Checker and the Derailleurs

by Lionel Shriver

  “Yes!”

  “I know it’s Thursday, but maybe I’ll come back, we’ll play a set. I feel—” Slipping his sticks from his back pocket, Checker played a riff on their glasses. With a last ping on Caldwell’s empty bottle and a fond tap on Carl’s quiet head, he set out the door. Why couldn’t they all make exits like that? Why was it always Checker?

  As they detoured down by the river once more, it was coming up through the Converse All-Stars, that turgid carbonation with which different people might feel sick. The wind in the ginkgo leaves overhead fizzed like a head of beer; single drops of rain hit Checker’s cheek like bubbles popping. The sky was bruised over midtown and lightning flashed behind the bridge. A yacht steamed by against the tide, its sound system blasting: I don’t want to work! I just want to bang on the drum all day! Checker jumped sidewalk cracks and spattered water off the railing, until the drumsticks were in his hands as if they’d leaped there; he trilled along the pipe in time to Todd Rundgren, one of his favorites, his very favorite, since that’s what he heard—Checker had so many favorite songs that the only way to keep track of which was on top was to tell what was playing now.

  The colors were an even gray and green. The yacht plowed perfectly down the middle of the East River, its wake the regular V of migratory birds; the tips of this letter hit either shore at precisely the same time. Hell Gate held steady overhead, a protector; Checker was relieved to find an object in his life so large and reliable. It was hard to resist the urge to embrace the huge concrete stanchions, parents the way they should be, staunch, immovable, brave. Graffiti on these supports read like homage today, offerings, prayer—The Last K; Don’t go; Ellen!—their meanings obscure, yearning.

  The lights of the Triborough switched on as Checker walked under her span.

  But Rahim surprised himself, feeling left out, lagging behind, too much watching. Ticka-ticka, the pearly tips of Checker’s drumsticks hit the hollow piping of the passing rail. Rahim followed the red rim of the All-Stars exalting ahead of him, as Checker had a hard time not running now. The yacht teemed past, its music drifting away, and just in time a Trans Am radio came into earshot, Every breath you take—With a curious perversity Hijack refused to walk in time to The Police. Of course Checker was bounding in perfect four-four. Of course Checker—What makes you so happy? Thrown by this unlikely blackness, the Iraqi faltered into the mud. As he pulled his shoe out, the thick wet earth sucked at his sole.

  Though in June the furnace had become a source of suffering rather than solace, with the storm coming up, the air was unusually cool, and when Check unlocked the door, the dull roar met him with the eagerness of a dog whose master has returned home. The big room was refreshingly dry, and after the damp chill of the walk over, the studio achieved its womb-like winter allure.

  Checker swept, unloaded the annealer, and washed a load of dirty cullet. Rahim sat, his head bowed to the concrete.

  At last Checker folded his arms. “All right, what is it?”

  “You know what is it. You know months what is it.”

  “Maybe,” Checker admitted reluctantly.

  Rahim took a breath and said, “Syria,” as if that explained everything.

  Check felt a little nervousness start up, like an itch somewhere he couldn’t reach to scratch.

  Rahim twisted and got up from the bench. “Syria married to me!” he cried. “But not—married married.”

  Checker nodded slowly. His mouth felt funny. It had an inappropriate tension at each corner, and he had to force the curls of his lips back down. “That wasn’t the setup.”

  Rahim paced before the furnace, his hands at the back of his neck as he stared bleakly up at the gas pipes crisscrossing the ceiling. “Every night I unroll my mat in living room. Syria come in late, step over me. I watch her boots, see them go bedroom, door shut. ‘Syria,’ I say sometime, ‘Syria, you my wife. Why I don sleep in there?’ She don give no reason. Just say no. I put foot down. I say, ‘Wife do with husband—’”

  “Hijack, she did you a big favor already—”

  “Don want favor! Want real wife! Now, back in my country, some woman take time. She frighten. Here also, yes?”

  “Have you ever seen Syria Pyramus frightened?”

