hair at their temples, and had come with one of Nancy’s other clients, Loring Blackman, another famous musician who writes songs for other artists now. I got a kick out of meeting him because I’d listened to his music a lot in college. Loring and his wife, a jewelry designer, told me they lived in a brownstone three doors down from Cal in Brooklyn and were in town visiting one of Loring’s sons, who went to UC Berkeley. Cal told them I’d graduated from there and they asked me a lot of questions, the kind it didn’t bother me to answer. They were sweet and attentive with each other, and something about the way they interacted made me imagine for an instant that October and I could have ended up like that, had it not been for Cal. Deep down I didn’t believe it—I didn’t think I was brave enough to go the distance with a woman like October. Nevertheless, it made me feel better to have someone to blame other than myself.
The last to arrive was a photographer named Guy. He had a big, egg-shaped head, a long beard, and a loud, fuzzy voice like he was speaking through a distortion pedal. The first thing he told me was that he’d shot Cal’s last two album campaigns “but not his first one, because he couldn’t afford me then.” Guy was wearing a fur vest, and I disliked him within thirty seconds of our meeting. He was twitchy, reminiscent of an old neighbor in Berkeley who did a lot of bad drugs. The other thing I disliked about Guy was that he was very touchy-feely with October, resting his hand on her back as he spoke to her. And I could tell by the way she flinched and walked away that she disliked him too. She’s sensitive to touch, especially to someone who’s full of negative energy.
Guy had arrived with two models in tow. They had similar names that I can’t recall now, Carla and Claire, or something like that. They seemed nice enough, but they spoke with extreme Southern California accents—you know that monotone way of talking as if nothing matters—that made me want to bang my head against a wall.
Eventually I got tired of talking to strangers and went back into the kitchen to see if October needed any help, but she waved me off, and I could tell by her demeanor that the last thing she wanted to be doing was entertaining a houseful of people. Cal strolled in a second later and put his arms around her. She whispered something to him that I couldn’t hear, and he rolled his eyes and said, “I dare you to have a good time tonight,” before grabbing a couple crackers and walking back into the living room.
Diego was sprawled underneath the table, either hiding from the partygoers like I was or waiting for someone to drop food. He looked up at me, and I fed him a slice of prosciutto. After that he followed me to the couch, where he sat at my feet and kept me company until October told everyone to go outside and sit down for dinner.
I ended up with the tall African-American man on my left and Loring’s wife, Bea, on my right. Model Claire sat directly across from me, Carla next to her.
“Are you a musician too?” Claire asked, and I knew that listening to her talk for too long would’ve turned me into a serial killer.
I told her I was not a musician, but Cal, who was at the head of the table, waved his napkin in the air like he was trying to shoo away a swarm of mosquitoes and said, “Don’t listen to him! He’s the single greatest guitar player you’ve never heard of!”
That egged Claire on, and she began asking me more questions—the kind I hated, like where I was from and what kind of music I played. In an effort to get her to leave me alone, I turned and asked the man on my left the same dumb questions, which turned out to be the most amusing part of the whole night. I had assumed he was someone with whom Cal worked, maybe a band member or a roadie, and when I asked him what he did, the entire table went silent.
“I play basketball,” he answered softly.
“Professionally?” I asked. He did seem tall, but not as tall as Cal, and certainly not as tall as I imagine basketball