The Frontman

by Ron Bahar

  The audience went wild. Amy raced out of PO Pears. I jumped off the stage and sprinted after her.

  CHAPTER 38

  “And after all that we've been through

  I will make it up to you, I promise to”

  —CHICAGO’S “HARD TO SAY I’M SORRY,” FROM THE

  ALBUM CHICAGO 16, RELEASED MAY 17TH, 1982.

  IT PEAKED AT NUMBER ONE ON US BILLBOARD’S HOT

  100 SONGS.

  Not again. I couldn’t let Amy disappear from my life for good without having her hear me out. She was surprisingly fast, but adrenaline, my knowledge of 9th Street downtown, and the muscle memory of my many fifth-place finishes at cross country meets allowed me, in short order, to overtake, circle, and confront Amy face to face, directly beside the Duster.

  I tried to touch her hand, but she recoiled. “Ron, What the fuck was that? You just embarrassed me in front of hundreds of people!”

  It was the first time I had heard Amy swear. While it was refreshing to confirm that she, too, was only human, I knew I was in trouble. I chuckled nervously. “Holy shit, you actually said the word ‘fuck!’”

  “It’s not funny!” she yelled.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I answered quickly. “I . . . I just . . . we need to talk!”

  “What’s there to talk about? It’s over.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  In the background, we heard The Repeats continue without me. In my pursuit of Amy, it was only appropriate that I had completely deserted my cameo as the frontman and the second of two songs that I was to perform at PO Pears. Always the consummate professional, Benjie assumed his rightful place as lead singer, and the band’s rendition of The Climax Blues Band’s “I Love You” began:

  “When I was a younger man, I hadn’t a care,

  Foolin’ around, hitting the town, growing my hair . . .”

  “Amy, I was drunk and stupid.”

  “Well you’re right about that . . . but you let it happen. You had control over the situation, and you let it happen!” She fought through the tears and continued, “And that’s only part of your problem. You don’t even know what you want!”

  “I know exactly what I want . . . I want you.”

  “You know what I’m talking about . . . you don’t know what you want out of life!”

  “Once again, I want you . . . the rest is irrelevant.”

  “You know that’s not true.”

  “Okay, let me rephrase that . . . I love medicine and I love singing . . . but I’d give up everything for you—that was just a show back there—and I needed to publicly declare that I love you and that I want you back.”

  “Well that’s just pathetic. Why would you give up everything, and why would I want to be with you anyway? This isn’t a fairytale, Ron . . . it’s real life. You betrayed me, so I dumped you. It’s as simple as that.”

  “But . . .”

  “But what?”

  At that moment, I realized that though I had practiced diligently the day before for my performance that night, I had never considered its aftermath. When it came to debate, I had little chance against Amy, even under the best of circumstances. Once again, I am a complete idiot, I thought. I fumbled for a response. Think, goddammit, think! I considered my countless hours of lonely self-reflection in Madison . . . then, a moment of clarity. “Okay, okay . . . listen . . . Jews are supposed to have the free will to make mistakes, but we also have the ability to try and make up for them. I’m just asking for that chance. Please, I know you still feel something for me, and it’s not just the ‘guardian angel’ stuff Tommy told me about before I left for Wisconsin. I know you talked my parents into sending me to Israel last summer. You told them you wanted to help me sort things out, but I know you weren’t just thinking about medicine or music. You were also thinking about us.”

  Amy responded with a literal and figurative cold shoulder, as she looked away, crossed her arms, and started to shiver in the unsympathetically cold November night. “Amy, just let me hold you . . . you’re going to freeze to death out here!” I implored.

  “No!” she yelled as she turned back to me with a devastating glare. “And let’s just finish this right here and right now. Your religion is also supposed to be your moral compass . . . a lot of good that did you!”

  Of course she was right, but I persisted. “I know I was an ass—”

  “Well, that’s an understatement.”

  “Amy, please, just let me explain . . . there’s no way I could justify what I did, and my excuse about being drunk and stupid is just that . . . an excuse. When I was in Wisconsin, I kept reliving what I did to you over and over in my head, and I thought a lot about faith too. Faith is, well, it’s not just a belief in God or a religion . . . turns out that faith is mostly about belief in other people. You had faith in me, and, just as you said in your letter, I broke your heart. I abandoned you. I never really understood what that kind of faith was until I lost you.”

  Her watery but penetrating eyes nearly overwhelmed me. “Amy, I’m telling you, I know I fucked up—I’m sorry, I mean, I know I screwed up—but I’ll do anything I can to make up for my mistake. I honestly feel that fate brought us together and that we were meant stay together.”

