Prologue
April, 2003.
Two men sat at an old, thick, dark wood table in a dimly-lit bar. The town was Fairview, Pennsylvania, and the bar, The Steel Town Tavern, was well-known to the people in that town, but not to outsiders. It was the type of place that one could go to be anonymous, even these two men, who were anything but. They were Eugene McElhenny and Ricky Germaine of the band 4F—one of the most well-known bands in the world, as well as one of the most critically-successful and relevant popular rock bands in the past 10 years. It was warmer than usual for the small Pennsylvania town, and even at 1:15 in the morning, it was what one would call short sleeve weather.
At first glance, the name of the bar seemed a bit ironic, as the entire establishment seemed to be carved out of one block of rich, deep brown cherry wood. It was an old place, constructed in the mid 1930’s, after the failure of prohibition. It was made to serve as a local watering hole for the steelworkers of the day; hardened men who wanted to drink their hard days away without being bothered. These days, far-removed from the glory and prosperity of the nearby steel industry, the bar still survived and made the owners a tidy living, mostly due to low overhead and a loyal base of regular customers. There were a total of about twelve people in the whole bar, a well-worn neighborhood joint that only had a maximum capacity of sixty anyway, and it was a Tuesday; not exactly a hoppin’ bar night. The other ten people probably knew Gene and Ricky. They certainly knew of them. But again, this was the type of place in which people minded their own business, even if they did not necessarily want to.
Ricky, the drummer for 4F, stood about 5’8” tall and was of a stockier build. He was not what one would call fat, but he was definitely huskier than the other band members. Ricky was of French Canadian descent; his parents having moved to the States from Canada when he was four years-old. His mother was black, and his father half-black, which gave Ricky a very unique skin tone, with an almost reddish tint to it. He nearly always wore some kind of hat, as he had never liked his hair to begin with, and now it was receding, so not liking his hair would not be a worry for much longer. Often times, his hat was accompanied by horn-rimmed glasses, which worked on his face quite well. Ricky would always be gracious with the fans who swarmed him like mosquitos at a summer camp, but if he could avoid being noticed, he certainly did. Plus, the hats and the glasses kind of became his style over time, though he always changed them up.
Eugene McElhenny was “Gene” to his friends, and “Geno” to people that either had known him since childhood, or merely thought they were his friends. In contrast to his friend and rhythm section partner Ricky, Gene was tall, about 6’2”, slender, and sinewy, weighing about 185 lb. He had a full, closely-cropped beard, and dark brown hair that was short but still in a bit of a tussled style. He was a good looking fellow, but had the type of face that, under any normal circumstances, would be only too easy to forget. Unfortunately for Gene, 4F was anything but a normal circumstance. To say that Gene was uncomfortable with the fame he’d acquired over the last three years would have been a gross understatement. As was the case with Ricky, he really tried his best to be gracious to fans, understanding, fundamentally, that they only got so crazy because they loved the band’s music, which was, essentially, his music. Gene was the writer of almost all of 4F’s songs, and the singer of about half of them, along with being the band’s bass player.
The men were seated in as remote and dark a corner as the bar featured, and each was leaning over the table slightly so as to be as discreet and quiet as possible. The waitress approached. She was younger than the two men, who were in their late twenties, but she was a typical small town bar waitress; maybe twenty-five years old, but lines already forming in the face. She had known Gene and Ricky for a couple of years now, and knew them well enough that her presence did not make them anxious.
“How ya guys doin’?” she inquired, pointing down to their nearly empty drinks.
“Can we get one more of each, Cheryl?” Ricky responded in kind.
Ricky drank Maker’s Mark, only Maker’s Mark, and a lot of Maker’s Mark. What is a lot of Maker’s Mark? Well, it certainly would not be unlike Ricky Germaine to polish off a bottle of Maker’s before going on stage, and play a perfect show to boot. He might have a beer as a “side car,” the way most people would have a shot of liquor as a side car to their beer. That’s just how Ricky drank. Gene, on the other hand, was the type to switch it up as much as he could, and he liked a serious variety. With his beers, he tended toward ales, and with his liquor, he tended toward the strongest. Tonight, it was Wild Turkey, and, since the bar’s beer selection was not exactly varied, Sam Adams.
“Okay, another trough of Maker’s and a Bud for you, Ricky, and … Sam and a half trough of what for you, Gene?”
“Wild Turkey, Cheryl. Thanks very much.”
“Oh, that’s right. I’m sorry, Gene.”
“It’s my fault, Cheryl. I should be more consistent, like my partner in petty crime, here.”
Cheryl giggled, nodded, and walked away. She always gave them ample time to talk between asking them if they needed refills, but when refills were requested, she always seemed to be back in a matter of seconds. They were, obviously, very good tippers, but she had come to regard them as friends. They had a level of familiarity with her, and they genuinely liked her. She liked them too, because in The Steel Town, they were just Gene and Ricky, not Gene and Ricky of 4F.
“Here ya go, fellas. I’ll let you be, now.”
