476 C.E. - Six: Oblique Motion
476 C.E.
Oblique Motion: type of voice leading in which one voice moves against another that is stationary, or repeats.
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I’m going to skip ahead a bit, here. I mean, this is my memoir that I’m writing, isn’t it? I’m allowed to do that, right? To skip the parts I think aren’t that interesting?
Sigh. I guess that if this is going to make sense to any outside parties, I should at least summarize what happened. Our advertising and media coverage picked up over those few months. A lot. There would have been enough of an interest due to October’s existing fan base, but we recorded a few cover songs and Maureen put them on the website. The “Existential style” seemed to be well-received, from the comments I read on the site. I mean, there were the internet trolls you’ll find anywhere saying that it was shit, but the majority of the feedback was positive.
Our upcoming release had been mentioned on national TV, and in some fairly popular magazines. It seemed as though, despite October’s wish to stay in the underground music scene, we were destined to end up in the limelight.
The studio, which had once been a haven of songwriting creativity for Grey and myself, had become a place to fear and avoid. I’m as much of a perfectionist as, well, anyone, really, but after the 800th take of the first track for the album, especially when I was certain that the second or third was perfect, I just wanted to ice my sore fingers and watch a nice, mindless romantic comedy or something.
I did get a cello out of the whole mess, which more than made up for any pain and suffering. Bertha, as I named her, was the most beautiful thing on the face of the Earth. She put the grand piano to shame, and even managed to outshine Beautiful Pie. If she became human, she would be ten million times hotter than Angelina Jolie. I’d have gone straight for her. I’d have gone straight and never looked back. However, Bertha remained a luscious contraption of wood and strings and pure, unadulterated awesomeness. Denmark decided that my homosexuality is a cover up for my cellosexuality. It is very probable that it would have been dishonest to contradict his declaration, so I held my tongue.
Also, I might mention that I turned twenty-four during the span that we were recording. With my birthday being April Fool's Day, I've experienced a lot of...interesting pranks, but none quite so elaborate as the one the other guys pulled on me. At first I had been under the impression that they had completely forgotten. This wasn't an illusion I was about to expose, however, since I was happy not being the center of attention. Still, I had been tired and gone to bed early that night, but about an hour later, I awoke to four people around my bed, pelting me with balloons and dragging me downstairs to force-feed me cake. They had decorated the kitchen and everything.
Anyway, the album had been released in the middle of June, to overwhelming sales and truly ridiculous amounts of critical praise. I believe that October literally passed out when he saw the number of albums we’d been able to sell, including online sales, in the first week after the release. I’m not sure, though. The others might have been exaggerating. I can’t confirm anything seeing as I passed out first.
But back to the present. That brings us up to the beginning of July, and the beginning of our first tour together as a band. I asked the guys with musical background what touring would be like, but Grey just shrugged and said that his old band had never really attained a wide enough fan base to justify a tour, and October laughed and said that he had thought it was pretty boring. Those complete wellsprings of information being my only source of knowledge, I had no idea what to expect beyond driving all over the country in a fancy bus and playing shows about three times a week.
Maureen found us an opening act, though, and we were to meet them at the lodge the day before we left on tour. She regretted that we wouldn’t get to know each other better beforehand, but the band had had to fly out from South Texas to join us. All we knew was that it was a four-piece indie folk band by the name of The Collective Marge. My first question was going to be how the hell they got that name.
Still, that meeting wasn’t supposed to happen until the next day, and I was enjoying the time I had left at the fancy lodge I had become so accustomed to. It felt much more like home than the shitty apartment I had been living in, and I liked my housemates there considerably more than I had liked the roaches. So, I was a little saddened by the sight of my clothes packed up into suitcases with my other meager belongings. Soon I’d be living on a bus. October had assured me that they were very nice buses, but I had ugly memories of absurdly long charter bus trips in college marching band that were rather souring my outlook on the whole ordeal.
