Vexation Lullaby (5 page)

The girl and I stare at the envelope.

“What we looking for?” she asks.

“That's going to give it away.”

My sandwich slides down a stainless steel gutter.

“I don't know,” I say.

“Oh, I gots it, I think,” Laverne says.

The boss shakes out a paper bag, walks over to my sandwich, and drops it inside. “Tell our customer what he's missing.”

She sets her fingernail where the E meets the X. “They put an arrow in there.”

Her boss snakes an orange juice out of a cooler and sets it inside the bag. He reaches my breakfast toward me, then pulls it back. “Tells you they're in the business of going places.”

“That's my business, too,” I say, snatching the bag from him.

“But FedEx be recognized around the world and don't nobody know you.”

I'm pushing through the doors when I hear the girl say, “You have a day.”

10

Back at his place, Peter popped 5 mg of melatonin and queued the triathlon movie on his DVR. As the killer unzipped her wet suit Peter thought of Cross's bird-boned chest. When she bent to roll the suit off her hips, Peter focused on the actress's plump ass; he jerked off, brushed his teeth, and got in bed. Staring at the ceiling, he discovered he could recall partial lyrics to no fewer than five Jim Cross songs, “No Evil Star,” “Long Gone,” “Wayward Satellite,” “Absolutely Nowhere,” and one about prohibition. He couldn't recall the lyrics to “Jerkwater Blues,” but he remembered there had been a controversy after one of the pharmaceutical companies used the tune in a commercial for an acid-reflux remedy. Somehow, that Cross would accept the same dollars the Stones and R.E.M. stuffed their mattresses with proved nothing was sacred anymore. On TV a pundit suggested Virgin paint its logo on the tail of the
Spirit of St. Louis
.

•••

P
ETER WOKE TO
one of those arid days where the atmosphere acts like a magnifying glass and even the farthest landmarks appear in hyperdetail. He had the sense that he'd survived a brush with danger or else passed a trial.

He checked his email while sitting on the throne.

In preparation for an upcoming board meeting, everyone was scrambling to generate enough paperwork to justify how they spent their days. He ignored report drafts from the committees he sat on, clicked through announcements from the vision center (they were relocating) and the flu clinic (welcoming a new RN). The Wound Care Clinic had produced an Excel sheet that demonstrated that they—and not Physical Therapy—were next in line for new furniture. Pediatrics was collecting board games.

Peter stepped into the shower.

At some point he would tell Martin about his evening, about meeting the tour manager and the sound guy's weird getup and the polite giant with the metal detector. He would tell Martin about Kiki Beals, about mistaking her husband for Cross and then mistaking Cross for a roadie. He'd tell Martin the whole story and when he got to the punch line—when Cross invited him to get on his plane—Martin would say, “You should have gotten on the plane.” Or, worse, he'd say, “I would have gotten on the plane.” Just like that, the story wouldn't be about Peter's adventure, but about Peter squandering an adventure.

As he shut the water off, Peter heard his phone vibrate on the vanity. The screen listed three missed calls and two voice mails. Every number appeared as “Unavailable.”

While his post-Lucy coffeemaker hiccupped and hissed, he
checked his messages: the head of patient care requested Peter stop by before his shift; Bluto said,
Shoot me your address and social, doc, so I can cut you a check.

The phone buzzed again, another unavailable number. Peter answered; he would always be convenient.

“It occurred to me you wouldn't know it was a Sunbeam Tiger,” Cross said. “You used to call it the Go-Go Car.”

No, Peter thought, the Go-Go Car overheated on the DC Beltway—he and Judith had walked to a gas station and hired a tow truck to retrieve it, but by the time they returned to where they'd left the car there was only a wet spot on the pavement. The Go-Go Car, he knew for a fact, had been a Plymouth Volare.

“Forget it,” said Cross. “So why didn't you check my blood pressure?”

“I didn't?” Peter remembered getting the cuff out, but after that . . . little details came to mind, the gold fleur-de-lis pattern on the carpet, Cross's yellow-blue eyes, the satin edging on the brim of the cowboy hat.

