The music wouldn’t come. God knows, he’d tried everything-sex, clubs, working out more, listening to some of his favorite artists-nothing had helped. He well and truly had writer’s block.

And now, his one constant, his one solace from every other pain, had deserted him. His head felt strangely empty, devoid of the music that had filled his head for so long he’d forgotten that it was even there. Until it had left. How the hell was he supposed to make it through this horrible pain if he couldn’t play, couldn’t create?

The phone rang and he grabbed it on the first ring-eager to escape the voice in his head telling him he was never getting his muse back. Fuck that. He’d search the rest of his life if he had to, but he’d find it again.

“Warren, are you there?” Simon asked and Warren remembered he was holding the phone.

“Oh, sorry, yeah,” he replied. “Must have been woolgathering.”

“I was just calling to find out how you were doing.” Simon sounded more than a little concerned.

“Fine. Better. Horrible. Fucked up.” Warren couldn’t think of anything to say he hadn’t already said before.

“You want to come over and have dinner with us? It would do you good to get out and the kids would love to see you.”

Warren thought about it for a minute, but knew he’d say no. Finishing the tour had taken every ounce of energy he’d had. He couldn’t expend anymore. “Thanks for the offer, Simon,” he finally replied. “But, I’ll pass.”

“Fine, but don’t stay at home,” Simon advised. “Go out-have a drink, go to a movie. Be around people.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Ok, talk to you later then. Whenever you’re ready.”

“Thanks.” Warren said goodbye and hung up, feeling a little better. But, the feeling didn’t last. If he didn’t get his shit together soon, he’d lose his mind. And he didn’t think the band could take another personnel change.

He wandered around the studio he’d built, trying to remember what it had felt like to have ideas, snatches of inspiration. It was no fucking use. He could pick up every instrument he had, listen to a thousand playbacks of a thousand songs he’d written and it wouldn’t help. It wouldn’t make the music come back.

He was out the door and headed down the street almost before he realized what he was doing. There had been no fans waiting outside his doorstep and he was strangely grateful-maybe they were staying away because they knew he didn’t want company. He’d gotten plenty of sympathy cards and gifts and that had been nice, to know that they grieved with him, shared some of his pain. He’d gotten lovely letters from those who had also lost a parent and he had to believe what they were saying-that time would heal, that it wouldn’t be so bad later on. He had to believe or he wasn’t going to get through this.

He stopped outside a pub, debated whether to go in, warm his bones, get something to drink. March in England was wretched-wind and fog and a light drizzle that never seemed to stop. Warren couldn’t even remember the last time the sun had come out. Oh well, what the fuck. The place looked inviting and he was cold and wet enough that anything indoors sounded nice. He walked in and looked around. A small stage was at one end and the bar ran the length of the side. Small tables with chairs were sporadically filled with people. Looked innocuous and homey. Just what he needed.

He walked up to the bar and ordered a glass of red wine from the bartender. He turned and looked around while he waited, content just to watch. Everyone had their own sorrows and joys and it made him feel a little more connected to know he wasn’t alone. He really hated it when Simon was right.

A woman dressed all in black with long dyed red hair walked up to the bar and sat next to Warren. “Michael, is Danny here yet?” she asked, barely sparing Warren a glance. Well, he was fine with that. She was attractive, but he wasn’t in the mood.

The barkeep set Warren’s glass in front of him and took his money, but spoke to the woman. “No, not yet. Why?”

“Cause Stew just quit on me, that’s why.” The redhead sounded oddly resigned, but not surprised. And American. Warren tried to pin the dialect, but couldn’t. Southern, maybe? “I can’t go on without a guitarist, Mike. I’m going to have to cancel.”

Mike put the change down in front of Warren and leaned his elbows on the bar. “Well, he’s not here. You’ll have to wait.”

“How long?”

Mike shrugged. “Could be 15, maybe 20 minutes. He called, said he was on the way. Want a drink or something?”

“Just water.” She sighed and nodded at Warren. “Sorry, didn’t mean to be rude. I’m just having a bad night.”

“I don’t mind,” Warren replied, taking a small sip of his wine. “I’m not having a great day either.”

“I’ll tell you my sob story if you tell me yours.” She took her water from Mike with a thanks and looked at Warren through cool blue eyes. “Might be good to talk about it.”

“I thought that was the bartender’s job.”

She smiled. “Not here. Mike really doesn’t give a shit about you or your problems. He’ll listen but, he doesn’t care.”

“And you do?” Warren found that hard to believe. They’d just met.

