Riven, p.7
Riven, page 7
“That’s where the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is, right—Cleveland?”
“Mm-hmm. It’s the only interesting thing in Ohio. Well, I thought so as a kid, anyway. Haven’t really been back since. I don’t even like when we play shows there.”
I had lived for the day I could get out of Eastville. Put as much distance as I could between me and the town that had felt like a straitjacket my whole life. The kids at school who had thought I was strange even when I was still trying to fit in. Who called me “Theodork” because I was awkward and “Theodora” because they thought I looked so feminine.
No, I’d given up on making friends in high school. It had been easier to just throw myself into music, the one thing I enjoyed.
I hadn’t wanted to go to college and become a doctor, like my parents had expected, but I’d jumped at the chance to leave. I never told them that I only applied to schools in New York because it was where I wanted to do music.
As it turned out, a fight with my parents over leaving school had been the catalyst for everything that came after, with Riven.
It was the summer before my senior year, and I’d called them to say that I wasn’t going back to school, and that I was staying in New York City. They were disgusted with me. My mother was cold and fretful, but beneath it was the clear message that I’d failed at the one thing she wanted of me: to do something useful with myself. To make her look good. My father raged. What the hell did I think I was going to do now? How did I think I’d survive without a college education? What kind of life could I possibly make for myself when I had no skills, no training, and nothing to offer?
I hung up the phone vibrating with shame and fury and the need to push it out of me somehow—wishing I were someone who got into fights because I just wanted to slam into something.
Instead, I took my guitar, went to the open mic night at Sushi Bar, like I had nearly every Thursday night for the last two months. I got up on the rickety stage, tacky with spilled beer and soda, and I twisted my song into something violent. I pushed it out of me and into the drunk, distracted audience. I made my song into a fist, and I punched the only way I knew how.
I’d just elbowed up to the bar, having decided that I would like to get epically drunk, when Ethan approached me. I recognized him from other open mic nights. He was handsome and when he watched people play, he always looked like he knew a secret. Like he was hearing something that the rest of the audience couldn’t.
“Did you write that song?” he asked me, with no preamble. When I nodded, he led me to a table in the corner and made me a proposition.
The rest, as they say, was history.
I shuddered. I heard the snick of Caleb’s lighter and his long exhale and took the opportunity to change the subject. I didn’t want to think about Riven any more than I wanted to think about high school. “Hey, you still in the pumpkin patch, Cinderella?”
“Nope, moved to the porch. It’s nice out tonight. Clear. You can see all the stars. Saw deer earlier.”
It was so comfortable, talking to him. Whether it was about music, or real-life shit, or just narrating what we were looking at, I just wanted to hear everything he had to say.
“I want to hear about your parents next time,” Caleb said. “Don’t think I didn’t notice how freaky you got about Ohio. Bookmark that.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay.”
“Night, Theo.” Caleb’s sign-off was a rumble of smoke and sound that I felt in my stomach and down to my toes. His voice in my ear in the middle of the night, me high in my apartment as the city glittered beneath me, him on his porch with the scent of dirt and trees—it was intimate, and I held on to it as I murmured my own good night and curled up in bed.
* * *
—
A few days later, I got a text from Caleb saying he would be in the city that evening to see a show a friend of his was playing.
That an invitation? I wrote back.
Do you know their stuff?
Lion’s Share was a local NYC band I’d always known of but never followed. They played deep, folky blues, and they’d been around long enough that they had a loyal following, especially in the city. I wasn’t sure I could hum a single song, but I respected the hell out of any band that had been together that long and was still making it happen.
Not really, but i know of them and i’d like to hear…if you don’t want me to thats cool tho—they’re yr friends so yr call.
Happy for you to come, Theo, just not sure it’s really your scene.
Well that was vague and unhelpful.
Uh, that was vague & unhelpful
Sorry. Yeah, come with. Just keep a low profile ok? Don’t want to pull focus from the show.
Shit. That made sense.
Sorry, i didn’t think abt that : i don’t wanna fuck things up for them
It was a testament to how comfortable I’d felt with Caleb, since keeping a low profile was something I spent most of the time I wasn’t onstage doing.
How bout you wear a hat and we just stay in the back, huh?
I sent back a grinning emoji and was on my way to go shower when his text came through.
And not that raggedy black one—doesn’t actually do shit to hide your damn pretty face.
I grinned for real at that, and snapped a picture of myself to send back in answer.
* * *
—
The Firefly Club was at 133rd and Lenox, and the sign outside informed me that Billie Holiday had played here. I pulled my hat down lower over my eyes as I waited for Caleb in the moonlight, but suddenly felt pretty sure that being recognized wasn’t going to be a problem. In fact, the bigger problem seemed to be that I was embarrassingly underdressed. I’d thrown on threadbare jeans and a worn white V-neck T-shirt, shoved my feet into black ankle boots, and jammed the wide-brimmed hat over my still-damp hair on my way out the door, expecting a typical dark, crowded bar where the more nondescript my clothes were, the better I’d blend in.