Although I’ll more than admit to being giddy at the thought of playing in front of a crowd. And not entirely in a happy way. The largest number of people I’d ever played for prior to this had been a few hundred for band concerts, maybe twenty or thirty for my recitals. Apparently we had sold out venues that seated well over a thousand. But, I am a musician, and necessarily, a performer. I knew my parts intimately. I knew I’d be able to handle it. I just hoped my nerves could. In the relaxed atmosphere of song writing and recording, I almost forgot that I’d ever had so many mental problems, except for each evening when I swallowed my bitter pills.
I didn’t know if touring would send me right back into my previous disposition of constant stressing and frayed nerves. Still, I decided to be uncharacteristically hopeful about the whole mess as a opened a suitcase to dig one of my books back out. After all, I had initially thought this entire endeavor a fool’s venture, and nothing horrible had happened yet. Hell, I’d been indirectly mentioned on national television. That’s the opposite of horrible in most people’s opinions.
I finally found the desired novel and carefully replaced the folded jeans that I had upset in my searching. If this was my last afternoon of relative peace (as much as it can be called that, what with Denmark running amok) in the New Mexican Rocky Mountains, I was going to enjoy it. And speaking of enjoyment, as the weather had warmed up, I had renewed my love of running and the outdoors, exploring trails in the woods and jogging down the tree-lined roads most mornings. I had lost the cold-weather induced flab, and was even beginning to gain a semblance of muscles. But in addition to that, I had discovered the simply joys of the wicker patio set that adorned the spacious balcony on the second floor.
I grabbed a sweater from the back of my chair and pulled it over my head, holding the book in my teeth. I had the garment halfway on when I stepped out onto the balcony and found that I had company. Both October and Grey were seated around the glass table, the singer sipping a Red Bull and staring out over the mountains. He looked at me and grinned as I finished getting the sweater adjusted, and took the book out of my mouth.
“Ever consider putting the sweater on after you set your book down?” he asked me with a ghost of a laugh. I grinned and shrugged.
“Nah, that would make things way too easy. Enjoying your afternoon?” I asked. Grey glanced up like he had just noticed me, and I nodded a greeting to him. He returned the gesture and went back to scribbling in his notebook.
October leaned forward and set his drink down on the table as I took the chair next to him. “Definitely. I never really thought of myself as a nature-lover, but this place is gorgeous. I’m going to see if Maureen can’t get it for us again next time we need to get the creative juices flowing.”
“That’d be nice,” I agreed, setting my unopened book in my lap and letting my eyes drift across the jagged skyline.
The conversation died off, there, and October went back to sipping his carbonated caffeine, so I cracked open my book and began rereading the battered copy. I don’t know how much later it was, but when October’s cell started shrieking at him, Grey and I both jumped, me so violently that I threw my book, he in a more dignified start.
“Sorry guys. Gotta take this,” he said, pressing a button and vanishing to the interior of the house. I got up and went behind my chair to find my book, which had closed itself. I sighed, as I now had no clue which page I was on, and frankly, I had read the book too many times to care. I decided to annoy Grey instead.
“Hey. Hey. Hey,” I said, planning on repeating the phrase until he noticed me.
“Yes, yes, yes?” He inquired, sounding just incredibly British about it.
“What are you drawing?” I asked, scooting my chair closer to him. He had taken up sketching as a hobby lately, and, well, he wasn’t very good, but his drawings were recognizable, which is more than you could say for mine.
“Trying to write a song, actually. It’s not coming out right at all, though,” he admitted with a sigh, tilting the notebook so that I could see the page, which had more scribbles and crossed out lines than unmarked words.
I cocked my head to the side. “Still writing? It’ll be a while before we record anything else,” I said.
“I know, but I enjoy writing. It’s more difficult for me now, though, since I don’t have you to bounce the ideas off of anymore.”
“You can bounce your ideas or whatever off of me. We’re friends, right? That didn’t stop when we finished recording,” I said, going for reassuring, but sounding kind of lame.
“Oh. Well, err, thanks,” he said awkwardly, though it sounded heartfelt.
“So…what are you writing about?”
He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it and abruptly laughed, and actually blushed a little. “I suppose I’m trying to write a love song. I’m probably the worst person for that job, though.”
