You Say Goodbye

by Keith Steinbaum

  “Whose father happened to own the dealership,” Rocco said.

  Sean chuckled. “It’s not like that thought didn’t cross my mind,” he replied. “But she soon learned my old man’s the one with the money, not me. And I don’t want to go into the business. If that was all she was looking for, we wouldn’t have lasted this long.”

  Rocco approached the desk. “You may not be happy selling cars,” he said, plucking Sean’s cup of disposed cigarettes, “but having a good woman outshines everything else.”

  Sean watched Rocco head toward the bathroom with the cup.

  “Merissa’s not just a good woman, but a good person, too,” he replied, sneaking another M&M into his mouth. “She does volunteer work at a place that helps kids from fucked-up homes. What I don’t like is when she offers her apartment for nighttime meetings. It cuts into our time together.”

  Rocco flushed the cigarette remains down the toilet before exiting the bathroom holding a can of air freshener. Directing several mists in Sean’s direction, he sat on the edge of the desk and stared, his expression quizzical. “It cuts into your time together? Jesus, how can you be so fucking selfish? Those meetings are for a good cause and they’re probably only once in a while anyway, so what’s the big deal?”

  Shrugging, Sean offered no reply.

  “Explain something to me,” Rocco said. “You tell me you love her and she keeps you sane. Why aren’t you living together?”

  “You know where that would lead?” Sean asked, rolling his eyes. “Marriage.” Shaking his head, he added, “I’m zero for two already when it comes to that stuff. Maybe it’s fear of failure, but I don’t want to strike out, you know what I mean?”

  Rocco grimaced. “Man, you sound more like a self-centered twenty-year-old than someone who’s fifty. Hey, here’s a novel idea: think of someone else for a change.”

  Rocco looked at his watch and walked toward the door. Placing his hand on the knob, he fixed Sean with a defiant look as he opened the door a crack, allowing an immediate volume increase of the recorded music from the speakers in combination with the heightened voices from the tables. “Right now, I’m not sure I want you here next week,” he said. “But if I give you another chance and they ask for ‘Looking Glass,’ you better fucking play it.” Walking out, Rocco didn’t look back.

  Left alone, Sean surveyed the photos on the wall again; framed memories from the days when that song had made them stars. Those days were sweet indeed--a hit record, making good money, the opening act for Tom Petty on a nationwide tour, interviews in every city, and, of course, the girls. Man oh man, how awesome was that? From his unsettled thoughts echoed a hollow, sarcastic, chuckle. “How did it ever come to this?”

  He’d been called an overnight sensation, ending 1985 with the fifth most-played single on Billboard’s Top 100. He’d earned enough money to move from his dull, one-room Hollywood apartment to a three-bedroom, twenty-three-hundred-square-foot home with a pool on the west side, a mere twenty-minute drive from the beach. As more hit records seemed a foregone conclusion, his future and a chance for a much bigger house, seemed secure. How was he to foresee a larger company with more established groups purchasing the one he recorded for by the summer of the following year? Not only did his band get dropped from the label, a short time later, they’d imploded from the increasing discord and broken up.

  Sean acknowledged the accuracy of Rocco’s comments about him from those days after the split. He wanted to be the man, following in the successful singer-songwriter footsteps of superstars like Sting and Rod Stewart: artists who left a successful band to gain even greater fame and wealth on their own. But the time and money he’d spent writing and recording songs hoping for a career as a solo act had proved futile. Sean Hightower, one-time burgeoning rock star, never reveled in the glory of a chart-busting record again, and those lofty expectations of musical stardom had crashed like a lost meteorite in the unexceptional land of one-hit wonders.

  Walking back toward the chair, he removed his final cigarette from the pack and fired up as Peter Gabriel’s “Steam” played outside the office. The irony of hearing a Gabriel song, another artist who’d left a successful band to achieve great success as a solo artist, brought a self-pitying shake of the head. Listening in reflective isolation, he squeezed the cigarette between his two fingers like a vice, snuffing out the burning tobacco, and creating two indentations on both sides of the paper. Forced to use the lighter again, he reflected on the disagreeable phone conversation with his mother that morning and wondered if the lingering effects had set the foundation for his hostility tonight. He inhaled, jaw hard and tight, recalling how his tranquil mood had regressed into a quick-strike battle zone.

