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He has sighted the torpedo making for the boat, but he has no
idea what to do. He is angry at Derek, but for what? Being too keen an
observer? Too masterful a writer? It’s his own damn fault – the kid was raised
on the First Amendment. How could a Constitutional scholar introduce censorship
into his own house? What he needed was a deeper understanding, and there was
one obvious place to get it.
“Abbey?”
“Hi. What’s
up?”
“It’s about
this poem.”
“I hope I
didn’t overexpose you on that. But I think most of the kids know you play bass,
and it’s really a funny poem.”
“No. The
other one.”
“Oh. The
Caterpillars?”
“It’s about
my wife.”
“Oh.”
Silence. The flipping of pages. “Oh geez. Oh. I am so sorry. I get so much of this fairy-tale stuff. You would think
an English teacher would be better at sniffing out an allegory.”
“It’s okay,”
says David. “I mean, shit, you can’t tell a kid not to write about his own
family. I’m just trying to figure out how to handle it.”
“Can you
meet me tonight?”
“Is that a
good idea?”
“Oh stop it,
you moron. Just trust me on this. Meet me at McKenzie’s at eleven-thirty.”
“Okay.”
McKenzie’s
is a pretty standard neighborhood bar, but it affords certain advantages that
attract some of the better karaoke singers. The low ceiling and modest
surroundings provide a comfortable setting and excellent acoustics. The host,
Captain Kirk, is good with a soundboard and not given to radio-DJ yakking – a
rare combination. The singers perform in a cave-like room slightly separated
from the main area and bathed in red light. This creates an impression that you’re
watching the singers on a very large television, but the performers seem to
find it reassuring, like an acoustic womb.
David
crosses the parking lot, full of doubts. His late-night constitutionals have
provided a certain window for covert operations, but in such a small town the
slightest whiff of teacherly hanky-panky is bound to cover the peninsula like a
fast-moving fog. He finds Abbey at a back table and gives her a hug before
heading off for a beer. Mrs. Lorenson from the post office is giving a reasonable
approximation of “Black Velvet.”
“Are you a
participant?”
“I try.”
She’s twirling a strand of hair, a teenage move that makes him nervous. “I
sorta stick to the eighties – the music of my generation.”
“Good stuff.
Any thoughts on my brilliant kid?”
She pulls
out a copy of the anthology and opens it to Derek’s poems.
“First
point. The Orca is a large mammal,
but also a beautiful one. ‘…clothed in dazzling lava-lamp patterns of black and
white.’ Best line in the poem. The swallowtail is also beautiful – with
markings that mimic the Orca’s. The poet admires his parents, and understands
the deep connections between them, but he also sees this troublesome gap
threatening to break them up. He doesn’t need punishment; he needs
reassurance.”
David takes
a moment to gather this in. Captain Kirk introduces Johnny Q, who works in the
produce section at Sav-Mor. He wiggles his way into “Heartbreak Hotel.”
“So why do I
still feel like giving him a kick in the ass?”
“Because he
has placed you in a precarious situation, and pushed you toward a round of
truth-telling with your wife that you have been putting off. Because you feel
guilty and superficial for even bringing it up.”
“Jesus! Slow
down. All this insight is freakin’ me out.”
“Sorry. I
call it my Inner Parthenia.”
“You too?”
She holds up
her remaining hand. “Oh yeah. Not much need for psychotherapy here.”
“I’m pretty
sure I’ll soon be a client myself. Hey, one other thing. Is this really a
poem?”
“Good
question. We got short-shorts, flash fiction, microfiction… Derek opted for
prose poetry, which carries the elevated tone and compression of poetry without
the usual stanzas and line breaks. Oh! I’m up.”
She sings
“Allison” by Elvis Costello. Her voice is solid but pedestrian, marked by the
usual amateur lack of breath support. She returns to the table looking
sheepish.
“Oh God I
hope I didn’t suck.”
“Beat hell
out of most of our auditioners.”
She takes a
sip from her whiskey sour. A large man gets up to sing “Crystal Blue
Persuasion.”
“By the way,”
she says. “I consider your son’s poems the best in the anthology. He is
remarkably gifted, and he manages to entirely avoid the teenage love of
abstractions.”
“Abstractions?”
“Non-specific
words – words that don’t deliver an image. ‘Sadness.’ ‘Abomination.’ ‘Loyalty.’
Notice the difference if I say ‘hydrangea,’ ‘pancake,’ ‘blaxploitation
soundtrack.’”
“So I’ll
have a starving poet to go with my agoraphobic pizza manager.”
“Maybe he’ll
get a job as an English teacher.”
“Oh! Like
there’s any future in that.”
She delivers
a backhand to his biceps. He rubs it dramatically.
“Yow! Remind
me not to give you any more weightlifting tips. One-armed monster.”
She smiles.
“So refreshing to be openly abused for my handicap.”
“Oh! So now
we’re using the H-word?”
“Can I drive a stick? No. That’s a handicap.”
She looks to the red room. “Ah. You’re about to see the real reason I dragged
you here.”
Captain Kirk
introduces a singer named Billy, a bearded man dressed all in denim. Unlike the
other singers, Billy uses the stand, loosening the midgrip before adjusting the
height and pressing the mic into the clip. The KJ brings up the screen: “Guess
I’ll Hang My Tears Out to Dry,” a Sinatra arrangement.
The song
begins with one of those Tin Pan Alley preludes. The accompaniment is spare but
Billy’s right on it, a rich, unforced baritone, handling the high skips with
ease. He’s got that Sinatran quality of convincing you that he’s just a guy in
a bar, telling a story. But then the strings kick in and he’s painting a banner
of coffee-colored torment; the tone rises and ebbs like a wave, falling back to
the conversation.
David is not
entirely surprised to find that it’s the man behind the hotel – but here he’s
unrestricted, amplified, and taking full advantage. He softshoes the minor
intervals of the bridge, giving it the feel of a man perched in the clouds,
contemplating his life. The strings well up and he’s back on the ground, a
searing double forte, leaning away from the mic so he doesn’t blow out the
speakers. He cuts the sound so drastically
that it sends a shock through the room; he issues the final restatement
at a groomed whisper, then opts for the kind of unresolved end-note that Mel
Torme favored, spelling it out till it dissolves in the air. The quiet hangs thick,
till it’s cut through with applause.
David finds
Abbey grinning at him.
“You’re like
a hawk studying a mouse.”
“He’s
awesome. Does he need work?”
“Really?”
“Honey, I
got nothin’. And that is so much more
than nothin’.”
“Okay. Um,
listen. I better go get him. He disappears pretty quickly. So I’ll see you at
school.”
“Shouldn’t I
meet him?”
“Look. I
won’t B.S. you. Billy’s a little… okay, a lot
weird. He doesn’t respond well to direct approaches.”
“Like a
feral cat.”
“Exactly.
And you probably won’t get him for a rehearsal, either. But he’s good, and
you’re desperate.”
“Marriage
made in heaven.”
Abbey grabs
her purse and gives David a kiss on the cheek. “Bye, hon.” Then she looks
around at the crowded bar. “Whoops!”
A man in a
black cowboy hat gets up to sing “Walking in Memphis.” David takes it as a
sign, downs his last swallow and starts for home. He sees his jacket in the
window – black with a yellow collar. Like a swallowtail butterfly.
Photo by MJV
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