Chapter 7

Monday morning rolled in with an overcast sky in Charlie’s neighborhood. It was going to be a warm, stifling day. One where the heat is trapped inside the clouds, and no wind or sun would erupt into the sky. Charlie was sleeping in his library every night since Sheila’s departure. She had moved into an apartment Chad helped secure for her. No doubt she was already setting up her little nest, Charlie thought. Meanwhile, he was living in the disarray of the house. It seemed cavernous without her large presence in it. Their six bedrooms, five bathrooms, the library, her office, the two kitchens – it all seemed highly disproportionate for one man. He avoided setting foot into the extra bedrooms, only appearing for a moment or two in their master bedroom. He would come in and grab whatever clothing he needed, deposit his dirty clothes on the floor, and use the guest shower and bath to clean up.

It was an awkward affair, trying to get clean with a cast and a bum shoulder. He tried to use a garbage bag on his leg cast, tucking the bag into the opening at the top of the cast near his knee. He then wrapped the opening with surgical tape. This made it somewhat sealed off from the water, but standing in a shower with a slippery foot wrapped in plastic is a death wish. He grabbed one of the bar stools from the kitchen and shoved it into the shower stall. The spectacle was hilarious some days, abysmal on others. This was an abysmal day, and Charlie just sat naked with his plastic-wrapped leg in the shower, letting the water hit his thighs and run to his feet for about twenty minutes. He thought about what the old blind man had told him at the hospital, that a broken hip won’t kill you –the opportunistic infections like pneumonia and blood clots finish the job. He finally mustered up the energy to swivel around and get his shaved head wet, and soap up the rest of his body. When he was rinsed off, he stepped out of the shower and toweled himself dry. He couldn’t help but think that if Sheila was there, this entire ordeal would be done so much more quickly. An extra pair of able hands was infinitely more useful than one able hand and one arm that was bent at 90 degrees.

Getting dressed was simple, as long as he was alone. He would slowly work his jockey shorts on, shimmying them up one side, then another, with his one hand. The he would slip on a button-up shirt and decide whether or not he should actually button it up. And that was it. If he got a chill, the robe would be the outer-garment of choice.

However, today would call for more clothing than the norm, since his therapist was due to arrive at 11am for his first session in his home gym.

He found an old pair of sweat pants in his dresser, and laid them out on the bed. He sat at the foot of the bed and got his busted leg in first, then was able to maneuver his good leg into the other side of the pants. He didn’t think it would be appropriate to wear a button-up shirt to physical therapy, so he found a t-shirt that was large enough for him to stretch and pull the collar over his head after he’d gotten his wounded arm and shoulder in the sleeve first. Socks and shoes were an impossibility at this point, so he stayed with his leather and lambs wool slippers.

At five minutes to 11, the doorbell rang. He was sitting near the door, awaiting the arrival of the physical therapist, and was able to rise from his seat at the nearby dining room table and open the door in about 45 seconds. When he opened the door he was surprised to see a young woman, wearing track pants and a tight-fitting t-shirt standing at the doorstep. “Oh, hello,” she said. “I’m Jean Marie, your physical therapist.”

“Yes,” he replied, trying to stop looking so obviously surprised at her appearance. “Sorry, I guess I was expecting a man. I never did learn your name before, Jean Marie. Right?”

“Yes, that right. And you’re Charles?”

“Call me Charlie, please. No one calls me Charles,” he said, “anymore.”

“Well, Charlie, we should get started then.” She looked inside the doorway, indicating her interest in entering the house.

“Terrific,” he said, and he pushed the door open and tried to step out of the entry way.

“I heard that you had some equipment brought in for your recovery? Can you show me where it is?” she asked.

“Certainly,” he paused for a second. “Well, I think I know where it is – I only just got home a few days ago, so I haven’t seen the room myself.” They started to make their way to the back of the house. “I believe it is in the pool house, out back.”

“Wow, what a place you have here,” she commented as they walked through the dining room, the kitchen, the living room and into what appeared to be a room devoted to a large television set. “I bet you get crowds over here to watch this tv!” She exclaimed.

“Well, nothing recently,” he said, and realizing that he sounded like an old codger, quickly added, “but I suppose if you’d like to, you could switch it on any time you’d like.” He nearly chocked with embarrassment, hoping she wouldn’t catch the double-entendre he had unconsciously made. If she did notice it, she was too polite to say so.

“That’s very nice of you to offer,” she replied. “Is that the pool house?” she said, as she pointed to a building with two stories, the size of a two-car garage. It was painted the same color at the exterior of the main house, a butter yellow with white trim. The doors were sliding glass, French doors, coated with a tint to make it reflect the pool waters outside.

“Yes, that’s where Sheila set up my equipment, I was told.”

They walked into the pool house’s first floor, with Charlie opening up the sliding door all the way to let the light from outside pour in. Jean Marie quickly walked around the room to take inventory of the equipment.

“Well, I see you have a universal gym, and some free weights,” she examined everything with the eye of a professional. “Ah, that’s what I wanted to see,” she said as she pointed to the arm-cranking machine Charlie had used at the hospital.

“Yeah, what do you call that thing?”

“It’s an upper-body cycle.”

“Well, that’s logical,” he replied, wondering why he didn’t think to call it that in the first place. “I’ve been calling it an arm-cranking machine.”

“That sounds medieval!” She laughed. “Some people call them arm-bikes. They’re really good for getting your shoulder strength up, and allows you to put your arm through a whole range of motion,” she could see his puzzlement and stopped, “but we’ll get to that later.”

She walked back to where he was standing, in the doorway, and said “Why don’t we see what we’re up against, ok? Why don’t you tell me what happened.”

“Do you have a glass of wine, or perhaps a bottle of whiskey on you?”

“No,” it was her turn to look confused.

“Well then, let’s head back to the house so you can get the whole enchilada. Do you like a martini or a margarita before lunch?”

“Uh, neither?” she shrugged her shoulders.

