Checker and the Derailleurs

  Check splattered over to Caldwell. The rest had brought suits; Check was stark naked.

  “You look pleased with yourself,” said Caldwell.

  Checker extended without embarrassment over the steps. “Just pleased.”

  Caldwell glanced slyly at Checker’s prick, now withered into its testicles. It was hard to tell—the damned things kept changing size on you—but Caldwell decided his own was bigger.

  “Do you consider yourself a hedonist?” Eaton asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “Someone who lives for pleasure.”

  Checker considered. “Maybe,” he said uneasily. Ordinarily Check loved new words—he could turn “vermilion,” “flange,” or “vice grips” around in his mouth with the savor of a good sour ball, but he got nervous when a word named not what you saw but what you were; it was a little like having the sour ball turn around and suck you. “This hedonist business. Is it supposed to be so great, or kind of crummy?”

  “It’s—problematic,” said Eaton.

  “Like other people,” Check remembered. “Problematic” was one of Eaton’s favorite words.

  “Because of other people. It would be fine to live for pleasure if you were alone in the world. But as an ethic, hedonism falls a little short.”

  “Right over my head, Strike.”

  “I think,” said Eaton carefully, “that something can feel good and be bad. Or feel bad and be good.”

  “Take Romaine,” said Caldwell. “What’d he do yesterday, anyway?”

  “He heaved a baseball bat through the window of the Victory Sweet Shop.”

  Caldwell laughed. “The usual.”

  “It’s too bad,” said Checker. “I liked the lettering on that place. Must have been fifty years old, gold, you know, and real ancient-looking.”

  “Did Romaine know you liked the lettering?” asked Eaton.

  “Maybe, why?”

  “Glass,” said Eaton.

  “What?”

  “Well, what do you do for a living?”

  Checker grunted. “So is Ro’s vandalism my fault, too?”

  “No, no,” Eaton soothed. “I just mean it’s lucky he didn’t swing the bat at you.”

  “The point is,” said Caldwell, “what if Ro gets jacked smashing windows, Check? What if that makes him the grinningest son of a bitch on earth?”

  “But it doesn’t,” said Check readily.

  “Come on, the swing, the crash, the tinkle-tinkle? Wouldn’t it be gorgeous to land a bat in the Victory Sweet Shop window yourself?”

  “No.”

  “Can’t you at least admit it jacks your little brother?”

  “No.”

  “Then why would he do it?” asked Caldwell in exasperation.

  “Because it doesn’t get him jacked. Which makes him angry. Which makes him smash more windows.”

  “So what would you recommend?”

  “Stop smashing windows.”

  “How’s that gonna get him jacked?”

  “It won’t. But it’d save a hell of a lot of plate glass.” They were missing something: When you love plate glass you don’t want to smash it. But Checker couldn’t think of a way to say this that didn’t sound dorky.

  “Let’s go at this from another angle,” said Eaton. “When you do only what feels good, you rule out sacrifice. Do you think all those soldiers in World War II went overseas because they were in the mood for a European vacation?”

  Checker slumped a little. He felt as if the two of them were heaving sandbags on his chest; it was harder to breathe.

  “There’s a whole other side of things, Secretti, that you like to ignore,” Eaton continued. “Suffering. Doing things for other people—”

  “I don’t consider doing things for other people suffering,” Check interjected.

  “Sometimes it is. A lot of boys in World War II died, Secretti. And I don’t think just because they felt like it.”

  Checker took a breath and sat up, unloading the sandbags methodically one at a time. “That’s right. And for what?”

  “Come again?”

  “What did they die for, Striker?”

  “Freedom—”

  “To do what?”

  “You lost me,” said Eaton coldly.

  “There’s a monument down by the river, for the Astoria war dead. You know what it’s for, really? Those guys died so I could do laps in the pool until two in the morning.”

  “They might have found that surprising in the trenches, Secretti.”

