5:Perspective

July 18

“You about ready?”  Matt asked, stepping into the dressing room doorway at B.B. King’s Blues Club and leaning there.  “How’s the set list look?”

Downing the rest of his tepid tea, Jon pushed the cup onto the table and looked up at his brother.  “It’s different enough for me and them both to appreciate, and I’m always ready.  How long?”

“Ten minutes or so.”  The bigger man crossed his arms, and tattooed biceps bulged to the size of Jon’s head.  “There’s, uh… something delivered for you.”

If Matt had been laughing, or even smirking, Jon would have immediately assumed that he was – once again – the proud recipient of women’s underwear.  He’d gotten those kinds of deliveries before a show more often that he cared to remember, along with other… weird things. 

Candy, pasta, shirts, teddy bears and flowers were common commodities in his career, but not normally at these fan club events.  Excuse him, Runaway Tours events.  They’d always been fan club events, they always would be to him whether Matt was doing them as part of Bon Jovi fan club management or under the title of his own business.  They were still the same things. 

Regardless, these were the hands-on gatherings where fans personally handed him their selected trinkets and he graciously accepted most of them.  They didn’t usually send stuff through his bodyguard/tour coordinator brother.

Matt looked uncertain and that, more than anything, had Jon frowning as he asked, “What is it?”

“A case of your favorite wine.”

Not an everyday occurrence, but it wasn’t a horse’s head.  People gifted wine on a regular basis and he’d been the recipient of it more than once. 

“Okay.  I like my favorite wine, so why do you look like you think I don’t?  Who’s it from?” he inquired curiously as he folded back the black long sleeves that were always too long.

Now his brother smirked and unfolded one arm to pull an envelope from the back pocket of his jeans.  The only thing Jon noticed when closing his fingers around the heavy vanilla stationery was that it was small, about the size of a thank you card, and completely generic.  There was no writing or other mark of distinction on the outside, and he curiously bent back the flap to extract the contents.

There was a folded notecard and a slip of paper, which a quick perusal identified as a two hundred and fifty dollar donation receipt for the JBJ Soul Foundation.  Pushing his thumb between the two halves of the card, he flipped it open to reveal a bold, yet feminine scrawl.

Mr. Bongiovi,

A family member recently used my name in requesting to attend tonight’s performance. 

I ask that you accept the wine and charitable contribution to your foundation as

my apology for the intrusion.

Charlie Del Vecchio

With his mouth going tight, he tossed the envelope and contents onto the table where they skidded up against the teacup.  The good news was that he had moved far enough on from divorce days that he wasn’t going to explode into a heated cussing fit and proclaim that there wasn’t any “family member”.  He might think it, but he wasn’t going to act on it, and who knew?  If two weeks was enough time enough to ease his bitterness toward the barracuda, another two might enable him to partake of the gift without caring who it came from. 

“Send it over to the new place,” he indifferently instructed his brother. 

It would be ten days before his newly purchased Tribeca penthouse was fully decorated, and another month before he returned from the Hamptons to occupy it.  He would christen the place by sipping Charlie’s wine on one of the terraces, while still mentally calling bullshit on the family member excuse.  She was trying to save face.  Nothing more, nothing less.

“Whatever you say, boss.  I still can’t believe you wanted to get a city place again so soon.”

Jon didn’t mind sharing things with his brother.  They spent a lot of time together and, as a byproduct, Matt knew almost as much about Jon’s life as he did.  The reasoning behind the quick acquisition of Manhattan real estate wasn’t something he wanted to share, though.  Hell, he didn’t even want divulge to himself the psychology behind it.

The God’s honest truth was that the New Jersey house was haunted by Dorothea's presence.  They’d chosen the building site and constructed the house together.  They’d hung pictures in the hallways.  They’d raised their family there.

And now he found it unsettlingly empty without her ruling over it.

Selling wasn’t an option, because he considered it his personal version of Elvis’s Graceland.  When he was dead and gone, his kids could open the place as a damn museum so people could see where he took a shit.  It was part of Jon’s plan to make sure they were always taken care of, as stupid as that may sound.

So on the day Charlie had received payment for services rendered, he called a realtor to find him an apartment near SoHo, but not in it.  The Tribeca penthouse had fit the bill and oddly reminded him of the Mercer Street place that Dorothea still held. 

Amicable or not, this divorce was affecting him more than he wanted it to, but he didn’t mention that.  All he told his brother was, “I spend a lot of time in the city.  It’s practical for me to have an apartment here.”

“It probably is,” Matt agreed with the lift of one beefy shoulder as he rotated his wrist to check the time.  “Whaddaya say we go do this?”