“Very well, virgin bloody Mary’s it is!” and he made his way back to the house, while Jean Marie followed him like a bewildered child, confused and curious all at once to find out who this man was.

After he made their drinks, they went back out to the pool area and sat at the glass patio table. He told her about blacking out after the bus hit him, how the doctors had him working his other arm out to keep it in shape while he was laid up in bed at the hospital, and then decided to delve into the latest news.

“And then my wife decided that I would somehow heal better without her being physically present.” He finished his drink with one last healthy gulp, and looked up at Jean Marie to gauge her reaction. She was holding on to her glass, which was still full of the drink, and looking at him in a pitiful way.

“Don’t feel sorry for me, young lady,” he said. “I’ve handled it quite well I think. I’m still brushing my teeth, that’s a good sign, right?”

“First off, you’re probably not more than ten years older than me, so you don’t have to call me a young lady,” she answered him, sounding annoyed with his patronizing tone. “Secondly, Charlie, I don’t feel sorry for you. I am just wondering how a guy like you, living in a house like this, can have such a crappy week.”

“Well, sorry for taking the wrong impression,” Charlie said, and tried to eek out another sip from his empty glass.

“No apologies necessary. Look, Charlie, you’re going to be cursing a storm up with me as we go through the next weeks together, believe me. I’m going to put you through more pain as I try to get your strength back to normal, or perhaps even better than normal, so let’s be honest here.”

He nodded his head as she spoke, used to taking the authority of women in stride.

“You’re my employer, and I’m here to help you. You tell me what you want, and I’m going to give it to you.”

“I certainly wasn’t expecting to hear you say that!”

“What were you expecting me to say, then?”

“Probably something along the lines of, ‘You’re going to do XYZ and you’re going to like it or else,’ I think.”

“Do you want me to say that?” she asked him.

“No, I don’t think so,” he said, sounding strangely confident.

“Well good, because I’m here to make you feel better, get some of your strength back, and make sure that we have a good time doing it.” She continued, “But it is still going to hurt like hell, sometimes.”

“Well, for starters then we should have a drink to toast the beginning of this new chapter in my life,” he said, watching for her response.

“I think we already toasted, Charlie.”

“Correction – I’m already toasted.” She wasn’t laughing. “Are you always this prickly?”

“No, but I am beginning to see that you are pretty frisky.”

“Well, Jean Marie, I have felt a little cooped up lately,” he said, feeling awkward by her assessment of him. “I think that’s why I’m looking to get you buzzed, for entertainment’s sake.”

“Sorry, Charlie,” she said with a laugh. “I bet you’ve heard that one before. I don’t get buzzed on the job.”

“Ok, Officer Marie.”

“It’s Walker – Jean Marie Walker,” she corrected him.

“Ok, then – Officer Walker. You know, with a last name like that, I would thin you were a WHISKEY drinker. You know – Johnny Walker?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Oh, you’ve heard that one before then, too?” He grinned at her.

“Here’s the deal,” she said, sitting up straight in the patio chair. “I’ll be here
at least three times a week, and we’ll start out with stretches, then get you to do some strength training. We can do cardio if you’d like.”

“Yeah, sure – whatever you recommend,” Charlie was responding to the authoritative tone in her stance and voice.

“Great! Then, I’ll be heading out of here now,” she stood up from her chair, and Charlie rose after her. “You know, that pool can come in handy too, for our workouts, when you feel up to it.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

He walked her back to the door, they shook hands, and he watched her get into her silver four-door sedan and drive off the property.

Jean Marie started coming every other day, each week. Charlie allowed her
to enter the house with her own key, so that he would have less of a need to get up from his station in front of the television. He was less depressed from the separation than he thought he would be, and contributed it to the company of Jean Marie. She was similar to Sheila, in as much as she controlled most of his actions during their visits, and wanted him to maintain a stronger attitude towards things in general, sometimes more so than he cared to.

Jean Marie would often come to the house, let herself in, and call out for Charlie. "Charlie, where are you? Are you in the gym again, working out on your own?" She would stumble upon him on the couch, and clap her hands to grab his attention. It was already grabbed, though, by her cute figure and brownish red mane of hair. Her energy seemed to seep through her skin and into an aura around her, and Charlie liked to give her a hard time so that her spirit would permeate to him more strongly. She would grab his good arm and help to hoist his body weight from the leather cushions. When he was upright, she would pat him on the shoulders, walking behind him to the pool house gym.
The standard work out consisted of him being herded among the various pieces of equipment by Jean Marie. She would stand beside him and count out the repetitions that he was completing, if they weren't discussing other matters.

Charlie could go on for several hours, telling her all about the various mischief he'd been involved in through the past decades. Stories about raucous trips to bars after sets, to see other bands they knew playing, heckling them and baiting them while they played. This would dissolve into a bar fight and the cops would be called, and the groups would offer to pay for damages or bribes or whatever it took to avoid getting booked and sent to the drunk tank overnight. On rarer occasions, the heckling would turn into challenges among the musicians.

"We were watching Sam Knox play this long solo on this stupid white and red guitar he loved. So Twig shouts out, "Hey Sam, you're supposed to toss out your girl's tampons, not play 'em!" and Sam stops, literally, in the middle of a note, and everyone in the bar turns to look at Twig. I mean, I'm looking at him, the bartender is looking at him, he could have been a ghost the way everyone was staring at him. But Sam, he didn't even look at him, he just said "Folks, I believe Twig from Accelerator is in the audience. And he's just offered to play my guitar tonight." And Twig, he looks up at Sam and his mouth has dropped to the floor."

"Who - Twig?" Jean Marie asked.

"Yeah. So he looks at me and Terry and we just throw our hands in the air. Aaron says,

"You get your ass up there before you get a bottle thrown in your face!" Twig stands up, and the audience is playing along, clapping their hands, and murmuring to themselves, "Who the hell is Twig?" He steps up on stage, grabs the tampon, and starts playing this horrible screeching crap. It's reverberating through the whole place, people are plugging their ears, it's terrible! Finally Sam steps in and takes the guitar back and says to the crowd - "And that's why drummers don't get at the front of the stage, folks." He hugs Twig, Twig buys a round for Sam and the band, and we skirted out of there feeling a little more sober than when we arrived."