  ***

  Finishing his first cup of coffee, Sean poured another before lighting a second cigarette and sliding the window open for some fresh air. The late winter temperature hovered somewhere in the high sixties and the white, scattered clouds enhanced the magnetic azure hue of the morning sky. Returning the coffee cup to his lips, he turned back toward the room as the phone rang. Reading the name on the caller ID, he hesitated before deciding that whatever the reason for his mother’s call, he’d rather deal with her now instead of later, especially if she planned to machine-gun him with her frustrating I-know-what’s-best-for-you attitude.

  “How ya doin’, Mom?”

  “I’m fine, honey,” she replied. “You know me, getting worried when too much time passes without hearing from my children. I always like to feel there’s things worth talking about.”

  Through the tone of her voice, Sean already sensed an ulterior motive for her alleged innocent reply. A suspect undertone of concern accompanied her voice, a certain leading-to-something sound that made him regret answering the phone. After a slight delay, she asked, “So, how are things with you?”

  “The usual, Mom,” he said. “Just taking life a day at a time.”

  “A day at a time is fine,” she said, pausing, “as long as you don’t lose sight of your future.”

  Sean closed his eyes and took a deep breath, waiting several moments to maintain his composure. “You don’t have to worry about me, Mom,” he told her. “I’ve always got my eyes on the prize.”

  “What exactly is the prize, Sean?” she asked, her tone growing teeth.

  He rolled his tongue around his mouth and then scratched his ear in an unconscious gesture, thinking about what to say. “Mom, I’m enjoying a peaceful morning on my day off, so don’t ruin it, okay? I don’t want to talk about this again.”

  His mother stayed silent for several uncomfortable moments. “Listen, dear,” she said, her tone softening, “I didn’t call to ruin your morning. But you’re still only working three days a week, right? So don’t play that day-off card with me.”

  Sean’s grip tightened as he glared at the phone in his hand.

  “First of all, Mom,” he uttered between gritted teeth, “it’s more like four to five days now. But I also have a music career, remember? All it takes is one hit song and I’ll be back. As a matter of fact, I just finished one that might be the best thing I’ve ever written. It could be my comeback song.”

  A perceptible sigh sounded from the receiver.

  “What?” Sean asked. “What?”

  “You don’t know how much it thrills your father to have you working at the dealership, to have one of his children following in his footsteps. You know that he--” His mother stopped in mid-sentence again.

  This time Sean exhaled with an audible force. “Just say what you have to say, all right?”

  Another long pause followed. Sean waited, impatient to hear his mother spit out what he already anticipated.

  “Well,” she said, “you know your father isn’t getting any younger--but neither are you, honey. Don’t you think it’s best to finally forget the music and commit to learning the business full-time? What happens if your new song doesn’t make it? Then what? It’s such a cruel business, Sean. Why not move on and make a fresh st
art of things? You could be so good at the car business.”

  “How do you know, Mom?” he replied, his voice rising a notch. “You’ve never seen me sell a car. For all you know, I suck at it. How the hell do you know if I’m any good at it?”

  “Because I believe in you, Sean. I think you’ve got a great future in the car business. But you’re fifty years old now, and you can’t keep chasing that music dream forever. You’ve given it long enough, don’t you think? At least you can say you had a hit record once upon a time. How many people can make that claim?”

  “Maybe I can also take out my Little League trophies, Mom. I mean, as long as we’re talking past achievements, right? I’ll put them right there on my office desk to let everyone see the kind of big shot they’re dealing with.”

  Another breathy sigh sounded from his mother.

  “Look, Sean,” she said, “your father wants to give you the opportunity to take over the dealerships one day, to teach you everything you’ll need to know. It’s the kind of thing most people only dream about. And it could all be yours.”

