“Eat sent them to the cornfield.”
“Seems they got a parking ticket,” said J.K., and explained with merciful brevity. “But, Check, we looked into it. We want to replace the traps, but they hundreds—”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Slowly Caldwell and J.K. looked directly in Checker’s eyes for the first time since he’d said the word “drums.” They were a serene blue. His hands were in his pockets. He sprang gently on the balls of his feet. He kept looking around at the band and smiling.
“Why aren’t you upset?” asked Caldwell.
“Like you said, keep the program moving.”
There was an art to losing things, as Zefal’s disappearance had trained him. You just—let go. Like dropping a leaf in the river and watching it float downstream.
“I thought they were your best buddies. That you talked to them. Celebrated their birthday.”
“Syr pointed something out the other day,” said Check, gesturing to the glassblower. “She said she’s the same way with glass. Talks to it. Names it. But when it breaks or slumps too much in the annealer it doesn’t touch her. She says—” He stopped, and looked back to Syria; she nodded for him to continue. “She says the bike, the drums, the bridges—it’s not them, they’re things. See, when you’re very big, she says, you take up a lot of space. Your body doesn’t begin to cover it. So you—infest stuff. Inhabit, she said. She said that’s why I need bridges, because they’re so big. She said I’ll need even more space soon, that I can live in the Manhattan skyline now. And later I may need horizons, she said. That she’d take me to volcanoes. Syr says they’re about the right size for her; right, Syr? She says she’s real comfortable on Krakatoa.”
“Yeah, well, we think you’re big, too, Check,” said Caldwell, swallowing. “You tell him the deal, Sidestroke?”
Howard tapped his mechanical pencil as if flicking an ash. “We’re negotiating.”
“Cause we have one more present, Check,” he went on haltingly, having rehearsed this too many times. “We want you to go to CBS. Don’t worry about us. We don’t want to hold you back. We want to say we knew Checker Secretti when he was a kid. We all like to play, and we’re not gonna quit. But you’ve got a chance to be more than any of us could ever be, and we think you should take it. We’re proud of you, Check. We’re giving you a ticket out of here.”
“And what if I don’t want to go?”
“We’re telling you, we won’t play with you. We refuse. And not because of Taxi, that’s not going to fly—”
“Don’t you think you should tell me that first?”
The Derailleurs froze.
“We was gonna tell you, Strike,” said J.K.
“How considerate,” said Eaton, closing the door coolly behind him. “But it’s just as well. I’m working on a couple of backers who are interested in putting together a top-flight commercial band. Going out and buying the best of everything. And we certainly don’t need to bail out low-self-esteem cases in Queens.” Eaton turned from Caldwell and J.K. and didn’t address them again. “Well,” he said to Checker. “Resurrection and all.”
“They skipped that in the opera, did you notice?”
“Maybe for good reason. I’ve always thought the ending of the New Testament was a cheat. Like stories that end: And then he woke up and it was all a dream.”
“Disappointed I rose again from the East River?”
Eaton shrugged. “Suicide attempts are kind of faggy, don’t you think?”
“But a successful suicide isn’t?”
“There’s no such thing,” Syria intruded.
“Stay out of this,” said Checker sharply.
“How can you stand there being so civil? That kid chewed you up and spit you over the rail—”
“I am civil,” Checker overrode. “You and I are different. Don’t interfere or I’ll kick you out. It’s my party.”
Syria glared and flounced into a chair, putting her boots on the table with a clomp of protest.
“So I threw you off the bridge, did I?”
“No, you don’t get credit for that one.”
“You mean blame.”
Checker’s smile twitched. “Whatever.”
“You sure managed to dish out a good case of the guilties,” said Eaton. “A regular plague.”
“Did you really feel guilty?”
Eaton considered. “I was more disappointed. I’d figured you for better. It required so little to take you down. An easy victory’s a bore.”
“Victory?”
“Well.”
Checker rested his fingertips on the table beside him. Only the exact top ridge of every whorl touched the wood. He was sure he was capable of resting his fingers this delicately only because he was so strong. Total power; perfect restraint.