  “Bullshit they would,” said Checker. “Any good soldier would know exactly what I mean. They fought World War II so you and I could order up home fries in Mike’s Diner. So we could tune in The Cars live on NEW down by the river and drink beer.”

  “What are you talking about, Irv?” asked Eaton with disdain. Checker stood and stretched. “I’m talking about being alive, Striker. It has to count for something, or there’s nothing to fight for. Now, how do home fries sound, boys? I’m starving to death.”

  If there was a monument to being alive in the park that night, it was not down by the river but stood in front of the two of them there at the pool, all its muscles rippling like the water beside them, reflecting the blue light and filling with lungful after lungful of thick summer air. Checker sighed often; Caldwell had remarked on this once and the drummer had explained, “I like to breathe.” He was doing that now. Warmed up, Checker’s prick fell long and voluptuous down his thighs, and Caldwell was no longer sure his was bigger, after all. In fact, though he was taller than Check by four inches or more, the boy before him, for whom all of World War II was fought, made him feel in every way considerably smaller.

  Caldwell’s best friend is inexplicably beginning to annoy him

  17 / The Checkers Speech

  “It’s getting wider.”

  “I know.”

  “It can’t get wider.”

  “It can.”

  “It better not.”

  “It has to, or this will have been pointless.”

  “It seems pointless now.”

  “Yes. So it has to get wider. So far apart that it comes together.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “This whole conversation is crazy.” Syria shrugged and went back to work. “I’d just like to know,” she shouted over the furnace, though they hadn’t been talking about Rachel, “what are you going to do when something really is your fault?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “We’ve been thinking of having a party for Rachel when she gets out tomorrow,” said Eaton. “There’s Plato’s, of course, but it might have—”

  “Associations.”

  “That’s what we thought.” Eaton’s “we’s” were funny. They didn’t include the person he was talking to. “And none of us has our own place except J.K., and he’s got the kid and all…What’s the story on your apartment?”

  An unpleasant scene loomed before Checker of about three in the morning, chips strewn around his living room, his mother already asleep, Romaine in the streets window shopping, the band one by one kicking out the door, clipping him on the shoulder, hugging Rachel good night; the last record clicking at the end, only a low light on, and once more Rachel having been drinking when she wasn’t used to it; her sinking into the crumpled blue armchair and toying with his mother’s stuffed sheep, it being only the two of them and Checker not able to leave because it was his apartment.

  “That’s Wilbur,” Checker might inform her feebly.

  Rachel would bend Wilbur’s ears and smile (and not leave) and make expressions of entreaty on the animal’s face. Checker had played with Wilbur before, so he knew that if you pressed its forehead down and folded the ears over its eyes, it could look incredibly pathetic.

  “You want something to eat? A drink?”

  She’d shake her head and still not say anything, since Rachel wasn’t very talkative unless she was trying to kill herself.

  So maybe in desperation he’d show her
the pieces he’d blown at Vesuvius, holding that last bowl up to the light, its cool ice blue like the Astoria pool at night. Maybe he’d even suggest a swim just to get out of here, but she’d shake her head again and he’d run out of diversions and now it would be four and he’d be so tired and she’d get all soft, as if Rachel could get any softer, and—“No, Eat, no way, not in my apartment.”

  “We were wondering about Vesuvius, actually.”

  Checker winced. “Syr works at night, and she’s been pretty clear about not having us hang out there.”

  “Just one night. For a good cause. Why not at least ask? Are you afraid of her?”

  “You bet.”

  “What’s she going to do, throw you in the oven of her gingerbread house? Been working for her a while now,” Eaton prodded gently. “I’d think you’d be getting on friendlier terms.”

  “We are,” said Check cautiously. “But Syr and her furnace have a lot in common. You don’t get too close.”

  “Even if she’s married to one of your best friends? I thought you went to dinner there and everything.”

  Checker grunted.

  “You ask her and I’ll stop by the studio tonight and see what the word is.”

