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Before I could answer or do anything, his mouth was on mine, his tongue looking for
mine, opening me up. We fell back against the wire fence, leaning on it, as his hips
continued their dance against me. Supported by the fence, Tristan moved a leg between
mine and slid it up, his hip firmly against the center of me.

I moved against him, his voice a low dark encouragement going through me. “That’s
it. Lils. Use me, use me.” His kiss was becoming more intense now, and his head slipped
down to my neck, biting the skin where it joined my shoulder.

“Tristan…” I breathed.

We were lost in each other. The heat of his skin, his hands on me, his mouth was relentless,
moving first with delicate care, then letting the intensity rise between us, until
we were both breathless. His mouth moved to my ear. His voice was ragged and deep.
“Lily. Lily. Make me come.” He looked around. “Touch me. No one is around, for now.
I’m so close…” And he took my hand and pressed against him. “I’ll keep watch.” He
laughed, brokenly. “I’ll try.”

I didn’t even question it. I knew it was crazy and I didn’t care. I unzipped his jeans,
and gripped him firmly. He gasped. “That’s it, like that.” It was easy to make him
slick. He was wet and hard, and I knew we had moments before someone would come along.
I wanted nothing more to take him in my mouth, but we needed all the cover that two
bodies could provide. His breathing grew more erratic and I could feel him tightening
up. The heat coming off him was incredible. His mouth was against mine, but more for
appearances than anything else. His eyes were tightly shut. And he suddenly gripped
my arm, and pulled me to him, his head falling on my shoulder, as his body tensed
up. His voice was broken. “Yes, fuck yes, yes,” Tristan hissed, a flood of warmth
erupting over my hand as I tried to catch all of it.

A truck rumbled past behind us. Two lovers, holding each other. Having a moment. Nothing
to see.

Tristan took his shirt and wiped us off, before flinging it into the marshy wasteland
on the other side of the fence. He shrugged on his leather jacket over his bare chest,
and throwing an arm around me, started walking us off back in the direction of civilization.
His eyes were unfocused and he didn’t say anything as we went past the warehouses,
putting space between us and what had happened back there. When we were nearly back
to the main road, he stopped, and held me to him closely. Only I could hear what he
said.

“We’re mad, Lily. Mad. But I love it. And I love you.”

chapter nine

Cleveland

Our arrival in Cleveland was uninspiring. It hadn’t been a long drive from Detroit,
only around three hours, but we’d left around 4 a.m., so it had the feel of an overnight.
Seeing the sign for I-90 as we came in made me irrationally wish we could stay on
it, go east, and get the hell out of here. A light drizzle was falling. It was early,
I needed a coffee, and the excitement of showtime seemed a long way off. Tristan went
in to check on a few things and even James had actually gone inside and done some
work, checking on the softgoods, and arranging for our new backdrop to go up. Finally,
a couple of vans came to take us to the hotel from the bus, which was going to stay
parked out by the venue.

A few days in and the routine of dealing with the public had already become just
that—routine. Emerging from vans to the disorientating strobe effect of repeated bursts
of flash going off, whether it was from a camera belonging to professional paparazzi
or a hopeful fan’s cell phone, there was a sense that you had to make it past a gauntlet
of excited people. They were all very close. Very close. I felt grateful for the large
bodyguards that eased our way through in each place. Tristan didn’t like them as much,
but he recognized it was a necessary evil. “Sometimes the protection can get a little
carried away. You should be able to tell the difference between an excited fan and
someone dangerous, and not all of them can, or do,” he had said as we were getting
ready to emerge to this new group of waiting fans.

“How do they know we’re going to be here?” It seemed to me that the fans knew our
schedule better than we did. “I never managed to get this close to people back in
the day.”

Tristan smiled. “It doesn’t take much. One person mentions it casually to a friend—usually
it’s hotel staff. Once the information is out there, pretty easy for it to spread.”
He looked out the window at the small crowd. “Could be worse, really.”

We watched as James emerged from the car ahead of us, and came over to the van. The
bodyguard moved through the crowd from the hotel, and James nodded to him. Once he
had made a small path, James turned to the crowd and said something.

Tristan looked at me. “Autographs. Why don’t you go first, and I’ll follow.”

I nodded. “I’ll wait for you at the door.”

Tristan frowned. “You don’t have to do that.”

“No, I want to see how these people ask for autographs. Besides,” I teased him, “only
one bodyguard.”

“True,” Tristan nodded. “James definitely doesn’t count.”

The bodyguard pulled open the long door to the van, and instantly the crowd surged
forward, phones up, already beginning to take pictures. I came out first, and they
still took pictures. I turned to look for Tristan, and watched him emerge from the
van. A little cheer went up from the crowd, and as all eyes were now on Tristan, who
was adjusting his sunglasses with a big smile, his hand raised in a wave, I managed
to slip through and wait by the doormen, who were looking on, somewhat bemused. We
were staying overnight in one of the better hotels here, so they must have seen this
kind of thing before. But I had the impression that they were wondering what about
this particular man, however striking he might be, was drawing this kind of attention.
It was a fair question. If I was unable to answer it in a detached way, I could still
see how this world of musicians, autographs, and crowds must look to the outside world,
even though I was part of it in my very own way. When I watched a young woman go up
to him, and let out a little shriek as he took her hand, I could understand it. There
was just something about Tristan that made you want to let go, with an almost painful
burst of energy.

