The Frontman

by Ron Bahar

  I looked down. I had gone flaccid. It was indeed dark outside, but it wasn’t too dark that Dalia couldn’t recognize what had happened to my confused penis. She looked at me in disbelief. I was, again, humiliated.

  CHAPTER 30

  “I found a picture of you, oh oh oh oh

  Those were the happiest days of my life”

  —THE PRETENDERS’ “BACK ON THE CHAIN GANG,” WHICH

  WAS RELEASED AS A SINGLE IN OCTOBER, 1982, AND LATER

  ON THE ALBUM LEARNING TO CRAWL IN JANUARY, 1984.

  IT PEAKED AT NUMBER FIVE ON US BILLBOARD’S HOT

  100 SONGS.

  Dalia had promised never to divulge to anyone what had transpired at the beach. However, she left the following morning before I awoke, and the dumbfounded look in the collective eyes of the Pesso family made it clear that, with some combination of a literal and figurative game of Telephone, my parents would hear of my misadventure before I returned to Nebraska.

  Three days later, and after a tearful good-bye at what would be the last time I would see my grandfather, I stepped on a bus and roamed Israel alone for a week. I tried desperately to collect my thoughts, as I was still emotionally numb. I felt robbed of the sense of invincibility I thought I had earned as an Israeli-American exiled to Nebraska, destined to triumph as some sort of superhero with a cape, a stethoscope and a microphone. Instead, I was relegated to the role of the tourist with his tail and his floppy dick between his legs. I would sit silently, smelling the diesel exhaust while in my mind and with my camera I chronicled faces, roads, trees, monuments, and the withering Levantine sun. It didn’t help that in the 1983, most Israeli buses still had no air conditioning.

  Thanks to about thirty gallons of Coca-Cola, I managed to avoid evaporating while traversing the country from north to south to visit my interpretation of Israel’s Greatest Hits: the artists colony and center of Jewish mysticism in Tzfat, the Sea of Galilee, the Tower of David in Jerusalem, and the waterfall of the verdant oasis at Ein Gedi. Despite its inherent conflicts, Israel still had a way of vanquishing all of the cynicism I had developed over the previous few months. My numbness had resolved. I was, in the end, hopelessly nationalistic and romantic.

  Time and loneliness reminded me of what my grandfather had asked me about my heart, what made it tick. I again envisioned Amy traveling with me. Only Amy. While in Jerusalem, a solicitor for a local synagogue handed me a pamphlet containing the Song of Solomon, the biblical story of two lovers’ desire for each other. In it the Tower of David is referenced: “Thy neck is like the Tower of David built with turrets, whereon there hang a thousand shields, all the armor of the mighty men . . .”

  But here come the good parts: “Behold, you are beautiful, my love; behold, you are beautiful; your eyes are as doves . . . Thy two breasts are like two fawns that are twins of a gazelle, which feed among the lilies . . .”

  Your eyes are as doves? Twins of a gazelle? Who said the bible can’t be sexy? The Song of Solomon is commonly read during Passover as an allegory of the love between God and his people. I preferred to take its poetry literally. Clearly Penthouse Forum did not invent erotica. Of course, it was sappy, but I didn’t care. I was in love.

  The approval I sought from others seemed meaningless in comparison to what I desired from Amy. I never planned on falling for her, but I did, and she had become an integral part of my life. I was rudderless without her. She understood me better than I understood myself, and I had lost her trust. I simply clung precariously to the hope that I had not lost her love as well.

  THE day I left Israel, I stopped by an airport shop to purchase a postcard. On a particularly beautiful one was an aerial shot of the Old City. Its caption, written in Hebrew, English, and Arabic, read, “Holy City to Jews, Christians, and Muslims alike.”

  “Weeech waaan arrre you?”

  I looked up. The voice came from a middle-aged vendor, speaking English with an exceedingly thick Israeli accent that made the listener understand the meaning of the guttural “R.” He sported slightly offensive smoker’s breath, tarnished teeth, sooty fingers, rumpled hair, and an equally rumpled short-sleeve oxford shirt with a pocketful of Israeli Noblesse cigarettes.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” I answered in Hebrew.

