My dad drove me to LAX and we talked about Patti the whole way. As I waited for my flight back to England, I saw the newspaper headline, “Man Held as Terror Suspect Over Punk Song.”
According to the article, British antiterrorism detectives stopped a flight from Durham to London and hauled Harraj Mann, twenty-four, off the plane after his taxi driver turned him in for singing along to “London Calling” by the Clash. The taxi’s music system allowed Mann to plug in his own mp3 player, and he’d been playing songs for the driver from the Clash, Procol Harum, Led Zeppelin, and the Beatles.
The taxi driver became alarmed on the way to the airport when Mann sang along to the Clash lyrics, “Now war is declared, and battle come down.” Another line containing the phrase “meltdown expected,” he took as an imminent threat. “‘He didn’t like Led Zeppelin or The Clash but I don’t think there was any need to tell the police,’ Mann told the Daily Mirror.” Though Durham police released Mann after questioning, he missed his flight.
As I boarded the plane, I was singing,
a nuclear error but I have no fear
‘cos london is drowning and I live by the river
the avian flu is coming but I have no fear
‘cos london is drowning and I live by the river
Melissa picked me up at Heathrow. I launched myself at her, almost coming out of my sneakers. “God, I missed you!” I flung my arms around her neck.
“I missed you too, baby.” Melissa hadn’t brought Nick along because there wasn’t enough room for all three of us plus my guitar and bags in her car. “Nick’s waiting at the flat.”
Melissa slung my army-green, carry-on bag over her head, the strap running diagonally across her chest. She was wearing a gray hooded sweatshirt I’d got her, based on one Jello Biafra from the Dead Kennedys had worn, that said “Nobody Knows I’m a Lesbian” in big, black letters.
As we got in the car, Melissa asked, “How was it? Did you regress?”
“Patti Smith helped,” I laughed. “As soon as we get home, I’m going to download a copy of the concert so we can listen to it together.” I knew I’d find it on my favorite live-music tracker, which only allowed people to post music from artists who permitted taping. Patti Smith was cool that way.
Melissa had her arm around my shoulders and was playing with my hair. “I really missed you, you know?”
“Mmm, I missed you, too.”
We’d been a little awkward at first but now, when I pressed my face into her body and breathed her in, I was at home. We kissed for a while before she finally pulled herself away from my embrace with a sigh and started the car.
“Wait.” I reached into my bag. “I’ve got something for you.” I’d got Melissa a signed copy of Patti Smith’s new album Trampin’ at the concert. Melissa slipped it into the car stereo and drove to Hampstead. It was so glorious to see the city again.
Nick wrapped her arms around me when I walked into the flat.
“Hey baby,” I said, ruffling her hair, “I missed you.” While I was away I’d perused a local record shop and finally found what I’d been wanting to give her since the night we first met. “Nicky, I’ve got something for you.” From my bag I pulled out the same T-shirt of Kurt Cobain hugging his black “Vandalism” Strat that Nick had worn the night she was attacked and tossed out because of the blood.
The most famous appearance of that guitar was at the 1991 Reading Festival where Kurt played “Molly’s Lips” with Eugene Kelly of the Vaselines. He said it was one of the greatest moments of his life. The second was at the Paramount Theatre in Seattle on Halloween in 1991. Earnie Bailey, Kurt’s guitar tech, had put a Seymour Duncan JB humbucker in the bridge position for him.
“Oh, cheers, Amanda. I’m really chuffed, mate.” Nick kissed my cheek.
After a second cup of tea, I said I was exhausted. Nick said goodnight, and Melissa and I went upstairs. There was so much pent-up electricity between us it was a relief to get her alone. After a week apart we were tentative, almost nervous. We knelt on the bed. I brushed my hand through Melissa’s thick, chestnut hair then lifted her fresh, black “Jesus Loves The Stooges” T-shirt so I could kiss her breasts, sucking on her dark, honeyed nipples. She sighed deeply and pressed me to her. “Don’t go away from me again, love,” she whispered.