You Say Goodbye

by Keith Steinbaum

  Sean couldn’t help but notice the number of people talking among themselves or texting on their cell phones. His excitement over the unveiling of a song he’d completed that morning vanished like the numerous puffs of cigarette smoke he exhaled each day.

  “Now the voice in his head seems to echo defeat

  And the man he was has disappeared

  His unfinished story they say is complete

  A consequence...”

  Two men and a woman rose from different tables and headed for the bar.

  “of his...”

  Irritated, the unmistakable scent of garlic from a passing server drifted toward him as he struggled to finish the line.

  “rearview...years.”

  At the song’s completion, Sean stared into the darkened depths of his guitar hole, wounded and weakened by the sting of indifference from the crowd. His exasperation worsened as tepid, glad-that’s-over-with handclapping followed. Fighting back the urge to smash his guitar on the ground in a reenactment of an old Who concert, he sprang from his chair.

  “I’m outta here,” he grumbled.

  “Come on, Sean,” someone shouted, sounding like the same voice from before. “Play ‘Looking Glass’!”

  ‘Looking Glass,’ Sean thought to himself, reflecting on his 1985 hit. A blessing then, a fucking curse now.

  “‘Looking Glass,’ man!”

  “That same fucking guy again,” he muttered. “Enough!”

  Sean turned toward the man.

  “Shut up, asshole! I ain’t singin’ it.”

  Dropping his guitar, Sean hurried from the stage by means of the slightly arthritic gait he now dealt with and headed toward Rocco’s office.

  “Hey, fuck you, Sean!” the man yelled back. “Who do you think you are, Springsteen or somethin’? You’re a fucking has-been, man!”

  Sean tried disregarding the painful stab of those shard-of-glass remarks but couldn’t ignore the jabbing to the nerve endings of his pride. He entered Rocco’s office, slammed the door, and stood staring misty-eyed at the fuzzy gray carpet under his feet, waiting out the storm of frustration. After another few moments, he grabbed a cup from the water cooler, crumpled into the desk chair, and reached into his jacket pocket for the pack of cigarettes. Fumbling at first for one of the last three remaining smokes, he found his hands shaking as he attempted to light it, not as much because of what had transpired on stage, but because of the truth in the man’s comments. Nobody cared about Sean Hightower anymore.

  The long, painful descent from that magical year in 1985 as Tom Petty’s opening act saw him performing twenty-three years later as nothing more than a dustbin memory at gigs like Rocco’s Bar and Grill.

  A third of his cigarette later, Rocco shouldered his way through the door carrying Sean’s guitar in one hand and the case in the other.

  Throwing the case on the floor, he backhanded the door closed before lifting the guitar high in the air, staring wild-eyed at his ex-bandmate. “I ought to break this fucking thing over your goddamn head,” he growled. “Calling one of my customers an asshole? Are you kidding me? Not only did I have to comp his dinner and drinks because of you, but his wife and two friends, dammit!” His jaw tightening, he glared at Sean. “What the hell were you thinking?”

  “The guy was an obnoxious prick,” he said, firing off a quick puff. “Didn’t you hear him? He kept shouting at me to play ‘Looking Glass.’”

  Rocco rubbed a hand across his mouth and stared at Sean, his eyes opening wide. “That’s because people like him come to hear songs they already know, you stupid ass! The Eagles, Creedence Clearwater, Bob Seger, Paul Simon, Bob Dylan--those guys, get it? And whether you like it or not, they also want to hear you sing our hit.”

  Sean remained silent, exhaling his smoke with the same force as if he were blowing out candles.

  “I don’t get it,” Rocco said, his voice quieting. “You played ‘Looking Glass’ every damn time you performed here before. Why should tonight be any different?”

  “Because tonight...” Sean paused, nibbling on his lip. “Tonight wasn’t just going to be the debut of my new song, it was going to be the debut of the new me. All I’m asking is for a chance to show everyone I’m not a one-hit wonder, but all they fucking care about is ‘Looking Glass.’ It’s like those TV actors who play one character for so long they aren’t given an opportunity to try something new.” His eyes narrowed. “I’m trapped, Rocco, and it’s eating me up inside.”

