Though Arthur Pennyman claims to have “lots” of contacts on the tour, he only knows a few people. Most refuse to talk to him because they know doing so would get them fired.
Arthur’s favorite topic of conversation is not Jimmy Cross, but himself.
He originated the rumor that the “tangle of Coney Island jetsam” from “Jerkwater Blues” is somehow a reference to him, when it clearly represents the Cyclone roller coaster.
Cross never initiated a restraining order against him. This is another rumor circulated by Pennyman in order to increase his profile!
Records show that between 1990 and 1997, Arthur Pennyman failed to pay court-ordered child support. As a result, his child endured hardships such as going without heat and/or staple foodstuffs.
In the divorce papers his ex-wife filed, she listed sexual incompatibility and abandonment as the two primary reasons for ending their union.
The U.S. government is trying to recoup a large tax debt, which Pennyman has refused to pay.
The accuracy of his setlists has been greatly overstated. A cursory examination of his archives turned up more than sixty likely errors.
The website and the things he writes there are part of an elaborate strategy to establish himself as an expert on Cross so that he can sign a lucrative book deal about Cross’s life.
He has not shared any of the tens of thousands of photographs he has taken of Cross, but intends to sell exclusive rights to those photographs at some future date.
Numerous law enforcement agencies have investigated him on suspicion of pedophilia and endangering children.
First, I acknowledge there is truth in everything he alleges. However, the manner in which he presents his “facts” is prejudicial. For instance, if an older man is observed wearing a duster and carrying a camera in a school zone, he can expect to be approached by a member of the school staff and/or the local constabulary (as he should be, I think); this has happened to me on a couple occasions. In each case the “investigation” was concluded with a handshake and an apology — I only mentioned it to Gene to emphasize my own estrangement from society. As for the meaning of those enigmatic lyrics in “Jerkwater Blues,” Cross pointed directly at me while singing those lines.26 In the period mentioned (1990–1997), I did not always meet my court-ordered responsibility to Gabby. Yes, she suffered. There is no excuse for what happened. I have NO PLANS TO PROFIT, not today, nor in the future; profiting is the antithesis of my project. Like I’ve said before, I consider following Cross to be an artistic performance (and, as a piece of art, I expect its value as art to be determined by those people who observe it).27 I’m not aware of any errors in my database — identifying “Painted Horses” as “Painted Hoses” does not, to my mind, qualify as an error (even if such errors could be found, in an archive of more than 22,000 song performances, 60 errors would represent less than 0.3 percent of my entries).
Rather than post a defense, I decide to take the high road. My father used to say, “There’s nothing wrong with forgiving people their stupidity, but don’t try to absolve them of it either.”
I refresh the boycott thread. From Moscow and Baghdad and Vero Beach, anonymous strangers pile on their scorn. Halfway down the last page, I read a comment from Grimple68. He writes:
Greetings from Buffalo. You’ll never guess who I spoke with. That’s right, the grand ghoul himself. I spotted Pennyman lurking near the back of the auditorium having a powwow with the faithful. I headed over to see what they were going on about. Sure enough, someone brought up this teacup tempest. Pennyman seemed blindsided (I guess he doesn’t hang out much with the virtual hoi polloi). He asked what was being said. When someone told him, you could see he was shocked. For my $.02, he seemed a decent enough guy. Whoever is trying to assassinate his character has done a pretty expert job. I’m not joining any boycott, because I’m not a sheep. . Oh, and Cross put on a fine show. I won’t bother with the setlist since Pennyman posted it an hour ago. Flame on.
Tears roll down my cheeks and splash on an imitation-leather desk blotter. I am grateful for Grimple68’s defense, but the truth is that I’m alone on the road and it’s hard, on a night like this, to get revved up for Pittsburgh.
34
Peter watched the rest of show while standing beside Cross’s son. Instead of watching the spectacle of his father on stage, Alistair kept himself busy fiddling with his phone. Maya, who had edged closer to the action, bounced on the balls of her feet and applauded whenever the mood struck her. Peter had heard somewhere that sports reporters were forbidden from rooting for a team while sitting in the press box, and he wondered if a similar rule might be in effect backstage. Between songs he clapped in a noncommittal way.
At one point, Cross posted up next to Dom so they could trade riffs. The audience ate it up, the pulsing lights, Albert whomping on the bass drum, Sutliff sawing away on a contraption that looked like a piece of string art. The whole hall was on its feet. And in the middle of this, this event, Alistair leaned over to Peter and said, “I need to get something to eat. You want to come?”
Peter didn’t understand how anyone could walk away just then.
Alistair tapped Maya on the shoulder. When she gave him her attention, he pointed a thumb at the back of the hall. Just like that, they were gone.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, after the band had left the stage, and after the audience had managed to call them back for an encore, Cyril squeezed Peter’s shoulder and said, “Follow me.”
The bodyguard led Peter outside, to a narrow alleyway buzzing with a frantic, sickly light. A pair of black town cars idled.
Cyril opened the front door and pushed the doctor inside.
“Wait,” the bodyguard said, either to Peter or the driver.
The two men waited in silence.
The next thing Peter knew, Jimmy was inside the car, the bodyguard beside him.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Cyril said.
The driver rolled out of the alley, merging with traffic. As they passed the front of the concert hall, Peter could see bodies filing into the lobby.
By tilting his head, Peter was able to catch Cross’s face in the driver’s rearview mirror — Jimmy had a towel around his neck, his face shined with sweat. Thirty-five years before, had Judith watched him onstage? Had she tried to catch his eye?
Jimmy pinched the towel over his nose and blew. “Where’s Allie?”
It seemed to Peter that the question had been directed at him.
Cyril said, “He and the girl split. He was worried about finding a place with an open kitchen.”
“Maya,” Peter said.
Cross took another sip of water. “You fixed his back pretty fast.”
“He didn’t let me touch him.”
The driver took a sharp turn and the car dove underground. They came to a stop in front of a pair of yawning elevator doors. A bellboy stood there, waiting for them. Peter, Jimmy, and Cyril boarded the waiting elevator.
“Did Allie invite you to tag along?”
Peter turned around so he was facing Cross. “He did.”
When the doors opened, Bluto stood before them, a friendly frown stamped across his face. He handed Peter a key card before walking Jimmy and Cyril down the hall.
IN HIS ROOM, Peter removed his tour pass and lay it on top of the dresser. On its back, in a rectangular space where a photograph might have gone, someone had written, “Short brown hair / buggy eyes / probably in Dockers.”
Peter missed his own bed. He was susceptible to homesickness. His first semester in college he’d considered dropping out because he couldn’t stop imagining Judith sitting alone at their kitchen table. He’d been happy otherwise and didn’t have trouble making friends.