“What do I get?”
“You’ll get to practice medicine on a rock-and-roll tour.”
A word appeared in Peter’s head. That word was “boondoggle.”
“I still haven’t signed anything.”
“That’s correct. And we need to get everything in writing today. Mr. Cross will be in Buffalo tomorrow night and he expects you to be there.”
Peter had the sense that his calculations were merely repeating work done by someone else before him. And if that was the case, if someone else had bothered to follow this thread to its natural conclusion, then he didn’t have anything to worry about. His fate was cast.
“Don’t worry,” Peter said, “I’ll sign whatever they want me to sign.”
23
I’ve never grasped why anyone would call Jimmy’s performances the Endless Tour. His music will never go away. Fans will never stop decoding his lyrics. But his knock-kneed scarecrow stance won’t survive. How can anyone watch his silhouette follow the glow tape off the darkened stage and imagine the tour is endless?
I started taking pictures as a way to preserve the aspects of Cross’s life that aren’t captured in concert videos and on his albums. I’ve got pictures of the tour bus, of Jimmy getting into town cars and deplaning, passing through customs, the view through my windshield, Jimmy Cross impersonators, the tables selling merchandise, the meals I’ve eaten, the beds I’ve slept in, the faces of the crowds, the lighting schemes, Cross’s name spelled with black plastic letters, with lightbulbs, with LEDs, with lasers, on homemade signs, stenciled on the guitar cases and monitors, on bathroom walls and backstage passes.15 The only thing I won’t photograph is Cross on the stage.
Except for the pictures I showed Gene, no one else has seen my photographs — when your whole life is public, it’s a luxury to keep a few secrets.
I text my source on the tour: Can you get me the doctor’s name?
He responds almost instantly: Favors aren’t free.
$20? (I don’t know why I included a question mark.)
Hahaha.
I attempt to negotiate, but he tells me, basically, to stop wasting his time. The price of a name is fifty dollars. So I wire the money to his PayPal account. Five minutes later my phone beeps, a two-word message: Peter Silver. Just a name, no context, no mention of where he’s from or who he knows.
A Google search for a Peter Silver in Rochester helps to sketch things out. A Peter Silver finished in the middle of the pack of a First Responders 5K outside Rochester. Two years ago, a Peter Silver, M.D., spoke at a Boys and Girls Club banquet. And last fall Peter Silver, M.D., took part in a walkathon that raised $135,000 to fight pediatric obesity. Finally I find a picture cached, of all places, at a salsa dance studio — he’s got one hand on the waist of a spinning woman; her head is tilted back, and her hair flies out like a dervish. He bites his lower lip, he’s focused, you can hear him counting in his mind. It’s him, Cross’s late-night visitor. Rochester Memorial lists him as a “hospitalist.” What sort of business would bring a “hospitalist” to a hotel?
I feel hopeful. Despite a lingering hangover, I decide to drive to the lakeshore and look at the water.
You don’t need a map to find the lake in Buffalo. Follow your nose. The lake smells like ozone and, beneath that, orange soda — if you mention this to people in town they’ll argue, but that’s because they’ve grown accustomed to it. I drive around with my window cracked and pretty soon I arrive at a lakeside park.
On a day like this, when the wind teases the water into rows of teeth, it’s easy to think you’re looking at an ocean. Gulls perch on rotting pilings, facing into the wind; when they extend their wings, they don’t fly so much as levitate.
Another car pulls into the lot. The driver glances at me — she says something to me! No, she’s talking to someone on her phone. She leans across the passenger seat, lifts something, and stuffs it in her mouth. She’s eating french fries. She looks at me again and laughs. She’s about Gabby’s age.
Just like that, I’m thinking about my daughter. Why does she get angry so easily? She’s healthy. She’s not destitute. She has a job that she says she finds rewarding.16 And now there’s this person she wants me to meet. She’s found love! Does she live in a place where her friends are being murdered in the streets? Does she live in a place where her religion is mandated? Is the climate inhospitable? Is she told who she can and can’t associate with? No. No. No. No. She lives in America! Some women get used to sadness in the same way some men get used to having a mustache — they think it is part of who they are and forget that it’s a choice.17 Heaven forbid a father try to impart this wisdom to his daughter. Gabby tells me to worry about myself. But I have nothing to worry about. I’m perfectly happy, most of the time.
I spot a bicycle path alongside the lakefront and, despite the weather, I decide to go for a walk. I don’t want to get wet, but neither do I want to sit in the car just because there’s a chance I might get wet.
Also, in the back of my head, it occurs to me that both Gabby and Gene would opt to stay in the car. Since neither of them seems particularly happy, I elect to do the opposite.
There’s enough of a wind coming off the lake that I have to brace myself against it. I cinch my duster around my waist. Another car pulls into the lot. The driver’s hair is razored close to his scalp. He nods to me, another wandering soul.
I follow the path, which is dotted with puddles.
A duster is a very practical coat, especially a leather one such as mine. I got it in Australia in 1992. It’s both a simple jacket and, at the same time, dramatic. Mine’s got a flying yoke, which means that the back is shingled in a way that allows it to breathe. It keeps me dry from my neck to my ankles; I’ve slept in it more than once. On tour, people know me as the guy in the duster. The other thing I appreciate about a duster is that it’s a crime deterrent. Everyone’s seen the movie where the bad guy hides a shotgun in the folds of his coat. The duster is an unknown quantity, likewise its wearer.
•••
ON THE FAR side of a meadow, the path enters a stand of birch trees and I lose track of the lake. The blustery wind sets the white trunks of the trees swaying; I feel like a child lost in a crowd. How many people have lived in Buffalo all their lives and never visited this place? Even those who know about it probably blow right past on their bicycles or while jogging.
When the path emerges on the other side of the trees, it borders a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Inside the fence there’s a windowless factory. The wall of the building is a maze of pipes, holding tanks, and relief valves. A dozen aluminum chimneys jut into the sky.
A gust of wind catches the collar of my coat, causing it to slap my cheek. My hair is damp and cold droplets run down my neck. I turn around and start back. For the first time, I notice the grass is thatched with soda bottles and paper napkins, every kind of trash. How had I missed it before?
And then, coming up the path, I spot my kindred spirit, the driver from the other car. Like me, he’d rather engage with the world than sit in a hermetic bubble. He’s not a sad person; he’s smiling.
“I wondered where you went,” he says.
I say, “Great minds think alike,” meaning, I guess, that we haven’t been deterred by the weather.