by Garth Stein
“What’s happening, brother? You here for the gig?”
Evan nods.
“Yeah, but it’s sold out. I can’t get in.”
“There’s always room for one more, ” Billy says.“Come on, I got a table.”
Evan follows him to the door and they walk right past the doorman without a pause or word of explanation. The same doorman who had so rudely rejected Evan minutes earlier. Evan smiles. Billy Marx is the one guy Evan knows who actually has enough juice to walk past any bouncer in Seattle.
While Billy and Evan aren’t exactly close friends, they see each other around occasionally, and they’re always friendly, since they have a mutual bond that goes way back. Billy was the drummer in Evan’s first real band, Free Radicals, a band that was full of good musicians, but was ultimately doomed because they were too diverse in styles and interests to really click. After the band broke up, Evan asked Billy what was next.
“Start a rehearsal studio, make a paycheck, ” Billy said.
“Sounds boring, ” Evan said.
“You know how much money is in drumming?” Billy asked in response. “Ten bucks a gig. I’m serious. You either write the songs or you produce them. That’s the money. Good studio musicians get by all right, if they live in L. A. But a mediocre drummer in a rock and roll band? Screw that. I got a kid, man. I need health insurance.”
The prophecy. And now he has health insurance and more. A dental plan, even.
Inside Jefferson Bank is a long, dark bar that is separated from the rest of the large room by a four-foot-high wooden divider. The main area is filled with small tables, all of which are full. At the front of the room is a stage with amps and musical instruments, but no musicians. Evan scans the room for Lars and Dean, but he doesn’t see them.“You looking for someone?” Billy asks, noticing Evan’s search.
“Yeah.”
“Well, come up front for a minute. I want you to meet someone.”
Evan really wants to find Dean, but he doesn’t want to be rude to Billy, who, after all, was the one who got him inside. He glances around one more time, but the room is packed. He might never find them. So he follows Billy.
They pick their way through a tangle of tables until they reach a long table near the front where about ten people sit. Billy indicates an open chair, then moves around and sits across from Evan, next to an incredibly beautiful woman.
Shockingly beautiful. Indeterminate age, maybe thirty or so, Asian-looking, with milky brown skin and long frizzy hair that is pulled behind her into a low ponytail. She’s wearing a little black dress. Her eyes are vast reflection pools, her cheeks are high and defined, her lips are full and pouty. Evan almost can’t breathe, he’s so taken with her.
She’s probably Billy’s girlfriend. Evan knew that Billy had a kid, but he also knew that the mother took the kid and left. This girl is a pretty fair consolation prize.
She catches Evan staring. She smiles a little, dips her head modestly, and looks away toward the stage, stretching her long, slender neck into a wonderful arc—not reprimanding Evan for his stare, but encouraging him to look more.
Which he does. Billy doesn’t care. He’s already deep in conversation with someone else. With extreme effort, Evan takes his eyes off the girl and looks around the table. He doesn’t recognize any faces, but he knows he’s sitting with the band. They’re all dressed in ultra-cool fashion, way beyond Evan’s look—charcoal lounge suits with thin ties and French-cuff shirts proclaiming that they are definitely from a different tribe than Evan. Just when you thought you were cool enough. . . He lets his gaze drift back to the girl. She’s saying something to the guy seated next to Evan. Evan tunes in.
“—I just think it’s inappropriate. I’m not commenting on the value of your music, Theo.”
Theo? Evan looks over. Next to him is a tall, gaunt white guy with thinning hair in a floppy drab suit. He’s smoking a cigarette. Theo Moody, the leader of Lucky Strike.
“Music doesn’t have a bedtime, ” Theo says. He has a gravelly deep voice. His nose is large and it angles slightly down, as do his eyes, giving him a perpetually sad look. “If there were some rare lunar eclipse and you could only see it at two in the morning, wouldn’t you wake your kids up?”
“I think it’s sweet that you equate yourself with a rare lunar eclipse, Theo.”
“You know what I mean.”
