Guy had arrived with two models in tow. They had similar names that I can’t recall now, Carla and Claire, or something like that. They seemed nice enough, but they spoke with extreme Southern California accents—you know that monotone way of talking as if nothing matters—that made me want to bang my head against a wall.
Eventually I got tired of talking to strangers and went back into the kitchen to see if October needed any help, but she waved me off, and I could tell by her demeanor that the last thing she wanted to be doing was entertaining a houseful of people. Cal strolled in a second later and put his arms around her. She whispered something to him that I couldn’t hear, and he rolled his eyes and said, “I dare you to have a good time tonight,” before grabbing a couple crackers and walking back into the living room.
Diego was sprawled underneath the table, either hiding from the partygoers like I was or waiting for someone to drop food. He looked up at me, and I fed him a slice of prosciutto. After that he followed me to the couch, where he sat at my feet and kept me company until October told everyone to go outside and sit down for dinner.
I ended up with the tall African-American man on my left and Loring’s wife, Bea, on my right. Model Claire sat directly across from me, Carla next to her.
“Are you a musician too?” Claire asked, and I knew that listening to her talk for too long would’ve turned me into a serial killer.
I told her I was not a musician, but Cal, who was at the head of the table, waved his napkin in the air like he was trying to shoo away a swarm of mosquitoes and said, “Don’t listen to him! He’s the single greatest guitar player you’ve never heard of!”
That egged Claire on, and she began asking me more questions—the kind I hated, like where I was from and what kind of music I played. In an effort to get her to leave me alone, I turned and asked the man on my left the same dumb questions, which turned out to be the most amusing part of the whole night. I had assumed he was someone with whom Cal worked, maybe a band member or a roadie, and when I asked him what he did, the entire table went silent.
“I play basketball,” he answered softly.
“Professionally?” I asked. He did seem tall, but not as tall as Cal, and certainly not as tall as I imagine basketball players to be.
Once the guests realized I was serious, laughter erupted. Then Guy explained, at volume ten and with an offensive amount of disbelief regarding my knowledge of sports, that the gentleman on my left played for the Golden State Warriors and was arguably the greatest point guard in the NBA.
I didn’t know what a point guard was, but I congratulated the man. Claire then announced that she wasn’t into sports either, as if that inextricably linked the two of us, and Cal immediately came to my defense like he used to when we were kids.
“Harp and I were too busy practicing our crafts to care about sports.”
That made me think about the way Bob used to bark, “What are you, his lawyer?” whenever Cal stuck up for me or made my case. I reminded Cal of that, and he told a story about the time Bob took us to a 49ers game during a short-lived phase when he was trying to spend more quality time with me. Why he had chosen football as the venue to express that, I’ll never know. But it was a Sunday, and Cal and I had plans to go to Tower Records that day, so naturally we’d protested wholeheartedly—and by “we” I mean Cal—but Bob told us we didn’t have a choice.
“We brought Spin, Guitar World, and the NME,” Cal said. “And we read magazines the whole time.”
“Man, was Bob pissed,” I laughed. “He didn’t let you come over for a while after that, remember?”
October had barely said a word throughout dinner, but she smiled as we told the story, and I didn’t know if it was a happy smile or a sad smile, or if it was directed at me or at Cal.
After we finished eating, October gathered a handful of dishes and took them into the kitchen; Cal followed her with the rest. I watched them through the window. Cal stood close to October as he separated the dishes from the silverware and stacked the plates in the sink. Then he said something to her that made her swat him in the arm and laugh, and they kissed.
When they came back outside, October was carrying a white cake that she’d decorated with rosemary and manzanita berries. Cal had a bunch of small plates in one hand and the bottle of tequila I’d brought over in the other.
“How about a song before dessert?” Guy shouted.
The basketball player chimed in, the models started droning on about it too, and soon everyone was pestering Cal to play something.
“Fine, fine,” Cal said. “Hold your horses.”
He ran off to the studio and came back with a Gibson SJ-200E and an old, beautifully weathered Takamine with a worn-down pickguard and scratches all over the finish. He presented the Takamine to me and said, “I’m not playing unless you play with me.”
I didn’t protest. As insecure as I