  With a pat on the shoulder Eaton was gone, Checker staring after those miraculously immaculate tennis shoes flashing in the sun.

  “No clumps of potato salad where I work, no sale.”

  “Fine, I’ll tell—”

  “However.” She pinged the big crystal snifter she was packing for SoHo. “You could have it at my apartment. After all, I have a caterer, don’t I? His cacciatore is out of this world.”

  “I’d never have guessed you’d tame that Muslim spitfire into sautéing onions with a smile.”

  “Actually, I miss the old days. Once in a while I throw lasagna on the ceiling just out of nostalgia.”

  “Why, Syr? Why let us use your place?”

  “Curiosity,” she admitted. “All your little friends. To see what they’re like.”

  “You’d be there?”

  “You mean I’m not invited to my own apartment?”

  “Just…Rachel, that’s all, and you…”

  “So?”

  “Nothing,” said Check hurriedly. “It’ll be great.” Checker swept viciously and thought, Oh, it’ll be great, all right; it’ll be priceless.

  Though he’d never been inside before, Eaton sauntered into Vesuvius with cool lack of interest in the facilities. But then, Eaton tended to be bored by things, Checker had noticed.

  “You.”

  Eaton turned, feeling distinctly accused.

  “You were the drummer at my reception. The second one.”

  “And you were the bride,” said Eaton sardonically. “You do look different.”

  She stood with a punty, one end on the ground, bouncing it gamely from hand to hand. “Better or worse?”

  “More like yourself, anyway,” said Eaton with a smile.

  “How do you know? You don’t know myself.”

  “I often see more than people give me credit for.”

  “Cocky, your friend here,” Syria told Checker, with a tinge of appreciation.

  “How’s the marriage of convenience going?”

  “Conveniently.”

  “Irving here told me about your offer for tomorrow night. We’re obliged.”

  “Girl returns from hospital still weak from overdose. Solicitous friends, awkwardness you can taste. Idiot bandleader. I couldn’t find better at the Quad.”

  “I meant to ask you, Irv, are they definitely letting her out tomorrow?”

  “Sure. It’s a city hospital; nobody wants responsibility—”

  “Except you,” said Syria with annoyance.

  “They’ll just ask her, So are you going to do it again? and she’ll say no and they’ll say, Good, here are your clothes, we couldn’t get all the puke stains out, sorry. They’ll give her a pat on the ass and she’ll be out the door.”

  “Incidentally, Irv, a few things she said to me yesterday struck me as queer. What all did you tell her, anyway?”

  “You can go back to work, Syr, if you want.”

  “What’d you tell her, Checko?”

  “Just that—she and I, that we weren’t—out of the question…”

  Syria let go of the punty; it fell on the cement with an incredulous clang.

  “What was I supposed to do? She’s in the hospital and asks me point-blank and—”

  “And you tell her!” shouted Syria. “Where does this stop? Are you going to marry her because if you didn’t she’d feel bad?”

  “She’s suicidal!”

  “So, if she said she’d kill herself if you didn’t, you’d marry her?”

  “Is this your sacrifice, Irv? Rachel’s your World War II?”

  Checker looked at his watch and pulled off his apron. “I’ve got to get out of here. They say she freaks if it’s too late in the visiting period and I haven’t shown up yet.” Not meeting either of their eyes, he washed up and put on a clean T-shirt.

  “You’re being blackmailed, darling,” said Syria woefully as Check opened the door, and there was a seriousness to her voice, a tearing, that made Eaton watch her with sudden interest. Checker said, “I know” as they looked at each other Eaton took mental snapshots, flash, flash. They were not pictures of employer-employee, that was certain.

  “Well.” Checker gone, Syria assessed Eaton, her arms akimbo.

  “So you’re an artist.”

  “I make things,” she conceded.

  “Could I see your work?”

  “I won’t stop you.”

  Syria stood in the doorway as he scanned the shelves of glass bones. “You bring out both the strength and fragility of the skeleton,” he began. “Your work is an interesting commentary on both the resilience and frailty of human life—”

  “Can it.”

