Rothko's Rolodex

“Come on, Jane, you ready?” This was Pittsburgh, a venue called the Electric Banana. We’ve played there before. A little road tour of cover shows and some originals. The proverbial van and trailer for our gear. I knocked on the bathroom door.

Photocopied fliers stuck to the walls, door, everywhere. Decals and graffiti. Band names, dates and shows. Easter Island, the Pink Holes, Carsickness. Butthole Surfers, Suicidal Tendencies. Thirsty Brats, Black Flag, REM, Half Life. 

And us. We were the Roeblings then. 

I met Shauli first. I was teaching beginning guitar at a Jewish Community Center on Long Island. He was there for the gym.

“Ah, what is this.” He said something like that as he paused in the doorway of my classroom. I kept the door ajar. Marketing, I guess. I liked the job, wanted them to hire me again. I had a bunch of kids in there, some teens, and a stack of music books. The songs were simple: Twinkle Twinkle, Oh Susannah, Take Me Out to the Ballgame. The teenagers wanted to play like Jimmy Page.

“That’s a whole lot of work,” I told them. “Page is a singular genius.”

“Can you play like him?” One kid, and then another, jumped up and played air guitar. They started running around the room.

“Sit down. No. I told you he’s a genius. He’s one of a group of extremely genius guitar players. They each started from scratch. Just like you.”

“Are you good, though? Eddie Van Halen good?” They started calling out musician names. Keith Richards! Eric Clapton! Bob Dylan!

“Dylan is a singer-songwriter,” I told them. “He’s not a dedicated guitarist. Not like what you’re talking about.” The littler kids fidgeted, yawning, plucking with one finger.

“I think you’re wrong.” This, from a brace-faced boy.

“Keith Richards is not so great either.”

The teenagers howled.

“He’s no Jeff Beck.”

“Who?”

“I’ll tell you later. Now, you guys mentioned Jimmy Page?” I launched into the second solo of “Ramble On.”

I was smiling. The class was agog.

“Hey, hey! Listen to you! I’m coming in.”

That was Shauli. Israeli-handsome, dark, buff. His tee shirt spelled Coca Cola in Hebrew. He dropped his gym bag. Next thing I knew, he was drumming the length of the table. He wasn’t Bonzo. Who was? Not even Bonzo anymore. This sweaty guy knew what he was doing, though.

We got into it. The kids melted away. We caught each other’s eye, nodding, grinning. We knew this was the first time of many we would play together.

I drove him to Forest Hills. He lived with a few guys from Moishe’s Movers, where he worked. We drank vats of beer and played until his neighbors hit the walls. Then I drove back to Great Neck. We did the same thing the next day.

That was Shauli.

Azarian rummaged deep in his road case. “Where the fuck is she?”

I knocked louder. “Jane!”

“What what what.” Out she came. She’d wet her hair, and she shook her head, droplets flying.

“Did I fuck up my mascara?”

I daubed a smudge with my finger.

“Ugh. What are you, Stevie, a Q-tip?”

“Just trying to help,” I said.

“We gotta talk,” Shauli spat. “I told you this would happen again.”

“Can it wait? I got a pickup problem.”

Shauli knelt beside me, his beer breath strong in my face.

“There is a reason we said no girlfriends on this tour.”

Jane, sitting on my road case, tapped her boot and frowned.

I looked at him. “Later, Shauli? Please? 

Shauli stomped away. Jane jumped off the case and came to me. Her damp curls slid against my neck. She ran her tongue behind my ear. 

 “Do you hear that Rickenbacker,” she murmured. “I think it’s time we got you one of your own.”

The Feelies finished their set.

“Stevie,” said Azarian. “Soundcheck.”

I saw Jane striding wordlessly, purposefully onstage.