Track [10] “Haunting”/Halsey
My body was buzzing. I was a hive of bees that had just been kicked, and all this pent-up energy was pinging around inside my rib cage. I needed to fly. Sting. Swarm something.
Instead, I just peeled out of the Larsens’ driveway a little too fast for Ye Old Skeleton King, my 1997 stripped Jeep, whose wheels kicked up a shit-ton of gravel while the engine protested. Nearly spun out. That’s all I needed, a rollover. I couldn’t die in a fiery crash in front of Mad Dog’s house, where my father already waited with a glass in hand to celebrate. Too easy.
“Breathe,” I told myself, gripping the wheel as soft green light glowed from my dash. All I could see was Jane’s face. The shock in her eyes when I dropped the bomb about her and Eddie wanting to find an apartment… Why did I open my big mouth? If I could’ve erased everything that happened after Mama came outside and continued from that point, who knows what would have happened.
Maybe it still could?
Jane had come back into my life. Eddie was trying to destroy my life. And because I had no self-control, I was now trying to help him get the job done faster, apparently.
“Brought this on yourself,” I told the rearview mirror. “How’re you gonna fix it?”
I couldn’t tell my mother to call off the apartment hunt. It was too late for that; I could see it in her eyes when she had her mind made up about something. But if I did nothing, I was going to lose any chance I had to have any further normal conversation with Jane. And that’s all I wanted right now.
Well…
I tried not to think too hard about everything I wanted, or I really would roll the Skeleton King over on one of these rocky curves, and then we’d all end up back in a watery grave. The lake giveth, the lake taketh away.
If I was going to talk to Jane again without making the conversation go all finger-pointy and shouty, I’d need to figure out how to stop sabotaging myself. Get control of my emotions. Be a normal, polite person.
Let’s face it, I needed help. Advice. To get these fucking bees out of my body.
The woods around this side of the lake were dark and deep, and the wind sent chills under my shirt. I put on some nice, dark electropop and let my mind wander with the curve of the road. Halfway into town, I realized where I was going.
“Friend-o, we’re going to Moonbeam’s,” I told the Jeep.
I needed to make a pit stop first to find something he’d want. That took longer than I wanted. It was almost ten by the time I made it around the lake.
Moonbeam wouldn’t care. Up all night, sleep all day.
I texted him to let him know I was coming and parked the Jeep outside his lake house, which sat on the northeast side of Condor, just past where the Strip petered out into warehouses and rental cabins. Not ideal lakeside property. If there were a low rent side of town, this would be it, but there wasn’t, so it was just quiet and away from everything else.
Which Moonbeam liked because he was agoraphobic.
He needed to be as far away from the festival grounds as possible. Not just because of the crowds. He had his reasons.
His house was just a basic two-story, zero frills. I headed up the back steps that led to an enclosed deck overlooking the lake. Ivy covered a chain-link gate that was locked at all times, and there was a camera and a buzzer. He got his groceries delivered—everything, really.
I rang the buzzer and showed him what I had in my hand. “It’s me, man. Let’s trade.”
“Is that imported Curtis Mayfield?” a rough voice said. “Sweet Exorcist Buddha label?”
“Also got a German 1970 import of his first solo album,” I said, showing a peek at the second album I hid behind as a tease. Moonbeam had a soft spot for 1970s soul. “I need to look through that eighties punk crate you showed me a few weeks ago, and I want to see whatever new stuff you’ve picked up since I was here last time. Not the usual crap. No reissues.”
“Chasing rare wax, huh? Come in, my friend. Let’s trade,” an excited voice said through the speaker. He buzzed me in. I knew he would. Moonbeam was a longtime friend of my aunt Pari’s cousin. He’d done business with Victory Vinyl for decades—trade only. My grandpa Kasabian used to bring him weed from some guy in Humboldt County back in the early 2000s.
I pulled the door shut behind me and stopped to pet his two longhair cats, Peaches and Herb, who immediately rubbed their loose fur all over my jeans. The back part of his deck was covered and extended to his living room through a pair of doors that stayed open. His elaborate vintage stereo equipment was inside—he was all about hearing the authentic warmth of the wax—and hooked up to speakers out on the deck. Half his shabby living room furniture was out here too. My parents had a fancy open-air room at their villa with an outdoor kitchen near their lake dock, but this was not that.
“Let me see those,” he said, emerging from the house with two stacked record crates, flip-flops smacking against his heels. The big man was dressed in his usual poncho-and-shorts combo, and his long silver hair was tied behind his neck… longer silver beard covering his chest.
“What are you listening to?” I asked as I sat on a couch that looked out toward the twinkling lights of town. “Boz Skaggs? Turn this shit off.”
He set the crates down and groaned as he plopped across from me on a worn recliner. “Learn to love the Boz. I thought I taught you better than that. How’s Pari?”
“Busy,” I said, handing him the Curtis Mayfield records. “And before you ask, she doesn’t care that I’ve borrowed these. Officially I’m the store’s buyer now. They aren’t stolen.”
