Playing for Julia by Annie Carroll Page A

crazy as running off and becoming a drugged-out hippie. Those people never bathe—repulsive.  And begging on street corners…”  I shake my head.  “Anyway, what we decided to do was to rent a houseboat.  Both our parents were shocked.  The houseboats have reputations as kind of rough, down-and-out communities, but we lived in one along Fairview and the people were very nice.  It was a lot of fun.”
    “And the canoe came with the place?”
    “No, we borrowed the canoe from a neighbor who didn’t use it often. We went canoeing almost every weekend the weather was nice and met a lot of people in the sailing and boating world.  I miss it sometimes.  Then back in January Ali and I decided we just had to move to California. So we did.”
    “And moved into that cottage ?”
    “Yeah, I guess it is like the houseboat in a way—a little green cottage afloat in a sea of cream color apartment buildings.   It’s definitely not the kind of place where most people would like to live. Especially with that wild interior. But I’m so glad we decided to leave Seattle.  So much more to do here, so much that’s new.  And people here have a different outlook on life.”
    “Like me?”  He smiles that honey smile.
    “Yes.  You …and other people.  Although I met you in Seattle…”
    During dinner he tells me that he and John have almost finished all the songs for their new album.   They will start rehearsing and recording soon.  Then we talk about other things.  The steak is delicious.
     
    * * *
    Good rock star parking karma, again, outside the Fillmore.  He takes my hand and grins: “Ready to rock and roll, baby?”
    We walk past the line waiting outside.  The guy at the door opens it for us.  “Hi, Austen.”
    “Hi.  Is Bill here?”
    The guy nods his head.
    T hen we walk in like he owns the place.
    The noise is deafening.  The Grateful Dead is going full blast on the stage.  Strobe lights flash and glare in a light show that bounces across the crowd and around the walls and ceiling. People are dancing, swaying to the music.  Smoke fills the air and it doesn’t smell like tobacco.
    We stand and watch for a minute. His arm is around my shoulder. Some people nearby notice him and start whispering to each other.
    “Do you like the Grateful Dead?”
    “They’re good, but I think I have a new favorite band, these days,” I answer, looking up at him.
    “I wonder who that could be.”  He smiles.
    Then an older man dressed in casual slacks and shirt walks up to him.
    “Hey , Austen.  Who is this pretty lady with you tonight?”
    “ Julia, this is Bill Graham.  He produces the shows here.  The Master Maestro of rock ‘n’ roll.”
    “Nice to meet you.”
    Then he and Austen start talking about dates and schedules.  It’s about business so I turn it off.  I don’t know why, but I put my arm around his waist and lean closer to him.  He tightens his fingers on my shoulder.  I realize I like being the rock ‘n’ roll girlfriend.
    “Have Joe call me next week.  I’ll see what we can do,” Bill says.
    “Will do,” Austen answers.
    We stand and watch the show for a few more minutes.  My eyes are beginning to water from the smoke and glare. The noise is almost painful.  Suddenly he says:  “Let’s get out of here.”
    A flash greets us as we walk out the door.  Someone has taken a photo of us.  Another flash.  He heads right to the Mustang and opens the door for me.
    “ Where are we going?”  I ask as he pulls the car into traffic.
    “Somewhere quiet.”
    He doesn’t say another word as we head out toward the Richmond District.  Oh, I wonder, is he going to take me home?  Or to that house on Lake?  Instead he parks near a neighborhood bar.  Two Tiffany-style lamps hang over the bar.  The few customers seated at the bar and at tables talk in muted voices.  We slip into a booth with leather seats near the back.
    “Austen, what’s wrong?  You seem upset. ”
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