Playing for Julia (17 page)

* * *

Ali is practically tap-dancing on the ceiling.   The editor at
Rags
bought two of her photographs.

“Two of them,” she
tells me, gleefully.  “One was actually a candid photo of a woman I saw in Golden Gate Park. She was wearing tons of costume jewelry and she had painted her feet, too. Thankfully, she was more than willing to have her picture taken.  I took some shots of her, and then took some more of her feet, but the editor decided against the ones of the feet. They were too exotic for her taste. The other photo is of Charli’s friend.  I had dressed her in a look that was sort of fantasy-ish, and took the photo at Washington Square with the church in the distance.  They’re both going to be in the next edition.”

“
Ali, this is fabulous!  Is
Rags
paying you well?”

“Not a lot, but at least it is something and I’ll have
a published photo credit to my name.  I probably would have been willing to do it for free, just to get the photo credit.”

Then I get an idea. “You know, we use freelance photographers at
Voices
sometimes.  I think I should introduce you to Dan. He makes those kinds of decisions for us.  And I can put you in touch with Cathy over at that weekly in the East Bay.  She could tell you who makes the photo decisions over there.  I suspect it is probably their art director, but she would know for sure.”

“Julia, that would be
so great!”  Then she slumps back on the blue sofa and sighs:  “How I would love to be a photographer full time.”

“Well, don’t quit your job yet.”
  I smile at her.  She is really happy.

“I won’t.  But I am going to be out photographing the street life in San Francisco every chance I get.”

This kind of bubbling emotion is a surprise coming from Ali.  She must be even more eager to move on to a new career than I had realized.  I have been so preoccupied with thoughts about Austen and me that I haven’t paid much attention to what has been going on in her life.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Hi Julia.  Long time, no see.”

I turn around at my desk to see
Mark sticking his head into my office. He has a big smile on his face and his brown eyes are twinkling.

“How about lunch?”

“Sure.  That sounds good.”

I have gone back to
eating a salad bar lunch at the local café.  No more fattening grilled sandwiches for me, but my mouth waters as I look at the burger and French fries Mark has on his tray. Why is it that men can eat fattening food and stay slim?  It seems so unfair. Women are expected to stay slim so we end up living on salads, endless salads.  But I love food, even salads, especially here in San Francisco.  I wish I could write about all this great food and I tell myself again: I’m going to have to find a way to do it.

Mark
tells me he has just received a new assignment from Steve.  He is going to be one of two freelance writers covering the music festival this weekend for
Voices
. He’s going to be there on Saturday; the other writer gets Sunday. Ah, ha—that’s why he looks so happy.

“Steve wants to include profiles of
a couple of the individual musicians playing there,” he adds, dipping a couple of French fries into the ketchup.

“That’s the approach we are taking since Steve arrived.  It’s fascinating to learn more about the
lives of the artists behind the art work or performance.  Some are really not at all what you would expect.”  I answer and take another bite of my salad.

“
I told him I’d like to interview Austen Raneley.  I told him I’d seen Raneley once at a Ferlinghetti reading.  You sure don’t expect to see some rocker listening to poetry.  Steve gave me the go-ahead.”

I
look over at Mark and am silent for long enough for him to know that I am surprised by this.  My guard is up instantly.

“
I’m sure Austen will be glad to hear that.  Their new album is coming out soon,” I say, hoping that sounds innocuous enough.

“
You’re still dating him, aren’t you?”

For a second, Austen’s comment about Mark wanting me flashes through my mind.  Maybe he was right.

“Yes, but that is neither here nor there.”

“I heard the new album
already.  He seems to have written a song about you.”  He looks at me as if he is waiting for me to reply to his statement—he did not ask a question.

“You’ll have to
talk with him about that,” I answer as sweetly as I can. Then a light comes on in my head: for Mark this isn’t lunch with a girl he is interested in, or even lunch with a friend or a business colleague; this is a background interview for a celebrity profile.

“
That’s an evasive answer if I ever heard one.  So I won’t get anything about him from you?” Mark forces a tight laugh, as if his question is a joke, but I know it really is not.

This man has absolutely no scruples at all, no sense of propriety. 
First, the photo that ended up in
Rags
.  Now this.  Why on earth would he ever think I would talk about Austen?  How could I have ever thought of Mark as a friend?

“No.
  He can speak for himself.”

