Chapter 2: One Year Later

September 23, 1981
Heritage, California

Willie's Roadhouse was located five miles north of downtown Heritage, on the Eden Highway, which ran along the Sacramento River levee. The club was one of four businesses that sat atop a large wooden pier, built on stilts next to the levee, that jutted out over the west bank of the river. Stairs led down from the pier to the Heritage Marina, where dozens of boats were permanently berthed and dozens more had been parked in the temporary berthing for the concert that had taken place at Willie's tonight. Similarly the parking lot located adjacent to the pier was completely full, as was every available space alongside the twisting levee road for a quarter mile in both directions. There was only one thing that could draw a crowd like this out to the small roadhouse on a Wednesday night and that one thing was listed on the marquee.

PLAYING WEDNESDAY, 9-23, the sign read, INTEMPERANCE. There was a notation in smaller print that The Stevedores, a group of hackers with even less talent then The Boozehounds, would be opening the show, but no one gave a shit about that. Tiny Tim could have been opening for all the crowd cared. It was Intemperance they had come to see.

It had been just over a year since Jake and Matt and the boys had done their first live performance at D Street West. By now they were doing at least three shows a week-Friday and Saturday nights at D Street West and Wednesdays at Willie's Roadhouse. Often they would pick up a Thursday or a Tuesday night performance at one of the other local venues. They were a household name in the greater Heritage area, even among those who disliked rock and roll music and those who never set foot in clubs. The Boozehounds, who had enjoyed a long reign as best local band, could hardly find a gig anymore, especially since they refused to degrade themselves by opening for Intemperance-the band who had kicked their asses so soundly out of the number one slot. Michaels, Hathaway, and the others had actually had to go out and find real jobs for the first time in their lives. Michaels was working at a UPS warehouse unloading trucks. Hathaway was flipping burgers on the night shift at a truck stop just outside of town.

One night after hearing this news, Matt and Jake, done up quite nicely on cocaine and beer supplied by O'Donnell after a particularly rousing performance, had driven out to the truck stop and parked themselves at the counter in direct view of the guitarist turned truck stop chef.

"Hey," Matt had yelled at him, a smirk firmly upon his face. "That's a nice hat you got there, Hathaway. It goes pretty good with the hairnet."

Hathaway had fumed at them as they'd chortled and snickered but had refused to entertain them with a reply. At least not then.

The counter waitress-a young, bleached blonde girl of about nineteen-was an Intemperance fan and was quite enthralled to find herself in the presence of the lead singer and the lead guitarist. She went on and on for a while about how "awesome" they were and about how she'd seen them play a dozen or more times and how they sounded "more awesome" every time.

"Thanks, hon," Matt told her, his eyes unabashedly looking her up and down and liking what they saw. "You gonna be at the show tomorrow night?"

"I'm supposed to work," she said sadly.

"Call in sick," Matt said, reaching out and stroking the side of her hand with his finger. "Come to the show and hang out with us after it's over, you know what I mean?"

She knew what he meant. The smile on her face said so. "I'll be there," she told him. "Count on it."

Matt ran his hand a little higher up her arm, to her shoulder, sliding it slowly down over the top of her breast before finally withdrawing it. "I'll be looking forward to it," he said, kissing the tip of his finger.

This exchange between waitress and guitar player made Hathaway turn even redder, made his hands clench into fists. It was quite obvious that he had his own, unrealized romantic interests in the young waitress. Matt chuckled again, relishing the effect he was causing.

"What can I get you guys?" the flustered waitress asked them.

"I'll have the Chef's Burger," Jake said.

"Fuckin' A," Matt said, laughing out loud this time. "Hit me up with the same. I heard the chef makes a damn good burger. Is that true, Hathaway?"

Hathaway didn't say a word. He simply turned and threw a couple of patties on the grill.

When the burgers were set before them ten minutes later, Matt poked and prodded at his for a moment, examining it from all angles like it was a used car he was thinking about purchasing. Finally he picked it up and took a bite, chewing thoughtfully for an extended time before swallowing. He took a drink of his water and then seesawed his hand back and forth.