I felt like an idiot as I leaned on the corner next to the club and watched a steady parade of sharply dressed people stream in. The audience was mostly black, and mostly a bit older—forties and fifties, with some younger folks and much older mixed in. I messed with my phone, nervously, wondering if I should try and find a store to buy a different shirt, but Caleb came up before I could google any.
His smile made me forget about everything, momentarily, as did his warm hand on my shoulder.
“Okay?” he asked, and I leaned in, wanting to smell him.
“I’m seriously underdressed,” I said. “I feel like a dork.”
Caleb was also wearing jeans, but his were nice, dark denim, cuffed neatly above worn brown wingtips. His brown- and blue-checked shirt was tucked in, giving me a very welcome view of his incredible ass, and the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. A tight-fitting brown and gray vest hugged his torso and drew my eyes to the bulge of his biceps and the breadth of his chest and shoulders. I could just see the top of his tattoo at his unbuttoned collar.
“Damn,” I murmured. “You look good as hell.”
He ducked his head and muttered his thanks.
“You’re fine,” he said. “Really. The hat…ya know, dresses it up.” He tapped the brim of my hat.
“Should I tuck in my…?” I tried to tuck in my T-shirt, but my jeans hung too low on my hips.
He snorted. “No, just stop messing with yourself. I swear, you’re the fidgetiest damn thing I’ve seen since rehab.” He squeezed the back of my neck and I felt myself melt under his touch.
“Fuck,” he muttered, leaning close. “When your eyes go all sleepy like that I want to—” He shook his head as if to clear it and smoothed his beard aggressively, shooting me a hot look that I’d think was a glare if I didn’t know him.
I pushed my hips toward him and snaked my hand into his back pocket, looking up at him through my lashes to intensify the effect.
“Fuckin’ flirt,” he said, but his eyes were smiling and he didn’t look away.
“Is this a date?” I asked, pitching my voice low and soft. “I want it to be a date.”
Caleb had this face he made that was the expressional equivalent of a beleaguered groan, and it turned me on like nothing else because I knew it meant I was seriously getting to him. I hadn’t pushed the sex thing, though I’d wanted to. I respected the shit out of anyone who’d gotten clean, and it was clear that rushing into anything—well, rushing into anything again—scared Caleb. But…I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel like a rejection. And I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t tried to get a rise out of him, remind him that when he was ready, I was more than willing.
“Depends,” he bit off.
“Oh yeah? On what?”
He leaned in close enough that I could feel his breath on my neck, but didn’t touch me.
“On whether your idea of a date is that I come back to your place after this show and fuck the ever-loving hell out of your flirtatious ass.”
A sound escaped me that was half gasp and half mewl, and I let my eyes flutter shut, grabbing for whatever parts of him I could reach.
“That a yes?” he growled.
“Uh-huh.” I pulled his hips into mine so he could see how hard I was just at his words. Just thinking about what he would do to me. He hissed and drew back, breathing steadily.
“Kiss me?” I breathed. “Just once.”
Caleb’s eyes burned. Jesus, he was the most intense person I’d ever met. And I’d met some intense motherfuckers. His hand drifted up to cup my cheek, and he pressed his thumb against my mouth. Then he deliberately shook his head no, and I actually felt my eyes go misty from the intensity of my disappointment. From how badly I wanted to feel his mouth on mine. How desperately awful the distance he’d put between us felt.
I blinked the tears away quickly, and Caleb offered his hand instead of his mouth, nodding toward the door.
Inside, it was like stepping sixty years back in time. The bar at the far side of the room gleamed in the dim yellow light, its dark wood surface pocked with time but polished to a shine, ornately carved wood framing mirrors flecked with desilvered spots continuing up to the ceiling behind the bartender, who was a tall, impeccably suited black woman in her fifties, with a shaved head, tortoiseshell glasses, and warm greetings for patrons she’d clearly known for years.
On the brick walls hung signed pictures of every jazz and blues great I could think of, and a number I didn’t recognize. The conversation around us was jovial, friends meeting in a place where they felt at home, catching up, talking about Lion’s Share and times they’d seen them in the past. Everything about it felt warm, from the lighting to the mood, and I found myself struck by a sense of loss for something I’d never had.
I’d never had this kind of camaraderie with a group before. The kind of casual rapport that came from seeing the same people at something you shared a passion for over and over for years. Hell, I’d never really had much of a rapport with people, period.
As a performer, I’d never played to a crowd like this. I loved the electric crush of our arena crowds. But it was like we’d missed a step in between. Most bands started small, gained local success, and played progressively bigger gigs. We’d been the lightning strike story of getting plucked from the crowd before we’d ever played many shows, and getting a deal with a major label.
When, just two months after Ethan had introduced me to Ven and Coco and we’d become Riven, Dougal had scooped us up, promising stardom, I’d immediately disregarded it. I’d told the band that we should be careful because he was probably full of shit. They’d gaped at me and I’d realized they knew who Dougal Richter was because he was somebody in the music industry, and I hadn’t known.
