Michael was standing in the bedroom
doorway, decked out in his dirty grey sweats, stained t-shirt and ratty
bathrobe. His thick black and gray-speckled hair was matted against his head,
and his five o’clock shadow was creeping down his neck and up his cheeks.
“Peggy, when’s lunch?” he asked.
Peggy sat at the kitchen table, head
resting in her hands. Her fingers massaged her throbbing temples. “There’s some
soup warming in the microwave.”
“Microwave?” Michael whined. “So,
we’re just warming things up, now? That’s okay. Homemade is better, but
microwave is okay.” And Michael shuffled back to the bedroom to park on the bed
and binge on another SVU marathon.
Looking back, Peggy thought it seemed
like such a good idea. It was a good idea. A spontaneous idea. And, okay, it
was an illegal idea. But it happened and now this where they were. Peggy had to
deal. Peggy had to get Michael the fuck out of her house.
Michael hadn’t always been the
annoying sad sack occupying her bedroom. Michael Starling was the passionate,
compassionate front man for Fizgig, the beloved indie rock band out of the
Midwest. Peggy was a fan, not just a typical fan, a super fan for most of her
adult life.
Michael’s music had been the
soundtrack of all Peggy’s milestones. Michael’s maple syrup tenor accompanied
her first “I love you” in her twenties. His charging guitar chords blasted
through her 30th birthday. And his tender lyrics comforted her when that “I
love you” became “good bye.” His words were the story of her life. There was no
greater joy than being in the front row of his concerts, letting his voice
soothe away her woe.
Peggy was a borderline stalker, but
stalking seemed like too much work.
How did it arrive that he was her
willing and demanding hostage? It started out innocently enough, as far as
kidnappings are concerned. Fizgig’s popularity had begun to wan. Which meant
smaller venues, like the bar close to Peggy’s place.
It was like the rock-n-roll gods had
smiled upon Peggy that night. Michael spotted her for the first time as she was
lining up outside.
“I’ve seen you before,” he said.
“This is not my first time,” she
answered.
“So . . . . you’re experienced?” (Was
he flirting?)
“I know my way around the front row,”
she tried her best to coo.
Michael walked away, but not without
one last look over his shoulder. Peggy sucked in her gut and pushed out her
B-cups as far as she could, mustering up her best “come-hither” look before
Michael disappeared into one of the doors. She exhaled, releasing her gut and
boobs back to their normal state.
During the show he would glance her
way between songs. Peggy thought she was imagining it. But the long look, with
a smile, as he walked off the stage convinced her. Oh my god! He was flirting.
Then came the tap. A roadie was
tapping her on the shoulder. “Michael is wondering if you want a drink,” he
asked. He led her through the crowd to the back room of the bar. The band was
having an after-show party. Michael sat in a booth, nursing a beer. When he saw
Peggy, he smiled again and waved her to sit next to him.
“How was the show?” he asked. “I saw
you in the front row. You looked like you were enjoying yourself.”
Peggy searched for words. She had
mentally scripted this meeting many times before and she was always witty and
charming. Now she was mute. She felt like a huge steal door had been slammed on
her face and all intelligent thoughts were slammed out of her head.
Then the words spilled out, in no
coherent order or meaning.
“I’vebeensugeahugefanofyourdforyearsandyourmusicmeanssomuchtomeandhastouchedmeinsomanyyearsand…”
Michael held up his hand. “Are you
drinking?”
“Yes,” Peggy nodded. Michael called
for the waitress. And the night dissolved into miasma of booze, a little weed,
and an offer to finish this party back at her place.
Later, as Michael slept off was could
be described as a colossal hangover, a fiendish plot tapped Peggy’s brain. A
wonderfully fiendish, awful plot. She found the handcuffs she got has a joke
gift for her 40th birthday and, quietly straddling her prey, Michael was hers.
Peggy was not a villain, she didn’t
even have a moving violation on her record. This was her first crime, and it
was a dozy. But she went all in on the felony. Why? As she watched him sleep,
Peggy tried to calculate the math that led her here.
Lately, Peggy believed that life had
been leaving her out.
She had been laid off from the company
that had employed her for close to 20 years. She left with a comfortable
severance package and time to contemplate her next move. Even though in her
head she knew it was a dollars-and-cents decision, in her heart Peggy believed
she had failed.
She didn’t have a husband to come home
to. No kids, no pets, not even a plant. She rarely saw her friends, who’s
calendars were all dictated by their kids and spouses. Peggy’s career had been
her “thing” and now that was gone.
