Wonders

Friday December 20, 1985

The phone rang and Lindsey knew by the hour who it was.

He let the machine get it and lay in his bed listening to that voice.

“Lindsey. It’s Stevie.” She sniffed. “Uh… I’m in Hollywood and I thought, you know, you might wanna see a movie, get coffee. Anyway… you got my number. Yeah. Well, this was a bad idea.”

Lindsey reached over and picked up the receiver.

“What are you doing?” he asked. Silence. “Stevie?” He heard her sniff and drag on a Cool.

“I’m here. I was just, you know, my mom hasn’t been too good. My cat isn’t well.”

“You ok Short?”

“Yeah, I’m ok. I’m just…” she poured a deep wine. “I’m tired. Did you ever think it would be this hard?”

Lindsey exhaled. “How’s Joe?”

“He’s good. He’s in Australia. You know, The Confessor didn’t do so hot, but the tour’s been doing good. He called a couple days ago. He’s down there with Foreigner. Says it’s real hot. Says Gramm’s an asshole.”

Lindsey smiled. “And what about you? Rock a Little’s doing well. I heard Talk to Me on the radio the other day.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s doing real good. I mean, it’s not Bella Donna, but management seems pleased.”

Lindsey knew Mike Landau had played on it. Lindsey knew Waddy Wachtel had played on it. Lindsey knew Danny Kortchmar and Mike Campbell both played on it. Lindsey looked across his bedroom and in the dark he could make the outline of his Rickenbacker on a stand. He wanted to put his foot through it.

Lindsey knew the feelings inside him were ridiculous. The hurt sparked like flames on a dying fire.

“And are you touring?”

“Yeah, we’re out early next year. Start in Colorado. After that, I’d be guessing.”

Lindsey suddenly felt tired. “And you want to go see a movie. With me.”

Stevie sniffed. “Yeah, I mean… Yeah. Why not?”

“Stevie. We barely went to the movies when we were together. What the hell are we going to see?”

Stevie drank off half her wine. “The new Rocky’s showing.”

A thud in his chest.

“Jesus Christ Stevie. Do you want to go to the theatre on Bellingham as well?”

The theatre on Bellingham was the Valley Plaza 6. In January ’77, on a whim, they’d gone there to see Rocky.

They were finished. The album was done, a month away from changing everything, and they’d gone out to see a movie about a boxer. And at the end, when he stood there all bloody and his girl had wound her way to the ring, and he asked where her hat was, Lindsey’s square left hand reached out and found Stevie’s in the dark. The last warmth between them.

“It’s on at 2:30 tomorrow,” Stevie said. “I’m gonna go.”

Lindsey sat on the edge of his bed, could hear late night traffic snaking its way towards home or misdeeds or both.
___

Lindsey pulled into the parking lot at 2:26. He got to the box office and bought two tickets.

“Uh, two for Rocky III please,” he said.

The boy behind the counter looked at him quizzically. Lindsey thought he’d been recognised, but he hadn’t.

“You mean Rocky IV,” he said.

Somewhere along the road, Lindsey had missed a Rocky.

He couldn’t see Stevie anywhere. When he did she was charging up the stairs, hair piled under a beret, sunglasses on and her nose streaming.

They took their seats just as the trailers were finishing, and they sat like two strangers as Sylvester Stallone and his steroid-honed body set about ending the Cold War.

Then, just when it seemed things couldn’t get more surreal, Stevie’s ears pricked up. They’d been watching the flashback montage scene, scored with Robert Tepper’s No Easy Way Out. The song was beginning to fade, and Stevie was instantly captivated by a six-note guitar riff on the outro. She sat open-mouthed in the theatre, not believing something so good could have been buried in the fade. She sprang from her seat as if it had been electrified, ran down the ramp to the exits and barged through the door.

When she got to her Accord she fumbled with her keys, began rummaging around on the floor in the back for her tape recorder, a Sony. She picked up a battered Shure and plugged it in. She played the tape that was in there to make sure there was nothing on it then hit record. She sang the riff and bass line. When she’d done that she wound the tape back and listened. She pressed record again and sang: “So long ago, certain place, certain time. You touched my hand.”

Then she looked out the window at the parked cars, waiting for something else. She sat there for four or five minutes. Nothing. Finally she barked “call Sandy” into the mic and turned off the Sony. She ran back to the theatre, but couldn’t get in the same door, so she headed to the main entrance.

But Lindsey had had enough of Sly Stallone. He’d had enough of his self doubt and training in the snow and Brigitte Nielsen and the one-dimensional portrayals of Russians.

Most of all he’d had enough of the eerie synthesised bass notes, Vince DiCola’s horrific score offending every fibre of his musical being.

So he got up, took his basin of Pepsi with him and went out the same door Stevie had gone through, walked to his car and fired it up.

He pulled out onto Bellingham and followed it until he hit Laurel Canyon Boulevard, heading south. He put the window down and turned on an FM station just as Hotel California was fading out. He thought of Joe Walsh. Then he smiled ruefully as Waddy’s intro to Edge of Seventeen blasted out through the speakers.

He turned the radio off and drove the rest of the way home thinking about old times, listening to the air rush past his window. He hoped Stevie was ok.

Stevie went back to their seats, sitting in Lindsey’s. There was still the trace of his warmth in the fabric of the chair. She shivered and tried to absorb as much of it as she could.