He was too enamored to care. “Damn. These are beautiful, Fen. No wear. You must want something important if you’re bringing me this,” he said, one brow shooting up. “And what’s up with you tonight?”
“Nothing.” Everything.
“Got a look about you. Did Zabel kick you out of her place? You can’t live here. I don’t need a roommate.”
“Jeez, no faith,” I complained, wedging one of the record crates between my knees to flip through the sleeves. “No one kicked anyone out. I’ve had… a major spiritual awakening.”
“Sounds serious. Does it involve drugs or a girl?”
“Not a girl. The girl. Ophelia,” I said, nudging my shoulder in his direction to remind him.
“The girl in the water? Mad Dog’s secret bastard?”
“That’s just a rumor, man. Anyway, she’s back in town. Staying at the lodge. Working for Velvet as her PA. Came into the store. Did not know me.”
“No shit?” He was truly surprised and understood the gravity of all this. I knew he would. I’d told him… too much about my problems. But he’d told me a lot about his, too. It was strange what you shared when it was past midnight and the lake was quiet. Besides, Moonbeam was easier to talk to than half the wet noodles I hung around back at school, who just wanted me to get them free festival passes and backstage access so they could make fools out of themselves.
“But it’s not all good. There’s a problem,” I told him. “It involves Eddie.”
“Always does,” he said, resigned to hear my pitiful story.
But once he had, he put the Mayfield records down.
“Go on,” I said, miserable. I’d lost my place in the record stack, getting riled up over Eddie again. “Tell me I screwed up.”
“Why are you asking me for advice about matters of the heart?”
“Because you understand how horrible love is,” I said.
That hit him, but he didn’t dwell on it. “Hey, I’m not trying to harsh your buzz, but, dude… you don’t know this girl. You barely even talked to her before she fell in the water—you’ve told me that before. Only person you know is the fantasy you’ve created in your head.”
“I’m not dumb. I can separate fantasy from reality. But I also know my own feelings. I’ve spent a lifetime with them. I’m telling you, an explosive thing happened between us when we met. Like, yes, I ranted at her, and there was shouting—she shouted back at me, okay? But after all that, on some kind of inner level, we had a connection.”
“Okay?”
“It was like… my gut knew something that my conscious brain didn’t understand. And now my head feels like it’s waking up for the first time, and I’m just… ugh. My nerves. They’re like bees in my chest.”
“Is that like ants in your pants?”
“I hate you. Truly. Fuck off.”
“Well, you’re making me nervous, so dial it back a notch.”
I blew out a long breath. “I just want to find out if my feelings match her feelings. You know? I want to get to know her.”
“Just realize that she may not want to get to know you.”
“Definite possibility,” I said, flipping through the record stack as I thought about how red her ears got when I mentioned Eddie and the apartment in front of Mama. A nice shade of hateful. “Why don’t you organize your records by artist like a normal person?”
He shook his head, pitying me. “How long before Eddie comes back?”
“Days. A week or two? Fuck, man, I don’t know. It’s that contract for the lease on the festival grounds. Dad won’t give up the lease and sell Condor to Live Nation or AEG. Serj Sarafian will go to his grave as the last independent concert promoter in California.”
He stared across the lake at the line of white lights moving down the Strip. “Festival used to be half the size. Whether your dad runs it or a conglomerate, it’s not getting smaller. And your family still makes money.”
“Not according to my dad. He loses millions.”
“His corporation loses millions. How much money does he need? You’re living in a barn and driving a Jeep with two hundred thousand miles on it. Aren’t you happy?”
“I’m fucking miserable, and you know it.”
“Does it have to do with money?”
I shook my head. “I just want Eddie to suffer. I don’t want to hurt my mom or the twins.”
“Look, kid,” he said. “You ‘just want’ a lot of things. Make a decision and stick with it. But stop scaring this girl away, popping off with your rants. You’re too dark, too.…” He gestured at me with his hand. “Whatever this new thing is. Lighten up. That’s why Eddie has a million girlfriends. You’re going to give me that evil eye of yours, but you could take notes from him.”
I’d rather chisel my own gravestone.
“You want some nice mint tea?” he said, pushing up from his chair. “I’m making tea. Soothes the soul. And whatever it is you’ve got going on here. Some kind of twisted brother-revenge, Stockholm syndrome, rescuer’s lust.”
“Shut the fuck up, man.” I sighed heavily. “But yeah, give me your hippie mint tea. Lots of sugar. I want my teeth to rot out while my soul is chilling.”
This was getting me nowhere, talking to Moonbeam. Maybe it was dumb to come out here. I forgot sometimes that he was too Middle Path with his advice. Take it easy, Fen. Don’t do anything dramatic, Fen. Cutting the brakes on Eddie’s car is a bad idea, Fen.
“Hey,” I called into the house. “You ever run across anyone who has problems remembering words? Something’s wrong with Jane. She understands what you say, but every once in a while, she’s kind of like Miss Sara, out at the gas station?”
“She has dementia?” he called back.
“No, she’s all there. It’s just that she’s trying really hard to find a word and will describe it instead of saying the actual word. You think she could have brain damage from when she hit her head during the fall into the dam?”