  “In my country we no put up! So last week I force her. I say, ‘You do, you learn—’”

  “Jesus,” said Check quietly. “What happened?”

  Rahim put his hands over his face. “Syria throw my arm behind back. Syria say she hit me, I do that again.”

  “She would, and she’d deck you. Be careful.”

  “Sheckair, I love her! I love her smell and her taste and her dirty clothes. Even love she put gravy on my face. I lie on floor at night, awake until she come home. Even then I listen and listen to her breathe behind door. You know she laugh in her sleep?”

  “No kidding.”

  “But is torture now! I want—”

  “Yeah, I know what you want, Hijack.”

  “Sheckair, what I do? Cannot propose! Already married!”

  “I don’t know that there’s anything to do,” said Checker, wanting to slap himself in the face. All his advice was coming out wrong. His eyes kept darting oddly around the studio, and his mouth was twitching again. He wanted to turn on the radio, leap up on the bench, dance, run the broom in figure eights. “Does she touch you at all?”

  “She kiss me. Hold hands. Put arm around shoulder. You think I have chance?”

  “Really, I am the wrong person to ask.”

  “No, you are best friend I have. So tell me truth, yes?”

  Checker advised uncontrollably, “Maybe it’s just not a good idea!” He couldn’t stop himself! He tried, and it was no good! Checker looked wildly around the room, wanting to rush to the bathroom and lock the door just to shut himself up. “I mean, she’s ten years older than you, she’s a real hell-raiser and you’re a Muslim, you expect a woman who’s obedient—” Checker turned away. When he spotted the heatproof gloves, he had to resist the urge to stuff them in his mouth.

  “Don care! I be slave, just, please, talk to her? Syria respect you. She like how you say—”

  “How do you know that?”

  “She say she like you—”

  “Yeah?”

  “So maybe she listen? You find out, maybe she change her mind sometime? You tell her how much your friend Hijack be good husband? Gentle and kind?”

  “I’d leave off the gentle and kind to pitch for that woman,” said Checker, feeling wretched, feeling wonderful, feeling wretched for feeling wonderful. “But sure, I’ll talk to her,” he said. “No problem.”

  Increasingly the most misused phrase of the season.

  It was three in the morning; Checker rode quietly up to the side entrance of Vesuvius. As he locked Zefal, he could tell by tone the gas was up—she was working. He slipped gently in the door, stealing a glimpse of the glassblower before she felt watched. Syria jabbed the punty in and out of the furnace as if having a conversation. She stopped in the middle of a marver and said, “Jerk!” later, “Unbelievable!”

  At last Checker deliberately scuffled; she noticed him. “Have you been swimming?”

  Checker looked down at his shirt, a full shade darker now and plastered to his chest. “Drumming.”

  He stretched; his muscles ached. Syria cracked off and dropped the bone in the annealer. There was that distinct feeling in the room of two people who’d been doing what they loved to do more than anything in the world and were through.

  “They like the goblets?”

  “Sure. They like the new songs?”

  “Sure.” Checker enjoyed knowing where she was today; her knowing about the songs. “That guy at the gallery. He make a pass at you again?”

  She shrugged. “Ron? After a fashion. It’s gotten to be a joke, or I’ve made it one. Truth is, if I ever laid a hand on him he’d shoot through the roof.”

  “You ever lay a hand on anybody?”

  “Once in a while,” she sai
d warily.

  “You seeing anybody now?”

  “How could I? I’m married.”

  “Sort of.”

  “Prying today.”

  “Yeah.” Checker smiled. “So you have seen guys sometimes? Had—things?”

  “I’m twenty-nine!”

  “So.”

  They had a seat, both still soaked in sweat, feet up, tired. “You know what it looks like when there’s been a forest fire? That’s what’s behind me. A few stumps. Smoking cinders. A wasteland of disaster.” Syria leaned her head back and laughed. One too many buttons were undone on her big green shirt, and Checker tried not to stare.

  “Pretty picture. But mighty abstract.”

