December 1, 2017

I wake with a start.

It's about five in the afternoon now, but the light outside is already fading.  I'm taking it easy, a night alone with Veronica before the grandchildren come around tomorrow.  I've been sitting in front of the telly for about an hour, just resting my eyes -a phrase that always makes my wife roll hers- while the BBC newsreader babbles on about some new crisis, some new hindrance to Brexit, some more press about Donald Trump (Isn't there enough to talk about on our side of the pond, without us having to go nosing about in America's affairs?), whatever the new problem is.  It's always something, and never anything good. It's definitely not the same Britannia I grew up in.  That much I can admit.  The rest, I'll keep to myself.

But it's not some particularly horrendous top story that's roused me.  In fact, I don't know what it is.  Something just seemed to have pricked at my old decrepit brain, and now I'm feeling a little uneasy. 

But it's nothing an evening stroll won't remedy.

So I put on my shoes, tug a dark gray anorak over my head, and try not to wince at the craggy, old man's face I see in the mirror.  God, I look old.  Some people wear their age well.  Not me.  I'm sixty-six last August, and it shows.  But that's life.  In its own funny way, it's a privilege to reach this point, when you can look back at what you accomplished, and look at now, when you see what you have now.  Me, I'm content.  And that's plenty.

"Dear, I'm going for a walk," I call to my wife. 

"Be careful," she calls back.  "Dinner's at six."

"I won't be out that long," I assure her. 

I lock the door behind me, breathe in the cold, wintry air.  I love late afternoon walks.  I don't go on as many as I used to, things being as they are these days, but they're ever so relaxing. 

Usually, anyway.  Even after ten minutes of an easy pace through the neighborhood, I can't shake the feeling. 

I only feel this way whenever I think about my days with Queen- the tours and the parties and everything.  It's not a pleasant feeling, to be honest.  I have many, many fond memories of that era, that twenty-some-odd years of my life.  But right now, I have this more familiar feeling inside, the feeling I get when I think about Freddie- and, consequently, what might have been, if things were different.

It's been many years since I've had any dealings with those two, Brian and Roger.  I don't miss those days, actually- at least, not the days when only the three of us remained.  We should not have even called ourselves Queen after that.  Without Freddie, there is no Queen. 

Freddie is what made us, kept us together- certainly the reason I stayed the bass player for so long.  I don't dislike the other two, exactly, don't misunderstand me.  I respect them as colleagues and artists, and I make it a point not be a problem for them, whatever it is they do.  I just don't like what they've done with Queen's image.  With Freddie's image. 

I mean, just between you and me- it doesn't seem to end.  Robbie Williams, Paul Rodgers, and now this Adam Lambert fellow.  I don't know.  Maybe I'm just being a hard-nosed geriatric, but I'm not a fan.  The way I see it, if you have to spend half the concert telling the audience that you're not Freddie Mercury and you don't intend to replace Freddie Mercury and yet at the same time you have to throw an image of Freddie Mercury up on the screen, just constantly reminding people that he's gone- to me, that's defeating the purpose. If your intent is to move on, then move on, be your own separate unit.  But don't say that's your goal, and then keep milking the past, and drawing on the spirit of a dead man because you can't stir any excitement all by yourselves.

Sorry, there, I just get so exercised over these things.  Let me get down from my soapbox. 

As I was saying, I do honestly wish things had turned out differently.  And that's putting it very mildly.  Who wouldn't?  Freddie was my friend.  No, more than that.  I loved him.  I still do.  I loved him like a brother.  Don't ask me why, but I was very close to him.  He was not as close to me as I felt to him, but there were reasons for that.

Now, people tend to blame -do forgive me for putting it like this, but it works- the fame and fortune, and everything that goes with them.  And I won't ever say they played no role whatsoever, but they did not cause the change in him.  I know almost beyond a shadow of a doubt when he took this turn, a turn for (I believe) the worse- and why.

It's funny what you remember, sometimes, and what you forget.  And where that day is concerned, I remember nearly everything. 

The day Freddie died- the first time...

