Roc slept late, the sleep of the dead, he thought wryly as he looked around the tiny bedroom above the studio. How many years had it been since he’d crashed here after an all-night session, too tired to drive, or more likely planning to wake up and jump back into work. He saw his guitar propped up in a corner underneath a poster from the first UK tour with the Hammersmith Odeon date in bright orange letters, the O representing the olive in the cocktail glass logo. Eddie had always been fastidious in his swag collecting, and Roc spotted an ancient “Pet Roc” from the first Japanese tour on the wall among the “All Access” laminates and limited edition t-shirts.
These would have to go soon if Roc was going to live in the present or whatever place in time he was inhabiting. The desert island discs were lined up beside a blaster next to a stack of towels under one of Eddie’s trademark post-it notes.
Welcome to the afterlife! Coffee and supplies in the kitchen. Check out your new patio.
Roc pulled on a pair of black jeans and a t-shirt and followed the smell of coffee. He recalled Eddie telling him last night about a warning light system he’d installed in case someone dropped by. It had sounded a bit like a Bond fantasy, but Uncle and Eddie would love that. At the height of last night’s drunkenness, they had gleefully described their trip to the spy shop on Sunset, and Uncle had proudly displayed his voice disguiser and monocular. The kitchen had more post-it notes about cup rinsing and the location of paper towels, and the fridge was stocked with Roc-friendly fare. Grabbing a coffee, his notebook, and guitar, he followed the note marked Patio — this way >>>, as if there was any other possible location than the roof.
Eddie had definitely gone to some effort in anticipation of Roc’s arrival. Surrounding a lounge chair, table, and umbrella ensemble was an arrangement of palms and jasmine. Purple bougainvillea covered the redwood fence that encircled the patio. Roc spotted a cellphone, a jar of pens, a remote, and another note from Eddie on the table pointing toward the plants. He hit “play,” and from speakers in the shrubbery came the opening of an old song of his called “Sky Child” from the second album, or was it the third? He listened till about the bridge, and recalling Frankie’s first experiment with the electric cello, muted the rest of the song, laughing.
The San Fernando valley had always represented “the other side of the hill,” and since the band had stopped recording at Eddie’s and Uncle had moved his office from that glorified treehouse in Laurel Canyon, Roc hadn’t seen too much of the valley. It was notoriously ten degrees hotter in the summer, with constant air quality alerts and a tacky bleakness that kept the chic-at-heart away. With few exceptions, fine dining was with a plastic fork, the parks were to be avoided, and the same five action flicks played at every mall. In short, a cultural wasteland and the ideal place for an allegedly dead rock star to disappear. That said, Eddie’s studio was tucked away in a quiet and green corner of Toluca Lake. A giant magnolia tree combined with the jasmine to do battle with the hydrocarbons that hovered over the valley like airborne sewage. There were hummingbirds and butterflies and fresh lemons most of the year. A distant siren was drowned by the beep of a trash truck backing up, then a plane landing at the nearby Burbank Airport. Relatively peaceful, thought Roc, as he listened to the sound of his breath and felt the clutter of recent days fall away. He picked up his guitar, noticing that Eddie had changed the strings, and strummed aimlessly, finding that place where ideas and emotions mingle, and sometimes become songs.
Roc’s songwriting reverie was broken by the purr of the cellphone on the table beside his notebook. Seeing Uncle’s ID, he picked up. “Eddie’s Afterworld. Better late than never.”
Uncle chuckled hoarsely in his “been on the phone yelling all morning” voice. “My brother, your career has never been this vital. I’ve only got a minute, but check this out — the label had two hundred thousand units of the CD on order before the business day began. They’re working on a commemorative limited edition of the single with a platinum-embossed swan on the label. The old Casey Kasem special from ’98 is bumping ER next week, and you won’t believe how cool this video is looking. The beach footage rocks. We’ve got a freeze of you spread-eagled just before you were wound back up, and it spins and floats like a butterfly. And I found a cutaway of Julie and Marie staring up at the sky, bosoms heaving with concern, that’ll break your heart. Anyway, I gotta jet, I want to prime Nick before the coast guard questions him, and I’ve got to start planning the memorial. Let me know if you have any thoughts. Listen, this is the only number I’ll call you from, okay? Later.”
Replacing the cell on the table, Roc leaned back in his chair, guitar still on his lap, and watched a hummingbird feeding in a bougainvillea blossom. He’d read somewhere that their wings flap about fifty times a second. How do they suspend themselves like that, seeming not to move in midair? he wondered.