Two Years Later
Roc’s stomach landed hard a few minutes after the chopper that brought him from Monterey to Lompoc did, and it started acting up again as the taxi approached the prison entrance. He reread the visitor regulations:
Persons who are provocatively dressed may be denied the privilege of visiting.
Okay on that front.
Appropriate embracing, kissing, and handshaking by immediate family members within the bounds of good taste at the beginning and termination of visiting period only.
No problem with that one.
One handkerchief, a wedding band (no stones), eyeglasses. Clear plastic change purse or Ziploc bag.
Check.
A comb.
Not likely. At the entrance, he checked his refection in the no-doubt bulletproof glass and thought of how changed he would appear. His close-cropped greying hair and white-flecked beard effectively concealed the once-familiar face, but he wondered how it would look to someone who knew him well. Roc involuntarily clenched his jaw, and his body tightened into a knot going through the security procedures. He looked at the ultraviolet stamp on his hand as he was being escorted to the visiting area and realized that he had no idea what he was going to say to Karl Breit, California prisoner # 34721.
He found Uncle perched in the lotus position, apparently permitted, on a picnic bench under a eucalyptus tree in what seemed to Roc a surprisingly open, relaxed visitor area. Families gathered, laughter was heard, and the guards projected a relaxed scrutiny as Uncle spotted Roc and waved him over.
“Hey.”
“Hey yourself. Thanks for coming.” Before Roc could reply, Uncle gestured toward the far wall. “If you want a drink, you’ll have to use the vending machines. Have you got change?” He got up to greet his friend. “How are you?”
Roc hesitated, not knowing if a handshake was allowed. “I’m fine. Good to see you. You look great.”
“Thanks. You too. I dig the grey. Yeah, confinement suits me, I guess.”
Roc nodded at the attempt at humour. “Looks like. Listen, I feel bad for not coming sooner, Uncle. I followed your legal woes in the L.A. Times. The days just seem to run together, you know.…”
“No problem, man, I know what you mean,” a serene Uncle smiled without irony. “Hey, I know congrats are in order, my brother, got a picture?”
“Of course,” It was Roc’s turn to grin. He reached into his Ziploc and pulled out his favourite shot of Bobbie and the baby.
Uncle nodded, smiling broadly. “Gorgeous.” He paused and added, “Cute baby too. What’s his name?”
Roc winced but ignored the Rodney Dangerfield moment. “Her name. Cassidy. We dress her in blue to confuse people.” He marvelled at how nothing had changed except the location and the wardrobe.
“Did you see Danny’s little guy?” Roc shook his head. “Oh yeah, I guess you wouldn’t exactly be in touch. Looks like Junior Buddha in overalls.”
“I’m happy for them. I’m not in touch with anyone, really, except Eddie; it’s best that way.”
Uncle shifted in his chair but maintained his guru posture, showing none of the old discomfort, Roc noticed.
“I’ve got a guy here who’s a miracle worker.” Uncle caught Roc’s expression. “No, it’s not like that; he’s in for malpractice. Something about hypnosis and a Beverly Hills socialite who left his office thinking she was a flamingo, I don’t know. Anyway, I’ve never felt better.”
Roc wondered at Uncle’s seemingly bottomless good cheer. “Frankie and Barry stepped in it, though.” Uncle’s voice took on a conspiratorial tone. “They were playing that big Chinese festival, Wallapalooza, back in March.” He paused and cleared his throat. “Did you know I’m still managing them? Yeah, Candy’s holding things down at the office until I get back. We’ve got a little hole-in-the-wall in Studio City, keeping costs down, you know. Anyway, The Cocktails thing … so they’re playing this historic festival, and bottom-line — great wall, shitty acoustics. The boys couldn’t hear a thing, so they just kept turning up to ear-bleeding levels and thought that the crowd screaming in pain was just getting into it. You can imagine — power got cut, they got yanked, interrogated by the Chinese police, charged with ‘inharmonious social activity,’ and sent home, coach.”
Trying to look sympathetic, Roc couldn’t contain his smile as Uncle just kept rolling. “Hey, do you remember that little prick Chad Sparx from MTV?” He read Roc’s face. “Yes, I guess you would. Well. He came to my office the day after the concert when all hell was breaking loose and ambushes me with his cameraman, accusing me of plotting to murder you in his stoner Geraldo style. I wanted to tell him the truth, but in those days I’m not sure I knew how to. He had the registration from Marie’s gun in my name, it was crazy.” It was like Uncle was clearing the cobwebs from his memory. “I guess you haven’t heard about Marie.” Roc listened for a wistful note but couldn’t find one. “No, why would you? Well, after the El Rey fiasco, for which I am eternally sorry for so many reasons, she and my old BFF Justin bolted for his old man’s island, Bonaire, or some place that sounds like a vintage Chevrolet. I did help Sparx get Justin’s label gig — that seemed to cool his tabloid ardour — who knew there was a wannabe corporate lackey under that tie-dyed t-shirt?”