“I know that’s not PC in this day and age, but I do,” she replied. “You’re hurting and I’m upset and I think we could help each other out.”

“PC?” Nope, she wasn’t from around here at all. “You haven’t been in England all that long, have you?”
“A few months, maybe 3.” She laughed. “I’m still that obvious?”

“Only to another American.”

“Yeah, I thought so,” she said. “Bronx, right?”

“Brooklyn,” he corrected. “It’s subtle, but it means the world in New York.”

“Yeah, I’ve been there. You guys are all freaky about your neighborhood rivalries. It’s kind of cute.”

Cute. That was one way of looking at it. “I miss it sometimes,” he stated, and was surprised that the thought of Canarsie didn’t bring with it more pain. Lately, anything having to do with New York reminded him of his dad and it just made things worse.

“Yeah, I miss my home too,” she nodded. “Travel’s nice, but it’s not the same.”

“Where is home?” he asked.

“Phoenix.”

“Arizona?” Western, not Southern. Maybe he’d been in England too long. “You’re a long way from home then.”

“I guess so.” She took another sip of water. “But I’ve found that I could be far from home in the same state.”

It made kind of a profound sense. How long had it been since he’s felt truly at home anywhere? New York wasn’t home anymore, England didn’t feel like home now, Brazil was only home on a very limited basis and he was never living in L.A. again if he could help it. So, where did he belong? Everywhere, nowhere, who knew? All he did know was that he was tired of wandering.

“You go first,” he told her. Maybe her problems would help him forget his.

“Ok.” She fell silent for a second, seemed to gather her thoughts. “Well, my visa’s about to run out, I don’t have the record deal I thought I’d have, my demo made the rounds with no luck, and my guitarist quit on me today. And I was supposed to have a rep come by tonight to listen to me,” she finished. She sighed once, then seemed to revert back to her more personable self. “But, on the bright side, at least I tried, y’know? How many people can say that? So,” she continued, looking at him, “how about you? What’s your story?”

She looked so friendly, so guileless. And she’d just spilled. The least he could do was be honest. “My father died,” he stated, then drained his glass. “And I’m having problems at work.”

“Wow. That truly sucks.” She nodded soberly, then put a warm hand on top of his. “I’m really sorry. I feel like a jerk now, telling you my petty shit when you’re trying to go through something like this.”

“No, don’t.” He grabbed her hand, held onto it when she would have moved away. The human contact felt so necessary right now. “Your problems are very important to you. Your dreams, your hopes-they’ve sustained you and now you feel like you have none anymore. Death of the soul can be just as devastating as physical death.”

“That’s so true,” she replied. “I’m feeling a little lost right about now. Adrift.”

“I know exactly what you’re going through.” Maybe it was fate that he’d come in here tonight, met her. Nothing in the world would bring his father back, but maybe, just maybe, Warren could give her back her dreams. It was worth a shot. And perhaps in the attempt, he could erase this terrible loneliness, this feeling of not being quite alive anymore.

“Look, maybe I can help you out,” Warren started, then saw a tall, heavy-set man come in behind the bar.

“Mike said you wanted to speak to me, Rose?” he said, coming to stand in front of the girl.

Rose. So that was her name, Warren thought. Suits her.

“Yeah, I do, Danny.” She let go of Warren’s hand and stood up. “Let’s go round back and I’ll explain.”

Warren stood up as well. “Hold on.” He looked at Danny. “Would you excuse us for just a moment?”

Danny shrugged. “Sure.”

Warren walked away from the bar a few steps, pulled Rose with him. “What are you doing?” she asked. “I need to tell him about Shep, the sooner the better.”

“I told you I think I can help with that.”

“How?” Rose crossed her arms, gazed at Warren expectantly.

What the hell? Warren thought. He may not be able to write, but he could still play. “I play guitar,” he told her. “And I’m fucking brilliant. And I’d be willing to play with you onstage tonight so you can get that contract.”

“Fucking brilliant?” She laughed, but it wasn’t harsh. “You’re not very modest, are you?”

“No. I don’t have to be.” This felt really weird, like he was auditioning or something. It had been a long time since he’d had to prove himself to anyone.

“So, why haven’t I heard of you?” she asked. “If you’re so fucking brilliant and all. I mean, I don’t even know who you are.”

Oh yeah. He hadn’t told her his name either. God, what a mess the two of them were. Pouring their hearts out and they hadn’t even been formally introduced. “I’m Warren Cuccurullo,” he stated, grabbing her hand and shaking it. “I’ve played for Frank Zappa, Missing Persons and Duran Duran. I also have two solo albums.”

