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“OH, SHIT,” I MUTTER TO MYSELF as I approach our house after work. “How the hell did this happen?” I press my hand to my forehead as I pull into our driveway. I know Tim will go berserk when he gets home.
My day was bad enough. Baxter hates the rooster. They want to use a clam for the Made in Rhode Island logo. An icky gray clam with googly eyes on it. Who the hell thinks of a clam when they think of Rhode Island? Everyone thinks of Rhode Island Reds. I have the market research to prove it. But no. The client wants a shitty-looking clam on their product packaging. Nobody is going to get it—from far away, it looks like a gray lump of shit. Amanda flipped out on me about it, as if I can control the client’s opinion. Apparently it’s my job to control Baxter’s thoughts.
And now, chaos reigns at home. I managed to get rid of the hookers last night, but I have no idea how the hell I am going to make this go away. Surely the neighbors have noticed, and they’re probably not going to be happy about it, either. Hopefully they won’t call the cops. God, what if the press catches wind of this?
As I pull down the driveway, a crowd of people gathers around my car. I have to stop, just to avoid running anyone over. There has to be at least twenty to thirty people clustered on my front yard. They slap their open palms on the driver’s side window, trying to get my attention. I can feel them jostle the car, and I am afraid they’re going to break through the glass. How the hell did Hydra get through the ‘80s? I am sure this sort of thing happened all the time back then, and there were way more than twenty or thirty people. They must have had one hell of a security detail, not to mention car windows made of shatter-proof glass.
“It’s Brenda Dunkirk!” one female member of the crowd calls out. “She’s an old friend of Keith’s!” She holds up a picture that was taken at the Stone Yacht Club. It’s not a flattering picture: my ass is sticking out because, apparently, I was halfway to standing at the time the paparazzi stormed the restaurant. Not my best side.
She called me “an old friend of Keith’s?” Really? Then I suddenly realize: I don’t really have time to reflect on the ridiculous notion that Keith and I are old friends. The group of people swarms along the driver’s side. It’s absolutely terrifying. Are they going to climb on top of my car? Are they going to lift it from one side and tip it over? I honk the horn and gesture for them to get out of the way so I can pull my car all the way in. Thankfully, they part, and I am able to drive up to the house.
“Hi, Brenda!” A woman approaches me as I’m getting out of the car. I am starting to get sick of people knowing my name without my having introduced myself. It’s awkward. “Are they inside? Can I come in and meet them?”
“I don’t think so.” The crowd surrounds me, and my heart begins to race. I don’t have the security of the car anymore. This could get real bad real fast. “I really think you should leave, before I call the police,” I say, threatening. “This is private property.”
“But I have to go inside with you,” she insists. “Keith knows me.”
I don’t know what to say to this woman. Maybe Keith knows her, maybe he doesn’t. It’s not my place to be his bouncer. “Maybe you should call him then.”
“We don’t need a phone to communicate,” she says. “We’ve transcended beyond the telephone.” I consider asking, but I don’t really want to know. She pulls out a copy of Friendly Fire on vinyl from her tote bag. “Do you know the song on side two? The one called ‘Almost’? He wrote that one for me.” I am pretty sure he wrote it for Tamsen. But who am I to say?
I turn toward the house, but she keeps walking with me and talking. I stop, because I don’t want her to think that I am inviting her to follow me. My choices are to stand out here and talk to a complete psycho or have her follow me into the house. Either way, my options aren’t so great.
“He talks to me through the lyrics. It’s as clear as day. Look.” She pulls the liner notes out of the album. “It’s right there,” she says, pointing. She puts her finger on the stanza about a white dress and daisies in her hair. I am pretty sure I remember seeing a photo of Keith and Tamsen on their wedding day; that’s what she wore. “I wore that the first time I saw Hydra in concert. I was in the front row. It was before this album ever came out. He wrote it for me.”
I swear, I’ve become a freak magnet. People often tell me their life story, uninvited. How do I get this woman to stop talking to me? I am getting kind of nervous: the more she talks, the more determined she gets. What exactly will she do? Break a window and crawl in through it so she can finally meet her soul mate? I want to tell her that I want to go inside, but she’s still yammering away.
“But wait, there’s more.” She flips over the liner notes and points to another stanza. I need to shut her down. It’s entirely possible that she’s got Hydra’s entire discography in that tote bag; this conversation could last for hours—and I’ll never get those hours back.
“I have to go now.” I turn my back on her and walk into the house.
I expect her to say something like, “And now I’ll burn the place down. You should have listened to me.” But she doesn’t. I hear her mumble, “Okay. Later, then.” Maybe she’s one of those mild-mannered psychos.
