We’re led up the stairs to the balcony. More stairs lead up to the roof. We’re behind the DJs now, where two minions scramble back and forth to crates of vinyl.

Our escort proceeds to a huge metal door with a heavy spinning handle, like a bank vault. We push through and find ourselves in a high-ceilinged room. When the door seals behind us, there’s a whoosh of air and the thump of the club is extinguished. The assault is replaced by whispers of tinny music and I see that it is coming from headphones. Everyone in here is wearing them. They sit in leather chairs, plugged into stereo systems on low tables between them, each with a turntable. The walls are lined with dark wood shelves like we’re in an old library, complete with ladders that slide along, only the shelves are filled with records. The clientele are all hipsters in fashionable vintage attire, cool hats, flouncy dresses or jeans and sneakers, thick glasses and beards and scarves. Or maybe they’re all time travelers from the sixties. They talk quietly about records by the walls, or bop their heads along to the headphones. Waitresses dressed in tweed skirt suits bustle in and out of a door on the side, delivering cocktails and coffees.

Daisy sits obediently by the door. We all pet her head lightly. It feels like sandpaper.

“Okay,” says Caleb, “wow.”

“Oh, oh, oh,” says Randy. “There is a god.”

“Must resist . . . the urge to find . . . all Ramones records,” says Jon. He vibrates like he’s hooked up to electrodes.

“Are you kidding me?” says Matt. “Zeppelin II, and 2112.”

“I thought drummers had to choose sides in the great Bonham versus Peart debate.”

Matt shakes his head. “That’s like debating pancakes and waffles. Totally different. Both awesome.”

“And both need the maple syrup goodness of lead guitarrrr!” Jon air-guitars.

“Sshh!” One of the tweed librarian-waitresses holds a finger to her lips.

I am busy scanning the stacks. They are organized by genre. Rock, jazz, R & B, and soul.

“This way.” Our escort leads us across the thickly carpeted room, stopping at a set of chairs by the high back windows, which look out on a collage of back porches and windows and layers of city. We find ourselves standing before two older men.

The man on the right has a badge pinned to his tan jacket. He’s not wearing headphones, but the man on the left is. Seeing us, he slips them off his bald head. He’s wearing a slim black suit and looks like he just stepped out of a casino in a James Bond movie. I feel like I almost recognize him. He smiles, eyes on Caleb, and he and Randy seem to know exactly who this is.

21

MoonflowerAM @catherinefornevr 2m


Who’s up for staying young forever? Grown-ups = legalese and loss.

“Hey, Randy,” the man says over tinny headphone music. “Caleb, it’s nice to meet you.” He reaches over and carefully lifts the needle off the spinning vinyl. As it slows, I see it’s the Doors’s L.A. Woman.

The man puts out his hand. “Kellen McHugh.” In his other hand he holds a thin black cylinder.

Caleb shakes, manners taking over. “Nice to meet you.”

“Hey, Kellen,” says Randy, and it doesn’t sound friendly. “What brings you to San Fran?”

Kellen holds the cylinder to his mouth and inhales, and I realize it’s an electronic cigarette. It lights up blue at the tip. Kellen has thin features, kind of hawk-like, and small glasses. He looks more literary than rock star. When he exhales, the cloud of steam smells like mint.

“Same thing that brings you here, I’m thinking.” Kellen motions to the man beside him. “This is Detective Saunders. He made the trip up with me.”

I suddenly have that feeling of being in detention (only happened once), or grounded (a few times). Both Caleb and I are silent.

“I’ve heard you’re a great musician,” Kellen says to Caleb, “and I also know that you recently found out about your dad. That was probably kind of a shock.”

“Yeah,” says Caleb tightly.

“I’ll be honest,” says Kellen, “I don’t really know why you’re here, but based on what I’ve heard, I suspect that maybe it has something to do with Eli’s lost songs.”

Caleb just shrugs.

“Look,” says Kellen, “I don’t want this to be complicated. I always suspected Eli was working on those last songs. I’m sure they’re genius. When he never delivered them, not to mention bailed on the band, it really messed things up for all of us.”

“You make it sound like none of that was your fault,” says Randy, his tone frigid.

“We all play our parts,” says Kellen. Back to Caleb: “I completely understand you wanting to find your dad’s lost songs, but I also don’t want your life to get messed up by Eli, like mine did.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Caleb asks.

Kellen produces a fold of papers from his jacket and hands it to Randy. “That’s a copy of the contract Eli signed with Candy Shell Records. You saw a contract at one point, with Burn Bottom Records, right?”