You could spot the slightly obsessed, wearing the latest t-shirt, holding up a poster
or a CD cover, nearly crying when Tristan looked their way. The guys were the same,
without the shrieks. But they wanted to be noticed, singled out, just the same, and
go home and tell everyone about the day they shook Tristan Hunter’s hand and got his
autograph. Tristan wasn’t stupid. He knew how important this was to people, and he
made a real effort to be as positive as possible whenever he had to interact with
the fans. That didn’t stop him always approaching the crowds a bit gingerly, as if
they were each made of possible explosive materials. The fans, for their part, were
thrilled, but manically determined, pushing various pieces of paraphernalia to sign
at him that could include, like that fan back in NYC, arms and breasts. Part of the
process was that Tristan never had a pen. One of the fans always handed him a Sharpie,
like a little ritual. He always tried to hand it back, but sometimes with the movement
of the crowd and the need to keep moving, it wasn’t possible. He’d sign, then sign
again, sometimes looking up, asking a question, otherwise fairly methodical, almost
businesslike, with the intent of getting to as many people as possible in a short
time. He smiled, that guarded but beautiful smile. But it was important to limit exposure.
After about 10 people had various CDs and body parts signed, the bodyguard moved between
Tristan and the crowd and herded him up to the hotel. He nodded to me, and I went
in. There were enough photos of me out there already. Tristan had reminded me, “Be
careful Lily. Keep your eyes open. Most people are ok, but those who are not, can
be actually very dangerous.” I had shivered when he said that, and he’d pulled me
close to him. “It’s fine, Lils. We are always surrounded by people. But best be careful,
yeah?” He didn’t need to add that I was probably not everyone’s favorite person, for
obvious reasons.

The check-in was smooth and the room was nice. I walked around the suite, and wound
up in front of the window. It was a view from above, rather than a view of anything
in particular. It conferred superiority, but over nothing. I opened the minibar, and
shut it again. Too early to start on the little bottles, cute as they were. I sat
down on the bed, which was hard, and listened to the sound of the shower coming from
the bathroom. Tristan wanted to clean up and rest before the soundcheck. Today was
a day without interviews, as he’d done a brief promo over the phone from Detroit.
I wondered if I should call for some food for him from room service. I jumped up again
and walked to the window. That’s where Tristan found me when he emerged from the shower,
in one of the hotel bathrobes.

He glanced over, questioningly. “Not tired?”

I sighed, and hugged him. He smelled of soap and shampoo. “I am, but. I don’t know.
I think I need some air.”

Tristan nodded and gave me a kiss. “Sure, go ahead. Go out. I’d go with you, but I
really want some down time. Anywhere in particular?”

“I thought maybe I’d go visit the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.” I kissed Tristan softly
on the mouth. “You have sound check. Besides, Dave suggested I could mention it in
one of the blog pieces.”

Tristan grimaced. “Dave. Yeah, well, he knows his business. Have you ever been there?”

I shook my head.

“It’s ok. Looks better on TV. Don’t we all?” He held my hand and walked me over to
the bed. “I’m exhausted. Think I’m coming down with something. Already.” He pulled
down the ugly bedspread and climbed in. “Wait. Have you got money? Take a cab for
fuck’s sake. Maybe I’ll see you at sound check. I don’t want to see myself at sound
check.” He pulled the covers up and I kissed his forehead. He was a bit hot.

“I can stay…” I started. “I’d like to see it though. But if you want me here, I’m
here.”

Tristan held me to him, and kissed the top of my head. “Rock music’s not a religion,
you know. It doesn’t have to be a pilgrimage. You could just stay here, order up some
room service, get a massage…” He trailed off as he caught my eye. “Go on then. You
will be disappointed.”

I laughed. “I’m frequently disappointed. But that doesn’t mean I need to rush there.”

“No, doll. I need sleep and you’re jumping out of your skin. Don’t need a nursemaid,
just some sleep in a bed. That doesn’t move. Text me if you need me.” He leaned back
against the pillows and shut his eyes. I switched off the table lamp by the bed and
walked out to the front door of the suite, grabbing my jacket. I felt a bit guilty,
but it wouldn’t make him sleep better if I watched. I shut the door as carefully as
I could and put on the Do Not Disturb sign.

The doorman got me a cab. I didn’t think he even remembered me as a part of the crowd
scene in front of the hotel not more than an hour or so ago. That wasn’t a bad thing,
but it did remind me how easily I could slip back into obscurity. Tristan didn’t have
that luxury, or curse, depending on how you looked at it.