Michael started to stir. When his eyes
opened, Peggy noticed that he struggled to focus on his hands, bound to the bed
frame over his head. Realization slowly crept across his face and he pulled on
the handcuffs, but they didn’t budge. He lifted his head and saw Peggy standing
at the foot of the bed.
“The fuck?!?” he shouted.
All things considered, his reaction
was not that bad.
“THE FUCK?!?!? You BITCH! What the
fuck? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
“Now Michael, try to calm down,” were
the only words Peggy sheepishly muttered. She was not convincing anyone to calm
down. He just flayed on the bed.
After a few minutes, Michael calmed
down and lifted his head off the bed to look at her.
“Why are you doing this?” he hissed
through clenched teeth.
Peggy floundered. Her reasons were not
perfectly clear to her. She nervously pulled at her fingers as she tried to
explain. Finally, she just shrugged and signed. “I guess I just wanted some
more time with you?”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
Foolishly, she didn’t anticipate his
anger. Who could blame her? After all, kidnapping an alt-music darling was an
impulsive move. She had no words to justify her actions.
Michael finally settled down when she
outlined his current reality. “Listen. I’ve got you handcuffed to the bed. You
are not going anytime soon. I promise, I will never hurt you. In fact, I will
make every effort make you comfortable and happy. I only want to make you
happy. I will make sure everyone of your needs is met.”
Michael calmed down and thought for a
second. “Every need?” he asked, raising his eyebrow. Peggy nodded. “Even that
one thing you did last night?” She nodded again.
He let his head drop to the pillow. “I guess I can stay for a little while.”
***
That first week was tense. Upon
reflection, the promise of sexual shenanigans was not much of a motivator.
Michael resented Peggy’s authority over him. And usually he was an amazing
performer, but in his current position (handcuffed to the bed, not sure of when
he’d get home), let’s just say “Live from Peggy’s Bedroom” was lackluster.
His mood grew darker and darker. “How
can you be here day in and day out?” he growled one day. “Don’t you have a
job?”
Peggy stood in the bedroom doorway. “I
was laid off,” she bit back. “Twenty years. Can you believe it? Twenty years
and they just show me the door.”
Michael was quiet. “Sorry about that,”
he said. “Fuck Trump!” he added.
“Yeah, fuck him.” Peggy paused.
“Wasn’t really a Trump thing. The company had been failing…. just happened.”
“Oh. Sorry. But, seriously, fuck that
guy.”
“Yeah, sideways.”
A foul-mouthed rebuke of the president
was the first sign of a thaw.
Then she cooked for him.
During the second week, a dark mood
descended on the bedroom and Peggy retreated to the kitchen. Cooking had been
Peggy’s way to destress. She floated her way through the kitchen, creating
edible symphonies with spices and sauces.
She was orchestrating a lasagna when
Michael called from the bedroom, “Smells good out there. What’s cooking?”
“Lasagna,” she shouted back.
“Is that with ground beef?”
“Sausage.”
“I like sausage.”
And with some pasta, sauce, and ground
sausage, an armistice commenced. Her lasagna began to soften him. A dose of her
homemade minestrone soup continued his conversion. Her dark chocolate mousse
cake sealed the deal.
The way to Michael’s heart was through
is stomach. Funny, Peggy thought, she assumed it would have been a little
lower.
Peggy cooked and cooked and he ate and
ate. They talked and talked.
“There was a time I was thinking about
being an architect,” Michael said between bites of homemade mac & cheese.
He was sitting up on the bed, Peggy at the foot.
It was about 10 days into the
captivity. She had taken the handcuffs off and they were watching Seinfeld on
TBS, the “Vandelay Industries” episode.
“Really? I can’t imagine,” she
replied.
“Yeah,” he continued with a full
mouth. “My father’s idea. Not mine. But I entertained the idea to make him
happy, which he rarely was. About me, anyways. He was your typical ‘Company
Man’ – corner office, suits, ties, 401k – didn’t get his quiet, thoughtful son
who was happy hiding his room with his records.”
“How’d that end?” she asked.
“Badly. One word: math. I just don’t
think on that side of my brain.”
Michael liked to pontificate. Peggy liked
to listen. It fit her position in life as a supporting character. She was
content to lift others and let her own story simmer on the back burner. Was she
a bit isolated from her friends and family? Sure. But as a single, childless
former career woman, her tale is secondary.
The time of the great thaw was
magical. For 20 years, her one hope was to get close to Michael. And there they
were, pleasantly chatting away over leftovers and day-time TV.
