Bluto typed away on his laptop. Albert had cracked the spine of a book titled Zombie Dragons. Dom worked on a crossword he’d clamped to a clipboard while Sutliff — Peter had to look twice to be sure — crotcheted the arm of a sweater.
The stewardess handed him something, “For you, sir.”
It was Bluto’s rubber-banded phone. The screen tallied the seconds on an active call.
“Hello?”
“Why was your phone off?” It was Tony Ogata.
“We’re on a plane.” Peter turned in his chair; Alistair stared at him, chewing on another Snickers bar.
“That explains it. Speak up then.”
“Maybe I should call you back.”
“I can hardly hear you.”
Peter could feel his throat tighten. He unlatched his seat belt and stood up. At the back of the plane, the stewardess squared her shoulders to him, assessed his intention, then looked away.
With five quick steps, Peter slipped into the lavatory and closed the door behind him. “I didn’t realize you’d be checking up on me.”
“Who’s checking up on you? I’m calling to offer my assistance.”
The bathroom had a granite-topped sink and a vanity. Did Peter need assistance?
“I expect something from you,” Ogata said. “Do you know what it is?”
Peter had no idea, but the other doctor seemed to be waiting for an answer. He almost said “Updates,” but he thought some more and a better answer came to him: “Transparency.”
And now he heard Ogata’s squeaky laugh, the sort of laugh that announced the laugher’s whole philosophy on how important laughter was and how there was no such thing as a terrible laugh, because. . Ogata said, “I expect greatness.”
Right, Peter thought, Expect greatness. It was one of Ogata’s maxims.
Someone knocked on the bathroom door. Peter said, “I’m afraid I have to go.”
“You don’t need my permission,” Ogata said.
There was another knock.
Peter ended the call. As he opened the bathroom door, something caught his eye.
“There’s a shower in here.”
Alistair looked over Peter’s shoulder. “What about it?”
Could this be what Ogata meant when he said “Expect greatness”? “Nothing.”
“Listen,” Alistair said, his body still blocking the doorway, “when we were first talking, I hope I didn’t come across as brusque.”
Peter said he hadn’t noticed.
Alistair flashed his uncanny eyes. “I don’t like meeting people if I’m in that sort of state. I can feel vulnerable.”
“Of course.”
“Put yourself in my shoes. I was jetlagged. My back was in knots and my father marches this skinny doctor in like his prize pig. You’re not drunk or high. You’re not even hungry, and I’m supposed to let you cure me? No thanks.”
Peter felt disarmed. He said, “It was my fault. I guess I let your father steer me.”
“We have to work together,” said Alistair.
“Sure,” Peter said, though he was not sure how or why he needed to work with Cross’s son.
Alistair didn’t move his body, but he turned his head to check out the rest of the cabin. “What do you think of Maya?”
She was smart and attractive. He could probably fall in love with her. “She seems great.”
“You want me to put a word in for you?”
“I get it,” Peter said. “You’re trying to do to me what I did to you, or something.”
Dom, whose seat was closest to the bathroom, said, “Allie, how about you let the doctor out of the john?”
“Was I talking to you?”
Beneath the bassist’s eyes, deltas of busted capillaries. “Let the guy go back to his seat.”
When Peter moved to exit the bathroom, Alistair stepped aside.
“See, I wasn’t blocking him.” Alistair said, “Dom, how’d that solo album do?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“The next time you’re in your basement, do me a favor and grab one of those CDs for me. I want to be able to say I heard it.”
•••
THE WHINE OF the jets changed and a moment later the angle of the aircraft shifted. The stewardess came around to inform them that the pilot had begun their descent.
“Hey, Albert,” Alistair called across the cabin, “what are a couple of swinging dicks like us supposed to do in Pittsburgh?”
The drummer held a finger up: Wait. He only brought the hand down to turn the page of his book.
“I’ve got a zombie dragon in my pants,” Alistair said.
41
If St. Louis is the Gateway to the West, then Pittsburgh is the Gateway to the Midwest. It’s the westernmost Eastern City. Old families with old money have left their mark all over town. Once you come off the bluffs, you’re on the ground floor. Heading west, the landscape doesn’t have any tricks to play until Colorado.
I used to know the city, but developers have been tearing down postwar buildings and replacing them with facsimiles of prewar architecture — as a result, everyday Pittsburgh looks more like a fantasy of the past.
On the edge of the Carnegie Mellon campus, I duck into a café. Inside, young people are sprawled out over the furniture as though they’d been gassed. I’m older than any three of them combined.
A plump girl with short blue hair — it’s styled in a severe manner that no one of my generation could look at without thinking of Adolf Hitler — says, “What do you want?” Reading the written-in-chalk menu on the wall, I realize that they don’t sell food. It’s all juices! I ask for their most substantial juice. “You want meat and potatoes, huh?” She calls something to a skinny boy wearing what looks like a woman’s blouse, who mashes a bunch of things into a howling contraption. He hands me a pint glass full of bruised liquid that’s the consistency of cream of wheat.
“What’s in here?”
“Beets, carrots, potatoes, spirulina, kale. . and red grapes.”
Exactly what I deserve for trying to revisit the past. I fork over nine dollars, pinch my nose, and drink it down.
THE GARAGE NEXT to the Peabody Center wants ten dollars. Since I know my way around, I drive until I find a free place on the street. Walking to the venue, the clouds spit rain, but I stay dry from my neck to my ankles. A lot of people believe you have to coddle leather goods, but nothing could be further from the truth. When properly treated (with waxes and plant oils), leather excels in inclement weather.
When I get to Will Call I shake my jacket and the raindrops fly away! But my smile disappears when the high school kid manning the booth says he has no record of my ticket. I tell him to look again, so he turns around and spends ten seconds pretending to check other places.
“I’m not finding a ticket,” he says, not looking me in the eyes.
I see a hundred and fifty dates a year, I see shows in Panama, I see shows in Moscow, in Oakland, in Latvia. In each of those places I’m able to walk up to Will Call and collect my ticket, but in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, there’s a problem. If I went back to my car, I’d be able find a copy of my receipt in the plastic accordion file where I keep my expenses, but it wouldn’t do me any good. I know exactly where my ticket is: it’s in Cyril’s pocket — this is how he punishes me for me shooting Alistair at the airport.
42
The jet sat parked on an empty corner of the runway. Cross had slept through the landing, through the cabin door being opened and the brisk Pittsburgh air rushing in. He’d slept while the rest of the band, Bluto, Wayne, and Alistair deplaned, cramming into a passenger van en route to the Warhol Museum for a VIP tour. The musician snored through his overlong nose, while someone from the ground crew snapped plastic covers over the engine intakes and exhausts. He slept while Cyril ducked outside to take advantage of a break in the clouds to stretch his legs.