Ghost Tour (ch.2)

September 5, 1998

The single 40-watt bulb dangling from the basement ceiling barely cast enough light to climb down the stairs. Reid ducked his head and clicked on his MagLite, the one with the four D batteries that doubled as a blunt instrument. He rotated the head for a wider beam.

Windows boarded, cobwebbed, damp. A bricked-over fireplace suggested the space had once been inhabitable. A lot of these 19th century basements had kitchens. If it wasn’t so far gone, Kristina could’ve made use of it.

The floor was almost powder, which made a rectangle of poured cement more conspicuous. About the length of a human body. Reid saw a true-crime show once about a killer who encased his victims in his basement floor.

Upon closer inspection, on the wall above the cement patch were two capped-off water lines and an outdated 220V outlet. Probably there was a washer and dryer here at some point. Probably.

The hot water heater was making a whistling sound, but not the eerie sound they’d heard creeping up the stairs last night. Reid waited, and listened. After a few minutes, he heard the creaking.

It was coming from what had once been the coal room. Reid had never investigated in there. Shelves stacked with rusty, dried paint cans, looked like a tetanus shot waiting to happen.

When he pulled a few dusty cans off the top shelf, he found a small window covering the old coal chute. Its hinges creaked in a slight draft.

Folding an old matchbook, Reid wedged it into the little crack along the window, fixing it into place. He replaced the rusty paint cans and went upstairs to wash his hands.

“Mystery solved,” he told Kristina.

He told her about the coal chute, the old fireplace, the place where there probably used to be a washing machine. He skipped the initial theory about the serial killer.

She handed him a two-pound block of cheddar.

“Help me with the cheese twists,” she said. “Don’t grate your knuckles.”

She set him up on the kitchen countertop with a metal grater and wooden cutting board.

“You know, they sell shredded cheese at the supermarket,” he said, not fully complaining.

“It doesn’t puff.”

“For real?”

“Comes out like cheese crisps,” she said, rolling out a square of pastry. “If Jordan wants the puffy ones, get shredding.”

# # #

Sipping chamomile from an oversized mug, Liz sat at her kitchen table browsing a calendar from the nearby student union, mentally X-ing out all the foreign films she would miss while they were out on tour.

When X-13 had first migrated from Burlington, she’d visited Clinton exactly once. It was almost a dealbreaker. Either she’d drive four hours every time they practiced, or she’d leave the band.

Reid convinced her to have a look at the surrounding areas, see if there was something that might appeal to her. Walden across the river wasn’t bad, actually. Had a small college, some culture. When she found a Women’s Studies professor in a big Victorian looking for housemate who didn’t mind cats, it sealed the deal.

Liz looked up from the film schedule to the clock on the stove. Reid would be picking her up in half an hour, she should probably get ready.

In the living room while sliding her bass into its gig bag, she eyed the cello case in the corner. She hadn’t opened it in months, she was always on her way to something else. But it occurred to her, if she took off on tour without so much as dusting it off, it’d be a betrayal of sorts.

She opened the case. The reddish glow of the golden wood seemed to smile at her.

I’m still here when you need me.

Liz pulled a firm kitchen chair into the living room. She gave the bow a proper rosining. Sitting almost at the chair’s edge, she rested the body of the cello against her chest and steadied it with her knees.

Unlike the bass, you tuned a cello high string first then worked your way down. She tuned it to itself, fairly effortlessly, played a few scales.

The instrument was still smiling.

She might’ve rifled through some sheet music but defaulted to the Bach Cello Suite number 5, the prelude of which she’d learned by heart as a student. After some initial stiffness, the vibrations in her ears and chest connected. The piece became a breathing thing.

As she began to rock on accentuated bow strokes, she felt her long, straight hair slapping against her neck and cheeks, and she remembered who she was apart from the band that dominated her life.

Reid, coming up onto the porch, was about to ring the bell. He paused when he saw her through the window. He stood watching, listening to the suite and the intention behind the playing.

When she finished, he waited a moment. Instinctively, he knocked instead of pressing the bell so its ring wouldn’t disturb the spirit of the prelude that still hung in the air.

“What’d you do to your knuckles?” Liz said, answering the door.

He waved off her concern as she invited him in.

Reid liked this house. The books, the oriental carpets. It always smelled of eucalyptus. It felt like a home.

“That’s that same piece,” he said. It brought him back to when they were in college.

“Same piece,” she echoed, as if Reid might be thinking she should have advanced by now.

“Lovely,” he said.

That’s what he meant.

She lifted the instrument from where she’d carefully rested it against the couch and regarded it one last time before putting it back into its case, probably for another extended sleep.

“So what’s up with your car?” he asked.

“Engine light came on, don’t want to chance it,” she said. “I’ll take it in on Monday.”

“I don’t mind driving,” he said. “Give us a chance to catch up.”

# # #

Their practice space was in an old tool-and-die shop on a mostly-abandoned backstreet in Clinton. The former industrial area had a no-one-can-hear-you-scream kind of vibe.

Whatever had once been manufactured here was a mystery. The building was now subdivided haphazardly between four-or-five artists, quasi-managed by a sculptor named Darren who worked as a plumber during the day. His sculptures had a lot of metal piping.

Darren was changing the lock on the band’s practice space when Reid and Liz came up the stairwell.

“Oh, hey Liz,” Darren said, putting down his screwdriver and rising to his feet. She was obviously out of his league, but his readiness to worship could not be concealed.

“Hey Darren,” she said, amused and fatigued by his unending attentiveness.

“Jordan asked me to change the lock,” he explained.

“He here yet?” Reid asked.

“He’s inside with that new feller.”

