The woman with two diamonds starts talking about her two engagements and Phil isn’t listening. He takes his phone out and he’s typing and tapping his foot and is he… is he trying to turn this woman’s sob story into a song right in front of her? I want to call 911 and report a theft but the meeting is ending and it’s time to mingle and I’m nervous again. We’re milling around, eating more donuts, and your rat heads outside and if I want your present to be ready for Christmas, I have to do this.
I put down my donut. I chase your rat.
He’s on the way to his car and I’m catching up and I can do this. I am JAY ANONYMOUS: SACRIPHIL FAN BOY. I clear my throat—nervous, he’s a rocker—and I scratch my head—nervous, he’s your husband—and he opens the door and I fake a stumble—ouch—and he looks over his shoulder and laughs at me, just a little, and I apologize, just a little, and I pull out a Marlboro Red and I’m stuttering when I begin my first official outreach to the Phil DiMarco. “？’Scuse me,” I say. “Do you… Do you have a light?”
He leans against his car like he did in the promo photos for Moan and Groan and I wish I was wearing a Sacriphil T-shirt but what can I say, Mary Kay? It’s a busy time of year and last-minute shopping is tough.
“Hey, man,” he says. “You all right?”
I nod, too starstruck to speak, and he passes me his lighter—Zippo with a naked girl, what a good dad—and I drop it on the pavement and he picks it up and lights my cigarette and thank God you can’t see us right now. I look at him like he’s the Arc of the Fucking Covenant and I breathe in, out. “Wow,” I say. “I’m having a butt with Phil DiMarco.”
His face is a Shrinky Dink in the oven, expanding, brightening. “Oh shit,” he says. “We got us a Philistan.”
“I’m so sorry. Shit. I know we’re not supposed to use our names.”
“Nah, man, it’s cool.”
“I had to come up to you, man. The whole time in there, I was like, I can’t move, I can’t breathe, I just die underneath!” He likes to be quoted—all writers are pathetic that way—and he laughs and this is painful, but this is the only way for me to get you what you really want: me. “I thought I was tripping. Phil DiMarco, the most horrifically underrated rock star of all time, is ten feet away from me and man, I’m just… man.” I drop my cigarette—nerves on top of nerves—and he offers me one of his and I take it. “I can’t believe I’m smoking a butt with Phil DiMarco.”
“You’re hard-core,” he says. “What about you? You got a name?”
“Jay,” I say, happy I worked so hard on my character.
He hawks a loogie on the pavement. “No worries,” he says. “It’s not like you’re blowing my cover. Everyone knows who I am. What’s your name again?”
I literally just said it but then again he doesn’t even know the name of his daughter’s favorite book. “I’m Jay,” I say. “Jesus Christ, man. What are you even doing here?”
“Same thing you are, man. Day by day.”
“But you’re you. I mean… come on. You don’t need this. That shit you said about Phoenix. How do you even stand it?”
He chuckles. “Yeah, Phoenix sucked.”
“See, what you said in there made me think. A few years back, you told Mojo that you couldn’t go six hours without touching a guitar…” I smile. “Or getting laid.”
He laughs at his own old bad joke. “Well, that was then, man. Things change.”
He doesn’t really think things change and he’s right. They don’t. I smoke my butt and I hope I don’t get cancer from these fucking things. I can’t stand the idea of dying before you, leaving you here to miss me. He blows a smoke ring and I try and fail—perfect—and I ash on a pile of old freebie newspapers because he ashed on it first but that’s a fire hazard, Mary Kay. Your husband is a fire hazard.
“So,” I say. “Can I ask… Are you working on anything now?”
“Hell yeah,” he says. “Always.”
“Good, cuz I am dying for a new album. And a tour. People say it’s not gonna happen… I’m like fuck yes it is. Phil DiMarco is gonna come back in a big way.”
He picks at his dirty fingernail. “You can’t push. Every album comes when it comes.”
Spoken like a true procrastinator and I nod. “I never thought I’d get to meet you cuz you don’t tour anymore.”
“We don’t tour right now,” he says. Boom. “Your album’s on the way, I promise.”
“I gotta ask. Were you… were you writing a song in there?”
“You bet I was. See, as an artist, I go to these meetings for the pathos. Not to sound like a douche…” As if the disclaimer doesn’t classify him as a douche. “But as an artist I get more out of it. Ya got a beast in you, ya gotta feed the beast. I get a lotta good material in there. Tons.”
“That’s so rad.” I was right. He’s a thief. “You know, I’m thinking I might go get a guitar… a Schecter…” Find a new plaything. “You can say no… but is there any way I can hit you up for advice?”
He gives me his number and says he has to get home as he quotes his own song—I got a crate in a barrel and a barrel in a gun. “Here’s my advice about finding a good Schecter…” Pregnant pause. “Get a Gibson, man.”
I laugh as if that was clever and he starts his car and did I do it? Did I get in his head?
I tune in to his show at midnight, and sure enough, he’s wailing about the holidays, pining for the good old days when he had time to focus on his true calling, his music. The man is in pain, Mary Kay. And you can’t make him happy. Listen to his “show” and look at his body. He has a Sacriphil tattoo. He bled for that band. He took a needle for that band. But your name’s not inked on his skin, and it’s time for you both to realize it.
11
The next day, I walk into the library and I slink into the back without saying hello but an hour later, you find me. You’re frisky. You put your hands on Dolly and you tell me that Nomi wants to get a kitten for Christmas.
“Are you allergic or anything?”
“No, I love cats, but she’s going away soon…” You look right at me. “Do you like cats?” You are so hot for me that you are planning our life together and you squeeze Dolly. Nervous. “I ask because our friends… they have three kittens, so you know, you could get one too.”
You want us to adopt kittens together and I smile. “I love cats. It’s tempting.”
You pull your hands off Dolly. “Well, it’s something to think about. Our cats would be siblings.” You fiddle with your belt. “Well,” you say. “Let’s both think about it, yeah?”
I give you a yeah and already my plan is working.
The next day, I go to a meeting and Phil bitches to me… about cats. “Cats are cool. But do I need one more thing to take care of? Already I don’t have enough time to play.”