'What a life it was! Lemme tell ya! I just loaded the gear 'round, jammed wit the boys a'bit, wasn't even'n the band. Still all da fans wanted to know me. Me! Sures, got invited to all them parties, ol Comet insisted on dat. "Bring Rhodes! Let's keep this real!" But in the grand scheme of it all I was a nobody. But I was still in the grand scheme, and dat was enough to make somebody out of me.'
PART FOUR -- Golden Years
'Course, now I've got my own name, my own best selling book about dem good old days. Fifteen weeks atop the Bestsellin' List, don't ya know? Some folks in the biz thought I was jus' spilling the beans. Givin' away the secrets you ain't supposed to give away. But didn't hurt no one, m'I right? Sides, used dat money to fund my musical about laundry bandits... "Those Aren't My Pants"... dunno why the critics were south on it, probably cuz it was too ahead of its time, what wit the raygun scene and the choreographed singing ninjas. But I tells you---'
'Please Mr. Rhodes, lets get back to your days with Calvin Comet.' groaned the interviewer, using his elbow to conceal a large yawn. 'Tell us about the Golden Planet tour.'
'Hmmm yea. Always thought dat second disc was the best one. That'is Comet in full form, full power. An'the tour reflected that power, a man and band atop the whole damn world. "Falling Stars" was such'a hit think ol' Cal got tired of playin' it after the first three shows. But'e never let on. True performer, professional thru n'thru. Course, dat was the tour he met Sorre.'
'Sorre?' asked the interviewer.
'Yea. Sorre. She'as a photographer from Mumbai, follow'n da tour around. Jus' dark curly hair, tall, smile to move planets. Whole band was always hittin' on er, heck I probably did a few times in my more unforgivable moments. Thems hazy days. But she'd eyes only for da big cheese, ol Changeling himself. I'member first time dey met, durin' a show o'course.'
'Please, tell us about that.'
'Well! ol'Cal was dressed'n dis shiny gold spacesuit geddup, skintight o' course. Think'e spotted her near da stage wit'er camera. Heh, he told da band'ta jam for a bit and ol Comet invited the lady up'on stage to dance for'a bit. He was n'love wit her instantly, ya could tell. An she'd always loved him. Jus' been shy bout it. They danced and it was so beaut-ful an'obvious to anybody there. Inseparable from then on.'
'How come nobody has ever heard of her? There are dozens of books written about--'
'O' they kept it real secret, dey did.' Rhodes interrupted. 'Ol Cal was real private bout private affairs. Plus'e was a sex symbol. Always figured d'label wanted im to appear, ya know, available. Help sales. But'us around im, us close't the band. We all knew. Dey were so in love. Crazy bout each other.'
The increased slurring of his voice suggested to the interviewer that it wasn't cola in the plastic bottle his guest kept swigging.
'How long were they together?' asked the interviewer with increased haste. 'Comet and this Sorre woman?'
A sudden change came over his interviewee. That same plastic bottle was quickly emptied into Rhode's mouth and his eyes remained closed for a long uncomfortable moment.
'I'dunno if I can talk bout that.'
'But, you wrote a tell all book about rock star life in the 70s. You even wrote how one time you saw Mick Jagger take off his pants with a fire extinguisher and...'
'Yea, yea. That was all stupid fun. But... talking Calvin... dunno if I can talk bout that...'
There was a long silence in the room. The interviewer, halfway delirious with a potential unearthed hot scoop, hid his emotion and attempted to regather his questioning. Still, lips were licked, chops were marinated.
***
There are always knocks at the door. At least one every hour or so, though the frequency seems to dwindle. The first few accompanied a voice: inviting me for a walk in the snow, or to watch a movie with everybody. Now the rare knock just tortures, bombards focus with useless inquiries like if I'm cold, or if I'm coming out for dinner. Happy this door has a lock on the inside.
Still my stomach growls at me, wondering what the hell is up. Sorry, old friend. I've neglected you lately, and now my muscles feel weak at your fury. But what is beyond that locked door cannot be worth your satisfaction. I have a cup in this room and a window with plentiful snow within arms reach. It melts quickly. It will do. The sun is coming up soon. Rest and forgetfulness will come again.
(xxxi) -- Four
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