  “De postcard!” he responded, excitedly. “Weeech waaan arrre you? Jeweeesh, Chreeestian, or Moooslem?”

  I thought for a moment, and then answered with a question:

  Hebrew:

  Transliteration: “Mah atah choshev?”

  Literal Translation: “What do you think?”

  Intended Translation: “Who the fuck are you, shit breath?”

  Grinning, he responded, again in English: “If you Jeweeesh, why you not live herrre?”

  First Dalia, and then this guy . . . why the fuck were people questioning my nationality and my religion? Remembering that any unusual behavior would spark a rush of security officers in the international airport of this rightfully paranoid country, I decided not to get into an argument with Mr. Self-Righteous. Instead, I quietly paid for the postcard and a stamp with an image of the Israeli flag and left for my gate.

  I borrowed a pen from the gate attendant and thought long and hard about what to write Amy. There were so many things I wanted to tell her: words of love, contrition, shame, adventure, and optimism. I came up with the following:

  I miss us.

  I dropped the postcard in a mailbox and boarded my plane home.

  THE trip had been simultaneously energizing and exhausting. I trudged down the aisle and found my window seat. I again reached for my wallet and extracted the photo of Amy and me. I stared intently at her eyes. Those hazel eyes. I remember trying to review in my mind the physiology of love, of pheromones and testosterone, and the evolutionary advantages of choosing a mate for life in order to propagate my own DNA. I then contemplated my ability to overcome the principles of human genetics; I just needed to will myself to get past Amy.

  “Behold, you are beautiful, my love; behold, you are beautiful; your eyes are as doves . . .”

  I was such a pain in the ass, even to myself.

  I fell asleep.

  Tel Aviv to New York, New York to Chicago, Chicago to Lincoln. My parents met me at the airport, not knowing how to approach me.

  “How was the trip?” my father asked, as both of my parents hugged me optimistically.

  “Beautiful and very hot,” I answered. “I’ll get my photos developed this week. You’ll love them. But it was also a little sad. Saba is an amazing man, but he’s really slowing down.”

  My mother hated the fact that she lived so far away from her elderly father, and she was quick to change the subject. “We heard that Dalia was at Shlomit’s house, and that she grew up to become a beautiful young woman.”

  She’s kidding by bringing up that subject, right? I thought. “Yup,” I replied curtly.

  A penetrating silence engulfed the ride home in my parents’ very quiet new Pontiac Bonneville. My mother gave it another shot. “Ronnie, are you looking forward to leaving for Wisconsin? It’s only a few weeks away.”

  I hated small talk, even if it was with my own parents. It made me feel especially lonely, but I put up a brave front. “Very much so . . . I just think it’s going to be weird without my friends.”

  “Well, you’ll come back over Thanksgiving break, and I’m sure you’ll be so busy there with school and new friends that you won’t even really think about it.”

  I gave up. I had no answer. Again, silence. I knew I frustrated my parents, but I honestly didn’t know what to say to them. I knew they meant well. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t bitter. I was just empty.

  Once home, I walked down to the basement to call Benjie. He had never visited Israel before. I lived semi-vicariously through his many musical exploits, and my trips to the Middle East were the only subject for which he lived vicariously through me. “I wanna hear about the trip,” he said. “But first let me tell
you what’s going on with the band. Things are really happening. Capitol Records is releasing an EP with ‘Chameleon Man,’ plus two new songs we just recorded: ‘Ready As I’ll Never Be’ and ‘Land of the Free.’”

  “Holy shit! That’s awesome. I can’t wait to come to The Garage to hear them.”

  “Cool . . . and another thing . . . you’ve absolutely seen the last of The Repeats. In order to be taken seriously as artists, we gotta stop covering music. Oh, and Rex also convinced us to change the name The Well Endowed. Said it was just too suggestive to give us wide audience appeal.”

  “What? Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “Then what’s the new name?”

  “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  “Guava.”

  “You realize that’s a fruit?”

  “Yes, thank you for telling me, genius. Of course I realize it’s a fruit.”