She dropped his hand, looked at him like he’d grown two heads. “You play for Duran? You’ve played with Zappa? Jesus Christ! What the hell are you doing, offering to play for me?”

“I told you I want to help.” Warren tried to sound as earnest as possible. He didn’t know why, but he really needed to do this.

“Fine, you want to help.” She closed her eyes, went still. “He wants to help,” she muttered to herself, “and you’re desperate. You have to do this.” She opened her eyes, looked hard at him. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Fine.” She started to walk back to the bar, then turned around. “I almost forgot,” she said, sounding embarrassed. “My name is Rose Lightner.”

“Nice to meet you,” Warren said. “Hurry up and tell Danny you’re on. You need to tell me what we’re doing tonight.”

“Right.” She walked away, looking bemused, not at all sure if this was the good fortune she’d been waiting for or not. Warren knew how she felt. What in the world was he doing? He should be at home, trying to write music, trying to put his own life together. Instead, he was attempting to help some woman he’d just met and would probably never see again. He’d lost his fucking mind. That was the only explanation. But it didn’t erase the feeling that he was finally among the land of the living again, finally feeling something other than mind-numbing grief.

Rose came back, shaking her head. “Well, we’re on,” she said. “The rep will be here in about an hour, so we have some time to rehearse a little. And Danny said to tell you he’s still waiting for Duran’s latest cd to be released here in England. What does that mean?”

“Long story,” Warren told her. “It’s very boring and it involves a lot of politics. Just be sure to read over your contract very carefully before you sign one.”

“Gotcha.” She still looked confused, but didn’t press. “C’mon, let’s go to Danny’s office. We’ll have a little privacy and I can play a few things for you.” She walked away and Warren followed. He had a lot to learn in an hour.

She really was an excellent songwriter. Her demo showed a wide range of lyrical talent-Warren didn’t know why no one had signed her. Maybe female singers weren’t the flavor of the month anymore. Who knew? But he did know that he was impressed. Knocking this rep on his ass was going to be a snap.

“I’m nervous as hell,” Rose whispered, as they set up the mikes and amps on the stage.

“Don’t be. You’re supposed to be an entertainer, so concentrate on that. Entertain the audience and you’ll do just fine.”

“Is that what you do?”

Warren grabbed a guitar from its case and sat on one of the stools. It wasn’t his, but it would do. “Yeah, I guess,” he answered. “For me it’s always been about the music. What it gives me, what it gives other people. It connects me, completes me.” At least it used to.

“I feel that way too.” Rose sat on the other stool and gazed at him with serious eyes. “I’ve always heard the music in my head. I don’t know what I’d do without it.”

“You keep trying.” Which was all he could do. Keep trying. He strummed the guitar, setting his levels. Even if he couldn’t hear the music anymore, he could still play it. And he was damned good. No matter what, he would always have that talent.

Warren watched as Danny gave the thumbs up that the rep was in the audience, saw Rose take a very deep breath.

“Remember to entertain,” he whispered and saw her nod.

“Got it,” she whispered back, then spoke aloud into the mike. “Good evening everyone. As most of you regulars know by know, I’m Rose Lightner. Glad you could make it.” She waited for the applause to die down, then spoke again. “I have a very special guest playing with me tonight on guitar. You know him best as the lead guitarist for such seminal groups as Missing Persons and Duran Duran. May I present Warren Cuccurullo!”

The roar this time was much louder and Warren took some solace from the fact that Duran was still connecting with the fans. “As a special treat in honor of his appearance, we’re going to play a Duran song tonight,” Rose continued, then smiled. “But we’re not going to tell you which one. You have to guess. The first person to correctly tell Mike, the bartender, which song we’re playing gets a free round. So, put your trivia caps on and, in the meantime, this is one of mine, called ‘Sunshine Spy.’”

She was a natural performer, Warren thought, as he played the opening chords of the song. She hadn’t sung a single note and she already had the audience fully participating.

He concentrated on the songs, played to emphasize her voice and her words. She was mesmerizing. Her arrangements were simple, yet had a depth that spoke to him. He’d forgotten how much fun he had playing, how good it could feel to hold a guitar and coax notes and music from it. As song flowed into song, he remembered a little more that he loved doing this. Loved playing for people, for himself. Everything sounded new, different tonight.

The applause was deafening after each song. Rose’s music spoke to these people, helped them forget their worries and troubles for a little while. Her music touched Warren as well, made him not ache quite so much. He was sure to have many lonely nights ahead of him, but right now, right here, he was at peace with the world again.

