Sick Like That

by Norman Green

  “My nine seconds of fame.”

  “TJ, let me ask you something, are you always this down after you’ve made a hit record?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It was God who had the hit, not me.”

  “What about the reviews you guys are getting for the BandX record?”

  He nodded. “They’re very nice. I suppose that ought to make up for the guys not talking to me anymore.”

  “Not even Doc?”

  “He called back, I’ll give him that much. He left me a message. Haven’t heard from him since.”

  “Oh. You mean he called your house phone when he knew you wouldn’t be home, is that what you’re saying? Left you some bullshit message about how busy he was and like that? Wow, I bet that really sucks.”

  “Alessandra, I said I was sorry.”

  “Yeah, you did, but are you going to tell me what the fuck is going on?” Who is she, that’s what Al really wanted to ask him, who was the little chickadee I heard in that message you left? She ached to throw it in his face, to demand he man up and tell her if it was over, whatever it was they were doing. Problem was, she didn’t have enough. Other than three-quarters of a second of a girl’s voice rendered indistinctly on her voice mail. Nothing, in other words, just her suspicions.

  “You don’t want to hear about my problems,” he said.

  “TJ.” You bone-headed, stubborn, arrogant sonuvabitch . . . “I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t want to hear it.”

  “Ahh, Christ . . .”

  “Goddammit, TJ . . .”

  “All right, okay, you win.” He looked away from her, stared out into nothing for a while.

  She waited him out.

  “I been playing music my whole life. I’m good at what I do. I don’t take a backseat to anybody.”

  “I know that.”

  “The business is dead,” he said. He turned and looked at her, his face bleak. “I mean, we used to joke about it, me and Doc and the guys, like making fun of your uncle, ‘yeah, he’s had it, his liver probably looks like a piece of Swiss cheese,’ meanwhile the old bastard will probably have a pint of T-bird in his pocket when he goes to your funeral.”

  “Yeah, but . . .” She heard the wonder in her own voice. “I heard you on the radio.”

  He nodded. “A small splash, a tiny ripple . . . and then nothing.”

  “Serious? Nothing?”

  “A quiet darkness,” he said, “a watery death at the bottom of the deep end of the pond. Maybe about a hundred years from now some future musicologist will dig up BandX and give us a listen, and he’ll go, ‘Wow, check this out!’ and he’ll write a paper or an article. Then we’ll be hot for a month or so, and for a while after that, right, whatever the kids are playing, it will sound a little bit like the blues, just a little bit, and then it will pass. We’ll go back to being dead.”

  “You know something,” Al said, “when you told me all musicians are drama queens, you weren’t kidding. Your phone was ringing off the hook, when I was by your place last month you had like a hundred messages on your machine. Are you telling me nothing came out of all that?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing I can pay the rent with.”

  “But God gave you a co-writing credit, you told me so yourself.”

  He nodded. “Check’s in the mail. That’s what I keep hearing, anyhow.”

  “Yeah, but . . .”

  “Al. Baby.”

  “Oh, don’t you ‘Al baby’ me. Are you telling me you got on the radio playing for God, you got an album coming out with BandX, the record company has to want you guys to tour, don’t they? Isn’t this what you guys have been working for?”

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  She looked up at the sky, silently asked for help. “You gotta, for crissake, TJ, you gotta explain that one for me.”

  “Alessandra, you know something, when you have a dream, it’s better if you stay ignorant, it’s better for you if you just go ahead and build your rocket or whatever the fuck it is you wanna do, because when you get close enough to see how things really work, then you know. Okay? Then you gotta stop kidding yourself.” He stared at her. “Haven’t you ever had a dream? Didn’t you ever want something so bad you stayed up all night practicing? Tell me, Al. Tell me there’s something out there that you really, really want.”

  It was her turn to be quiet, his turn to wait. “My dream,” she finally said, “is to win the fight I’m in today, and to show up for the one I’m gonna have to fight tomorrow.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  He shook his head. “Okay, it’s all right if you don’t wanna tell me. Because if you keep it safe, nobody can shit all over it. Keep it locked up safe.”