Reid and Liz stepped over pieces of the old lock lying in the doorway. Jordan was in taking-care-of-business mode, going over a freshly scribbled setlist with Corey. Reid held up the thermal casserole carrier Kristina had packed earlier, Jordan pointed vaguely in the direction of the dorm-sized beer fridge and kept talking.

Reid was half-expecting to find Murphy’d ransacked the place, but everything was where they’d left it, even some cymbal stands he knew were Murphy’s. He climbed over a floor tom to get to his Fender Twin and flipped it to standby. Slipping his Telecaster from its gig bag, he rested it on a guitar stand and started plugging in pedals.

Corey took his place behind the drums and reflexively started testing the kick drum. Reid called over to him before things got louder.

“Sorry about rescheduling.”

“No worries, I had stuff to do in the city anyway.”

Liz’s bass amp came to life with random notes and bass lines. To Reid’s ear, it lacked the grace of her earlier cello playing, but to Liz the Precision bass felt rocket-fueled. She was readying for liftoff.

Jordan plugged his Strat in and checked the PA. Competing guitar riffs and drum rudiments expanded into sonic anarchy, each player on their own planet. The discord died down once each of them got the kinks out.

Jordan passed the proposed setlist to Reid and Liz.

“What do you think?” he asked Reid in particular.

It was a 50-50 mix of new songs and ones from their first album. Reid could hear the first few segues in his head, it was too much to think about beyond that.

“Let’s just run it and see how it sounds.”

Jordan nodded to Corey who counted them into Dream of Night, the first song on their new album, and the set began. With two weeks to go till the tour, they were beyond working on individual songs. From here out, they’d play sets without stopping as if it were a real show, trying to get an idea of the actual timing.

The sound in the space was crappy as always. No monitors, Jordan’s vocals muffled, but there was an undeniably improved vibe with their new drummer. Corey was solid. Liz locked in with him in way she’d never quite did with Murphy.

With a dependable rhythm section, Reid was finally free to float, play hooks without worrying that keeping the train on the tracks was partially his responsibility. Jordan could even stop strumming occasionally, see what it felt like to just sing.

The set went smoothly and clocked in at just over an hour. Even when there was some confusion about the number of bars in an instrumental section, Corey recalibrated and stayed the course.

When the last song faded down to the hum of the amplifiers, the band powered down and migrated to the chill-out corner of the space where there was an itchy couch and some plastic folding chairs. A few posters hung on the wall, including the Irving Plaza show the producer guy had been talking about last night. JETCO was in big letters. X-13 were special guests.

“My bad on Modulate,” Corey said, the song on which he’d momentarily lost count.

“I lost count too,” Liz said, although she didn’t. No sense giving the new guy a hard time when he’d been stellar otherwise.

“Can we hear the album version?” Corey asked Jordan. “Just wanna get that part in my head.”

Jordan searched the shelf where they kept the tapes. It’d been packed tightly last time he was in here, now it looked like a smile with a missing front tooth.

“You take the mixed version?” he asked Reid.

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Dead sure.”

The same thought occurred to both of them simultaneously. Maybe Murphy had let himself in after all.

“It’s okay, I think I figured it out,” Corey said.

The door to the space opened and Darren inched in, cautiously offering a six-pack.

“Is now good?”

“Come on in,” Jordan said, lighting a cigarette.

Liz implored Jordan with her eyes not to encourage him. Jordan nodded toward the doorway and returned her glance like, He fixed the lock, so I told him he could hang with us.

Over the years, the bandmates had grown almost telepathically adept at complex communication without speaking.

“I know you like wine, Liz, but at least it’s imported,” Darren apologized.

“I drink beer too,” she said, graciously accepting the one he was handing her.

“I got you a 7-Up, Reid.”

“Much appreciated, Darren.”

Darren settled uneasily onto the well-worn couch, which sank almost to the floor when he sat on it.

Beyond the sound of bottles popping open, there was a moment of awkward silence. The band was a private club. Just because you were invited into the room didn’t mean you were invited into the club.

“Sounding good guys,” Darren said, “what I could hear, anyway.”

“Thanks Darren,” Jordan said, tapped his cigarette into the ashtray and added nothing further.

Looking down at the bandaids on his fingers, Reid remembered the thermal food carrier he’d left on the fridge. With an overturned milk crate as coffee table, he set out a tray of cheese twists so everyone could help themselves.

They weren’t warm at this point, but they complimented the beer. Jordan seemed to savor each bite, like they contained whatever secret ingredient made him ask for them in the first place.

“A good woman is hard to find,” he pronounced poetically, as if he were quoting something. He angled his beer bottle toward Reid.

“Agreed,” Reid said, and clinked with his 7-Up.

The mood in the room lightening, Darren gave conversation another shot.

“So Corey, you’re the new guy,” he said, “I guess all this touring stuff must be new to you.”

“Actually, I’ve been on plenty of tours,” Corey said. “I’ve been in other bands.”

“Which ones?”

“None you would’ve heard of,” he said, mindful to match the band’s vibe, not say too much all at once.

Things fell silent again but not for too much longer. Jordan downed his beer in a performative sort of way.

“Well, we’ve got a lot of PR to do in the morning,” he said.

Darren got the hint and scurried to his feet.

“It was sure great to hang out with you guys,” he said, almost bowing on his way out.

There’d be a few more practices, so the amps and everything could stay in place.

As Reid was packing up his guitar, Jordan said, “You ready for some phoners, 10am Monday?”

“Ready.”

Then Jordan leaned in closer.

“Brandon called. Tuesday, you and me drive down to New York, meet with him.”

Brandon was their A&R guy at BMT.

“Thought we were meeting on Friday,” Reid said.

“He wants to meet earlier.”

“What about?”

“Wouldn’t say over the phone.”

Jordan shrugged off yet another arbitrary demand by the label with a look that said

Whatever…

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