"Crazy men," she said. "Liquor, music, and egos - dangerous combinations, right?"

"Well, it's all in the combination, darling."

"Okay, darling, let's see you do some free weights now." She led him over to a pyramid of weights and handed him the 5lb dumbbell. "Give me ten on the RIGHT, and as many as you can on the LEFT."

As he would complete a repetition, she would offer encouraging words. They did little to keep Charlie motivated. He wanted her to share up some of her stories.

"So, tell me what a gal like you does in this town when she isn't rehabilitating convalescents?"

"Oh, you know, just making sure I have enough food in the fridge."

"For what, your brood of eight illegitimate children?"

"Good, that's ten. Now the other side," she helped him switch hands with the dumbbell.

"No, not for my non-existent children. And they wouldn't be illegitimate, anyways."

"Oh, you have a husband?"

"No - not that you need to know of! Just kidding... hey, breath out when you lift, remember? Husband, boyfriend - none of that for me now."

"So then what's the point of the cute little workout clothes and nice
hairdos?"

Jean Marie was quiet. Finally, she looked at him and said, "Well, maybe they're a motivational tool I use in my business..."

Charlie picked up on her discomfort at his suggestion that she dressed provocatively, and realized after the fact that he made it sound like he thought she was flirting with him.

"I - I didn't mean to suggest anything, Jean Marie. Just putting my foot in my mouth again!" He flashed a grin to hopefully get her to play along.

"I know, Charlie. It's just," she took a deep breath. "Well, maybe I shouldn't be saying this."

Charlie was worried that he'd stumbled on some emotional hot button. Perhaps her last client had told her to show more skin for his workouts, and she felt terribly self-conscious about it? Or maybe she was formerly the fat girl in high school, and now that she was a hot physical therapist/personal trainer, she wanted to flaunt it?

"What is it?" he asked, cautiously.

"Ok, Charlie, that's enough." Charlie stared at her with bugged eyes, thinking he was in for a tongue lashing. "No! The weights, you can stop now!" She laughed at him, and took the dumbbell away and placed it on top of the pyramid.

"We should go have a drink. Of water, Charlie."

"For a second there I thought I was about to get placed in the iron maiden!"

"Well, if you had one in your gym like I have in mine, then maybe you would have been. Kidding, again," she said.

They walked back out to the pool patio table, and she continued inside to the kitchen.

She returned with two glasses filled with water and ice.

"Yummy," Charlie said, sarcastically, but then took his glass and gulped away half of it.

"So, Mr. Clark, how is the body feeling now after two months of this
work?"

"I would say probably better than before I even got hurt, to tell the truth." He set down his glass and looked out at the pool. It was a bright afternoon, and some leaves from the nearby birch trees had drifted onto the water. "I am thinking I am probably ready for the pool exercises we talked about a while ago. You know, I'm a Speedo guy, don't you?"

"Figures as much! It fits in with your rock star persona. Well, we could do that on my next visit, I'll bring a suit and some water weights for you, and maybe some trunks for you to wear over the Speedo!" They shared a laugh, knowing that they were both prolonging an inevitable awkward conversation. Charlie cracked first.

"Well, I'm sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable before, my wise crack about your clothes." He looked at her and winced, indicating his fear of her response.

"Oh, don't worry about it. I'm comfortable with what I wear, but if it makes you feel uncomfortable, I could change it up, you know?"

"No, no! That's not what I meant for you to think," he said. "Well, I don't know what it was I meant for you to think, actually. I guess I was just trying to... I don't know, be funny."

"Were you flirting with me?" she asked. Now she was wincing at him.

"Oh! That'd be pathetic, Jean Marie, don't you think? A man my age, flirting with someone like you?"

She was unmoved by his protestations, and continued to look him square in the face.

"Don't you think that would be ridiculous?" He asked her again.

"Not necessarily," she looked down at her hands, resting on her lap.

"Oh," he replied. He was taken by surprise at her candidness. During their visits, not once had she indicated that she was attracted to him, nor more interested in him than to get him to do this or that exercise. This was changing things a bit, and Charlie wasn’t so sure he liked where it was going.

“Well, Jean Marie, I don’t know what to tell you. Do you want me to flirt with you?”

“Oh, come on! That’d be pretty desperate of me, to want someone to flirt with me!” She was half smiling, but inside her heart was feeling very fragile. He had started to crack her professional demeanor, with each visit to his home. He would share his stories to her, and it made her believe that he wanted her to know about his life – more about it – than the normal clients would want her know. She continued, “It’s just that I think we have a really good chemistry going here, and I think it would be a good idea to know if one of us is feeling like this is leading to something other than just getting you back on your feet.”

“Well, then, I would say that I agree,” he replied, but paused. “You know, I think I could use something a little extra in this water. Do you want something from the bar?” He had asked her so many times before after their sessions if she wanted a drink, and been met with a polite “No thank you,” that he started to walk away from her without waiting for her response. He was a little stunned when she said, “I think I could take a Bloody Mary, now. Thanks.”

He stopped in his gait, and said, “Ok.” At the bar, he pulled out two glasses, poured in the vodka and tomato juice, found some celery sticks in the bar’s mini-fridge to place in the glass, and made his way back to her. “Hope you like a little more vodka than tomato juice in your Mary, Marie.”

“That’s fine, thanks,” she said, extending her hand to take both glasses from him, and then setting them down on the glass table.

“What were we talking about?” he asked, as he plopped into his chair. “Oh, yes – the chemistry.” He took a long sip from his glass, and she stirred hers with the celery stick.

“Ok, let’s cut the shit,” she said. Charlie’s eyes bugged out at the profanity. “I had to say something because I get the feeling that you like me, you know?”

