Forty-Seven

“Seventeen minutes on the left hand side of eight bells here at K-Ed, the rock of the valley, with another instant classic-classic-classic.” Eddie’s disc jockey intro gave way to the music coming from the control room.

Roc, Bobbie, Emma, and Stick sat in a circle on one of the blankets used for dampening the bass drum, amid take out containers, plates, and drinks. Stick played chopsticks on his knee as one of Roc and Stick’s newest songs played back over the big studio speakers mounted above the window to the control room. Emma bounced along to the music, aglow with nervous energy. Roc and Bobbie sat close together, exchanging knowing looks now and then, occasionally whispering in each other’s ear.

As the song crescendoed, Roc and Stick toasted with glasses of red wine while Emma and Bobbie talked. “She named me after Emma Goldman, a true fighter, my mom always said. ‘If voting changed anything, they’d make it illegal,’ that’s pure Emma.”

“What is it with you two and the quotes?” Roc asked Emma and Stick in amusement before being distracted by the music. “Oh … listen, I love that coda,” he said to his co-writer. “I think it’s my favourite part of the song, even if you only hear it once at the end.”

“Yeah, totally cool,” replied Stick, nodding as the girls resumed their conversation.

“Well, my dad wanted to call me Ambrosia, but my mom vetoed that, said it sounded like a stripper.”

“I like Bobbie Jean,” said Emma. “It suits you. Very sweet, southern, strong.” She picked up a take-out box, peered inside, and curled up her nose before putting it back down.

“Thanks. Of course, the boys at school called me Robert if I got tough with ’em. My mom’s favourite singer was Bobbie Gentry, do you know her?”

“‘It was the third of June, another sleepy dusty delta day,’” sang Roc, who’d been listening in.

“Yup, that’s my birthday, so Mama said it had to be.” Bobbie put her hand on Roc’s shoulder. “I’ve missed hearing you sing, you know.”

The voice over the speakers drowned them out, booming with reverb. “I’m gonna rock my way right outta here, kids. Back at you tomorrow. And if you’ve been listening in your car, thanks for the ride!”

The group picnicking on the studio floor groaned in unison at Eddie’s sign-off. As the music subsided, Emma cleared her throat authoritatively. “I want to officially welcome you all to the first meeting of the Roc Molotov comeback committee,” she continued through the laughter, “and I’ll keep my opening remarks as brief as possible.” Roc buried his head in his hands. “Should any of today’s measures come to a vote, I remind you that the late Mr. Molotov will have to abstain.” Roc peered through his fingers, amused at his daughter’s assertiveness. “The charter calls for us to use all means possible to resurrect …”

“Uh, poor choice of words,” Stick interjected to laughter.

“Okay, restore the career of the artist to his rightful place, among the living, with all the rights that this affords.”

“Hear, hear!” Eddie stood at the studio door, smiling.

“Okay, okay, I know where this is going, and I appreciate it, and don’t think I haven’t thought about all of this,” Roc jumped in. “You’re welcome to question what led me to be holed up in a tiny room above a studio in Toluca Lake with a guitar and a dozen pairs of black jeans, but I have to take responsibility for my own choices.”

“But Roc, whose idea was this whole thing?” Bobbie asked.

“Uncle!” said Stick, Eddie, and Emma in unison.

“But I agreed,” Roc pointed out, “and the legal issues with me becoming undead would kill me.” The laughter was subdued in response to his joke. “I don’t plan to be here forever,” he said, indicating the studio. “I’d love to perform again, but I gave that up willingly. It doesn’t mean I can’t have a life.” He took Bobbie’s hand.

“You can have it all, Dad; that’s why God invented lawyers.” Emma jumped in. “We just need to find the right time and place to make it happen.” There was group agreement, and they all turned to look at Roc for his response.

“I’ll think about it,” he smiled. “But, like it or not, Uncle will have to be involved in this,” he continued over groaning. “This has been an incredible day. Thanks to all of you.” He stood up and helped Bobbie to her feet. “There’s someone I’ve got to spend some time with.”

As they left the studio, Emma leaned on Stick’s shoulder and sighed. “The most amazing day of my life, that’s for sure.”

“More amazing than your first Maureen’s Ankle show?” he asked with mock seriousness.

She ignored him. “You should have seen them on the beach. I cried my eyes out just watching.”

“Yeah, I can imagine,” said Stick, then assuming a daytime TV announcer voice, “Hallmark presents … a rock ’n roll reunion.” Emma rolled her eyes as he went on. “I’m seeing slowmo, I’m hearing maybe a solo cello, or ... no, oboe, like in ‘Peter and the Wolf,’ what do you think, Dad?”

Eddie shook his head, turned on the overhead lights, and started picking up the takeout boxes on the studio floor. Emma punched her boyfriend on the shoulder before jumping on top of him and kissing him.

“I just love your new songs, Roc.” Bobbie sat on the bed with the blankets pulled around her while Roc stood on the porch listening to the sounds of the night.

“Hey, I thought you were asleep.” He came back into the room and found a spot at the end of the small bed. “Thanks. Yeah, working with Rich has been really cool. It’s opened me up creatively, I think.”

“But you’re there in all those songs. Is anyone ever going to hear them?”

“I don’t know what to say about that. I’m just enjoying creating them right now. I guess I’ll think about it later, or just give them to Uncle to include on the archives CD.”

Bobbie pulled the blankets a little tighter and nodded, keeping to herself any thoughts that would spoil this night she had thought would never happen.

“There is one other song that we didn’t play tonight in the studio. It’s not mixed yet, but I think it’s one of the best of the lot.” Roc stroked Bobbie’s leg through the bedding. “You know the night when I saw you at the 7-Eleven?” She arched a brow. “I was pretty freaked out that night. I mean, it was my first time out of this building in weeks, and that was strange enough, but then … well, I got lost on my way back here, and I just wandered the streets in the neighbourhood, hoping to see something familiar, amped up about being out, but like a scared kid, kinda panicky, and I started getting this song idea while I was walking around. By the time I finally recognized Eddie’s street, I’d pretty much written the whole thing in my head, so I called Rich and Ed, and we cut it in one pass as soon as they got here.” He got up and picked up his guitar, then sat back down on the end of the bed. “We still have to work on it; I needed a little distance before digging back into the track. Anyway, do you want to hear it?”

Bobbie just nodded sleepily as Roc started strumming the opening chords. He sang,

“Am I fading from the picture

Was I ever really here

Am I falling through the trapdoor

As you watch me disappear …”

Bobbie felt a shiver race down her arms and she huddled further into the blankets. Roc closed his eyes and continued with a much softer version of “Here But I’m Gone” than the one he had recorded the night it was written.

Bobbie leaned across the guitar and kissed him at the end of the song. “By the way, I almost keeled over that night at the 7-Eleven, but that’s all right.” She smiled indulgently, “It’s amazing, honey. I love it. It’s not like anything I’ve heard you do before.”

“Thanks. Yeah, I’m not sure where it came from.”

“‘I’m here but I’m gone,’” Bobbie quoted. “I reckon it sounds like someone who feels cut off from what he loves. ‘Am I fading from the picture. Was I ever really here.’ That’s the lyric, right?”

Roc nodded, looking down at his guitar, thinking about the meaning behind what he’d written. Bobbie spoke softly. “You’re here now, aren’t you?”

“I want to be,” he said, looking up at her. “I really want to be.”