by Ron Bahar
Kimmy smiled and Scott cried. Announcers Gary Bender and Pat Hayden blathered something about the absence of machismo and the presence of unbridled emotion; they clearly didn’t recognize Scott, the former Cornhusker, and they clearly didn’t understand that he was crying not only out of happiness, but also out of his own unrequited success as a national champion or as a professional athlete.
“So the men with the ‘N’ . . . they weeen?” asked Dalia.
“Yes, they win.” I answered, smiling.
This was either going to be my finest hour, or the biggest fucking disaster of all time.
Just hope.
DALIA could sense my nervousness as the four of us drove in the Duster to PO Pears. “What de matter?” she asked finally.
“Oh, nothing,” I responded, as sweat beaded down my forehead and drenched my T-shirt. I removed my jacket and rolled down the window in an attempt to cool off and to preventatively freshen the air should my colon ignite.
“Ron, what the hell are you doing? It’s fuckin’ freezing back here. Close the window!” demanded Sundar, as he rubbed his bare hands together and leaned against Anne.
“Oh, sorry guys.” I obliged and tried to distract myself by turning on the radio. KLMS was playing George Benson:
“. . . Turn your love around
Don’t you turn me down . . .”
Shit! Not now, I thought. I changed the station. KFOR was playing Bryan Adams:
“. . . Give it to me straight from the heart
Tell me we can made another start . . .”
Fuck. No FM radio in the Duster, so I turned it off.
“Hey I liked that song,” complained Anne.
“Sorry, I just can’t do ‘adult contemporary’ right now.”
“Who made you Casey Kasem?” she snapped, obviously annoyed.
By now, I had become nauseated. Anne could tell I was ill and so she let it go. We reached PO Pears and climbed out of the Duster. “Sundar,” I said, “could you and Anne let Dalia in? Here’s five bucks for her ticket. I gotta go take care of something.”
“Dude, you don’t need to speak in code. Just leave some toilet paper for the rest of us.”
“No,” I answered. “I mean, yes . . . I mean, I gotta go, but then I gotta do something else . . . I’ll see you once the show starts.”
“What? Dude, what’s wrong with you?” he demanded. “I know you got stomach issues, but you’re acting all mysterious too . . . what gives?”
“Sundar, just trust me.” I turned to Dalia. I paused and stared at her for just a moment. God help me, I thought.
Hebrew:
Transliteration: “Ani er-eh otach be’ od kamma dakot.”
Literal Translation: “I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
Intended Translation: “Dalia, forgive me for what I’m about to do. Maybe someday you’ll understand.”
CHAPTER 37
“Did you never call? I waited for your call
These rivers of suggestion are driving me away”
—R.E.M.’S “SO. CENTRAL RAIN (I’M SORRY),” FROM
THE ALBUM RECKONING. PERFORMED DURING THEIR FIRST
NATIONAL TELEVISION APPEARANCE, OCTOBER 6TH, 1983,
THE SONG ITSELF WASN’T RELEASED UNTIL MAY 15TH, 1984.
IT PEAKED AT NUMBER EIGHTY-FIVE ON US BILLBOARD’S
HOT 100 SONGS.
I pounded wildly on the back entrance of PO Pears. I was ready to lunge at the door and dislocate a shoulder when it finally creaked open and Benjie appeared.
“Dude, you look like shit,” he declared.
“Thanks a lot. And hello to you, too.”
“Sorry.” He gave me a cursory hug. ”But what the hell’s wrong with you?”
“Nerves . . . it’ll pass—it always does; you know that— I’ll be backstage in a minute, I promise.” I scurried past Benjie and headed for the men’s room. I barely reached the first stall and urgently shut myself inside before I proceeded to spew forth from every orifice of my body. It was ugly, but it was over within seconds. A bar toilet is generally not a great place to collect one’s thoughts, and the combined smell of vomit, Clorox, and drunken beer piss splashed on the floor beside the urinals did not help. It did, however, motivate me to leave the stall and “freshen up”—if that were possible—at the sink with the white powdery shit that comes from the soap dispenser.
I quickly bathed my face in a cold brew of said white powdery shit and metallic tap water. Then, mostly recovered, I gathered the determination to look in the mirror, and I opened my eyes. Tommy appeared behind me.