  “I understand what you’re saying,” Rocco said, “but you still need to embrace that song as a special part of you. Don’t you think Paul Simon’s burned out from playing ‘The Sound of Silence’? Or The Eagles, when they play ‘Hotel California’? Sean Hightower should do what they do. Put a new spin on it. Change the chording and the rhythm. Keep it fresh.”

  Sean couldn’t help but ease into a smile, his bright green eyes still boyish even through the extended crinkles spreading like branching rivers. “I love you, Rocco,” he said. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard my name mentioned in the same breath as Paul Simon and The Eagles.”

  Rocco’s brown eyes narrowed, enhancing the thick black eyebrows that resembled raven’s wings on an angular glide. His nostrils flared, subtle fleshy expansions possessing a life of their own at the bottom of his long, slender nose. His wavy hair, dark as night and shoulder length in his days with the band, now displayed peek-a-boo scattering of gray in a brushed-back, gelled sort of way that, to Sean, symbolized the slickness of the modern era.

  “I’m just trying to make a point,” Rocco said, resuming his harsh tone. “You haven’t changed since we toured. Everything had to be your way or the highway back then, too.”

  “It was my band, dammit,” Sean replied. “‘The Sean Hightower Band,’ remember?”

  “We stuck it out with you through some lean times, man,” Rocco answered, his eyes never wavering from Sean’s. “We deserved more respect.”

  Sean leaned back in the chair and looked at Rocco, enjoying an extended drag from the cigarette. “Well, we broke up, right? You didn’t have to put up with me anymore.”

  “You wanted to go solo anyway,” Rocco said. “The label was sold and you figured your time had come to break away and sign with the big boys.”

  Sean shrugged and nodded. “Guilty as charged,” he replied.

  “At least you admit it,” Rocco said. “I was pissed off--we all were--but that was a long time ago. I’ve let those old feelings pass, but you haven’t changed. You still have trouble thinking of anyone but yourself.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Rocco glared at Sean. “It may have been your band back then, but this is my place now, and I’ve got a business to run. If you don’t play by my rules and do what I expect, don’t plan on singing here again.” Jutting his chin toward Sean, he added, “And what did I tell you about smoking in here, man? It stinks up my office!”

  “What are you talking about, ‘don’t plan on singing here again’?” Sean asked, sitting up and dropping his cigarette into the cup. “You’re not serious, are you?”

  “The hell I’m not! These aren’t the carefree band days anymore, my friend. I’ve got big-time responsibilities now. Employees to pay, insurance costs. A son in college next year.” Rocco turned his hands palm-side up, his long, thin, bass-playing fingers gesturing toward the walls. “And did I mention the mortgage on this place? The one I pay each month to the Bank of the Lord and Master? If your bullshit turns enough people away, I’ll lose money. You better believe I’m serious.”

  Sean grabbed some M&M’s from a candy dish and rose from his chair. “Shit!” he muttered, grimacing and clutching his right hip.

  “What happened?” Rocco asked.

  Sean shook his head, remaining silent for several moments. “Fifty years old last month and my doctor says I have arthritis.” Rolling his eyes, he laughed to himself. “Can you fucking believe it?”

  Rocco furrowed his thick black eyebro
ws. “I thought arthritis was for old people.”

  “I guess some of us age faster than others, dude.” Returning to an erect position, he exhaled a stream of air audibly from his nostrils. “I had a physical today and you’ll be happy to know he told me to quit smoking.” Sean chuckled. “Like that’s gonna happen. I’m just glad he renewed my sleeping pill prescription. If it’s not the shooting pains keeping me up, it’s that I think too goddamn much.”

  “Great,” Rocco replied, “another addiction to go with your fucking nicotine bullshit.”

  Sean waved his hand, as if shooing away a fly. “Nah, it’s not like you think. I only take ’em two, three times a week.” He rubbed his tongue across his mouth to create saliva as a sour dryness invaded the back of his throat. Reaching at first for another cigarette in his jacket pocket, he glanced at Rocco before turning his attention to the candy bowl. “Life’s a bitch,” he muttered, popping the round, multicolored shells into his mouth.