"That's a pretty second-rate burger," he finally said. "I could do it a lot better."

This pushed Hathaway over the breaking point. He threw his spatula down, whipped off his tall white hat and his hairnet, and stormed over to the counter. "You and me," he said, pointing an angry finger at Matt. "Outside, right fuckin now!"

Matt simply grinned and shrugged. "If that's the way you want it, hacker," he said. "But I think you're making a mistake."

"Now, pussy!" Hathaway screamed. "Come on! I'm gonna kick your fuckin' ass!"

They got up and headed for the door. A couple of truckers that had been watching the confrontation followed them out to watch the festivities. The fight didn't last long. Hathaway took a swing at Matt and Matt ducked easily under it. He then countered with an uppercut that took Hathaway right on the chin, stunning him long enough for Matt to drive a right cross across the side of his face. Hathaway fell to the pavement in a heap, where he lay there, moaning in pain.

Matt, who had not even broken a sweat, cracked his knuckles and then walked back inside. "Here ya go, hon," he said, dropping a twenty-dollar bill before the transfixed waitress. "Keep the change."

"Uh... thanks," she said numbly.

"See ya tomorrow night?"

She nodded. "You know it."

And he did. She had come to the club dressed in a denim mini-skirt about six inches shorter than what was currently considered tasteful. She approached them after the show, two of her girlfriends in tow, and asked shyly if they remembered her.

"Of course we do," Matt had said, putting his arm around her and drawing her close. "How could I forget the sexiest damn waitress I've ever met?"

She giggled and introduced her two friends, both of whom were equally attractive and dressed in an equally slutty manner. She then informed them that Hathaway had called the police on Matt shortly after they'd left that night but, thanks to the statements of herself and the two truckers, they had basically told him to go pound some sand.

"Don't let your mouth write checks your body can't cash," had been their parting advice.

Matt ended up fucking the waitress in his van less than an hour later. Coop and Darren ended up fucking her friends at about the same time, doing it side by side in the backstage area of the club. In other words, it was a fairly typical end of set party at D Street West.

A similar party was going on now inside Willie's Roadhouse. The Wednesday night set had ended less than an hour before and most of the band members were mingling with the remaining crowd, evaluating the girls who fawned all over them and deciding which ones were going to be invited to the inevitable post-set gathering at Matt's house. It was there that the true action took place.

As Matt had prophesized before their first performance all those months ago, there was a seemingly endless supply of women and girls willing and able to do just about anything physically possible with the members of Intemperance simply because they were members of Intemperance. These girls hung around the band in hoards, sidling shamelessly up to any member they could find and making no bones about their willingness to be bedded.

"Sluts!" Matt called them with delight, sometimes right to their giggling faces. "They're all a bunch of fuckin' sluts. God bless and keep 'em!"

Even Bill-whom the rest of the band would have sworn at one time was going to die a virgin-got laid by their second gig at D Street West. It had been a little brunette groupie with a leather mini-skirt and black, calf-length boots who had taken Nerdly's cherry at the after-gig party that night. She had enticed him into Matt's spare bedroom, sat him on the corner of the bed, made him take out his cock, and then demonstrated her lack of underwear beneath the skirt by sitting on him and grinding until he blasted off inside of her. Since then, Bill had been insatiable, his appetite geared towards the most exotically dressed and attractive groupies he could find-the more out of his former persona's league, the better.

Bill was having a little trouble deciding between two likely prospects on this night. The first was a gorgeous redhead in a green micro-mini. The second was a natural blonde in Calvin Kleins and a yellow halter that showed off her generous breasts. Both were aristocratic looking and rich. Red was a receptionist at a local law firm. Blondie was the daughter of a real estate developer. They looked at him with rapt attention as he explained to them the best way to go about producing cold fusion and why it had not yet been done in a controlled manner under laboratory conditions.

