He steps off the path and onto a trail that wends through the narrow trunks, toward the lake.
I ask if there’s a view that way. He says, See for yourself, or something to that effect. And because I have nowhere to be, nothing keeping me on the path, I follow him.
He wears those ankle-high rubber shoes, which I think are called duck boots. As the path gets spongier, the birch trees give way to these head-high reeds. The wind pushing through the brown stalks makes a sound like a thousand fingers counting money.
Somewhere close by the choppy water polishes the shore, but we haven’t reached there yet. My guide turns to me; I read a mixture of hope and embarrassment on his face. Sometimes I make the mistake of assigning my motivations to other people.
The stranger looks down and my eyes follow his. His penis has popped through the fly of his pants.
I spin around and make long, purposeful strides back toward my car. I glance over my shoulder to make sure he isn’t following me. The stranger stands there in his state.
“I have a wife,” I yell.
“Honey,” he says, “we all have wives.”
WHEN I GET back to the parking lot, the fry eater is still laughing on her phone.
24
At a little before nine, Peter found himself on Six West signing papers Peg Larsen had spread across her desk. One document released him from care delivery duties while another excused him from committee work. Each time she put a sheet of paper in front of him, she asked if he had any questions. He had lots of questions, but none he deemed worth asking. By the time they’d finished, he’d earned the right to add inaugural Rochester Memorial/Tony Ogata Ambassador for Wellness to his c.v.
“If he coughs,” Dr. Larsen said, looking Peter in the eye, “order a chest X-ray. If he gets a splinter, call a surgeon. Remember, just because you’re the only doctor in the room doesn’t mean you’re the only doctor.”
“I wouldn’t think that.”
Peg nodded. “The full support and resources of this institution are available to you around the clock. Identify yourself to the switchboard and they’ll patch you through to anyone on staff. If you need to fly someone out to consult, say the word.”
Despite Dr. Larsen’s lecture, Peter felt nothing less than hope.
There was a knock. Peg got up, paused with her hand on the doorknob. “You’re a good doctor, Peter. I shouldn’t have let things go as far as they did. Please understand this was never personal.”
Peter said, “Of course not.”
Peg sighed, turned the knob, and opened the door.
In walked Martin, carrying a tote bag from the hospital’s gift shop.
“Dr. Vinoray volunteered to serve as your supervisor.” Peg didn’t return to her chair, but stood behind it. “Since we haven’t done anything like this before, I thought you two should sit down for a few minutes and discuss how you can partner. And, I believe, Martin prepared a little kit.”
Martin lifted the tote like a watchman’s lamp. “It’s mostly stuff I want Cross to autograph.”
Peg took a step toward Peter, who pushed himself back from the table. “Please, don’t get up. I have to rush off to update the board. Keep him rocking, Dr. Silver.” She paused at the door. “I feel terrible about yesterday,” she said before excusing herself.
MARTIN HELD UP a thin plastic case. “She thinks I was kidding about the autographs. There’s a double-pressed forty-five of ‘Sunlight for Smoking’ in here. . if he signs it, it’s worth three grand.”
“Did she seem odd to you?”
Martin lowered himself into the director’s chair. “Peg’s got two responsibilities: avoid making the board look bad and protect her staff. Well, first Oblitz got his hat handed to him, and then she made it clear that anyone can get shitcanned if some snake-oil salesman takes an unhealthy interest in you. This hasn’t been her best week.”
“Do you think she’s mad at me?”
“Listen,” Martin said, stirring his arm in the bag, “somewhere in here there’s a first edition of a chapbook Cross published under the name Caesar Bonaparte — get him to sign it and I’ll make sure all your interns look like the weather girls on Spanish TV.”
“First, can you walk me through my responsibilities?”
Martin set the bag in front of Peter. “As far as the administration is concerned, this is just a big marketing gimmick — in a couple weeks there’ll be a billboard downtown featuring a resident in a black leather lab coat. Just keep him upright and don’t panic.”
“Why would I panic?”
“You’re a homebody, Silver. Shit, you’re the only person I’ve ever met who unboxes his eggs and puts them away in one of those egg shelves. It’s hard to picture you living out of a suitcase.”
“I suppose it wouldn’t bother you.”
Setting his heels on the edge of the desk, Martin leaned back in the chair and gave his hips a few slow pumps. “I’d manage.”
Peter took a deep breath. “I want to do this.”
“Yeah? You going to have fun?”
“Who can tell?”
Martin checked his phone. “Do me a favor, gin up an excuse to bring me out for the Green Bay show.”
“Is there a Packers game or something?
“The last time Cross performed in Green Bay, he was playing alto sax for the James Polk Purple Martins.”
“I’ve never heard of them.”
“They’re his high school marching band.”
“I had no idea you were such a fan.”
Martin dropped his feet to the floor. “I’m a fan of cheesecake and Julia Louis-Dreyfus. I’m a fan of the Knicks. Jimmy Cross is my hero.”
25
Dear Mr. Pennyman,
Please be more circumspect about what you write. You make it sound like JC is suffering from dementia! That is irresponsible of you. Maybe he had a senior moment. Or maybe he thought the crowd wasn’t paying attention. Regardless, you of all people need to stay positive.
Yours,
Ophelia in a spider wedding dress
(4/16/90, 6/02/95, 9/22/95, 8/01/99, 8/02/99, 10/05/06, 5/30/08, 6/01/08, 8/27/09, 9/08/10)
Dear Ophelia,
I’m sensitive to your concerns. If I can read between the lines here, you might be assuming that what happened in Rochester did in some way resemble his stumble in Stamford (10/05/06) — which (check the archives) I didn’t report. These were very different incidents, which is why I reported (I did not sensationalize) what happened in Rochester. Trust me when I say that you and I are on the same side.
Best,
Arthur Pennyman
I have a friend at a recording studio in Austin, TX. They were told to reserve the studio for a three-week period starting the second week of January! Any chance that Cross might be recording a new album?
Hi.
He’s certainly due for a new album (overdue, really). And mid-January would make sense, since he likes to spend holidays with his grandkids. That said, as far as I know he’s never recorded in Texas. In recent years he’s favored studios in the UK (Off the Map and Later than That were both recorded outside Glasgow). But he’s expressed his fondness for SXSW (he called it “Woodstock with better weather”18). Still, I’d characterize this as a long shot. I know some of the aliases his people use when they’re doing things on the sly. If your friend tells me “who” reserved the studio, I might be able to give you more information.
Best,
Arthur Pennyman
Sir,
I’ve been a big fan since ’65. My wife and I saw the second show in Boston. Let me tell you, as a person who knew him when, it’s over. He was terrible, incoherent. It was, at best, passable country-western. Sure, he played a few classics, but I’ve heard better renditions in an elevator!