The rest of the band left their obscenely clean perches and hugged Rachel formally one at a time, never too hard.
“Syr, this apartment—”
“I know,” she moaned, pulling a throw pillow out from under her and tossing it across the room—she looked wistful when nothing smashed. “I come home, I have to go to work throwing clothes, knocking something over. And have you noticed my jeans and shirts are always clean now?”
“Frankly—no.”
She seemed relieved. “Well, that furnace in summer is a miracle cure. Unfortunately, apartments don’t sweat.—I told him, No doilies!” Syria rose and tore a lacy antimacassar from behind Howard’s head and threw it in the trash basket—which was, of course, completely empty. From there Syria ranged around the room, rumpling rugs, scattering rocks, pulling the bows on drape ties. “Makes me want to have a kid just to keep the place comfortable. What I really need here is a pile of shit-filled diapers and a three-year-old maniac with a Crayola 64.”
“Nah,” said Check. “This is a job for The Derailleurs!” Sure enough, after Syria’s preliminary muss, the band unpacked instruments and papers and spread lyrics over the floor; cigarette and doobie ashes dusted the carpet.
Rahim swept out of the kitchen with tiny phyllo envelopes stuffed with feta cheese, followed by Baby Lamb Yuvetsi with avgalemono sauce, dilled cauliflower, and pilaf. Checker said the pine nuts reminded him of tiny rotting teeth. They were all grateful the food was so elaborate; it gave them something to talk about. After all, what were they to say to Rachel: Gee, are you glad you’re alive? Do you really buy that Checker loves you—don’t you think that’s a sell? Uncomfortably, this was the first party The Derailleurs had ever thrown for Rachel DeBruin; it set an ugly precedent.
From a shortage of chairs they ate on the floor, and through dinner Rachel shuttled closer and closer to Check; he retreated as she advanced, until he ran smack up against Caldwell’s shoulder. Caldwell shot him an odd look, and Checker duly edged back again, landing himself practically in Rachel’s lap. Syria watched this dance from across the room with an indeterminate mixture of sympathy and disdain.
As Rahim collected the dishes, Eaton sidled over to Syria’s extensive record collection and remarked with surprise, “Rock and roll!”
“Darling, I was ‘Midnight Rambling’ while you were nodding off to ‘All the Pretty Little Horsies.’”
Eaton flipped methodically through her albums, searching for a weak point—a little flash of Carpenters, a limp Elton John or two. But so far, Adam and the Ants to Warren Zevon, it was a solid, even relentless collection—never a flicker of Carly Simon sentimentality, a falter of sappy Phil Collins. The rack was stacked with classics: Santana, Procol Harum, Iron Butterfly, shored up with a wide historical base that made Eaton feel unpleasantly young—all the Hendrix, Joplin, Cocker, and Creedence in their original issues, not the shiny new copies Eaton had. He might have pulled off a comment about her “opening an antique shop,” and was working on the phrasing, until he’d come across too much Grace Jones, Prince, The Eurythmics, and Los Lobos to accuse her of being fusty. Come on, where was that peep of Peter, Paul & Mary, that brief moment of exhaustion in Tower when you bought the Janis Ian and Dan Fogelberg? Who your age escaped 1972 without getting saddled with at least one Cat Stevens? And while all the records here were hardcore, they were never silly, never all-out bad. She had the Airplane but not the Starship; the Smiths and The Psychedelic Furs, but never Iron Maiden or Twisted Sister. Neither was the selection hopelessly mainstream, but interestingly laced with Billy Cobham, Max Roach, Buddy Rich (drummers, Eaton noted), George Duke, even some foreign albums—Gianna Nannini, Bap, some Japanese he couldn’t read. Eaton had never seen such a powerhouse collection in his life—right under a close-up of Mount Saint Helens, the records formed a solid flow of invulnerable sound. Impossible!
You bet. Scanning a second time, Eaton spied the unmistakable tufts of weakness. Eaton pulled them out as if finally having found a single wrong answer in an otherwise annoyingly perfect SAT. “Simon and Garfunkel!” he cried.