“Fuckin’ a, if it isn’t my favorite rock doc!”
Not now, I thought. Anytime—even when you caught me naked with your girlfriend—but not now. “Tommy!” I said finally. “What are you doing here?”
“Listening to live music, just like everyone else, bro . . . actually, Chris and Amy were going to come by themselves, but my poker game fell through at the last minute, so I decided to come. Chris was really upset, like she was on some kinda date with Amy. She made me feel like a goddamn third wheel. Jesus, women are all fuckin’ nuts. Amy is my girlfriend, for God’s sake.” Blissfully tanked, he then relieved himself nonchalantly in and around the urinal.
“Totally,” I responded. I’m totally fucked, I thought.
As we walked out of the men’s room together, I noticed Dalia wandering the hallway alone. I may as well get this over with, I thought. “Dalia!” I yelled and waved her over.
“Who the hell is that?” demanded Tommy. “She’s outrageously hot.”
Yes, she was outrageously hot. Dalia wanted to fit in, so I persuaded her not to wear the cowboy hat she had also purchased at The Fort. She did, however, insist on showing off the rest of her Western wardrobe. Watch out, Paris: the sultry cowgirl look had made its debut in Lincoln, Nebraska. “She’s . . . a guest, from Israel.”
“Holy shit, she’s your . . . I mean . . . you actually know her?”
“Well, not in the biblical sense, if that’s what you mean . . . but yes, I’ve known her for a long time. She’s a family friend.”
“Dude, I’m happy for you. Honestly.”
“But . . .” I stopped myself as Dalia arrived.
“Derrr you are! I worrry about you . . . arrre you okay?” she asked as she placed her hands on my pale cheeks.
“Yes, I’m fine.” I did need to gargle a Coke to extinguish the residual taste of anxiety puke, but I would survive. It was now or never.
“You surrre you don’t want to go home? We can seeet on de couch and watch more Amerrrican football eeef you want.”
“I’m okay . . . really!” I insisted, and quickly changed the subject. “Dalia, let me introduce you to my friend Tommy.”
Apparently something interesting happens when two exceptionally attractive people meet each other for the first time. I didn’t know whether to be jealous, curious, or simply amused, but I was pretty sure I witnessed the two of them engage in an ephemeral mutual admiration club assessment, followed by a synchronized, knowing head nod. “Hello, my frrriend,” she said.
Never lacking in self-confidence, Tommy responded with a chuckle and an impersonation. “Hello to you too, my frrriend!” After laughing at his own wittiness, he continued, “Hey, Dalia, come meet my girlfriend, Amy. She and Ron go way back.”
“What eeet means ‘way back’?”
“It means . . . it means they’ve known each other for a long time.”
Dalia looked at me curiously. I felt myself blushing. I hoped it had appeared only as though the color had returned to my post-puke pale face. “Hey, Tommy,” I said, “Why don’t you take Dalia back to meet Amy? I’m going backstage to say ‘hi’ to Benjie . . . I’ll see you all in a few minutes.”
“Sure thing, bro.” As they walked off, Tommy turned to me, made a dick-rubbing gesture, and took off with Dalia.
I ran backstage to find Benjie. “What the fuck took you so long?” he asked, exasperated. “We’re on in two minute
s.” The band had spent so much time performing together that even when they shook their heads in disapproval, Peter, Jeff, Johnny, and Benjie did so in unison.
“Guys, I’m sorry . . . I swear I’m ready.” I peeked at the crowd. In the back of the room, by the Budweiser sign, stood Iris. We instantly made eye contact. She was carrying on the long-standing tradition of our mother by wiping away tears. She understood. She was also smiling; she truly understood.
Iris faced Zillie, whose arms were crossed, not in a judgmental way, but in her own “fucking carpe diem” way. She also understood. Iris whispered in Zillie’s ear, and my older sister immediately turned to me. A simple nod was all that was necessary; she also truly understood.
Front and center, surrounded by Sundar, Anne, Dalia, Christine, and Tommy, stood Amy, wearing a little black dress. Sometimes the heart has the ability to trick the lonely mind to envision an old flame in an unrealistic light. Not in my case. I imagined she smelled like jasmine. Amy’s hair, which had grown longer since summer, appeared to dance around her face in a desperate attempt to cover those hazel eyes. She ran her fingers through it the way I had seen so many times in the past but never fully appreciated how incurably cute this maneuver was. Her eyes appeared. My heart didn’t lie; it melted.
