Change that flat afternoon
From a burden to boon—
Our customers never regret.
(Refrain)
Don’t hold out for too long,
Thousands sell for a song—
Backers break down our doors to invest.
The market’s flooded with surplus;
An hour is worthless;
The price of a month is depressed.
(Refrain)
We get back to headquarters,
Put minutes in order,
Try out extra hours unseen.
Hey, we paid you in cash,
Good nickels for trash—
So you read one less bad magazine.
(Refrain)
How we use inventory’s
A whole other story—
Don’t think we’ll leak this one out, Mac.
If you knew how we play
With years you throw away
You might try to haggle them back.
Hacking crudely at Caldwell’s Roadstar, Checker felt the lack of accompaniment more keenly than usual.
While the others picked at this and that line, Howard kept staring over at Checker’s Leedys, right at the bass, and finally Check twisted to see why; of course—lying under his gig bag, An Inquiry into the Ecstatic State. When Check turned back, Howard’s face bricked over. Apologetically, Checker took the second song from his folder. It was slow and quiet:
Here Is the Party
Waiting for an invitation
All night.
Stay up late in irritation,
You might.
Moon rise.
Turn around,
Here is the party,
Howard.
Wake up,
Here is the party,
Wallflower.
Tooling down investigating,
Same park.
No one here is instigating;
It’s dark.
Some lark.
Turn around,
Here is the party,
Howard.
Wake up,
Here is the party,
Wallflower.
For what are you procrastinating,
Coward?
What are you anticipating
These hours?
Soured.
Turn around,
Here is the party,
Howard.
Wake up,
Here is the party,
Wallflower.
“Did you have to use my name?” asked Howard tersely.
“Well, I could change it. But a lot of rhymes are built around it, and besides, I—”
“‘Howard’ is like a hundred million names,” he observed coldly. “It should be easy to replace. I don’t want my name in that song.”
“Okay.” Everyone was quiet. This was like a school talent show that wasn’t going very well. Checker reluctantly presented his last song:
Hundred-Dollar Peanuts
My peanuts worth a hundred dollars,
Who needs your cashews.
My dreams in Technicolors,
Blow your VCR’s fuse.
Don’t want your Rockefeller’s
Macadamia blues.
My goober’s radicaler—
Rich nuts are bad news.
Tell you a story of
Boys of Astoria:
Don’t make no money and
Don’t eat chateaubriand.
Tell you the glory of
Ten-cent euphoria.
Our amps are secondhand,
But we’re a macroband.
Don’t want Italian leather,
Just worn tennis shoes.
Can’t buy my bright blue weather,
Won’t sell my good moods.
Lean out your yachts so wistful,
Lust for our rock-and-roll cruise.
But hundreds by the fistful,
And still we’d refuse.
Your yacht is snory, a
Andrea Doria.
Out here in wonderland
Boredom is contraband.
Our territory a
Phantasmagoria.
Our jokes are better brand;
Our scale is Baby Grand.
My peanuts worth a hundred dollars,
Who needs your cashews.
My dreams in Technicolors,
Blow your VCR’s fuse…
In that same queer silence again, the band turned the orientation of their shoulders subtly toward Eaton Striker. He cleared his throat.
“You know, they want you to be satisfied with peanuts. You make an ideal proletarian.”
“Who is they?” asked Checker.
“The elite, stuffing themselves every night with oysters on the half shell. Sure, on their yachts. They’re laughing their heads off. They’d love your ‘Hundred-Dollar Peanuts’ song. Content yourself with the little things, right? Van Camp’s pork and beans. Leave us the Jaguars and the Hamptons. There’s nothing more convenient than a complacent underclass.”
Checker sighed. “You’ve seen those tiny jars of macadamia nuts for, like, six dollars or something? You think they’re worth that?”
“If you’re Bruce Springsteen, the six dollars is nothing. You buy them if you like them.”
“Bullshit, the Boss eats macadamias. Bullshit.”
“You’re naïve,” said Eaton.
“It’s a con, don’t you see? People tell you what things are worth, but you don’t have to believe them! There’s a whole-wheat sourdough on First Avenue that I swear is worth twenty dollars, and it’s a buck thirty-five. Why get bent out of shape you don’t live in the Hamptons, when what’s wrong with Astoria? And who really wants to eat raw oysters, Strike? I’ve seen those things, they’re like live slugs.”
Before Eaton could finish his assertion that oysters were an acquired taste, Checker’s mind had already flown off on a tangent, taken with the image of a family in rags seated in the scullery, the little girl whining, “Not oysters again!” Her father slumps at the head of the table picking with lackluster at long strings of king crab. The kids are throwing pellets of macadamias at each other, and the baby smears its Beluga caviar all over its bib. Meanwhile, the little boy, Wattles, sneaks up to the door behind which the masters are dining. “Oooh!” he coos. Stacked in obscene opulence steam whole boiled potatoes, the thin red skins beginning to flake off. A magnificent texture, they say, a little grainy but smooth and filling, with an unusual earthy flavor, though of course Wattles has never had one. None of that gnarled lobster his family has to struggle with—
“Wattles, get away from there and eat your raspberries and kiwi fruit with Chambord!”