  “Play my guitar all alone up in my room?”

  “Al, honey, you don’t understand. The business is dead. Remember how I told you we used to joke about it? That was because we were too far away to see how true it was. But now, okay, now we been up close and we seen the body, and you know what, it’s dead for real, and it’s starting to stink. You want to know the future of the music industry? It’s Guitar Hero. A video game. Guitar. Fucking. Hero.”

  Alessandra’s paranoia kicked in and she wondered if all the angst might not just be a smoke screen to keep her away from the subject of TJ’s new sixteen-year-old girlfriend.

  His alleged girlfriend, she told herself. You got no evidence, you got nothing. “Well,” she said, “at least you got something off that track you did for God. If the business is really dead, at least you made a couple bucks off the carcass.”

  “There’s that,” he told her. “You really know how to cheer a guy up, you know that?”

  “You’re telling me your record company doesn’t want BandX to go play some dates so you can hump this new record?”

  “You remember Sandy Ellison, our A&R guy? He’s in Tibet producing some kind of documentary for the Hitler channel. So, as of right now, there are no plans, no dates, and no word from any of the guys.”

  Maybe that’s what is really wrong with him, she thought. He’s not playing. “So you’re not playing anywhere.”

  “I just told you . . .”

  “Not BandX,” she said. “You.”

  “Well, yeah, ’course I’m playing, you know, here and there. No big thing.”

  “Where? Can I come hear you?”

  “Al, it ain’t that kind of gig, I’m just . . .”

  “Where are you playing? Why can’t I come?”

  He sighed. “Note to self: never date a cop, public or private. Of course you can come. Any time you want.”

  “All women are cops, we have to be,” she said. “So? Where’s the gig? And what’s it gonna cost me?”

  One corner of his mouth curled up into the faint beginning of a smile. “Hey, baby, I can get you backstage, but you gotta be willing to put out, you know what I’m saying?”

  “You ain’t had enough time to heal up from the last time. For real, I can come and hear you play?”

  He sighed again. “Wednesday night. Joint down in the Village, right on West Street.” He told her the name of the club. “We probably go on around eleven or so. Name of the band is Indio.”

  “Indio?” She was surprised. “You going Hispanic?”

  He laughed. “Indio is about as Hispanic as I am. The drummer’s parents are from Mexico, but he doesn’t even speak Spanish.”

  “Any good?”

  “They’re just kids.”

  “Yeah, but are they any good?”

  He looked out over the water, took his time answering. “They got something,” he finally said. “I don’t know how deep it goes, and I don’t even wanna guess if it’s commercial or not, but they got something.” He turned and looked back at her. “The guitar player and the singer asked me to sit in. These kids really want to learn. I mean, there’s nothing in it for me, but when you run into desire that strong, it makes you wanna help out. You know what I mean? It makes you wanna jump in. So yeah, I’m
playing, but I’d be better off painting houses with my uncle, you wanna know the truth.”

  She thought about asking him up, but then it occurred to her that if you had to think about it maybe you shouldn’t do it, because if it was simply another decision based on logic and reason then the human race would probably be extinct by now, there being no sensible reason she could think of to let some guy get into your space, ever. What she wanted was that feeling at the pit of her stomach when her animal nature seized control, ignored her reason and did what it, or rather she, really wanted to do despite all of the reasons to do otherwise. The difficulty was that she wanted TJ to have it like she did, she wanted more than that half-conscious, semi-erect “who me, oh yeah, great!” state of readiness most guys seemed to walk around in, she wanted him to want her, goddammit, not just the next available slot, she wanted to see that light in his eyes, and she just didn’t. Okay, she thought, I know, it’s unreasonable to expect that rush of desire and insanity that makes your hands shake and your mouth go dry, not every time, but . . .

  He put his hands around her and patted her shoulder. “I gotta go, babe,” he said, soft in her ear. “I’m dead on my feet, and I got a big day tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” she said, and when he patted her again it felt like his way of saying, “I know, I know, it’ll get better,” but he didn’t know, he couldn’t, or else he would have shown her something.

