The Bad Decisions Playlist
Page 17
For the most part Shane has seemed content to let Todd be Todd, other than entertaining himself now and then by saying something like, “Todd, please, would you shut the hell up already?” But on our third night in our regular booth at the bowling alley I keep noticing him glancing at Todd, rolling some question around in his head. Finally he indicates the fading bruise on Todd’s cheek.
“Todd, tell me something. What happened there? That some sort of summer hockey league fight?”
Todd chews a bit and says through some food, “My dad hit me.”
Josephine puts her fork onto her gluten-free salad and sits back.
“Really?” she says.
Todd takes another bite, glances at me.
“Yeah, really,” I say. “I saw it.”
Josephine looks at me. Shane is watching Todd and has a funny half smile on his face.
“Has he done that before?” Josephine says to Todd.
Todd nods absently, sips his Coke.
“Does he—I mean, what about your mom?” says Josephine.
“Yeah, sure, he’s slapped her a few times.”
Josephine is aghast.
“What? You should tell someone! You should call the police! You guys should leave!”
Todd gives her a look, something akin to an eye roll, and returns his attention to his burger, done with the conversation.
Shane says, “Yeah, well, it’s never quite that easy when you’re living it. Right?” Looking at Todd as he says it.
Todd’s chewing slows, then stops.
“Uh-huh,” says Shane. “I grew up down near Odessa. Odessa, Texas. Scrub brush, oil fields, doublewides.” Stretching it out to wiiiiiiides, his accent stronger now. “My old man—this guy’s grandfather”—tilting his head once toward me—“he worked in the fields. What you call a roustabout. Used to get loaded, pshooo.” He mimes a punch. “I left when I was, what, sixteen, off to be a big star. Never saw him or spoke to him again.”
We wait while he takes a sip of beer. Todd swallows, his burger forgotten in his hand.
“Now, I can’t say as I’m a great expert at being a dad.” A brief glance at me. “But I can tell you it ain’t too late.”
“Not too late for what?” says Todd.
“For you to not become like him.”
∗ ∗ ∗
When we leave the restaurant, Todd is somehow even more quiet than before, like he’s retreated deep inside himself somewhere. Shane pulls me aside and says, “Hey—you have to go home? You want to come hang out a bit tonight?”
So there’s some subterfuge with me pretending to take Josephine home—Me: “You sure it’s okay?” Her: “Of course. Go hang out with your dad”—and then I go around to Shane’s front door where the horseshoe is mounted and ring the doorbell.
We end up lying on the roof. We talk about the show, music, nothing, me wondering if that’s all he wants, just some company.
I say, “Where’s the horseshoe from?”
“My granddaddy. My mom’s dad. He was an honest-to-God cowboy, way back.”
“Your dad,” I say. “I didn’t know that stuff about him.”
“Yeah, why would you. Maybe growing up like that, maybe that’s why I left KD. Afraid I’d turn out like him.”
He lights another cigarette while I think about that.
“So you did know about me.”
He’s quiet. He exhales smoke and it briefly blurs the stars, blurs a portion of the moon before dissipating.
“Yes. Or I suspected.”
“You told me you didn’t know.”
“Yeah. I wasn’t being honest with either of us. I blocked it out for so long. Austin, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being dishonest about it, and I’m sorry for leaving.”
He’s got his head turned, observing me, maybe apprehensive that we’re going to have a repeat of my hysterics in the bar and this time I’ll hurl myself off the roof.
“You all right?” he says.
“Yeah, I’m all right,” I say. “What I said before, in the bar, I didn’t mean it. I’m glad you came back. I’m glad we met.”
“Me too.” He gives me a pat on the shoulder, and this time I don’t feel like batting it away.
“But are you gonna leave again?”
“Well, I have to.”
“You don’t have to.”
“This isn’t really my home, Austin.”
“Could be. Could be your home. You could live up here. Lots of people make music up here. Prince makes music up here.”
“Well, I ain’t exactly Prince. Plus I don’t think I’d make it through the winter. Plus, look, I’m gonna be traveling a lot. You want to make money as a musician nowadays, you have to play shows constantly. Can’t just sell records like you used to. All that streaming crap wrecked it. Not that I used to sell a lot of records.”
He takes another drag on his cigarette.
“So, yeah, I’ll be moving on. We’ve got the show tomorrow, and then I was going to fly out for the show in New York next week. Then back here for a few weeks until the end of the month, then probably back to Nashville for a spell.”
“To finish the album?”
“Yeah. But we can hang out till I go, you want.”
“Okay,” I say.
He turns his head toward me.
“Hey,” he says.
“What.”
“Even after I go, I’ll be around,” he says. “You know what I mean?”
“No.”
He rolls onto his side and props his head on his elbow.
“I mean, I want you in my life. I want to be in your life. I want to come visit you and have you visit me and, when you’re old enough, maybe you can come and hang out with me for a bit, and who knows?”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Meeting you, Austin, it’s changed my life. I might leave, but that doesn’t mean I’m leaving. You get it? I won’t ever leave you again. You hear me, right? I won’t ever leave you again.”