I shrugged. “Can’t be worse than me. I’m not even sure I believe in love,” I admitted cautiously.
Grey gave me an odd look. “Really? You mentioned having dated in the past. Never been in love?”
I floundered. “I-well-they were nice, but…no. I never loved any of them, I guess. I just don’t think it’s for me,” I said honestly, painfully thinking of my hopeless crush on October. I wondered for a moment if part of his appeal was that he was utterly unattainable. I tried to turn the conversation. Hoping I wasn’t prying, I asked, “What about you?”
He took a deep breath and closed his notebook, setting it down on the glass table near October’s forgotten drink can. He set his elbows on his knees and thought for a long minute. “It’s something of a long story.”
“I’ve got all the time in the world,” I said, suddenly curious.
He nodded, but was silent for another long moment. “I’ve been in love twice,” he said at long last. “I was a very different person the first time, though. Drugs, alcohol, parties most nights, more boys and girls in my bed than I can remember.” I started at his use of boys and girls, but I kept quiet. “She dragged me out of that. Or…she tried to, at least. She was determined to save me from myself. I told her that it was hopeless from the start, but she kept trying, and I fell for her. She was…perfect. Too perfect. I was a mess, and she was more than I deserved. She was too good for me. I was dragging her down to my level. I wasn’t strong enough to change.”
He stopped suddenly, and the silence that settled over us was loud in its intensity.
“So I ran away from her. Transferred universities, cut my hair, shaved my ridiculous beard, stopped going by my real name. I finally managed to clean up my life. It was years before I even started to get over her. I’m still not sure I have, entirely. Still, she’s happy, now, and I couldn’t be happier for her…”
“Where is she now?” I had to ask.
He smiled. “She moved to America and married a Catholic Missionary. They have two children…”
I couldn’t say anything. Grey’s smile fell from his face as he began his story again. “If you can believe it, the story of my second love has an even worse ending.”
“You don’t have to tell me if you aren’t comfortable with it,” I said quickly.
“It’s fine...” He trailed off, looking for the words, but ended up just shaking his head. “Don’t worry. My last year at university I met Cassandra and Derrick. She was a drummer, he a guitarist, and they needed a third person to play bass in their band. I liked both of them, and Candle in the Wind was formed… After Ava, I had been sure that I’d never fall in love again, but I was wrong. Everything about Derrick drew me in. His smile, his laugh… I was like a moth to a flame, if you’ll excuse the cliché. I guess I allowed myself to forget that fire burns. Derrick, of course, was in love with Cassandra, who really didn’t give a damn about him. But sometimes… When his depression got to him, or when he’d had too much to drink, he’d come to me…”
Grey trailed off, twiddling his thumbs, looking anywhere but at me.
“Go on,” I requested softly. He took a breath and did just that. “And I accepted that. I stupidly hoped that if I waited long enough, he’d eventually realize that she would never want him, and that I did. But he wouldn’t let me in, and apparently he’d have rather died than been with anyone but her… it was about a year and a half ago that he shot himself. In the head. No note or anything.”
For a long time, we were both still. Then, I said, “That…really sucks. I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “It’s all in the past.” The words were understandably hollow.
“I, um. I have a question,” I said tentatively.
“Hm?” Grey intoned, and I began, “You said you stopped going by your real name…what is it?”
He cracked a grin, then. “Ulysses. Ulysses Albright.”
“Damn, I would have changed my name without any traumatic events,” I said, which was pretty rich coming from the guy who got told that Rome was not in France at least once per week.
“It is a pretty awful name, isn’t it? So, Rome, will you tell me the sordid details of your past relationships?” I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not, honestly.
“Anything I say will be trite after your story, but, sure, if you really want to know.” I paused. “I’ve really only ever been in two relationships worth mentioning. The first one was during my sophomore year in college. Eric Jamison…He was…four years older than me, if I remember correctly. Very nice guy, not bad on the eyes. He was just too…Catholic. He was ashamed of being gay, and he alternated between being really sweet and affectionate in private and pretending he’d never met me before in public. I got fed up and dumped him.”