The whole room turned and stared. Eaton realized the scale of his elation was a little out of line.
“So?” asked Syria.
“They just don’t seem to fit in here. A little—soft.”
“Since those are all records that I like, they fit in fine.”
“Garfunkel’s pretty limp in the wrist if you ask me. And they date badly.”
“I think they hold up,” said Checker.
“Man, you can have ’em,” said Caldwell, launching with J.K. into a satiric version of “Feelin’ Groovy.”
“I’ll take them, then,” said Check. “Great lyrics.” He smiled at Syria. “Groovy.”
Eaton stuck Songs from the Big Chair on the turntable, setting the needle down at “Everybody Wants to Rule the World.” He returned to the circle to propose, “How about a party game?” since the last one hadn’t worked out to his satisfaction.
“Pin the tail on the asshole,” said Syria. “I’ll go first.”
“Something more adult,” said Eaton. “A proposition: say, if you could be anyone in the world, who would you be?”
“Little much beer under the bridge for serious stuff, Eat,” said J.K.
“Just idle speculation.” Eaton leaned back languidly, curling the corner of his collar between his thumb and forefinger.
“And easy,” said Caldwell. “Clapton.”
“No way,” said J.K. “Give me David Lee Roth any day.”
Caldwell gagged. “Big J.! Clapton is to Roth as Wheaties is to Captain Crunch!”
“Musically, no argument. But we’re talking life, right? And Captain Crunch got no problems and all the women in the world.”
“And no little girl,” said Checker quietly.
“He did say anybody.” J.K. glared at Check, and turned to Howard. “How about Mr. Manager?”
Howard jumped. He was stoned. Howard liked the idea of getting stoned, but he always forgot what dope actually did to him, which was turn him into a total rabbit. Howard Williams couldn’t afford to turn into a rabbit. When Eaton posed his question, Howard had begun to sweat, groping for the names of rock performers; for some reason, the only group Howard could think of was Hall and Oates. Howard was not so stoned that he didn’t know what a good laugh they’d all get out of that one—okay, a few nice tunes, but of all the people in the world?
“President,” Howard stuttered.
Caldwell and J.K. guffawed. “Sit around listening to violins with your hands in your lap?”
“And married to Nancy?” asked J.K. “I rather be marooned on a desert island with a paper bag.”
“Better start working on it, Howard,” said Eaton. “‘Manager of The Derailleurs’ looks a little strange on campaign posters.”
“What about you?” Howard accused.
“The Boss,” said Eaton easily. Hard to top, but looking over at Checker, Eaton thought, Then, I could have chosen anybody—anyone whose tickets you’re lucky to scab up at double money. Anyone who looks down from the stage and sees your face as a blur in the cheap seats. In fact, let’s play a different game: who would I like you to be? I wish for once you could step inside my shoes. Then you’d know what a drag it is to see you…
Quiet Carl handed a penciled note to Rachel, and she read, “Danno on the Late Show.”
“Me, next life, Craig Claiborne,” said Rahim, passing around pistachio pastries. “Or maybe Sheckair, yes?” He picked the prettiest pastry for his wife. “Only Sheckair don have Syria.”
“Don’t be so sure,” said Eaton.
Rahim’s eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth, but Syria interfered, “No one has Syria, invertebrate.”
“And who would you be?” Eaton asked her.
“Anyone who didn’t ask that question.”
“Not even Dale Chihuly?”
Syria looked at him sharply; Eaton smiled placidly back at her. “No,” she said slowly. “He’s in a rut
, and he doesn’t even do his own work anymore. He farms it out to grad students.”
“But what if you could spread big red bones over two-page glossy layouts in Art in America? Or American Craft,” he corrected apologetically. “Glass is considered craft, not art, isn’t that right?”
Syria seemed about to close in for a returning barb, when she stopped and looked around as if realizing how old these people were. She laughed. “Well, you have done your homework. Congratulations.”
“Rache,” said Caldwell. “Joni Mitchell? Joan Armatrading? Or Rickie Lee Jones?”
