Tommy

Literary Review, Spring, 2004 by Rem Reynolds

Tommy looked confused. "An American what?"

"Here, take your medication too." Marty gave him a pill and assured him once again of the band's quality.

Diane felt herself sinking into the sofa. Leo's dope had been strong, and she'd had too many drinks too early. She needed to get herself together.

Everyone went to check out the opening band except Lance and Dez. She could hear Lance talking.

"The thing with him is he's real. And that's what people want now. You've got bands that just make whatever sound people want to hear. The beautiful thing about Tommy is he can't do that. He can't make any kind of music except his kind. The kind he hears in his head. It's the ultimate in real. People feel that when they hear him."

She'd heard this speech before. He'd unconsciously practiced it on her during a recent argument. He considered authenticity to be a critical attribute of his artists, and their backstories to be their distinguishing features in the marketplace.

"It's risky," said Dez.

"This is rock and roll," said Lance. "It's nothing but risk on every level."

Dez laughed. "Don't try to appeal to the little rebel in me. Compared to you I'm an old man. This is my job. I can be very risk-averse."

Dez used a credit card to chop up lines of coke on the table. He offered one to Lance, who politely refused. So typical of him, Diane thought, to maintain all control. She still admired his discipline, but as one sometimes respects qualities that one doesn't have, with a mixture of envy and derision.

Her own lack of discipline had become very apparent lately. She'd been writing a newsletter for a travel company until the sagging airline industry led to the elimination of her department. She was content, at first, to enjoy the free time. She went to museums, read books, volunteered from time to time. Gradually those activities grew tiresome. Her friends said to think of the time as an opportunity to do what she'd always wanted. They seemed to think that suddenly she'd reveal some master talent for painting, or that she'd deliver the manuscript of a Great Novel. However, serious consideration of their counsel led her to this conclusion: there was nothing she'd always wanted to do. So she slept until the afternoon and rarely left the apartment. She'd begun to feel as if her insides were heavy and poisoned. Now what she truly wanted was a job, a distraction from herself, an excuse to leave. As for Lance, who woke at six every morning to work out and go to the office, his attitude during this period had begun at a minor level of concern and slid into edgy, biting impatience.

Lance got up and went into the bathroom. Dez did his lines. He turned and looked at Diane.

"You want some?"

She shook her head.

He came and sat next to her on the sofa.

"So can you see Tommy on MTV?" he said. "Or is that just Lance?"

She didn't answer.

"Are you feeling okay?" he asked.

"I'd like a glass of water."

"Alright." Dez didn't move. "Are you Lance's girlfriend?"

"I'm his wife," she said, raising a limp hand to display the ring.