Six months later and our first album was recorded; we were on the cover of major music magazines, and we were opening for Oops Icarus at arena shows. Our album went gold, we got our own headlining tour, and I began to be recognized on the streets within a year. Coco had said it felt like magic. Ven fist pumped a lot, saying, “Fuck yeah!” And Ethan burned with a deep satisfaction that he didn’t need to give voice to because it was written all over his face.
And me? I couldn’t deny that it was satisfying—amazing, even, to have people love our music so much. I was so gratified whenever I saw people touched by what we made. And the performances themselves, I loved.
But I felt like I’d waded into calm waters only to be pulled out to sea by a powerful undertow. Choked breathless, unprepared, defenseless, looking around in panic as the shoreline receded farther with each wave.
Caleb said hello to a few people as we walked in, but when we made it to the back of the room, he leaned against the brick and closed his eyes.
“You okay?” I asked, leaning next to him.
“Yup, all good,” he said. “Just a lot of past in this room.”
I slid my hand into his and squeezed, hoping to remind him of the present. He squeezed back, though he didn’t look at me, and we stayed that way, holding hands under cover of dark, until the band began to play.
Lion’s Share were masterful—the kind of musicians who felt the music so deep down in their bones, and had been playing so long, that it was like their instruments were extensions of their bodies. They were comfortable onstage, bantering with the crowd and fulfilling requests.
Their pianist played with his eyes closed and never looked at the audience; the lead singer and acoustic guitarist was smooth and accomplished, fingers and voice running up and down the scale effortlessly; the bassist played with his whole body, shimmying and swaying along with the undercurrent of the music; the drummer was younger than the rest of the band, and he executed complex changes like they were nothing, keeping an eye on everyone else in a way that was familiar from watching Ethan; their upright bassist drifted on- and offstage as he was required, having a drink here, listening from the audience there, and resettling himself behind his instrument with a little smile that said that was where he was happiest.
While their original music was good, I was in awe of their execution of some of the standards, and a few covers that twisted poppy rock into crooning, rumbling blues. When they finished their second set, I had to purposely tamp down my enthusiasm, so I didn’t draw attention to myself by how hard I wanted to cheer for them. Caleb shot me an amused look and motioned me toward backstage.
As I followed Caleb through the crowd, I got a few second glances, of the don’t-I-know-you-from-somewhere variety, but mostly people ignored me. A door opened backstage at Caleb’s knock, and the bassist stuck his head out.
“Hey, brother, you made it,” he said, grinning when he saw Caleb. “Thought I saw a coupla white boys in the house.” They embraced, patting each other hard on the back.
“This is my friend, Theo. Dixon Plain,” he said to me. Dixon held out a hand to me and when we shook I could feel the familiar calluses on his fingertips.
“You guys were fantastic,” I said, squeezing his hand. “Really amazing.”
I got a warm smile and a humble tip of the head. “Thank you for that, man. I appreciate you saying so.” Then he shot a mischievous look at Caleb and quirked an eyebrow. “Y’all wanna come in for a bit?” Dixon opened the door and Caleb saluted the band members, who were in various stages of sitting, standing, and removing articles of clothing. A chorus of enthusiastic “Heys” met his appearance.
The lead singer ambled up to the door and shook Caleb’s hand warmly, then clapped him on the back. They talked for a minute, then the singer saw me standing behind him. I started to tell him how much I’d loved the show when his expression changed.
“Well, well,” he said, his voice not entirely friendly. “Keeping company.”
Caleb ran a hand through his hair.
“Walt, this is my friend Theo. Theo, Walter Wendell.” I reached out to shake his hand and he held mine one beat longer than was comfortable, looking me up and down. Then he looked away without saying anything and turned to say something to the drummer. I felt hurt bubble up in my throat but I swallowed it down.
Dixon came back over to us and made meaningful eye contact with Caleb.
“Listen, bro, it’s great to see you, but, uh…” He shot a look back at the rest of the band. “I don’t think you’re gonna want to stick around, feel me?”
Caleb stiffened and shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Thanks, Dix. I’ll catch you around, then. Night, y’all,” he called to the room, and turned to leave. I closed the door behind me, not sure if I was embarrassed or angry. Caleb took a quick turn and then we were outside in the alley behind the club.
“So you liked it, huh?” he asked, crossing his arms.
“They were amazing,” I said. “Hated me, though, I guess?”
“Nah, that’s just Walt. He’s old-school, you know, thinks anyone who’s been around less than two decades is a flash in the pan. He was just surprised to see me with you is all. You’re not my usual company.”
“Well, what was that shit just now, then? They took one look at me and told us to get gone?” I knocked my fist against the brick, realizing that what I felt was more humiliation than anger. These were professional, talented musicians, who’d looked at me and seen trash. Sellout trash they had no interest in talking to.
“Naw, man, that wasn’t about you.” He started walking and I followed, tripping as I made to catch up.
“What then?”
“Uh, that was Dix telling me they were about to do some shit that I wouldn’t want to be around. Clean now, ya know?”
I skidded to a stop as Caleb turned the corner.
“Oh. Oh, shit.”
