Roc stayed up late into the night making lists. Uncle had insisted that no appearance of preparation was crucial, no goodbye notes, no tidying up of business. Still, Roc knew there’d be some essentials he’d need to have stashed in his little hideaway — guitars, clothes, favourite CDs, etc. There were people he needed to write to before he disappeared, without letting on why he was writing all of a sudden. Things to ask Uncle about the parachute stunt. It was sounding too easy, and Uncle knew that Roc couldn’t swim. He’d convinced his nervous client that this was critical to the success of the plan. He’d told Roc that boating accidents and drowning in general was definitely the way to go if you wanted to disappear. All you needed was to have an article of clothing wash ashore. “If someone spots you later, it’ll just be another Elvis moment,” he joked.
In his mind, Roc wrote a letter to Bobbie over and over, but what could he really say? I’m going to die next week, but don’t worry? Have a nice life? I did write “Swan Dive” for you, and just about every song on this bloody record, to be honest. At this, his heart hurt, but then he stopped himself and went down to the bar for a drink. The bartender was closing up but asked him what he’d like.
Settling in with a Dos Equis, Roc was absentmindedly munching on bar peanuts, thoughts far away, when he heard giggling as two cute young women, looking a little drunk, teetering on impossibly high heels and leaning on each other, came into the lobby. He recognized Marie and her girlfriend and reasoned that between them they could have caused a serious silicone shortage in Beverly Hills. Roc swung his chair around so that they wouldn’t see him in the bar as they passed.
“Why not me, Julie? Uncle says I don’t have to so much sing, but just to be cute.” Roc recognized Marie’s unmistakable accent and breathy tone.
Her friend Julie was looking for dirt. “So you’re getting it on with that old Buddha, are you, Marie?”
Marie giggled and said as the elevator doors opened, “He likes it when I lick his head.”
“Eeeuuww, barf,” her friend replied as they fell into uncontrollable laughter, and the elevator closed, leaving Roc shaking his head in revulsion. Just as unsavoury was the idea that Uncle now bought into the current wisdom that talent no longer mattered, that cup size, collagen, and snappy choreography could mask all manner of shortcomings in the musical department. Roc couldn’t blame Uncle for staying ahead of the curve, or at best right on it, but it was a reminder that he wasn’t in the same game as he used to be. He decided to go up to his room and surf the real estate sites for property in Big Sur, maybe download some photos if he saw something he liked to show Uncle tomorrow.