“What’d you bring the meter with you for, Eat? A souvenir?”
There they were, antiquated and ridiculously huge; creaking and bandaged with tape, wired and tied with bits of string.
So you miss the great master? Too bad. He’s fucking the daylights out of a dried-up glassblower and left you to roll in the dew, that’s how much he cares about you. His whole band thinks he’s a slime bucket, even that hothead Iraqi now. And the old lady back at the furnace is sure to slip him his walking papers once she’s got what she wanted. Older women are like that, they get these itches; it doesn’t matter who scratches as long as he doesn’t get inconveniently underfoot. So you’ve got no daddy, no hero, no big brother, nobody better. Those icons, they always disappoint. No matter how you exalt them, there will always be someone around like me to show you how small they are. And everyone else is grateful, I do them a favor. Who needs this larger-than-life shit? It’s intimidating, it’s discouraging, it’s depressing as hell. You think you see giants walking around, but they’re really just regular people on shaky stilts—a couple of good kicks will do it.
Had Eat the time to compose it, he might have sung Checker’s Leedys a familiar little song:
Junky-clunky, you Derailleurs,
Now defuncty.
You’re no morey, poor Derailleurs,
That’s the story.
Sunk in funky, lead Derailleur,
Now debunked-y.
Your bouncy bunk’s half-baked,
Your exaltation’s faked,
Don’t tell me you own rock and roll.
Get off that bandstand,
This is a reprimand—
We need a harder, stronger, smarter leader.
Your coddled tubs will shred,
No more pats on the head—
These rattletraps deserve a better beater.
Your skins are pampered, Irv;
Strike throws a sterner curve—
You’ll find my rhythm’s parking meter.
Eaton had decimated the bass by the time J.K. and Caldwell understood what he planned to do. They both might have entertained notions of throwing themselves in front of Eaton à la Howard Williams—because that was no bicycle, those were Check’s drums—if instinct for self-preservation hadn’t interfered. You did not plant yourself in front of a maniac swinging a wild parking meter, period. So in dull horror the guitarists from the fledgling band Taxi watched their new leader descend on the traps, wood splintering, rims crumpling, heads buzzing, ticking, and flapping in the wind. The Zildjian-K’s clanged a less-than-clarion call across the hills of the park, their bells inverting into the dirt. Eaton slew the high hat to the grass, now more of a beret. The snare swallowed the head of the meter whole and rose with it over Eaton’s head, but Eaton dislodged it with redoubled fury and took his vengeance for the delay. Felled early, the crash shimmered in the wreckage with each new blow, its rivets tingling like raw nerves, though this was a show of liveliness not unlike a snake continuing to writhe and rattle after you’ve cut off its head. As Eaton dealt his final blow to the throne, the first gray light of sunrise hit the red flag in the weapon’s window: EXPIRED.
Caldwell and J.K. looked at each other. “Hey, J.—”
“Tomorrow,” J.K. whispered fiercely.
They moved very smoothly and very carefully and very quietly. “Some solo, Eat,” J.K. muttered in passing; that was all.
The guitarists loaded the rest of the equipment into the van; Caldwell hid his Roadstar under the back seat. They worked stealthily but fast, moving the amps away from Eaton Striker like making points in Pick-up Sticks. They did not want him to move.
He didn’t. Eaton stood with his hands in his pockets staring off toward Hell Gate, his collar high.
The equipment loaded, J.K. and Caldwell collected the remnants of the Last Supper. The ice in the chest had melted, and the remaining oysters had sunk to the bottom. The water was gray with a pink tinge from the cocktail sauce; lemon slices floated nicely on top, amid bits of horseradish. J.K. closed the lid with funereal care.
Peanuts and macadamias scattered underfoot. The cold cuts and cheese were curling, the pastries crusted. Caldwell dunked the sourdoughs in a can like basketballs.
“This tuna isn’t opened,” said Caldwell softly. “Want to save it?”
“Sweets, you joking.”
