Fiction, Part I, Section 3*

They talked most of the night, but neither of them could put their finger on specifically what was going on. It boiled down to a few unexplainable events that made Ty nervous and merely confused Sam: a missing money order meant to pay his share of the rent, a brand new carton of milk that was suddenly sour, and a strange, almost desperate long distance call from Lynn, begging him to come home to Minnesota, something she'd never done before. Ty had been in a meeting with their band's manager when the phone call came, so he'd told her he'd call her back, but that had been three days ago and he hadn't been able to reach her.

Sometime near dawn, they fell into a restless but platonic sleep in Sam's waterbed. She tossed and turned, but after a while she could tell by his steady breathing that he was finally resting. In the moonlight, she studied his profile for a while and had to force herself not to touch his face. So handsome, yet so troubled, she thought sadly. A great guy who couldn't seem to catch a break in his life, both personally and professionally. She longed to wrap her arms around him, tell him she'd fix everything, and take over his life. The thought made her smile, because she knew he would balk just as surely as she knew she would never do it, but part of her really wanted to. He was not the kind of man she pictured herself with in the future, but sometimes it seemed easier to try to fix a guy that already existed than to wait for a knight in shining armor to come riding into her life at some unknown time.

Full of curiosity and strange longings, she finally fell asleep.

When she finally woke up, it was close to noon and she was alone. She rolled over, stretched and eased herself onto the side of the bed. She could hear someone in the kitchen and she smiled to herself, wondering if Ty could cook or make coffee. When it came to practical things, like changing the tire of a car or grocery shopping, Ty didn't have a lot of common sense.

After using the bathroom to pull her hair into a ponytail, brush her teeth and wash her face, she found him at her small kitchen table, a phone book in front of him and his cell phone at his ear.

"--I know, Mrs. K," he was saying. "But I'm worried about her. She called me when I was in a meeting, and she sounded really upset, but I haven't been able to reach her so I thought... yes, ma'm, I know, but if you would just--" He rolled his eyes but took a deep breath. Finally, he thanked her and hung up. "Ignorant old bat!" he muttered, looking up at Sam with a smile. "Good morning!"

"Good morning." She pulled a mug down from the cabinet and poured a cup of the coffee he'd made, hoping for the best. "Who was that?"

"Lynn's mom!" he shook his head. "It's not like her to not take my calls, but that's what her mom told me, that she was finally growing a backbone and letting me know she was done with me."

"Any possibility that's true?"

"Maybe." he shrugged. "But she sounded really upset, and in my last message, I just told her I was worried, and even if she didn't want to talk to me, just send me a text to let me know she's okay."

"And no word at all?" Sam frowned. She'd met Lynn once, and she'd seemed like a quiet, intelligent woman who still carried a torch for her high school sweetheart. She was an elementary school teacher, so it wasn't like she had the freedom to just drop off the face of the earth. That gave Sam an idea. "You could call her work Monday."

"Yeah." He sighed. "She's just never done this before. No matter how much of a fight we've had, she always picks up when I call."

"You think this is related to what's going on with Johnny?" she asked, taking a surprisingly delicious sip of coffee.

He nodded. "He's trying to distract me from something else by giving me stupid shit to think about--missing rent checks, stressed out ex-girlfriends..." He fixed his blue eyes on her and blinked. "I think he just wants me out of the band."

"He can't write all those songs himself!" she laughed. "And no one gets the girls to come to the shows like you do... besides, you own the name, don't you?"

He nodded. "Yeah, but that's easy. He could add an "e" to the end or put "the" at the beginning. That's the least of his worries."

Sam propped herself against the counter and cocked her head. "Ty, you know I'll do anything to help you, but you're not giving me anything concrete."

"If I had something concrete, I'd be doing something instead of just worrying about it!" he snapped. Then he sighed. "Sorry. I'm a little on edge."

"Well, I've got work to do today so I'm going to turn on the computer and--" She was interrupted by a brisk knock on the door. They looked at each other and Ty immediately stood up and tip-toed to the door.

His eyes widened as he looked out, and he gaped at her. "It's Johnny!" he mouthed.

Sam grabbed his sneakers and threw them into the coat closet, while Ty grabbed his wallet and keys off the kitchen counter. "Into my bathroom," she whispered. "Close the door and don't come out." She mussed her hair a little and walked to the door. "Who is it?" she called.

"Um, Sam, it's me, Johnny Kranston."