“In some ways I admired it,” said Eaton.
“Why?”
“You needed to make a big move. The dive was clever. Really pumped the sympathy around here. Big tearjerker stuff. So, yeah. I was impressed.”
Checker’s eyes were neutral. In his mind he sealed Eaton in a plastic bubble, so that everything the boy said simply bounced back to Eaton himself. Eaton would be all right in there—it was big enough to breathe—but he had better be careful or he’d hurt himself. Eaton seemed aware of his encasement, acting newly guarded. He would have to keep his projectiles small, for he couldn’t afford to throw anything he couldn’t take bounding back in his own face.
“Well, I’m not impressed,” said Check. “I think it was stupid.”
“Of course you have to say that,” said Eaton blackly, but a moment later every drip of that acid splattered Eaton’s way, and he rubbed his arms, stinging, and he thought, Where did this come from? I hate you, you’re hurting me.
Check said nothing, still standing with his fingertips on the table, looking horribly mild.
I totaled you, and you’re smiling? Don’t you want to get in a few licks? Come on, tell me I’m a lousy musician. Tell me I’m a slimy two-timer who seduced your whole band away from you. Tell me I’ll never amount to anything, and then I’ll tell you, I’ll show you, I’ll—
“I can’t take the suspense,” Eaton hastily interrupted himself. “You going to sign with CBS or not?”
“Sure,” said Check.
Eaton snorted. “No big surprise, I guess. A lot of talk, but when it comes down to—”
“That’s right. No big surprise.”
“You’re pretty ambitious, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Though for something in particular.”
“Madison Square Garden.”
“No. Just a good life.”
“Such a humble guy.”
“That’s not humble. It’s arrogant.”
“Still churning out the old cult philosophy. I expect to see you any day now on the subway collecting quarters for Happiology.”
“I meant it. I’m arrogant. You were right, Strike, I think I’m hot stuff; it’s like, disgusting. And I’ve got you partly to thank for that.”
“Lost me, partner.”
“I heard you played some heavy metal on my traps.”
“Yeah, well.” Eaton shifted uneasily on his feet.
“I just wanted to say thanks.”
“What.”
“I was flattered. You’ve studied down at the Collective and all. You know your stuff, so your opinion means a lot to me. You’ve given me confidence. I figure if you’re right, I can go to midtown and knock ’em dead.”
“What,” said Eaton.
“Well, Strike. You’ve got standards. You wouldn’t smash to bits just anybody’s traps, now, would you?”
Eaton’s and Checker’s eyes met and flashed. “Nah,” said Eaton. “I’m a picky guy. But I had it in for those drums from the beginning, Check. As you would say: they didn’t like me.”
“Those heads didn’t dislike you, Strike. They didn’t understand you. They never figured out what they did to deserve all that punishment. They tried to cooperate, but
you were never satisfied. They could see how you’d play and then how unhappy you’d get, and it made them blue, Striker. They wanted so badly to please you and they couldn’t and you broke their hearts.”
“Spare me the projection, and please spare me the sympathy.”
“No, sympathy is my revenge. We’ve all got a petty streak, I guess. Let’s face it, Eat, you deserve it. Take your pity like a man.”
“You think I’m total plant lice, don’t you?”
“Actually—no. I think you’re a good drummer, and you love rock and roll as much as I do. We’ve got the same tastes. You’ve got a crack brain—”
“Cracked brain,” said Caldwell, but Checker ignored him.
“I mean you’re sharp. And you’re pretty goddamned funny. You’ve got a bite, I like it. See, the hysterical thing is, I probably like you better than anyone else here does. I think a lot of you, Striker. I figure I like you better than you do.”
“This holier-than-thou-turn-the-other-cheek routine is making me gag, Secretti,” said Eaton, but he turned away from Checker as he said it, because he couldn’t believe what he was hearing or that he wanted it so badly to be true.
“Eaton,” said Checker softly, “why did you come here tonight?”
