the Dalaverse

"Almost Famous" ficlet. It's unspeakably weird writing in the (relative) present. William/Russell, PG-13 for language,



Lucky Trumble


This is the circus – everybody’s trying not to go home, Russell said to him once. He didn’t remember it until a few nights after he walked through his own front door, lying awake and missing the sounds of late-night jam sessions, drunken arguments over the meaning of “Visions of Johanna” or “I Am the Walrus,” the harmonizing of different snores, the girls shrieking as they were chased around a hotel room or down the aisle of the bus.

William thinks about those days a lot. He’s free to tour all year instead of just the summer now, having finished school and gotten his journalism degree, but he’s well aware that nothing will ever be quite the same as that first journey. Nothing can be; much as he loves his job, he’s never let himself care that much again.

There will always be the giants, the legends, but mostly what he’s learned about bands is that they come and they go. Stillwater went, two years and one album after he left them. Every now and then he’ll hear “Fever Dog” on the radio, but the sound’s changed, and nobody much remembers them. One-hit wonder, they say when they do, a flash in the pan. Yeah, William wants to argue, but don’t you remember how brightly they flashed, just that once? He thinks this every single time, but he’s never said it.

In the beginning he thought he might keep in touch, but once they faded into obscurity, that idea faded as well. Larry had moved east last time William heard from him. He thinks Ed might still be living in San Francisco, though he hasn’t seen him at a California party in ages. Jeff died in ‘76 of a cocaine overdose, having just started his fourth group since the original Jeff Beebe Band broke. For a while Russell tried to make it as a solo artist, but he never had much of a voice. Mostly he bounced around from band to band as a backup guitarist, doing all right if not great. William hears that he was difficult to work with – never as bad as Jeff, but still. After Dick was killed in that car accident two years ago, Russell didn’t get even those minor blips on Rolling Stone’s radar. And God knows, if it’s not in the fucking magazine, it’s not worth William’s time. Never mind the fact that the whole industry’s gone to hell. Lester talked a lot of shit, but he was right about that. The two of them still keep up with each other, even if it’s sporadic. Lester’s the three months with no word and then the phone call at two in the morning – either him or an ex, anyway. Usually it’s him.

As for the girls, he’s got even less of a clue. Polexia showed up from time to time for about a year before disappearing. He thinks he might have slept with Beth at a movie premiere the summer of 1975, but he can’t be sure, since he was high at the time and the girl had bright purple hair. Sapphire tried to get a book published a little while ago, before she fell in love the Clash, cut all her hair off, and moved to London.

As for Penny, he has a single postcard from Morocco, dated exactly six months after he put her on that plane in New York, which was also the last time he ever saw her. The only thing he’s sure about is that they no longer live in the same city. In a way, he’s satisfied not knowing what happened to her. He dreams about her all the time, but she’s the one of them whose face he doesn’t see everywhere. He never takes a second look at blond curls, a fur-trimmed coat, white boots. Penny Lane was a one-time-only special.

He’s at a club one night, drinking cheap beer and trying to get relationship problems off his mind. Well, former relationships, as of two hours ago, when he’d caught his girlfriend Sheila in bed with the mailroom guy who’d made a pass at him at the office party last weekend. So there went one steady fuck and the prospect of another. Donna Summer was blaring over the sound system, further fouling his mood. She was a nice enough woman in real life, but he was never going to get used to disco.

He’s about to call the night a bust when a guy yells out, “Hey! The enemy!”

William turns back to the bar. Russell Hammond is slung over it, grinning at him. His hair is a few inches longer than William remembers, not to mention greasier, and his mustache looks less groomed. He’s still good-looking, even if his face is a little more worn. William takes a look at his eyes, checking for signs of golden godhood. Yep, he’s definitely on something.

“Russell,” he says, sticking out his hand. Russell grabs him in a hug. His leather jacket smells like pot and molded earth.

“William Miller,” he says, holding William by the arms. He shakes his head slowly. “It’s been forever, man.”

“Years,” William replies. He doesn’t really want to encourage this hopped-up version of Russell, but he can’t keep a smile off his face.

Russell smacks him on the back. “You look the same.”

“You too,” he lies smoothly. At least he’s gotten better at that. “How’ve you been?”

“Pretty good,” says Russell with a shrug. “You’re still writing for Rolling Stone, huh? I saw your piece on Neil Young. Good shit.”

“Thanks.” He turns, rests his elbows on the bar. It’s way too easy to fall back into this pattern with Russell. He could be fifteen again, blurting out nonsense just because somebody actually stopped thinking about themselves long enough to listen. He’s not used to being that guy; he’s been on the other end of things for too long. “What are you up to these days? Still playing?”

“Yeah, some,” says Russell, motioning to the bartender for another shot of whatever he’s drinking – whiskey, it smells like. “I’m in the house band for Pat’s over on Seventh Street, but I don’t know how long that gig’ll last. People would rather come to places like this.” They make faces together. “Don’t tell me they make you listen to this crap.”

“Nah, I’d quit first.” Actually, he tells himself that at least once a week. Hasn’t happened yet. He takes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, taps two out and hands one to Russell, who looks like he could use the relaxation.