“Yeah?” was all he could say back to her.

“Well, you tell me your stories and talk to me like I’m more than just, you know, you’re therapist. Am I right?”

“Do you want to be more than that to me? I mean, I don’t see you as hired help, if that’s what you’re saying. But I certainly am not trying to get you into bed, as well!”

She took a sip from her glass, and set it down. “No, I wouldn’t expect you to be trying to bed me, or anything like that. I just wanted to know if you, well…”

“Go on,” he was staring at her face with extreme concentration, wondering what her next words would be.

“Well shit, ok – I wanted to know if you wanted to try to make this something more than just therapist-client.”

"Wow,” he replied. “I wasn’t expecting you to say that, Jean Marie.”

“I did, so there,” she took another sip, polishing off her drink. “It’s been said. Now I feel like a total ass in front of you.”

“That’s a first, I’m sure!” He said. “I’m usually the one making myself feel like an ass in front of women!” He was genuinely surprised by her admission.

“Oh please, Charlie – the stories you tell me? I hardly believe that.”

“Oh, you can’t believe everything I say in there. I get my blood pumping and I start to grow a bigger head than normal.”

“I know what your reputation was like before the accident,” she looked at him with a measure of skepticism. “I have heard about the groupies, and the women before Sheila. I’m not totally naïve.”

“Oh, well, you heard about all that, huh? Been doing you homework?”

“You could say that. I didn’t want to come into this job unprepared.”

“I don’t blame you,” he took a bite of his celery stick. “But, I just don’t think you’re reading me straight. I’m not trying to pick up on you in there, I’m just shooting off my mouth, getting excited about old victories, you know?”

“Listen Charlie,” she leaned over the table. “All I know is what I feel in there. I’m not trying to pressure you into anything because I genuinely like you for you.”

“Ok,” he said, staring at her lips as they moved. He was feeling the vodka, the effects of the weight lifting, and her chemistry all acting on him at once. Maybe he did want to try to start something with her. He was Charlie Clark, after all. He could have any woman he wanted, with his fame and money. And here was this woman, a good ten years younger than himself, practically asking him to take her.
She continued to explain her thoughts, “And because I like you, I just wanted us to be honest with each other.”

“Listen, Jean Marie,” he leaned closer to her, “If you want to be totally honest, then I have to tell you, you are really attractive, and I must say that you can really make me feel good.”

“You mean with the workouts?”

“No, I mean good in all kinds of different ways.” He leaned right into her face and kissed her lips.

“I do?” She liked the kissing, and wanted him to keep talking sweet to her.

“You do,” he kissed her for several seconds longer. “And I hope I make you feel good, in different ways, too.”

She kissed him back, and nibbled his earlobes, and he started pulling her top off of her. She unbuttoned his shirt, and stroked the hair on his chest. She reached her hand down, past the waistband on his pants.

They had sex on the floor of the gym, and Jean Marie felt satisfied that this was as it was meant to be. In her work the client was supposed to feel more secure and positive about their body, and it was her job to make them feel that way. She had given Charlie a gift - the gift of confidence and satisfaction - in the most supreme was she could. She had never slept with a client before – for some reason he was different than the rest. Perhaps it was his charm, the stories he told, the way he tried to get her drunk after her visits.

Charlie felt that he was giving her what she needed, too; she wanted him to be attracted to her, and he was. He let her tell him that she wanted to make love to him, and it was a good pay off for both of them. Sheila hadn’t been around for weeks now, and he felt the need for this release for a while. The workouts with Jean Marie let him focus that energy into his therapy for a while, but being given the go-ahead from her allowed him to satisfy the primal desires he felt. But before their conversation on the patio that day, he hadn’t even considered the possibility of making love to Jean Marie. Now, however, he was seeing her in a new light. This made him wonder if things were forever changed between them.

“So, does this mean I’m done with the therapy?” he asked her.

“Well, I don’t think it does, unless you want it to be over?”

“I could still use your help,” he reached over to give his shirt to her. “But, if you think things are going to be weird now…”

“Things will still be the same, if you want,” she slipped the shirt on, but left it unbuttoned. “But we can have this, too.”

“That’s a bonus,” he said, grinning slightly to himself. “But, you know, Sheila and I – we’re still married. We’re separated, but married still.”

“I’m not trying to get in the way of you two, Charlie. This was something I thought you wanted, something I wanted too. You know?”

“I know,” he answered.

“It doesn’t mean we’re boyfriend-girlfriend, but it at least got the tension out of the air.” She got up and walked back to the patio to find her clothes.

Charlie stood up and put his shorts back on. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirrored wall of the gym, and noticed the muscles in his back and arms. His calves looked better than he had ever seen them before. He felt fresh, young, and powerful. He watched her, as she proudly took of his shirt and stood naked in his backyard. She pulled her pants on, and he admired the curve of her hips and how strong her arms looked when she flexed them. He was happy that he had just made love to this powerful woman, and was also happy that he didn’t have to shower her with praise or submit to her will to get her acceptance. She put her top back on, and sat down to put on her shoes.

“Well, then I guess I’ll see you in a day from now,” she called out to him.

“Yeah, but,” he walked out to her seat at the table, “if you wouldn’t mind, maybe we could go have a drink someplace other than the Clark Patio Bar tomorrow?”

“Sure, what time? Where do you want to go?”

They set up their first date, and she left the house. After she left, he went back into the bedroom for the first time since Sheila left, and slept like a baby.

Chapter 6

The crowds were assembled in front of Terry like children waiting for the word of their teacher to be released to recess. It was a press conference he had called, with the mixed blessings of his band-mates and Frank. They requested something a little more low-key, perhaps a press release sent from the label, or perhaps an announcement made during a concert. Terry refused, claiming that since it was his idea and he was going to have to take the flak from this announcement, he should be left to do the dirty work on his own. He was going to announce the continuation of Accelerator without Charlie as a permanent change. The other guys knew it wasn’t dirty work to Terry – it was show-business.

