After concerts, when the band returned to their hotel, Lorelei, or Lora as most called her, if she didn't stay in her room for sanctuary, she went to the closest thing to it for company, which was Trac's room. Trac for Tractor. Tractor from John Doer, pronounced Deer, thus John Deere tractors. Trac was gay and thus not interested in the company of groupies. Not that he was any less promiscuous as any of the other band members. Any day off they might have in the city, he trolled where the gay horde hung out, and sometimes after a concert when he was particularly randy. By 1980 it had become somewhat easier to find such places in some of the cities than it had been a few years before. Bars and clubs filled with men on the prowl for each other.
Five years older than any of the other band, Trac had been bassist for a few local Cleveland bands, bar bands of highest repute, though none had travelled much past the area of Ohio, Kentucky or Toronto. Leo Hauser recruited him into his band, Leo and the Lions, because Trac's bass playing tended to give a driving force to whatever group which had been lucky enough to have him. Leo wanted his band to rock!
Trac had a gruff presence that matched the rough handsomeness of his long slim face, which matched his tall slim body. But Lorelei soon found out quietness had been mistaken for gruffness, and he actually had a sweet nature, with a touch of meanness in his wit. When he'd slip out a rare word or quip, he'd reveal his cleverness. In small company, he could occasionally become loquacious. Lorelei found Trac to be quite an interesting fellow.
Another meaning of Trac might be tracks: the line of scars, of puncture marks following a vein from the inner elbow down the arm. His hidden somewhat by an elaborate, colorful tattoo of a snake wrapped around the arm with a face at his bicep of an androgynous man with fangs dripping blood. Trac liked junk, especially mixed with coke for speedballs. Sometimes he'd be generous with the extra coke.
Which he was that night in San Francisco when Lorelei gently tapped at his door, having heard guitar and not wanting to disturb him. She'd showered and changed out of her black leather pants and vest, her performance uniform, and into gray sweat pants and a black tank top, much cooler and more comfortable. Despite her cautious knock, he opened the door for her. The guitar playing continued, and she found the source, a scruffy looking man with long brunette hair which tended to grow out rather than down, like a mane, and the beard continued the motif, if not as long, maybe a few weeks growth, just as unkempt. Jutting out the middle was a substantial nose, though on the slim side. A mix of ethnicities: East European Jew and Scotch/Irish.
"Couple lines left on the mirror," Trac told her, nodding towards the table which the stranger sat beside. A portable mirror with a handle which Trac used for the preparation and arrangement of cocaine. Definitely not to examine himself, since Trac was the least vain of any of the band. Even being the only girl in the band, Lorelei considered herself the second least. Make-up only necessary for the stage as far as she was concerned, although she tended to care a great deal about her hair. A dark auburn, neither too thick nor too thin, cut just to her shoulders, with bangs just above her eyebrows, even with the brief shower, she gently blow-dried and brushed a lot before she felt presentable. And she brought her own shampoo and conditioner; only the best would do, and nothing destructive like coloring would ever get close. She considered herself lucky with its natural coloring.
Two smallish lines of white powder remained on the mirror. A rolled up hundred dollar bill rested beside the mirror, which she picked up. "Go ahead and finish it," the stranger said. "Right Trac?"
"Go for it," Trac said.
A line for each nostril she inhaled, then dampened her forefinger to collect anything remaining and brought it to her mouth, coating her gums.
"Joe Solomon," said the stranger once she'd finished.
"Lorelei Leigh," said Lorelei.
"No shit?" Joe asked.
"My mom's a fan of Marilyn Monroe," Lorelei shrugged.
"Not your dad?"
"Don't know. Probably."
"Divorce?"
"Ran away."
"Sorry."
"You didn't know."
"I guess not."
Suddenly it struck her. Joseph Solomon, folksinger. She looked again, beyond the beard, and sort of recognized him. He'd always had that mane, but his face had always been clean shaven. A handsome face bordering on pretty. She'd thought him cute. Not so much anymore. Even if he couldn't have been that old, in his thirties at most, age had cut into his face. Or something. He looked gaunt, any softness gone. But still handsome somehow. Tragically handsome. She sat on the other chair in the room.
