The Things We Leave Behind

He watched me as I popped the videotape into my camera. Watched me with those seemingly ageless eyes of his. Jonathan Mendez—the legend himself—sat before me. Fender Strat resting on one knee, cigarette clipped between two fingers.

I remember him saying he'd quit a year ago. Guess old habits die hard.

We shook hands. I saw that Jonathan Mendez was not as tall as I thought he would be. Standing upright, he barely even came up to my shoulder.

"You ready?"

"Of course. Are you?"

"Ready as hell."

"The cap on your video camera's still on."

I checked, and unscrewed it. "Oh. Yeah. Sorry about that."

Jonathan grinned. Deep creases appeared along the corners of his mouth. I noticed a scar, streaking from his earlobe to the base of his neck. It was the scar he'd gotten at a barfight, during their 1997 European tour. First time mentioned in an issue of Rolling Stone.

Even after their decline, he never passed up the chance to tell that story. So we started with that. He went on to tell me how he "bashed the fucking bastard's head in" after he cut his face. Considering the bastard in question was a two-meter tall Czech, I had my doubts.

Jonathan took a few gulps of water from a bottle, fished out another cigarette from his breast pocket. He began to play the beginning riffs of a song on his guitar.

I recognized the melody—but only vaguely, like an echo in a dream. Cracking my knuckles, I shifted in my seat. For a moment there, I began to think—no, feel—that I was somewhere else entirely. No longer night, but warm sun, and the churning waves...

He stopped as soon as he began, ending the final note with a weary sigh.

"So what's the story behind that?" I asked.

"What makes you think there's even one?"

"All songs need to have a story behind it. Otherwise, they're meaningless." At this point, I realized that I might have said too much.

Jonathan leaned forward and said in a low whisper: "You're not really a reporter, are you?"

"No."

"What's your name, kid?"

"Aidan."

"Well then, Aidan." His tone was abrasive. Mocking. "What are you here for? Be honest."

"I was hoping I could ask you to do a...collaboration. With me and my band."

He began to laugh. "This is a joke, right? You know I don't do that shit anymore."

"Look," I said. "I promise you'll get paid for it. No problem."

"How many records have you put out? Albums?"

"None, yet. Not officially."

"Lives?"

"A few."

"So you're making this offer. You? Some indie nobody who thinks he can just waltz in here and talk to me like he was some label bigshot? Well...forget it."

"One track. That's the deal."

"One track's too much. Besides, it won't do your image any good--partnering with some washed-up musician. I'd go so far as to say I'm actually doing you guys a favor."

"Listen. If you would just consider--"

"Didn't you hear what I said? Forget it."  He continued strumming, starting over from the beginning. The air grew heavy. "I should say one thing, though. I admire your tenacity. It's gonna get you places."