With a silent nod, Jon rose to take care of business.

* * *

Jon was having a good time. 

It was always hard to tell what kind of questions the crowd would conjure, but there was nothing too far out of the ordinary yet tonight.

They’d received his set list with appreciation to this point, loudly expressing their approval of “Destination Anywhere” and “Bells of Freedom”, which had seemed appropriate in the wake of his divorce.  Regular crowds would probably yawn through those particular selections, but the group in attendance at these events was comprised of super-fans who knew every single one of his songs – better than he did.  They appreciated the rarities and he enjoyed performing them once in a while.

Doing some of the Bon Jovi standards in this setting also allowed him some extra creative leeway.  With guitarist Bobby Bandiera and violinist Lorenza Ponce as his only accompaniment, the band's biggest hits took on a special feel when performed acoustically.  Then, when he threw in that bluesy, swing feel on “Bad Medicine”, it was almost like a night of goofing around in his living room.

He was in such a good mood that he’d even let one guy invite himself up on stage to sing part of “Bed of Roses”.  Jon was still shaking his head over that one when the mic found its way to a woman at the side of the crowd. 

“Hello, Jon.  My name is Vivian Del Vecchio and I have a question about the song you just sang.”

Del Vecchio?  As in Charlie Del Vecchio?  Surely to God she wouldn’t have balls enough to show up here and only change her first name? 

Frowning lightly, a shading hand came over his eyes and he peered more intently out into the crowd until finally locating the woman who was talking a mile a minute.  He strained to make out her features, but she was simply another woman in the crowd.  Late forties, New York accent, dark hair with eyes that probably matched, she didn’t look like a barracuda. 

“Whoa, whoa,” Jon halted her prattle since he hadn’t heard a damn word past the name she gave.  “You said Del Vecchio?”

“That’s correct.”

Turning to seek his brother, Jon spoke into the mic.  “Matt.  Weren’t we talking about somebody earlier with that name?”

Years of working together in this type of environment enabled Matt to keep his face schooled into a mask of impartiality as his close-cropped head dipped in assent.  The crowd would never have a clue that Jon knew the answer to that question as well as he did his own name, and that it was asked to subtly call the woman out.

She was unfazed, however, and helpfully offered, “You’re probably thinking of my sister-in-law, who says I humiliated her by using her name.  I say she’s too uptight.  All I wanted to do was get in here and clear up some ancient history, once and for all.  Fortunately, I found someone who wasn’t able to attend and was willing to give me their spot.”

Sister-in-law.  So there was a family member.  That’s a bet that he would’ve lost, but it was a point in the demonic divorce attorney’s favor.   It was another point that her sister-in-law might just be the same pain in the ass that Lilah was to him.  For that reason, he would indulge the over-talkative woman.

“Okay, sweetheart.  Tell me your first name again.”

“It’s Vivian,” she repeated, smoothing her hair.  “Or Vivi.”

With a nod, he acknowledged her response and shifted on the stool, folding both arms on top of his guitar.  “Alright, Vivi.  What kind of ancient history are we talking?”

“Well,” her hand flapped through the air.  “Back in 1987, you played The Garden on August second and I had a seat in the fifth-“ Pausing, she tipped her head slightly in thought.  “You probably don’t want that kind of detail.”

“Probably not,” he agreed with a laugh.  She was a pill.  “I’d like to get home tonight.”

“Of course you would.  Listen to me going on and on when I can ask one short, simple question.  Was there a real life incident that inspired you to write ‘Bed of Roses’?”

This wasn’t a new question.  That song was considered one of his romantic greats and every woman seemed to have an undying curiosity about the inspiration behind it.  Personally, he thought they liked to romanticize him with it, but the truest part about the whole damn thing was the hangover.

“There was a blonde in my bed, if that’s what you’re asking,” he supplied, which was his typical response. 

The mic had been taken away, but her voice still carried clearly across the crowded room when clarifying, “No, honey.  Specifically, I wanna know if you laid a woman on a bed of roses after The Garden show in 1987 to… do whatever, and then wrote a song about it.”

Both eyebrows shot up his forehead.  This was a ballsy broad who had obviously heard a story to that effect – and the disdain dripping from her words indicated that she didn’t believe it.  Not only was she ballsy, she was smart, but he didn’t want dragged into whatever circus had driven her to falsify her name and strong arm her way in here tonight. 

“Nope,” he answered shortly while flipping over his sheet music to see where they were in the set list.

Her squealed, “I knew that bitch was a liar!” could be heard over the intro of the next song, and she pumped her fist victoriously in the air before blowing him a kiss.

When put in perspective, maybe Lilah wasn’t so bad after all.