∗ ∗ ∗
Josephine stirs when I climb into bed with her.
“You have a good talk?” she says sleepily.
“Yeah.”
“Good. You excited about tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Shane Tyler and the Children’s Crusade. It’s a good name.”
She makes a half-asleep sound that’s not quite assent.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What?”
She yawns. “You know what happened in the children’s crusade, right?”
“No.”
“The Middle Ages. A bunch of kids marched off to free the Holy Land.”
“And?”
She doesn’t answer at first, starting to doze again.
“Hey.”
“Hm?”
“So what happened to them?”
“The kids? They all died.”
She yawns again, and pretty soon she’s asleep.
I stay awake for a long time.
I’ve been back and forth through midnight twice /
the first time fun / the second / not so nice
Gravity returns when I go to get the Replacements T-shirt.
It’s Friday. Show day. The plan is to meet at the studio for a late-afternoon rehearsal, then food, then the show.
But I need my Replacements T-shirt for the show, because I just need it, can’t visualize performing without it. Except it’s at home.
When I explain to Josephine that I have to go home to get my Replacements T-shirt—“Okay. Wait. Why?” “Because. I just need it”—she says she’s going to walk around the lake and let’s meet later. So off I go, midmorning, knowing that my mom will be at the nail salon and Rick will be off somewhere, suing people or doing whatever he does.
I park my bike on the driveway, walk through the front door, and stop. There are balloons and flowers everywhere. Literally everywhere. Balloons mounded on the floor, flower petals, helium balloons tied to chairs a
nd tables, gently waving in the air currents.
“What the hell?” I mutter under my breath, kicking at some of the balloons blocking my path.
“Are you home?”
Rick’s voice, happy, eager, pleasantly surprised. Until he bounds into the kitchen doorway and sees that it’s me. Then he’s unpleasantly surprised. Like I am.
“Oh,” he says.
“Oh,” I say.
We regard each other. He’s wearing an apron and holding a hand mixer.
“Didn’t expect to see you,” he says.
“Yeah. I was just stopping in to get some stuff.”
I look around at the balloons and flowers. Rick watches me.
“I take it you didn’t read any of the several texts I sent you,” he says.
“Nope.”
“Okay. And I furthermore assume you forgot.”
“Furthermore assume I . . . ?”
“It’s your mom’s birthday.”
“Oh. Oh, crap,” I say, with a familiar sinking feeling. “Right. Sorry.”
He shrugs. “Don’t apologize to me.”
“I’ll get her something.”
“Uh-huh.”
I look around some more at all the decorations. Only now do I notice the giant sign on the wall that says HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KELLY!!! in thick marker. Rick has drawn hearts and smiley faces on it.
“Well, I’m glad you’re okay, at least.”
I don’t say anything.
“I guess you quit the lawn crew.”
“I’ll still going to pay you back. It’s just going to take a bit longer.”
He nods. “Okay. Well, I have a cake to make,” he says, and disappears back into the kitchen.
I stand there for a minute, expecting him to come out again, but he doesn’t. So I go upstairs and start rifling through my disorganized drawers, trying to find the Replacements shirt. I can hear the whirring of the blender.
“‘I have a cake to make,’” I mutter. “‘I have a cake to make.’”
There. I grab the shirt—THE REPLACEMENTS: SORRY, MA, I FORGOT TO TAKE OUT THE TRASH, which, irony, and head down the stairs, wondering whether I’m supposed to say anything to Rick—Well, I’m going now. See you later. Or do I just leave? But the decision is made for me. When I get to the bottom of the stairs, Rick reemerges from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishcloth.
“Austin,” he says, “I wasn’t going to say anything, because it doesn’t feel like my place to do so, but then I thought, no. I’m going to treat you with respect. I’m going to speak to you like I would any person in this situation. First off, despite everything that is going on, I think that it is inconsiderate of you not to at least spend time with your mother on her birthday.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Okay, can we back up a bit? To the part where you said it’s not your place? You were right. It’s not your place.”
“Fine. Then forgive me for overstepping my bounds. But you know how important birthdays are to your mother.”
“‘How important’—really? Ask her how important my thirteenth birthday was. That’s the one she missed because she was in friggin’ rehab. Was that one important?”
“Ah. Yes, that sounds awful. But how long are you going to hold on to that?”
“You a lawyer or a therapist?”
“What is it, then? You need to get revenge on your mom? That what this is?”
“Revenge? I don’t want revenge. I just don’t need you standing here and transmitting life wisdom to me.”
“Doesn’t take a huge amount of wisdom to see that it’s your mother’s birthday, and she loves you and she’s been very concerned about you, and she misses you—”
“You know something? Just because you two are screwing doesn’t make you my dad.”
“Oh, spare me the clichés. That’s also rather disrespectful toward your mother, and she doesn’t deserve that.”
“Really? Isn’t that what she is to you? Someone to screw?”
