Ghost Tour (ch.25)

September 29, 1998

Flight. Everyone on the 737 seemed to take it for granted. But to be in the clouds above the patchwork of farms, leapfrogging entire states which had taken days to cross at surface level. Miraculous.

Reid plugged his headphones into the armrest, picked the closest thing to an alternative station. There was a song he didn’t recognize. Lo-fi, simple, inconsequential. The perfect soundtrack, really, for rows of identical seats, disinterested heads nodding in a molded plastic environment. He kind of liked it, actually.

He looked it up on the playlist in the inflight magazine.

It was MaybeYes. The band that had replaced them on the tour.

# # #

When he walked from the terminal at Newburgh, Kristina was at the curb, leaning against the hood of her hatchback.

They embraced, the shape each others bodies familiar and unfamiliar, as if each had changed slightly. Or maybe they didn’t know each other as well as they’d thought to begin with, the separation just made it more obvious.

“Thanks for picking me up,” Reid said.

“Numbskull,” she said.

Reid was pretty sure this meant it went without saying she’d pick him up. Then again, she could’ve just said you’re welcome.

North of the airport, she missed the spur road to the Thruway and pulled into a motel parking lot to turn around.

“Stop a sec,” Reid said.

“You need something?”

Over the stick shift, he began kissing her. She leaned in fully. Hands reaching, saliva swashing, clothing becoming an obstacle. The connection was still there.

The road had decided for them. Reid left his bags in the car. Fingers interlocked, they all but sprinted into the motel lobby. She kneaded his arm like a kitten while he registered as quickly as the desk clerk could run the card.

She took time only to close the shades before they pulled off their clothes and picked up where they’d left off. The bedspread was itchy against their skin. A musty smell came from the AC. All animal sensations were welcome, worked into the fervor of being naked and smashing inseparably together.

# # #

Kristina didn’t bother getting back on the Thruway. Route 32 took longer, but the pace matched the day, which was now lost in time.

“You shouldn’t blame Liz,” she said. “I’m the one who asked her to look out for you.”

“She probably drank more than I did,” he joked.

Maybe it was true, but it was also true that his collision with ketamine set him back further than anything Liz had reported. Since no one was the wiser, he’d just keep that to himself.

He reached automatically for one of the smokes he still had in his pocket. It would taste so good right now but, seeing as it probably wouldn’t help his case, he restrained himself, left the crumpled pack concealed.

“You know I was staying in their guest house the whole time, right?” she said.

What she didn’t say was that she’d done lines with John and Isabella. Twice. Or that Isabella had squeezed her thigh and tried to rope her into a three-way. Unsuccessfully. But like Reid with the Special K, no one was the wiser.

“I shouldn’t have left you alone in Clinton,” he said.

“They did hook me up with five new clients,” she said. This was true. “But I had to give up my hours at the DeWitt.”

“It’s okay, we’ve got some money coming in,” he said.

At least, supposed to be coming in.

When they pulled up to their house, it looked more beaten-up than he remembered. The kitchen shutter that’d been falling off pre-tour was still hanging by one hinge. It hadn’t registered before, but it did now.

Why were they living here, anyhow?

# # #

Reid pulled up to the warehouse later than Jordan had told him over the phone to be here. Liz’s car was here already. He hadn’t spoken with her at all yet.

Being in a band was being married to several people. Whatever unease he’d felt before seeing Kristina was multiplied, and could not be resolved through intimacy.

Darren downstairs had his studio door open and came into the hallway, an un-appointed welcoming party.

“Hey Reid, sorry ‘bout the tour.”

He’d obviously been chatting with Jordan or Liz already.

“Whatcha got going on in there,” Reid said, changing the topic, nodding toward the latest scrap heap on the floor of Darren’s studio.

“Drainage pipes from Smith Avenue. Twelve inch cast iron.”

“Score,” Reid said.

From Darren’s enthusiasm, he could only conclude that drainage pipes from Smith Avenue were a good thing.

He climbed the stairs, opened the door to their studio. It took a second to register. There with Jordan and Liz, on the chill-out couch as if he’d never left, was their ex-drummer, Ben Murphy.

“Hey Reid,” Murphy said. His tone was surprisingly friendly, considering the last time they’d spoken Murph had told him to fuck off.

Reid looked briefly to Jordan, who acted like there was nothing unusual going on. Liz raised one eyebrow maybe a micron.

“Hey Murph,” Reid said cautiously, still feeling out the situation. He pulled up a plastic milk crate and took a seat.

“We were just talking about the New York show,” Jordan said.

“I know all the songs,” Murphy said, “obviously.”

“Okay…” Reid said, processing that Jordan had already made arrangements without him. But then, he’d been awol, so what did he expect Jordan to do.

“I stopped by your house once while you were gone,” Murphy said. “I wanna apologize, I think I was a little drunk.”

“Kristina said something like that.”

“I’ve started going to meetings. I’m supposed to take responsibility for what I’ve done,” Murphy said.

“Why don’t we just run the set,” Jordan said, rising from his folding chair before things could veer any further from the business at hand.

Reid found his amp was already in position, his guitar tuned and in its stand.

“You can thank Rex,” Liz called over.

“Where’s he at?”

“Went back to Burlington with Subs.”

Even Reid’s pedal board was all plugged in. There was just one thing that needed doing. This overdrive pedal, ever single time he played through it, some weird shit started happening. Enough of that. He found his old overdrive pedal in the bag with all the extra cords and swapped it out.

