As he shut the water off, Peter heard his phone vibrate on the vanity. The screen listed three missed calls and two voice mails. Every number appeared as “Unavailable.”
While his post-Lucy coffeemaker hiccupped and hissed, he checked his messages: the head of patient care requested Peter stop by before his shift; Bluto said, Shoot me your address and social, doc, so I can cut you a check.
The phone buzzed again, another unavailable number. Peter answered; he would always be convenient.
“It occurred to me you wouldn’t know it was a Sunbeam Tiger,” Cross said. “You used to call it the Go-Go Car.”
No, Peter thought, the Go-Go Car overheated on the DC Beltway — he and Judith had walked to a gas station and hired a tow truck to retrieve it, but by the time they returned to where they’d left the car there was only a wet spot on the pavement. The Go-Go Car, he knew for a fact, had been a Plymouth Volare.
“Forget it,” said Cross. “So why didn’t you check my blood pressure?”
“I didn’t?” Peter remembered getting the cuff out, but after that. . little details came to mind, the gold fleur-de-lis pattern on the carpet, Cross’s yellow-blue eyes, the satin edging on the brim of the cowboy hat.
“Don’t be surprised if Tony gives you an earful.”
“Are you talking about Tony Ogata?”
“Just giving you a heads-up.”
“Tony Ogata doesn’t know who I am.”
“He’s learning. He’s talking to people.”
From his living room window, Peter watched the white roof of a city bus as it pulled away from the curb. “Wait, who is he talking to?”
“Your references.”
“Excuse me?”
“He likes doing favors for me. I’m sure he’ll be discreet.”
“I thought I was the one doing the favor.” The words spilled out.
Cross was silent.
Peter plugged a finger in his ear so that he could hear better, but there was no one there.
11
It feels like someone is rapping their knuckle inside my head. The McDonald’s manager stands there, fussing with the blue tongue of his pocket square. He signals me to roll down my window.
“A person can’t sleep here,” he says.
I blink. Past my windshield, a breathing V of birds arrows out of town.
Sitting up, I pat my pockets. “I guess I nodded off.”
“Keys are in the ignition.”
I start the car, then look over my shoulder to back out.
The man puts his hand on my forearm and leans down so I can see his face. He’s got a trim little mustache, like a patch of Velcro. “You’re a long way from home.”
The Corolla5 has Texas tags.
“Then,” I say, “I have a long way to go.”
•••
WHEN I FIRST joined the tour, I would scribble the setlists on 3-by-5 cards — listening to the shows felt like trying to learn a foreign language, so I made myself take notes. I stored the cards in a shoe box that I wedged under the passenger seat. In the afternoon, I’d take the cards out and flip through them. When the shoe box started to fall apart, I replaced it with a little red toolbox.
My mother’s sister, Aunt Liddy, my chief patron, bought me a laptop computer to help me track my expenses. Overnight my 3-by-5 cards looked as ancient as cuneiform tablets, so I collated my setlists into a single, searchable spreadsheet.6
The laptop came with a trial membership to AOL, which is how I stumbled onto the Internet. Cross’s fans kept a newsgroup (rec.music.cross), but the content skewed to the emotional rather than the empirical. It wasn’t my thing. On a whim I registered the domain name JimCrossCompendium.org and designed the most basic of websites (a splash page that read, “Click HERE to see the Big List,” which linked to my updated file). The whole thing took me a few hours. When it was completed, I posted a plug for my site on the newsgroup, then I went for a long walk.
The next time I logged in, there were three replies to my thread:
Can someone check to see if this is legit?
and
This reeks of one of the labels. They’re probably ramping up to release some epic box set.
and
If Cross really played “Cherry Wine” and “Poseidon Gets the Blues” in Lisbon, Portugal, on 6/8/94, then I need to build a time machine.
The concept for my site has always been very simple: I attend the show, then I post my setlist. Sometimes I write a bit more and sometimes I write less.7 If a visitor learns about me in the process, that’s unavoidable. Take June 13, 2000:
The band jumps on “Tennis Shoe Blues” like it owed them money. I don’t know why they were late going on, but I get the feeling they aren’t happy about it.8 A. J. Wyatt punishes his drum kit. The band follows with the slowest rendition of “Long Gone” I’ve heard in years — I wish they played it like this all the time. How does JC know so much about betrayal? For the fifth time in eight shows, the encore went “Sally (& Gin),” “Pleiades for Breakfast,” and “Last Bus from Mexicali.” It’s certainly a melancholy way to close. Finally, a lot of you have been asking after my aunt Liddy. It’s been a couple weeks since I’ve had anything to report. However, sometime late last night she passed away — of course JC played “Lovely Tia Morena” to close yesterday’s show. Faithful readers know Liddy has helped me out from time to time (easing my financial responsibilities9 and, thus, ensuring that I could continue with this project). She remained upbeat and encouraging until the end. I will be flying out to pay my respects tomorrow morning, but will make it back before the opening act (the Nose Candies?!) complete their set.
Depending where you look, JCC can appear like a virtual library or a corner bar. Thanks to the site, I’ve been able to connect with fans all around the globe.10 JCC is like that character from “Aphids on Apples,” the one who “keeps a Rolodex file for the addresses of every dog’s door.”
Gene’s driveway is empty, but I still park on the street. A white envelope flags out from the railing of the raw wood staircase that leads up the side of the garage to the new apartment. It’s addressed to me:
Oh, Restless One,11
Sorry I’m not here to welcome you. I had to get to work early and Cory was called out of town (let’s not talk about it). In the meantime, make yourself at home. I’ll be back around six.
Gene
P.S. I won’t bother you in case you’re sleeping. Come down when you want company.
12
During his residency, Peter and Lucy shared a tidy one-bedroom apartment — formerly service quarters — in a mansard-roofed Victorian. The house was ringed by a hedge, which the owner trimmed with the aid of a laser level. Lucy kept hinting that she wanted out of the suburbs, so when the hospital offered him a salaried position Peter got in touch with a Realtor. The stability of a mortgage excited Peter. Besides, he always needed a goal to work toward — he’d always been that way.
THE REALTOR’S NAME was Margo Benedict. Peter would confess to Martin that talking with her reminded him of how, in the movies, a shy kid will hire a prostitute to take his virginity. (Martin said, “That’s not a film genre I recognize.”)
Margo didn’t care for conversation. Her favorite expression was “Tell me I’m wrong.” She specialized in pronouncements. “Young people don’t want a lawn,” Margo said. “You want your kitchen island and a discreet place to put a huge TV.” She said, “You want the openness of a loft, but you don’t want people staring at your bed during a dinner party.” She took him all over the city. When viewing a property, Margo had a tendency to clasp Peter by the biceps. She always wore red lipstick and heels. She had to be sixty.