*************************************************************************************

July 14, 1977

Brian sits at the console, pen in hand, scrawling possible lyrics for one of his songs.  "It's Late," or something.  He's really grown fond of that one, even more so than "Sleeping on the Sidewalk," which we've already basically completed anyway.  I'm sitting on the sofa with a Spanish acoustic, trying to put chords to this song I started last night.  Inspiration comes from strange places sometimes; mine came from a fortune cookie.  Our manager John Reid is here, too, sort of overseeing our goings-on, with Paul Prenter sitting right next to him, acting the spectator.

And Roger and Freddie are having some little tete-a-tete about the drums for "Champions," Freddie trying his best to put into coherent terms just what it is he wants.  I can only assume from how energized Freddie is that Julia is still around- something for which I am so, so grateful-and the more excited he is, the less adeptly he can channel his ideas into words:

"Now, when the guitars come in on the first verse, I think a little tss from, you know, the high-hat, to kind of, um- right there, and uh, then again after another measure, then of course, on the beats, where everybody comes in loud, you do the whole crash thing, then keep hitting the snares while I'm going BOM-ba-ba-ba-ba-BOM-ba-ba-ba-ba-BOM...."

You get used to it after a while, I suppose- but Julia would laugh if she were here.  Maybe it's good that she isn't yet.  Then again, he doesn't mind one bit when she laughs at him.  All he does is jab her about something else.  I'm so glad she decided to stay.  She's really very good for him, and he for her.

I'm reminded of something my wife said at breakfast this morning, right after feeding Robert.  She looked at that photograph of the two of them and informed me, "He'd better do it quick."

I looked up.  "Do what?"

"Marry her."

I had to smile.  "What for?"

"Because she's not going to wait around for him to make up his mind.  I can tell."

I folded my arms.  "Why do you say that?"

"Because she's not at all like Mary, and Mary is... patient."

"You think she'll leave him?"  The thought gave me a bit of an upset, admittedly.

"I don't know," she shrugged.  "All I know is, if he doesn't marry her, and marry her quick, he's going to miss out on something wonderful."

"What's that?" I asked.

She didn't reply, instead sort of patted her middle and smiled.

Ron is such a romantic.  I love it.

Suddenly Freddie glides away from Roger's nest, starts to ask what time it is when he stops himself.  "Wait, never mind, I know."

Then he pulls out Julia's little black rectangle, the one that was playing all that great music last night, from under his own stack of papers, and pushes a button.

"What's that, Freddie?" Ratty asks, craning his neck.

"A thing that tells time," he says dismissively.  "Now go back to your s-  Ah!  Eleven twenty-seven.  Suppose I'd better call her then."

"Is she coming back up here again?" This is spoken almost as a groan- by whom, I don't know, but whoever it is, they're not happy about it.

"Who?" John Reid frowns.  "Not that girl you brought here a week ago?"

"But of course!"

Brian shakes his head with a small snort, John Reid asks "What for?" and Paul's eyes narrow the slightest bit.

"Would you old busybodies calm down?  She doesn't bother anyone," Freddie croons.  "And anyway, she helps me think."

"With what?" Roger giggles.

"Oh, get stuffed," Freddie pops back, turns his back so that he misses the very clever way Roger screws up his face into a silly expression, then waltzes happily out of the control room, calling for his driver.  "Rudy, dear, I'll need you to..."

When Freddie leaves, Brian at once stands up and heads for the piano.  Strange, he doesn't compose on the piano very often, and yet there he goes, carrying the lyrics with him. 

"Psst!"

I turn to see Freddie poking his head back in, gesturing for me to follow.  So I set the guitar down by the sofa and do just that, a big grin spreading across my face. I can't help it, this is just becoming so much fun. As much of a strain as it was at first, I love being in on their game now. It's good to be this close to them. Taxing at times, true, but that happens when you invest a little emotion in something; all really meaningful relationships have to be at least a little taxing.  If it's easy, there's no risk, and nothing to lose, and therefore, no real connection at all.