“Murph, you wanna count us in?” Jordan said.

You could see it in Murphy’s smile. He wasn’t just a drummer who’d gotten his job back. He’d been a heartbroken kid, left out on the playground, who was finally being invited back into the game.

“One, two, three…”

It was the oddest thing. The shows with Corey had grown so streamlined, an obvious step necessary for next-level success. You would think playing with Murphy again would feel like a step backwards, but what it actually felt like was this:

They were X-13 again.

Even Liz was smiling. She hadn’t realized she’d missed this. They played the whole set without a hitch.

“So here’s the deal,” Jordan said afterwards, once it was obvious they could do this, “we don’t blow New York, and I think Europe is still on the table…”

Murphy was visibly most excited about this. Liz and Reid nodded, waiting to hear more.

“Probably gonna be a little different than we’d planned…smaller budget, no tour bus, but it’ll be a nice van. And we’ll get a real driver, I promise…”

Liz tried to picture herself on a van again. Over the last few days she’d started to imagine what teaching cello might be like. Safer. More dependable. But, to be honest, a bit of a copout.

Reid didn’t know what to think. Except about Kristina.

Jordan took the silence for agreement.

“Alright then. I’ll call Brandon tomorrow morning.”

# # #

Reid and Liz sat across from each other at the Terminal Diner. Same table as just a few weeks before, but it felt like another lifetime.

“We doing this?” she asked.

“The van,” he said.

“I know.”

Reid stirred his coffee, took a good, hot sip. All diner coffee did not taste the same. For this he was glad to be back in Clinton, but he still couldn’t wrap his head around this thing.

“I don’t know if we’ll ever recoup,” he said, shaking his head wearily. Dreams of a big payday were slipping away with this relegation back to the farm league.

Liz shrugged. They’d probably done her a favor after all, excluding her from the contract. She got paid no matter what. Reid and Jordan were on the hook.

“At least the food’s better in Europe,” she said.

Reid was thinking about Murphy, how he’d apologized for showing up drunk while they were away. Taking responsibility, as he’d said.

“I’m sorry about that night at the truck stop,” Reid said. “I didn’t know we were gonna get into trouble out there.”

“It’s not your fault,” she said. He’d flaked when she needed him, but she did recall he’d tried to lead her back onto the bus before they’d stumbled into the night in the first place.

“Yeah, but still,” he said.

The truck stop incident might’ve seemed more forgivable in his own mind, if he hadn’t woken on the beach like a homeless person in Los Angeles. That, more than anything, solidified his sense that he’d backslid into serious fuck-up territory and therefore must be at fault for one thing or another.

“How’s Kristina doing?”

“We were just talking about you, actually. We were thinking maybe it’d be good to move closer to where you are, if we can scratch the money together.”

This made Liz smile.

“Lemme ask Jane, she might know of something.”

# # #

Driving back downtown, Reid looked over at the haunted overdrive pedal, coming for the ride in the passenger seat. He thought it looked back up at him, like it had a life of its own.

The bus ride through the southwest seemed to have exorcized whatever ghosts had been following him west. He didn’t want to bring this thing back in the house. He was through being followed.

A slight detour. Clinton Point was pretty much deserted except for seagulls and a guy drinking beer in his pickup. Reid parked his car, walked across the gray spit of sand and out the rock jetty to the end.

With his whole body, he heaved the pedal as far as he could. It disappeared into the river with a satisfying splunk.

That was that.

# # #

Back at their house, Kristina had her apron on, sleeves up, rolling dough on the kitchen table. She had flour on her nose, which made her all the more irresistible.

He scooped her up, she nuzzled in, bit his neck. They hadn’t been able to keep their hands off each other since he’d come home.

“No ghosts in the house?” he asked, lowly into her ear.

“Not till you came home.”

They pawed each other a few moments, then she pushed him away with mock finality.

“I gotta work,” she said.

He reached in to taste what she was making, as always she slapped his hand away.

“Oh, some guy called while you were at practice,” she said, shaking back the hair that was now falling into her face.

“Brandon?”

“No, someone else, some agent or something, I wrote his number down.”

Reid picked up the note. Benton Wilder. Never heard of the guy. Reid dialed anyway.

“Oh Reid, thanks so much for calling me back, I’m with Incandescent.”

“Yeah, we’ve already got a booking agent,” Reid explained.

“I’m not a booking agent, more of a literary agent,” the guy said. He had a slight British accent.

“Okay…”

“I’ve been doing a little research, found out you’re the one writing that tour journal on your band’s website.”

No sense denying it anymore.

“Yeah, that was me.”

“Excellent stuff.”

“I just need to figure out how to finish it.”

“I wish you wouldn’t, actually, I was quite hoping you were just getting started.”

Reid was head scratching at this point.

“I don’t get you.”

“Have you seen the numbers? You’ve got more people reading your posts than buying your album, forgive me for saying.”

Surprising, but still not a good business model, as Reid understood it.

“It’s a free website.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. It’s not easy to generate this kind of buzz. We’re thinking, migrate your weblog to a higher visibility platform, do some kind of book tie-in. There could be a bit of money in it for you. You up for it?”

“I still don’t get it.”

“There’s nothing to get, Reid, you’ve already got it,” Wilder said.

“Got what?” Reid said, still not understanding.

“You’ve got followers.”

——

The End

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