  Sean remained motionless, lips pursed as he fixated on the welcoming distraction of the little neighbor girl sitting at her front yard lemonade stand.

  He envisioned his mother’s rosy scenario and compared it to the way he viewed himself, unsure whether to laugh or cry.

  Sean Hightower, short-time rock star and longtime failure, running his daddy’s car dealerships. Sean Hightower, the independent one of the family, full of expectations and promise, turning into a dependent, pathetic adult unable to make it on his own.

  “I really don’t want to talk about this anymore,” he said, his voice cracking. “I have to go.”

  “Your father knows you’re hurting, sweetheart,” she told him, her words rushing out. “Emotionally and financially. He knows music was always your dream, always your passion, but you’ve got to face reality. He only wants what’s best for you.”

  “What’s best for me?” Sean shouted. “Don’t you think I should get a say in what’s best for me, Mom? It’s my own goddamn life!”

  “Please don’t yell at me. I only meant--”

  “You only meant that I’m a fucking failure, Mom. That I’m a fifty-year-old man who doesn’t know how to do anything else!”

  “Listen to me, honey,” she said. “Your brother and sister have good jobs and are doing well now. But your father helped them through dry times and he wants to do the same for you.”

  “As long as I’m the boss’s son, take advantage of it, right, Mom? Right?”

  “Well...yes. What’s wrong with that? You just can’t keep pursuing the same dead-end dream for the rest of your life. You need to turn the page.”

  Sean closed his eyes, working his lower teeth against his upper lip. The time had come to hang up the phone, fetch his pot and pipe, and head out on the USS Marijuana as it navigated its way through his bloodstream, escorting him to the trouble-free land of I-Don’t-Give-A-Shit.

  ***

  As the intermingling sounds of music and muffled voices continued from the other room, Sean reflected on the reversal of fortune between himself and his two siblings. When “Looking Glass” started gaining airplay, David still toiled insane hours interning at a law office downtown, striving to win the hearts and minds of the suits reigning above him. And Rebecca waited on tables in New York, struggling to get something going as an aspiring fashion designer.

  “Those tables sure turned, didn’t they?” he whispered to himself. Rebecca had persevered through the early rejections and now kicked ass, making big bucks working for Broadway and television shows. David not only had won those hearts and minds but in time they’d made him a partner in the firm. Three kids and a twelve-year marriage later, he’d made his parents proud, just like Rebecca. And the third sibling? The independent one? The one who’d darted from the starting gate ahead of the other two? “Life’s a bitch,” he mumbled.

  Puffing his way toward the end of his last cigarette, Sean stared at the old band photos again, lost in the time-machine memories of better days. Looking for a place to dispose of his ashes, he removed the cap from the air freshener, turned it upside down, and flicked the remains there before unfolding himself from the chair in a slow, cautious manner. Retrieving his guitar, he placed it in the case and headed for the parking lot--but not before snatching the rest of the M&M’s.

  Chapter 3

  Apart from their sibling relationship and living in Los Angeles, Sean and his brother David possessed little in common. David’s personality resided on the conservative side of the behavioral fence, acting more like a third parent than a brother and confidante. That was why Sean disagreed with--or, at best, ignored--most of David’s advice on things, especially adverse opinions about his lifestyle. With David’s own life revolving around work, wife, kids, and more work, the brothers rarely conversed, and outside of family gatherings, didn’t socialize either. So when Sean arrived at his car and called home before starting the engine to check his voice mail, the sound of David’s voice surprised him.

  “Hi, Sean,” the message started, “David here. Don’t know when you’ll get this message, but it’s almost nine o’clock now and I just left the office. Call me on my cell up until about ten or so. I’ve got some very interesting news for you. I’ll be in meetings all day tomorrow, so hopefully you’ll call me tonight. Talk to you later.”

  Sean’s phone showed the time as nine forty-one, so after opening another pack of cigarettes retrieved from his glove compartment, he followed David’s instructions and called his number, more for the curiosity factor than any expectation of “interesting news.”