“None of those, actually,” said Rachel, glancing at Checker. “I saw a woman crossing Broadway once. She was sixty-five or seventy. She walked real slow, but she picked her feet up, she didn’t shuffle. She was wearing a worn overcoat and stubby shoes. Her hair was short and straight and neat and very fine.”
“So?” said Caldwell, looking worried.
“She had an expression on her face, a smile. It was—sublime. Is that the right word?” She turned to Checker for confirmation.
“Describe it,” said Check uneasily.
“As if walking across the street were the most wonderful thing anyone ever did. She was alone, and old, and slow, and pretty soon the light changed and taxis honked at her, but her face glowed, you know? I wouldn’t mind being her.”
Once she’d finished reciting her piece, she beamed at Checker. He turned away, a little sick. The whole band shifted in their seats, looking out the window, though it was pitch dark. Caldwell lit a cigarette, and asked Syria for an ashtray. Rachel sat with her hands clasped, regularly cutting her eyes toward Check.
That was lovely, Rachel, what a fine thought. Checker got up quickly and ducked into the bathroom. So? What was wrong with wanting to be a sublime old lady? Oh, man. Checker rubbed his own neck. He took a leak, but there was only a dribble—had to drink more to hide out in the john.
Checker dreaded going back out there, feeling it was his fault and that everyone knew, everyone could hear it. But I thought you’d be pleased. Of course that’s what you thought, dear. Boy, that’s the second time in a week I’ve wanted to stick my fingers down your throat, little girl. Don’t you ever do that again. Do what? Don’t you EVER do that again! God, it’d been like listening to his own voice recorded at .33 and played back at .45—a mincing, chipmunk parody of his own convictions. Checker Secretti’s parables from the hillside as read to you by Rachel “Magdalene” DeBruin and accompanied by The Derailleurs Tabernacle Choir. Checker shuddered. Truth turned tract was an ugly business, and he promised himself never, never to write a book or start a religion. She’s trying so hard, he told himself. I know, he said back. But I’m embarrassed.
He splashed some water on his cheeks and glanced up, catching his own face with the same surprise of seeing a friend from childhood in a strange city. Surely looking in the mirror is among the most profound of everyday experiences, and tonight Check found solace there, the cheekbones high and round, the eyes meeting themselves squarely: Check, old buddy! He gushed with a wild affection for himself, the relief of his own company, feeling the simple comfort of staring into someone’s eyes and for once knowing exactly what they were thinking. He liked his face. He liked his broad shoulders, all those veins down his arms, his girlishly small waist. Was this sick? Should he be looking for zits or finding his nose too upturned for an adult? Did Checker have a problem? Was not having a problem a problem?
Checker rubbed his face with a towel and braced himself to find out.
When he walked back in, they all stopped talking.
“You’re the only one left,” said Eaton.
“For what?” He was stalling.
“Party game, friend. Five billion on the menu. What’s your pleasure?”
Checker felt the eyes of the whole room turn on him rather than to him—Howard’s, stoned and resentful for having said “President,” as if someone had made him; Rachel’s cool because he hadn’t said, That was a lovely thought; Caldwell and J.K. looking inexplicably preannoyed; Carl stewing blankly, perhaps newly aware how far he was from becoming a rock dj; Rahim in the kitchen, Check missing him as an ally and wondering why he should need one of those, all the while Eaton Striker fixing on him with something close to glee: Generous of you to dig your own grave, Irving. I so hate to get my hands dirty.
“Don’t,” warned Syria. “Don’t play.”
“Why not?” he asked slowly, and when he answered their question, the various expressions of his band members melded into homogeneous loathing.
“More than David Byrne?” Eaton pressed. “More than Bowie. Steve Gadd. Keith Moon.”
“Keith Moon is dead,” said Checker.
“Come on, Check,” said Caldwell. “Even Howard did better than that.”
“Maybe I just don’t have a good imagination.”
“Yeah,” said Caldwell sourly. “Maybe not.”
“But it’s all in your control,” Checker tried lamely to explain. “What your life is like. It really could be great to be an old lady crossing the street.” He took the illustration away from Rachel, like removing an adult book from a child who couldn’t understand it. “And it could be hell to be Eric Clapton. Don’t you see?”