Freddie's already dialing the number into the studio phone while his driver watches (Good God, that's a behemoth of a fellow) when I come out.  "What is it?" I ask.

"Something I wanted to ask you," he says softly, covering the receiver with his hand.  "Something about, um, you and Veronica."

"Me and Veronica?"

"Right," he says, then starts stammering, "I just wondered, uh, how you- you know, went about-" 

But then there's a click over the phone, and something very softly spoken, I assume a "hello." Freddie rips himself out of the moment, makes his voice sound much more confident than before. "That you there, Julia?" he asks.

His driver Rudy shifts from one foot to the other, subtly looks at his watch, and lets out a long, rather anxious sigh.  "Freddie, shall I get go-"

But Freddie holds up his finger at the driver.  The big man immediately falls silent, biting his tongue savagely as he looks over his shoulder toward the exit.  I don't know this Rudy very well, but even I can see it's all he can do not to fly out the door now.  Wonder what he's so antsy about. 

Freddie of course doesn't notice, he's too enthralled in this conversation.  Suddenly his brows knit.  "Darling, are you all right?" he asks, then adds after a pause, "I'll feel a lot better once I find out what's making you sound so strange."

He doesn't look anywhere near convinced with her reply; it's more than likely she didn't answer.  So he goes on, "Are you still coming?"

Rudy has begun impatiently throwing his keys into the air, crazy for Freddie to turn him loose.  At last he gets his wish, because Freddie announces, winking at him, "I'll have him drive as though the devil himself were after him- In fact, go now, Rudy!"

The words are barely out of his mouth when Rudy springs into motion, lumbering ungracefully for the door. 

But they're not finished talking yet.  Freddie turns back to the phone.  "Yes, angel?"  He blinks, smiles gently, and answers her, "I love you, darling.  You know that."

I don't know what her response is, but it makes the smile fade from Freddie's face.  In fact, now he looks rather worried.  "Julia, what's wrong?"  She says something else.  "What?"  His mouth twitches.  "Julia, hold on a min-"

But then there's a low buzz on the other end.  Julia has hung up.  I'm still standing here, waiting for Freddie to ask that question, but he seems to have already forgotten about it as he replaces the receiver on the hook.

To himself he murmurs, "Give my regards to Phil?  Wha-" 

And then his eyes bug.  I ask automatically, "What is it?"

But he doesn't hear me.  Two seconds he stands there, putting the invisible pieces together, and he goes utterly white.

"Oh, no," he says softly.  Then he swallows, and his confusion turns into complete, unadulterated fear.  He repeats himself.  "Oh, no."

  "Freddie what's the matter?"  I ask again.  "Is it Ju-"

"Oh, no, oh no oh no oh NO NO NO NO NO!" 

This he shouts while racing out the door, bursting so forcefully through he nearly knocks the slab off its hinges.  On reflex I follow him as far as the threshold, and as the door swings closed I watch him dart out in front of his car, waving his arms around for Rudy to stop.  He's babbling something wildly as he yanks open the back passenger door and clambers in.

And it's here the front door closes, and he vanishes from view...

***************************************************************************************************

December 1, 2017

I've been standing here the last five minutes, watching a few dead brown leaves in the middle of the sidewalk swirl around with the breeze, so totally lost in my thoughts.  Why is that day coming back to haunt me tonight? 

Not that I don't usually think about it.  On the contrary, I've thought about that day a lot over the years.  And I knew him well enough to know something dreadful took place, when he returned home that afternoon.  I could feel it even before he had hung up the phone.  Somehow, I could just tell.

Just like that, without a warning, Julia was gone. 

With a sigh, I keep walking- and keep thinking.  Because it didn't stop with her leaving, and whatever temporary heartache that meant for Freddie. It went so much deeper- deeper than even I could fathom at the time. 