“Hello everybody!” he announced, as if he were addressing a coliseum of fans. “Thank you for coming here today, to my press conference.” He grabbed a bottle of water, unscrewed its cap with great flair, and took a long sip. He loved to make his audience wait with baited breath, and this was a technique he had picked up through his years of crowd pleasing.

“Well, the reason why you’ve all been called to order is because there has been a change in the band’s make up. That is to say that the change you all have noticed – Charlie Clark’s absence – is going to be a permanent one.” Cameras flashed, people made various noises, cell phone buttons were dialed.

“I know very well that this news will come as a shock to our many, many fans out there. It’s shocking to all of us in the Accelerator family, I can assure you. However, with Charlie recovering from his unfortunate accident,” Terry made sure to stare into the nearest camera lens at this point in his speech, “it has been decided that the band should take on a different creative direction.” He surprised himself with the intelligent sounding voice he was able to muster up in this arena of news-people. Usually he had to mumble on about how he loved them, the crowds, and how they were the reason for his being there. But this, the speech, this was a new kind of bullshit; a smarter, wiser bullshit.

“I’ll take some questions, and then some photos, and that’ll be it for now.”

“Terry! Terry! Why drop Charlie?”

“Like I said before, it’s a new creative direction we’re going to try.”

“So you’re writing songs now without Charlie?”

“Yes,” Terry searched for the voice to this question. “We’ve got some things in the pipeline that we’re working on. It’ll still be great stuff, but without Charlie’s flavor, you could say.”

“Weren’t you and Charlie a songwriting duo, Terry?”

“Yes, you could say that. We’ve had some great success under our belts, but I feel confident that we can do fresher things without him, sad to say I know.”

“Terry – over here!” A hand popped up in the back row. “Terry, what does Charlie have to say about the band going on without him?”

“Well, it isn’t something that I personally have discussed with him.” More camera flashes as Terry adjusted his sunglasses. “He’s been talking to our manager, Frank. Frank Pepper.”

“Is Frank here to make a statement about the change?”

“No – I’m all you’ve got baby,” Terry said with a Cheshire’s grin. The crowd reacted as he knew they would, with giggles and guffaws.

“Mr. Friedlander, will you tell us what will happen with the current tour that Accelerator is on? Who’s singing now, and will the tour continue?”

“I am singing for the band now, with back up singers of course,” more laughter, “as I get used to this new role. But I’ve had plenty of singing experience, on our first album Hungry at Home, I provided the lead vocals on that song, one of the first singles to go gold for us. And later, the song I wrote, Confrontation, that was my voice you heard.”

“Yes, but Terry, we love Charlie; wouldn’t you say he was the face of Accelerator?”

“Who said that?” Terry asked, sounding slightly annoyed. “Well, whoever you are, if you think Accelerator was a one man band you are highly mistaken. And you will be proven wrong as you see us on tour, to continue with this gentleman’s previous question. We are staying on tour this year, to promote the album Angry Love.”

“With Charlie’s blessing, right Terry?”

The crowd was silent, Terry pausing to think of an answer to this question. Nothing sprang to his mind, until a camera flash went off in front of his face.

“Charlie Clark is no longer a part of this equation.” The room was still. “Charlie Clark is going to try to do his thing, I suppose, and we will continue to do ours.”

“Which is?” one voice emitted from the room.

“Which is to churn out hits and make people happy. Our fans love us, and we love them,” the old bullshit was starting to look more and more comfortable to Terry, as his spell was getting lost on this group. “Thank you,” Terry stood up from his seat and knocked the microphone down onto the table. Cameras continued to click and flash away as he left the room, reporters shouting more questions at him as he left.

He returned to his hotel room, and had planned before to come home to watch the news reports about his press conference. The experience, however, had left a sour taste in his mouth. Instead, he went to the mini bar and found a good helping of gin and pistachios to satisfy him. After a couple of drinks and some nuts, he slid out of the red leather pants and velvet sports coat he had donned for his appearance. He went to the bathroom mirror and washed the eye liner off, and scratched his scalp. He picked up the bathroom phone and requested a meal from room service – lobster and a Caesar salad, with a bottle of white wine. Then he placed a call to Frank.

“Frank, did you watch it?”

“Yeah man,” he said drolly, “it was about as good as I expected it to be.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Listen, I’ll come up and we can talk about it, ok?”

“Fine,” Terry said, and instantly hung up the phone.

Several minutes later and Frank knocked on Terry’s door. Terry checked the peephole, and let Frank in after identifying him.

“What, who’d you think it was, room service?” Frank asked.

“Actually, yes. Or a pissed off fanatic, you know?”

“Yeah, I can imagine what people are thinking. We’re demonized now, I’m sure.” Frank stepped into the room and plopped on Terry’s large bed. It was a king sized bed, draped in satin and damask silks, with a pillow for every body part assembled in perfect order at the head of the bed. Frank laid out sideways across the mattress, and struggled to pull of his boots.

“I don’t know why you wear those things,” Terry said, waving his hands at Frank’s footwear.

“What? These? They’re more comfortable than the leather chaps you so adore!”

“Why did I let you in here again?” Terry reached for the door handle, pretending to get ready to throw Frank out.

“That conference was a little less smooth than you thought it would be, I’m guessing?”
Terry sighed, and went to the foot of the bed. He sat down and faced the television set. “I didn’t even want to see the coverage of it afterwards.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, darling,” Frank rolled over to his stomach. “We’re just a blip on the radar screen I’m guessing. I don’t think anyone is going to give their left pinky to hear the latest with Accelerator.”

“How much do you want to bet?” Terry was offended at the suggestion that theirs was a washed-up band. With their latest album selling steadily since its release, and the single song from Angry Love, Voodoo Doll reaching the top of the charts, he knew things weren’t as bad as Frank wanted to portray them to be. “You’re just upset about Charlie still.” He leaned over to reach the remote control for the television.