As I make my way to the back door, I hear the sound of guitar and drums from behind the garage door. Jeff and Gill have started practicing. I wonder if they know there is a crowd of fans outside. I look up and notice that the curtains are drawn in all of the downstairs windows. The band is inside; they have to know these people are outside of my house. I am kind of annoyed that they haven’t done anything to get these insane people off my front lawn. Though I am not sure what can be done at this point. Is it the right thing to call the cops? Will that wreck Tim’s election prospects?
Once the crowd hears the music, they start cheering. Thankfully, they lose interest in me. “This is a new one! We’re hearing a new one before anyone else in the world!” They dance and high five as I sneak into the house and lock the door behind me.
“What the hell is going on out there?” I call out as I get inside the house. Vito is pacing in the living room; likely unsure how to handle the vibration in the floor from Jeff’s bass drum. I peek out the curtains and wonder how I am supposed to walk my dog with those freaks outside. Then I see Keith, sprawled and snoring on the couch; a half-empty bottle of vodka and a glass are on the coffee table. Crumpled balls of paper litter the floor. Gee, looks like our conversation on the stairs this morning was very inspirational and had a great impact. Not.
I’m kind of thinking of sneaking a shot of Keith’s vodka when Toni comes in. I tilt my head toward the front of the house. “Is it always like this, with people staking out the band?”
“I can’t say I’ve ever seen that,” she says. “I’m kind of scared to go outside.” She pulls back a curtain and peers out. “You ought to have Greg walk Vito.” She tips her head toward my dog pacing by the door. Of course, he has to go out right now, when there are rabid fans waiting to pounce on anyone coming out of the house. Nonetheless, Toni fetches Greg, and he takes Vito out.
“They want to come inside to meet the guys,” I say, raising my eyebrows. “There’s one out there who swears Keith is writing songs just for her.”
“Trisha’s out there?” she asks. “That girl gets around.”
“You know her name? Aren’t you concerned about safety? She’s a fucking weirdo. Please tell me that you’ve called the police.”
“No, I haven’t. Erik told me not to.”
“Why? Toni, I am freaked out. Those people know my name. They surrounded me when I pulled into the driveway. Do you have any idea how scary that is for me? Are they going to sleep out there?”
“I hope not.” Toni watches the die-hard Hydra fans playing Frisbee on the front lawn. Vito chases after it until Greg calls him back. Concern crosses Toni’s face, and I’m pretty sure she’s scared, too. “Erik said he’d handle it.”
“Tim’s going to be so mad when he gets home,” I say. Then I gesture to the living room. “So, what’s up with Keith? I have to say that this is the most interesting thing I’ve ever come home to—a crowd on my lawn, and a drunken bassist passed out on my couch.” I nod toward Keith. “So, is that how he always writes lyrics?”
Toni rolls her eyes then goes to the kitchen and fills a glass under the tap. She goes into the living room and replaces the glass of vodka with the glass of water. Then, back in the kitchen, she dumps the vodka into the sink and tosses the empty bottle into the recycling bin.
Erik comes in through the back door; I can hear the crowd calling out to him until he squeezes inside and slams the door on the noise. He sets his iPhone on the counter. I’m impressed. That must mean he really wants to talk to me. “Brenda, before you say anything,” he says, gesturing toward the door, “I will handle the situation outside.” He turns to his phone before speaking again. “Oh, and who’s Portia?”
“Why? She’s Tim’s mom. Did she call here?”
I’ve lost Erik to his iPhone, so Toni speaks up. “No, she came over here this afternoon. Does she do that much?”
“Not really,” I say. “Were you here? What did she want?”
“Well, she came by to drop something off.” She points to a book of fabric swatches on the kitchen table. What the hell is she going to do to my house now? The swatches have Antonio Diego’s logo on them; he’s a big shot interior designer who has his own TV show—kind of like a male, Latino Martha Stewart. Has she hired him to redecorate our house? Just what I need. Why doesn’t Tim ever tell me about these things?
Oh, crap—Tim! Toni is peering out the window. I join her and watch the crowd approach Tim’s truck the same way they swarmed my car. I can see his face through the truck’s windshield, a blatant expression of disgust crossing his face. He gets out and forces his way through the crowd.
“It’s Tim!” someone screams.
“Tim! Can we come inside with you?”
“They’re in there, aren’t they?”
“Are you kidding me with this?” Tim yells. “No, you can’t fucking come inside. Get off my lawn!”