Eaton laughed bleakly, raising his hand to his face as if to shield himself from the glow of righteousness a few feet away. “You’re not going to believe this.”
“Try me.”
Eaton attempted a snicker, but it came out plaintive, and though he tried to sound sarcastic, this came out completely straight: “I was hoping we could be friends.” He turned all the way to the door now, his back to Checker. “Isn’t that a laugh?”
“Yeah,” said Checker quietly. “I said you were a funny guy.”
As Eaton reached for the doorknob out, Checker raised his voice for the first time that night. “You know, you make me sick, Striker!”
Eaton paused, waiting with relief to hear a little parting vituperation to soothe him later in the park as he listened to the water slap against the rocks over the carcass of Checker’s bicycle.
“I needed a friend, you asshole,” Check went on. “I’m lonely. I could’ve used you.”
Forcing one more shot, Eaton said, “Yeah, I’m sure you could’ve used me,” and hating himself, he left the club.
“Lonely, huh?” said Caldwell, twisting his long blond hair.
Checker rolled a discrete grain of sand on the floor with the toe of his sneaker. “Thanks for the ticket to midtown, guys. But I would have gone anyway. The Derailleurs are out of gear, aren’t they? I’m not leaving anything behind, am I?”
There was a glancing away on so many people’s parts that there was no inch of the room that someone was not looking at.
“But were you serious about refusing to play with me? Even one last time?”
“You mean tonight?” asked Caldwell.
“Why not?”
“No drums—”
“I used to play on pots, cookie cans—”
“I made that up!” said Syria.
“Let’s open the club. Round up some locals in the park. Carl. How about going down by the river and spreading the word we’re going to play?”
Carl looked back at Check in stony panic.
“Q.C.,” said Check, walking an interesting line between patience and anger, “I’m not in the mood for bullshit, you know? In fact, I may never be in the mood for bullshit again in my whole life. So yes or no?”
“Y-y-y—”
“No bullshit.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.” From then on “No bullshit, Q.C.” was a miraculously effective phrase in tuning Carl’s station.
They brought in the trash cans from outside and set them bottom up on the dais. Checker tapped down the line of bar stools until he found two at the proper pitch. He pinged over the liquor bottles and pulled the Wild Turkey, the Absolut, and the Glenlivet Plato’s had stocked expressly for Eaton Striker, and lined them on a bench. Rachel found some resonant pan lids in the kitchen, which she hung on either side of a music stand. Checker stood on the stage itself and brought his foot down on the hollow wooden platform, boom. Everyone started.
“I found the bass.”
Advertisement from a renowned mute proved an effective hook; a full house began milling into the club. Word was out Check’s drums were impromptu; filing past the stage, patrons brought Checker beer bottles, a discarded tailpipe, a rusty muffler, and the side of a grocery cart that went ching! One of the last donors delivered the actual head and rim of a tom-tom, and Checker took a minute to realize it was a scalp from his own set.
They played all night, from “Fresh Batteries” and “Frozen Towels” to “I Bared My Breast to the INS,” after which Gary Kaypro hooted wildly. When they played “Walkmans Make Creepy Squealy Sounds” (Hunky-dory we Derailleurs, / more-and-morey), they fought back nostalgia and turned it to something else: Checker with his trash cans, thumping the dais with his All Stars, hitting the Wild Turkey and hundred-proof vodka, ting-a-ting, chips of rust from the muffler raining on the crowd, beer bottles breaking on the beat, the pan lids falling off the music stand, pang!—this would happen only once and then tomorrow everything would be different, but that was the deal, wasn’t it? Every goddamned minute happened only once, and this was one more evening that would occur, precisely, with a certain rhythm as Checker wore holes in the galvanized garbage cans and his hands began to bleed. It was an evening precious exactly as every evening was precious, and when they thought, We will never play like this again, they also knew that had always been true—that each time The Derailleurs had ever assembled had been the only time they would play that way that night. It was a sensation of both infinite possibility and infinite limitation, for however precious it might be, the very singularity of each moment condemned it to something imperfect and concrete—each minute ticked by exactly as it actually happened, with the stuttering in Carl’s announcement by the river, the high note in “Too Much Trouble” Rachel hit off key, the one drink too many that sent Caldwell off to the men’s room for all of “Perpendicular Grates.” There was no waiting, only this endless arrival, with its relentless demand that you compose this moment, and the next, that you do something with it besides spend it over the sink, / Like money on drink, a responsibility and an opportunity that so burdened Checker Secretti some nights that he carved his initials into his own wrist or flew into the sunrise toward nothing rather than have to make something one more time. It was hard and tiring and the clock was always running, but some nights you were up to it, and this was one of them.
