Vexation Lullaby (27 page)

Good luck with your paper! I hope this helps.

Best,

Arthur Pennyman

SteeltownLarry writes, “Is something going on between Jimmy and the band? Besides introducing them during ‘Loss of Pressure' he hardly seemed to acknowledge anyone the whole night. Did you notice that he exited the stage on the opposite side from the rest of the guys? It's been a while since he cleaned house—even the kid has been with him for a few years now. Do you expect we'll see new faces come spring?”

Dear SteeltownLarry,

In my tenure I've seen eleven guitarists, nine percussionists, three bassists (people ignore Tony's mysteriou
s
⁴⁰
leave of absence at the end of '97 and his brief illness in '08), two keyboardists, and one erratic mandolin player (William Styles's one-night stand in Seattle). I won't mention all the special guests, both headliners and has-beens, who've dropped in for a set.

To quote Heraclitus: Change is the only constant.

As for his relationship with the band, all I can say is that I haven't seen or heard anything unusual. This has been a pretty stable era, all in all. However, that's not to say he couldn't pull a Springfield Armor
y
⁴¹
tomorrow.

The bigger question, it seems to me: How much longer do WE expect this to go on? I'm not the only one to think Cross has seemed a bit erratic this fall. He put on a hell of a show last night, so why did it leave me feeling uneasy? Why did it leave you uneasy? These are the sorts of questions that make the winter so long and lonely.

Yours,

Arthur Pennyman

Mr. Pennyman,

My name is Raven Warren. I am writing you in my capacity as a curator for the Center for American Music and Folk Art in Los Angeles. If you're not familiar with CAMFA, let me catch you up to speed. We are a 501(c)(3) nonprofit committed to preserving and protecting the rich heritage of American art makers. As you may know, the center is in the process of creating a digital archive. I would be very interested in talking with you about your Jimmy Cross project. If you would have time to meet with me, I could tell you why CAMFA can offer an ideal repository for your records. As you know, the University of Wisconsin and the Smithsonian have already secured, respectively, Cross's papers and existent recordings; I also know, from conversations with board members, that neither institution envisions acquiring secondary materials.

When you have a chance, I hope we can discuss how CAMFA might protect your significant legacy.

Warmly,

Raven Warren

Director of Digital Media Archives, CAMFA

Dear Raven,

Thank you for your interest in my project. You've reached me at a good time, as I've been wondering what shall become of this material once I can no longer take care of it. Future Cross scholars—as well as sociologists, musicians, cultural historians, etc.—will want access to my materials. JimCrossCompendium is very much an active community: last month the site had more than eighty thousand page views!

Perhaps CAMFA would be interested in cosponsoring next year's leg of the tour?! Or maybe there are other models of support that might serve both of our interests. I'd be very interested in having that discussion with you.

And, yes, I've followed the jousting between UWisconsin and the Smithsonian. However, I'm surprised you didn't mention the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. They're the ones I've always expected would come calling—they're certainly aware of me: my server regularly records visitors from their ISP. Considering Paul Allen's financial resources and his background with computers, they would be a natural match. And don't forget: Cross was inducted into the Hall of Fame in '88!

Ultimately, I want my project to land with an organization that appreciates my efforts and recognizes the significance of the materials. Let's talk soon. In the meantime, the road calls.

Yours,

Arthur

Arthur,

I'm sorry if my behavior got out of hand the other night. I should have told you the timing wasn't ideal. I've had a lot of things on my plate (har har), but I knew you were looking forward to seeing me and I didn't want to let you down. Do you know anything about People-Pleasers? Basically it boils down to me constantly asking myself if the people around me are happy? If the people around me are happy, then my life has value and I don't ask myself the dark questions (Are you happy, Gene?). People take advantage of me sometimes. In the winter my neighbors will ask if they can borrow my snowblower, knowing that instead of letting them borrow my snowblower I'll probably get up thirty minutes early and clear their driveway before I clear my own. Are they bad people for asking? They don't think so. If they ask me, I tell them I'm glad to drive them to the airport or watch their cat.