“Terry, you’re goddamned right I’m upset about Charlie. This is like an amputation for me, and for everyone else. I must say, having been his partner for a good 20 years…”

“22 years,” Terry corrected him.

“Right, well, 22 then, you’re handling things very well.”

Terry flipped through the channels, trying to find a 24-hour news station. “You’re right, I am handling things very well, Frank. Because,” he kept clicking through channel after channel, “after 22 years you start to get a little tired of the attention being diverted from it’s proper target.”

“That’s you, right?” Frank rolled back over and grabbed one of the pillows, and started to punch it with his fist.

“Yup, that’s me. There!” Terry found a news station, and waited to hear their story. Immediately the news anchor announced “that an important development had been revealed with the hugely successful rock band Accelerator. Let’s go to our entertainment reporter Jim Sussex now.”

“Thanks Tina. Indeed, just minutes ago we heard Terry Friedland from the band Accelerator announce that the band would not only continue with their tour for their album Angry Love this summer without lead singer Charlie Clark, but that Charlie would be gone permanently from the band. Here’s a clip from today’s press conference with Terry:

“I am singing for the band now, with back up singers of course, as I get used to this new role. But I’ve had plenty of singing experience, on our first album Hungry at Home, I provided the lead vocals on that song, one of the first singles to go gold for us. And later, the song I wrote, Confrontation, that was my voice you heard.”
One press member asked Terry about Charlie’s role in the band, asking Terry if he agreed with the popular assessment that Charlie was the - quote – ‘face of Accelerator.’ This is what Terry had to say:

“If you think Accelerator was a one man band you are highly mistaken. And you will be proven wrong as you see us on tour...”

Well, I’m sure Terry is right; we will all be watching to see if Terry can fill in the void left by Charlie’s absence in a band he represented for the last two decades. We asked some people on the street what they thought of the announcement…”

“Oh, here we go,” said Frank.

“And this is what we heard:

“Charlie, no more Charlie? That sucks! I love Accelerator – I grew up with them. I don’t know if I can listen to songs like Linda’s Eyes with Terry’s voice. That’ll be – weird.”

“Well, to be honest with ya, Charlie was always the reason why I liked Accelerator. But, I’ll buy a ticket just to see what it’s like without him.”

“I’m going to cry! This isn’t the same band anymore! I bought tickets to see them play in Winchester City next month, but I don’t know if I could go without Charlie. I heard about his accident, and this just seems too sad, you know?”

Terry switched off the television. “Crap,” he said under his breath.

“I heard that,” said Frank. “Well, Terry, what did you think? You could just fill in for Charlie and poof make him disappear and no one would care about it? You’re gonna have to figure out how to make this tour work without him.”

“Wrong, Frankie baby – that’s the manager’s job. I went out there and gave them the bad news. Someone has to get the world to like it now. I’m gonna sing my ass off on stage, but you’re the one who has to draw in the crowds now.”

Frank sat up, and there was a knock at the door. He looked at Terry and said “See who it is first!”

“Feeling paranoid?” Terry smirked at him, though he did check the peephole to make sure that it was, indeed, his lobster and salad, and bottle of wine from room service.

“Stick around Frank, let’s have some food and drink. It’ll make you feel better about the weeks to come.”

“Yeah,” Frank resigned to this suggestion. “How many more dates do we have to go? Ten?”

Terry tipped the room service waiter, and bolted the door behind him. “Just get some radio stations to play our songs in high circulation now, which shouldn’t be too hard after the news spreads around, and we’ll do some ticket give-a-ways.” Terry grabbed on to the lobster’s tail and body, and with a swift twist separated the two segments from each other.

“Which do you prefer?” he offered the parts to Frank, “heads or tails?”

Frank reached for the bottle of wine, and said “Neither, I’ll stick to a liquid diet for today, thanks.”

Chapter 5

Charlie grabbed the phone in the library and dialed up Frank’s cell phone number. It was time to find out if Sheila had really told him the entire truth, and to find out how he really was kicked out of Accelerator.

“Frank Pepper here,” was the answer on the other side of the line.

“It’s Charlie, Frank.”

“Charlie – how, how are you?” Frank sounded nervous.

“Cut the crap, Frank. Sheila just told me something and I want to know if it’s true.”

Frank cleared his throat, and Charlie went on. “Who decided I shouldn’t be in the band anymore, Frank? What the hell happened while I was in the hospital?” He could hear the loudness of his voice, and knew that he was getting his anger across to Frank.

“Charlie, just calm down alright? You’ve been through a lot already. Did Sheila tell you about what happened?”

“Yes – why? Was she not supposed to? Because I just happened to figure it out and it nearly made her crap her pants when I told her I knew!”

“Oh, Charlie. That was our idea, to not tell you about it right away. We didn’t think you would be well enough to handle it, and I think we were right.”

“Don’t you tell me what I can and can’t handle, you asshole!”

“Charlie – you just don’t know what happened, ok? Terry said,”

“Terry! Terry was the one who put you up to this!” Charlie shouted so loud he could hear a humming sound from the other end of the phone.

“Take it easy! Relax! Terry mentioned that with you in the hospital, the tour wasn’t going to happen as planned. Sheila and me were getting hounded by the promoters, and we had to do something. We couldn’t stick you up on the stage in a wheelchair, now, could we?”

The humor was lost on Charlie, as he imagined Bob with the cane standing at the mic on stage singing with the band, and he remained silent as he waited for Frank to cut to the chase.

“So, as a band, we made the decision to go on without you. For the tour, at least.”

“Who’s the new singer – you?” Charlie asked sarcastically.

“No, it’s Terry. He’s got some back up singer too, so there’s that as well.”

“Oh, good, that’s lovely. Terry can butcher up the songs and still get paid.”

“To be honest, Charlie, Terry can sing quite well, and the audiences are loving it.” He knew that had to cut Charlie down a peg, and quickly added, “Of course, there are plenty of signs out there with your name on it, people always asking how you’re doing. How are you doing?”