"Johnny?" She opened the door a crack and forced herself to smile, despite her heart slamming in her chest. "What are you doing here? How do you know where I live?"

"You're in the phone book." He gave her a disarming smile so guileless she almost wondered if Ty was imagining things. "I'm really sorry to bother you on a Sunday morning, but I'm worried about Ty and wondered if you'd seen him."

"Actually, I saw him at the Rainbow last night," she said, with a frown. "But he was in a hurry and we only talked for a minute before he took off."

"I haven't seen him since rehearsal Thursday night," he said, leaning forward as though hinting at being invited in. "And we've got rehearsal tonight, so I'm a little worried."

"Gosh, that's not like him," she said earnestly. "But I don't know what to tell you. If he calls, which he probably won't, I'll tell him you're looking for him."

"Um, okay." Johnny looked a little surprised that she was dismissing him. "You okay, Sam?"

"Yeah, I've just got a deadline and I drank too much last night." She gave him a lopsided smile. "You know how it is."

"Yeah, I do. Well, thanks anyway." He looked past her for a moment, gave her another winning smile, and then turned away. She shut the door, locked it and then leaned against it, waiting for her heart to still. Finally, she peeked out the peephole and jumped back, startled that he was still standing there, apparently listening against the door.

With a gasp, she tip-toed across the room, went into the bathroom, shut the door and then flushed the toilet. She threw herself against Ty and clutched his shoulders. "You're not kidding, Ty. Something is definitely up; he's still standing by the door!"

"Shit, shit, shit." Ty wrapped his arms around her tightly, burying his nose in her hair. "Oh, God, Sam, I'm sorry I got you involved in this. I just didn't know where else to go."

"It's okay." She breathed against his chest. "We're going to figure this out. I promise."

To Be Continued...

*Disclaimer: This story is pure fiction. I'm writing it because I love fiction and mysteries and writing and all that goes with it. I'm going to write installments no more than twice a week (sometimes less) until no one is interested in reading it anymore. No outline, no pre-conceived plot or characters. I'm writing this soap opera style, with an ongoing storyline and characters that "build themselves." I will be using my experiences in the music business, the legal business, as a writer, as a mom, celebrities I've met, etc., but none of them will be real. I will also be using some of my favorite names, but they do NOT represent REAL PEOPLE. I know at least 8 or 9 musicians named Mark in real life--but the Mark in this story is not any of them! Names are names, nothing more. If you don't like the story, that's okay, but please don't get up in arms if I make a reference about Mick Jagger being too skinny or Pamela Anderson's breasts being too big--this is all for fun. Thanks for reading!

Life, Death and Mid-Life Crises...

Despise my best intentions, it has been entirely too long since my last blog. The actual reason (laziness due to lack of inspiration) is far more common and uninteresting than the underlying problem: I think I'm having a mid-life crisis. No, I'm not having an affair, I don't plan to buy a sports car (we have one, thank God!), and I'm still genuinely in love with my husband and family. So it's a little hard to explain, and it's a lot hard to understand.

Like most people today, there is a loosely accepted definition of "mid-life crisis" that I've always just accepted and didn't give much thought to. For one thing, it was usually something that affected men. For another, it almost always involved adultery and embarrassing behavior, two things that I don't have much respect for. However, about six months ago, I became acutely aware that something was happening to me, both inside and out, that I had no explanation for. I was aging, and while I was intellectually aware of the ramifications that come with that, I was a lot less able to comprehend some of the other ways it was affecting me.

I don't remember the exact date, but I was surfing the internet for some long lost friends and when I typed in the name "Ty Westerhoff," I got back a hit that included the words "date of death." I was flabbergasted. Not just because he'd died, but because he'd died in 2005! He'd been gone for four years and I was just now finding out about it. I was sad but I was also angry. I'd last seen him around 1994, just before I moved away from Los Angeles. He'd been tall, blond, talented, kind and drop-dead beautiful. I mean, he was so good-looking it was kind of embarrassing. He was made me laugh, he kissed like an angel, and he was probably the only guy I ever dated that never once made me cry. He was honest, easy-going and neither of us was in love. We were friends, often lamenting about the people in our lives who hurt us, and though we drifted apart, there was never an unkind word between us.