Out the window, I watch Tim trying to convince the crowd to leave. Yeah, good luck, pal. Trisha approaches Tim, and I see him glance toward the house with longing. She looks up at him with a twinkle in her eye; maybe someday she’ll think his campaign trail speeches were written for her.
Erik notices Keith on the couch. “Keith’s pissed, eh?”
“What is he pissed about?” I ask.
“Because he drank too much,” he says slowly, as if I am intellectually challenged.
“Huh? Oh! Here, we say that someone’s pissed when they’re angry,” I say.
“Well, he’s that, too.” Erik shrugs. “Doesn’t matter, so long as he’s writing.”
I wonder how long Keith has been passed out on the couch and exactly how long it will take for him to write lyrics for an entire album. Is he going to get drunk every day? Does that speed up the song writing process or slow it down? Hydra has been in the house for about three weeks at this point, and I am starting to get a bit antsy about when they’ll be done. I know Tim’s definitely over it; this is especially so, now that we have a fan club on the front lawn.
Toni is writing tomorrow’s schedule on the whiteboard as Tim comes in the back door and locks it behind him. “What the hell is that all about?” he asks, gesturing out the door.
“I’ll take care of it,” Erik replies while thumbing his iPhone screen. Not for the first time, I wonder if he does that when he doesn’t want to fully participate in an uncomfortable conversation.
“You’d better,” Tim says to him. “I don’t want more people sleeping on my lawn.” This time, I don’t blame Tim for being irritated. I’m irritated, too; and I’m sure I won’t hear the end of it from him tonight, when we’re alone in our room.
Erik pulls out some stakes and yellow caution tape from a box in the living room then heads for the door. Did he go to Home Depot and get that stuff today? Just how long have these jokers been on my front lawn?
“What are you doing with that?” Tim asks.
“Now that they know where we are, they aren’t going to leave,” Erik says. “And God knows how many other people they’ve told. Over the years, I’ve found it easier to give them a section they can hang out in, so they won’t be disruptive. Most fans are respectful of that. It’s when you tell them to leave that things get nasty.”
“No. I don’t think you understand,” Tim says. “I don’t want strangers camped outside my house. What if they stampede and try to storm into my house?”
“Stampede? They’re not bulls, Tim. In all my years managing Hydra, that’s never happened. I’ve been in this situation many times. They want to be close by, but these people don’t have the courage to come up to the house. If they did, they would have done it by now.”
“What do you mean, they don’t have the courage?” I ask Erik. “They came up to my car, and they know my name. These aren’t normal people, and honestly, I’m concerned for my safety.”
“Right now, they don’t have any boundaries,” Erik explains. “So they’re roaming free out there. Once we corral them and give them some rules, you’ll see that they won’t be a bother.” I can tell Erik is trying to comfort me, but I’m not convinced.
“So, are you suggesting that we let them stay in their little designated parking area?” Tim asks.
“Yes. I’ve learned that, in a way, you just have to give the fans some of what they want, and they’re satisfied. They’ll hang around for a few days, and then they’ll get bored. You’ll see. You won’t even notice them after a while, and by next week, they’ll be gone.”
Tim and I exchange glances. I can tell he isn’t buying it; neither am I. But what else can we do? We don’t have experience in this kind of situation; Erik does. We pretty much have to trust him on this.
“Maybe Erik’s right,” I say to Tim. “I mean, if we tell them to leave, then they might trash our house. They’re here now, so I don’t really see what else we can do.” Though now I am starting to wonder if we can ever leave the house unattended with those people out there. What if Erik is wrong? What if, when we are at work and the band is at Del’s, the fans break in and try to score some memorabilia? What about Tent City? Nothing is secure out there. I imagine the people living in those tents will probably have to lock up their valuables in the garage, while everyone is out of the house.
“Fine,” Tim says, gritting his teeth. “But when I agreed to do this, I didn’t think I’d have to deal with screaming fans outside. I just thought you guys would crash here and that would be it. If they stray from their parking area just a little bit, I am calling the cops.”
“Tim,” Erik says to him, “you’ve allowed a rock band to stay in your house. What did you think would happen?” Good question—though I don’t think either of us imagined this. “Trust me, calling the cops would be infinitely worse on you. If you piss off rabid fans, they get ugly. Now, may I please borrow a mallet from your toolbox?” He holds up the caution tape and stakes. “I’ve got some crowd control to do.”
Tim turns to find the swatches on the kitchen table. “Oh, so my mother’s been here. Now she knows that Hydra’s here, too. Great. Can’t wait to answer that phone call.” He sighs.