  “So is there a meaning behind calling the band Guava?”

  “Nope. It’s catchy. No other reason. You think there’s some deep meaning behind every band’s name? R.E.M. was randomly found in the dictionary . . . sounded good. Rush got its name because the band was in hurry to come up with one . . . sounded good. KISS and The Who had absolutely no reason behind their names . . . just sounded good.”

  “You don’t have to convince me. I like it.”

  “Sounds good.” We both laughed.

  ———

  I told Benjie everything: my grandfather, Dalia and my dick, my tour alone, my callous attempt at lechery, my remorse, and my longing for Amy. I’d like to think he understood, and he did, for the most part. He too was a young Jewish man living in Nebraska. And of course I was responsible for this mess. But there was something about being a first-generationer that added another layer to the complexity of my situation: that feeling of utter solitude, that perpetual state of awkwardness. If somehow I were able to harness Sundar’s ability to shed this layer with total disdain, perhaps I would feel comfortable in my own skin.

  “Dude, Dalia sounds fucking hot! What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Yeah. He didn’t quite get it.

  “Ron, I got one more thing to tell you about Rex,” added Benjie.

  “What?”

  “He hasn’t forgotten about you. He keeps asking about ‘the doctor with the voice.’”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I’m not bullshitting, man. My band knows exactly what it wants to do. You don’t. I just don’t ever want you to regret any more decisions you make. Just think about it.”

  As I hung up the phone, I heard my mother walking down the stairs. I didn’t know whether or not she had heard any of my conversation with Benjie.

  “Ronnie, I know you’rrre mad—”

  “I’m not mad.”

  “Okay, if you’rrre not mad, then you’rrre upset.” As again I didn’t respond, she continued. “I think you need to know something about your parents . . . we moved to this country twenty-one years ago with everrry intention of moving back to Israel when dad finished graduate school. But things didn’t turn out that way.”

  I had no idea where this conversation was going, but I assumed it would end with my mother crying.

  She went on. “Everrry night before we fall asleep, we lay in bed talking about what we did right and what we did wrong. Should we ever have come to America? Did we pick the right place to raise children? Did we make the right decision trying to keep our kids from dating non-Jews?”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “Don’t be so surrrprised,” she said. “There’s no textbook on how to become the only Israeli family in Lincoln, Nebraska. And we had no parents here to offer any advice or help. We were on our own, and we’re not perfect. How do you think it feels to be ‘the woman with the funny accent,’ to be a minority within a minority? How do you think it feels to be uprooted from the place you love and the place your parents helped build? I understand—”

  “No you don’t!”

  “Let me finish . . . I understand you still have feelings for Amy.”

  Oh God, I thought. Here it comes.

  “You think your father and I are totally blind? You think we have no feelings ourselves? We love both of you. You think we feel no guilt about the predicament we helped put you in?”

  No tears. No hysteria. Just the truth.

  I finally answered, again with a question. “Mom, do you believe in free will?”

  “You know we Jews are responsible for our own actions. It’s part of what makes us Jews.”

  “Okay, I accept that. But do you believe in fate?”

  My mother thought for a moment before replying. “I just don’t know, Ronnie.”

  “Well, I do. I know I’m not exactly a victim of circumstance. I know I made some big mistakes. But I think I was meant to be with Amy.”

  “I know you do.”

  TEN days later, my mother handed me a letter. It was addressed to me but it had no return address. We both knew who sent it. I left the kitchen and walked in to my room to read it alone. Inside the envelope was a postcard with a photograph of The Greg Kihn Band performing “The Breakup Song” at The Nebraska State Fair on September 10th, 1982.

  Ron, the truth is I miss us too, but I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive you for what you did. I trusted you, and you knew exactly how important that trust was to me. Yet you broke my heart. I would have given you everything, but you were too selfish to wait for me to be ready. I don’t think you know what you want, and I don’t know if you ever will. I’ve moved on, and I think it’s best if you do the same.

  Good luck,

  Amy

  CHAPTER 31

  “And you may say yourself,

  ‘My God! . . . What have I done?’”