Wattles sits dejected, mashing the raspberries with his fork, pushing the scoop of ice cream around his plate until it melts in a dissatisfied puddle. A spoiled little rich boy had once given Wattles a taste of real Sealtest, and now, sickeningly rich and dense compared to the fluffy, lighter texture of the real thing, Häagen-Daz is worse than no ice cream at all…
“Irving?” Eaton waved his hand in front of Checker’s face.
“Strike’s right, bugger peanuts,” said J.K., pulling out a crumpled piece of paper. “I wrote this song, see.” The litany of the afternoon: I wrote this song, see.
“Take Me with You, David Lee” was strung with bikinis and plastered with brand names: cars, stereo components, top-shelf liquors. When it was over and the band cheered, Checker felt as if he’d just suffered ten minutes of ads waiting for the late-night movie.
“Yeah,” said Check halfheartedly. “We can try that.”
But there was more. Caldwell brought in “If You’re Happy You’re Stupid,” an impassioned listing of the woes of the world, from toxic waste to nuclear war.
“Real artists should write about important stuff,” Caldwell explained. “Not just beer by the river. Like you said the other day, Strike, remember?”
“Sure, Sweets. Though maybe we need to take on the issues one at a time…”
r /> “You don’t like it?”
“Sure I do! It’s very—dense, that’s all,” Eaton assured him, walking a fine semantic line.
“And what about you, Check?”
“I—admire your intention.”
“But do you like the song?”
Checker felt all his pores open like floodgates, but Caldwell was looking him square in the eye, so he said, “No.”
“Yeah, well.” Caldwell pulled the plug on his Roadstar with disgust, whipping the cord around his arm. “Somehow I’m not real surprised at that.” Pressing his lips together so their edges went white, he took his seat beside Eaton and shot the other drummer a hard uh-huh look, before turning deferentially to Rachel and saying, “Rachel has a song, too. Maybe you’ll like Rachel’s song, Check.” Again he turned to Eaton as if there was a theory behind this remark that Checker would soon confirm.
Rachel perched on the edge of the stool and clutched a big classical twelve-string to her chest. After a few wan strums, she began “Tell Me Why I Should Be Alive Tonight” Check found himself studying the frayed extension cords curled at his feet, toeing the electrician’s tape flapping off the wire. Anything but watch Rachel sing this song. With its explicit references to pills and IV’s, the performance puzzled him—he’d often encouraged the band to open up to their audience, to be revealing. But there was a difference, say, between glimpsing a girl undressing through a window and watching her strip for money on stage. While awkward and unprofessional, this was definitely a strip job.
Damned if the whole band didn’t turn to him as if to say, See what you’ve done?
“That’s swell, Rache,” said Check heavily. “Thanks a lot.”
At the end of rehearsal Checker had an announcement: “Some official from the Parks Commission wants The Derailleurs to do a gig in Astoria Park, one of those outdoor concerts. Want to do it?”
The first enthusiasm of the afternoon. Check was afraid of that. While ordinarily the idea would have appealed to him—to play in Checker’s park between Checker’s pool and Checker’s bridge, with (what used to be, anyway) Checker’s band—for some reason the prospect of the concert filled him with dread.
He asked Howard to stay behind, and once the rest were gone silently handed back the notebook.
“I’m writing a novel,” said Howard defiantly.
“No kidding.”
“Did you look at it?” he asked, chin high.
“Just a little, Howard. I guess it could make an interesting book.”
Howard shoved the notebook into his pack and was about to beat a rapid retreat when Checker called him back for a moment. “Howard,” he said thickly, feeling a wave of inarticulation roll over him, “I’d like to explain, about this ecstasy shit—”
He stopped. He couldn’t explain. “I don’t know,” said Checker, his shoulders slumping. “Maybe you think too much, huh?”
Howard, whose desire for an answer was every bit as intense as Checker’s desire to give him one, looked equally disappointed, and sloughed out the door.
That evening Checker fled to the Triborough as if consulting an oracle. Rising over the ramp, he noticed one string of lights on her northeastern side was dark. The Triborough was a creature of balance; asymmetry seemed ominously out of character. Unsettled, Checker headed for Randalls Island, where a huge high-school marching band was practicing in the parking lot below the approach ramp. The bass drum pounded through the dark; brasses bounced in the underpass.
The whole trip was like that, filled with small fleeting phenomena that were somehow wonderful, as Checker careened on into Harlem past an evangelist forecasting the end of the world in exactly two weeks. Checker calculated that this was the day of The Derailleurs’ concert in Astoria Park. On down 125th Street, record stores were open late and generously broadcast blues and rap; smells wafted from Kansas Fried Chicken of pepper and fresh fat.
