“You sound great, man.”
“Thank you.”
“No, really, you should so something with that. Let’s take that out on the road. I’ll quit my job. I’ll be your manager.”
“I’d advise against that. Besides,” I gesture at the fish, “that was a command performance.”
He laughs for a moment, genuinely. But when he stops, there’s too much silence. He doesn’t know what to do in the doorway, so he backs out. He looks uncertain of his place in his own house. His face falls, and I realize that I’ve never seen him sad — hurt. And I can’t help but think that in an ice cream shop a quarter century ago, some wisp of a girl from another town whom he was sweet on came a breath away from calling him a wop to his face. Poor Marco—Mahr-coh! I still can’t play him a song — can’t make him forget through remembrance — not even for a friend.
“You going to coach this season?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Is Segundo going to play?”
“I don’t know.” I look at one of the pictures of his boy on the bookcase. Handsome kid. Another half-breed, but he looks all his father. I wonder what he tells him in private moments. Marco looks at me as though he thinks I’m considering his question more deeply. I need to give him more. “I don’t know if he’ll buy into the team concept.”
He snorts, shakes his head.
“Dinner?”
“No, thanks.”
“Oh, yes — messages: your wife and then some guy. . Kevin?”
“Gavin?”
“Probably. It was hard to understand him. He had a thick accent.”
“Sounds like him.”
He waves good-bye and thumps down the steps. I wait to hear the front door close before I start again.
“Everybody is a star. .,” I fumble through the changes, trying to remember them, but while playing, I remember that there are four singers to account for — I can’t get that out of my head. It would sound ridiculous — one fool, switching voices after every line. I need something else, perhaps an original, but I haven’t played one of my old songs in years. I wasn’t on very good terms with them back then, anyway. They seemed to miss the point.
Marco creeps back into the doorway. I startle. I’m surprised he could be so quiet. He tries to explain.
“I walked out without a dime.” He offers a smile as an apology. He can’t seem to keep it from dropping to a frown. Then he brightens suddenly. “I’d completely forgotten about that song. Who is that?”
“Sly.” I pack up my guitar and begin checking the case for things I’ll need.
“That’s a great one. I never thought you could do it acoustically.”
“You can’t.”
If you’ve ever been broke — really broke — there are two things you know about being so: The universe is constantly conspiring to keep you that way: job interviews that require new ties; parking tickets on borrowed cars; late fees on just about everything; the need for legal representation to keep creditors at bay; the cosmic shame in your gut of showing your face in the light.
The second thing you learn is that the universe is plotting your redemption as welclass="underline" when all fortunes are reversed. And so you get to split time in your mind between being vengeful and being good — doing things for those who stood you well, doing things to those who didn’t. Making payback the rank and rabid Über-hundin. Lists have been made. Names have been taken. It’s all been arranged.
And since it’s all been arranged — my ascension — I find somewhere in the rising adrenaline that sometimes comes with a fantasy the guts to go out. I will go play in that bar, the one I’ve never entered, because I can’t help but think there’ll be somebody there. Who, I can’t say specifically, but somebody who will listen. I will go play in that bar. Bars really don’t bother me, and depending on what’s going on, they actually feel quite comfortable to be in — as long as there’s good light, good music, and enough people to blot you out. I used to write my college essays in bars. If Claire was a drinker, I’d probably spend more time in them. But I haven’t really frequented any on a regular basis, which is why I forget that they can make me feel at home.
Al Green is on the box. “I’m So Tired of Being Alone.” There’s smoke and low light and chatter, the clinking of glass and ice — cheer. It’s a long, thin room, lots of dim wood and brass. On one side the long bar runs from front to back, and on the other an equally long banquette with small tables butted together in twos and threes. Opposite the bench are mismatched café and schoolhouse chairs. Everything stops about three quarters of the way back just before a low platform, a makeshift bandstand, on which is an electric keyboard, in profile. Center stage there are two stands, one high, one low, both equipped with microphones. Tall PA speakers flank either side of the stage. Two men, teenaged from their leather and denim garb, middle-aged from their gate and grayness, take the stage. One, very thick, tries to squeeze his thighs under the piano. Then he stretches his short arms and flexes and extends his fingers. The other man, much smaller, nuzzles up to the mike while strapping on an acoustic guitar. “Check, check.” He turns to someone I can’t see, gives him the thumbs-up. Al Green gets cut off, replaced by a wordless hum.
A gangly, pony-tailed man bounds up on the stage. When he turns to face out, I’m surprised by his youth. The small man makes way for him at the mike.
“Evening, everyone!” he offers in the fake country drawl that northern hippies tend to adopt. “You all know me — Craig.”
“Yeah, Craig,” comes the response.
“Yeah,” he points in the general direction of the voice. “Hey, dude.” He moves his hands as though he should be holding something — from his thighs to his chest, then down again. “So most of you know what’s going on — what we do here. First off, I wanna thank everyone for coming — making this night what it is. It’s not easy getting folks out like this in the middle of the week.” A murmuring arises. He waits for it to end. He points to the ceiling. “Now, remember, this isn’t, I repeat, is not a competition. We’re here to support artists — that’s first of all.” He looks at his empty hands. “Oh, shit, I forgot my clipboard.” He spins to look for it, then gives up. “But we’ve got some great people here tonight, so they’ll play and you’ll vote in the end. And vote for the best — not just because it’s your friend. You know, try to be objective. All right?” He extends a hand to the guitarist, who has been fidgeting up there the whole time. “You all know Ed and Pete?” There’s a whoop, a yell, and some applause. Craig claps, too. “All right, let’s get this thing started.” He flaps his arms, palms up. The crowd responds with anticipatory chatter. He turns to the men. “You guys ready?” They both nod. The pianist grandly extends his arms out in front of him, raises them over his head and lets them part back to his sides. “Then start us off right! Ed and Pete everyone — come on!” Craig gangles off the stage and makes his way behind the bar. The talk fades. The small man steps to the mike.
“Good evening. How are you?” There’s a muted response. “I’m Ed and this is Peter. We’ve been working on some new material.” Ed’s voice is deadpan — almost lisping. “The first song is an original, one we wrote ourselves.” He picks the individual strings, strums a few chords. Peter matches him on the piano, hammers out the opening of Beethoven’s Fifth. He stops, lets the last chords ring out. Some of the audience force out laughter.
I make it over to the bar. The bartender’s an enormous and hairy man, like someone you’d expect to find on a mountain — thick salt-and-pepper hair, tied back, and a full dark beard. He would seem completely wild save for his bifocals.