Little did I know, little did any of us know, that the man who walked back into the studio that July afternoon, though he may have looked like Freddie, walked like Freddie, talked like Freddie, was not Freddie.  He was something else.  Something alive, but cold-blooded.  Something that could smile and laugh with his face and throat, but not with his eyes.  Something detached, extreme- and frightening:

Everyone but me was surprised to see him return alone two hours later, hands behind his back, head held high, eyes cloaked with a strange, new screen- a more impenetrable one even than what he used on stage.  Brian was still busy at the piano, practicing the piano chords, singing his new lyrics softly to himself.  He didn't notice Freddie walking back in.

"Where've you been?" John Reid asked.

"Just stepped out a moment," Freddie replied.  His voice was very cool.  "I didn't miss anything big, did I?"

Roger answered, "Not really, Bri's just working on some new song of his.  Sort of waiting on you, I guess."

"Mm."  Without apologizing, Freddie leaned down and whispered something to John Harris about "that song," which prompted the sound man to rise from the chair and go searching about in the next room. 

"Once Brian gets through with whatever he's doing in there, I'd like to say something very quickly," Freddie announced.  "Actually, no, I'll just say it now, tell him later.  He takes too long and this has to be addressed."

"Say what?" Roger asked, putting his feet up on the console. 

"And by the way, Beryl," Freddie added casually to John Reid- I remember he sometimes would call him Beryl, after Beryl Reid the actress, "if you know of anyone who'd be willing to work as a sort of driver, tell me.  My chauffeur, um... quit unexpectedly this afternoon.  I had to take a taxi back here- and I'd really rather not do that again."

John Harris came trotting back in with a roll of tape that said "My Melancholy Blues: Take 1-14.  Property of Queen Productions, Ltd."  He started to fit it on the spool when Freddie waved his hand and said, "Give it to me."

The man squinted, but did as Freddie instructed.  Then he looked out at all of us in the control room.  His eyes were flatter than I'd ever seen them, and his features were like marble- cold, white, and stiff.  Something was off here.  Very, very off.

Drumming his fingers impatiently against the spool in his hands, Freddie spoke.

"I feel I ought to apologize for the last two weeks," he said in that same cool, offhand voice.  "I've been less than focused, and I believe it may have slowed us down some.  It will not happen again.  What we have here is too, um- too big a thing to come second as far as I'm concerned."

As he was talking, Freddie began to unwind the spool that was full of every single take that he and Julia had recorded together of that song.  John Reid stood up, face turning red.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded.

"Us a favor," Freddie replied.

"Do you have any idea how much-"

"Darling, don't you know by now that the cost is the most ridiculous thing you can possibly throw at me?"  God, how cold he sounded.  "It's one f---ing thing of tape, and one f---ing song.  We'll survive."

When the entire spool lay in a tangled brown heap at his feet, Freddie swooped his hand theatrically in the air. "Would someone take this mess out of here and burn it?"

And Paul Prenter stood a second later and scooped up the long brown tape.  "Burn it, you say?" He almost sounded excited. 

Freddie's brows rose a little, perhaps at his sudden enthusiasm, and then he relaxed again.

"Yes, dear," he confirmed, a strange "Only you understand me" sort of smile spreading across his lips.  "Burn it till there's nothing left."

"Yes, Freddie," Paul bowed- not at all the last time I'd hear those words escape his lips- and walked out.  Right then, whatever weird little connection those two had became stronger- and almost from that moment on, wherever Freddie happened to be, it was understood that Paul Prenter was only as far away as the next room.

"While he's doing that," Freddie murmured, "does anybody have a match?"

"I've got a lighter," Roger offered.

"That's perfect."  Roger tossed it to Freddie, who walked over to the conveniently empty metal dustbin and kicked it a little bit away from the sofa.  Then, he rummaged around looking for a particular sheet of paper- I believe it was the revamped lyrics, again, for "My Melancholy Blues"- I think that because I saw two different handwriting styles in different color ink on one side.  He took this in hand, and lit one corner, which immediately caught.  With a bland interest, we all watched the paper curl and blacken, the ink fading against the paper, as brittle as the autumn leaves that flutter past me now.

"Freddie, are you off your head?" John Reid asked.  "What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing, darling, nothing that will in any way, shape, or form hurt us," Freddie began.  "I never thought that song needed a second verse anyway."