“. . . Behold, you are beautiful, my love; behold, you are beautiful; your eyes are as doves . . .”
A heated discussion behind me ended my trance. “You boys got a reputation to uphold . . . do you realize what you’re risking?” It was Rex Dawson, fresh from an extended trip either to the surface of the sun or to the most powerful tanning bed on Planet Earth; he glowed an orange hue rarely found in nature. “You know I can pull the plug on you right here and now!”
“Rex, why are you doing this?” asked Benjie, looking utterly perplexed.
“I’ll tell you why I’m doing this . . . I’m doing this because I’m not just a talent scout; I’m a babysitter. Unlike most guys in this cutthroat business, I actually care about the four of you. I know what it takes to be a success in music, and it’s not just being able to play the guitar or sing. You gotta have your shit together, and you gotta stay focused. Now what’s it gonna be?”
I ran over to Rex and stood directly behind him. “Don’t, Benjie.” I said. “It’s not worth it!”
Rex shifted his gaze between the band members and me. “Listen to the doctor, Benjie. He’s the only one here besides me who’s makin’ any sense.”
Benjie looked past Rex and on to me. The dilemma shook both of us. “Ron, I think the guys and I need a minute to talk this over.” Guava quickly huddled in a corner, as by then the restless patrons began to clap rhythmically. I felt a surge of anticipatory guilt and disappointment. Fuck!
Within a minute Rex himself grew tired of waiting. “Boys, I’ve just about had enough.”
Guava looked up. “Okay, Rex,” said Benjie.
“Okay, what?”
Benjie quickly glanced at me and then calmly walked up to Rex. “Look, we know we don’t have as much experience as you do, and we appreciate that you care about us, but we’re all adults and we don’t need a goddamn babysitter; we need an advocate. You know this is important to Ron, and I’m not abandoning my friend . . . not now, not ever. So if you can’t be that advocate and support our decisions, well then I guess we’re out.”
Rex’s eyes then bounced repeatedly between Peter, Jeff, and Johnny. Guava didn’t flinch. “So you boys are really planning to go along with this bullshit?” he asked, growling.
“Yup,” they answered, simultaneously.
Rex didn’t look pissed; he looked dumbfounded “So it’s ‘all for one and one for all?’”
“Yup.”
Rex pursed his lips as he silently contemplated his options. The standoff continued for a good, uncomfortable minute before he finally began to nod his head slowly. “Well then,” he said, and a resigned smile crept over his face. “I’d be a stupid sonofabitch to do anything cruel to a buncha guys with so much loyalty.”
“Thanks, Rex,” said Benjie. “You won’t regret this.”
“Yes, I will . . . but what the hell.” He shook his head before taking a sip from his scotch. He then addressed me, still befuddled over the confrontation. “You change your mind yet, doctor?”
“What do you mean?” I answered nervously.
“You know what I mean, son. Do you wanna be a professional singer?”
“To tell you the truth, I haven’t really been thinking about a career in music lately . . . I’ve got other things on my mind.”
“I gathered as much.”
I didn’t answer.
“You got a helluva friend there, brother . . . a helluva friend,” he said, now grinning from ear to ear. He took a drag off a Marlboro Light, not-so-accidentally blew smoke in my face, paused, and added, “Well, I didn’t think tonight was going to be your audition anyway . . . I think I’ll just sit back and enjoy the show.”
Guava waited for the sound of the audience to come to a crescendo. “Okay boys, it’s time,” said Benjie. He then grabbed me by the shoulder. “Hey!”
“Hey what?” I asked, not knowing what to expect.
“It’s just like band practice . . . when I call your name you’re gonna get out there and kick some musical ass!”
I stood stage left as Benjie and the rest of Guava made their entrance to a thunderous applause of Nebraskans, drunk with pleasure from alcohol, the Cornhusker victory, and the impending concert from the hometown band. Benjie then grabbed his guitar and stepped up to the microphone. “Lincoln, are you ready for Guava?” he asked rhetorically.
“Yes!” roared the spectators.