  Anything.

  And what am I supposed to feel, she wondered as he walked away, what are you supposed to say when a guy seems to have one eye on the exit most of the time, other than, you know, don’t do me any favors, pal. But she could tell that he was beat, and if the yin and the yang don’t match up every time, couldn’t she just let it go? Couldn’t she wait for a better time?

  Her nascent fever ebbed, replaced by an incoming, nagging uncertainty.

  The phone rang once. Her mother snatched it up. Sarah Waters gritted her teeth. “Why, hello, Frank,” her mother said, her face lighting up. “It’s so good to hear your voice!” Sarah shook her head. If we were Eskimos, she thought, I could strand her on an ice floe. If we were Mayans, I could tear out her heart and offer it to the gods. If we were Inca, I could leave her up on top of some frickin’ mountain . . . “Well, of course I’ve missed you, Frank.” Sarah wondered if she would ever make enough money to have her own place. Whenever she looked at the numbers, it all seemed so impossible. “Yes, Frank. She’s right here. I’m sure she’ll talk to you.” Her mother held out the phone, a look of childish triumph on her face.

  Sarah took it silently, held it down at her waist, glared at her mother.

  “Oh!” her mother finally said. “Oh! Excuse me. I’ll, ahh, I’ll just go upstairs now.”

  “You do that,” Sarah said, and she wondered if there might not be some traditional and ritualistic method Sicilians used to deal with people who have outlived their usefulness. Ice pick in the ear, perhaps . . . “Hello, Frank.”

  “I’m sorry,” Frank said, and he sounded it. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . . I thought I’d get your answering machine, I was just gonna leave you a message. I didn’t mean, you know . . .”

  Sarah closed her eyes. “It’s all right, Frank. What’s up?”

  “Well, I, uh, I didn’t get to say what I wanted to say the other night. I wasn’t at my best. Whenever I see you something happens to me, I don’t know what it is, but I get stupid.”

  There it is, she thought, he’s giving you the line, go on and tell him what a short trip it is from Frank to stupid. She didn’t, though. “That right, Frank? What was it that you wanted to tell me?”

  “Just that it was good to see you. I wanted to tell you that. And that you looked good.”

  “Thank you.” Come on, she thought. Enough bullshit, get to what it is you really want.

  “What I meant was, you know, you looked, uh, you looked good, that’s all.”

  Women, Sarah thought, we use about twelve thousand words a day. Guys must average about eight hundred, and Frank sounded like he was right up in the seven-nineties somewhere and starting to run dry. She had to give the guy credit, though, he was trying . . .

  “Things have turned around for me, Sarah. That’s the other thing I wanted to tell you. My luck has changed.”

  “Your luck?”

  “You know something, Sarah, you were right, it wasn’t luck. I was just saying. I mean, I can see it now. I got this counselor at the VA and he told me I hadda get away from the neighborhood, and I hadda get away from the guys. I mean, I grew up with ’em and everything, but I just can’t hang with them no more. They weren’t doing me no good. You know what I’m saying? Those guys are always gonna be what they always been, they ain’t gonna change.”

  Sarah wanted to scream. Hadn’t she been trying to tell him the same thing for twelve years? And did he listen to her? No-ooo, but let some other sonuvabitch tell him the same thing, all of a sudden he has this giant revelation. “So you got your problems with the union straightened out? You back working again?”

  “The union ain’t all that, Sarah.”

  I knew it, she thought.

  “They ain’t the only place in the world to get ahead.”

  “No? You made good money with the Teamsters, Frank.” An actual living wage . . .

  “Sarah, honey, don’t worry. I know I owe you a bunch of child support and stuff, and . . .”

  “It’s your son that you owe,” she said, sharper than she wanted to. “He’s the one you owe, Frank, not me.”

  “Yeah, whatever, I know, but what I’m saying is that I’m gonna catch up, I promise. I’m gonna get all caught up, you know what I mean? I’m sending you some money, not this week, okay, next week, most likely, week after at the latest. I’m gonna pay you back everything I owe you.”

