How to Kill a Rock Star by Tiffanie Debartolo Page A

empty except for a young couple at a table in the back, and a burly bartender; I sat down and told the bartender that my brother was a member of Bananafish.
    “Which one?” he said.
    “Michael.”
    “Which one?”
    “Oh, right.” I laughed. “Caelum. The guitarist.” The bartender nodded as if he approved. He only had one working eyebal . The other was clearly made of glass and seemed il -fitted, bulging so far out of its socket I was afraid it might pop into my lap if he got too excited.
    He asked me what I wanted and I ordered the only thing I ever drank. “Water, please. But may I have it in a martini glass with an olive?”
    As the bartender fixed my drink, he educated me on the proper way to hot-wire a car. He mentioned a red wire, and warned that if I didn’t do it right there was a smal chance I’d be electrocuted. He told me his name was John the Baptist, and when I expressed skepticism he admitted his real name was John Barnaby. The moniker had evolved from his chosen profession.
    “Dispensing the blessed liquid,” he said. “Why haven’t I seen you at the shows?”
    “I just moved here.”
    I asked him for a refil and he said, “Want me to throw in a little vodka?”
    “No, just the water, please. And another olive, unless I have to pay for it.”
    “You a friend of Bil ’s?”
    I didn’t know what that meant. John explained it was a slang term for a member of Alcoholics Anonymous. He and Bil had been friends for twenty years.
    “No,” I said. “I just don’t drink.”
    “Why not?”
    I didn’t feel like getting into the meat of it. That is, how the majority of my high school and col ege classmates got drunk every weekend, and how watching them throw up
5and pass out depressed me so I refrained from participating, even though this turned me into more of an outcast than I already was.
    “It just seems like a bad idea,” I said, “swal owing a liquid that can be set on fire.”
    Smiling, John refil ed my glass. “Since you’re new here, I’m going to give you some advice.” John picked up a red plastic toothpick that had been designed to look like a teeny-tiny sword. He stabbed three green, pimento-stuffed olives with it, and slid the whole thing into my drink. “On the house,” he said. “Now pay attention. If you’re ever walking down the street and some psycho with a gun decides to open fire, here’s what to do— don’t make eye contact with him and keep walking. Do you hear me? Just pick up the pace and go in the opposite direction of the guy. Unless he’s a trained assassin, in which case you’re screwed. But if he’s not, if he’s just some postal worker or something, it’s doubtful he’l be able to hit a moving target.”
    I wasn’t sure if John the Baptist was an eccentric or a sociopath, but I liked him either way, and I left him the last two dol ars in my wal et.
    July 25, 2000
    The question is one of faith. Faith in my talent. Faith in my decisions. And faith in the idea that the truth, even if it can’t pay my bil s, can stil set me free.
    I know. Funny. Ha. Ha.
    Am I talking loud enough? I’m trying to be quiet because my new roommate is asleep across the hal , but I’l get to her in a few minutes.
    First, faith—one of the many pancreas-burning issues I wres-tle with every day. Trying to hold on to faith in this business is like trying to hold on to a rope while dangling off a cliff. And believe me, I’m not afraid I’m reaching the end of the rope as much as I’m afraid of letting go and having a long way to fal .
    Rehearsal was supposed to run late tonight, but we were al down in the dumps over the Winkle fiasco and couldn’t accomplish a thing. Then Feldman showed up, pissed as hel . He came in demanding to know what was wrong with me, and if I realized I’d alienated one of the biggest names in the industry, not to mention potential y throwing my career down the drain.
    I dragged Feldman into the hal way, shut the door, and asked him if he’d