“Did you say Eric Jamison?” Grey asked, deadly serious.
“Yes…why?”
“Our exes got married,” he replied. “The man Ava married is named Eric Jamison.”
“That’s a huge coincidence, not to mention fucking weird,” I said, feeling a stab of pity for Ava and one of disgust for Eric. Denying who he was.
“Anyway, the second relationship,” Grey prompted.
“Yes. Christian Dawkins. He was so…normal. Average student with average goals. He was happy with his safe, placid life. We got an apartment together, and it started out well. But, as we got closer, he began to see just how badly I fit into his idea of a perfect life. I had too much baggage, you know, with my conditions and all. So he ended it. I wasn’t devastated since, well, I never loved him in the first place. And…that’s it, with the exception of a few one night stands that I’m incredibly ashamed of.” I made a gesture to indicate that I was done being long-winded.
“When we first met, I promised not to pry, but…” His silence said the rest. I knew he was asking exactly what was wrong with me. And, well, Grey was really the best friend I had had…ever, so suddenly I didn’t mind telling him.
I began listing off my conditions by ticking them off with my fingers. “Clinical depression. Anxiety, sometimes panic attacks. Insomnia. Obsessive compulsive disorder. Bipolar disorder, although I’m led to believe I have a pretty mild case of that one, at least. I also get really bad headaches. But, I’m well-medicated, so I’m fairly normal.” I looked up and searched his face for the usual expressions I got. Fake cheer. Pity. Discomfort.
I saw nothing of the sort. In fact, he grinned, and said, “I’ve known people with worse. You’d be downright stable next to them.”
“That might be one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me,” I replied quippily, but the meaning was honest. Acceptance. It was all I’d ever wanted.
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It was early in the morning, the next day. I had just gotten back from a refreshing jog, and the sun was just creeping over the horizon. I was usually dressed and showered before October, the next earliest riser, woke up. Thus, when I opened the door and he called out, “Hey, Rome,” to me, I understandably jumped, slipped on the welcome mat, and only managed to keep from falling down by clutching the doorknob fiercely.
“Sorry about that,” October said, trying to hold back a laugh. “Anyway, go shower. I need you to drive Denmark’s car to the airport. We’re picking up the opening band.”
“Why can’t you get Denmark?” I asked.
October shrugged. “I tried to wake him up, but he was mean to me. So I waited for you.”
“Fair enough,” I answered, accepting it as I turned to go take the ordered shower. I was in and out in five minutes, and dressed in another three. I think October was impressed. Good. It was silly, and I felt like I was back in high school, the way I stumbled over my words with him, and was always trying to make him notice me. You know, without being obvious about it.
“We should find out if you just broke the land speed record.”
“I totally did, no question about it. So, let’s go pick us up some Marges,” I replied, already heading out the door, Denmark’s keys in hand.
“Indeed,” October concurred and followed close behind me. I geeked out to my beloved classical music radio station all the way to the airport, as I followed Beautiful Pie down the mountain. It was still breakfast time when we got there, and I was mourning the lack of coffee in my day by the time we got there. I needed my sugary gloop to survive! So, since the flight from Austin, Texas hadn’t arrived, yet, I got myself a suitably froofy drink from the Starbucks and came fully alive for the day.
I was just finishing it when the rush of baggage claim and all caused a sudden swarm of people in the terminal. It was then that I realized that I had no clue who I was looking for. Luckily, the Marges, as I had come to think of them, had a better idea. A tall girl with dark, curly hair addressed October, who had foregone his checked fedora this once.
“October…?” She asked.
“Yep,” he answered, shifting his weight. I stood awkwardly in the background. “You are?”
“Rebecca Rowe. Of The Collective Marge,” she answered.
“Oh, awesome!” October immediately brightened. “Nice to meet you!” He put a hand on my shoulder and gestured me forward. “This is Rome, my keyboardist.”