“What do you think?” the girl asks.
Theo doesn’t answer.
“Yeah, ”Theo says, “what do you think?”
Again, no response. Who are they asking?
Evan suddenly panics. They’re asking him? The girl is looking right at him. So is Theo Moody.
“What was the question?” Evan asks sheepishly, feeling like he’s back in high school and has failed the pop quiz again.
“There are some kids over there, ” the girl says, indicating a table. “I think it’s inappropriate, Theo doesn’t. What do you think?”
Evan looks over. It’s a family with two kids, who look to be about eight and ten. What does Evan think?
“My kid’s here, ” he says.
They look surprised.
“He’s older than they are, though.”
“How old?” the girl asks.
“Fourteen. I think those kids are too young.”
The girl raises her eyebrows at Evan and looks impressed, like somehow he’s gained status in her eyes, like he didn’t look like the kind of guy who would have a fourteen-year-old son and now that she knows he does, she has to reassess the situation.
“Theo!” Billy shouts from across the table—Billy sitting next to his beautiful girlfriend.“You met Evan?”
“Kind of.”
Evan and Theo shake hands, completing the more formal introduction.
“Evan played guitar for Dog Run, ” Billy says.“Remember them?”
“Should I?”Theo asks.
“One hit wonder, ” the girl says, staring at Evan now. Evan, father of a fourteen-year-old and former lead guitar for a one hit wonder. What would be revealed next?
“They had a top ten single a bunch of years ago, ” Billy explains to Theo. “But their lead singer committed suicide—the guy was a total drug addict—and the album bombed anyway.”
“Cool.” Theo nods, morbidly impressed.
“Evbee’s a great guitarist, Theo, ” Billy says. “You should hear him play.”
“Cool.”Theo smiles.
“You guys should have him sit in, ” Billy’s girl suggests helpfully.
“Yeah?”Theo wonders aloud.
“I always love a good jam, ” the girl confirms.
“Okay, ”Theo agrees. “Our set starts in five.”
He looks expectantly at Evan, and Evan suddenly realizes he means they should play now.
“Now?” Evan asks.
The girl nods at Evan.
“Why not?”Theo replies.
“I don’t have my guitar.”
“I’ve got a guitar for you.”
“In front of an audience?”
“You’re telling me the lead guitarist of Dog Run is afraid of audiences? Come on, man.”
Theo tells his band to start getting ready, and then he leads Evan up to the stage, which is no more than a raised area, two steps above the rest of the room. It was probably where the lending officers originally sat when the venue was still a bank. Theo finds his guitar set up next to two saxophones.
“We’ll just stretch a little, ” he says to Evan.“Don’t sweat it. And then you can sit down and we’ll play the set. It’s cool, man.”
He looks at Evan, who doesn’t appear totally convinced it is cool. Usually, he loves being on stage. In fact, he feels more comfortable in front of an audience than in one. But now, he’s so nervous he’s shaking.
“You got chops?”Theo asks.
Evan nods.
“Then don’t sweat it, man.”
“I play rock, not jazz.”
“You play what you play, man. Play w
hat you feel. I don’t give a shit. Just play it in key and step back when I say step back. Cool?”
“Cool.” Evan nods, still feeling doubtful.
Of all the bands he likes, how many times has he imagined just this situation? How many times has he pictured himself on stage as a guest star? But never with Lucky Strike. He listens to them for pleasure; he doesn’t try to figure them out, doesn’t try to imitate. Sometimes, in music, not imitating is the sincerest form of flattery.
The rest of the musicians assemble. There are seven or eight other guys. A trumpet, a cello, a pedal steel guitar, a bass. So many. How do you communicate with so many players?
Evan introduces himself around. He’s nervous, but strangely clear-headed—strange considering his mental state before getting on stage. There’s no way he would have a seizure on stage. It’s never happened before. And even with some recent seizure instability and the idea that Dean is out in the audience and is about to hear him play, Evan feels totally safe. There is one thing Evan can count on: on stage with a guitar, he is always safe.