Epilogue / Oh, You Mean That Checker Secretti
Caldwell and Rachel lasted for two years, until she left him—which was wonderful for Rachel, though someone else usually suffers for that kind of self-improvement. Actually, Caldwell went through something of a bad period. It took work to put together another band, and members turned over lickety-split; nothing clicked.
As a bandleader, too, he began to sympathize with Checker’s old woes, for taming wild egos was harder than tigers—he was tempted to show up at rehearsals with a whip and a chair. Yet all in all, moving on from The Derailleurs wasn’t as awful as Caldwell had always feared. As long as you don’t just sit in the corner and sob, most losses come with their compensatory gains. There was no replacing Check exactly, and there was no going back to the Old Days exactly, but there were other drummers, other days. Caldwell’s latest percussionist has stuck around now for over a year. A young cowlicky kid with a crazy American eagerness, Randy is goofy and a little sloppy, but a lot of fun. And Randy’s uncontemplative good cheer compares interestingly to Checker’s elation. It’s simple and responds to beer; Randy never disappears. Checker’s euphoria is of a different order—richer and thicker; without source, and therefore a little frightening.
Caldwell is a karate instructor; his sensation of pure physical competence helps make up for his limitations on the guitar. Feeling proud and protective, tall
and dangerous, Caldwell often hustles Checker into his limo from the back entrance of Radio City. Or the Beacon Theater. The Meadowlands…
What do you mean, “Oh, you’ve been talking about that Checker Secretti”? How many Checker Secrettis are there?
Caldwell tells himself so often: Lucky me. Guess who I grew up with. But it’s never easy to watch your friend from the old neighborhood suddenly become the world’s friend while you’re still back in Astoria. You press your fingers to your temples when your friend gets one more phone call while you’re trying to discuss your limping love life, and he has a long argument over whether the dust jacket should be graphics or lyrics, and you wonder: What’s the difference between him and me, anyway? How did this happen? You meet his wife’s eyes, whose career isn’t going so hot and heavy either, and you think she’s still a knockout and you remember she’s said you’re cute, so that for a moment when the two of you roll your eyes at each other you consider flirting with her; in fact, that’s what you’re doing. This is okay, just this, but then you deliberately break the gaze and militantly quash the twinges that keep coming at you, zinging into your gut like sharpened boomerangs, when you’d love to have an argument over dust-jacket design and even lose the argument, as long as there was a slim black disk, digital, soon out in CD, with your name on it inside. You remember the guy is good and he deserves it; you rehearse to yourself the songs you like, Can’t buy my bright blue weather, / Won’t sell my good moods… Of course, he has sold them, and for plenty…Quash! Even if the boomerangs are still coming at you, they aren’t as frequent now, and you flick the crumbs around the kitchen table, refusing to look at his wife like that again.
Though you don’t know it, your friend, who’s seemed so engrossed in his phone call, actually doesn’t care that much about the dust jacket and has been watching you the whole time; he saw that look at his wife, and he saw you break it off. He remembers the dozens of tiny difficult concessions you’ve had to make, the autographs you’ve been asked to secure, the conversations you’ve had with girls you were trying to pick up that they spent asking about your friend’s personal life and whether he fools around on the side. He thinks about all the moments of generosity you take for granted, like the times down by the river when someone casually observes what an obnoxious big shot he’s become and you stick up for him even routinely, though it must be tempting to agree.