  Rocco performed a quick imitation of a violin player.

  “A fact’s a fact, Rocco,” Sean shot back. “Getting older sucks. I’ve gone from a high school track star to a goddamn cripple. Hell, even my sex drive ain’t what it used to be, and you know how crazy I was back in the day. Most nights now I just smoke some weed with Merissa, down a couple of beers, and watch TV.”

  “Did your doctor say anything else?” Rocco asked. “Other than having arthritis and lungs like a barbeque grill?”

  With both middle fingers held high, Sean stared at his friend before dropping both his arms to the sides. “I’ll let you know in a week or two,” he told him. “Doc took off for a vacation back East.” He threw his chin upward as he turned to look at old band photos hanging on the wall.

  “Those were the good old days, weren’t they, Rocco?” he said, smiling as he approached the pictures. “Man, look how skinny you were. Do you remember what we used to call you?”

  Rocco nodded. “The Italian Scallion.”

  Sean laughed, but his emotion felt bittersweet. He reflected on a younger and slimmer and, admittedly, more handsome Sean Hightower, before the paunch and jowl formations, when his dark blond, shaggy locks fell to his shoulders like a honeyed waterfall, thicker and longer than the thinning, gray-flecked shorter style of today. His unwrinkled face seemed so boyish and innocent compared to the older man with the noticeable lines in his forehead and deepening crow’s feet creeping further out from the corners of weakening eyelids starting their downward trek. Straightening his shoulders, he sucked in his stomach and stood upright, his six-foot, two-inch frame counteracting the slope-shouldered posture he walked with today.

  “I was twenty-seven years old when ‘Looking Glass’ started kicking ass,” he said. “That’s the same age when Brian Jones, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, and Kurt Cobain all died.” With a finger resting on his lips, he nodded his head a couple of times in a slow, meditative manner. “Weird, huh? And Pete Ham, too. Their lives ended when mine was supposed to be taking off.”

  “Who’s Pete Ham?” Rocco asked.

  “Lead singer and songwriter for Badfinger. The guy committed suicide three days before his twenty-eighth birthday.”

  Sean’s eyes narrowed as he continued looking at the photograph. “Now they’ll live on forever in death, while I die a little every day from regret.” He tightened his lips and took a slow, deep breath. “Dreams die hard, damn it,” he muttered. “And those days were the best. It makes me understand suicide a little bit more, I think.”

  “Don’t be an idiot.”

  Rocco approached Sean, focusing on the photos. “Yeah, we had some exciting times, I’m not denying it,” he said. “But I like my life now, too.”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t miss it,” Sean replied, his eyes remaining fixed on the photo of the group. “Other than making good music, the only responsibilities we had were getting sound checks straight and putting on a good show.” He turned to face Rocco. “What did you know from mortgage and insurance costs? Don’t you wish you could go back and do it again?”

  “We reached our peak twenty-three years ago, Sean,” he answered, “and that’s a long time ago, so what’s the use thinking like that?” Rocco pointed his finger to the photo of the band. “That was the 1980s.” Extending his hands out toward the room, he added, “This is 2008.”

  Sean angled his head to the side, staring skeptically at his longtime friend. “And 2008’s a fucked-up time,” he grumbled. “It was an easier world back then, man. Life wasn’t as serious.”

  “Life was always serious for people who took it seriously,” Rocco countered. “You and I were different people in those days.”

  “It wasn’t just us,” Sean replied. His shoulders sagged as a smile of resignation crossed his face. “The world didn’t seem as difficult and hateful, you know?” Walking back toward Rocco’s desk, he removed the near-empty pack from his jacket pocket and slipped a cigarette into his mouth. “One more, Rocco,” he said, grabbing the lighter from the table and firing up before receiving a reply. Inhaling rather than puffing, Sean stared at the cigarette in his hand as the slow stream of smoke sifted from his nostrils. “You know something? When I look at the way life is today, it makes me very happy both my marriages ended before I had kids.”