“Watch me for the changes, ” the bass player tells him. “Theo will point to you when you’re up, otherwise just play rhythm.”
“Cool.”
Evan tunes the guitar. It’s a Rickenbacker, not Evan’s first choice in guitars. He’s a Fender man through and through, and isn’t used to the sound and feel of a hollow-body. But that’s no excuse. A poor artist blames his tools.
While the musicians fiddle around and warm up, Evan glances out into the audience. Way in the back, standing by the bar, he sees Lars with Dean in tow. Lars is holding his arms out wide in disbelief, shaking his head, shouting something—or mouthing it, Evan can’t hear him—wondering what the hell Evan is doing on stage.
It’s pretty funny and cool. Almost a fantasy for Evan to be playing for Dean. It’s like he can finally show off. Music, the one thing he can do well, is the one thing his family never sees him do. Oh, his brother used to come to gigs, but then his wife, Allison, stopped coming because she developed an allergy to smoke (aren’t we all allergic to smoke?), and he doesn’t go anywhere without her. His parents went to a gig once, when Evan was just out of high school, and they told him how proud they were of him, but, without excuse or explanation, they never came again. So, to go from being left out on the street to being on stage in front of Dean is kind of a dream come true.
“Hey, everybody, ” Theo says into the microphone, “A surprise guest dropped in tonight—”
“Tom Waits!” someone shouts out. The crowd cheers.
“If you came for Tom, you came to the wrong place. This here’s Evan, formerly of Dog Run. He’s supposed to be pretty hot, so we’re gonna jam a little. Cool?”
He turns to the band and counts off a quick one, two, three—
And they spring to life. The entire band suddenly jerks into motion and shoots forward and Evan feels like he’s barely hanging on. They’ve all been playing together for who knows how long. They all know each other. And Evan is supposed to play with them? The key changes are abrupt and sometimes discordant. Evan is flailing, not in a groove at all. He’s desperately looking at the bass player to see what key they’re in, but it’s a six string bass and he’s all over the fret board.
But then Theo solos on the tenor sax and things settle down. The bass player smiles at Evan and leans in.
“Just chill, man, ” he shouts. “Chill.”
Evan calms down and starts comping underneath the sax— ching-a-ching-ching-a-ching—until he gets the changes down.
Again, he looks for Lars and Dean. They’re still there, Lars bobbing his big white head to the music and Dean smiling, bobbing along, too. Smiling.
Billy and his girlfriend are still at their table; the seats vacated by the band are filled with new friends. The girl glances up at Evan and smiles. He smiles back. Everyone is smiling. God, he loves music!
They cycle through the solos. Cello, trumpet, pedal steel, and then Theo turns to Evan, holds his hand like a gun, and pulls the trigger.
Bang.
Good musicians have a vocabulary of riffs and phrases and segues they can put together to make musical sense. The better the musician, the bigger the vocabulary, the more dynamic the performance. Evan, who’s been playing the guitar seriously for twenty years and has the gift of remembering almost everything he hears, has an Oxford English Dictionary of riffs in his head. And, using as much of his vocabulary as he can, he puts together a solo that starts funky, dips into blues, touches on jazz and wails in rock. The other musicians nod in time, smile at his playing, until Theo points again and mouths “Step back, ” and Evan steps back. The tune continues a dozen more bars and then peaks with a cacophony of howls from the horns before it crashes to the floor.
“Dead, ”Theo says into the microphone.
The crowd cheers.
“Let’s hear it for Evan, people.”
More applause.
The musicians slap at Evan’s hands, slap him on the back and then Theo steps up to Evan.
“Billy was right, you’re good, man, ” he says into Evan’s ear. “Next time you’re in New York, gimme a call, we’ll hang out.”
“WHAT THE FUCK were you doing up there?” Lars yells as soon as Evan arrives at the bar. The crowd shushes them. The band is playing.
“What the fuck?” Lars repeats in a whisper. He’s shaking his head and grinning, his pale blue eyes open wide.