So Caldwell piled the rest of the spread on the cloth Check had brought for the picnic—a funny sort of quilt, with patches of suede, velour, corduroy. It was pretty mangy, so Caldwell rolled it all in a bundle and shoved the quilt in a can, the way they used to discard the toys and clothes of children with scarlet fever. Having touched the old food, the tiny forks, the squares of cloth with pockets and buttons, Caldwell felt tainted and wiped his hands on his jeans. As he poured out the rest of the Carlo Rossi, it stained the grass red, and its rising acrid smell turned his stomach.
“You coming, Eat?”
Eaton didn’t even shake his head. Nothing. Just his back. Caldwell and J.K. left their new bandleader with palpable relief.
Only when the van had churned away did Eaton stir. Listlessly he shuffled through the remains of Checker’s drum set, kicking at stray rims, turning over cymbals as if sifting through the ashes of a fire looking for something that had survived—a piece of the family silver, a gem, a charm. Finally he picked up a metal plate and worked the splinters off its rivets: Leedy. Although he slipped the plate into his pocket before roaming off between the concrete pillars of Hell Gate, Eaton didn’t seem to have found what he was looking for.
23 / The Ghost in the Machine
Howard leaned over the rail by the river, listening to the birds begin to twitter, the water lap against its glass shoreline. There was a strange Eastern peacefulness to this rock garden, with the breeze, the near-dark, the contortion of the metal below like an abstract sculpture—it suggested a bicycle.
Howard climbed over the rail and balanced down to the frame, to stroke her bedraggled tape and work the brakes, now flaccid from broken cables. While Checker admired slow change by habit—the sharpening of sprocket teeth, the toe-clip indentations in his All Stars, laugh lines—watching the dead decay was another matter. Howard couldn’t imagine Checker would want to study Zefal as she dropped her bolts one by one into the East River while he leaned over the rail with a beer. Howard reached down to heave the bike off the rocks. As he did so, a small dark shape in the sky caught the corner of his eye.
He thought it was a bird, and later, when he saw something bobbing in the river, he didn’t pay much attention to it, either. He was tired and had a job to do. Howard dislodged Zefal’s pedals and threw her toward the river, but she landed short and still cut that stark figure on shore. He clambered farther down, getting his shoes wet. The black thing floated closer by. He threw her again, and though she landed in the water this time, she was still sticking out, more pathetic than ever. Howard slogged out knee-deep, finding the current quick and his balance unsteady, even at this depth. Still, he wrestled the bike once more and pitched her with all his might; blessedly, she sank from view. Howard was about to go home, already thinking of a long hot shower and his favorite flannel sheets, when the black blob bobbed past and Howard looked it in the eye.
Howard leaped from rock to rock, frantically keeping pace with the flotsam, until he found himself square in front of the monument to the Astoria war dead. He glanced up from the shore and read: No greater sacrifice has he than a man lay down his life for his friends. The quote had always given him chills; this morning it actually made him shudder.
You say personal loyalty is one thing. I don’t think so. I think it’s everything. It’s the beginning of everything, anyway, Striker. It’s the bottom line.
Sure, Howard realized it was an inadequate ethic, finally. It didn’t cover everything, not nearly—it occurred to him that sometimes you were loyal to two different people, and in order to stay loyal to both of them, you had to do absolutely opposite things. And when one of those pe
ople was yourself, well, that was an especially sticky wicket. But it was a nice ethic all the same, both reliable and a little stupid, like the people Checker had been loyal to, and the person he must have, until tonight, considered himself to be. It helped, and Howard wasn’t about to let it gurgle down one of those whirlpools under Hell Gate like the last cup of water down a bathtub drain.
Rachel had been wandering the streets of Astoria, but she couldn’t remain forlorn. The view in the window of Vesuvius hadn’t really surprised her. She’d noticed the electricity between those two before. It was the sort of picture that should have shot her into an all-night drugstore; instead, it threw her onto the unbelievably steady bedrock of herself. Checker was making love with someone else, and she didn’t even cry. She felt a little like the first time she looked into a mirror and realized she was pretty, only this time she realized she was strong. Rachel walked the streets with an unreasonable calm, embraced by what Checker called the Great Okayness that can so surprisingly follow romantic disappointment. The row houses beside her had thick walls and full basements; their healthy rosebushes sported large stalks. Fences were in good repair and flagstone uncracked. Hardy grass sprang between squares of sidewalk. At six in the morning tenacious old ladies waddled out to prune with well-made shears.