“I think Rache would be better off as Rickie Lee Jones,” said Caldwell.
Checker sighed. Springsteen had been stuck on the turntable for some time: Some all-hot half-shot was / headin’ for the hot spot / Snap-nsome all-hot half-shot was headin for the hot spot / Snap-n… They gathered their things to go home, making a show of saying goodbye to Rachel but only nodding at Check. He heard Eaton propose on the way out that they all go climbing on Hell Gate and cop a little graffiti, but no one invited Checker. Rachel remained behind, until Checker finally convinced her that he was staying to do the dishes and that since it was her party she wasn’t to help. He sent her home with Carl.
Rahim insisted on doing the dishes himself, so Check and Syria debriefed in the living room. She put on Simon and Garfunkel. Save the life of my child! cried the desperate mother. What’s become of the children? people asking each other…
“Why do you let them do that to you?”
“Do what?”
“Manipulate you so they can hate you better.”
“They don’t hate me. They’re my friends.”
“You keep telling yourself that.”
Checker had been fingering a notebook in front of him and absently paging through. His own name caught his eye. “What the hell—” Checker bent over more intently, feeling intrusive, but this wasn’t the kind of thing you put down just because you were respectful of other people’s privacy unless you absolutely weren’t a human being.
“What’s that?”
“It’s Howard’s—and all about me!”
“What?”
“Just a second.” It was the last pages Checker was interested in; he scanned: irritating dumb cheer…likelihood of fraudulence…ecstasy as performance… Right, left, right, to the jaw. “Here, take this away from me.” He handed the notebook to Syria.
She appraised it quickly. “Very flattering,” she said, and put it down.
“Not all of it. And not at all, really, Syr, I don’t want this shit!”
She tsk-tsked and put her feet up. “Suicide! Disaffection! You kids do pack it in. God, watching the rise and fall of egos in here was making me seasick.”
“You think because we’re young it’s all a joke?”
She picked up a piece of basalt and inspected it pensively. “Well, no, not a joke, not at nineteen, not at nine.” She tossed the rock up and caught it. “I make fun of your soap operas because I’m jealous, you should know that. The way the intrigues, the dances, the individual Friday nights fill you people up. Your passions are so gaga. You can’t all take it, but it’s wild to watch.”
“You don’t honestly want to be nineteen again, do you?”
“No, I’m more useful as a grown-up. Still…” She set the rock down with a quiet rattle.
“You know, that guttersnipe Striker implied I was such a failure. But actually I’ve been too successful with glass. It can take the heat; it’s taken mine…” She looked up at Checker strangely. “You going to get out of here?”
“Sure.” Check went to clap Rahim goodbye in the kitchen. He returned and picked up Howard’s notebook, already dreading the scene of its return. Syria saw him wearily to the door. “Listen, you,” she said, uncurling a kink of his hair, “don’t let me patronize you. Your life’s as real as mine, maybe more. But my world is a little small right now, and you have to figure that when I look around my living room and find it full of kids I feel a little crazy.”
“Is that something to be ashamed of?”
“I hope not.” As she kissed him on the forehead Checker was relieved he wasn’t planning on clambering up Hell Gate with a can of spray paint, because God knows what he might have splayed over the rusty iron for the entirety of Astoria to read the next morning.
Carl doesn’t talk
18 / The Party’s Over
Checker began to write songs frenetically, as if harmony could by its marvelous mathematical properties force his friends in tune. Check believed in music as miracle elixir. When they rehearsed next, he brought in three new songs like bottled cure-alls, quart-sized:
The Checker Time-Buying Service
You squander it cheap
On dead sleep with no dreams,
Wheel of Fortune, formulaic romances.
We come round in the mornings,
Better Business warnings
Aside, aren’t you willing to chance us?
Refrain:
It’s the Checker Time-Buying Service—
No cause to feel nervous,
What we take is the waste you don’t need.
You spend it over the sink,
Like money on drink;
Turn a profit on all that ennui!
Throw dull evenings in buckets;
Someone cancels, you chuck it—
Surprising how fast they collect.