Zefal was graceful tonight, swinging between grates, shifting gears with a quiet chock, chock at miraculously low speeds. Her tires tripped good-naturedly through passing rubble. Stoplights synchronized so it was possible to pick up speed, the freewheel clucking when he coasted, Checker, let’s go faster—whistle warm air through my spokes; blur the reflectors there to solid circles of white light. I love your feet in my stirrups, shoved deep in the toe clips, your small ass high on the back of my seat. Stroke my levers, warm my tape, whisper to my fork, and don’t touch the brakes. Just sock me into tenth gear and push, hard—
Checker laughed, turning Zefal around at Broadway, though she resisted; she would have rolled all night if he’d let her. His relationship with this machine was getting totally sick. It’s been a while, you know.
Janice. Checker didn’t spend a lot of time remembering things, but sometimes holograms would swoop down and inhabit him, like the time he brought Janice home and learned why they usually stayed on Plato’s knotty-pine tables, carved initials imprinting on his ass. At five in the morning his mother flings open the bedroom door screeching, totally naked, her tiny elongated breasts flapping against her arms. Janice leaps instinctively on all fours from a dead sleep, nails clutching the sheet, ribs protruding, lips drawn back from her teeth. Checker quiet, in awe. How dare you bring another woman into this house. Astride Zefal, Checker laughed aloud. Another woman. The deep-throated screaming, drapes in the wind, all that skin. He enjoyed the picture.
Of course, Plato’s hadn’t been foolproof, either; once Caldwell had walked in. Checker was half off the table, his chin stretched back; even upside down he would never forget Caldwell’s expression as he opened the door to so much sweat and muscle and bushy black hair. Checker could as well have slashed a knife down the kid’s gut, for he had that look of someone who’s been ripped open but because of the shock hasn’t yet felt the pain. Caldwell looked brutalized. His eyes grinding down on the floor, he grabbed his gig bag from the stage and slammed the door behind him.
Still, why the monastic denial lately? Checker could name five girls off the top of his head who’d jump on that table in a minute—not counting Rachel, since the idea of making it with Rache was about as appealing as mounting a nuclear warhead.
So Check had to remind himself how much he’d paid later for lying on that table and getting CS + LS semipermanently impressed on his ass. All those resentful looks from the audience. Suddenly someone to avoid. The explanations. Hey, these girls were very sweet, sure, but come on. And then having to stay up just as late but with a lot of weeping and no CS + LS on the ass, not by a long shot. It just wasn’t worth it. Stick with the bike, Checko. At least the two-wheeler didn’t want to brand you on the butt for the rest of your life. Zefal let you get off.
Crossing back over the bridge, Checker chuckled. All this bullshit elation, it was just repressed fucking. “Howard!” he said out loud. “I’ve got the answer!”
And in a way, he had. He wanted inside. Checker Secretti wanted to fuck the living daylights out of the entire world.
Rehearsing for the Astoria Park concert was a nightmare. Everyone wanted to do his own song, getting through the others’ numbers only to make it to his own. After days of this rock-and-roll Babel, Checker would hear all the new tunes playing at once when he tried to fall asleep, like down at the park on Saturday nights when the Trans Ams were stacked bumper to bumper, each blaring a different station. As he tossed and it got later, the songs would edge up in volume notch after notch until, all the dials on high, Checker would sit up in bed, the quilt of his favorite shirts rank with sweat.
Check might have been delighted with this renaissance of self-expression but for one little problem: the songs were rotten. They all knew it, too, which only made matters worse. Rahim was far too willing to express his distaste, but at least to one another’s faces the rest kept quiet, and politeness is deadly between friends.
Checker spent a lot of time with Rahim, for while everyone else in the group seemed queered in some way, the Iraqi was loyal as ever, cleaning the mud off Zefal’s rims, bringing
Checker samples of his new recipe for apricot squares, and throwing himself so completely into Check’s tunes in rehearsal that the bandleader’s numbers were now less recognizable from their drive and wit than from the predominance of saxophone.
While Check had promised himself not to introduce any more new material of his own until all this was over (All what? And what would make it over? The concert? And what was that going to solve? Why was there anything to solve?), Rachel was constantly at his elbow wheedling: Couldn’t he write her a song? Just one song? At last he capitulated and brought in “Too Much Trouble.”
Too Much Trouble
I know I could outlast it.
I know I could get past it.
I know another year or two would do the job.
Crushes on my sixth-grade teachers
Now are through.
I don’t remember their dresses,
Their addresses,
Their shoes down the hall.
So I could wait you out,
Rock,
Stare you down,
Tap my foot to the clock.
Hearts are muscles,
They tire.
I could burn down the fire.
But it’s too much trouble,
You bursting my bubble,
The mornings,
The afternoons.
It’s too much trouble,
The year or two.
So can I pass on your job?
Can I punch in my clock?
I know you and I won’t do.
So can I lie in your fire,
Let the furnace shoot higher,
No mornings,
No afternoons?
Because it’s too much trouble,
The year or two.
While she was suitably ethereal as he began, by the end of his performance Rachel’s forehead had rumpled. “Dresses?” she asked once the last chord had died.
“It’s sort of the male version of your situation,” Check explained.
“I know you and I won’t do?” she remembered perfectly.