“Don't be surprised if Tony gives you an earful.”

“Are you talking about Tony Ogata?”

“Just giving you a heads-up.”

“Tony Ogata doesn't know who I am.”

“He's learning. He's talking to people.”

From his living room window, Peter watched the white roof of a city bus as it pulled away from the curb. “Wait, who is he talking to?”

“Your references.”

“Excuse me?”

“He likes doing favors for me. I'm sure he'll be discreet.”

“I thought I was the one doing the favor.” The words spilled out.

Cross was silent.

Peter plugged a finger in his ear so that he could hear better, but there was no one there.

11

It feels like someone is rapping their knuckle inside my head. The McDonald's manager stands there, fussing with the blue tongue of his pocket square. He signals me to roll down my window.

“A person can't sleep here,” he says.

I blink. Past my windshield, a breathing V of birds arrows out of town.

Sitting up, I pat my pockets. “I guess I nodded off.”

“Keys are in the ignition.”

I start the car, then look over my shoulder to back out.

The man puts his hand on my forearm and leans down so I can see his face. He's got a trim little mustache, like a patch of Velcro. “You're a long way from home.”

The Corolla
⁵
has Texas tags.

“Then,” I say, “I have a long way to go.”

•••

W
HEN I FIRST
joined the tour, I would scribble the setlists on 3-by-5 cards—listening to the shows felt like trying to learn a foreign language, so I made myself take notes. I stored the cards in a shoe box that I wedged under the passenger seat. In the afternoon, I'd take the cards out and flip through them. When the shoe box started to fall apart, I replaced it with a little red toolbox.

My mother's sister, Aunt Liddy, my chief patron, bought me a laptop computer to help me track my expenses. Overnight my 3-by-5 cards looked as ancient as cuneiform tablets, so I collated my setlists into a single, searchable spreadsheet.
⁶

The laptop came with a trial membership to AOL, which is how I stumbled onto the Internet. Cross's fans kept a newsgroup (rec.music.cross), but the content skewed to the emotional rather than the empirical. It wasn't my thing. On a whim I registered the domain name JimCrossCompendium.org and designed the most basic of websites (a splash page that read, “Click HERE to see the Big List,” which linked to my updated file). The whole thing took me a few hours. When it was completed, I posted a plug for my site on the newsgroup, then I went for a long walk.

The next time I logged in, there were three replies to my thread:

Can someone check to see if this is legit?

and

This reeks of one of the labels. They're probably ramping up to release some epic box set.

and

If Cross really played “Cherry Wine” and “Poseidon Gets the Blues” in Lisbon, Portugal, on 6/8/94, then I need to build a time machine.

The concept for my site has always been very simple: I attend the show, then I post my setlist. Sometimes I write a bit more and sometimes I write less.
⁷
If a visitor learns about me in the process, that's unavoidable. Take June 13, 2000:

The band jumps on “Tennis Shoe Blues” like it owed them money. I don't know why they were late going on, but I get the feeling they aren't happy about it.
⁸
A. J. Wyatt punishes his drum kit. The band follows with the slowest rendition of “Long Gone” I've heard in years—I wish they played it like this all the time. How does JC know so much about betrayal? For the fifth time in eight shows, the encore went “Sally (& Gin),” “Pleiades for Breakfast,” and “Last Bus from Mexicali.” It's certainly a melancholy way to close. Finally, a lot of you have been asking after my aunt Liddy. It's been a couple weeks since I've had anything to report. However, sometime late last night she passed away—of course JC played “Lovely Tia Morena” to close yesterday's show. Faithful readers know Liddy has helped me out from time to time (easing my financial responsibilities
⁹
and, thus, ensuring that I could continue with this project). She remained upbeat and encouraging until the end. I will be flying out to pay my respects tomorrow morning, but will make it back before the opening act (the Nose Candies?!) complete their set.

Depending where you look, JCC can appear like a virtual library or a corner bar. Thanks to the site, I've been able to connect with fans all around the globe.
¹⁰
JCC is like that character from “
Aphids on Apples
,” the one who “
keeps a Rolodex file for the addresses of every dog's door
.”