“What was it that first attracted you
to me?” Michael asked as he finished her homemade chocolate cake. He had
graduated to the couch and they were watching Bones.
“Ugh,” Peggy groaned and hid her face
on her hands. “I don’t want to talk about me.” He had just finished the story
on how he met John, his band mate who’s been his devoted right-hand for two
decades.
“Oh please…regale me with your love
for me. How have I added color and music to your life?”
Peggy thought about it and sighed.
“It’s your words,” she said. “When I can’t come up with the words to express myself,
you do.”
“You realize most of my songs are
about loneliness, despair and trying to find love and meaning in a dark, cold
world?”
Peggy nodded.
“I get it.”
***
The third week was when things started
to get weird. Michael and his band were never household names, and their
limited popularity had begun to wane. His disappearance changed that. Suddenly
the news was asking, “Where’s Michael?” He became a hash tag and his concert
clips were trending on YouTube.
Michel loved it. He sat on the couch
and watched the coverage obsessively. Worried fans lamented his absence;
critics commented on his brilliance and that, much like an Old Testament
prophet, he was simply not appreciated in his own time. Michael was eating it
up.
“He spoke for a generation who felt
lost,” Kurt Loder oozed.
“His words had the power to lift up
and soothe,” Greg Kott gushed.
“His warm voice was like a hug from
grandma,” Jim DeRogatis babbled.
“Where the fuck were these guys when I
released my last album?” Michael shouted at the TV. “Loder called it
‘pretentious’, Kott said I had lost my touch. DeRogatis just flat out hated it!
Peggy,” he pointed a ham-filled fork at her, “never trust a critic. It’s all
BS.”
Memorials were being set up outside
the Chicago club where Michael got his start. Downloads started to spike. There
was even a Spotify playlist compiled by Lin-Manual Miranda.
“Alexander Hamilton! I got Alexander
Hamilton missing me. Peggy, this ‘kidnapping’ or whatever is the best thing
that has happened to me in ages. I’ll need to thank you when I win that
Grammy.”
Peggy didn’t need him to thank her.
She needed him to take a shower.
“We need to stretch this out for a
couple of weeks. We can really make the most of this!”
A few more weeks? Peggy secretly “ughed” over the corned beef and hash she was
making.
***
That’s how it was for a few days.
Michael reveling in his newly found spotlight, plotting his triumphant return
to the stage. Peggy patiently listening to his fanciful rants.
“You know what would be great?”
Michael said. He was sprawled on the couch, bowl of chips resting on his
stomach. “I could just show up at one of those memorials. All those crying
fans! They’d love it.”
“Yes,” Peggy replied from her hiding
place in the kitchen.
“Or. . . or I can release a video. Put
it up on Instagram. All about my need to get away from it all to write my
masterpiece. That’s it. Brilliant.”
But he didn’t write. Michael just sat
on the couch and watched the news.
And then the tide began to turn.
Rather than cancelling the few planned
shows, John – Michael’s trusted right-hand man – stepped up. He took over the
lead singer and lead guitarist role. “Because we just can’t let our fans down,”
John said in interview after interview after interview. He seemed to pop up
CNN, MSNBC, NBC, ABC, CBS, and even FOX News.
“Bullshit!” Michael shouted at John’s
earnest image on the TV. “That backstabbing asshole has been gunning for me for
years. Well, if he thinks that the fans will like him, he’s fucking crazy!”
They did. Rather than playing
half-filled clubs, John and the band played sold-out venues. Fans lined up
outside hours to stake their claims on the front row.
John possessed a more innocent vibe
and presented a yearnful interpretation of Michael’s songs. He even managed to
add a few of his own to the set list. Peggy had to admit when she watched
YouTube footage of the John shows (hidden deep in the closet to avoid Michael’s
sulky whines) that she liked what she heard and saw. John was giving her all
the feels.
Michael, on the other hand, was giving
her agita. When John’s star began to rise, Michael began to sink. And stink.
Peggy was sure to give him space to bathe and did some quick clothes shopping.
But he settled on the sweat pants and t-shirt look and eschewed the shower.
Michael would ball up on the bed and
rail on about all the “atrocities” committed against him. From the unsupportive
record label to the barista who messed up his order, the world was against him.
“I started this band,” he whined.
“Those are my songs he’s stealing. My emotions. He’s hijacking my emotions. And
those fools in the audience are eating it up.”
Peggy must have been a fool. Because
she was eating it up with a knife and fork.
Then Michael turned his sad, green
eyes to her and say, “But here everything is fine. I should just stay here,
stay with you. And can you mix me up some of that delicious clams marinara.”
