Once upon a time there was a rock guitarist named, shall we say, Frank, who started to pay special attention to me at a band rehearsal. Since he was exactly my type, or the type I wished was my type, I encouraged him. The fact that he was drunk or drugged, elusive and essentially benumbed did not matter to me. He was quite attractive in his dog-eyed way: You instantly wanted to pet him. That he had been beaten down by life was obvious though I never knew anything for certain and never asked. I'm not big on details in fleeting affairs, a trait causing me no end of troubles.
The rock guitarist was making his comeback, as all old rock musicians must do though he was not so old. I knew someone in his new band and also his manager. I trailed around in the music business for years and was a fan of many rock bands though I never seemed to date any musicians. I was not a groupie but something of a journalist and they seemed to steer clear. After all, they have easy pickings.
The rock guitarist had been a member of a cult band and was something of a cult hero--certainly not a household name. Though his old band had a place in the annals of rock music, no one cared about them for many years. I happened to have a t-shirt of this band that I'd bought in London where American fringe bands figure more prominently. I got it for a friend who disappeared to New Zealand so I dug it out and wore it to the rehearsal to show support. The rock guitarist acted impressed but I'm sure all he saw was a groupie for all that it's worth. I was looking to interview him for a story but never got around to it, for all that it's worth.
He was a compelling escort though always highly intoxicated. On our first date, he tripped and fell down in a bar full of college students and I thought he might be embarrassed so I fell down with him and laughed hysterically as if we were clowns, the entertainment. I didn't know this was a common occurrence: He fell down often, banged into tables, doors and people and caused a ruckus in bars, concert venues and on the street. None of this bothered me but I did think it was a cry for attention. I enjoyed his antics and he seemed to like me too. He would whisper in my ear and sing little songs. He picked flowers from someone's yard for me and we floated on a raft of zen probability.
I fell a little in love with the rock guitarist with his leather jacket, tight jeans and provocative walk. I wrote him a corny love letter saying as much that later came back to haunt me. He had a way of fluttering his eyes when he talked as if it was too much effort to articulate anything; he was a nihilist and had long given up on familiar means of communication. This suited me fine. There was too much talk in the music world. All that precious hyperbole. I just wanted to gaze at him, trying to read his personae which seemed at once heavy and then as vaporous as the morning fog. It has been said by a rock writer that he had a deeply spiritual component. He was considered by some not only a guitar hero, but a savior. Others less kind said he was a drunk, a bore and a spoilsport. It's all in the interpretation I suppose.
In the end, the rock guitarist did not have enough energy to be a savior. He bolted on his comeback band and married an actress with a name and a house. There is nothing an actress appreciates more than a troublesome boy less famous than herself, and nothing an aging rock star appreciates more than a woman who will hold his back. I was a little jealous but knew he'd found a place in the spotlight. Now he would be a little more stable and could really make a comeback. Instead, he gave up the guitar, she gave up her career and together they retired in familial heaven. Or so the story goes.
I'm sorry to say the rock guitarist is no longer with us. I do not know exactly how he died; it was all very vague. The actress instantly began her comeback using the funeral as a press party. Today her picture is everywhere and her autobiography a best-seller.
A lot of years have passed since the rock guitarist and I went on our three or four dates. One night not long after he went off with the actress I ran into him in a punk club. His eyes were watery, he had a mean glance and a dazed demeanor. Eventually he fell down but it wasn't particularly funny and since he seemed to be alone I went over and helped him up. He did not recognize me at first glance but when he did, he grabbed me fast and held me tight. I thought he might be crying as he breathed my name. I've never been held with such a fervor. I got him into a cab as he murmured something about someone waiting somewhere for him. It was at this point he asked me how I was doing. How was my family? He was clutching my hand as he fell into the taxi.
"I'm fine," I said. "Everyone's good. How are you?"
He replied in his most reverential manner, "I had to change my life, sometimes we have to change. I wish people understood that." It was our last meeting.
I've often wondered if the rock guitarist was happy with his changes. The actress delivered an occasional interview from her post in exile over the years. She was in love and worshiped her husband, was the usual take. They would soon release a collaborative album/film/book. His talent was too great to go unexpressed. I hoped he was as happy as his wife appeared to be though these things are not always as they seem.
Today the rock guitarist is a footnote--as a member of a once infamous band and another for his participation in the life of the actress. He did not figure in my life in a big way, nor I in his but I would not consider him a footnote. I know he would not care to be a footnote even though he distrusted fame and feigned indifference. What I saw was an individual acting in his own drama trying to beat the devil. He did not hold cult status in this script but was a shining star and to that I dedicate my little story.
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