“Hi,” I said eloquently, taking in the four musicians. Three of them were women. There was Rebecca, the curly-haired tall girl. A shorter girl had dirty blonde pigtails and a heart-shaped face. The tallest member of the band was the other girl, who towered over me. She looked very Swedish to me, with blue eyes and platinum blonde hair. The lone male in the band wore glasses, and had messy light brown hair and a bit of stubble.
“I’m Jane Eisenhower,” said the short girl, waving cheerily.
“Sophie Bergström,” said the tallest girl with a wink.
“And I am the lonesome island of testosterone standing firm amidst this raging sea of estrogen,” said the man, giving an irreverent salute. The girls all rolled their eyes.
October gave an apologetic grin. “I hate to rush you, but it’s important that we get back soon, if you don’t mind…Shit to take care of, and all.”
“Not a problem. I, for one, would like to get out of this airport,” Jane said.
With that, October and I led the way out of the airport, and to the parking garage where Denmark’s car and Beautiful Pie were parked side by side. October explained, “I didn’t think we could fit you all and your bags in just my car, so I had Rome drive our drummer’s car, too.”
No reply was made as luggage was loaded into the car. Rebecca and Jane seemed to have ended up with me, Sophie and Mr. Lonesome Island of Testosterone with October. In what had turned out to be a relatively painless ordeal, we made our way out of the compound and headed back up into the mountains.
At first, I was awkward about saying much, but Jane and Rebecca seemed to be capable of filling the silence on their own. Until I was suddenly dragged into the conversation.
“So, Rome, right?” I nodded. “I got you guys’ album. It was pretty good. You and some other guy were credited for pretty much all my favorite songs on it.” That was from Rebecca.
“That’s Grey. He did all the lyrics, I just sat at the piano and made them sound pretty,” I explained.
“Ah,” Jane chimed in. “You make a half-decent team, then.”
“Thanks,” I said, cracking into a grin. “Mind if I ask a question you probably get a lot?”
“Go for it,” Jane answered.
“The Collective Marge. How did you come up with that name?”
Jane laughed, and looked to Rebecca. “You wanna tell this time?”
The girl in the back seat shrugged, nodded, and sat up straighter. “It all started when Jane and I were in college. There was this guy we kept running into all over town. His name was Clif. We’d find him in grocery stores, in the library, in the dining halls, or just on the street. Somehow, we never found him individually, only when we were together. And he was always barefoot. In fact, we began to call going barefoot ‘Clifin’ it.’ Anyway… For the first while we knew him, he couldn’t remember which of us was which, so he decided to call us, collectively, Marge. It stuck.”
“Hence we are The Collective Marge,” Jane summed it up.
I laughed a little. “That’s a much more fun story than how we got our band name,” I admitted. “I was reading an old philosophy book, Grey and I got into a discussion, and October decided he liked the sound of it. No stalking involved.”
“It’s not fun at all unless stalking is involved,” Rebecca said in a deadpan.
“Damn straight,” I said. After that conversation, talking to them became easier, and the trip back passed fairly quickly.
When we returned to the lodge, I helped the girls get their luggage, setting it neatly in the living room to be kicked around at will. By then, the other three were up and about. Denmark was incredibly excited to meet new people. I think he might have been getting tired of us. Needed a new population to terrorize, or something.
He was the reason that Rebecca and Jane were distracted, actually, which is why I took care of their bags for them.
When I got inside, Grey gave me a quizzical look. “Opening band,” I said simply. He nodded. “Right. I had forgotten about them.” He returned to sipping his black coffee at the bar in the kitchen. I took the stool next to him to watch the drama unfold.
Mr. Lonesome Island of Testosterone came over to join us after he had added his bags to the pile.
“Coffee,” he said pleadingly.
“Mugs are in the cabinet above the pot; help yourself,” I said. “Just don’t touch my special Rome mug.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Mr. Lonesome Island of Testosterone said earnestly. He picked out a plain black mug and fixed himself a cup with about half as much cream and sugar as I use, which is to say, still a lot.
“Oh, uh, this is Grey,” I said awkwardly, as he leaned on the counter near us. Grey started, having apparently zoned out of the conversation.
“Ah. Clifton Sullivan. Call me Clif,” said the Lonesome Island, who now had a name.