  “Do you really believe in fate, or are you using fate as an excuse for your bad behavior?”

  “That’s a fair question, and I would be skeptical if I were you too. The answer is ‘yes,’ I do believe in fate. I believe in science—in medicine, and test tubes, and physics, and evolution—but I also believe in fate. It all may seem contradictory, or even irrational, but I believe there’s a reason you and I met. Amy, I love you, and I think you might still love me too. And it might seem hokey, but I also believe in second chances.”

  “Ron, I just don’t think . . .”

  “Amy, if you have feelings for me, then take me back!” I begged. “Come with me to Wisconsin!”

  “Wisconsin? Are you out of your mind? I suppose you also want me to convert to Judaism too? Is this all part of the elaborate plan you conceived for that perfect world of yours?”

  “Well, if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last year, it’s that the world isn’t perfect. It’s big, and complicated, and beautiful, but it’s far from perfect . . . I think that’s what makes life interesting. If everything were easy, no one would care.” I paused, if only to try and collect myself in a failed attempt to avoid crying once more. Good Lord, Ron. Again? “The only thing I know,” I added, “is that I’m still in love with you, and I always will be. I don’t care what obstacles we face—faith or otherwise. It couldn’t be any more difficult than what my family, your family, or any other family has ever faced. I want you . . . I want us back.”

  “I just don’t think . . .”

  “Amy, stop!”

  “Stop what?” she asked, now flustered.

  “Stop running away from me . . . I know what I did was terrible. Just let me show you I’ve grown up. After all we’ve been through . . . please don’t give up on me.” She continued to tremble as the tears were now streaming down her face. I reflexively reached for her cheek to wipe them away. She didn’t stop me.

  “Amy, if you can honestly say you’re ready to walk away, once and for all, I won’t stand in your way, and you can go back to Tommy . . . once he sobers up.” I smiled hopefully and continued. “But if you’re willing to give us one more shot, come take another ride with me in The Good Times Machine.” I opened the door to the Duster, where I had left my jacket during my sweatfest. I then plucked the jacket off the seat and delicately placed it over Amy’s shoulders.

  Amy glanced at the car and then stared at me, no longer with loathing, but instead with uncertainty. Those eyes; they actually glistened with the combination of tears and the streetlights above. God, she was beautiful. I imagined that, inside PO Pears, as “I Love You” concluded, Benjie was completing the greatest grab-microphone-clench-fist-in-anguish-shut-eyes the
world had ever seen.

  “I’m not asking for a promise,” I added. “I’m just asking for another chance.” The Earth stood still as my heart pounded with the physiology of both love and anticipation.

  She stepped inside, and the music played on.

  Just hope.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  “… Chapter Two: I think I fell in love with you, You said

  you'd stand by me in the middle of Chapter Three …”

  —ELVIS COSTELLO AND THE ATTRACTIONS’ “EVERY DAY I

  WRITE THE BOOK,” FROM THE ALBUM PUNCH THE CLOCK,

  RELEASED AUGUST 5TH, 1983. IT PEAKED AT NUMBER

  THIRTY-THREE ON US BILLBOARD’S HOT 100 SONGS.

  I would like to take this opportunity to formally apologize to my wife Laurie Bahar. I tortured you by forcing you to listen repeatedly (and I mean repeatedly) for two years to hit songs released between the years 1980 and 1983, and by asking your opinion on which tune you felt was the most appropriate for each chapter of The Frontman. I cannot begin to describe my appreciation for the devotion you displayed through your endless patience and thoughtful and insightful editing skills. I love you.

  To my sons, Ethan and Matthew Bahar, whom I may have embarrassed with many tall tales of my youth—thank you for steering me towards acting my own age and having my story take place in 1980s Nebraska, rather than in your own twenty-first century California. While I may be a smartphone-wielding pediatrician, I understand little about the relationship between modern music and social media. At the same time, I hope I taught both of you that everyone has a story to tell.

  To my parents, Ophira and Ezekiel Bahar, and my sisters, Zillah and Iris Bahar, thank you for allowing me to share a factually inaccurate but emotionally truthful version of our sometimes painful, sometimes hilarious adventure as outsiders. I hope that, through us, readers of The Frontman will better understand the complexity of the immigrant experience. It’s been an interesting ride.

  To the real Benjamin Kushner, thank you for being the closest thing I ever had to a brother. I will always cherish our time together; while you made me jealous of your skills as a musician, you also made me appreciate music and that, in reality, I was not alone. To the real Christine Evans (Millar), thank you for the two years of email banter between California and New Zealand that fortified our relationship. You made me laugh at your sharp wit while you took ownership of the fictional you and forced me to get her right. To the real Sundar Rajendran, thank you for demonstrating the power of healthy irreverence in your pursuit of our common goals.