  —THE TALKING HEADS’ “ONCE IN A LIFETIME,” FROM THE

  ALBUM REMAIN IN LIGHT, RELEASED FEBRUARY 2ND, 1982.

  IT PEAKED AT NUMBER NINETY-ONE ON US BILLBOARD’S

  HOT 100 SONGS.

  I’m fairly certain the phrase “dropping like flies” was not derived in reference to the short lifespan of insects, but instead to the intolerable, unrelenting, and wilting heat and humidity of August in Nebraska. There was something both maddening and debilitating about taking a shower, walking outside, even at night, and soaking in sweat within seconds. It was in the midst of those dog days that I spent the majority of my remaining time in Lincoln working at Target and keeping to myself at home, running in and out of air conditioned spaces.

  Unfortunately, the un-air conditioned Duster was not one of those spaces. It was just a cruel and sweltering indictment of my partially fucked up American Dream. Despite the weather, I found myself, on several occasions, sitting in the driver’s seat with the windows rolled down, boiling, staring into space, longing for Amy. I swear, if I tried hard enough, I could still smell her hair.

  I would have given you everything, but you were too selfish to wait for me to be ready.

  I literally had no argument against that statement.

  I don’t think you know what you want, and I don’t know if you ever will.

  Or that one.

  Two nights before I would leave for Madison, Andy Weigel hosted a going away party of sorts for classmates, many of whom were leaving town for college. Andy’s home, tucked neatly in the woods of Calvert Place, was one of only a few in town with a pool, and would, therefore, provide a much needed and picturesque respite from the weather. Before stepping out of the Duster, I was having another one of my trance-like moments when I felt something, or someone, reach through the open car window to tap on my head.

  “Hey, stranger!” It was Tommy. He carried a half-empty can of beer in his hand, with the other half of its contents and then some on his breath.

  Startled, and with a raised brow, I finally answered, “Hey Tommy . . .”

  “Don’t worry, bro, I’m not going to punch you this time.” He chuckled. “Dude, we’re good . . . water under the bridge. I was getti
ng kinda tired of Julia anyway.” Asshole.

  I grimaced ever so slightly, perhaps as my own little manifestation of post-traumatic stress. I prayed he didn’t notice and tried to regroup quickly. “How’s—”

  “How’s Amy?” he said, attempting to finish my question.

  “Well, I was going to say ‘How’s it goin’?’ But yeah, how’s Amy?” I was lying, of course, and he knew it. Asshole.

  He offered an exaggerated expression of contemplation before answering, knowing I hung on his every word. “She’s . . . good,” he said, smirking again. I thought it was impossible, but I sweat just a little bit more. Asshole.

  “Cool,” I answered. No, not cool.

  “She talks about you sometimes. Don’t get me wrong, she’s still pissed as hell at you, but it’s like . . . it’s like she’s worried about you.”

  “Worried?”

  “Yeah, worried. She thinks you’re a complete dick and everything, but then she acts like she’s your guardian angel or something.”

  I was puzzled but obviously intrigued. “I don’t get it.”

  “She thinks you’re a lost soul.”

  “Well, maybe she’s right . . . but how’s she my ‘guardian angel?’ It’s not like she’s watching over me or anything. And she hasn’t spoken to me for months.”

  “Dude, if your guardian angel talks to someone, it doesn’t have to be you. And she doesn’t want to talk to you anyway.”

  “I still don’t get it.”

  “She’s been talking to your parents, dumbshit!”

  “What?” I felt three consecutive tidal waves of embarrassment, love, and anger.

  “Yeah, bro. Whose idea do you think it was to send you to Israel, anyway?” He flashed a self-satisfied, shit-eating grin. “She knows you’re going off to study medicine in Wisconsin, but she doesn’t think your heart’s in it.”

  The truth continued to hurt. It hurt even more when it came, if only indirectly, from Amy. “If she’s thinks I still want to sing for a living, she’s wrong,” I said with righteous indignation. “I’ve been talking about going to medical school almost my whole life. How could my heart not be in it?”