“Wait. The same Clif from Rebecca and Jane’s story?” I asked. “The stalker?”
Clif laughed and set his mug down. “They still tell that story? It was all coincidence, I swear. Anyway, nice to meet you both.”
“Same,” Grey said in reply, lifting his mug slightly.
“You do speak,” Clif said jovially.
Grey shrugged. “When I have to. But…story?”
“How our band got its name,” Clif said, waving it aside. “It’s really pretty ridiculous. In short, I met Rebecca and Jane, couldn’t remember their names, called them both Marge. It was a matter of convenience for me, one of great amusement for them.”
“Ah,” replied Grey, “Much more interesting than how we got ours.”
“That’s what I said to Rebecca and Jane,” I said with a grin.
Grey and I chatted with Clif a little while longer, but eventually we had to disperse to finish tidying up around the lodge so that we could leave that evening. The tour buses were to meet us there, and we had been assured that it would be fine to leave the cars in the garage. I had just finished washing my sheets and bedding when Sophie walked in, noticing my armful of linens.
“Want some help with that?” She asked, and I replied, “Sure, thanks.” Between the two of us, we made the bed up impeccably.
“So…Rome, is it?” She asked. I nodded. “Tell me a little about yourself,” she requested. Something in the tone of her voice made me uncomfortable. The fact that she had to be half a foot taller than me, exceedingly busty and curvaceous, and wearing goddamn heels didn’t help.
“Um, I play the piano and I’m a philosophy major?” I said tentatively.
“Have a girlfriend?” She asked, in that same tone.
I kept from laughing, but only barely. I guess someone hadn’t checked out the website, yet. “No…I…just, no.”
“Well, then, forgive me for coming on a little strong, but you’re incredibly cute. Short guys with glasses are just my type. If you’re ever interested…give me a call?”
I choked on my nonexistent drink. “I…um…” Well, that explained how awkward I had been feeling, and the predatory sense emanating from the tall blonde. I must have been bright red. She laughed. “I’m not talking about commitment or anything.”
“I’m gay,” I blurted out tactlessly.
Her smile faded for a minute, then returned with a different quality. “Oh! I’m sorry, then. Can we go shopping instead?”
I sighed. The other three Marges were pretty cool, but this one and I were not going to get along. “I have no fashion sense. Um, I’m taking my bags downstairs.” With that, I all but fled the room, suitcase in tow. I ran into October in the living room. Literally. Almost knocked him over.
“Whoa, Rome, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said, between amused and concerned.
“Worse,” I said, “I got propositioned by a woman.”
October blinked. “It’s that terrifying?”
I calmed down some. “Well, no, not under normal circumstances. It was just very sudden and I was not expecting it and Sophie came on really strong…”
October smiled, and I could tell he was biting down a laugh at my frazzled demeanor, even as his eyes lit with sympathy. “Don’t worry, Rome. I’ll protect you from the scary blonde lady.”
“My hero,” I said breathlessly, doing my best impression of a simpering fairytale princess, and blushing that I had the guts to do that.
He just chuckled and glanced at his watch. Switching to a more businesslike tone, he frowned and said, “The buses should be here around now…”
“Is it that late already?” I asked, then glanced out the window, where, surely enough, the sun was just beginning to angle toward the western horizon. I jumped when October’s phone rang. It did that a lot. It was a wonder his phone wasn’t permanently attached to his ear by now.
“Speak of the devil,” he muttered, “That’s Maureen.” He answered the call, and I half listened to their conversation. The two tour buses were running a little behind schedule, but they would be there in less than an hour. We’d have a while to settle in, and then we’d say goodbye to this lovely mountain lodge in New Mexico. And my first US tour with October and Existential would begin.
I expected to feel dread about the upcoming shift in my lifestyle, and I did, but I was surprised by how much of it was squashed by the excitement I felt simultaneously.
After all, I was in a band with four people I’d really grown to like and an opening band that I was pretty sure I’d be able to make friends with. Mostly. Sophie still concerned me. But I’d survive. Carpe diem or some such cliché.