In the end, my tears over him were because it was such a tragic loss at such a young age (he was 42), in such a painful way (stomach cancer) and without saying good-bye. If I was being honest, I would admit that most of my tears for him were really for myself. My lack of closure, my worry that maybe I hadn't been a good enough friend, and my disappointment that there isn't even one picture of us together. For a week, I cried in the shower and said good-bye to my friend. Then I printed a picture of him, put it on my window sill in a little frame, and started thinking about all the things I still want to do that I am not doing but could be doing. Maybe they were some of the same things the Ty wanted to do but never got the chance.

A few weeks later it occurred to me that, for the first time, I could empathize with all the men in the world who'd gone through the proverbial 'mid-life crisis." I don't necessarily condone their behaviors, but I absolutely understand their motivations. The thing is, I'm having a lot of those kinds of thoughts and behaviors, and it's starting to frustrate me. Why am I thinking about good-looking men all the time? Why am I pulling out all my favorite rock and roll CDs, buying new ones, watching rock videos on YouTube, and spending a lot more time putting on make-up? Why did a few new gray hairs freak me out? And why on earth was I putting together a bucket list?!

The sad truth is that I've been surrounded by death the last few years. Losing my grandparents in their 80s and 90s was sad, but not life-changing. That is the order of life, after all, and living to be 93 is a decent run, but dying at 42 is another matter altogether. When someone who's larger than life dies, it's even more jarring. Michael Jackson, in his prime with a young family and all the money he could want, did something stupid and never woke up. I know there's a lot of controversy about his death, and that's neither here nor there because I have no idea if it was a homicide or not. What made it hit home for me is simply that it can happen to any of us. We all know, intellectually, that we could get hit by a car right now, today, on the way to the grocery store, and die. We simply don't dwell on it because it would probably immobilize most of us.

The problem comes when we become emotionally aware of death. There's something disturbing about your contemporaries dying. No wonder there's a huge amount of depression in the elderly! People who hit "middle age" (regardless of the exact age this is defined as) are suddenly acutely aware of it and it's scary. For example, there are three people in my life right now with cancer; one of them is almost 80 years old and though he doesn't admit it, I know his time is limited. Another is just 40. She's beautiful and vibrant and fighting for all she's worth. I know she's doing her damnedest not to give in, but it's spreading, and deep down I'm terrified every time I don't see her on Facebook for a day or two. The last is my 70-something Uncle who refuses to acknowledge it and tells everyone he's fine even though he's barely alive.

So everyday I look at my children and think, I could be next. They could be without a mom. My husband could be alone, my parents would lose their only child and all the things I want to do would never be done. It's terrifying enough to send you right into the arms of a long-haired bad boy with flat abs, young enough to be your kid! I haven't done that, mind you, but there's no doubt that it has some appeal... thank God for the bright red 2007 Mustang in the driveway that moves that second you touch the gas and has a decent stereo system. There's something exhilerating about the movement, the wind in your hair, the music playing. When I'm in our mini-van, I fade into oblivion; when I'm in the Mustang, truckers often honk and men with wedding rings lean out the window and wave. In the past, I thought they were idiots who didn't love their wives. Now I understand that most of them are just like me; human beings whose contemporaries are fading away, leaving the rest of us to ponder our own existences. Acting "young" (or at least younger than you actually are) makes you feel alive again--because aging is related to death, no matter how much you try to think otherwise.

That's not to say there aren't assholes out there, men who cheat because they can, women who drink because it's something to do, and teens who do drugs because they don't have the sense to realize what they're doing to their bodies. There are bad, stupid and/or misguided people everywhere, but they're not the ones I'm talking about. I've just been thinking about regular people, like you and me, who aren't so much afraid of death as they are afraid that their lives aren't what they should be or could have been. What I'm most afraid of is to be lying on my death bed thinking not about my wonderful family and the memorable moments of years past, but about all my regrets and how I would never get to do this, that or the other thing.

And so, as I ponder the days and weeks to come, I've suddenly started thinking about doing, as opposed to hoping or wishing. I'm going to take that trip back to my home town to see a few friends, even though I could probably pay off a bill with the air fare. We're planning the details of how to affordably visit my in-laws even though I despise the drive and we can't afford to fly. Mostly, I've stopped automatically telling myself no, I can't, I shouldn't, it's not possible. Everything is possible. The world is there for the taking. I still believe in moderation, in practicality and in saving for a rainy day, but there are always going to be rainy days, both now and long after I'm gone. So I'm going to start pretending that a few sunny days are actually those proverbial rainy days, and dip into my savings. It's got to be better than a mid-life crisis.