  To my writing coach, Nicola Kraus, who expertly dissected early drafts of The Frontman, and then tactfully and disarmingly steered me to more-clearly express my message, or “final thought,” to readers without making me feel like a buffoon. I’d like to think you were able to squeeze all the writers’ juice out of this first-time author.

  To my publishing and publicity teams from SparkPress and BookSparks, including Brooke Warner, Crystal Patriarche, Lauren Wise, Savannah Harrelson, Kristin Bustamante, Maggie Ruf, Jennifer Caven, Megan Rynott, Julie Metz, Sarah Lazarovic, and Stacey Aaronson, thank you for truly listening to my story when others would not. I will always appreciate your ability to gently navigate a debut novelist through a process that can sometimes be more difficult than medical school.

  To the television writers in my life: Ed Decter, who guided me to make Amy a more complex, believable, sympathetic, and “human” character, rather than simply the shallow object of Ron’s infatuation; the real Mark Gross, who demonstrated that comedy, perseverance, and introspection count, and who, with his unique perspective as my childhood friend, forced me to go out of my way to try and make the reader as uncomfortable as possible through Ron’s bad behavior; Josh Reims, who acquiesced to allow this “non-writer to write,” and who helped me avoid dead ends with my characters.

  To the following readers, who allowed me to pretend that I was Charles Dickens by having them read and critique every chapter of The Frontman as soon as it was written, and by doing so with the eyes of an adult and the heart of a teenager: Alicia Austerman, Holly Bario, Anne Barnett, Bill Barnett, Brynie Collins, Catherine Chao, Lindsey Cole, Cheryl Doherty, Kevin Dicker, Yoel Ephraim, Gail Field, Peter Field, Mallory Freedman, Robert Gandara, Samantha Gandara, Jeff Glaser, Jane Griffin, Jana Hand, Cathy Hed-strom, Kevin Kaiserman, Marla Lorber, Mini Mehra, Shereen Memarian, Jennifer Morales, Divya Mowji, Julie Ofman, Linda Pachino, Cindy Ramos, Pamela Reims, Eric Rosin, Howard Sherwood, Stephanie Sherwood, Madeline Tien, Sophia Vaccaro, Emily Vargas, Michael Weisberg, and Linda Wolk.

  To those people in my life, both living and passed, whose names were used in the rewritten history of The Frontman: Hannah Bahar, Silas Bahar, Jim Burton, Frank Dupuis, Charles Evans, Jill Fager (McCook), Eric Freedman, Jonathan Berkoff, Marcia Kushner, Sheldon Kushner, Wesley Lauter-bach, Deborah Lipson, Mark Nemeth, Lendy Nickerson, Leonard Nickerson, Haim Pesso, Rakefet Pesso, Sigal Pesso, Shlomit Pesso, Yael Pesso, Anne Read (Zakin), Zalman Rodov, Zillah Rodov, Babu Rajendran, Prema Rajendran, Somasundaram Rajendran, Elaine Snowbell, Jeff Soifer, David Syrett, Peter Syrett, Chris Taylor, and Andy Weigel. Thank you for enriching my life—you made the real enhance the imaginary.

  NOTES

  Chapter 9

  1. N Engl J Med. 1980 Oct 2;303(14):818. Vomiting and diarrhea associated with cryptosporidial infection. Tzipori S, Angus KW, Gray EW, Campbell I.

  Chapter 16

  1. Words and music of “Chameleon Man” by Benjamin Kushner, used by permission from the author. Copyright © 2001 by Benjamin Kushner.

  Chapter 17

  1. General Foods Corporation, DeLuxe Edition Passover Haggadah. Copyright © 1965 by General Foods Corporation.

  Chapter 32

  1. Frank H. Netter, A Compilation of Paintings on the Normal and Pathological Anatomy of the Digestive System, Part III, Liver, Biliary Tract and Pancreas. Copyright © 1957, 1964 by Havas MediMedia Icon Learning Systems.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  credit: Leslie Tally

  RON BAHAR was born in Boulder, Colorado, and raised in Lincoln, Nebraska. He attended college at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, and medical school at the University of Nebraska College of Medicine. After completing postgraduate training at The University of California-Los Angeles, he served there for three years as an Assistant Clinical Professor of Pediatrics in the Division of Gastroenterology, Hepatology, and Nutrition. In 2000, he opened a private practice in Encino, California, where he continues to work and live with his wife and two children. The Frontman is his first novel.

  SELECTED TITLES FROM SPARKPRESS

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