Across the room, where a group of cocktail tables had been pushed together, Darren and Coop were working as a team, entertaining a group of eight women-three of whom had abandoned their dates in the hopes of hooking up with one or both of the musicians. They had already invited the entire group to Matt's place and would cull two out of the herd there. They had no qualms about getting it on with their chosen groupie in each other's presence and had even been known to copulate with the same girl simultaneously on occasion, performing the maneuver they had termed "the rotisserie".

Matt was over at the bar, sipping out of his sixth Jack and Coke and talking to a young brunette dressed in a simple pair of Levi's and a blue pullover. Lately he had taken to finding one of the attractive but shy girls in the crowd, one of the girls who would never have approached he or any other band member on their own. It was more challenging for him that way, more gratifying as well as he saw the adoration and disbelief in their eyes, as he fulfilled what he liked to think of as "the Cinderella Fantasy" by inviting them to The Ball-i.e. his place-and making their dreams come true-i.e. fucking the shit out of them in assorted unconventional positions in various parts of his house.

The only member of the band not working a groupie or groupies at the moment was Jake, who was currently not even in the building. So far, despite having performed live a total of 168 times before a combined total of approximately 65,000 people, 32,000 of whom were female, Jake had not bedded a single woman besides Michelle Borrows-who had finally given him her virginity at the after-gig party on the night of their first performance and had been supplying him with regular sex ever since. Not that he hadn't been tempted at times. In fact, he had found it best to stay away from the after-gig parties if Michelle was not with him, the temptation was that strong. But if there was one particular moral he had been raised with it was fidelity in love. And at some point along the way Michelle had ceased being a mere girlfriend to him and had started being the first woman he had fallen in love with.

Since that fateful day at Salinas Bend when he had lost his virginity to the jiggly and alluring Mandy, Jake had been with a respectable number of girls and women. Most of these relationships had been short and simple, based almost entirely on lust and the alleviation of horniness. Even in the longer-term relationships, those that lasted a month or more, he had never felt anything that could even remotely be termed love. With Michelle he would have sworn the same thing was taking place. He was wrong. Love had crept up on him, stealing so gradually into his mind that it had been fully entrenched before he recognized its presence. He adored her, adored everything about her. He liked the way she smiled, the cast of her eyes, the softness of her skin. He liked the sound of her voice and the conversations they had. He liked simply sitting with her on the couch in his apartment (an apartment he shared with Bill). There had been a point where he had even entertained the thought of proposing marriage to her. But that had been before her feelings towards him had started to take a turn for the worse.

The love he felt for Michelle was mutual, of that he had no doubt. He could see it in her eyes every time they were together, could hear it in her voice whenever her defenses fell long enough for it to creep out. She was in love with him but for the past two months, maybe a little more, she had been quietly starting to push him away from her, quietly hardening herself up for what seemed an inevitable parting of the ways. Jake knew it was coming and knew he was helpless to prevent it. But at the same time the irrational part of his brain, the part connected to his heart and emotions, continued to insist that she would come around, that she would be able to cast aside what her head was telling her to do and follow her own heart.

The gist of the problem she was having concerned her parents and the upbringing she had been subjected to. She was now twenty-one years old and had transferred over to California State University at Heritage where her third year of college was beginning. Her plan was to graduate next year with a degree in English and a teaching credential. Her dream was to teach at her alma mater, Holy Assumption, where she could help educate the next generation of Catholic girls. Her delayed teenage rebellion-the thing that had brought her and Jake together in the first place-was rapidly dying, allowing her upbringing and especially her faith to regain the ground it had lost.

It seemed like not a day would go by when she didn't nitpick at some aspect of his personality that didn't fit in with this upbringing. She had started to complain to him that his hair was too long, that his language was too coarse, that he drank too much, that he smoked too much. She admonished him every time he took the Lord's name in vain. She criticized his parents and their beliefs. She had even tried to get him to attend church with her (she herself had recently started going again) and to go to confession.

