Chapter 18

I crawled along in the rain on the Ventura Fwy for half an hour, though it was only three miles to my exit. I could've walked faster. Who are all you people? Why are you here, fucking up the freeway at midnight? Get out of my city! Gripping my wheel in frustration I thought about the vacation, all that had happened, but it was far away already, like something I'd dreamt. Then I thought of Lee, and smiled. I had someone to be with if I choose to, someone to watch over me, shelter me from the harsh reality that my home had become.

It was close to 1:00a.m. when I finally pulled into my driveway. It surprised me to see my roommate's car parked in front of the garage as I pulled in back of her, blocking her in.

Suzanne sat at the dining room table when Face and I came in the back door and through the kitchen. She stared out the bay windows stone still, dressed in her typical black attire.

"Hi." I greeted her, sensing her darkness. "Happy New Year!"

"Hi." Her tone verged on morose. She didn't even glance at me.

It was obvious my roommate had been crying. I stopped, unsure what to do next. Getting too personal with roommates always ended badly, but I sat down across from Suzanne at my cheap, pine-rimmed glass table anyway. Four houses and twenty five roommates later and I ought to know better, but watching someone crumbling, well, I couldn't just walk away. "What's going on Suzanne? You okay?" Clearly she wasn't.

"We broke up. Tony decided he was madly in love with some supermodel that's been all over him since his band went gold." Suzanne finally looked at me. She looked like a puppy after just getting kicked. Her straight, lifeless brown hair hung to her shoulders and hid too much of her face. Her flat brown eyes behind black, plastic-rim glasses were surrounded in red, her ashen cheeks streaked with wetness.

"Tony's an asshole, Suzanne." I tried to sound sympathetic. I'd never actually met the guy so I didn't want to totally slam him, especially if they got back together. "You are talented, smart, and adorable and he's blind if he can't see that." I kept my eyes on hers but she looked away, back out the window.

Only thirty, Suzanne was a brilliant singer and songwriter. She was a piano teacher for the money. Her unique sound was beyond standard rock or even punk and way too avant garde for the mainstream. She would forever be one of the background people you'll never know, but her sound will undoubtedly have a profound impact on music of the future. Of course Tony knew this, probably why he dated her. His band took Suzanne's original sound and made it commercial.

"But Tony promised to launch me. And now I'm back to nowhere, with no one. I'm back to being invisible." She looked back at me, pleading, scared, desperate, and looked away again.

Ouch. And I was suddenly so very grateful to Lee for saving me from obscurity, and the suffocating void my roommate was now trapped in. I watched Suzanne stare out the window. It was close to 1:30 in the morning by then. Exhausted from the drive, I tried to think of something to say to soothe her so I could exit the scene. "You're not invisible, Suzanne. And you are not alone. Besides friends and family who love you, you have your music. Engage with your muse. Let it steel you from the void. You know this. You don't need to be with Tony, or any guy to make it. Use all the intensity of your feelings right now and create a great tune that'll blow the doors off MCA. Tony and his band aren't the only players in town. This is L.A., not Pennsylvania. Practically everyone here is in, or connected to someone in music."

"And even if they're not, they think they are. Everyone out here is a musician or producer or director or writer or in 'The Industry.' It gets so tiresome. But Tony was the real deal. The Chili Peppers are hot right now. And with Warner Brothers repping them, it's likely they'll get a lot hotter with the publicity machine behind them." She glanced at me then seemed to disconnect, as if a thought suddenly occurred to her. "Do you think it makes me a whore that I care more about losing my chance at fame than I do about losing Tony?"

If Suzanne was a tramp then I was surely one too. I wouldn't consider dating Lee if he didn't make good money, enough to support a family. Even owing what he did in back taxes, he still made more than I ever would freelancing. And if, by some miracle I landed a man's position as a creative director in an agency, my salary alone— far less than any man would get— would never cover the cost of raising kids in the better school districts of L.A. But no matter how much Lee had or made, I wouldn't be with him at all if he was fucking every groupie in town. Several times over the past couple of years Suzanne had come home crying after allegedly catching him with another woman.

"So now you're the tramp when he's plastered all over the rags with a different woman on his arm every issue, and not one of them, in two years, has ever been you. Doesn't that tell you something, Suzanne? It should tell you a lot." I knew I sounded harsh but I felt mad at my roommate right then. "You're better off without Tony, even if all you wanted him for was his connections. And if that's really the case, there's a hundred more like him in this town so all is not lost." I stood up to indicate the conversation was over. The whole context of it irritated me. It shamed all women when we tolerated abhorrent behavior from men just to stay with them.

In my room I replayed my four new messages. Jon and my mom wished me a happy New Year. Lavonne had broken up with Joe again and wanted to know if I was available to talk soon. The last message was from Lee.

"Call me when you get home, just to let me know you're safe. The grapevine was a bitch, wasn't it?"

I crawled into bed and called him. "Hi."

"Hi. When did you get home?"

"About a half hour ago. When did you?"

"Few minutes ago. How'd you like the snow coming over the pass?"

"It was totally cool, like moving at light speed through a star field."

"I knew you'd love it. Was thinking about you going through it, that you'd think it was beautiful." I felt his smile, our connection through the line. "Well, I'm glad you're back safe. What are you doing tomorrow?"

"Laundry. What about you?"

"Same. Wanta play some ball, then do dinner?"

"Love to. What time do you wanta play?"

"Let's try for around 3:00, but it's usually crowded on Saturdays. I'll call for courts in the morning and let you know."

"Okay."

"Well, get some sleep. Have sweet dreams and I'll talk to you tomorrow. Bye."

"Sweet dreams. Bye." I held the phone after he disconnected and listening to the dial tone for what seemed like minutes, but it was probably more like three seconds before I hung up. I heard Suzanne go into her room, felt the weight of her sadness with her footsteps, and retrieved my journal.

1/3/92

Andy Warhol was wrong. Fifteen minutes of fame is only for the select few. Most of us live and die in obscurity.

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