“Well allllll-right!” he responded, now toying with the crowd. He then turned to me, smiled, and winked.
Rex witnessed the interaction. “You’ll never find out ‘what if’ until you show the courage to try,” he said, smiling again. He then gestured by raising his glass before disappearing into the crowd.
Once the audience quieted, Benjie continued, “We will always have a special place in our hearts for Lincoln. This town is where we grew up—where we got our start—so, as a special tribute you, the good people of Lincoln, Nebraska, we’re going to take a trip down Memory Lane . . . do any of you remember a band called The Repeats?”
Pandemonium.
“Well allllll-right!” he repeated. Brace yourself, I thought. Here it comes. “Tonight is The Repeats’ swan song, and it’s all about cover music . . . and speaking of nostalgia . . . first, we have a very special guest singer . . . many of you know him . . . some of you even like him!”
I remained out of view. As the audience laughed, I continued to watch Amy. She eyed Christine, who raised her brow and shrugged.
“Direct from Madison, Wisconsin—but still a local hero—the ‘medical miracle’ . . . the ‘rabbi of rock’—put your hands together for Lincoln’s own Ron Bahar!”
The crowd cheered. I swallowed hard, put my head down, and walked to the microphone stand that waited patiently for me center stage. Terrified but determined, I looked up, right into Amy’s eyes. Neither of us blinked. Without looking away, I said, “Thank you, Benjie, thank you, Repeats, and thank you, Lincoln!” Still watching her, I plucked the microphone from its perch, and continued, “Amy Andrews, this song’s for you. It’s not infatuation, and it’s not an impulse . . . I just love you.” I knew Tommy’s blood would boil, and that perhaps this time he would kick the shit out of me in a manner that would make my previous pummeling look like child’s play. I didn’t care.
“Find your passion, find your priorities, and embrace them, no matter what.”
A hush spread across the room. My heart began to race and I felt myself trembling ever so slightly as I waited desperately for the music to begin. Then finally, Ambrosia:
“(Sunlight) There’s a new sun arisin’
(In your eyes) I can see a new horizon . . .”
I looked away from a shell-shocked Amy and surveyed the room again. Sundar
and Anne stood in disbelief while Christine simultaneously tilted her head and rolled her eyes to her right while giving me the “this is your mess, honey” look. My eyes followed Christine’s and traveled past the three of them, beyond the end of the stage. Leaning against the wall, with a napkin neatly hugging his Budweiser, was Frank Dupuis. No judgment this time. He simply nodded and raised his drink as if to say, “Now I get it . . . good luck, son.” I decided to focus once again on Amy. If my serenade was to be part of a fairy-tale ending, it didn’t start smoothly. Her eyes welled, but, unlike Iris, she didn’t wipe away tears of joy. Instead, she gave me a death stare as the waterworks ensued.
I tried valiantly but unsuccessfully not to return the favor. Goddammit, no, I thought, as I struggled to hold back tears. Though I was thoroughly embarrassed by my show of emotion, my voice didn’t fail me; neither did The Repeats. I could tell that Amy wanted to leave, but Christine held her hand, partly as a show of support, and partly as a gentle means of preventing her escape.
I continued to sing, and the inevitable happened. Tommy nudged his way past Amy and Christine. It was too loud to hear his voice, but I didn’t need to be a professional lip reader to understand when he mouthed the words, “I’m going to fucking kill you.” He placed his hands on the stage to brace himself before leaping on to it.
As I began to retreat in an attempt to keep him at arm’s length, someone grabbed Tommy from behind. He turned, likely anticipating a fight with bouncers. Instead, he encountered Dalia, who wrapped her arms around him and began to dance. In short order, she bumped and grinded him into submission. Conspicuously drunk and reliably horny, Tommy happily reciprocated. Dalia looked up at me, and for the second time this night I was the recipient of an encouraging wink. I think she fully recognized what Tommy meant when he told her that Amy and I “go way back.” In just seconds, Dalia had become the hottest wingman (or wing-woman, in this case) of all time.
I love you too, Dalia.
Benjie had helped me refresh my memory of the grab-microphone-clench-fist-in-anguish-shut-eyes combo with Guava at band practice the day before, and with it, I finished “Biggest Part of Me.”