  “I almost gave up on you,” David said, disregarding the opening pleasantries of “Hello, Sean,” or “How ya doin’, Sean.”

  Sean took a rapid puff, shaking his head at David’s typical off-putting manner as the smoke meandered out his car window. “What’s up, David?” he asked, impatient already. “Claire pregnant again?”

  “Hell no!” David laughed. “This is all about you, bro. And it’s real good news.”

  Gazing through his windshield at the lights on the street, he chuckled at the idea of his brother possessing the ability as the bearer of anything Sean deemed “real good.”

  “You have real good news that’s all about me?” he asked, playing along. “I’m sorry, I thought I was talking to my brother, David. I must have dialed the wrong number.”

  “Listen to me, you cynical bastard. What if I told you that by pure, dumb luck, you have a chance to make some pretty good money again?”

  Sean narrowed his brow, wondering what the hell his brother meant.

  “All right,” he replied, sitting up. “I’m listening.”

  “We’re representing a new client,” he said. “It’s a Canadian corporation with a subsidiary that makes a cleaning product called Wally’s Window Wipes. They want to break into the American market and run a six-month advertising blitz this summer. They’ll target the demographic that watches the afternoon soaps and talk shows--you know, mothers in their thirties and forties with the kids and dirty dishes and messy homes. You with me so far?”

  Sean’s bafflement grew, knowing he had as much in common with stay-at-home mothers as an Osbourne had with an Osmond. “Is the next part where I come in?”

  A momentary pause preceded David’s exuberance. “Ready for this?” he exclaimed. “They want to use ‘Looking Glass’ as their song to market the product! Can you believe it, Sean? Is that the break you’ve been looking for or what?”

  “What?” Sean shouted.

  David continued talking, the enthusiasm in his voice underscoring every word. “When the big shots in the firm found out the Hightower who wrote the song is my own damn brother, they couldn’t fucking believe it! I’m so happy for you, bro. Who knows where this could lead? A renewed popularity of the song and subsequent airplay again, right? And maybe this time somebody may actually record a cover version instead of fucking killing himself!”
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br />   David’s last remark sealed Sean’s eyes into tight pockets of painful reminiscence as he bit his lower lip and tilted his head upward, recalling the moment he’d discovered his chance at musical resurrection had crashed and burned. In August of 1993 he’d met Kurt Cobain, co-founder of Nirvana, a group whose previous album, Nevermind, had sold millions worldwide and produced a couple of major hits, “Smells Like Teen Spirit” and “Come As You Are.” One night, with drunken enthusiasm at a downtown L.A. bar, Cobain had talked about the following month’s release of their next album, In Utero, but spoke in greater length about his love for “Looking Glass,” and how the whole band wanted to record it for their next record, praising the lyrics as a “no-bullshit look at life,” and describing unique instrumental dynamics to make the song “a Nirvana tribute to the original.” Sean had viewed this as analogous to the recipient of insider trading, privy to an inevitable cash bonanza few people knew about; the financial stepping stone he needed to get back in the game.

  A daunting legal problem, however, stood in his way.

  Bypassing the 1976 Copyright Act seemed an impossible hurdle, stipulating as it did that a songwriter must wait thirty-five years to reacquire the rights, something Sean had given away as a provision for signing his record contract. But the same week he’d met Cobain, thanks to the fortuitous cocaine arrest of the daughter of the record executive with whom he’d signed that contract, some beautiful quid pro quo maneuvering occurred through the partner of his father’s lawyer, and within a whirlwind two weeks, as part of the agreement for getting the case dropped, Sean regained sole ownership of “Looking Glass.” From a roadblock to a rebirth, the middle finger of fate had been transformed into an apparent victory sign.

  Or so he’d thought.

  After the release of In Utero, another Nirvana album destined to sell many millions, Kurt Cobain died from an apparent suicide in April of 1994. In Utero turned out to be the band’s last studio album, causing the dreams of Sean’s career revival to shatter into pathetic pieces of what-could-have-been.