The
door is Old World familiar. It is made of wood so rough that
even the several contrasting layers of stain and lacquer cannot keep
you from feeling the groves and grain underneath. The banding
holding the door's planks together are weathered iron. The
handle is oversized for the building, let alone the door itself.
Perhaps it was meant to be inviting. Instead it provides a
physical challenge. You must clamp down on the latch at the
top of the handle, reach down for the actual handle, and pull back.
Many people are forced to use two hands, but that option is not mine
today. I have a guitar case in my left hand.
I
look back at Raychel, who is watching me with a bemused gaze.
I warn her, "After this, there's no turning back."
She
deadpans, "Really? I thought that was what we were doing."
I
suppose we were turning back in a way. It was just that we
were the ones who were different. I pushed through the door to
the past to reach for the future hiding inside.
Inside is impressive. Small, but impressive. The floor
is hardwood and creaky. It has a right to be when you see what
it supports. The walls are exposed brownish brick for the
first four feet, the give way to stone and mortar walls. The
stucco ceiling is high and punctuated by exposed wood supports.
The wooden tables and booths seem like an afterthought in the
design, something to separate the massive bar from the slightly
raised stage. The seats are uncomfortable, but comforting.
When a catastrophe strikes Los Angeles, this is the place to be.
Safehaven isn't a bar. It is a fortress.
I was
against this from the start. Returning to The Bleeders was the
wrong way to begin our new career together. Obviously I didn't
want Raychel being influenced by people like Laura or Lance again,
but it wasn't the only reason. The Bleeders was an audience of
sycophants, already trained to accept anything Raychel. They
were not a real audience. This was not an adequate test for us
to see how good we were. It was useless.
Raychel was adamant, however, that we should return to The Bleeders.
She said it would be a fitting way for us to announce our return to
L.A. (to the wrong people, I said to myself). She wanted the safety
of the crowd. Besides, it was the only place we knew where we
could get mike time without a reputation preceding us. She had
me there. I had tried to set a stage for us at a number of
places I knew, but no one was buying it. They would ask for
the names of clubs we played and the conversation ended shortly
after that. Raychel seized upon my inability to find a club to
further her argument. Safehaven was a different place
entirely. We were known and she was worshiped.
|
"My
initial entrance into Safehaven caught the attention of the room,
and eyes began turning toward the door. The door wasn't even
out of my hand and I could feel the anger rising to greet me." |
Our
entrance was predetermined, calculated. Everyone remembers the
image of a nuclear test on a two-story family home. Instead of
a straightforward explosion, the home was drawn toward the blast
momentarily and then was blasted outward. That was the type of
reaction we were attempting. It worked perfectly. My
initial entrance into Safehaven caught the attention of the room,
and eyes began turning toward the door. The door wasn't even
out of my hand and I could feel the anger rising to greet me.
Then I stood aside, revealing Raychel, confident, clad in black.
She surveyed the room without looking at anyone directly. The
effect was instantaneous. Heads swiveled to see their friends
to confirm what their eyes had just seen. The words ripped
through the room, "She's back." Raychel had returned to The
Bleeders. As I expected, they were obliterated. And they
didn't know the half of it.
They
soon would.
Raychel led the way to the corner booth, staring down people left
and right. She stopped at a dumfounded Laura Douglass, who
blubbered something I couldn't understand. Raychel reached for
Laura's notebook and pen. The notebook is Laura's catalog of
the night's order of events. Raychel pulled it to her and
scratched out the next act, writing her new name in its place.
Raychel Taurus.
Raychel turned and headed straight for the stage. Before
following her, I looked back at Laura and told her flatly, "We'll
introduce ourselves, thanks." On the way to the stage, I
approached Lance Wagner. He was just standing there,
stone-faced, paralyzed. I regarded him coldly. I had a
good reason.
Raychel and I had returned to Los Angeles on June 17, two days
earlier. We went back to my apartment to wait for the next
meeting of The Bleeders; however, that was impossible. My
apartment was in no condition to be used. It had been trashed
completely by Lance Wagner and his minions. They had
apparently picked the lock (the door hadn't been pried open or
kicked in) and began searching for anything. The cabinets and
closets were open and had obviously been vigorously searched.
Too bad for them I took all of the information about my Hunter
property with me. But the devastation of the room was clearly
the work of Lance Wagner. He left a calling card. I
think it was a love note to Raychel.
Grabbing your throat
is one of life's great
pleasures,
a gentle squeeze
is part ceremony,
part desire.
You smile at me
through blue lips
bug eyes
and sweating body,
clutching my hair
in clawing hands.
Wrenching me
by my hair
back to the sheets
you take your turn
to express love
in its fullest.
Our bed is
not normal
they say,
but at least
our sex is great.
For
those of you not aware of the terminology, this is called a "smoking
gun." It is also my explanation why I acted the way I did the
following week (see Lance's
"Raychel Taurus
Rising").
In
addition to trashing my apartment, Lance decided to harass us
further by placing a missing persons report out on Raychel. I
learned this from a friend of mine in The Bleeders. We cleared
it up quickly. Raychel and I walked into a police station and
stated that the report was a misunderstanding. That was it,
over. Lance's brilliant offensive maneuver. Make other
people work. That was his best shot.
Now
it was our turn.
No
introduction. No banter. No apologies. We played
three songs in ten minutes. They were "Endless and Less",
"Fighting for Twilight", and "No More Dreams No More."
When we finished, they couldn't wait to give us a standing ovation.
It didn't mean a thing to me. I thought it was a good set, but
these people were incapable of giving us a true evaluation of our
work together. Mindless of the crowd's mindless reaction, I
had my guitar packed before Raychel's chorus finished reverberating
in the amplifiers.
|
"We
ran to the car and drove away into the night, Raychel laughing the
whole way. With the passing streetlights and storefronts
flashing by, momentarily lighting her already light-hearted face,
she looked truly insane." |
The
typical escape route for a good act at The Bleeders is to walk
straight through the center of the room and turn right into the bar.
Patrons typically meet acts at the bar to congratulate them.
We had expected this, and prepared accordingly. We walked
straight down the center of the room and, just before hitting the
bar, turned left and escaped out the front door in full view of
everyone at the bar.
The
door had barely closed behind us before Raychel began laughing out
loud. She had done a tremendous job with her assignment:
Create mystery with selective silence. It was a perfect hit
and run attack. Had we gone to the bar, our entire evening
would have been a waste. This way, the room was left wanting
more and wondering. What was going on? What's with
"Raychel Taurus?" Had we stuck around for gladhanding, it
might not have happened. Now it was guaranteed.
We
ran to the car and drove away into the night, Raychel laughing the
whole way. With the passing streetlights and storefronts
flashing by, momentarily lighting her already light-hearted face,
she looked truly insane.
The
smile faded some miles later just enough for her to speak, "Maybe we
should go back."
"Now?"
"No.
God, no. Next week."
I
understood immediately. Finally. She needed this night.
An untrained, inexperienced singer, she had been afraid. But
she had delivered in spades. If she needed another fill of
courage, I couldn't object.
Of
course, Laura Douglass worked her magic and pulled Ken Kincaid out
of her hat. It was a perfect move. I couldn't say no to
him after he accepted all of my terms. Besides, it wasn't that
I didn't trust him. I didn't trust Laura. I knew she
would do anything to sabotage our music career, so I didn't know why
she helped us. Now I do. And I was right not to trust
her.
But
that night, we won.