I guess at some point I started seeing Cory as an extension of me, and therefore I didn't stop to ask, Are you happy, Cory? I don't know how that happened, but I can see now that it did. And I've been drinking more than I should too (instead of “Are you happy, Gene?” I can ask “How about a drink, Gene?”). There are a lot of people who are willing to let you sacrifice yourself trying to make them happy. Many of these people, obviously, are women. Should I be trying to make them happy? I know better, sure, but how much harm is there if I take a woman to lunch and nothing else?

It probably would have been better if I didn't have you over, but, hey, I wanted to make you happy. And we were having a good time. Did I feed you? I did. Were you entertained? See what I'm saying? But then, after I'd had a few drinks, my mind said, How can I make Gene happy? That's how I came up with the idea for a fake posting. Was it the cleverest thing I ever came up with? I'm not saying it was. When you said no, I felt like, once again, everyone was taking, taking, taking from Gene. And then you went inside (into the garage apartment I built). Did I overreact? Of course I did.

As you can see, it wasn't really so much about what you did or didn't do, but more of a cumulative thing that had been building up for a while. If you spent anything reinflating your tires, please let me know. I'm happy to pay for any damages I did to your property. And, as for your friendship, I'm sorry for any damage I may have done to that, too. Though I realize it may take longer for me to fix that.

Sincerely,

Gene

Dear Gene,

I'm sorry for your troubles and I'm sorry if I inadvertently made more troubles for you. I think it takes a lot of character to sit down and write a letter like that. Most people would pretend it didn't happen.

While you don't explicitly ask me to defend my choice of not publishing a fake report, I wanted to point out that the thing that makes JCC different from CrossTracks (or any of the other boards) is that I make a point not to blur those lines between what is good for me and what is good for the fans.

In friendship,

Arthur

I wash my face in the café's bathroom. Then I swap the yellow button-down shirt I wore this morning for a laundered shirt that Patricia claimed brought out the green in my eyes, my lucky shirt. The shirt was hidden in the most inaccessible compartment of my car, along with a few other things I didn't expect to need: a sewing kit, a snakebite kit, Gabby's baby book (not the original one—Patricia has that—but one I put together as a high school graduation gift, though, so far, I've failed to give it to her).

Back at the DoubleTree, I stand watching the elevator deliver people and carry them away. Waiting there, I can recall what it was like to anticipate a prom date descending shag-carpeted stairs. I stretch my arms and twist my neck. I never took a date to the prom.

Rosalyn's not down at five, or ten after. The elevators keep disgorging the wrong people. At twenty past, I assume she's running a little late. I check with the desk clerk: no messages for Arthur or Artie. I choose not to call her room. I don't have a reason; I just choose not to.

At six the desk clerk comes over and asks whether I've heard from my friend. She seems worried for me, maybe about me. She's very young, with curly black hair held close to her skull with pins. Perhaps I remind her of a grandparent.

I do not allow my concerns to multiply. I force myself to take a seat on the sofa. I do not allow that I have concerns. Rosalyn will come.

“Ar-thur,” a voice whispers in my ear. “Ar-thur.” Rosalyn stands behind me, her hands resting on my shoulders.

I'd fallen asleep. “Are we ready?”

“In
The Holy Screw
the narrator and Ruben charter a sailboat on the Aegean. When a storm kicks up—she calls it a tempest—she starts to get seasick, so Ruben tells her to imagine she's a fish.”

“And that helps?” I pat my pockets; constant traveling has made me conscientious about leaving things behind. I can't afford to scatter bread crumbs.

“She can't imagine being a fish, so she cheats and imagines she's Ruben.”

“She does?”

Rosalyn kisses my ear. “Then she falls asleep.”

“Whisper my name again.”

She says, “Horrible Arthur.” Her lips are wet with gloss.

“Hungry?”

“Do we have time?”

“There's always time.” I hardly recognize my own voice.