Roc thought back to the El Rey show for the first time in a while, with the old mix of nostalgia and horror. The memory of finding himself on Wilshire Boulevard in a crowd of look-alikes was beyond disorienting. The fact that Eddie, along with Bobbie, was able to find him and take him back to the studio was a miracle. The depth of Uncle’s deception in preventing Roc’s comeback had been shocking at the time, but like everything else about the man, it could be explained, if not forgiven. Taking in Uncle’s surroundings today, Roc knew he had let it all go; he’d had to in order to make this trip.
“So no surprise, following an attack of domestic boredom, Marie heads for Mustique, where her papa was shooting a Ski-Doo commercial, I think it was.” Uncle sounded like he’d been saving up these stories for this particular audience. “Of course, he’s delighted to see his little praline, and at a party that night he introduced her to Robbie Williams. Later on, they’re snogging on the beach, Robbie and Marie that is, and she cold-cocks a local paparazzo, which lands them all in jail. Next day, they wrote a song about the whole thing, cut it at Robbie’s villa, and now EMI wants to restart her career, have her open for some French Spice Girls act. I know all this because she called me when she lost her luggage at De Gaulle like nothing had happened with us. It never ends, eh?”
Roc was feeling disoriented and grounded himself by looking around at the visitor scene, couples holding hands on tabletops, not-so-subtle security cameras everywhere, and a warm breeze blowing through the eucalyptus trees. Uncle seemed to be winding down, and a silence arrived at last. “Look, I’m sorry.”
“No, no,” Uncle cut him off, hand raised. “I mean, I’m sorry too. Let’s just let all that stuff ride, okay?”
“I mean about you being here. I gotta say this. Emma would never have pursued the financial stuff to this point. She was protective of me and wanted everything on the up and up … and I know Tabby wouldn’t have wanted this either. I think once the lawyers started down that road …”
Uncle held his hands out and tilted his head in the “everything is under control” gesture that Roc knew too well. “Roc. Roc. No. It was tax evasion in the end. Strange Savage stuff. Justin evaporated, and I had to go down, simple as that. Look, I’m out in forty-three days.”
“Really? That’s great.”
“And … I’ve found this incredible Goth country band in here. I’m trying to arrange for them to record in the piggery — there’s a farm here, right — before they get out. It’ll be a better story.”
“Amazing.” Roc smiled, relieved.
“Listen, I don’t know what your plans are, but I’d always be there to help you take things to the next level. Could be better than the old days.”
Roc took a deep breath and looked across at a burly guy reading to a toddler. He wanted to formulate a kind but firm reply to his old friend, but Uncle read the pause and jumped in. “Ah, hey, there’s time for that. Listen, it’s great to see you. What are you doing? Writing? Changing diapers full-time?”
Roc considered telling him about his new gig but thought better of it. “Oh yeah, lots of both. Gardening.” He saw Uncle’s eyes widen. “Really. Bobbie and I like to dig in the dirt together, and we’re watching the migration of the monarchs these days. They love Big Sur.”
Uncle sat and listened calmly. Roc wondered if he was thinking about his lack of freedom. “We go whale watching this time of year, and Bobbie’s very involved in pelican rescue. Don’t laugh, but there’s a big bird-watching festival at Morro Bay. I think I got interested when I was incarcerated at Eddie’s in Toluca Lake.”
Normally, a call or some random business concern would have cut into this conversation long ago. He saw Uncle looking down, blinking, and didn’t know what to say. He had nothing to offer — no future rendezvous, no professional plans, no caustic remarks about Uncle’s love life.
“Sorry,” Uncle barely whispered. “I’m happy for you. I’m out of here soon enough, and I’ve had time to consider a few things, values, priorities.” He paused, and his tone brightened. “My buddy Delray’s been here every week.” Roc tried to conceal his distaste for the ‘cowboy dude.’ “I know what you think, but he’s been working on himself big time; he’s got a new band, the Divinos. Anyway, I’m sure you don’t want to hear about this.”
Uncle got up abruptly, looking at the clock on the opposite wall. “Got to get to my gig; I’m teaching phone hacking.” He lowered his voice. “Very useful around here. We make these things called ‘cheese boxes’ for looping calls. Keeps me out of trouble.”
Unthinkingly, Roc embraced Uncle, but no one seemed concerned. “Good luck, man. I’m sure Ed will keep us in touch.”
Uncle just nodded and signalled to the guard that the visit was over.