  “All right, last time the arson was Nathan Anderson. Satisfied?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Oh, he was after me. No one ever pursued me with such determination. Came by the shop every night. He was absolutely hilarious. And so extravagant. Went on for months. Until finally…” She stopped.

  “Why is it so hard for you to tell me anything?”

  “I fell for him.” She shrugged. “End of story.”

  “Sounds like you skipped something.”

  “No, I really didn’t. It was like he chased me down the street calling, ‘Syria! Syria!’ and finally I turned around and said, ‘What?’ and he squealed and hightailed it around the corner.”

  “Couldn’t take the heat.”

  “No, sir. Regardless of how much Scotch they swill, inside most men are filled with milk of magnesia.”

  “So you’ve had it?”

  “Oh no. You can’t stop. And I don’t mind pain. I’ve even gotten to like it.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “I know.”

  Checker fiddled with a drip of glass intently. “So when are you planning to divorce Hijack?”

  “What’s the hurry?” she said slyly. “Maybe I should stay married.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Why not? And you could come over and visit. Chick-pea could fix you dinner. Wouldn’t that be nice? Ten years from now you could sit at the table and tell us about your new songs.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Checker grimly. “And what about kids?”

  “Why not?”

  “I think you’d make a weird mother.”

  “Do you mean bad?” she asked quickly, sounding surprisingly hurt.

  Checker only grunted.

  “So do you think I should do that?” Syria pressed. “He’s gorgeous. And he’ll grow up. Smart, good on the sax. Why not? Tell me.”

  “Well, sure. Go ahead.”

  Check got up from the bench and stood before the furnace.

  “Why’d you come by here tonight, anyway?”

  Checker shrugged. “It was on the way home.”

  “Not really.”

  “To dry my shirt,” he said with an edge.

  She got up and eyed him, fingering his sleeve for a moment. “Right.”

  “I’m outta here, I think.” He tucked the right leg of his jeans in his sock and scudded to the door. Just before leaving, though, he paused in the darkness. “Hey, I didn’t mean that about the kids, Syr,” he said quietly. “I think you’d make a dynamite mother.” Softly he let himself out.

  For once Eaton feels he could not have written better lyrics himself

  13 / Too Much Information

  “Rachel is sad.”

  “How do you know what it’s like to be sad, ever?”

  “Trust me.”

  “Trust you,” said Eaton, leaning back in his chair and flicking an ash. “Like everyone else does.”

  “Shouldn’t they?”

  “You tell me.”

  Checker ran his thumb over those unusual fingerprints. “Listen, Eat. I need some advice.”

  Eaton could have been purring. “This is a switch. You don’t ask for advice much.”

  “I spend too much time dishing it out.”

  “Which makes you tired.”

  “Very.” Checker looked at Eaton with real gratitude. “I’ve written a song. I’m not sure I should show it to the band.” Checker handed over a sheet of verse. “Fast. The Clash, that kind of thing.”

  Eaton read the song, stopping to snuff out his cigarette meditatively on the nightclub table and light up another between verses—he wanted to make this last as long as possible:

  You Think I’m So Great I’m Not

  You think I’m so great I’m not.

  You all think I’m so great I’m not.

  You’re very nice, guys,

  But not so wise, guys,

  Take some advice, guys:

  You think I’m so great I’m not.

  I don’t need your admiration.

  I don’t need your expectations.

  I don’t need your imitation, either.

  Please take your immigration,

  Girlfriend problems, bad vacations—

  This is abdication fever.

  You think I can help I can’t.

  You all think I can help I can’t.

  I’m much too wrecked, boys,

  To pay the check, boys,

  You’re double-decked, boys—

  You think I can help I can’t.

  I don’t need your approbation,

  Grasping after my elation.

  Put me on medication, please.

  Maybe you see it now:

  I am a garbage scow.

  I’m not a hero, I’m a sleaze.

  You think I’m so great I’m not.

  You think I’m so great I’m not.

  My heart is overloaded,

  My battery’s corroded.