“Thanks, Cheryl,” said Ricky. “No change, okay?” handing her a pair of $100.00 bills. This was how they tipped Cheryl. They’d order their $50.00 round, complete with full high ball glasses of liquor, and tip her the other $150.00, every time. Cheryl had a small child, and she knew that when the guys showed up, that she’d be taking home anywhere from $600.00 to $750.00 that night. That was more than a week’s pay when they did not come in. Ricky turned back to Gene. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”
“Do what? What’re you talking about?” Gene blurted softly.
“The band. It’s just … it’s just becoming … it’s just not right. Everything that we’re doing … and what we’re doing to you.”
“What do you mean? What are you doing to me? And do I have to remind you that we’ve got a contract?”
“If it’s one thing you will never need to remind me of, it’s that stupid fucking contract we all agreed to,” Rickey lamented. “Believe me, I do not need to be reminded of the worst mistake I ever made in my life.”
“Do you want out of the whole band? Are you that unhappy? Are you seriously that unhappy, Rick?”
“No, I drink this much because I’m thrilled,” said Ricky. Gene looked over with sad eyes. “It’s not you, buddy. I love you. You’re my best friend, and I love playing music with you. Remember how it used to be? It used to be fucking magic! It’s not like that for me now, and it hasn’t been for a couple of years. I just can’t stand being in this band anymore. I can’t tour anymore, and I know they’re going to push until we do. My family can’t take another tour. We’ll rip apart. It’s not the same as it used to be. I can’t go anywhere, I can’t do anything, and I just don’t know how much longer I can do all of this. It’s too damned much!”
“I can understand that. I feel overwhelmed too a lot of the time. I love the music, and I love the money, but I can definitely do without fame of any kind. You know touring isn’t my thing. Carey hates it when we’re on tour. I could just as soon never tour again. Would that make a difference?” Gene looked over to Ricky, who looked down, shaking his head, but only very slightly. “Ricky, I seriously didn’t know that you were that unhappy. Really, think about it. Because if you do truly want out, perhaps we can do something about it—the contract, I mean.”
“That’s the thing,” said Ricky, “I think that they’re already doing something about it.”
The contract they were referring to was one the band had agreed upon the night before they signed their first record deal. This particular pact, penned by all four members, including Ricky, Gene, and Eli and Ben Shaporo, the sibling guitarists of the band, was definitely the first of its kind, and stipulated that 4F was never to disband until, or unless, one of the four original members was dead. The idea behind this unprecedented agreement was supposed to be to prevent something that had happened to so many talented bands over the years; ending a good thing due to egos, money, and so on. To further that point, the contract also stipulated that the band members would each receive equal shares of everything, right down to songwriting credit, and that all band decisions had to be unanimous. Again, the idea was to prevent egotism and bickering, and to keep all members on an equal level. Of course, the concept of this document was neither Gene’s nor Ricky’s; it was the brainchild of the band’s manager, Lee Jethroe, with the help of Ben Shaporo, one of the sibling guitarists of the band. Ricky, Gene and Eli Shaporo, Ben’s younger brother, were naïve and trusting to begin with, and, under the euphoria of the impending record deal, were only too happy to sign the pact to keep the band together under any circumstance. Of course, they were twenty-four, twenty-six and twenty-seven years-old at the time. It is amazing how much naivety one can lose in a matter of a few years, at least in Ricky’s case. Gene and Eli were not necessarily naïve; just trusting and accepting. Breaking the contract now would mean the loss of any further monies that would be made from 4F.
“Why would they want to do anything to make that contract anything but what it already is? It’s a good deal for them,” Gene wondered aloud.
“It’s a great deal for all four of us. You’re the one getting screwed, Gene!”
“I don’t really see it that way. I never have. I mean, I can understand that point of view, but it’s just not my point of view. You know how I am. I might write the nervous system of the songs, but—”
“Yeah, I know, we provide the skeleton, muscle, blood, heart, blah, blah, blah. When critics talk about the songs, they talk about the lyrics as much as the music. That’s all you. The music is, too. We just expound upon it.”
“Ricky, look at me,” said Gene. Ricky had been looking down, but peered guiltily up through his eyelids at his best friend. “I’m not a greedy person. I would never have been anything without you guys. I’m fine with the deal. I’m fine with the contract, and I’m fine with that clause. Now, if you want out, or just want to stop touring, or whatever, we can talk to Ben and Eli, and we’ll work something out. I’m sure there are ways around the contract.”
“What if that contract had more to it than we originally thought?” said Ricky. “What if—you know what? Don’t listen to me. I don’t know anything for sure. Just read this when you get a chance and let me know your thoughts.” He slid an envelope across the table to Gene as two men walked into the bar. Gene looked up to see their bandmates approaching as he tucked the envelope into the breast pocket of his jacket. They had not seen the exchange. Ricky saw his friend’s reaction and whirled to see the Shaporo brothers not eight feet away from the table. If he had been surprised by them, he didn’t show it for a nanosecond. That’s the thing about drummers. They can keep their composure, and retrieve it in no time flat, on the rare occasion that it is lost. “Hey guys. What are you two doing in such a dodgy place? Not really your style, is it?” he remarked, smiling from ear to ear.