She got hungry as the sun rose, and stopped in a bagelry for a sesame, hot off the tray. She remembered, Checker always asked for “hot and light,” for which he could get burned-out all-night clerks pawing through the bin. Checker loved bread. Checker loved—
Well, Checker. She sighed. She wondered if he knew how handsome he was. Maybe not. Or maybe he did this morning. Syria was pretty old for him, but that somehow made sense. She still had a good body, anyway. And noshing down Ditmars, Rachel felt sadly pleased that Checker had found someone to hold him after Eaton Striker said those dreadful things and he had to go.
Sunrise was lush, and Rachel’s steps were generous. Her hair fluffed out and rose in the humid air of late summer. The old ladies gargled good morning, and Rachel waved. When on a lark she tripped down the steps to Plato’s, she was humming The Police, one of her favorites.
Caldwell and J.K. were there, looking a little the worse for wear. They stopped talking when she skimmed in.
“Hello, boys.”
“Morning, Rache,” said Caldwell gently. “Up early?”
“Late.” She smiled.
“Yeah, us too.” Caldwell stretched, and exposed his long, flat stomach with a “Ho-oh!” Rachel slapped him playfully under his raised T-shirt. He shot her a quizzical look.
“So are you guys really going to start a new band?” Hands on her hips, she stood between them.
“That a matter of discussion, Jackless,” said J.K.
“Yeah, we’re—concerned,” said Caldwell uneasily.
“About what?”
“That Eat—uh—”
“That Strike ain’t playin with both sticks.”
“You mean because of what he told Checker?”
The two guitarists eyed each other. “Yeah…” said Caldwell. “Say, listen, we’re sorry about Vesuvius—”
“On my account?” Her voice had acquired a clarity to its consonants. Full and pretty, it wasn’t thin. They looked at her differently.
“Yeah.”
“Checker and I are friends. That’s all.” Slowly both their heads tilted at this oddly self-assured woman standing between them. She shrugged. “I know. Sure. I’ve had a thing for him. But it’s not going to fly, right? So the guy’s—spilt milk. Why cry.” She looked between the two of them, her mother’s daughter. Insurance. A-line.
“This time,” said J.K., “she take tranquillizers.”
“By the way,” said Rachel, looking at the stage, “where are Check’s drums? You didn’t leave them in the park?”
“As a matter of fact—we did.”
“You spiteful assholes! Sweets, give me the key to the van and I’ll go get them myself. I mean, just because he doesn’t like your songs—”
“Rache,” said Caldwell, “you don’t want to get Check’s drums,” in much the tone of voice the husband must have warned his wife from the door after the second wish in “The Monkey’s Paw.”
“Why not?”
“Strike play some boffo tunes, see—”
“With his usual delicate touch—”
“Cut it short.” This was unlike her, but Caldwell was actually glad to be spared the song-and-dance.
“Striker pulverized them with a parking meter.”
“WHAT?”
Caldwell rubbed his face. “Have you noticed how weird everything’s gotten lately, guys?”
“I wish I never / woke up this morning,” Rachel sang. “Life was easy / when it was boring.”
“You said it,” said Caldwell. “Man, I could use some real dull shit just about now. Check makes fun of ’em, but, boy, I could go for a game show. Let’s Make a Deal…”
“Nope, too exciting,” said J.K. “Clapping and screaming and big money. I more like in the mood to watch bathwater evaporate.”
“But only if it’s not too hot a day. So it doesn’t dry too fast and make our heads spin.”
“Yeah, maybe evaporation too wild. Erosion?”
“Photosynthesis.”