"We've been sinning," she told him during one argument. "Every time we make love without being married, we're sinning, Jake. Don't you see that? Don't you understand that?"

Round and round they would go on the subject of pre-marital sex, how wrong it was, how sinful, how they would burn in hell for it. But the interesting part was that despite her newly discovered views on the subject, she could not seem to get enough of it. She loved getting naked for him and rubbing her body against his. She loved bending over and lifting her skirt up so he could slide into her from behind, his hand slapping at her ass every once in a while. And she most especially loved when he put his mouth on her blonde pussy and sucked orgasm after orgasm from her.

That was in fact what he was doing to her right now, while the rest of the band was setting up their own random sex for the night. She had been there for the Wednesday night performance-something that was rare enough in its own right these days-and had seemed to be particularly hypercritical and aloof when he'd talked to her immediately after the show. When he asked her what was wrong she fell back on her favorite excuse since school had started again in late August. "I'm behind in my studies. State's a lot harder than HCC was."

He didn't believe it for a minute, of course. Studying and schoolwork came as naturally to Michelle as it had for Pauline, Jake's sister. But, like usual, he allowed the excuse to stand, knowing that if he pushed the issue she would simply storm out and refuse to talk to him for a few days. Though the relationship was fading and fading fast, he could not help but love her and strive to keep her near him.

"Why don't we go check out Willie's yacht?" he'd suggested as a way of easing the tension. Willie Bradford, the owner of Willie's Roadhouse, kept a forty-footer down in the marina. There were few he allowed to access his precious boat without his presence but Jake, the lead singer of a band that drew 450 people paying a $5 cover charge and swilling down $1 beers every Wednesday night, was among that few. He had his own passkey to the marina entrance and the combination to the door lock on the main cabin. He and Michelle had checked out the yacht on more than one occasion.

"I don't really have the time," she'd snapped, although Jake had already been able to see a flicker of interest in her eyes.

"Come on," he'd goaded, taking her arm and leading her in that direction. "It's only 10:30. You can hang out for a little while, can't you?"

She had given a few more token protestations but it was clear during the entire exchange that she wanted to go to the yacht. He could see it in the way her nipples poked through her cotton shirt at the very suggestion, in the way her tongue kept coming out and licking at her lips. She could go on and on about how wrong and sinful they were, but the simple fact remained that she had become addicted to the pleasures of the flesh.

"I'll eat your pussy for you," he'd whispered in her ear. "Stick my face right up under your dress and lick you until you come."

A shudder had worked her way through her body. "Let's go," she'd said.

Now, ten minutes later, they were in the cramped bedroom portion of the cabin, Michelle sitting on the tiny bed, her legs spread wide, Jake kneeling on the floor between them. Her calf-length skirt had been pulled up around her waist and he was holding her white, cotton panties to the side, his tongue lapping up and down her swollen vaginal lips. Her blond pubic hair was matted with his saliva and her secretions. Her clit was swollen and protruding proudly from its hood, demanding its own attention.

"Oh, God," she moaned, her fingers running through his long hair, her breath tearing in and out of her body.

"Mmmm," he responded, giving an extra-long lick, his hands running up and down her sexy legs.

Soon the fingers of his right hand found their way to her slit. She was tight here, very tight, so tight that the first time they'd gone all the way it had taken him almost ten minutes to work his way completely inside of her. Feeling the firm clutch of her body on his fingers never failed to kick his passion up a few notches. It didn't fail now. His cock throbbed in anticipation of nestling there. He made a quick check to see if the condom he planned to use was still in his pocket-it was-and then attached his mouth to her clit, intending to suck the first orgasm of the night out of her.

It was only seconds before she began bucking against him, her hands now pulling on his hair, drawing his face in tighter and tighter. Her legs wrapped around his back, her feet rubbing up and down. A continuous moan began to come from her mouth, the pitch going higher and higher as the spasms of orgasm began to build.