The brothers now lived in Manhattan, while Ricky and Gene had built adjacent homes in Fairview. Unlike their bandmates, the Shaporo brothers embraced their fame with every fiber of their being. They were from Fairview, had lived there for the first twenty-six to twenty-seven years of their lives, but did not like to return if they could possibly help it. However, the Shaporos were in town to visit their parents for Easter. Their parents were devout Catholics, and it was imperative that the brothers come home for any religious holiday. “We figured we’d slum it with our rhythm section for once,” grinned Eli Shaporo, the younger of the two by a year, but still one and three years older, respectively, than Gene and Ricky.
“Man, I’d love to have one more,” said Ricky, just before kicking back the final enormous gulp of his bourbon, “but I’ve had eight too many already. I think I’d better cab it the hell out of here.”
“There’s one still out there. You can probably catch it, if you hurry,” said Ben. “You’ll hang with us for a round, won’t you, Geno?”
“Yeah, I could do one more, I guess. Long as you’ve got a ride for me.”
“We can do better than a ride,” Ben pointed out. “Eli’s just bought a new car. Well, if you can consider a nine hundred foot long classic Caddy El Dorado a new car. You’ve got to see it. Ricky,” he said, turning toward Ricky, who was already making a bee line for the front door, nervously, and, extremely intoxicated. Actually, it was more of a moth line. It was a Golden Globe-worthy performance. Not quite Academy Award, but what would you want from a musician? “You sure you don’t want to stay for one more and catch a ride back with us?”
Ricky turned quickly, half stumbling, “Nah, man. I shouldn’t have had that last round. Gonna try and catch this cab.”
“Okay, good luck! If you don’t catch it, we’ll crate your ass home!” Ben shouted, then turned toward Gene and his brother as the front door slammed home. “Man, that guy’s gotta let up on the drink. I know he can drum through just about anything outside of a stupor, but there’s the whole health aspect, too, I mean—well, shit, look who I’m talking to!” They all laughed, especially Gene, never one to be shy about being able to laugh at himself. It was true. Ricky did have a drinking problem, but Gene had an everything problem. Like his friend, however, he could perform well through just about anything, and, under certain circumstances, even better. “That reminds me, Geno. Want something to help you sleep tonight?” he said, pushing a zip lock bag of probably forty to fifty blue pills across the table.
“What are these?” Gene inquired.
“Perc fifteens,” Eli replied before his brother could open his mouth, “but we had a bitch of a time getting them for you. So use sparingly, okay? One at a time works more than fine.”
“Yeah, sure … of course,” said Gene. “Thanks for lookin’ out, fellas. That’s very, very much-appreciated!”
“Well, we knew we were going to see you, and we know you’re not gonna be able to get anything fun in this jerkwaterburg,” Ben opined. “And if memory serves, we just finished one hell of a record only a couple of weeks ago, and we figured we owed a small reward to the best bassist on the East Coast!”
The Best Bassist On The East Coast. This was a title that Gene jokingly gave himself. The joke was two-fold. One, Gene never considered himself a particularly good bassist, and two, he always thought that Flea from the Chili Peppers was incredible, so even in the joke, he couldn’t give himself the whole country. Thank God, Geddy Lee was Canadian. He could not help but agree, though. The third studio album from 4F was, in his opinion, their best to date, and featured probably the two best songs he’d ever written in his life.
“We’re leaving tomorrow,” Eli said. “But don’t worry, we’ll be back for the release party. I’m going to leave the Caddy at our Mom and Dad’s. I told them to run it around a little while we’re gone—you know, to keep it warm—but I know they won’t. They’re old school. You know how they are. So, maybe you could come by their place and take it out a couple of times?” They were going to vacation in Hawaii for ten days. Gene had entertained the thought of going with them, but Lee Jethroe was going, and Gene and Lee never did quite see eye to eye. Ricky, who flat out detested Lee, had declined the invite as well.
“I haven’t even seen the damned car yet!” Gene smiled.
“Well let’s have our damned round, so you can!” Ben replied, motioning for Cheryl. “I’ve got this one!” he said, pulling out his ample wallet. Cheryl approached the table, and it was probably only Gene that noticed a slight eye roll from the waitress, even though she knew she’d be getting an extra hundred from that one round. “Matter of fact, why don’t you drive us home? That way, you can get a feel for starting it and handling it. It is a boat, after all.”
“Boat, hell!” Eli responded in kind. “It’s a damned aircraft carrier!”
They kicked back their drinks, and agreed that it was time to go. Gene stood up. “I’ve got to hit the bathroom before we leave.”
“Okay,” said Ben. “We’ll wait outside. I could use a smoke.”
“You know, you guys always look out for me,” Gene said, warmly.
“And we always will, Geno,” said Eli. “We always will.”
Gene went into a stall in the bathroom and began to relieve himself. He opened up the envelope from Ricky and started reading. His eyes turned to saucers and a look of terror swept across his face.