“But I don’t have the ingredients,”
Peggy said.
“Please. And don’t forget the garlic
bread.”
Michael was becoming overbearing,
miserable, and immovable. When Peggy suggested that it was time for him to
return to the spotlight, he balked. She concocted a great story for him, about
retreating to the desert to meditate and recoup.
“You can say that a yogi suggested the
trip to refine your damaged soul,” she pleaded. “That you found peace in the
desert and you are ready for your masterpiece. You are going to start writing
that masterpiece, right?”
“I’m happy here,” Michael said. “I
don’t want to leave. What’s for dinner? I’m in the mood for steak and
potatoes.”
Peggy was beginning to get desperate.
Michael was unwilling to leave, unwilling to improve, and would make hints
about what could happen to her.
“Kidnapping is a crime,” he would say.
“I hear a person could get life for that. Now, if I could stay for a little
longer, I could keep my mouth shut, but I could get talkative if I had to
leave. Now, for lunch how about a BLT? On that lovely homemade bread.”
Peggy was at a loss. He wasn’t
leaving. She had to rethink her situation.
***
Peggy’s temples throbbed as the
microwave hummed. Michael was in the bedroom, cheering on Detective Benson’s
latest take down of a perp. “Olivia is bad ass!!” he shouted. “She really came
into her own after Elliot left. He held my girl back!” he called out to Peggy.
“How’s that soup??”
“Almost done,” Peggy said.
The microwave dinged, and Peggy rose
from the chair. She took the bowl out, blew on the hot soup (because Michael’s
delicate tongue) and stirred it. The crushed Ambien pills were dissolved in the
hot mix and should be tasteless. He’d sleep for hours.
Once midnight struck, she’d tie him to
her office chair, sneak him out to her car, and drive him to a local hospital.
To ensure he keeps his mouth shut, a little blackmail. Some compromising photos
would be attached of this alternative music, liberal icon watching Sean
Hannity. That would do the trick.
And Peggy’s temples stopped throbbing.
Epilogue
“It’s miraculous,” the perky blonde reporter
gushed. “Michael Starling, front man for indie rock band Fizgig, has reemerged.
Fans who lamented his mystery disappearance celebrated as this cherished
singer/songwriter explained that he needed to step away from the spotlight to
regroup.”
A montage of photos and videos
depicting the Fizgig history played as Perky Blonde’s voiceover continued.
“Fizgig was a small midwestern band that achieved huge critical success over
its 20-year history. Propelled by Starling’s heartfelt lyrics and sweet tenor,
the band developed a small, but mighty fanbase that followed the band around
the country and camped out for hours at their shows.”
Images of a tired, weary Michael
splayed across the screen. “But life of the road and constant pressure to
create more music took a toll on the tender-hearted Starling”
Perched on the barstool and eating a
burger she didn’t have to make, Peggy rolled her eyes so hard she got a little
dizzy.
Back to a pre-recorded interview in
some empty concert hall, Perky Blonde and Michael seated at the edge of the
stage. “I just needed a break,” Michael shrugged. “I have been following the
teachings of this yogi for years and decided to retreat to the desert to
meditate and recoup.”
“And what’s his name?” PB asked.
“Who?”
“The yogi. I’m sure your fans would
love to know who brought you back to full-force?”
“Ahhhhhhh … I don’t want to put his
name out there. He, um, he, um, he lives a very peaceful existence out in the
desert … way out in the desert. Like way out. I don’t want people showing up
and disrupting his way of life.”
Peggy groaned.
“I understand,” PB nodded sympathetically.
“What did he teach you?”
“Teach me? That ah, um . . .. you only
have this one life to live. You are put here for a purpose and you have to find
that purpose to be fulfilled. And my purpose is to, through song, be that purpose
for all my fans . . . looking for
purpose.”
“The bullshit is strong in this one,”
Peggy mumbled to no one.
Cut to PB outside the venue,
surrounded by a gaggle of fans.
“Tonight, Fizgig returns to the stage
with Michael Starling in his rightful place in front. John Billings, who had
taken on lead singer responsibilities during Michael’s absence, is back on lead
guitar. On a side note, tonight is John’s last show with Fizgig as he embarks
on his solo career. Back to you in the studio, Jim.”
Peggy stopped paying attention as the anchor
commented, “Usually, you don’t get fatter in the desert.” She put her ear buds
back in and turned up the first track of John’s new album.
are alone, I hope you find love. If you are sad, I hope you find humor.
The Barb Wire 