But that's when an oblivious Roger Taylor cut in, and innocently asked, "So where's Okoy?"

Freddie opened his mouth to answer, but John Reid frowned.  "Okoy?"

"Yeah.  Okoy.  That's what I call Eve."

And then the whole tone changed.

Freddie threw the burning paper down into the dustbin so hard a couple of embers puffed out, landed on the carpet where they burned themselves out seconds later.  Paul Prenter returned and stood in the doorway, quietly dusting off his hands.  In the studio proper, Brian was still practicing his new little song on the piano, the sweet, almost mournful chords making Freddie's sharp, pinched features look even more menacingly furious.  He had our ears.

"I'm only going to say this once," Freddie stated, his voice cold and deadly, one hand clenching in a fist.  "And I want you people to know that I mean it with everything I am: I never want to hear that name again.  Not now, not later, not ever- If you, any of you, so much as breathe that name one more time, so f---ing help me, I'm gone.  Like that.  Gone.  And never coming back.  And you will have to find yourselves some other old queen to ponce around the f---ing stage for you.  You think I'm bluffing, go ahead and test me.  Go on."

All of us were, needless to say, quite stunned at this display.  As for me, I was something very close to terrified. 

I realized I didn't know this man anymore.  I still cared for him as a friend, as a colleague.  But some time between his leaving Wessex and his coming back that day, a steel wall had been erected around his soul- a wall that took me some getting used to.  It's hard when people you consider your friends completely shut down at the drop of a hat.

The blood flowed out of his cheeks, and he took a deep breath.  "Now then, do we understand each other, darlings?" he asked.

"Yeah, okay," Roger answered.

I nodded silently.

"Of course," John Reid replied.

The sound guys sort of nodded and shrugged, unsure why this was such a big issue.

"Yes, Freddie," Paul agreed.

"Good," he started to say, then turned around, about to call Brian in to say something similar; I suppose he grew tired of waiting.  But as soon as he pushed the intercom button, we were all able to hear Brian as he sang softly along to the piano.

"She came without a farthing,
A babe without a name.
So much ado about nothing,
Is what she tried to say.

So much ado, my lover.
So many games we played.
Through every fleeted summer,
Through every precious day.

All dead, all dead.
All the dreams we had.
I wonder why I still live on.
All dead, all dead,
and, alone, I'm spared.
My sweeter half instead,
All dead, and gone.
All dead-"

"Brian, what are you doing?" Freddie snarled. 

Brian looked up, startled.  "I'm- practicing my song."

"Oh, really," he scoffed.  "And what's this song of yours about?"

Perhaps my imagination is running away with me, but if I'm remembering correctly, even as savage as he sounded, his voice seemed to thicken- and tremble- when he asked that.

I don't know how much of what Freddie said, he heard via one-way intercom.  Of course, it was obvious, where at least some of that inspiration stemmed from.  She affected all of us in some way, be it large or small- even Mr. May himself, the one who did his best to stay out of it altogether. 

But Brian, though he is a lot of things, was certainly no fool.

He looked Freddie right in the eyes, and said plainly, "My cat."

Freddie blinked.  "Your... your cat?"

"Right," Brian nodded, curls bobbing up and down.  "My cat, the- uh, the one that I had as a lad."

"Oh." 

"What do you think of it, Freddie?" he asked.

I saw Freddie's back shudder slightly, as his hands quietly clawed the underside of the console he was slouching against.  God knows what his expression happened to be.

"It's," Freddie whispered, "it's lovely."

Then, very slowly, I remember him straightening up, and suddenly hitting the console with the side of his fist in a gentle excitement.  "Well, anyway, now that that's all cleared up, let's get back to it, shall we?"

And that ended it.

As you probably already know, Eve Dubroc indeed was never again discussed amongst ourselves. Otherwise there wouldn't be another thirteen years of Queen music floating around on the airwaves today.  Freddie was indeed a man of his word.  If he said he would leave if x, y, and z happened, I believed him.  We all did.

