Page 1 of All That Remains
Aftersound
Part I
1
Los Angeles, CA
February 2018
It must’ve been a hundred degrees. Sweat trickled down my ribs beneath the dinner jacket. I was so parched my throat clung. Despite the temperature, I cracked the car window and welcomed the unseasonably warm air. Drawing back the rubber band and letting it lash my inner wrist with such violence, tears leapt to my eyes. Eventually it broke.
At my behest, the driver whipped into the nearest parking lot and headed home. The roar of tire and pavement righted something. Stopped the cleaving in my head. The incursion of imagery. The only way to get ahold of it was to introduce a greater frequency. Something to outpace thought. White noise, brown noise—any noise would do, as long as it was continual.
Smoke in his cologne. It’d been there tonight, as ever. Pervading all I knew. A blood-soaked exhumation of all I’d worked to forget. Returning to our old code of discretion, the subject of us was immediately thrown off the table. We side-stepped the weirdness of the past two years as if they hadn’t transpired. No sober sincere discussion of us was welcome, and it had been that way from the beginning. I was no stranger to this game when it resumed in the back seat of that car.
I caught my lower lip between my teeth, tracing the remnants of a scar that nearly split it in two. It all came surging back like a spark in the dark. The half-lidded eyes. The quiet bemusement.The precipitous vault of falling in love. So much, and then nothing. Damp sheets. Bloody fingernails. Smoke in my hair. The twitch of a hand drawn rapidly into a fist. At last, the estrangement.
The billboards downtown were appallingly bright. They snaked by the window as I struggled to get a grip, accompanied by loping palms and traffic lights. We were slated to attend an afterparty across town, but I’d decided against it, still a little shellshocked. Instead, we slipped from the city to the serenity of Laurel Canyon. I observed the world unblinkingly. High-rises checkered with busy offices, despite the hour. Taillights expanding in the fog. The heave and coast of vehicles along the congested artery.
At last, the buildings fell away. We were surrounded by lush hillsides and looming homes. I’d been hermited away here since the move. Rarely returning to the city, except to shop or visit colleagues. Most days I’d cruise around the old neighborhood in search of inspiration, lost to the hypnotic bends of the road and dreaming of the 60s.
Soon we embarked up a private road that passed through the clouds, depositing us at a community of gated mansions. When the driver slowed to a halt outside my place, I didn’t budge—hesitant to be alone with my thoughts.
“Should we come in?” someone asked.
I flexed my jaw to unwind it. Blinking back boozy tears. Sick with the reek of Armor-All duct cleaner and the vodka spilled down my shirt.
"You good?" John asked, as I climbed numbly from the row behind his. The air was bracing. It chilled my damp shit. “Uh…earth-to-Ralph? Yo? Rafe, you alright?"
"Yeah, sorry, mate. Sorry, all good."
We watched each other over the headrest. He’d been my de facto therapist the past few years, preparing me for the albumlaunch, grappling with my neurosis like no manager ever should. But I refused to lean on him tonight.
“Alright…but you’re looking a bit peaked there, bud.”
I shrugged, hyperaware of everything. The wind rustling in the cypresses bordering the drive. The way the moonlight shone differently in the mountains. The way his curls were inkier than usual, stark above the pale face. My hair, according to my mother, had become insufferably long, giving prime Jared Leto a run for his money. It kept whipping around my face at the slightest suggestion of a breeze.
"Should we come up for a bit?" Jen asked, Van Cleef bracelet glinting in the LEDs that bathed the Escalade floor. "Night cap?"
"No need. I'll be fine. See you Tuesday, innit?"
"No,tomorrow. Meeting with the label, remember?"
“Right…see you then. Cheers, mate.”
“Noon, pal. And get some sleep, alright?"
"Promise." I mustered a crooked smile, blowing kisses with both hands.
The truck slipped down the near vertical incline of my driveway, vanishing beyond the shutting gate. On my way to the backdoor, I kicked aside a wet box that had tumbled from the heap accumulating on the terrace. It had grown steadily from the moment I processed an official change-of-address last month, showing no signs of slowing. The American postal service was a mystery to me.
Dozens of brands had tracked me down already, relentless in their pursuit of Ralph Rawlings’colossal endorsement. That’s what John called it. Apparently it bore the ability to shift market values and rescue companies from plunging into bankruptcy. I was ill-equipped to wield that sort of power, so I kept it holstered, equally cautious of the things I publicly disavowed.
Still, they sent me unsolicited packages every month; prototypes and limited editions and loads of other useless shitI couldn't put a name to. I was now the reluctant owner of over fifty guitars. Hundreds of customized straps and picks, and thousands of emails begging me to take more. Every Fortune 500 along the western seaboard inundated me with a mind-numbing regularity, most of which went right back out the door to the local Goodwill, that is, after my friends had foraged it first.
Inside, I kicked my boots off at the bottom of the staircase and slipped a new band onto my wrist. I doubled up in case another broke, briefly studying the vicious looking welt inflicted earlier. John had left a bulk supply on the console table so that I’d remember to reload on my way out. I always chose the thinner ones, as they were unforgiving. And after a day’s abuse at my hands, they typically snapped. I discarded them anywhere. With anxious self-disgust and little regard for common decency —in public restrooms, out the car window, down gutters and windowsills; so much like dirty needles.
I headed up without flicking the lights on. I didn't want to be seen, although there was no one around to do the seeing. Window cleaner cloyed halfway up the steps, combined with homemade furniture polish the prudish maids used to keep the woodwork agleam. A biting, citrusy formula that reminded me of melting popsicles. Most days it was just plain noxious. I held my breath as I passed through to the landing, removing the suit jacket.
