Echo of the Supernova: The Singularity of Robert Grady
A preview of Brian's novel, nearly two decades in the making
[In November 2006, I began my third attempt at completing a 50,000 word novel as part of National Novel Writing Month, more commonly known as NaNoWriMo. It was the first time I was successful, writing the more than 50,000 words over the course of the 30 days that month1. The inspiration for the story you’re about to read came to me while working in the backroom of the sporting goods store where I was working as a manager.
The novel involves a reporter tracking down the lead singer from a ‘90s rock band, who has fallen out with his band mates and fallen from grace, for a ‘Where Are They Now’ piece for a rock magazine.
Quickly, the reporter finds herself getting pulled into the orbit of the lead singer’s powers and troubled life, which also includes his two kids and two ex-wives.
I’ve been threatening promising to unleash this novel via Substack for more than a year, 1. in hopes of spurring me on to complete the novel, and 2. because this story has been a creative burden I’ve been carrying around for nearly two decades now.
The first few installments of the novel will be free. Then, the story will only be available to paid subscribers of TheBrianLennonShow, with a plan to publish segments of the novel each month through the rest of 2025.]
Chapter 1. March 1, 2006
The second time I meet Robert Grady I’m standing outside his large Colonial brick house in Schoemburg, Ill. on the first morning of March.
It is a chilly, gray day. He steps out the front door holding a Thermos filled with a steaming beverage with a lit cigarette dangling from his lips. He doesn’t notice me at first, or acts like he doesn’t see me standing there, but when he does, I suddenly realize he’s forgotten about our scheduled meeting this morning.
“Good morning.”
The sound of excitement in my voice I cannot hide because I am excited to see him again.
“Hey, what’s up?” He doesn’t bother to look up at me, and this is when I see his two young children trailing behind him. “I just gotta get these guys to school.”
There is one boy and one girl. They both are smiling and look happy. The boy wears a pair of denim jeans and a Gap sweatshirt. He has a buzz cut and a backpack slung over his shoulders, decorated with fighting turtles. The girl, still with the dust of sleep visible in the corners of her eyes, has curls of hair that look like they are running away from the roots of her head.
I give both of them a smile as they run past Robert toward the metallic colored mini-van waiting in the driveway.
“Pepper did not want to get up this morning,” Robert says, pulling closed the house’s large, white front door behind him.
“I’m Karen Kelly,” I say, extending my hand.
Robert fumbles with the exchange of his coffee, from his right hand to his left hand. “Nice to meet ya. I’m Robert, obviously.” He manages to accomplish all of this still with the cigarette dangling from his mouth.
“So, these are your two little guys?”
“Yup,” he says, now digging into the pocket of his denim jeans.
They are a pair of women’s stretch jeans. Their tight fit makes the task all that more difficult. “That’s Jack,” he says, pointing at the boy. “And that is Pepper.”
“Oh, what a cute name,” I say. Celebrities have a penchant for odd names, but I’ve not heard of Pepper yet, although I remember my great-grandmother had a black poodle named Pepper.
“Alright guys, no pushing,” Robert reminds the kids as they scramble into the mini-van, not even giving the automatic door a chance to slide completely open. Inside the van a long bench with two booster seats awaits Jack and Pepper. I stand back and watch as Robert leans into the vehicle and straps the children in their plastic seats.
It is nearly 8:30 a.m. Robert and I were supposed to meet at eight. He has not even feigned an apology for his tardiness or acknowledged the fact I was ringing his doorbell and knocking on the front door for the past fifteen minutes.
Robert slides the door shut, turns around and looks at me for the first time this morning.
“I just have to run them to school. Do you wanna hop in and come for the ride? Or you could wait here? I’ll be right back. The school’s just down the road.”
“I’ll go for the ride,” I say, and walk around to the passenger side.
The interior of the car is neat. There are no empty fast-food drinks in the cup holders or a single gum wrapper on the floor. Despite the car reeking of smoke, there are no stranded cigarette ashes on the middle console.
“Hi guys,” I say, turning back to introduce myself to the kids. “My name is Karen.”
Jack says, “Hi.” Pepper remains silent, lowers her chin to her chest and glares at me. Her grump face, which is absolutely adorable, warms my heart on this cold morning.
“Daddy, why is she coming to school with us?” Pepper asks.
“She’s not going to school with you, Princess,” Robert assures her. “She’s just coming along for the ride.”
“But why is she coming for the ride?” asks Jack.
“Because her and Daddy have to talk,” he says.
“Why do you and her have to talk? Are you in trouble again, Daddy?” Jack asks. Jack’s honesty is refreshing and it’s obvious not much gets past the kid.
“No, I’m not in trouble,” Robert tells Jack. “Karen is just a reporter. She wants to talk about my music.”
This is the first time I can remember being called a reporter although I’ve written for various daily and weekly newspapers and glossy magazines. Because of the articles I write, which mostly are about the entertainment industry, I’m always referred to as a writer, contributor or features writer, but never a reporter.
Jack’s question makes me realize that Robert’s kids already know a little something about his past of drug and alcohol abuse, although by all the accounts I’ve read, he’s been clean and sober for two years now.
Robert backs the van out of the driveway at a fast rate. I already have a tight grip on the door handle before we get to the first stop sign, which Robert rolls through.
“Jack, how old are you?” I ask, trying to make friends and distract myself from Robert’s aggressive driving.
“Four,” he says. “But I’ll be five in a little while.”
“How long is a little while?”
“Dad, when will I be five?” he asks Robert, dragging his father into the conversation with this stranger in the car.
“In three weeks, Bud.”
Jack hasn’t bothered to listen to his father’s answer, his attention now focused on the zipper of his jacket.
“I’m still getting dirty looks so I guess I’ll just ask you, how old is Pepper?”
“Four,” Robert says, lifting the Thermos of coffee from between his legs.
The Thermos is inscribed. It reads: “How the FUCK did I get to be FORTY! Luv V.G.”
I find myself asking the same question.
How the fuck did Robert Grady get to be forty? Early on, the cards were stacked against him. At one point he was the lead singer for one of the most popular rock bands in the world. He used and abused drugs, spent time in and out of drug rehabs and halfway houses, only to show up again a few months later back in the wrong part of town.
There was police footage showing him walking out of a crack house in New York City. He was arrested in a car with a prostitute in Miami. And then there was the last episode, when he was turned in by a group of hookers working on the Sunset Strip who had grown tired of him begging for some dope.
Yet here he is now, a 40-year-old father driving his two children off to school. And this fact is why I’m here. To find out what became of Robert Grady, the supreme rock star who seemingly lost it all in the pursuit for fame, stardom and the next high.
That averages out to 1,666 words each day.