He flip-flopped around the kitchen counter as the kettle boiled. “I’ve read about near-drowning victims having speech problems. I think it’s the oxygen deprivation that damages a part of their brain that controls communication.”
“Shit,” I mumbled. “Is it permanent?”
“Don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?”
Hello. Trying my best! Which was more than I could say for his 1980s punk collection. No Black Flag to be found. But there was a rare twelve-inch by a Bay Area band that had some crappy artwork of a little boy trying to stand on his tiptoes to reach an old-fashioned pay phone on a street corner.
That’s when the bees in my body gave me a honey of an idea.
It was almost eleven. Probably too late, but I had to try. I took out my phone and called my mom. It rang too many times. I expected it to go to voicemail, when she picked up.
“Baby?” she said in a hushed voice. “Why are you calling so late? Is something wrong? Are you hurt? Where are you?”
“Mama, I’m fine. Are you back from Mad Dog’s? Need to ask you something.”
After a silence, her voice returned. “I’m listening. Be quick. Your father is in a foul mood.”
“What else is new? Can you get in touch with Mr. Zahn in the Philippines?”
Another hesitation. “Yes. I believe so.”
“Tell him that Live Nation would pay a higher lease for the festival grounds.”
“Fen…”
“Get him to call that guy from Live Nation out to his island in the Philippines to throw his hat in the ring along with Eddie.”
“Muddy a done deal? Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re sick of the business; you told Dad to sell the rights to the festival, and he wouldn’t—he went behind your back and got Mad Dog to invest money instead. And he’s sent Eddie there to sign a contract for show. Make Eddie do some actual negotiating. Is he just there to smile? Can’t contracts be signed on an app?”
“I will not sabotage your father’s work.”
“I’m calling in my marker, then.”
“Baby—”
“You said if I moved out, I could ask for one favor, no questions asked. I moved out and kept the peace. I did my part.”
“Is this about the girl?”
I hesitated. Moonbeam’s electric teakettle was beeping.
“Fen,” Mama warned. “You are being reckless. She isn’t a pawn.”
“I know that. Will you make the call?”
“Over a girl you don’t know? She may despise you.”
“But she might not.”
“And it could ruin the festival.”
“But it might not,” I said, hoping it would. “Eddie could come through and negotiate a better contract. The lawyers are both there. They won’t let him do anything… too dumb. Mostly it will just keep him busy. And distracted. Why should it be easy for him?”
She made a noise. “Ah, you are trying to buy more time with the girl before Eddie comes back. You are ruthless and wicked.”
“I learned it from watching you.”
“I will go to church and pray for you this weekend. Eddie hasn’t made it to the island yet. They’ve just arrived in Manila and won’t travel until tomorrow. He isn’t scheduled to come back for three weeks.”
Three weeks? That was a long time. Blood pumped faster into my blackened heart.
Mama made a tsking noise into the phone. “You could have asked me that, you know, but your problem is that you always use a nuclear weapon when a simple knife to the back would suffice.”
“I like to make sure my adversary is dead.”
“Eddie is your flesh and blood, and you aren’t at war. However, if I were to do what you’ve asked—and I have not agreed—keep in mind that I would have to tell your father.”
“No!”
“And fair warning—it will not stop me from showing Miss Jane an apartment.”
“What? Where?” I asked, heart hammering. “Mama?”
“Mm, maybe we’ll see you. It’s a small town.”
AHHH. I held the phone away from my face and briefly considered pitching it into the lake but stopped myself. I’d already sacrificed two other phones to rage under my current wireless contract. I couldn’t afford a new one again. “Mama—”
“Good night, my love. Don’t call again so late unless you are dead.”
Kind of felt like I already was. Mama wasn’t going to do anything about Eddie. I’d asked too much, too impulsively. Which meant he’d be back in three weeks. Or… he could be texting Jane right now and telling her to stay away from me, and maybe Jane really did like him, and I was reading all her signals wrong, and this was all pointless.
But the way she’d looked at me tonight…? I had to think there was a chance. I needed to see her again. If she told me to fuck off, then I’d leave her alone and be miserable forever.
“Tea’s ready,” Moonbeam said from inside the house. “Did you fix your problem?”
“No, I fucking did not.”
“Well, you tried.”
Did he know me at all?
If I only had Jane’s number! I couldn’t just keep showing up at Mad Dog’s. Sooner or later, that would get his security after me, because Mad Dog was on Team Serj. And no way in hell she was going to just show up at the record shop. I didn’t know where else to find her.
Hold up. Jane said she was working for Velvet. I knew exactly where to find Velvet on Friday afternoon. Same place everyone who was anyone in town would be. Not only that, but Velvet was making an official appearance as one of the judges.
If I could find Velvet, then there was an infinitesimal chance I’d run into Jane, too.
I’d risked more for less.
I texted Aunt Pari: Remember how I said I’d rather burn off all my own skin with a cigarette lighter than go to Battle of the Bands this year? Oops, jk. Looks like I’m gonna need that free pass after all. And the day off.
PS I stole two Curtis Mayfield records.