Gene's driveway is empty, but I still park on the street. A white envelope flags out from the railing of the raw wood staircase that leads up the side of the garage to the new apartment. It's addressed to me:

Oh, Restless One,
¹¹

Sorry I'm not here to welcome you. I had to get to work early and Cory was called out of town (let's not talk about it). In the meantime, make yourself at home. I'll be back around six.

Gene

P.S. I won't bother you in case you're sleeping. Come down when you want company.

12

During his residency, Peter and Lucy shared a tidy one-bedroom apartment—formerly service quarters—in a mansard-roofed Victorian. The house was ringed by a hedge, which the owner trimmed with the aid of a laser level. Lucy kept hinting that she wanted out of the suburbs, so when the hospital offered him a salaried position Peter got in touch with a Realtor. The stability of a mortgage excited Peter. Besides, he always needed a goal to work toward—he'd always been that way.

T
HE
R
EALTOR'S NAME
was Margo Benedict. Peter would confess to Martin that talking with her reminded him of how, in the movies, a shy kid will hire a prostitute to take his virginity. (Martin said, “That's not a film genre I recognize.”)

Margo didn't care for conversation. Her favorite expression was “Tell me I'm wrong.” She specialized in pronouncements. “Young people don't want a lawn,” Margo said. “You want your
kitchen island and a discreet place to put a huge TV.” She said, “You want the openness of a loft, but you don't want people staring at your bed during a dinner party.” She took him all over the city. When viewing a property, Margo had a tendency to clasp Peter by the biceps. She always wore red lipstick and heels. She had to be sixty.

Margo professed to be an expert on Peter's “lifestyle.” He needed twenty-four-hour access to a gym. He wanted concierge service and the convenience of attached parking, but he wouldn't feel comfortable with a doorman.

Peter trusted her, though he didn't always recognize the qualities she attributed to him. In order to become the person Margo saw in him, he'd have to let her find him a home.

She asked him to meet her at the Cavanaugh Dry Goods building—he'd never heard of it. There were contractors in the lobby, piles of rubble. Someone gave them hard hats to wear—Peter put his on, but Margo held hers a few inches above her head, like a parasol. As they rode a padded freight elevator upstairs, she told him about the building's provenance. Cavanaugh Dry Goods had been a leader in the region, but the Depression decimated the company and they were bought out. An accounting firm occupied the building in the '50s; despite having ties to Kodak and IBM, they still went belly-up. Peter wondered if the building had bad luck. “You love the chalky brick,” Margo said. “They don't make buildings like this anymore. The walls are two feet thick.”

The developer had finished a model unit on the fourth floor. The water didn't work and the appliances were still clad in their protective film, but couldn't Peter see Lucy emerging from the elevator after a hard day's work? On the counter, a three-ring binder contained an artist's interpretation of what the building would look like once the renovation was complete. Women in cocktail dresses and guys wearing suits without ties mingled in a stark lobby. Sparkling drinks balanced on a railing overlooking the city. Germanish cars stabled in the basement garage. The setting sun painting gold reflections on the triple-pane, LEED-certified windows.

One of the builders stopped by to introduce himself. He greeted Peter with a handshake. He said, “Do you know about customizing?”

If Peter bought early, he'd be able to select certain features—bathroom fixtures, kitchen cabinetry, the backsplash, sink, and counters.

“Which floor are you thinking about?” the man asked.

“Fifth,” said Margo.

“That's good. You see everything from there, but you don't have to pay a premium for a penthouse.”

“He's a shrewd buyer.”

“Internet money?”

“He's a doctor.”

“Hey, good for you.”

Why hadn't Lucy come with him? Had she known they were running out of time? Maybe she thought she was doing him a favor by moving him downtown, that it would make things easier when the time came for them to start seeing other people. He wanted to believe their breakup had surprised her, too.

I
N THE MOST
mundane sequence of meetings, Peter acquired an attorney, a mortgage broker, a mortgage, and, finally, a 1,600-square-foot condo outfitted with a suite of appliances, a parking spot, and a locking storage space. From beginning to end, the whole process took less than three months.