Untouchable - Chapter 1

A rock 'n' roll romantic comedy

Note to readers: This is a story set in the outrageous world of 80s rock ’n’ roll.

In the musically and culturally outstanding year of 1984, to be exact.

I love the band and the characters, who were an unexpected gift.

The first two characters came into my head in a screenwriting class about ten years ago. They had a moment outside the artists’ entrance to an arena — a kooky and passionate fan named Clint and the massage therapist for the headlining band, Ruth, smoking some weed as she worried about the delayed lead singer. I shared what I had written with the class.

My friend Tracy, who’d talked me into attending the class with her, said “You have to write about them” as we walked back to the Tube afterwards. (This was in London.)

She turned out to be right, because I was left with no choice. Although I had come up with other characters in those classes, it was those two characters who refused to leave my head and my heart and who kept niggling at me to tell their story.

It took me about six years of studying screenwriting and then novel writing and the time afforded by being locked down during the pandemic to have the time and nerve to set down the entire tale.

It turns out that it wasn’t really about those first two characters. They were just the entrée into that world.

The story is about Jack and Lucy, who take turns telling the story of how their worlds collided and their lives ended up changed forever.

I never knew what was going to happen next. I don’t think you will either.

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We start the tale with Lucy.

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LUCY

A gruff male voice explodes onto the line. “You want that recording contract?”

“I… what?” I say in surprise.

Barry Bartholomew’s assistant, Rhonda, had refused to tell me why he was calling before she connected us.

I don’t know how such a polite woman can stand working for him. But then she must get paid a fortune working at Dolos Discs, one of the hippest and most successful labels in pop and rock, and for one of its top A & R executives.

Yep, Barry is one of those guys—the ones who find and groom the next Madonna or Springsteen or Michael Jackson. The ones who decide who has enough talent to make a record and do concerts and get heard on the radio. Clearly, not someone you want to ignore or make mad if you’re a singer like me. And, believe me, there’s a lot about Barry that could try the patience of a saint.

Like right now, not that I’m a saint. No response to my question. All I hear is a deep inhale and exhale, Barry making me wait as he starts up one of his “special order” Cuban cigars. Something he could’ve done before he had Rhonda get me on the line.

He shocked everyone when he came here to the ashram and lit up right in the middle of my kirtan ecstatic meditation session, knowing full well that smoking is banned. Cindy rushed over to chastise him and he grinned up at her in delight. She told me later he’d hit on her, right there in kirtan. Again, knowing full well that we aren’t supposed to do sex stuff of any kind here at the ashram either.

Of course, everyone hits on Cindy all the time. She has that vibe. Even I would hit on her if I were a guy. Maybe even in kirtan.

I did kiss her once when we were thirteen. For practice. She was better than most of the guys I’ve kissed since then. Except, of course, Russell Hammond, the drummer in Netherlude. I’ve said hundreds of Hail Marys for what I did with him, although Cindy said my transgressions were “peanuts.” If Barry’s offering me the recording contract, maybe those Hail Marys did the trick.

I hold the phone away from my ear as Barry hacks into it.

“Listen, sweetheart,” he says after clearing his throat, “I’ll give the recording contract to you instead of the swami.”

“Really?” I squeak out. “Seriously?”

“But you gotta do something for me.”

Uh-oh. I knew there had to be a catch. He knows how much I want this contract, but he’s kept me on pins and needles for weeks thinking he was going to give it to the swami, just because Mr. Sleazy Pants heads up the ashram.

Granted, I’ve lived at the ashram for three years now and composed and performed the music during my time here. But that doesn’t mean the swami owns it. I wrote it, so it’s my music. Isn’t it?

“Now here’s what I want,” Barry continues. “I got a band called Pirate needs some looking after. You heard of ’em?”

“No,” I reply, barely managing to keep the pique out of my voice. He knows I haven’t heard of them. We don’t have televisions or radios or anything like that in the ashram. He complained about it ad nauseum in the short time he was here.

“Yeah, they’re nice English fellas. Kind of like a cross between Queen and Def Leppard, only much younger. Got a bunch of hits and now they’re doing the tour thing. Like you did when you were on the road with Magnus.”

How did he find out about my time as a groupie? I knew that would come back to haunt me.

“Yeah, I know all about you and Magnus.” He pauses as he takes another puff. “You spent what? Two, three years touring around. You know life on the road, what’s normal, what’s not. You’re… what can we call it? An expert.”

I perk up. No one’s ever called me an expert, or anything like that. Most guys look at me, see the blond hair and biggish boobs, and treat me like a bimbo or a sex object, no matter what comes out of my mouth. Barry told me I sing like an angel and now he’s called me an expert. Maybe I should think twice about doing this for him.

Except, get real, girl. I can’t go back on the road with a rock band, not even for a recording contract. The thought of spending time inside an arena anywhere near the stage makes me tremble and feel sick to my stomach. That’s not even in the realm of possibility.

“You don’t understand,” I say. “I can’t do that. I just… can’t.”

“I know you been in that communist place for a while—”

“It’s a commune, not communist,” I interrupt to derail his proposal. “Really, it’s an ashram.”

“I don’t give a flying—” Barry abruptly stops himself before he says the “f” word. Quite a surprise, as that’s one of his favorite words. “Hold on, doll. Let me rephrase that. It don’t matter to me you been in that place and away from the scene for a while.”

I wish that were the problem. Feeling inadequate, rather than feeling terrified of being back in the rock ’n’ roll scene.

“I just need your help until Pirate finishes their tour. Be with them for six concerts—one in Albuquerque, three in Phoenix, and two in L.A. That’s it, finito.”

Huh. That’s, like, only a week. I might be able to avoid going in the arena, or at least getting anywhere near the stage, for a week.