That last comment feels like a slight. “Yeah,” Randy grunts, leafing through the pages.

“So you can verify that it’s the real thing. Any songs that Eli wrote during the time that he was in Allegiance to North are technically the property of Candy Shell,” says Kellen. “The fact that he passed away doesn’t change that.”

“No thanks to you,” Randy mutters, and I’m startled by the venom in his voice.

Kellen winces, and flashes an almost annoyed glance at Randy, but he doesn’t bite on whatever Randy is referring to. Instead he looks back to Caleb. “Look, the world should hear your dad’s songs. He was a genius. Legally, though, they’re Candy Shell’s. I know that may not sound right to you, but that’s the deal he made.”

“He wouldn’t want you to have them,” Randy adds.

“Maybe not, but that’s not his call to make. Caleb, you probably feel torn about this, but I’ll make you a deal. Show me the songs, and I’ll let you play on the record when we release them. Everybody would love that.”

“Can it be my band?” Caleb asks. I’m proud of him for thinking of that.

Kellen shrugs. “I don’t think so. They’re Allegiance songs. I think the rest of the band would want to get together and play them.”

“You don’t deserve it, Kellen,” Randy says through clenched teeth.

“Randy, come on,” says Kellen. “These kids are in over their heads with this. You knew Eli, isn’t this all classic him? I don’t want there to have to be legal awkwardness, talks with all your parents . . .”

This point spears me, as it was probably meant to.

Caleb stands there, hands in his pockets. I wish I could talk to him telepathically. I don’t want him to agree, and yet I don’t know what else he can do.

“Think about your mom, too, Caleb,” says Kellen, “having to hire lawyers . . .”

“Okay,” Caleb snaps. “I get it.” He starts to reach into his pocket.

“What are you doing?” Jon asks.

“Caleb . . . ,” I say, but I don’t add don’t.

“He never bothered to send me a letter, or even call, while he was alive.” Caleb produces the tape. I didn’t realize he’d been carrying it with him. Kellen leans forward when he sees it.

Caleb turns the tape over in his fingers. “I was happier without him. All this has done is remind me what’s missing. What I can’t ever have.” He turns to me. “Even playing the songs was never going to bring him back. Never going to give me a dad.”

He’s still holding the tape close to him. His eyes lock with mine. He looks like he might pass out. I don’t want him to hand it over, but I don’t see what choice he has. I nod slightly.

And Caleb holds out the tape. His hand is shaking as Kellen plucks it from his fingers.

“Thanks, Caleb. This was the right choice. And I’m guessing you’re here because there’s another one?”

Caleb nods. “Hidden in a Beatles record.”

Kellen turns the tape over in his fingers. “Go ahead. I won’t steal your chance to find it.”

“Come on,” Caleb says to me. We cross the room, reading the labels. Caleb is silent, his face stone.

We stop at the “B” section.

“I don’t think you had a choice,” I say to him. He doesn’t respond.

Then his hand shoots out, and his fist slams into the back of an empty chair beside us. It makes a loud smack—Caleb was probably aiming for the padding but it sounds like he hit the frame—and the chair wobbles. Caleb shakes his hand, wincing, and lets out a slow, crushed sigh.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. I move to hug him whether he likes it or not, but he lets me.

Caleb sniffs, maybe fighting tears. He’s so still, I can’t tell. As we hold each other, I hear urgent voices from behind us. We turn and see Randy talking angrily to Kellen. Jon and Matt have stepped away awkwardly. A librarian-waitress swoops over and shushes him.

Caleb takes a deep breath. He makes his best attempt at a smile for me. “Look at the bright side: we can wake up tomorrow, and just focus on having an awesome band. On having fun and being great. Doesn’t that honestly sound like a relief?”

“Yeah, kinda.” I wonder if he will still feel that way tomorrow. I point to a nearby shelf. “There.”

Caleb climbs a ladder. The Beatles records take up nearly an entire floor-to-ceiling section. There are imports, mono editions, all kinds of things. They’re alphabetized, and Caleb runs his finger over the spines. “I don’t see it.”

I catch the eye of a librarian and wave her over. I explain what we’re looking for. “Oh, yeah,” she says, “a classic. Of course we have one. It’s so rare that we keep it on the side here—” She’s points to a vertical line of records displayed face out between this section and the next. Each record is on a stand in its own little alcove. A sign between them says, “These rare covers are for viewing only.” One of them is empty. “Oh my. It should be right there. . . I’ll be right back.” She hurries off.