Charlie was quiet. “How do you think I’m doing?” he answered, acidly.

“I know, I know, it’s not the best situation for you. But you have to realize this is just temporary.”

“I’m not joining up with the band again!” Charlie scoffed. “After this – being cut out so cleanly without having a say in the matter, you think I could get back on stage with those stooges again? You’re out of your mind old man.”

A minute went by with no one saying a word. Finally, Frank said “Charlie, if you’re going solo, I want you to know I’ll help you out anyway I can.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Just call me, when you’re better, we can figure something out. I don’t blame you for being upset, Charlie. You know that, right?” There was no answer. “We’ll, you know it now. You can be pissed off at me for the rest of your life. I’m still saying I will help you if you want me to, any way I can.”

“Hey, Frank?” Charlie finally said.’

“Yeah?”

“Go tell Terry to fuck himself.” Charlie slammed the phone down.

Charlie looked around the library and saw the various decorations that he had placed in this room. It was his one respite from Sheila’s domination of the realm of decoration, and he took to it like any man would. Pictures, gold and platinum albums in frames, and various papers were strewn about the floor, propped up on walls, as if the act of hanging them on the wall or filing away the papers would be too much of an effort for Charlie. Even more so, the unkempt look of the room was satisfying, allowing him to feel free to let his thoughts wander in the room’s wall.

He stood up slowly from his chair at the desk and looked at his feet. He stood among several magazines, dated from last year, and he kicked them away with his good leg’s foot. He hobbled over to the mantle of the fireplace, and leaning on it for balance, looked at the photo on the mantle. It was a picture taken many, many years ago of the band, as they were beginning to recon their fame and fortune. Terry and Charlie’s arms were draped across each other’s shoulders. Aaron and Twig – who had just started to use that stage name, having found Michael to be a boring name for a drummer of a hit rock band – were pouring champagne on each other’s heads. Frank was taking the photo, so he was of course not seen in the shot. But Charlie remembered how thin and well polished Frank was back then. Used to wear blazers to the shows, along with the necessary sunglasses (shades, they were called), and a pair of black cowboy boots. The boots and sunglasses would remain staple items in Frank’s wardrobe, but the blazers would be replaced with leather bomber jackets, which helped (in Frank’s mind alone) to camouflage the ring of middle-aged weight around his stomach. Charlie laughed to himself when he thought about this, and then grimaced. “Those days are long gone, my man,” he said to himself. “Just memories and photographs.”

Charlie turned from the fireplace and went to lay on the sofa, which was placed in front of the only window in the library. The window was darkened by a set of wooden shudders, and as he laid on the sofa he could play with the shudders, opening and closing them swiftly with the push of a finger. He played here for several minutes, thinking to himself about all the massive changes, twists and turns that his life had taken in the span of a few days. A week since the accident, and his life was still thrown into disarray. The room seemed to match the mood he was in, and Charlie reached into his robe pocket. He pulled out his pain pills from the hospital, opened the container and put two pills on his tongue. He forced them down his dry throat, closed the container and put it back into his pocket, and fell asleep on the sofa for two hours.

Meanwhile, Sheila had been sobbing at the table. She had thought about how she tried to be a devoted wife to Charlie, but felt like a miserable failure. Every attempt she made to make his life simpler, more enjoyable, had turned their relationship to shreds. She knew Charlie thought she was the reason for the demise of the band’s good relationship. It was a fact that she hadn’t reckoned with herself, but one she was well aware of. Her attempts to bring Charlie the boat load of the royalties from their songs and shows had driven a stake between him and the rest of the band. Before she came along, they were content to split the money left over after Frank’s take into four equal parts. It worked and afforded them a comfortable life style. But when she was introduced to Charlie, as a means for the record company to not only keep tabs on the star of the show, but also to make sure that he would continue to draw attention to the band from the media with various “rock star moments.” Sheila’s part was to become his confidante, to build up his confidence and let him grow a bigger head. The company had told her what his limits were to be – which were thin and few – and she knew who signed her checks.

She would lead him away from the band’s table at restaurants and clubs, lead him over to more prominent members of the music scene that happened to be at the same places. And if there happened to be a photographer from a big magazine or newspaper there, it was put up as a lovely coincidence to the other band members. They were scolded for feeling jealous of Charlie’s fame and his ability to attract attention – “He’s your lead singer, guys. Any publicity he gets is good for the lot of you,” she would tell them. Frank was in on it too, and knew not to step on Sheila’s toes. He wouldn’t smooth the guys over any more than he had to, at least to keep the peace between himself and the band.

As time went on, she naturally developed an affinity for Charlie that was beyond the boundaries of their professional relationship. Before the record company found out, she made sure to get Charlie to confess his love and devotion to her. Instead of the label firing her for getting too mixed up in her job duties, she quit the label, and Charlie hired her on to be his manager. Only months passed before she had a ring on her finger, and they were buying a home together. A love nest, she would call it. They had gifts sent from relatives, and threatening letters from Charlie’s fans. Even more unsettling was the chilly reception the band gave them. Frank could see the blood in the water, as soon as Charlie announced their engagement – he knew she was in it for the money and attention that she’d grown accustomed to. But even if this was true, Sheila knew it was only part of the truth. She did care about Charlie, and his well being was just as important as her own. But the other guys in the band – they would not be persuaded.

Her presence had unsettled them from the beginning of her reign with Charlie. They would try to get him to realize that she was a vampire, a parasite to his talent. But when a man is fed and filled with love from a woman in power, there is no persuading him to think that he’s being used and slowly devoured. Instead of poisoning their dynamic, the guys reconciled to let Charlie have his Sheila, and they would stay clear of the two when they were together. Frank would be the intermediary for the band and Sheila, which was the cause of his weight gain and change in wardrobe.