56

At five, Peter found himself on the band's bus with the silent driver—the crooked little man with the Greek fisherman's cap whom Peter had heard people refer to as the Arbiter. The doctor had spent most of his afternoon watching the bus's satellite television and trying to come up with scenarios that would result in Cross's consenting to a hospital visit. Peter's only hope, he concluded, was a miracle.

The driver turned in his seat. “Hey, doc, you know this lady?”

Maya stood in front of the bus, peering into the windshield.

Peter went outside to speak with her.

She was looking for Alistair. The night before, he'd promised her an interview with Cross and she'd spent the whole day waiting for her phone to ring.

Her eyes were even greener in the daylight.

“When did you last see Alistair?” Peter knew he was prying.

“I dropped him at the airport last night.”

Peter wanted to tell her that he'd missed the flight because he'd been waiting in the basement for Alistair (for her!). Would the truth make him seem pathetic? Incompetent? “He didn't offer you a seat on the plane?”

She looked over her shoulder. “No, he did. He told me to leave my rental in the parking lot; he said he'd take care it.”

“You turned him down?”

“Should I have taken him at his word? He's famously irresponsible.”

“Well, primarily with his own health.”

She reached up and pulled her hair back. “Besides, I like driving. I grew up watching American TV,
Miami Vice
,
Magnum, P.I.
I wanted to rent a Ferrari, but my research stipend wouldn't cover it.”

If Martin had been there, he'd have taken the opportunity to tease Peter about his unsexy car. If Alistair were there, he'd rent her a Ferrari.

“I need this interview,” Maya said, “but I'm afraid if I go behind Alistair's back he'll be vindictive. Is that like him?”

Peter said he didn't have much to go on.

“Aren't you friends?”

“I met him two days ago.”

Maya rubbed her forehead. “Why did I think you'd known each other longer?”

Concerned that their conversation could be on the verge of ending, Peter changed subjects. “I've got a question for you: Why, when I've never really cared for Cross's music, do I suddenly feel like I'm becoming a fan?”

Maya looked at him, smiled. “Had you ever watched him play before?”

“Does that matter?”

“Hugely. I have a whole chapter on the power of the stage. We're social animals. Put us in a crowd and we fall in line. The expression ‘Preaching to the converted' is misleading. The audience, not the preaching, is the real agent of conversion.”

“How does that work?”

“You must have studied the autonomic nervous system in medical school. That's the mechanism.”

“Are you associating musical tastes with perspiration, respiration, heart rate, and reflexes?”

“You left out sexual arousal. Sometimes I tell people that my research focuses on how and why we fall in love.”

“As a physician,” Peter said, “it's fascinating to hear how a sociologist understands the autonomic nervous system.”

“Maybe I'm a metaphysician.” Maya smiled. “Did you talk about the soul in med school?”

“I don't recall studying the soul.”

“If I were to go looking for one, the autonomic nervous system is the first place I'd check.”

“Where are you from and are there more people like you there?”

She blushed. “I'm a Kiwi.”

“That's funny.”

“Why?”

“Your eyes are kiwi-colored.”

She shook her springy hair. “Would you want to get something to eat?”

He'd put on his serious-business face, a guy who'd been watching television on a bus. “I'm waiting for Bluto.”

“But you do eat food sometimes, don't you?”

“You've got very bad timing.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Do I?”

What he'd meant to say was that her timing was bad for him, but he didn't trust that he could explain the difference. “I would like to eat with you at some point.”

“At some point,” she parroted him. “If you see Alistair, tell him I was looking for him. Don't tell him that I'm getting frustrated.” She turned and started to walk off.

He called after her. “Enjoy your food.” He deserved nothing.

W
AYNE AND BLUTO
didn't show up at five. Or five-thirty. Peter flipped the channels on the TV, but nothing held his attention. He tried closing his eyes for a few minutes, which, instead of relaxing him, made him feel like a blind idiot. The only person he'd ever met from New Zealand was off exploring Columbus while he sat waiting on a bus. Time passed right through him. He couldn't sit another moment. He needed to do something.