  “What you owe me?” Don’t start down that road, she told herself. Nothing good can come from it. You can lay up all night long thinking about what Frank owes you, and what you’ll never get back.

  “I’m gonna make it up to you, Sarah, honest to God.”

  “What happened, Frank? You hit the lottery? Where you getting all this dough you’re gonna send me?”

  “You know something?” He sounded almost thoughtful “I did. In a way, I did hit the lottery.”

  “Don’t tell me,” she said. “Frank, don’t you dare tell me that one of those idiotic friends of yours has talked you into some new scam . . .”

  “No, no, it ain’t nothing like that. Sarah, baby, listen to me. I know you want me to go back on the Teamsters, but I don’t wanna work on the Jersey waterfront my whole life, I want something more. I want something better. For you. For us.”

  “Oh, yeah?” She could feel it building up inside. “So, what, Frank, tell me what, you went back to school and got your law degree, is that what it is? Hah? Now you’re gonna . . .”

  “Don’t, Sarah, please stop. You know what your problem is, you got no faith in me. I got a job, Sarah, a good one. I show up every day, I work hard, my boss likes me, and for once in my life I’m making serious money. I mean, you were right, Sarah, I just had to quit looking for the next big deal, I had to get a real job and apply myself, and that’s what I been doing, I promise. Everything is turning around for me, Sarah. I thought you’d be proud.”

  “Yeah, I’d like to be proud of you, Frankie, I’d like to believe you, but I been down this road before. You remember that time you were gonna buy used cars and export ’em to South America? You remember that? What a great idea that turned out to be. How about that time you were buying the franchise for that cell phone company? What was that, AmericanTellecell? How’d that work out? What am I supposed to do, Frank? Am I supposed to forget all that?”

  “Sarah, it ain’t like that this time.”

  “No? What’s it like this time, Frank? Huh?”

  “Guy I served with in Kuwait,” he said, defensive. “Guy lives down South someplace now, he calls me up. He’s got this uncle, Paolo Torrente, guy needs someone to show
him around New York City. He’s from Palermo, he’s in the wine business. In Italy. I mean, the family’s loaded, Sarah, they own vineyards, they own wineries, they run their own wine brokerage firm, all of that. So Torrente comes to New York, he’s going to start selling over here, but he’s never been to this country before. He knows all about wine, you know what I’m saying, you wouldn’t believe how much he knows about wine, but he’s really just a country guy, he knows his business, but he don’t know anything else. He had this broker he was working with, but the guy put him up in this big hotel in Midtown, right, it’s costing him two, three grand a day, the uncle is going ape shit. So my buddy remembers me, he knows I’m from here, he knows I’m a Brooklyn guy, he calls me, says can I help him out. So I go get Torrente out of the Plaza or whatever, okay, I put him into this nice little joint in Staten Island, I help him get incorporated . . .”

  “Hold it, hold it, you did what?”

  “Oh come on, Sarah, it ain’t rocket science, I found him a lawyer, for crissake, the two of them sit in the guy’s office jabbering Italian for half a day, now he’s got a subsidiary corporation so he can do business in this country. No big thing. Next we go look at a bunch of warehouses, me and Uncle Paolo, and he buys one. I mean, he don’t rent the fucking place, Sarah, he buys it. So he’s legit. He’s for real. Palermo Imports, that’s the name of the company, we got contractors coming in a couple weeks to put in the cold storage rooms and pallet racks and all that, got some fag decorator drawing up plans to re-do the office spaces. I found him the contractors, they’re from the neighborhood, but they do good work and they speak Italian so Paolo can holler at them in his native tongue and all that shit. Anyhow, what I’m saying, Sarah, this is for real. You’re talking to the new operations manager for Palermo Imports, 760 Richmond Terrace, Staten Island, New York.”

  Sarah’s mind reeled. “Frank, are you sure . . . How do you know this isn’t some kind of scam? How well do you know this army buddy of yours? How come he isn’t the one up here helping Uncle Paulie? How come . . .”