“You hang out with them in the sunshine and you got yourself a recording contract. Take your bikini with you, if you want.”

Yeah, sure, he’s saying that so he can imagine me in a bikini. He knows very well I have to keep myself covered up as long as I belong to the ashram.

But huh. I’ve always wanted to visit Albuquerque, and I’ve never been to Phoenix. Maybe Cindy could fly out at the end and we could tour L.A. Something I would have done when I was there with Magnus if I hadn’t been head-over-heels for that Russell Hammond. All Russell wanted to do was hang out at the Rainbow Bar and Grill and see and be seen at Gazzari’s and the Whiskey. Never any thought for what I wanted to do.

Plus, I’ve always wanted to go to Disneyland. Nana said the “It’s a Small World” ride is magical. And she saw Mary Tyler Moore walking down the road at Universal Studios. A TV star in person. Nana shouted at the tour guide to stop the tram for an autograph, but he refused. Nonno had to prevent my teeny-tiny grandma from jumping off the moving vehicle and breaking her leg. Maybe Nana would like to come out to L.A. too, now that Nonno is gone. That might make her happy. I love that idea.

“Six concerts, that’s it?” I ask to make sure the terms are crystal clear.

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“And what would that require? We’re bound by certain rules and regulations here, so nothing … unusual, I assume?”

I can’t spell things out because sitting at the other desk in this admin office, eavesdropping, is Mandy the Snake. I know she’s going to report everything she hears to the swami. But if Barry assumes I’m going to sleep with another pampered, entitled, full-of-himself rock star like Russell Hammond, he’s got another thunk coming. I’d rather die than stoop to that level again.

“No, course not. I’d never ask you to do nothing like that.”

Yeah, sure.

“You’re just going to keep an eye on them and let me know what they’re up to. Let me know they don’t behave themselves. I got a lot invested in these guys. Kind of like a father to them, wanna make sure they don’t piss it all away, you get my drift.”

In other words, he wants me to spy on them and report back. Pull a Mandy the Snake on them, but without them being any the wiser.

“Oh, yeah, I get it. You want a… performance.”

“Well, you want to put it like that, yeah. That’s exactly what I want.”

So be a spy for six concerts in exchange for a music contract with one of the biggest record companies in the world? There’s got to be a downside, but darn if I can think of what it is. Maybe I better talk it over with Cindy first.

“I don’t know. I have to discuss it with one of my colleagues, see what they think. I’ll get back to you at my earliest convenience.”

“You got an hour to decide and let my secretary know, so’s she can book your flight. I want you out there tomorrow. I gotta know you’re in place before I tell the swami we’re not signing. The bastard’s breathing down my neck, capiche?”

“Um—”

The abrupt click and dial tone throw me. That oily slickster hung up on me.

It’s clear, he thinks he has me. Like most guys, he thinks I’m easy. I should call him right back and tell him to shove his contract where the sun don’t shine. And then do ten Hail Marys.

Instead, I turn to Mandy and give her a sickly sweet smile, wracking my brain for a fib she’ll believe.

“Who was that?” she asks before I can open my mouth.

“Um, that was a guy in New York who wants us to perform six songs at his son’s Bar Mitzvah. But it sounds like they want a performance, like a theatre performance kind of thing, so it’s probably not for us. But I said we’d discuss it and let him know.”

“Make sure you run it past the swami.”

“Uh huh,” I say as I flee the room. Make sure you run your stupid snakiness past the swami, is what I really want to say.

I have to search all over the four floors and two wings of the ashram for Cindy, and finally find her in the last place I look—our room, lying on her bed with her hands behind her head. She says she’s “having a think.”

“Oh, Cin, you won’t believe what happened,” I say as I push her legs over and take up a cross-legged position facing her. I tell her about Barry’s offer.

“I don’t know if I can go back into that world, Cin. I promised myself I would never ever go back. It makes me sick just thinking about it.”

“So don’t. You’ll lose the recording contract, but so what? You’re only the head of the music program here, and you’re one of the biggest draws to the ashram, and guests say that your music heals them and changes their life forever. Yada yada yada. So why in the world would you even think about a measly recording contract that gets your music out to thousands or even millions of people? I mean, why? Why?”

I give her my Sister-Margarita-is-not-buying-your-crap look, as we call it. “Well, I guess when you put it that way. You really are an annoying smartypants, you know that?”

“So you keep telling me. Are you going?”

“As that lady told us in that workshop last week, feel the fear in your belly and go ahead and do scary stuff anyway. So yeah, I guess I am.”

“Go call hairy Barry to confirm, and then I’ll help you pack.”

I wasn’t about to return to the admin office and make the call in front of Mandy the Snake, so I run down to the pay phone in the basement. My leg jiggles as I wait for Shivarandiman to hang up. What if I call too late and Barry’s offer is off?

Shivarandiman is chatting with his mom, a line of dimes and quarters near the phone. Geez, this could take hours. I position myself in front of him, put my hands in prayer position, mouth “please,” and beseech him with my eyes. He hangs up a few minutes later and tells me I owe him. Fine, swami’s pet. Whatever.

To my great relief, when I call Dolos, Rhonda picks up straight away. She tells me she’s already booked a private jet and rooms in the same hotels as Pirate. She informs me that, when I board the jet, the flight crew will hand me an envelope with spending money—$5,000 in cash.

I hold back my yip of joy. That money could be such a huge help to my perpetually scraping-by family. Under no circumstances will I be able to back out now.

“Oh yes, and Barry told me to tell you,” Rhonda says. “I quote. ‘Report back every day, and don’t let them know I sent you. If they find out, doll, the fucking deal’s off.’”

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