  “The world we grew up in was pretty rough, too,” Rocco told him. “You don’t remember the nuclear arms race? The fucking Vietnam War? Civil rights demonstrations? The Iranian hostage bullshit? AIDs? C’mon, Sean, get real.”

  Sean stared at another picture, showing Rocco and a couple of the roadies making funny faces. “I can’t remember the last time I had a good belly laugh,” he said, taking another drag before continuing. “Maybe I’d feel different if I wrote another hit song, but right now too much of my reality is nothin’ but a dark, bladder-shaped cloud pissing on my head.”

  Rocco shook his head and looked away for a moment before staring back at Sean. “You are one depressing dude, man,” he said. “And will you please put out that fucking cancer stick?”

  Sean strolled toward the desk, speed-sucking several more puffs before extinguishing the rest of the cigarette in the cup. “Can you blame me for my indulgences, Rocco? I haven’t done shit since ‘Looking Glass.’ Once upon a time I had a platform, and people listened to the things I wrote about. Now I feel like I’m fading away. It’s like the lines I wrote from a song called, ‘Mark,’ that almost seem omniscient now: ‘A passionate man in a populated world. Seeking his voice. A flag to unfurl. Facing the worry of just growing old. Without a mark for baring your soul.’”

  Sean took the few steps back to the chair and eased himself into the seat. Placing his right elbow down on the table, he rested his chin on the open hand of his extended arm.

  “I shot my wad five minutes into my career and now I sell cars for a living. Can’t get more exciting than that, huh, Rocco? Those movie companies are just begging for my life story.” Sean picked up a pen and started doodling lines and circles on a yellow notepad. “Is that what I’m supposed to believe about myself?” Tossing the pen aside, he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Am I supposed to think there’s nothing wrong about being fifty and still dependent on my old man for money?” His head shook back and forth, a pendulum of self-incrimination. “Let’s tell it like it is, man. I’m not all that good at what I do. The only reason I’m still working at the dealership is because I’m the owner’s son.” A soft chuckle born from bitterness escaped his lips. “So much for self-esteem.”

  “Selling cars hasn’t stopped you from writing songs, Sean,” Rocco responded. “If that’s what you want to do, keep doing it.”

  “Yeah, but what good is it doing me?” he shot back. “I’m not just writing to jack myself off, Rocco. I want another hit!” Sean stared at the crushed tip of his cigarette inside the cup, sensitive in an appreciative way for the lingering aroma. “I want to record and tour again. Or maybe produce other acts and get my songs recorded tha
t way.” Rubbing his fingers together, he added, “But that takes money, you know?”

  Sean stared at the bowl of M&M’s, stroking his half-blond, half-gray goatee before reaching for another handful.

  “Hey, save some for me, okay? That’s the last of them.”

  Sean gobbled the round, hardshell chocolates as he rose from the chair. “I’m ready to go back out now,” he said, grabbing his guitar.

  “No way,” Rocco replied, his tone leaving no room for debate. “Not after the scene you made.”

  Rocco strolled to the wall mirror to adjust his buttoned-down black silk shirt and gray sports jacket before dabbing his hands on the sides of his gelled black mane. He gazed at Sean, looking at him from his reflection in the background. “Lesson learned, Sean. The money I’m doling out tonight for those free meals and drinks won’t be my loss, because you ain’t gettin’ paid. Go home to Merissa and be grateful that somebody still wants you around.”

  Sean stared narrow-eyed toward the mirror for several moments before breaking into a big grin. “See this smile on my face, Rocco?” he asked. “It’s for two reasons. One is that I can’t believe how fucking straitlaced and uptight you’ve become. Where’s that hang-loose, bass-playing party animal I once knew? Your transformation’s comical to me, man.”

  “What’s the second reason?”

  “What you said is true: I am grateful that Merissa still wants me around. I love that woman. She’s the only thing that keeps me sane.”

  “You met her at work, right? At least something good came out of that.”

  “The one and only thing,” he answered. “At first, I didn’t think I stood a chance. Merissa’s one of those feisty women who likes to give shit to men but not have it taken seriously, you know? She has poker nights at her place sometimes and invites guys from the dealership. When she asked me the first time, I figured I’d be another one of her boys to joke around with.”