Read Online How to Kill a Rock Star by Tiffanie Debartolo - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tiffanie Debartolo
Tags: Fiction, General, Humorous fiction, Romance, Contemporary, Love Stories, New York (N.Y.), Contemporary Women, Urban Life, Fear of Flying, Rock Musicians, Aircraft Accident Victims' Families, Women Journalists, Roommates
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“Don’t swear off al fruit just because you ate one bad apple.”
She said, “Please go to your room.”
I said, “If I go, I’m taking the fan with me.” She said, “Take the stupid fan.”
I halted in front of the fan on my way out the door. I think I even touched the cord. But I left the room without it.
Over.
Prior to moving to New York, I had a lot of sil y fantasies about what it was going to be like. Vera and I would hang out at quaint cafes by day, discussing life and how to live it; at night there would be cool lounges where she and Michael and I would see live music. But Michael and Vera were busy, and so was I. We hardly saw each other that first week.
And I couldn’t get Paul out of my head. I kept thinking about what he’d told me the night he’d wandered into my room—about how he’d walked away from what might have been his only shot at a record deal because he didn’t want to let my brother and the rest of the band down.
There was a lot more to him, I guessed, than the flippant pretext and cocky-bastard smile he presented to the world.
But it was as though Paul didn’t even live on Ludlow Street. More often than not, I had the place to myself and I didn’t like it. I didn’t like waking up and seeing the door to his room screaming-wide open, his bed in complete dis-array but untouched from the day before. It made me feel like I was missing something.
Days went by before Paul ended our incommunicado, using a scrap of paper he stuck to my door while I was out running one morning, affixing it to the wood with a piece of gum.
Why didn’t you come to the show on Thursday?
I get off work at 6 tonight. Meet me here. I’ve been thinking about you.
Potential y yours, WP Hudson .
I spent the entire morning obsessing over every word of that note. I wanted to know what “I’ve been thinking about you” literally meant. Thinking about me how ? Did it mean thinking: “I wonder how she is” or “I wonder if she likes Pink Floyd” or “I wonder if she’s good in bed” or what? There were too many interpretations. And then the “potential y yours” sign off. How was I supposed to decode that?
At any rate, I’d missed Bananafish at Rings of Saturn the week before because I was busy trying to put the finishing touches on my panning of the 66 show in the hopes of winning the respect of Lucy Enfield, only to have Lucy turn around and assign me the job of fact-checking a feature on a Brazilian fashion model, while Corbin, the guy in the cubicle beside me, got to interview Wayne Coyne.
I did my best to maintain the delusion that it wasn’t excruciating to be employed by the nation’s paramount music publication and have to research an article about a girl who was quoted as saying: “It’s like, such a drag when singers whine about the world. I just want to say to them, you know, like, shut up and dance.”
“I hate my boss,” I vented to Vera over lunch in Bryant Park the day Paul left me the note. “Because of her, al my coworkers think I’m a groupie.”
We were sitting on a bench, and Vera scooted a few inches away so she could turn and face me. She split the cookie she was eating in half and gave me a piece. “Why do your coworkers think you’re a groupie?”
“My boss told them I slept with Doug to get the job.” The tragedy of the situation escaped Vera. Al she said was, How to Kil _internals.rev 2/22/08
4:59 PM Page 60
6“I love how you’re on a first-name basis with Doug Blackman.” I let it go. The November deadline was of supreme importance and I only had thirty minutes before I had to go back to work. “Don’t make Michael quit the band.” Vera’s breath blew a piece of hair off her face. “That’s not fair, Eliza.
I’m twenty-seven. If I don’t start school soon, I’l be forty by the time I graduate.”
“Marriage is about compromise,” I said stupidly.
“Right. Except notice I’m the only one compromising,” she sighed. “Do you know
She said, “Please go to your room.”
I said, “If I go, I’m taking the fan with me.” She said, “Take the stupid fan.”
I halted in front of the fan on my way out the door. I think I even touched the cord. But I left the room without it.
Over.
Prior to moving to New York, I had a lot of sil y fantasies about what it was going to be like. Vera and I would hang out at quaint cafes by day, discussing life and how to live it; at night there would be cool lounges where she and Michael and I would see live music. But Michael and Vera were busy, and so was I. We hardly saw each other that first week.
And I couldn’t get Paul out of my head. I kept thinking about what he’d told me the night he’d wandered into my room—about how he’d walked away from what might have been his only shot at a record deal because he didn’t want to let my brother and the rest of the band down.
There was a lot more to him, I guessed, than the flippant pretext and cocky-bastard smile he presented to the world.
But it was as though Paul didn’t even live on Ludlow Street. More often than not, I had the place to myself and I didn’t like it. I didn’t like waking up and seeing the door to his room screaming-wide open, his bed in complete dis-array but untouched from the day before. It made me feel like I was missing something.
Days went by before Paul ended our incommunicado, using a scrap of paper he stuck to my door while I was out running one morning, affixing it to the wood with a piece of gum.
Why didn’t you come to the show on Thursday?
I get off work at 6 tonight. Meet me here. I’ve been thinking about you.
Potential y yours, WP Hudson .
I spent the entire morning obsessing over every word of that note. I wanted to know what “I’ve been thinking about you” literally meant. Thinking about me how ? Did it mean thinking: “I wonder how she is” or “I wonder if she likes Pink Floyd” or “I wonder if she’s good in bed” or what? There were too many interpretations. And then the “potential y yours” sign off. How was I supposed to decode that?
At any rate, I’d missed Bananafish at Rings of Saturn the week before because I was busy trying to put the finishing touches on my panning of the 66 show in the hopes of winning the respect of Lucy Enfield, only to have Lucy turn around and assign me the job of fact-checking a feature on a Brazilian fashion model, while Corbin, the guy in the cubicle beside me, got to interview Wayne Coyne.
I did my best to maintain the delusion that it wasn’t excruciating to be employed by the nation’s paramount music publication and have to research an article about a girl who was quoted as saying: “It’s like, such a drag when singers whine about the world. I just want to say to them, you know, like, shut up and dance.”
“I hate my boss,” I vented to Vera over lunch in Bryant Park the day Paul left me the note. “Because of her, al my coworkers think I’m a groupie.”
We were sitting on a bench, and Vera scooted a few inches away so she could turn and face me. She split the cookie she was eating in half and gave me a piece. “Why do your coworkers think you’re a groupie?”
“My boss told them I slept with Doug to get the job.” The tragedy of the situation escaped Vera. Al she said was, How to Kil _internals.rev 2/22/08
4:59 PM Page 60
6“I love how you’re on a first-name basis with Doug Blackman.” I let it go. The November deadline was of supreme importance and I only had thirty minutes before I had to go back to work. “Don’t make Michael quit the band.” Vera’s breath blew a piece of hair off her face. “That’s not fair, Eliza.
I’m twenty-seven. If I don’t start school soon, I’l be forty by the time I graduate.”
“Marriage is about compromise,” I said stupidly.
“Right. Except notice I’m the only one compromising,” she sighed. “Do you know
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