“Hey, you’re not upset are you
, Julia?  I thought you’d like the idea of him getting more publicity.”  Mark now looks dismayed.  I wonder if he realizes how far he has stepped out of bounds or if he even knows that there are boundaries.

“More publicity is
very good,” I put on a smile as I remember Austen’s comments about publicity.  I have to be careful and avoid saying anything to Mark that might interfere with Austen’s career, but Mark is going to be out of my Rolodex the minute I get back to the office. The card with all his information on it will be nothing but tiny shreds in my trash can. “I’m sure he’ll be pleased to do the interview with you.”

W
hen I talk with Austen by phone twenty minutes later, he is pleased.

“It’s going to be a short profile of you that will run next to the article about the festival.  Not about Tommy or anyone else,” I tell him.

He is even more pleased.

“The writer who
has the assignment is the one you saw me with at City Lights.  Actually, he said he suggested you for the profile because he saw you at that Ferlinghetti reading.  His name is Mark.”

Austen laughs.  “The one who has the
hots for you?”

“
The one
you think
has the hots for me—yes.  He asked me about the song you wrote about the lady in the mist.  I told him I didn’t know anything about it and he’d have to ask you.” 

“I’ll be happy to talk with him about it.”

“He’ll call you to set up a time.”

* * *

It is another gorgeous California afternoon as we head south to San Jose.  Even in San Francisco there is less fog now that September has arrived. The tour buses and RVs for the out-of-town bands are lined up not far from the stage.  Austen parks the Mustang behind one of the smaller buses, next to John’s car.  The bus must be the one that Peter, Tommy and the roadies came in from L.A. last night. I can hear music and loud laughter from inside. Austen pounds on the bus door and someone inside opens it.

“Hey, man.  About time you got here.”

Inside it is definitely not a Greyhound bus.  It’s smaller and there are no rows of forward facing bench seats.  Instead there is comfortable built-in seating facing the center, sort of like a small living room in a house trailer.  A tiny kitchen area is further back.   Behind that are what appear to be bunk beds built into the side of the bus.  There must be a compact bathroom back there somewhere, too.

On the
mini-kitchen counter are a couple of bottles of Jack Daniels, some mixers, sodas, beer, and glasses, some empty, some half full.  It’s obvious that someone has been making inroads into the Jack Daniels.

Austen tosses the keys to the Mustang
to one of the roadies and asks him to bring in his guitar and the bottles of Sal’s wine from the back seat.  Today, Austen is wearing jeans, a hand-tooled leather belt, new black boots and a tie-dyed t-shirt I’ve never seen before.  He looks so sexy.

“How was the trip up here?”

“Not bad.  We got in about midnight
,” Peter answers.

While they continue talking I look around
, see Emma and smile.  A familiar face.  There are also three girls with wild hair, wilder clothes and way too much black eyeliner in the group clustered near the kitchen.  One girl—she looks a little older than the others—with a pointy, sharp face, long black hair and pirate boots is staring at me.  Mirabelle.  I’m sure that’s who it is, but no one bothers with introductions. What is she doing here? Who is she with?

“Hey, what happened to your blonde friend?”  Tommy asks.  He looks sober
.  “You should have brought her along.”

“She’s
with her boyfriend today.”  I am surprised he remembers Ali; he seemed so drunk in Seattle.  But Ali is so pretty, maybe he remembered her because of that.

The roadie is back with the wine and guitar.

“Baby, sit down,” he says to me and points at one of seats. A roadie gets up and moves away. “We’re going to be here for a while.  We don’t go on until later.”  He opens a bottle of Sal’s wine and pours a glass for himself, one for me and offers it to anyone else who wants it.

“I’d like some,” says the
black-haired girl.  She has that breathy, little girl voice I overheard at Austen’s house so I know for sure it is Mirabelle.  Hmmm…it looks like she is still after Austen.  I feel a tiny sizzle of jealousy, but not much.  He pours a glass and hands it to her, while talking to John.  Much to my relief, Austen appears utterly indifferent to her.

“Joe called this morning and he had
the figures from Billboard.  It entered the chart at number 5,” Austen says, a big smile on his face.

“Hot damn
,” John reacts, then says to Emma:  “Did you hear that, Em?”

“No.  What?”

“That song Austen and I wrote entered the Billboard Top 100 at number 5.”  Then he turns back to Austen and says, laughingly.  “Maybe we should buy that whole winery, lock, stock, and all those big barrels of wine.”

