What Have We Done (3)

“Wanna party?” she’d said, smelling of cigarettes and beer. She didn’t have to ask him twice. He doesn’t remember much else.

“Can you play? Are you okay?” Pixie’s questions return him to the present. “Seriously, I’m worried. Tom seems—”

“Of course I can play.” He climbs into his shirt and jeans flung on the floor. Grabbing the handle to his guitar case, he charges out of the cabin.

“Hurry,” Pixie says, outpacing him. She moves quickly for such a compact woman. “I told them I was going to the bathroom.”

Donnie rushes into the ship’s performance hall and is greeted by several exasperated expressions, the most prominent from their singer, Tom Kipling.

“Sorry, y’all, I overslept,” Donnie says, opening his guitar case and slinging the strap over his shoulder.

“Pfft.” Tom grips the microphone, leaning as if he’s being held up by the stand. Donnie has a brief image of a younger man in the same pose. Even then, Tom was always bossing everyone around.

The only thing that’s changed is Tom’s hair plugs, those white Chiclet teeth, and the tighter fit of his leather pants.

“Overslept…,” Tom says, with an audible sigh. “It’s four o’clock.”

“What do you want me to do? I said I’m sorry.”

Tom starts to speak but stops himself. Donnie notices Tom tap eyes with Animal, their drummer.

“Let’s just do the sound check,” Tom says, sighing again. He points to the set list taped on the stage floor.

Animal clicks his sticks— a one, a two, a one-two-three-four—and Donnie strikes the opening chord to a song he’s played so many times he can barely stand it. From his Marshall stack comes what sounds like an elephant being slaughtered. His Les Paul is wildly out of tune, thanks to neglect and a popped string.

Tom waves his arms to cut the music. His sagging jowls quiver. But he doesn’t yell at Donnie.

That’s a surprise. Donnie’s spent most of his adult life being yelled at by Tom Kipling, so he’s used to it. But this is worse. Tom composes himself, then looks over to their manager, Mickey, at stage right.

Mickey gives Tom a nod, and Tom addresses the band.

“Tonight, after the show, you all have a choice to make,” Tom says. He spins around and fixes his gaze on Donnie. “It’s him or me.”

And with that—his aging-rock-star flair for the dramatic on full display—Tom stomps offstage.

Donnie looks at his bandmates. When he sees that even Pixie isn’t willing to make eye contact, he knows it’s over.

Later, after the last encore—they do two every show—Donnie runs offstage drenched in sweat and feeling euphoric. That sensation never goes away. He’s performed well; Tom can’t deny that.

Donnie got his guitar freshly strung and went over the set list beforehand to be ready for tonight’s parade of oldies. He even hit all his marks for the ridiculous choreography.

Backstage, amid the high fives and rapture that follows every performance, he thinks things should be fine. Tom will have cooled off. Donnie can explain what happened—that his best friend, Benny, is dead. Not just dead. Murdered. He’ll explain that he’s committed to his sobriety—to the band—and they’ll give him another chance.

After the meet-and-greet—the selfies and poster signing and awkward conversations with drunk people—the VIP room clears out and Tom calls him over.

“You did well tonight,” Tom says.

“Thanks, brother. You were great. You sound like you did when we were kids.”

Tom gives a fleeting smile with that row of too-white teeth on his too-tan face. He’s like an old house with too many layers of paint. He takes a deep breath. “That’s just it, man. We’re not kids anymore.”

“I get it, Tommy. I promise it won’t happen again, I just—”

“I’ve got three ex-wives to support,” Tom interrupts. “My daughter’s in her second year at

Berkeley. I need this job, man.”

“Trust me, so do I,” Donnie says. He holds back his resentment at Tom’s tales of financial woe.

Tom took all the songwriting credits—at the time the rest of the band didn’t understand that if your name isn’t on the song the money stops. It’s the reason Tracer’s Bullet broke up. Donnie’s the only other member who was desperate enough to come back.

“That’s what makes this hard, Don.”

“Tommy…”

Tom offers a sad expression. “It’s done, my friend. I wish you nothing but the best.”

“You can’t do this to me!” Donnie’s voice rises.

A couple of roadies look over.

Tom shakes his head.

Donnie’s voice breaks now. “You owe me, man.”

“I’ve gotta go.” Tom turns. Donnie grabs his arm roughly and Tom twists around, his face dark now. “I suggest you let go of my arm.”

Donnie stares at him a long beat. And releases his grip.

Closing in on midnight, on the promenade deck—the most secluded section of the ship after hours

—Donnie takes the last swig of the bottle, hating himself for drinking again. Hating himself for not standing up to Tom. Hating himself for what his life has become. He stares out at the ocean. With the moon hidden by clouds, there’s nothing but blackness.