Crime Plus Music by Jim Fusilli

to get to mine and as I do, his door opens. A strange woman emerges. I have such a splitting headache I can barely look at her.
    In the bathroom I open the cabinet to get the aspirin and shut it and see myself. Only then do I notice the red half-moon prints on either side of my neck. That’s when it comes back to me in a rush, someone on top of me. His fetid breath and his nails digging in, choking me until I black out.
    â€œIs that you, Julie?” I hear Johnny asking just outside the door.
    I blink. It is, and it isn’t. I tell myself it couldn’t have been him. He’s here, I was there, he has someone with him, and he’s never even looked at me that way.
    I’m shaking when I emerge. “How did you sleep?” he asks. “You looked so peaceful, I didn’t want to disturb you.”
    â€œWhen did you leave?”
    â€œThe party? Late. You could use some coffee,” and he is heading for the kitchen to make it for us. I hear him relaying the good news. As promised, Capitol Records wants to sign us.
    I go back inside and shower. I clean every pore twice. By the time I step out, I decide that if it happened, it couldn’t have been him. And whatever happened, it was my fault for getting so drunk and passing out. I decide, the best thing I can do is forget about it.
    T HAT FIRST DAY IN THE recording studio is surreal. Like Christmas in July, that is if Christmas means you get to try out every guitar you’ve ever dreamed of playing. I pick an aqua-and-white Fender Stratocaster. And we rehearse endlessly. They want to release a single with a B-side and it’s all incredible, including the producer who has worked with all these famous musicians and is full of compliments, what a unique sound we have, how talented we are, what a privilege it is.
    I learn later on, that’s what they tell everyone. It’s called grooming the artist. As in, sucking up so you can get the most out of them.
    At night, to get to sleep, I get drunk and high and finally drift off. But in the middle of the night, I wake shivering and shaking. It’s summer in LA and Johnny doesn’t have air conditioning so it’s stifling in that room. Yet, for me it might as well be the Arctic Circle.
    I T TAKES A MONTH FOR them to get the single polished and perfect, and then they release it and we go out on tour in support. We are booked into pretty decent sized clubs in the Midwest to begin with. The label backs us up; there’s radio play and a ton of interviews. They keep adding dates to the tour.
    As for Johnny, he finds a new girl in every port. Meanwhile, Eileen hooks up with Nick, one of our roadies. Tara prefers the groupies, or as we call them, Tara’s boys. They all have the same kind of look: long hair and sensitive, slightly hangdog expressions. I can’t bear the idea of having someone touch me. I lie and tell them I met a guy back in LA and I’m staying true.
    B Y THE TIME WE ROLL into New York, it’s December. It’s freezing. I can see my own breath. And the city is even crazier than I imagined. All this traffic and noise and grime and all the people walking intently, they are clearly on the way to somewhere important.
    â€œAre we staying at the Chelsea?” I ask Johnny eagerly.
    â€œSorry, no can do.”
    The Chelsea might be historic but it’s also been getting some bad press, what with the sad tale of Sid and Nancy. He’s booked us into the Hilton in midtown. Boring. Bland. But it’s the last stop on our tour and that night we’re playing the Palladium.
    O UR SET LASTS FORTY MINUTES and we come back for three encores. The last one is a surprise to me, Tara and Eileen have come up with it without saying anything. I know it, of course: “Sympathy for the Devil.”
    I let loose and it’s wild, the bouncers are dragging kids off the stage but they’re like jumping jacks, they keep popping right back up.
    Afterward, there’s a