I've thought about that day a lot over the years, but now it's really settling in my head as I walk along the road under this English gray sky. I don't claim to know all the details, I don't claim to read his mind. We were such complete opposites, Freddie and me, to the point that I was basically his foil. I know that. I'm steady, a bit on the boring side. I was born with an old soul. I couldn't be anything less.

All the same, I think perhaps whenever he looked at me and my dear family over the years, he was looking through a what-if window- and he saw what he might have had, if she had still been there when the sun set that evening.

Because at the back of Freddie's mind, I believe -and I could be wrong, don't quote me on this- I was that last reminder, the one piece of living evidence that he could not forget, or burn, or rip to shreds. For while he tried so vehemently to choke out the memories by indulging himself in every way he could think of, I was still there with mine. The others gladly forgot, those two weeks didn't affect them nearly as much as they affected me and Freddie. We might have been close friends, tightly knit companions. And oh, how I wish that's what had happened.

But it didn't. Destiny had something else in mind.

And Freddie changed.

It was a gradual change- it took nearly two years to really start showing- but once it appeared, it escalated exponentially. And for the longest time, he was an entirely different person- a sex and drugs and alcohol machine, all about a good time even at the expense of dropping dead while in the midst of having one. Maybe, in a way, that's what he was half-hoping would happen all along. Sort of a passive suicide, death by hedonism.

And all because of some sweet, mysterious little stray kitten. 

One girl tripped him up, one girl brought him down. 

Who knew.

Or was she a trick in my head as well, a makeshift explanation, a means for me to cope with Freddie's death?  A target I concocted in my own cobwebbed skull, a face to which to brand the blame? 

Good God.  I don't f---ing know anymore.  I'm so old, anything is possible.  After all, there wasn't one stone Freddie left unturned.  He burned the lyrics, destroyed the tape, abolished her very name.  God knows what he did to her clothes and everything- probably burned those too.

I turn the corner.  There's my house a little ways down.  I told Veronica I wouldn't be out long.  I'm as good as my word today.

I honestly don't know of anyone else so thorough in removing an unpleasant memory.  Perfectionist he is, he found everything, everything she touched, and destroyed it- with the exception, of course, of the album itself.  Her fingerprints are all over News of the World- and that one song on Jazz.  One simply needs to know where to look.  But she is everywhere.  Julia might as well have her photograph stamped on the cover, in place of the giant killer rob-

I stop in my tracks.

Photograph.

Wait a minute.

There was a photograph.  I remember.  She gave it to me.  It was a Polaroid, so state-of-the-art in those days- and it was of the two of them, together.  Smiling.  Happy.

The day before she disappeared.

Didn't she write something on the backside?  Wasn't it some queue of numbers?  Yes.  Two of them.

Could one have been a phone number? 

Yes.  An American phone number, anyway.  Just add the one in front, and voila. 

Supposing- supposing that number worked.

2017, she said she came from.  It's 2017 now.  Perhaps- you think-

No.  That's absurd.  I'm having some kind of spasm in the brain.  That's the only explanation.

But now, I'm running the rest of the way home, not sixty-six anymore but twenty-six, and it's as though forty years never passed.  What was once the future, is now the present.  There's a chance I can reach her, reach Julia Samuels- Freddie's stray kitten, my little insecure pixie friend, and all-around miracle.

Why does this matter?  Why do I need to hear her voice?

I don't know. 

But something deep down tells me it's terribly important.  And that's enough for me.

I burst through the front door and race up the stairs.

"John, what's going on?" Ron asks, bewildered.

"EUREKA!" I shout.

"You found something?"

"Not yet, my love, not yet!" I cry.  "But I will, I just need to find it."

"The meal will be ready in a few minutes," Veronica warns me.  "Don't get too enthralled, I don't want to sit down to a cold supper."

I'm only half-listening.  Straight to my study I run, and pull down every photo album I see.  I'm going to find that Polaroid if it's the last thing I do! 

Oh, God, please tell me I still have it somewhere!