We crossed over the Cleveland Memorial Shoreway, which seemed a grand name for an
urban throughway, and the train tracks, and approached the lake. The taxi made some
turns and there we were—in front of a gaudy glass pyramid. I paid the driver and got
out, taking some pictures. A group of tourists were standing in front of a state historical
sign, and I went over to have a look. I took out the small notebook I always carried
from my bag, and I wrote down the words on the sign:

“Birthplace of Rock ’n’ Roll”

When radio station WJW disc jockey Alan Freed (1921–1965) used the term “rock and
roll” to describe the uptempo black rhythm and blues records he played beginning in
1951, he named a new genre of popular music that appealed to audiences on both sides
of 1950s American racial boundaries—and dominated American culture for the rest of
the 20th century. The popularity of Freed’s nightly “Moon Dog House Rock and Roll
Party” radio show encouraged him to organize the Moondog Coronation Ball—the first
rock concert. Held at the Cleveland Arena on March 21, 1952, the oversold show was
beset by a riot during the first set. Freed, a charter inductee into the Rock and
Roll Hall of Fame, moved to WINS in New York City in 1954 and continued to promote
rock music through radio, television, movies, and live performances.

It was just a small sign. But it ended on a high note. No mention of the controversy
that dogged his last years. The irony of “payola”—considering that now every awards
show, every blog with a budget, every record company gave away swag in large amounts.
Seemed a bit unfair, I thought. It was something that he was acknowledged at all,
but with members of the Beatles crediting you for introducing them to rhythm and blues,
it was a little tricky to sink him into obscurity. Anyway, his legacy was why this
was here, and why I was here. I paid for my ticket and went in.

There were some interesting exhibits, but everything seemed a bit dead and pinned
down, like a butterfly on display paper. It was odd, for a cultural phenomenon this
vibrant, this diverse, that it all seemed lifeless, behind glass. In many ways, it
represented the uneasy relationship between music and sponsorship, the top of the
charts and the genuine groundbreaking acts. There were some interesting curatorial
choices. I wasn’t really certain that Janis Joplin was best represented by the R.
Crumb drawing of her that was due to be a blotter sheet for acid, but it was curious.
Women didn’t really get much of a look in. They were there, but generally in ones
and twos alongside a list of men. 1986, the first year, there were none at all. Then
it began. Maybe someone had said something. 1987—Aretha Franklin. 1988—The Supremes.
1989—Bessie Smith. 1990—Ma Rainey. 1991 had Tina Turner—with Ike. Ruth Brown and Dinah
Washington in 1993, more “early influences.” Then Janis in 1995 with Martha and the
Vandellas. Gladys Knight and the Pips and The Shirelles in 1996. Joni Mitchell and
Mahalia Jackson in 1997. 1998 had Fleetwood Mac and the Mamas and the Papas. No one
on their own. Dusty Springfield and The Staple Singers in 1999. Billie Holiday and
Bonnie Raitt in 2000. Brenda Lee and the Talking Heads in 2002. After that, women
had to wait until 2005 and the Pretenders. And although I knew that Chrissie Hynde
had always talked about being part of the band, seeing as it was her band, and she
was possibly the most important member, certainly the survivor, made it slightly less
significant than it could have been. They hit Blondie in 2006, and finally made it
to Patti Smith in 2007, along with the Ronettes. Madonna in 2008. Wanda Jackson in
2009. 2010 had Abba. And two songwriting teams—Ellie Greenwich and Jeff Barry, and
Cynthia Weil and Barry Mann. I stopped then. All very worthy individuals, but I felt
there was so many more that could and should be mentioned. If the Sex Pistols made
it in, why not Siouxsie Sioux? Part of the quote about her from
Rolling Stone
came back to me: “But only one woman had the style…and she spelled her name with
an X.” Why had that lodged in the memory banks? Maybe it was the Native American reference
that threw them. Carole King presented awards, but where was she in their lists? Doubtless
faceless executives could come up with “reasons,” but whose reasons? How about The
Runaways? Joan Jett? Groundbreaking. And for everyone I could think of, there were
certainly others who were loved and respected. What about The Slits? The Pixies? PJ
Harvey? The Cocteau Twins? Annie Lennox? Portishead? Suzi Quatro? Kaki King? Guesch
Patti—French, obscure, amazing. Bjork. Shit. Kate Bush. Where was fucking Kate Bush?

I stomped out, past the families and the aging former high school band members in
their pressed light blue jeans, and grabbed a cab. Was I any better? Writing about
Tristan? Hanging around like some lovesick puppy? The “Jonah”? The “girlfriend”? I
got the cab driver to stop as soon as I spotted the hotel, so I could walk around
a little. After a couple of blocks, I stopped and looked around. It struck me suddenly
that all of Cleveland seemed to be sculpted in different tones of beige. Light beige,
dirt beige, orange beige, yellow beige, reddish beige. A range of non-choices. I was
sure that there was character somewhere, but I couldn’t see it and I didn’t feel like
looking. I took a picture, curious how all the non-colors would show up on a photo.
Fuck, I did not want to be here. I marched over to the clichéd blue awning in front
of our supposedly nice hotel and pushed open the side door without waiting for the
revolving door. Almost immediately, a hotel employee was at my side.