The Boy from the Band

Happy Birthday

She knows about me. I know she knows. He's not ready to admit it but somehow, she found out about me.

She was the one who walked into my hospital room, it wasn't someone who wandered into the wrong room and got confused. It was deliberate. She wanted to see who I was. I wonder how she found out, how she knew which hospital to go to. 

He made love to me that night then left. I think he wanted me for reassurance. We both were caught off guard and now we exercise more caution than we did before. Not that we haven't tried to be careful.

He has an uncanny ability to put unpleasant things out of his mind, which I am not so good at. He won't admit he's worried but he sees me more often at my apartment now and not so much at the studio. If I don't see as much of him as I'd like, I understand. They're rehearsing for the show, learning about 20 new songs. Artists are coming and going and he's working harder, they're all working harder. This will be their last show, after all.

He doesn't forget my 24th birthday. I found a message on my answering machine after I returned from my run. "Your mission, if you choose to accept it and you better, is to go directly to the studio after you get off work. This message will now self-destruct." He made a series of noises trying to simulate a tape exploding and I burst into laughter. He's so funny.

"So, Gina, are you going to come with me?" I ask. I don't want to go alone.

"No, thank you. They'll probably stuff a bunch of coke up your nose and get you drunk. Also, I bet Rick will have some sort of mischief planned and you'll try to use me to get you out of it. No, thank you."

I get to the studio and it looks dark from the outside but I recognize everyone's cars. I walk in and the lights suddenly come on, almost blinding me for a second.

"Surprise!" they yell and there's a cake on a table, balloons, and brightly wrapped presents, along with bottles of champagne and the inevitable lines of coke.

"Happy Birthday, sweetheart," Rick says and hugs me, then he drags me to a chair, unzips my jeans, and pushes my panties down to my ankles. 

I want to struggle, get away from him, but the guys are there and I don't want to give them anything more to laugh at. He wrestles me over his knee—to the cheering and laughter of his buddies. "No birthday without a birthday spanking," he says and starts smacking me as they all count in unison up to 24. He then adds the traditional pinch, then lets me up, helping me pull up my pants, and hugs me.

I'm embarrassed and angry but also unexpectedly turned on. I'm on the verge of tears but decide there is no point in arguing, it's over now and I can't do a thing about it. I also don't want to provide any more entertainment.  I don't know why he did this to me; I know he thinks it's no big deal, no, he thinks it's funny. I'll make him pay for it later, though I have yet to figure out how.

After he finishes he picks me up and whispers, "Wait until I get you alone," and smiles at me. God, that smile makes me weak in my knees and he uses it on me like a weapon.

I must admit, the presents are nice and the cake is from the best bakery in town. A tennis bracelet from him, a pair of pearl earrings from Levon, a nice pearl hanging from a gold chain from Robbie are the ones that stand out. I am definitely pleased and I am ready to forgive them for laughing at me while Rick paddled my bottom. They play me a rousing chorus of "Happy Birthday", and I successfully blow out all 24 candles. Rick pops the cork on a bottle of champagne and after we finish it, I decide it's time to go home.

He walks me out to my car, opens the door, and kisses me, "I'll come to your place when we're done."

"Do you think you should be allowed to after that little stunt you pulled? Did you have to pants me in front of everyone?"

He laughs at this, "You could have had it a lot worse. Those are all your friends, besides, this is the first birthday I've celebrated with you, and I want to end it the right way." I get the smile again, that impish, devilish little boy smile.

At the moment I've had enough champagne and coke that I find no reason to disagree. Our time together lately is precious. Rehearsals are taking up a lot of his time, and since it's summer his kids are here. I know that he is literally finding time to fit me in, and I appreciate it very much.

I'm thinking about the party on the way home. I think it was as much to lighten things up as it was to celebrate my birthday. The mood is getting serious. There is a sense of finality every time they get together to rehearse. I can feel the vibes in the room when I'm there and it's not a happy feeling.

Rick has played with these guys since he was seventeen, he's thirty-three now, that's almost half his life. I'm angry at Robbie but after talking to him I understand. There is a lot of alcohol and drugs going around and if Rick is guilty of overindulging, he's not the only one. I think Robbie sees it and he's trying hard to step away from it.

I know he hates touring but he forgets that's how the rest of the band makes their money. He gets the royalty from the songwriting because he writes the songs—most of them anyway. I'm wondering how much money Rick, or any of the others, has saved? I don't know how much heroin Rick is using, but a heroin habit isn't cheap. I heard from Levon that there are a lot of hangers-on who make their way to his house just for the heroin.

I'm proud that I take care of myself. I've never asked him for help but he'd say yes if I did. He buys me nice presents—the tennis bracelet he bought me couldn't have been cheap—but I think that comes from a sense of guilt. He's staying with his girlfriend and we both know it, but he wants me too. And me, I love him to death.

I get home and put my presents away. I take a shower and wash my hair, then throw on jeans and a tee shirt. I don't know what time he'll be here, but he will.

It's about three when he lets himself in. I'm still awake, I've had enough coke that I'll probably be up until late.

He hands me a box, saying, "Happy Birthday, sweetheart." He does not apologize for the birthday spanking.

I open it and see "Fredericks of Hollywood" on the box lid. Oh boy, what am I in for? Inside is a skimpy black nightie that's indecently sheer and doesn't cover much. With it are a pair of barely-there lace-trimmed matching panties. I'm grateful that they are not crotch-less.

"Put it on," he says and I head for the bedroom to change but he grabs my arm. "No," he says, shaking his head, "I want to watch."

I pull off my tee shirt and my jeans, then pull the nighty over my head. I draw on the panties which are barely sufficient to cover my derriere.

"I did good," he says and whistles, "I almost chose red but black suits you better." He pulls me onto his lap, "And now I get to take it off."

It's almost sunrise when he leaves. I am starting to understand part of my purpose. I know his wife is there to support him, but he needs more than her. He's scared for his future, and he clings to me for reassurance. He wants to be taken care of and that's a part of him I don't like. I try to be supportive, but I won't baby him.

What's he going to do without the band? He's looking around for a recording contract, but even if he finds a label, can he make an album that will sell? Someone could snatch him up on the basis of who he is, but if he doesn't make them enough money, they'll just spit him out.

I could actually start to hate this business. It's cut-throat and all the producers want is to make a bunch of money no matter what it takes out of the artist. I'm having bad feelings about his future. I want him to be successful, to have hits, and sell lots of records but I'm feeling like it won't happen. It's like there's a cloud over his head and he's facing a future with no guarantees.

I hate myself for feeling this way. I'm tempted to find a really good tarot reader and find out what is in his cards. I haven't yet, because I'm afraid of being right. I wish I didn't have this "gift" because it's not a gift, it's a curse and I can't let him know my fears for him, not ever.

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