Roc sat distractedly strumming his guitar without realizing he was playing the chords to “Swan Dive,” the current single from the new album. The TV was on the nature channel with the sound off, and an untouched room service tray sat on the coffee table. Having lived at the Sunset Lagoon for the last three years or so, Roc knew the menu a little too well. Sure, they’d make whatever he asked for, but he couldn’t think of anything and had told them to surprise him. They had, and the julienne of jicima and mung beans with a pomegranate drizzle languished untouched.
“Standing at the edge I leaned into the sky
Held on to the air and closed my eyes
This is my swan dive into you
And freefall is all I can do
This is my swan dive.”
Roc sang so softly, the words barely took shape. Suddenly he realized what he was singing, and snapping out of his trance, he put the guitar down on the bed and went over to the window. He looked out on a grove of acacias and a flowering magnolia tree surrounded by birds of paradise, with a little waterfall bubbling in the centre. The sounds coming from the hotel pool on the other side of the building were indistinguishable, floating in and out on the breeze.
His thoughts drifted back to the first time he met Bobbie. He’d been waiting to turn into Backpages Bookstore on San Vicente, and she’d driven that ridiculous bubble-gum-purple rent-a-car, the one that looked like a sneaker, into the back of his Lexus. He’d been more surprised than anything, certainly not injured, but he recalled taking a couple of breaths before climbing out of the car, ready for the inevitable exchange of interpretations, unpleasantries, and ultimately insurance agent numbers. When he’d helped her emerge from the crumpled driver’s side door, she’d been clutching a cellphone and wearing a peach-coloured sweat suit, along with most of a mocha frappuccino. She had long, tied-back chestnut hair and soft brown eyes. When she’d started her apology so quickly in that accent, which was at its most languid in those days, saying that she “reckoned” it was all her fault, and she hoped he wasn’t too “tore up” about it, then thanked him for helping her out ’cause the door was all “cattywampus,” he’d started laughing.
She looked shocked at his reaction, but then he straightened up enough to get the cars off to one side of the road and suggest they discuss the situation over lunch at Staccato across the street. It came out, over grilled vegetable salad for her and penne arrabiata for him, that she’d arrived recently from a small town in Alabama, had found a little apartment in Santa Monica, was doing whatever she could to make the rent, didn’t want to be an actress or a model, liked jogging and old movies, and having been raised on a diet of singers named Merle, Buck, and Lefty, had no idea who Roc Molotov was. He went from charmed to smitten by dessert, and she agreed to let him drive her up the coast the next day. He called the car rental company and dropped her at her apartment.
That was the past, he reflected darkly, sitting down to open his email. The “I love you” message he deleted without reading, missing Bobbie’s pained explanation for the previous day’s misunderstanding. There was one from Danny, The Cocktails drummer.
Hey Molo: Long time. How’s it hanging? Everything’s good with the guys. Gwen’s got a bun in the ov, thought you’d like to know. Can you imagine me covered in pee and pureed carrots? (Roc could not)
Hope you can make it to the Whiskey. Have you seen our vid? Love to jam some time.
Double
With some surprise and a little hesitation, he opened an e-mail from miaoumiaou@hotmail.com. Tabatha, the one that got away, and mother to the daughter who refused to recognize his existence.
Roc,
I’m going to Italy with the museum and may stay on and meet James in Geneva. Would you have your accountant direct deposit to Emma’s account? She’s old enough to handle her own finances now anyway. Did she thank you for her birthday present? I took it with me when I drove up to Vassar for the party. Hope you’re well.
best, Tabbie
Roc sighed and closed his eyes before opening the next one from huskiefan254@minniemail.com.
Hi dear,
It’s your mother, remember me? How are you? Have you finished your new record? You know they built the pyramids in less time than it takes you to write a song these days. Ha ha! There’s lots going on around Duluth as usual. Your Aunt Denise and I went to the Mountie Art Exhibition at the Tweed Museum and there were some lovely paintings, although we did wish for a few less Mounties. Did you know there was a Mountie Barbie and Ken? You remember Douggie Grimsrud, well he was charged with operating a canoe intoxicated. I didn’t know you could get nailed for that, they must be down on their quota. At least they dropped the charge of waving a paddle in a threatening manner. He was just upset about his old lab drowning in Rice Lake last month I think. Well I’ve got to go, the Huskies are playing tonight. Could you hurry up and send those posters for the rec center fundraiser?
I love you,
your mother, Winnie
Roc smiled and made a note to have Uncle send the posters. He was about to delete one from someone he didn’t recognize, along with the usual virus warnings, offers for a cheap mortgage and penile enlargement, when he realized it was from Justin Savage. Roc’s reaction went quickly from quizzical to stunned anger as he took in the meaning of the almost incomprehensible email. He sat back in his chair with a feeling of revulsion at the business he was in before forwarding the email to Uncle and shutting down the computer. Fucker couldn’t even spell.