scramble, and I asking for the Strong Bread pancakes, which are full of all sorts of wholesome grains which are supposed to make you strong, at least according to the menu. They also sell Strong Bread by the loaf, but it’s harder to justify putting syrup on a loaf of bread, so the pancakes were the better choice.
The waitress left and Mikel excused himself, telling me he’d be right back, and then he headed outside. He was pulling out his mobile phone as he went through the door. It didn’t mean he was working a sale, but I couldn’t help assuming that he was.
I drank a second cup of coffee and half a glass of apple juice and tried not to be angry at Mikel. But when he came back to the table I was still feeling sulky.
“Sorry about that,” he said, taking his seat.
“Business good?”
“Wasn’t business.”
“Doesn’t answer the question.”
He shrugged.
“You should stop.”
“Why? To protect your good name?”
“Maybe to protect yours,” I shot back at him. “You’re gonna get caught, and you’ll end up like Tommy.”
“I’m never going to end up like Dad. I don’t drink, I don’t use, and I’m pretty fucking smart, if I may say so myself.”
“Smart would be not dealing.”
He looked at me pointedly. “See, and I’d think smart would be not using.”
“I don’t use.”
“You’re still drinking.”
“Look, if you’ve got somewhere to be, I don’t want to keep you.”
“Mim, you’re being an ass.”
“I wouldn’t want you to miss an opportunity,” I said.
“Now you’re being a passive-aggressive ass.”
“I just don’t want to inconvenience you.”
He stared at me for a long moment. Then he raised his hand, leveling his index finger.
“Rock Star!” Mikel bellowed in his best evangelical imitation. “I know thy name, demon, and it is Rock Star! Begone from this place!”
A couple people at the counter heard him and glanced over at us.
“Stop,” I said.
Mikel turned in his seat, as if trying to find a waiter, raising a hand, snapping his fingers silently. “Pardon,
“Knock it off, Mikel.”
“A dozen white roses with which to adorn her hair.” He turned back to me, really amused, the grin making creases around his eyes. “The purest mountain spring water to bathe her fair and adored flesh.”
I tried to glare him into silence, to really ratchet it up, but his smile did it, and I cracked, started giggling. Our plates came and I poured syrup on my pancakes and Mikel dumped most of a bottle of Tabasco on his scramble, and I waited until the waitress had departed before speaking again.
“I’m
“You want me to cut that for you? I’d be happy to slice it into perfectly uniform bits, then feed them to you with a caviar spoon.”
“You don’t even know what a caviar spoon looks like.”
“For one such as yourself, such a failing on my part is inconceivable. I shall throw myself into traffic at once, of course.”
“But who will I get to cut my pancakes?”
He laughed again. “Okay, I’ll let you feed yourself. But if Vanessa asks about the syrup, I’m telling the truth.”
“Fuck Vanessa,” I said, with sincere bile.
Mikel stopped his fork halfway to his mouth. “What’d you do?”
“I didn’t
“So why should I rush out and fuck Vanessa? Not that I’d mind, of course.”
“She sent me home.”
“You’re not back on a break?”
I shook my head, used my fork to cut a not-very-uniform piece of pancake. “They’re in New York. She’s replacing me with Oliver Clay.”
“Who’s Oliver Clay?”
“You haven’t met him. He’s a session guy, out of Seattle, we used him for backing tracks on ‘Energize’ and ‘Tomorrow-Today-Tonight.’ He’s taking my place for the rest of the tour.”
Mikel ate a bite, then a second one, studying me. I pushed my pancakes around, suddenly not wanting them.
“At least I don’t have to worry about Van telling me to watch my figure,” I said.
“What’d you do?”
“Nothing, I told you.”
“You have a fight?”
I shook my head.
He set his utensils down, leaned forward, lowered his voice. “Mim?”
“It’s exhaustion,” I said. “They’re making the announcement sometime today. Saying that I’m taking the rest of the tour off.”
“Exhaustion.”
“Yeah.”
“Miriam?”
“Don’t want to talk about it,” I said.
He didn’t move, keeping his head close, and I kept looking at my plate, at the islands of pancake and the sea of syrup. I knew what it was he was thinking, I knew he suspected. He quit drinking in his late teens, and I could feel his judgment, and I thought about calling him a hypocrite.
We finished eating, but the conversation went shallow, mostly Mikel asking questions about the tour. We’d hit Japan before Australia, with two nights in New Zealand in between, and he was curious about Christchurch. He knew a couple of software people who’d had protracted stays in New Zealand while working postproduction on a series of films, and apparently all of them had raved about what a great place the country was.
“Nice crowds,” I told him. “Nice hotel. Venue was cool, very modern. Great acoustics. I broke three strings on the Tele the first night and had to finish the second set using my alternate, but I don’t think anyone but me and Fabrizio noticed.”
“Fabrizio?”
“My guitar tech. Nice guy. Fat little guy. But nice.”
“That’s all you can say about New Zealand?”
“That’s all of New Zealand that I experienced. If you want more, I can try to remember the hotel room decor and what I ate for dinner each night.”
We finished eating and the check came, and I snatched it before Mikel could, and he tried to go all big brotherly on me.
“Give it.”
“No.” I dug around in my jacket for my wallet.
“Give it here, Miriam.”
“Are you rich?”
“I’m comfortable.”
“Yeah, well, I have been told that I am stinking rich,” I said. “My treat.”
It was hard for him to argue with that. We paid and went outside, and the rain had stopped. The sky was the color of a muddy sheet. Mikel waited while I lit a cigarette, then asked what my plans were.