“Too funky, Sweet. Howard right, them little green leaves outta thin air, that weird shit, man. I need ordinary life, buddy. I wanta walk to the corner and buy a banana. You got your nice day and sun and shit, and then you got your nighttime when you sack out, and that the end of the story. Don’t even need no rock and roll.”
“Paint peeling.”
“That the ticket.”
But ordinary life would have to wait for another morning.
“Where is Checker Secretti?” It was an accusation.
J.K. and Caldwell prepared their expressions before they turned to the door. It would be difficult to marshal real disdain from scratch once they’d faced her.
“Well,” Caldwell drawled, “last time we saw him he was with you.”
“And when was that?” She didn’t seem nervous, but factual and in a hurry.
“Like, two in the morning? Seemed you didn’t want to be disturbed.” Caldwell tried a salacious grin.
It didn’t work very well. None of the disdain, in fact, worked at all. She wasn’t embarrassed, or even very angry; more inconvenienced—the taunting took time. “Where is he now?”
“What’s wrong?” asked Caldwell bravely. “Like it in the morning?”
She towered over him; Caldwell froze. “You kids don’t know what you’re playing with. Checker disappeared from my studio, and I don’t trust him. So you tell me if you’ve seen him and where. Now.”
Caldwell took his feet off the table and fumbled with a guitar pick, clicking it against his thumbnail. “No, really,” he said, looking up. “I’m sorry, I—haven’t seen him.”
“What about you two?”
They shook their heads.
Syria sighed and slumped against a post, sliding her palms down her thighs. “I woke his mother up, the park—”
“How come you don look for husband? He gone all night, you don care?”
Syria knocked her head gently against the post. She didn’t turn around, and the level of her voice didn’t vary. “Because, Chick-pea, you don’t worry me. You’ve been through a lot of crap, you can take a little more.”
Rahim strode into Plato’s with as much of a Western bar swagger as he could manage, but he hadn’t expected to find her here, and the sudden sight of her back through the door had set him shaking; he immediately had to sit down.
“In my country, you know what we do to you?”
“The whole point is to make this your country, Chick-pea. And here, we do jackshit.”
“We cut off your head!”
“You’re the worst of the lot.” She pointed a finger at Rahim’s chest. “Mr. Middle Eastern Melodrama. Well, spare us the spurned and betrayed number. Okay, so you want something and you can?
??t have it. Ask your friend Rachel there, that’s a hard nut to crack. But don’t dump your disappointment on me, and whatever you do, don’t dump it on Checker.”
Rahim sulked at his lap. “I already dump on Sheckair.”
“When?” she asked sharply.
“Not long ago.”
“So he knows you saw us?”
“Everyone see you,” he said, with eyes like awls. “Gahba.” It was Arabic, but Syria had heard the word for “whore” before.
The charge seemed to bore her; she turned from Rahim and surveyed the room. “At least my husband stuck up for him. But when that viper lit into your friend in the park, what did the rest of you do? Any of you?”
J.K. ground a cigarette butt into the floor that had been out for days. Caldwell broke his pick in half. Rachel’s hair frayed into her face.
“Right. With friends like you, who needs cardboard?” Syria turned and was about to go when one last Derailleur burst in the door. He leaned on the doorknob catching his breath.
“Ch—” he said. “Chuh—Chuh—Chuh—”
“Checker?” asked Caldwell.
“Tuh—tuh—tuh—” He shook his head wildly, as if rattling a radio with a bad connection. “Tried! To duh-duh-duh-drown himself!”
For a moment it was hard to decide which to find more incredible: the information or the fact Carl had delivered it.
Syria made an unusually small sound for a woman of such efficacy. She pressed her thumb between her eyes; air whistled through her nostrils. That was all. Slowly she let the thumb down and moved calmly toward Carl. She took his face between her hands. “Is he all right?” Her voice was music, keyboard, the lower middle notes, even tones.
“I duh-duh—”
“Take your time.” Still, she held his face and looked at him and smiled; Carl did talk to his mother and he used to talk to Checker, and this was an interesting combination of both of them.
“I don’t know.”