“You were fucking jamming with Lucky Strike!”
Shh! Shhh!
“This fucking guy, ” Lars laughs. He reaches out and punches Dean’s arm. Dean laughs, too.
EVAN TRIES TO find Billy and Theo after the gig, but it’s useless; they’re gone. Lars offers Dean and him a lift home, and then, once they commit, announces to them that he can’t sleep after a show so they all have to go to Denny’s for ice cream. Lars and Dean have banana splits. Evan has a fruit salad.
After they indulge, Lars hands Dean a five-dollar bill.
“Go play a video game for a few minutes, ” he says, referring to the half dozen games in the front of the restaurant. “I need to talk to your dad. Then I’m gonna come and kick your ass.”
“You wish, ” Dean says, scooping up the bill.
“You’re gonna wish you hadn’t just said ‘you wish’ by the time I’m done with you.”
“I have no idea what that means, ” Dean says with a devilish grin as he walks away.
When he’s safely out of earshot, Lars focuses on Evan.
“So, ” he says, “his mother died.”
“Yes.”
“And now you have custody.”
“Custody?” Evan asks, startled.“No, not custody. He’s just staying with me for a few days. He’s living with his grandparents.”
“His grandparents.”
“Yes.”
“His maternal grandparents.”
“Right.”
“And they live? . . .”
“Walla Walla.”
“Walla Walla. Nice. And how much time, exactly, have you spent with him before this time?”
Evan doesn’t like being questioned like this. He fiddles with his fork and squirms in his seat.
“None, ” he confesses.
“None. None at all. So you’d have to say you’ve never seen him before.”
Evan thinks about telling Lars that he has seen Dean before, back when he was just a day old, but he knows it would make him sound even worse: if you’re going to abandon your kid, do it as an act of passion; stand behind it; don’t do it half-assed.
“So let me get this straight, ” Lars says.“You’ve never met this kid before. You find out his mother dies. You go to her funeral and end up taking the kid home with you—but you don’t want custody of the kid or anything, he’s just visiting for a few days. Is that about right?”
“I don’t really feel comfortable discussing this at the present time, ” Evan says.
“Really. Well, then let me ask you this: why the
hell did you go to her funeral in the first place if you didn’t want the kid?”
Evan nervously looks around the restaurant. It’s almost empty. Leave it to Lars to stick it to him in an empty Denny’s.
“I mean, seriously, Ev, ” Lars continues. “You had to know that the second he saw you he’d want to be with you.”
“He doesn’t want to be with me. He hates me. He told me—”
“Really? He’d rather hang with his loser grandparents in Walla Walla than his cooler-than-life musician dad who jams with Lucky Strike on any given night and takes him out late for banana splits?”
Evan checks his watch. It’s almost midnight.
“I should get him home.”
Lars nods. “It’s past his bedtime.”
“Yeah.”
Lars slides over on the banquette and rises.
“Let me play a couple of games with him first, okay? I promised him.”
“Okay, ” Evan says.
Lars starts to go, then stops, “You know, Ev . . .”
But he doesn’t say anything else. He just walks away. And Evan knows what Lars was going to say. He knows. So he waits a significant amount of time—more than he normally would have waited—and then he pays the bill and goes to collect Dean.
DEAN STANDS OVER the unblinking answering machine on the floor next to Evan’s bed.
“Grandma didn’t call.”
Evan locks the door and heads toward the sound of Dean’s voice.
“I’m sure she’ll call tomorrow, ” he says.
Dean shrugs, pulls off his shirt.“Do you have a washing machine in here?”
“In the basement. Why?”
“I should wash this stuff before I wear it.”
“You’re already wearing it.”
“My mom always said to wash clothes before you wear them, ” Dean says.“To take off the chemicals in the dye and pesticides they spray on the cotton plants.”
Evan’s never heard of such a clean concept. But it sounds like something a well-read, concerned mother would say, so he doesn’t doubt its validity. Besides, he knows you should never argue with a kid’s dead mom.
