Read How to Kill a Rock Star for Free Online

that looked like a merkin sitting on top of his skul .
    “Welcome to New York,” he said.
    Michael’s embrace lifted me a foot off the ground. I pretended this was annoying every time he did it, but it secret-ly made me feel loved. His shirt smel ed like parsley and garlic and I was sure he’d worn it to work the day before.
    “Sorry I didn’t stop by last night,” he said. “It was late when I left work.”
    I didn’t bother beating around the bush. “You’re not real y quitting the band, are you?”
    Michael went back to picking at his pizza. “Not your problem,” he said, his tone bordering on condescension.
    He and Vera were made for each other, I swear. They both thought the person who cared about them the most was the one they should inconvenience the least. They had everything backwards.
    “It’s not fair for you to have to give up your dream,” I said.
    “It’s not fair for Vera to have to give up hers either.” Michael was right. But he looked like our dad, and the resemblance alone gave his dream priority. For nearly twenty years, from the time he was eighteen until the day he died, our dad had worked on the assembly line at GM. His only hobby was playing an old Washburn guitar, and in the summertime, when Michael and I were stil kids, he used to spend his Saturdays sitting on a plastic lawn chair in the yard, nursing a beer and singing “Born to Run.” Michael and I liked to scream the line “ tramps like us ” at the top of our lungs. At the end of the song we would applaud and beg him to do it again.
    “See?” our mom would say to him, no doubt thinking she was making him feel good. “You could’ve been Bruce Springsteen.”
    “Right,” he always replied. “And if my aunt had bal s she’d be my uncle.”
    To this day I can’t listen to “Born to Run” without feeling like I’ve been shot.
    “You can’t quit the band,” I said again.
    “Then you better start playing the lottery. Or better yet, get us a record deal.”
    Michael had been eyeing the door to Paul’s room. As if
3his gaze had wil ed it to life, it creaked open and Paul emerged looking like a hungover somnambulist.
    “This is disgusting,” Michael told him, referring to the bean and tuna pie.
    Paul lifted his head to see past the hair in his eyes. He squinted first at Michael and then at me, as if he didn’t know who we were or what we were doing in his apartment.
    “Mr. Winkle,” Michael said. “Why aren’t you ready?” Paul shrugged and made no effort to get moving. He poured himself a glass of orange juice and paced the kitchen in a tiny circle.
    “Who’s Mr. Winkle?” I asked, trying to peek into Paul’s room for evidence of Avril. Al I could see was the foot of his bed and an empty liquor bottle on the floor.
    Paul’s flashlight eyes met mine and made a trail down to my toes and then back up again. “You’re sweating,” he said.
    “I was running.” I wiped my forehead and helped myself to a glass of juice. “Who were you talking to last night?”
    “Huh?”
    “After you got off the phone. It sounded like you were talking.”
    “Oh, nobody. I mean, I was talking to myself.” Paul went into his room and came back with a microcassette recorder.
    “I decided to start chronicling my life. I’ve always wanted to keep a diary but I’m too lazy to write shit down so I bought this.” He fiddled with the knobs. “Oh, but if you’re referring to Beth, she’s gone.”
    “ Beth ?” I practical y shouted.
    He put the machine in my face, flicked the RECORD
    button, and said, “Say hi.”
    I thought I’d be over the dizziness by morning, but there was no way around it: being near Paul Hudson made me feel like I’d just stepped off a fast-moving merry-go-round. It was either a good sign or a very bad one.
    “Paul,” Michael sighed, “we don’t have time to socialize.
    Go get dressed.”
    Paul finished his juice and wandered into the bathroom while Michael carried his half-eaten piece of