Russell takes it with his eyebrows raised. “You smoke now?”

“I’m not fifteen anymore, Russell,” says William, a little aggravated. That earlier comment about his looks pisses him off now that he thinks about it.

Giving him a wary look, Russell nods. “Yeah, I can see that. Thanks.” He accepts William’s light, pushing his tangled hair out of the way. “How’s your mom? The sister?”

William inhales deeply, feeling the nicotine burn away old bitterness. “Anita’s living in Paris. Mom died of leukemia about a year ago.”

“Oh fuck,” says Russell, quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” William tells him. He almost means it.

Russell glances around the place, his feet jiggling on the rungs of the barstool. “Listen, you wanna go somewhere else to talk? This place gives me a fucking headache.”

“Sure,” says William. “My apartment’s not far from here.”

“I’ll meet you out front – I’ve gotta pee first.” He shoulders his way through the crowd, heading for the dimly lit bathrooms at the back. William hopes it’s crowded tonight, too crowded for him to take more of whatever he’s got. Not that being seen would matter in this dump.

He waits a good five minutes before Russell pops out the door, trailing “Heart of Glass” behind him. The man’s eyes are way too bright beneath the neon sign. William is already regretting this. “My Sharona” comes on while he’s driving and they get into a discussion of whether or not the Knack can save rock and roll.

“Hey, if we couldn’t do it, right?” says Russell, taping the beat on the dashboard. William makes a non-committal noise. Russell stumbles against him on the way up to fourth floor, leaning heavily on his shoulder as he opens the door.

“Nice place,” he says, glancing around and letting William tug him inside.

“It’s all right,” says William, “kind of a mess.” He starts trying to sweep the couch clean, intending to let Russell drop there. Russell is still draped against him, taller by a few inches, and William suddenly goes still as he feels the press of an hard-on against the back of his thigh.

Russell shifts away uncomfortably. “Sorry,” he mutters, hair falling forward as his chin dips to his chest. “I’m not a faggot or anything. It’s just that you can’t trust these girls anymore, you know? Not like – like our girls. Well, I guess you couldn’t trust them either, huh?” He snorts a laugh, swaying. William reaches out to catch his wrist.

“No,” he says. “I guess you never could.”

Russell looks at him then, his eyes hazy, mouth softened. William abandons the couch and pulls him into the bedroom instead.

They’re neither of them in a state conducive to patience, so it’s quick and messy. Afterwards Russell drops off to sleep, sprawled on his belly with one arm slung carelessly over William. William stays awake for awhile, thinking about Penny like he so often does in the dark, and about the one and only time Russell came to the old house. I guess she wanted us to be together – only it was never like this, this never occurred to him except years later when he started sleeping with guys. Only then did he understand the depth what he felt when he thought of Penny and Russell together. It was betrayal twice over, with neither of them even aware of what they were doing to him – neither of them caring. He wonders if maybe this is Russell’s way of apologizing. He wonders what Penny’s calling herself these days, if she still has that crazy green coat. He wonders if Russell dreams about her too, or about him.

In the morning, he calls in sick to work and makes pancakes. Russell shuffles into the kitchenette around noon, looking a thousand times worse than he did the night before. In the sunlight, William can see the shadows beneath his eyes, the marks on his thin bare arms. How can he even tune a guitar with those fingers, curled up into his fists like an old man's?

“Hey,” says Russell, rubbing his eyes and plopping himself down at the table.

“Hey,” William replies. He offers up a plate. Russell shakes his head, so William starts eating it himself. He can feel the other man’s eyes on him. Swallowing, not looking up at him, William starts to say, “You know, there’s this clinic not too far from here...”

“Cheap Trick, right?” Russell interrupts, hugging William’s tattered robe around his shoulders. He nods to the record player.

William digs his fork into the burnt pancakes. “Live at Budokan.”

“They’re pretty good,” says Russell.

He’s got no idea where that little spark of hope came from, but it’s sure as hell gone now. “Yeah.”

Russell uses the shower while William cleans up the dishes. He puts on Marvin Gaye and settles himself on the couch to wait, reading over an article he’s working on. Russell stops when he comes out of the bathroom, smile a little at “What’s Happening Brother.” He closes his eyes and rocks back on his heels, his lips silently forming the words. William watches him until the song ends.

“You mind if I crash here for awhile?” Russell asks, leaning against the wall. His body is tense, his face nervous. “There’s some stuff I should take care of, and it’s – it’s hard being...”

“Alone,” William finishes softly.

“Exactly.” Russell’s smile is quick and relieved. He comes over the couch, perches on the arm, steadies himself by holding onto William.

“Stay as long as you want.”

Russell’s hand lies heavy on his shoulder. “You sure? I mean, I can understand why you’d say no...how come you’re not saying no?”

“Because,” says William, folding his palm over Russell’s kneecap, “you’re Russell, from Stillwater. On your better days, anyway. And I don’t think those are quite over yet.”

Russell takes a breath like he’s going to say something else. But all he does is slowly slide down, nudging William aside until there’s just enough room for them both to sit.


Thank god I got that out of my system.