah’s face. “You thought we sounded like Wavves?”
“Where to next?” I cut in. “Hotel bar for a drink, or straight to bed?”
Ripper snorts. “Suit, you crack me up.”
Hannah drapes her arm over Matt’s shoulders, just like she did in the greenroom, and I recognize the look he gives her in return. She’s turned on her magnetism, shared a hit of her rock star magic, and it’s a drug he doesn’t want to quit. “We’re going to Adam Gunther’s house.”
I blink. “You don’t mean Dr. G?” Dr. G is a folk musician who claims he’s the reincarnated spirit of Salvador Dalí. Despite being absurd, he’s getting big on the indie circuit. Roger’s mulling whether to sign him.
Kenny pounds me on the shoulder. His hair is in two braids tonight, disconcertingly reminiscent of a Swedish schoolgirl. “Gunthy’s an old friend from my ayahuasca days. We used to jam together.”
Hannah gives me a winning smile. A dimple I’ve never noticed before hugs her mouth.
“You said to show Matt a good time. So we texted Gunthy, and, lucky for us, he agreed to host a party. We’re going to show Matt the real San Francisco.
No tech bros or posers.” She sizes Matt up. “Are you allergic to farm animals?”
“I’m coming.” The thought of Matt spending unsupervised time with the Saints and Dr. G makes my stomach drop.
“Of course you are,” she says, to my great surprise.
Ripper musses my hair. “We agreed it’s time you were corrupted. Or initiated. Whichever term you prefer.”
“Please tell me you’re joining,” I say to Bowie.
He shakes his head. “Are you kidding? I like my eyebrows where they are.”
“What does that mean?”
But Bowie’s already headed for the back entrance of the hotel. All he does is turn to face me and pat his eyebrows in warning. “Bowie,” I yell. “What does that mean?”
*
Dr. G’s house—if you can call it that—is in Bernal Heights and looks like a drunk architect merged a tenement apartment with the Leaning Tower of Pisa. The three-story building is hanging for dear life on the steep side of a hill, smoke chugging from the chimney, the walls vibrating with noise.
“Is Dickensian orphanage meets Symbionese Liberation Army really the vibe we want for Matt?” I whisper to Ripper.
Ripper looks at the building fondly. “This is the last truly weird place left in San Francisco.”
Inside, the house crawls with people. How Dr. G managed to get this many attendees for a last-minute party is beyond me, unless the house doubles as a commune or you can rent people now.
The party-goers wear flower crowns and body paint, hot pants and sequins.
In the hallway, a man in a polyester bodysuit glides past us on roller skates.
Trippy folk music full of what sounds like sitar streams from the sound system. I recognize it as a Dr. G original.
When we push our way into the surprisingly cavernous living room, we find a bouncy castle set up in one corner, and what appears to be a makeshift petting zoo, with goats and pigs and even a few squawking chickens, in the other.
I know I’ve spent too much time with the Saints when my first reaction to the zoo is pure relief that at least the farm animals Hannah mentioned are now accounted for.
Hannah steps up beside me and knocks my shoulder. “Ginny calls Kenny’s friends the Trippy Hippies. Most of them are folk musicians, but you’ve got some yogis and shroom peddlers in there for good measure. Last chance to run.”
I stuff my hands in my pockets. “Hannah, I’m a music professional. I’m plenty familiar with the world of psychedelic folk.”
“Guys!” Like the Mad Hatter, a grinning Kenny rushes a tea cart over to us, the infamous Dr. G in tow. Dr. G’s hair is in a ponytail and he wears an embroidered floor-length caftan and no shoes. “Gunthy, this is Matt from Rolling Stone and Theo from our label,” Kenny says. “Boys, meet Gunthy.”
“Thanks for having us,” I say, extending my hand.
But Dr. G only blinks at it. “A hand-squeezing contest? Oh, honey, I challenge you to let go of your patriarchal grip rituals.”
I yank my hand back, praying the band doesn’t get any new nicknames out of tonight. Unfortunately, they’re highly suggestible.
Matt makes little namaste prayer hands at Dr. G and I’m momen-tarily jealous he knows the correct greeting until he blurts, “I like your dress,” and Dr. G sniffs.
“It’s a Himalayan warrior’s robe.”
“Gunthy made tea for everyone.” Kenny pours from the silver teapot and holds out a tiny teacup to Matt with a flourish.
“Nice,” Matt says. “I’m parched.”
“No!” I lunge between them. “You know this tea contains narcotics, right?” At this point, my official job title should change from artist relations manager to D.A.R.E. ambassador.
Matt glances at Hannah and tosses his floppy hair. “It’s not my first rodeo.”
It’s definitely his first rodeo. “I figured you were working tonight . . . ”
“I’ve decided to reinvent myself as a gonzo journalist in the vein of Hunter S. Thompson,” Matt insists. “I’m here for the full Saints experience.”
Well, that’s never something you want to hear. I try pleading silently with Ripper and Kenny, but Ripper just says, “The man has a method, Suit.” He smiles winningly at Matt, clearly angling to be described in the article as a debonair rock god with lead guitar potential.
“Here.” Kenny extends a second teacup to me. “It’ll help you relax.”
I cross my arms. “In no universe.”
“I told you, we’re initiating you tonight,” insists Ripper.
Matt looks at us and raises a brow, his reporter’s instinct kicking in. “Do I sense tension?”
“No.” I force a laugh. “Of course not. Us?”
“Here.” Hannah opens her palm, where two tiny pink pills in the shape of hearts rest. “Ginny calls these Happy pills. They’re gentle.”
I squint. “But what are they?”
“Who cares?” Ripper urges. “Take that stick out of your ass for one night.”
“I didn’t realize Manifest employees were so puritanical.” Matt looks like he’s itching for a pen to write that down.
I meet Hannah’s eyes. “I’ll take it with you,” she promises. “Wherever you go, I’ll go.”
“Do it, Theo,” Kenny says, and that triggers all of them, even Dr. G, to start chanting Theo, Theo, Theo. It’s an extraordinary amount of peer pressure—on the record, thanks to Rolling Stone—and I’m trying very hard not to be touched by the stupid fact that they’re using my real name.
“Fine,” I say, swiping one of Hannah’s pills. “You win.” I stick the thing in my mouth and pretend to swallow.
She winks at me like she did onstage and swallows hers.
“Thank god,” Ripper says. “Took you long enough.”
They think they’ve successfully wielded the Corruption Solution against me. But they have no idea how strong my willpower truly is. When no one’s looking, I spit out the heart and hide it in my pocket.
*
Half an hour later we’re sitting cross-legged in a giant circle in the middle of Dr. G’s living room as Kenny pounds a pair of bongos, leading us and a bunch of strangers on “a vision quest.” Whoever was in charge of tending the petting zoo has abandoned post, and now the animals are running amok.
Every once in a while, a stray goat saunters by and helps itself to someone’s hair.
I keep an eye out, lest one come for my own pride and glory.
The tea has very clearly hit Matt, Ripper, and Dr. G—they’re moving so sinuously to Kenny’s drumbeats it appears their bones are Jell-O.
While their dancing makes me grateful to be sober, there’s a moment when I glance at Hannah and I swear I can sense something other-worldly circling her.
I have the bizarre thought that maybe it’s her aura, or her grief, carried like a mantle.
And then I worry Dr. G has pumped drugs through the air vents.
I shift in the drum circle and our knees brush.