She came with a scream, muted slightly by her forearm in her mouth, but loud enough that a couple out for a walk through the marina heard it and looked knowingly at each other. No sooner had the spasms died that he was on his feet, standing between her legs, the condom wrapper in one hand, his other hand going to the snap on his jeans. In less than fifteen seconds he would be capped and thrusting within her, his mouth attached to hers, those legs wrapped around his back.

But it was not to be. She put her hand on his, halting him in mid-un-snap. "No," she said, her face still flushed and sweaty but determination in her eyes.

"No?" he asked, confused. "What do you mean, no?"

"I have to go, Jake," she said, pushing her hips back, pulling her skirt down. "I shouldn't have even stayed this long."

"You're going to leave... now?" he asked incredulously. "We're kind of in the middle of something."

"Yes," she said. "We're in the middle of sinning before God. Only this time I have the strength to stop."

"You've got to be fucking kidding," he said.

"You don't need to swear at me," she said. "You know my views on pre-marital sex. You know I feel guilty when I sin with you. I'm not going to do it this time. I can't and I won't."

He trembled in place for a moment, strongly considering just dropping his pants, putting on the condom, and taking her anyway. She might protest a little but she would let him, especially once his cock entered her pussy. She would wrap those legs around him and beg him for more. But in the end he didn't do, couldn't commit what would technically qualify as rape. Instead, he slumped backwards, sitting down on a small chair against the bulkhead.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked, putting the condom back in his pocket. "Is this some kind of punishment?"

"No, Jake," she said. "I told you, I have to leave. I have an 8:20 class in the morning and I'm already out too late."

He shook his head angrily. "Why don't we cut the bullshit?" he suggested. "Tell me what's really bothering you." He snorted a little. "What's bothering you that's not normally bothering you, that is."

She opened her mouth, undoubtedly to insist that her 8:20 class was all that was on her mind, and then closed it again. She sighed, her hands smoothing her skirt out. "That song you played tonight," she said. "The new one."

"It's In The Book?" he asked, although he knew that was the one. It was the only new song they'd performed. And he had a pretty good idea why she wasn't too keen on it.

"That's the one," she confirmed. "It's about The Bible, isn't it?"

Now it was he who sighed, slumping a little further against the bulkhead. He had known this was going to come up at some point, he just hadn't thought she would pick up on the meaning of the lyrics in It's In The Book so quickly. The song was about the negative lessons The Bible taught, a well-researched and poignant tune that Jake-who had penned it-was quite proud of, but that any person who identified himself or herself as "a good Christian" would probably take offense to.

"Intolerance and hatred, bigotry and pain

It's in The Book... It's in The Book

Violence, oppression, jealousy, shame

Persecution in God's name,

It's in The Book... It's in The Book"

That was just one verse of the song. There were six others plus a particularly vehement bridge just prior to the guitar solo that was a borderline rant. In short, the song was an angry condemnation of fundamental Christianity and organized religion.

"Yes," Jake said. "It's about The Bible."

Michelle's face tightened up, her eyes narrowing to slits. "You're making fun of The Bible, Jake," she said. "Sweet Mary, Mother of God! Do you think that's funny or something?"

"Funny?" he asked. "Did it sound like I was trying to be funny? There's nothing in that song that isn't true, hon. The Bible does teach intolerance and hatred. It does teach bigotry and pain. Do you deny this?"

"You're taking things out of context!" she shouted. "And your doing it just so those Godless people out there will worship you even more. Don't you ever fear for your soul, Jake? Not even a little?"

"I'm not going to discuss religion with you," he told her. "We've already been over this again and again. My beliefs are not your beliefs. You've known that about me from the start. Why are you suddenly having a problem with it?"

"I've grown up since we started dating," she said. "You know, maturity? You ever heard of it? You certainly haven't developed any in this past year."

He took a deep breath, biting back on several hateful replies. Finally, he asked, "What is it you're trying to say?"