  “I mean I’m impressed with these pieces—”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You had any shows? Have a gallery?”

  “I don’t care about that, either.”

  “You and Irving must get along great.”

  “What’s with this ‘Irving’?”

  “Didn’t you know? It’s his real name.”

  “But it’s a silly name and it doesn’t suit him. Why do you persist in using it?”

  “For fun.”

  “Whose?”

  “Mine,” he admitted.

  “Don’t use it around me. I don’t like it.”

  “You and ‘Check,’ then. Must get along well.”

  “We do.” Summarily she closed the storeroom door and led him back to the furnace. Syria sat and crossed her legs, folding her hands over her knee. “But you and Check, now. Isn’t it sticky, being another drummer around Checker Secretti?”

  “Hardly. I’ve learned a lot from him.”

  “So modest. That doesn’t seem like you.”

  “How do you know what’s like me?”

  “I often see more than people give me credit for.”

  “Touché.”

  She leaned forward. “He’s good at things, you must have noticed. Even at glass, he’s a natural. Whatever he touches melts. Doesn’t that grind a little bit? Doesn’t that just tear you up?”

  “No,” said Eaton. “Why should it?”

  “Oh, you tell me.” She sat back again. “Admit you’re jealous and you get my sympathy. Deny it and you don’t. Your choice.”

  “If I’m so far gone I can’t even admit it, why don’t I deserve your sympathy all the more?”

  Syria nodded. In some odd way, he pleased her.

  “You seem awfully impressed with this kid.”

  “I am. That’s surprising?”

  “Not from his peers. But at your age, I’d expect you’d have more of a—perspective.”

  “My age?”

  “Well, you must be, what, thirty-five?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “Still, don’t you get tired of ha
nging around young guys?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I guess they are easier to…” He stopped.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Control,” said Eaton deftly. “Dominate, even.”

  Syria smiled. “Nothing in the world easier to dominate than an adult male who’s losing his hair. The young ones still have some fight in them. Why, look at you! You’re positively dangerous, aren’t you?”

  They met each other’s eyes. Eaton was tremendously flattered. “So you want to control Checker Secretti?”

  “I want to instruct him.”

  “Why bother? If he so all-fired wonderful already?”

  A mistake. Syria sharpened. That trickle of loathing trailed like drool out of the corner of his mouth. There was no use wiping it away.

  “I’m warning you,” said Syria evenly. “Anything you do to him, I promise I’ll do to you.”

  “I feel relatively safe, then,” said Eaton, cleaning his nails. “Check and I are friends.”

  “Right. You and Irving.” She saw him to the exit and said sweetly as they parted, “You’re a worm,” closing the door in his face.

  Checker prepared Rachel for the Carver Arms as he walked her from the hospital, but it seems his warnings were outdated. Disappointingly, there was no tomato sauce on the ceiling, no National Deesh on the floor. Nor did the rugs tinkle like the shores of the East River anymore—they weren’t covered with glass but with the slashes of a vacuum cleaner. The window sashes shone from lemon oil. There were throw pillows and flowers; the volcanoes were framed, the igneous rocks by the lava lamp neatly arranged. Checker half expected Syria Pyramus herself to curtsy out of the kitchen scrubbed pink in a lacy white dress, a ribbon in her hair.

  Of course, Syria strolled in to meet the guest of honor with dirt streaked across her neck, her hair uncombed, her shirt sleeves stuffed up her arms. He’d never seen her nails so black to the very tips, and though it hadn’t rained in a week, her boots were mysteriously caked with mud, as if she’d deliberately gone looking for the last remaining puddle in all of Astoria.

  “Congratulations on fucking up,” said Syria; when she shook Rachel’s hand, it buckled. “Have a beer.” With that she collapsed into a chair as if she expected the lights to go down and someone to run up the aisle for Jordan Almonds.