  Please get it through your thick heads:

  Your friend’s a secret shithead.

  You think I’m so great I’m not.

  You think I’m so great I’m not.

  You think I’m so great I’m not.

  “Well, what do you think?”

  “It’s a good song,” Eaton observed professionally. “But if you show it to The Derailleurs, you’re crazy.”

  “I was afraid of that,” said Checker glumly.

  “Can I keep this?”

  “I guess. I’ve got a copy. Why?”

  “It’s good. I might want to do something with it.” Eaton looked down at the paper, reminded of scenes in movies where the sheriff says, “Give me that gun,” and the lunatic with the loaded pistol actually hands it over.

  “I don’t like keeping things back from the band, but—”

  “Total honesty can be destructive.”

  “Though you get yourself into a weird area awfully fast, don’t you think?”

  “We are in a weird area. The existence of other people is essentially awkward.”

  Checker smiled. “You’re smart, aren’t you?”

  Eaton was astonished how extraordinarily this pleased him. “Sure,” he conceded. “And you’re smarter than you let on.”

  “No.” Check nodded at the paper still in Eaton’s hands. “You think I’m so great I’m not.”

  “I didn’t say I thought you were great,” said Eaton coolly. “Just smart, that’s all.”

  There was a noticeable recoil on the other side of the table. Eaton found this interesting. It was like poking at a foreign object to see how soft it was, if it had any holes. (Pretty soft. Lots of holes.)

  “But we were talking about Rachel,” said Eaton. “You said she was sad.”

  “Yes, but for Rachel her sadness is—comforting. It’s not so bad.”

  Surely Eaton could see his point: Rachel DeBruin was like an overcast summer day that made you want to stay inside and read. As a color, she was mute blue-gray, salmon, a touch of ocher. She made you want to drink pots and pots of weak, milky tea.

  “So why is Rachel sad?”

  “No reason.”

  “Come on. Isn’t she hot for you?”

  Checker said carefully, “She likes me.”

  “Oh, but everyone likes you, Secretti, isn’t that right?�
��

  “Not everyone.”

  “Who? Who doesn’t like Check Secretti?” Eaton leaned forward. “Think of one person.”

  “My brother,” said Checker. “Romaine hates me.”

  “But he hates you because he adores you, isn’t that right?”

  Checker squirmed. He’d never been precisely accused of being likable before. “I guess.”

  Eaton leaned back again, easing off. “But liking, that’s not what we’re talking about. She’s hung up on you like meat on a hook, why deny it? You should be flattered. She’s pretty. Besides, isn’t it a relief to talk about it square for once?”

  It was. “We have a problem.”

  “And what do you do about it?”

  “Not much.”

  “Is she out of the question?”

  “I’ve thought about it. In a way she makes perfect sense. And it would make the band happy, or almost.”

  “Almost?”

  “They’d be a little disappointed. They expect me to pull in a bigger catch. Going for Rachel is like fishing a stocked pond.”

  “And catching the size you throw back.”

  “…Yeah. I’m supposed to troll deep-sea.”

  “Supposed to.”

  “…Want to.”

  “Who are you interested in?”

  Checker froze. There was a silence like a defect in the tape; this part of the conversation was missing.

  “For being so keen on honesty, you’re a pretty private guy.”

  “…Yeah.”

  “You ever told Rachel straight it’s no go?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Isn’t stringing her along a little cruel?”

  “No, I don’t lie. But she doesn’t force the issue, and I don’t slam any doors in her face. It keeps her on this side of a—brink. And someday she’ll get older and find somebody else and it’ll go away.”

  “Don’t you believe in tragedies?”

  “I avoid them.”

  “Sometimes you don’t have any choice.” Eaton said this with a certain satisfaction.

  It’s true that something seemed to short out in Checker when the structure of things was fundamentally unfortunate. Take Howard, for example: Howard kept trying to write songs, and Howard wrote bad songs. This was confusing. For Check writing songs and writing good songs were the same thing.