He stared at me, waiting.
“What?” I mumbled.
“Do you think I’ll be able to convince her to give me another chance?”
This much I knew: Cal has a way of talking that makes people believe him. His confidence and resolve are so solid that if he told me he was going to steal a planet from the sky and leave it on October’s doorstep the next morning, I would have expected to see Jupiter waiting for her when she woke up.
“Earth to Harp?”
I was watching the road but not really seeing it. “Yeah,” I said with heartbroken honesty. “I think it’s entirely possible you will.”
Per Cal’s instructions, once I got to the Greek Theater I followed the signs to the Foothill parking lot directly above the venue. A young kid in a yellow UC Berkeley rain jacket was standing guard, making sure no unauthorized vehicles pulled in. He checked my name off a list, gave me a parking pass, and told me to make sure it was visible on my dashboard.
Cal’s tour manager, Wyatt, was waiting for us in the lot. He handed me a laminated All Access pass on a lanyard and gave Cal a rundown of the day’s schedule. Soundcheck at 3. Doors at 6:30. Opener at 7:30. Callahan at 9. And an end-of-tour party after the show. I wondered how that was going to fit into October’s plan to come clean with Cal.
Wyatt was a jovial, teddy bear of a guy in a Seattle Seahawks jersey and, despite the iffy weather, flip-flops. His long, dark gray hair was pulled back into a coarse ponytail that looked like steel wool. And instead of shaking my hand he gave me a big, back-cracking hug and said, “Any brother of Chris’s is a brother of mine.”
Walking into the venue from the top of the hill, we could see the Bay Bridge and the cityscape of San Francisco in the distance. And just behind the theater was Campanile, the bell tower on campus, looming above all the other buildings in Berkeley. The window of Sid’s old office was visible a few streets away, as was the dorm where I’d lived freshman year.
I pointed out the dorm to Cal, and he wanted to know what it had been like to live there, as if it were an exotic experience compared to his adventures in New York. He listened while I gave him the dull rundown, and he asked specific, funny questions: Was there a cafeteria in the building? Were the bathrooms coed? Did you have a curfew? Did you sleep with a lot of girls? Then he wondered aloud why the massive gap in our friendship didn’t make us strangers, but before I had a chance to ponder that, he said, “Because we aren’t strangers. We’re brothers.”
“You know, for as long as I lived in Berkeley,” I told him, “I’ve never been to the Greek Theater.”
“Me neither.”
We walked through the gate together, and the rush of tenderness I felt for him in that moment was suffocating, like a hand over my mouth.
Wyatt escorted us in through the back so that Cal could see the stage from the farthest point. The theater, built in the Greek Revival architectural style, is a near replica of the one in Epidaurus, and it feels historic and holy, like an ancient ruin in the middle of a city, the kind of place where Aristotle might have given lectures about how to live up to one’s potential as a human.
“It’s gonna sound epic in here tonight,” Wyatt said.
We walked down the steep cement bleachers and climbed onto the stage. A couple of roadies had just unrolled a big Persian rug, and another was setting up the drum kit. Cal stopped to introduce me to his guitar tech, a good-looking African-American kid, Justin, who was so skinny he looked flat from the side, like a piece of paper, his thick, sphere-shaped afro the only dimension noticeable.
I turned around and scanned the empty venue. “What does it feel like? Standing up here during a show, knowing all the people out there are here to see you?”
Cal didn’t answer. He just gave me a wily grin and shrugged.
Wyatt walked us backstage, where big oak trees were strung with bright blue strands of lights, colored paper lanterns hung from wires that dangled over couches and chairs, and a big bar was being set up in the corner.
We followed Wyatt down a flight of stairs and into a long hallway that ran underneath the stage. He pointed out the bathrooms and showers, the band’s green room, and a separate room that said “CHRIS/PRIVATE” on the door. That room had a couch, a wall-mounted TV, and a minifridge filled with snacks and drinks.
Wyatt told us the catering was ready and took us to a large rec room where a copious buffet was set up.
Cal and I got in line and filled our plates with poached salmon, steak, mashed potatoes, and salad. I grabbed a beer, Cal grabbed a bottle of water, and we sat at a round table with the sound engineer, a British guy named Simon, who looked like a young Steven Spielberg and showed us pictures of his two miniature schnauzers while we ate.
After lunch we went back to Cal’s private room to hang out until it was time for him to soundcheck.
“I have something for you,” Cal said, rummaging through his duffle bag.
He pulled out a moleskin notebook and shuffled through it until he located a photo stuck between the pages. “Found it when I was in Brooklyn a couple weeks ago.” He handed me the photo. “In a box of stuff my mom saved from high school.”
It was the two of us, taken during an open mic performance at the old Sweetwater. Cal and I were sitting on stools, sort of turned toward each other, guitars in our laps and smiles on our faces. On the back, Terry had written: Blood