“I’d say that’s a pretty fundamental misreading of our relationship.”
I don’t know why that came out of my mouth, all bile and spite and venom. Rick is absolutely calm, not a trace of anger in his voice. That’s what it is, he’s so completely unruffled, and it makes me even angrier.
And as if he’s reading my mind:
“Austin, there’s not much you could say that will hurt me or upset me. I don’t think you can even imagine the things people have said to me over the years.”
“Probably because you’re an asshole.”
I think he actually smiles slightly.
“Probably. The point is, and I’ve said this before, you can say anything you want to me. Really. I don’t like you insulting your mother, but let’s put that aside. I think our relationship would benefit if you’d start being more honest with me.”
“Gosh, Rick, thanks, but I don’t see that we actually have a relationship,” I say. “I have a dad.” Which sounds absurd the instant it passes my lips.
“I know you do,” says Rick. “He was also pretty adamant about that.”
“What?”
Rick shakes his head. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter. Austin, I have no desire to—”
“You called him? You called Shane?”
“Called him? Why would I call him? He came over here.”
That makes me pause.
“No he didn’t.”
“Okay. Fine.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He came over here.”
“To talk to you?”
He gives me a Don’t be daft look.
“Why do you think he’s in town, Austin? He could have recorded his album anywhere.”
“There’s an engineer here he likes!”
“Okay. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I should not have mentioned it. Listen . . . maybe we can move beyond all of this, everything that has happened over the past few days. I think it would be wonderful if you would be here tonight for your mother’s birthday party. I know she would really appreciate it. And I know you don’t believe this, but I’d be happy to see you as well.”
I’m not listening. “You’re jealous, aren’t you,” I say. “That he’s talking to her.”
He cocks his head. “Am I the one who’s jealous?”
“You’re such an asshole,” I say. “Such an asshole.”
Then to show how mature I am I roughly grab the nearest helium balloon, holding it like I have it in a headlock, and jab it with my motorcycle key. Then jab it again, once, twice, three more times before it pops.
I look at Rick defiantly. He’s impassive.
“Asshole,” I say again, and leave.
∗ ∗ ∗
“Asshole, asshole, asshole,” I mutter the whole way back to Shane’s. “Asshole!” I yell out at forty miles an hour. “Asshole!”—this time directed at another squirrel that darts in front of me at a stop sign, probably a cousin of the one I screamed at when I was mowing, and now they can compare notes, say, Wait a second—what did the guy look like? That is so weird!
I park near Shane’s, sit for a while doing a little more Tourette-y asshole asshole asshole, then restart my bike and motor the rest of the way to his house.
I march up to his front door and jab my finger at his doorbell—and jerk it to a halt a quarter inch before actually pressing the button. What do I say? What am I going to ask? Do I want to know the answer?
So I stand there, go to press the button, stop myself, do it twice more.
I reach up and touch the horseshoe, trace my fingertips along its pitted, rusted surface. As I’m doing that the door opens suddenly and there’s Shane, holding his guitar by the neck, starting in surprise to see me in front of him, then breaking out into a smile.
“Hey! What are you doing here?”
“I don’t know, I just—”
“Good to see you!”
He uses his free arm
to give me a quick hug.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah, I—you going somewhere?”
“I was going to that spot—what do you call it? Whitfield’s?”
“Whitmore’s.”
“Yeah, there. I was just gonna go sit there a bit. Come with me!”
“Okay, sure.”
“You okay? You look spooked.”
“No, all good.”
∗ ∗ ∗
In the car he’s talking about the show and about our songs and he’s so happy I want to let go and ride the wave with him, let it carry me along and forget the anxiety that is swirling beneath. Knowing that saying anything, asking anything, would mean paddling against that tide, breakers crashing down on me . . .
When we get to Whitmore’s it’s the same, the two of us sitting against a tree, Shane playing something, the day so beautiful . . . but there’s still the red-flag part of my mind telling me, Say something, say something, you have to say something, and just as I’m building up to it Shane says, “Man, I was thinking about our conversation the other night. I wish you could come to New York with me.”
“For the show?”
“Yes. And more.”
“More?”
“I wish—I mean, it’s crazy—but I had this vision of going on tour with you, like Jeff Tweedy did with his son. Go around the country, the two of us, play shows together. Write songs. The two of us.”
“Are you serious?”
“Hell yes. The two of us.”
The two of us.
Just like that the world expands, a giant deep breath. This is the answer I was waiting for all along, the way to extend the enchantment of this week forever.
“Shane,” I say, “I would love that. I would love that.”
He laughs and pounds me on the back, and we start talking over each other about where we could go, places we’ll play, people we’ll meet. It’s all crystal clear now: the vague Big Secret Plan of the future has just become the Big Not Secret Plan of right now, the Big Plan that’s actually happening. Shane and me, traveling together, performing together, writing songs together, the two of us the missing pieces that we’ve both lacked. So painfully obvious all the time and I never dared to think it.
“We could be based in Nashville.”