With her head down on the dining room table, she felt the weight of the past holding her down. She couldn’t breathe, but didn’t want to. She wanted to die, to be free from the gilded cage she had created for herself and for Charlie. No, she didn’t want to kill herself – she wanted a divorce. She pulled herself up from the table, wiped the tears from her face, and marched into her office.

“Ring up my lawyer, Chad,” she told him over the phone. “I want a meeting at my house this afternoon.”

“Oh, Sheila, are you alright?” he asked her.

“I don’t know, Chad, but just do this for me, alright?”


The lawyer arrived with the necessary documents for them to look over. Chad had garnered the information from Sheila, about why she needed a lawyer, and did the dutiful task of explaining everything for her to the lawyer, to save his boss from the embarrassment. The lawyer, Mr. Kenneth Draper, appeared in a grey wool suit. He had the appearance of a frail, elderly man, looking very thin and pale. However, in the courtroom he could unleash a furious tempest of jargon and wit that would leave any opponent flailing on the ground, wondering how this old bastard chopped them down to size. The frailty of age and anemia was a beneficial disguise.

Charlie had emerged from his room when the doorbell rang, peeked out of the library to see who had entered the house.

Sheila sat down with the lawyer.

“Can I offer you a drink, Mr. Draper?”

“Please, call me Ken. I’ll take a scotch and soda.”

Charlie recognized the lawyer’s name and stepped out of his room and went to meet Sheila at the bar. “What is the lawyer doing here?” He grabbed her arm as she reached for the bottle of scotch.

“Charlie!” She jumped back in surprise. “Oh, you startled me.” She took a moment to recover, and said “I called him over to discuss – some things.”

“Such as?”

“A divorce. I think I want a divorce, Charlie.”

He let go of her arm and reeled back into a nearby bar stool. “A divorce?” He repeated her words. “Really?”

“Well, I don’t know,” she started to pour the scotch into two glasses. “That’s why Mr. Draper is here, to talk about it with me. You’re welcome to sit in, too, talk about it.”

“Oh, well, how nice of you to invite me to a meeting with my lawyer, in my house! This is great Sheila – first the band leaves me, and now you want to leave me, is that it?”
Ken had heard the commotion and decided to step in, to help avoid from being party to domestic violence. “Is everything alright here?” He looked at Sheila.

“Oh, yes Ken. Charlie is just, well…”

“I’m upset, Ken,” Charlie continued for her, “because my wife hasn’t told me anything about wanting a divorce. And this is turning out to be the most disastrous of weeks for me. How’s that, Ken? Does that sound like everything is ‘alright’ to you? Do people tend to ask you over for drinks when things are ‘alright’ at home?”

Ken looked into Charlie’s face, and looked down to see the sling his arm was in, and the cast on his leg. “Sorry, Charlie. I heard about the accident, you must be in a lot of pain still. Let’s go back and sit in the living room, ok?” The diplomacy in his voice was a bit unsettling to Charlie, after the confrontation he tried to introduce. They assembled back into the living room, with Ken sitting in-between Charlie and Sheila.

“Have you two discussed any of this before calling me?” Ken said.

“No, I just wanted to hear what my options were,” Sheila answered.

“I didn’t know that she was thinking about this,” Charlie said.

Ken took a sip of his drink. “Usually, couples have several conversations about getting divorced before I even step into the picture. Unless there’s abuse going on, or adultery.” Sheila and Charlie looked at him as if he was purple, and he said “I take that as a ‘no,’ then?”

Sheila said, “Things have been especially strained this week with us, but stuff has been building up for a while. So, I wanted to find out what getting a divorce meant.”

“It means you’re through. Kaput!” Charlie said.

“He’s right,” Ken replied. “You’re no longer married, so you no longer share anything. You have to split up the belongings you’ve acquired throughout your marriage, and in your case since there is no prenuptial agreement, the things you brought into the marriage with you.”

“And alimony?” Charlie asked, as he lifted his glass to Frank. Don’t leave out any of the dirty details.”

“Well, alimony is paid by the spouse – the ex-spouse – who makes more money than the other, in order to continue to give the other spouse the quality of life they have grown accustomed to. That’s determined by a judge.”

“A judge?” Sheila looked confused. “Why does a judge need to figure that out?”

“Because you are going to present your dissolution of marriage to the court, and they determine based on all the facts and figures what’s fair and what isn’t to each member of the marriage.”

“Oh,” she said. She crossed her arms over her chest and looked to Charlie for any reaction. He was emotionless.

“So, I’m going to leave now. I’ll let you look at the papers here, and just give me a call if you make any decision.”

“Charlie?” Sheila called out to him to grab his attention.

“Hm? Oh, yes, thanks Frank.”

“I’m Kenneth, Charlie.”

“Oh, yes – sorry. Thanks Kenneth.”

“Charlie – do you want to think about this some more?” Shelia asked.

“Actually, Sheila, maybe,” he was trying to keep up with his thoughts. “Maybe we should just try living away from each other for a while. Take a break, but nothing permanent.” He had been reflecting on all the changes he’d had to live with this week, the pain of the accident, the rejection of his band, and now this. He didn’t want to think things were through at home as well, and thought of the humiliation years down the road when people would ask, “What ever happened to that guy in that band? He used to be so cool.”

He continued to say, “I mean, maybe these problems are just temporary, you know? A result of what’s happened to us this week. Maybe we should just try to turn down the volume and step away from each other, before we start thinking about permanent solutions.”

“I think that’s an excellent suggestion, Sheila,” Ken said.

Sheila got up to walk Ken to the door. “Thank you for coming over, Ken. I’ll let you know what we decide.”

Ken got into his car and drove away. Sheila walked into the living room to sit with Charlie again. He was lost in thought, and she sprawled out on her side of the long couch, to think about things herself.

Finally, she said “Charlie – I think we need to spend some time separated, like you said. To figure things out, see if it’s just a bad time right now.”

He stayed to listen to this, then got up from his seat and left to go back to the sanctuary of his room. In the morning, she would have packed her things up, found a new place to live for their separation, and left him a note with instructions on how life should go on without him.