Austen laughs.

Peter raises his half-full glass:  “Congratulations.”

“Maybe our new album will come in at number 1 and push you guys right
off the list,” Tommy says.  He has a smile on his face, but the tone of his voice reveals his true feelings and they aren’t good.

“Hey,
I’ll make money that way, too,” Austen answers, with a grin on his face.  The animosity between Austen and Tommy is crystal clear. Tommy won’t see a dime from the song that Austen and John wrote and he is envious.  I wonder if this rivalry within a band in common?  I’ll have to ask Austen…no, I’ll ask Emma later what she knows about other bands.  It’s more likely that I’ll get an impartial answer from her.

The tension subsides quickly and f
or the next four hours the conversation goes from topic to topic, the glasses get filled and refilled.  There is laughter at stories of tours past, of people in L.A.  A knock at the bus door.  An assistant for the promoter tells them they will be on in fifteen minutes.  Get ready.

Emma gets up and says to John:  “Julia and I are going out front.”

We leave and the groupies, including Mirabelle, exit the bus too, but they don’t follow Emma and me.

“
Have you ever seen them perform?” Emma asks.

“Never.
  I’ve heard their albums, but this will be the first time I’ve seen them live on stage.  I’m really excited about it.”

Both of us are wearing jeans
, casual shirts and sandals, unlike the overdressed—or maybe it is under-dressed—groupies in their satin, velvet and revealing lace who wander off somewhere.

“Who are those girls with?  The ones on the bus?”

“Anyone who wants them,” Emma answers, shaking her head.  “It’s really sad.  More often than not they end up being fringe benefits for the roadies.  Sometimes I feel like telling them: go home and do your schoolwork.  Get an education, for god’s sake.  But it would be pointless; another bunch would just show up.”

“How do you like traveling with John?”

“I love it.  It’s fun. It also cuts down the temptation for him.”

“Temptation meaning groupies?”

“Yeah.  Tommy is the prime target these days, though, and he takes full advantage of it: a new girl every night on the road.  He seems to like blondes the most.” Emma shakes her head and smiles wryly.

Oh, that’s why he remembered Ali.  He had her in
his sights as girlfriend-of-the-night.  I’ll have to tell her.  She will laugh at that.

“He was surprised
up in Seattle when you and your friend climbed right back into that canoe and paddled away.  Both of them were: Austen and Tommy.  You were the girls that got away.”  She smiles.

“That’s what they thought?”

“Tommy did, especially.  He thought you two had paddled out in that canoe specifically to find him.  Austen…he seemed to think he would hear from you again. He is used to women chasing after him.  All he has to do is turn on that smile of his and they come running.”

I shake my head.  “
He gave me a matchbook with his phone number in it, but I never would have called him…or any other man.  Not unless I had already gone out with him.  I’m shy about things like that.”

“
Yeah, I feel the same way. It’s better to have a man chase after you than for you to chase him. Anyhow, when he didn’t hear from you he wrote that beautiful song for you.  Then I heard he had to track you down in San Francisco.”

“It wasn’t exactly that way.
  We kind of ran into each other again here.”

“
Are you going to be traveling with Austen?”

“We
haven’t really talked about it.  I was just curious.  It is such a different way of life.”

“
Some of it is.  We travel two or three months a year, going to a different city every night.  It becomes a blur of sound-checks, shows, and parties with strangers. Most of the time, though, we are in L.A.  Living in Los Angeles—that’s what’s really different.  It is so huge and the people in the music biz there—a lot of them are pretty wild.  And some are totally certifiably crazy.  Fortunately, John and I have other friends who balance things out.  John grew up there and still keeps in touch with a few friends from college and high school.”

As we walk over closer to the stage I
think to myself: Emma seems to believe I will be going away with Austen.  Has he said something to her or John?  Why hasn’t he said anything to me, then?  Or maybe she is jumping to conclusions.  Austen and I are going to have to have that serious conversation soon—maybe tonight.  Yes, tonight.  It can’t wait any longer.

F
rom our vantage point beside the stage in an area reserved for musicians and staff, we can watch the audience.  The promoter’s assistant said there are over a hundred thousand people here and I can believe it.  Nearby the crowd looks like a mass of individual people—young men and women mostly dressed in bell bottoms and t-shirts. A few girls wear long skirts.  Further back, they become a sea of faces stretching into the distance facing toward the stage in the early evening light.