"I don't know," she said, a tear running down her face. "I've grown up, I've matured, I'm working my butt off to try to achieve my goals in life. I love you, Jake. I love you dearly, but look at what you're doing with your life. Look at yourself! You've dropped out of school and you have no intention of going back, do you?"

"If there comes a time I need to go back, I'll go back," he said. "Right now we're pulling off three sets a week, sometimes four. We have rehearsals two days a week and jam sessions where we try to put together new songs on the other days. This band is my job, Michelle. Don't you get that?"

"Oh I get it all right," she said. "And how much are you making at your job, Jake?"

"You know how much we make," he said. This was an old argument too. "Five hundred dollars a set at D Street and six hundred a set her at Willies. Other clubs usually pay us somewhere in between."

"All of which doesn't amount to squat when you divide it up among the five of you and take out taxes, does it?"

"No," he admitted. "It really isn't that much."

"It's less than what people on welfare make," she accused. This wasn't strictly true, of course, but it wasn't all that far off either.

Nor was Michelle the only one to have made this argument to him. His own parents, the two people in the world who he should have been able to count on to support him in anything he did, were constantly asking him when he was going to get this "rock band phase" out of his system and go back to school.

"I know you love making music, honey," his mother had told him the last time he'd been over for dinner. "And it's obvious you and your band are very good at it. I mean, we've seen you play, right? But I think your talent would be put to much better use as a music and voice teacher, don't you? Can you imagine, sharing your gift with the young? Wouldn't that be beautiful? But to do that you need to get your college degree and your teaching credential. And that means going back to school."

Nor was he the only one under such parental pressure. Bill's mother, who was Jake's mother's best friend and fellow philharmonic orchestra-mate, regularly instilled similar lectures on Bill, although her suggestions included using his piano skills to try to land a position with the Boston or the Philadelphia or-dare they dream-the New York Philharmonic.

"Look," Jake told Michelle now, "I know I barely got a pot to piss in right now. But I'm doing what I love to do, don't you understand that? I love being a musician. I love getting up on stage and hearing those people applaud and yell for more of the music that I'm playing, that I wrote and composed, that I fucking sing. There's nothing else in the world that feels like that. Nothing. And until that thrill I get by doing this goes away, or until the people stop wanting to hear my music, I'm going to keep doing it. Do I think I'll ever make it big? Probably not. Matt's sent that demo tape we made to about two dozen agents trying to get someone to represent us and we haven't even got so much as a rejection letter in return. Does that change my mind? No. Because right now I'm living exactly the life I want to live. I'm having the time of my life, Michelle, and how much money we're making doesn't have a goddamn thing to do with that. I'm sorry if that doesn't fit in with your plans of a decent boyfriend."

There were more tears running down her face now. "It doesn't," she said, shaking her head. "It doesn't fit in at all."

He didn't know what to say. There didn't seem to be a right reply here. God, how this hurt. He could feel the pain like a physical thing, welling up from his gut, spreading throughout his body. He felt a tear running down his own cheek now. He brushed it angrily away.

"I have to go now, Jake," she told him, standing up. "Will you think about what I said?"

"What's to think about?" he asked bitterly. "You're asking me to choose between my music and you."

She shrugged, sniffing a little. "If that's the way you want to look at it," she said. "When you're ready to be with me on my terms, give me a call."

"Yeah," he snorted. "And when you're ready to be with me on mine, you do the same."

She didn't answer. She gave him a sad smile and climbed the small ladder to the door. She opened it and slipped out into the night. Jake did not go after her. He knew when the point of futility had been reached.

He fumbled around in his pants pocket for a moment and finally came out with a crumpled pack of smokes. All of the cigarettes inside were bent and broken. He straightened the end of one and fitted it onto the filter of another. He dug in his pants again and finally came up with a lighter. He sparked up, smoking slowly while he cried.

"Point of futility," he mumbled to himself, a part of his mind already composing the barest beginnings of lyrics to go along with that phrase, that concept, while the rest of him grieved. "How's that for a fucking tune? The point of fucking futility."

Chapter 3 »