The Boy from the Band

Plain Chaos and Tears

I'm sitting surrounded by piles of stuff I have yet to pack. Kat has been helping me but it's now almost midnight and she's gone to bed. I look around at the boxes lining the walls of the living room and feel utterly overwhelmed at what there is left to do. I wonder if this is sheer insanity but then I remember the day Rick accused me of calling Elizabeth and know that for right now I need to get away.

It's unearthly quiet in here. I've packed my stereo and records, leaving only my tv sitting in the corner but I don't have the heart to watch it. I try to absorb my attention in picking up objects, wrapping them in newspaper then placing them carefully in boxes and boxes and boxes. I know the end is in sight, but it seems to take forever. How the hell did I accumulate so much stuff?

Getting ready to leave has occupied more time than I had so I quit my job. I've sent letters and resumes to hospitals in both northern and southern California and I'm sure I'll find something. Bob keeps urging me to find something in San Francisco or San Jose, so I'd be close. I love the Bay Area but I don't want to live there. LA is dirty, smoggy, and smelly but it's got beaches and surfing. My mother's family leaves in the Latino section of East LA and I want to be close to them. I've never been big on family; I avoid my mom and dad but I'm drawn to the Mexican culture and the chance to speak Spanish.

I'm holding a china vase when someone knocks at the door, startling me. I drop the vase and it shatters, cutting my finger which I put in my mouth since I can't run to the sink and answer the door at the same time.

I open the door; Rick is standing there holding his guitar with a puzzled look on his face when he sees my finger. "What happened?" he asks, noticing the blood dripping from my wounded finger.

"Oh, I cut myself," I say, removing the finger from my mouth, "Come on in." Strange how he knocks now, in the old days he would have just let himself in.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, I think so," I say and go to the kitchen to turn on the cold water and run it over my bleeding finger. "Would you get a couple of Band-Aids for me?"

He knows where they are and disappears into the bathroom and returns carrying two large ones. "Here, let me," he says and carefully wraps my finger, then kisses it. "All better?" He looks around at the mess, "Is there a place for us to sit?"

"Couch," I reply, and he leads me over there and pulls me next to him.

I burst into tears at his touch as he puts his arms around me holding me close to him, "It's okay," he says in his soft baby voice, looking around at the chaos in my living room, "I don't know why you think you have to do this."

"Yes, you do," I tell him and wipe my eyes on the back of my hand. He gives me his handkerchief. "Thanks," I tell him as I dab at my eyes. "Won't it be easier for you if I leave, at least for a while?"

"Maybe, but I don't want you to go, maybe..."

"Or maybe not," I interrupt, "Woodstock is a big nose and a big mouth. People won't have so much to talk about if I'm not here."

"Will you come back?" Aha, he's afraid he won't see me again. I'm afraid of the same thing myself. I'm afraid if I leave he'll forget about me.

"I don't know. I think I can make a better living in California, there are more opportunities there. And, I'm not sure I want to go through one more New York winter. I miss you, Rick, I don't want to leave but..."

"Then don't."

"I have to for my peace of mind. I keep trying to forget the look on your face when you accused me of calling your house and leaving my name. I try not to think about it, but I do."

"I regret everything I said that day. I know you wouldn't do that, and I'm sorry I acted that way. I was in shock, and Elizabeth was angry, but I shouldn't have taken out on you."

It's the first time he's said that to me. "I know, it was really ugly and we still don't know who did it. All the more reason why I should leave for a while so this will blow over. If I go away people will forget about me, eventually. I can do things like go to the store and not worry that someone is looking over my shoulder. I need a break."

He sighs and kisses the top of my head. "If you feel you have to leave don't stay away too long. We don't do many shows on the west coast and I want to see you."

"Then try to figure out times when I can come and see you. I'll fly out and get a hotel room and we can spend the night together. Maybe I can join you for a few dates when you're touring. If you really want to see me, you'll f igure out a way. I'll try if you try."

He doesn't say anything, but stands up and holds out his hand. I take it and he leads me to my bedroom. This may be our last time for quite a while and we take advantage of it.

I leave the day after the moving truck picks up my stuff. I don't dare stay any longer, I may change my mind. The pull to stay here for Rick is stronger than I expected and I don't trust myself.

I remember when I came to New York, I felt like I was coming to someplace, now I'm running away. I felt a sort of joy when I made the trip to New York, even though I was not sure I was doing the right thing but Rick was at the end of my journey. Now I don't know why I'm doing this.

I have to drag myself out of the motel bed each morning, take a shower, and get dressed. I make myself drive longer than I should--eight, sometimes ten, hours--just to make sure I keep going and don't turn around and head back to New York.

Even the beautiful spring weather is giving me no joy. There are wildflowers along the roadside in abundance and the leaves are coming out. The skies are blue and full of fluffy white clouds. It almost seems a travesty that every day has been sunny and beautiful, grey skies, clouds and rain would suit my mood better.

My mood doesn't lift until I cross the border into California, then something seems to change in me. I drive through the Mohave, full of scrub and Joshua trees. There is something stark and beautiful about this desert, it's resilient and full of life where you think it would be barren. It's like my life, it felt empty but now something inside me is blooming.

When at last I reach my journey's end, Weir is waiting for me, sitting on his red 'Vette and swinging his long legs. He gets up as I pull into his driveway, handsome and smiling, and welcoming.  He almost pulls me out of my car in his eagerness to hug me. His hair is wet, he must have must finished showering, he smells good, and I inhale his scent.

"Took you long enough," he tells me as he squeezes my waist, "I thought you'd be here a couple of days ago."

"I got distracted, I spent a day in Joshua Tree to see where they burned Gram Parson's body. I needed to do something morbid."

"Figures," he snorts, "Come on, I have something to show you." He leads me inside and I see a pile of envelopes on the dining room table. "I know I'm not supposed to open other people's mail, but I gave in to curiosity. Cedars Sinai, Stanford Medical Center, Ronald Reagan UCLA Hospital, UCSF, you've got a lot of people interested in you. Why don't you take Stanford or UCSF?"

I grab the envelopes, "Because you're my friend I'm not going to report your tampering with my mail. I'm not sure I want Stanford; I'm leaning towards UCLA. San Francisco has too much fog and it's cold in the summer."

In the end, it was UCLA. I needed to invest the profits from the sale of my Woodstock duplex, so I found a small, two-bedroom house close to an aunt's in East LA. The neighborhood has the flavor of my place in Venice. I'm surrounded by my mother's family and I speak Spanish as often as I speak English. And Bob and I see each other though we are not serious, more like fuck buddies.

I am not over Rick but I have a measure of happiness  that had been missing. I would be lonely, but Bob is a frequent visitor until it's time for him and the Dead to go on tour. Bill has shown up once or twice, he's still not married and when he made advances, I gave in. I would trade all of this just to be with Rick again and it's some months before I can go to bed and not cry myself to sleep.