"Where have you been Joseph Solomon?" she asked.
He stopped playing. "Heard of me?"
"Obviously," Trac chuckled. Rising off the bed, he knelt and opened a guitar case, pulling out his Gibson acoustic. "Why don't you grab your guitar, Lorelei?"
"Okay."
She tried to be cool, but essentially rushed out the door, returning a couple minutes later with her Ovation. For some reason she felt guilty about its pristine looks. Both Trac's Gibson and Joe's Martin looked like they'd been through hell and back, and both had the soulful sound that proved it.
"You should play him one of your songs," Trac insisted.
"I'd rather hear yours, Joe," Lorelei rebutted.
"Later?" Joe offered.
Lorelei sighed. She thought herself a decent songwriter having been writing for six years, since she was fifteen, and she felt shed found her voice, quirky and dark. But compared to Joseph Solomon...
She decided on one of her simpler ones with a chorus she thought they could join her on. The other two caught onto the chords for the verses fairly quickly, and one time through the chorus, they got that too. They also joined their voices with hers. Trac almost a baritone and Joe a sweet if roughened alto actually higher than her voice.
"Okay?" she asked when it ended.
"Good," Joe grinned. "One more?"
She sighed again and went for her newest song, which she thought was her best yet, although she often thought that of the new ones. It took longer for the two men to join in.
"Again," Joe insisted.
The two joined in, Joe even adding his voice to some of the lines of the verses. His memory impressed her.
"Now you," said Lorelei.
"How about we just jam," said Joe, and began plucking out a beautiful melody, and the other two strummed behind it. When he shifted things, they figured it out too. When he returned to the original melody, he began to sing. Not smooth enough to be from memory, sometimes pausing his words, it was obvious he was improvising.
After he shifted to what was obviously the chorus and improvised that, Lorelei stopped him.
"Wait!" she said. "Aren't you going to write it down?"
"Don't worry, Lorelei," Trac chuckled. "Joe's got perfect memory or something. He's his own recording machine. Even with all the shit he's done to his brain."
Joe started up again. "Want to give it a try?"
"It's not that easy for me to write," Lorelei protested.
"Just let it go. Whatever comes out. Don't even worry about rhyming."
She nodded and shut her eyes and thought about what Joe had been singing about. All about an iterant worker surviving from job to job. Why not reply to him, offering him a home for a while, a place he could stay and rest and everything that might entail?- Steady food. Steady shelter. Steady...love.
And Joe responded to her, why he thought it wasn't a good idea for her. Why he was nothing but trouble and would just break her heart when he finally ran off.
About then there was a knock on the door. Coded it sounded like. "You guys keep going," said Trac, setting aside his guitar and heading to the door and opening it a crack and slipping out.
"His connection?" Lorelei asked.
"Probably," said Joe. "Keep going?"
"Okay." And she argued back. He should stay for as long as he wants. She'd understand if he had to leave. But she'd be there for him if he returned or needed her wherever he was.
Again he argued against her. There were always others like her who he'd use for their company. Why pine for such a wanderer? Why not find someone who would stay and accept the comfort she offered? Who could love her the way she deserved to be loved.
"I'm just a wanderer. Wandering. Wandering. I'm just a wanderer wandering around," went the chorus.
She ended it with, "I could be wandering too, a wanderer wandering with you."
They laughed.
He set down his guitar and pulled out a smoke from his faded blue denim shirt. "Want one?" he asked.
"Sure." She normally didn't smoke except when she did coke.
He jerked the soft pack so that a cylinder of tobacco poked out. Pall Malls. Straights. A bit strong for her, but she'd manage.
After he lit her cigarette with his flip top lighter, he lit his. He finally told her, "Those lines were for me."
"Oh sorry."
"Trac would have snorted them. This here's my last vice. I guess I'll smoke pot if it's offered, but..."
"Then why did Trac offer?"
"I guess he didn't believe me."
"And the smack?"
"That's more serious isn't it? Coke's more recreational. But to me it's like what they say about pot being a gateway drug or something. That's like me with coke. It'd make we want a shot of junk."
"Trac mixes it for a speedball," Lorelei said.