The last song ended and Rose spoke into the mike. “Well, we’re almost done here. Just one song left. Who guessed the song, Mike?”

The bartender pointed to a small group in the back, who cheered and held up their free mugs of beer. “Good for you,” Rose said. “For those who didn’t guess correctly or didn’t care to guess or just didn’t have a guess, this is “Ordinary World.”

Warren had played this song maybe a thousand times before, had seen Simon break down while singing it on this last tour, had seen fans hold hands and cry as they shouted lyrics, had felt the chills go up his spine the first time they played it live, had done a beautiful version of it in his solo shows back in 95. But, never before had he felt so emotionally connected to this piece of music. It seemed the world stood still as he played the opening guitar lines, that the audience ceased to exist as Rose started singing. It was just her singing to him, him playing for her-both of them trying to convince each other that things really were looking up and that ordinary world would find them if they looked hard enough. Rose hit the high notes flawlessly, Warren poured his soul into the solo and it seemed that just for a few minutes, Warren’s dad was in the audience. Watching. Approving. Applauding with everyone else when the song ended. Warren felt the tears well in his eyes, blinked to chase them away and the image was gone. But not from his heart.

He turned and found himself enveloped in warm woman. “Thank you,” Rose whispered in his ear, and hugged him again. He held her tight, thankful that he was still able to feel this, to feel close to another human being.

They pulled apart. Warren brushed a tear away from Rose’s cheek. “Don’t cry,” he said. “We weren’t that bad.”

She laughed like she was supposed to and stepped back. “You were...” she faltered, stopped.

“No,” Warren corrected. “You were. I was just here for the ride.”

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Warren nodded, then looked out at the audience. The rep was standing off to the side, grinning. “I think you should go talk to him,” Warren said, pointing him out to Rose. “He’ll probably want to sign you tonight.”

“But I won’t,” she stated, smiling. “At least, not until after I’ve read the contract.”

“Thoroughly read the contract.”

“So, are you going now?”

“Yeah, I think so.” His work here was done. It was time to go home.

“Thank you again,” she told him. “I will never forget this. I hope we meet again.”

“I’ll look for your cd,” he promised.

They hugged again and she walked offstage, straight over to the rep. Warren was sure they were going to have a lot to talk about. He made his own way out of the bar, accepting thanks and accolades from the crowd. It had felt really good to be a part of something again.

It was on the walk home that the song came to him. Just like that-no warning, no tingling sensation in the back of his neck-just a chord, a melody. He stumbled, almost lost his footing on the sidewalk, took a deep breath. The music stayed with him, insinuating itself in his mind, becoming louder, stronger. The relief was almost enough to send him to his knees in thanks.

He raced the rest of the way home, flew up the stairs to his house and made a beeline to his studio. He didn’t want to let this get away. The recording equipment was on in a flash and his old, familiar guitar was in his hands almost before he knew it. He strummed a few notes of the song in his head and it was almost like he’d never been away, like the music had always been there. And he knew, knew in his heart, it was his dad giving him back the gift. He’d been meant to play tonight, to help Rose, to feel his dad’s presence.

Warren started to play, hummed softly along-making up words, images to go with the music. It was haunting, beautiful, healing. It was the most true, most personal thing he’d ever written. He needed to call Simon and Nick. They needed to be here-it wasn’t right for him to be working alone.

“You do realize that it’s two o’clock in the morning?” Simon stated, by way of greeting, when he picked up the phone.

Warren looked at the clock and was shocked to realize Simon was right. He hadn’t noticed it was that late. “Sorry,” he mumbled, but he was too excited to be sorry for more than a nano-second. “I wrote a song.”

“Did you?” Simon sounded much more awake at that statement.

“It’s about my dad,” Warren continued. “And I think I need some help.”

“I’m on my way.”

Trust Simon to hear all the things Warren hadn’t said. “I’ll be in the studio.”

“Call Nick,” Simon instructed. “He’ll be up. What are you calling it anyway?”

“’Starting To Remember,’” Warren replied.

“That’s great. I really like it.”

Warren could just hear the wheels spinning in Simon’s head. It felt good. “See you in a few,” he said and hung up the phone. He called Nick, who was indeed up, and just as interested to know that Duran was indeed a writing team again and said he’d be on his way. Warren walked around the studio for a minute, looking at everything with new eyes. He had the music back, and it was all due to Rose. Without her, he’d have never remembered why music brought him joy in the first place.

“Thank you,” he said aloud to her, wherever she was. She’d helped him immeasurably. She’d given him back his dad and his soul. And he would always remember.