I sit on the edge of an old metal desk. In the dim light, I make out key-carved names and dates going back to the 1960s.
My whole being is shaking and quaking.
Somewhere inside me, a nuclear reactor is coming unhinged. Meltdown feels inevitable.
I stare at my hands. Observe them scientifically, as someone else’s hands, not mine.
How’m I gonna form a chord? Pick a note?
The clink of a hammer begins to fall against the anvil of my brain.
I crave taurine.
I crave NoDoz.
Bayer, Tylenol, Aleve—anything to depressurize the internal reactor that is about to explode.
Then the door to the music room opens.
Somebody walks in.
It’s gotta be Kyle, Nick, or one of my other thicks. Or possibly Mr. Takakawa. But when I lean over and peer out, I see Clarence P. Tillmann Jr.
Even though I’m sitting in the dim light of the instrument storage room, half hidden by a tuba case, in the shadow of a cello, he seems to know exactly where I am.
He ducks under a hanging bassoon.
“Hello, Jonathan.”
So the shriveled jazz god knows my name.
“Hey.”
He sits beside me on the edge of the desk. He’s a lot shorter than me. But his hands are big trumpet-player hands. Knuckly and gnarled.
Time and jazz have carved deep lines in his face.
“Confidence,” Mr. Tillmann says, “is overrated. All the great ones started out scared. Scared is the country we live in, Jonathan. Scared gets you one mile farther down the road. Gets you to the top of the tree. You do your best work when you’re scared. Play your best notes.”
“Yeah,” I say, “but I’m not great.”
He shakes his head. “Even the great ones put on their shoes one at a time. How do you put on your shoes?”
“One at a time,” I say.
“And they reach for the toilet tissues just like everybody else.” He laughs, wheezily. “There are two kinds of musicians, Jonathan: those who know how to play, and those who know how to play when the curtain goes up.” He taps my head. “This is your real instrument. Use it to shrink the Kenny G to the size of your kitchen. Then imagine your best friends sitting around the table. And play for them, just them. Or if there’s one special person out there, conjure ’im up. Sinatra never sang to more than one person, and it was usually a woman in a silk nightie.
And Miles never played to more than a couple of lone souls standing on a midnight bridge. Your mind can take you wherever you want to go, Jonathan. Just conjure.”
“Hey,” I say. “I’m pretty good at that.”
“I know you are,” Mr. Tillmann says. He gazes at the instruments stacked, hanging, forever waiting—and inhales the room.
“I like it in here, too,” he says.
He checks his watch.
“Let’s go tune that guitar.”
When Mr. Tillmann and I emerge into the backstage area, Kyle is pacing like a caged cougar. He spots me, and his whole body says Whew!
“We thought, dude—” Kyle says.
“No, we didn’t,” Nick says.
Nick snaps open the silver guitar case, hands me the Ric. I strap Ricky on my shoulder. For all his sleek lines and contours, he’s heavy. Unlike my fairy-light Ruby.
“So,” Mr. Tillmann says, “this is the guitar everybody’s talkin’ about.”
“Yeah,” Kyle says. “This is a Rickenbacker three-sixty six. Sonically, the coolest guitar of all time.”
Mr. Tillmann shakes his head. “Too bad. It’s going straight into a display case after this concert—you know, that big glass case outside Dr. Jacobson’s office. This’ll likely be the first and last time it ever gets played in a proper concert.”
“Whoa!” Kyle says.
Nick says, “That’s tragic.”
Mr. Tillmann nods. “By order of the principal herself. That guitar is just too famous for its own good.”
Kyle pokes me. “All the more reason to crank it, dude.”
Great! Now I’ve got Ricky on my conscience. Can’t let him down, either.
Everybody—even a guitar—wants a bite out of my ass.
Mr. Tillmann reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a little mouth tuner.
“What time did the king eat breakfast?”
“Early,” I say.
“You got it,” Mr. Tillmann says.
We tune the Ric.
E . . . A . . . D . . . G . . . B . . . E—Elvis Ate a Damn Good Breakfast Early.
Pipe the sound out of Fat Phyllis’s little toe at about one-thousandth of a decibel.
“Mmm,” Mr. Tillmann says. “That dog’ll hunt.”
He notices the little brass plate screwed on the side of the Ric. Puts on his reading glasses. Bends down.
“For Tel—”
“Te-lem-a-chus,” I say.
He reads Eddie Vedder’s engraved message: “RIP and keep in touch.”
“If I remember my Homer,” he says, “Telemachus was the son of Odysseus, that brave fellow who fought the Trojans and the Cyclops and hanky-pankied around with witches and nymphs.”
“Yeah,” I say. “You remember.”
Nick hands me a capo. I clamp on the second fret.
“Your parents must be literary types,” Mr. Tillmann says.
“Extremely not,” I say.
Nick says, “His real name was Edward.”
Kyle says, “Teddy.”
“So how did he come to be called Telemachus?” Mr. Tillmann asks.
Kyle and Nick point at me.
“In my day,” Mr. Tillmann says, “we gave each other all sorts of names—T-Bone, Duke, Muddy, Dizzy—but never a name as complex as Telemachus.”
“He was pretty complex,” Kyle says.
“Yeah, but he was basic, too,” Nick says.
“Uh-huh,” Mr. Tillmann says. “But that doesn’t answer my question. Why Telemachus?”
“Yeah, dude,” Kyle says. “I never fully, cognitively understood that either. Explain it to all of us.”
“It’s a little abstract,” I say. “Remember Miss Scardino’s class, when we read The Odyssey?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, Telly and me were talking, and he asked, who would you rather be, Odysseus, the man of action, fighting for glory, getting blown all over the place by Poseidon, living by your wits, never resting, never anything in the middle, always on the edge? Or Telemachus, who stayed behind, took long walks on the beach, probably put his ear to a few seashells, wrote poetry, and messed around on his lute?”
“And he chose Telemachus?” Mr. Tillmann asks.
“No,” I say. “He chose Odysseus. I chose Telemachus.”
“Then why call him—?”
“That’s how we worked,” I say. “To bring out the other side in each other. I’d bring out Telemachus in him, and he’d bring out Odysseus in me. Just like I brought out the guitar player in him, and he brought out the poet in me.”
“Hey, Jonathan,” Nick says. “That poem . . you know, that big one you’re always messin’ on . . .”
“‘Tales of Telemachus’?”
“Yeah, that one. Is that about him or you?”
“Correct,” I say.
Mr. Tillmann reaches out, straightens my guitar strap. “Question is,” he says, “which one of you is gonna play that guitar?”
“Whoa!” Kyle says. “You just watch.”
Chapter 35
It’s a few minutes past five o’clock.
Gupti’s sitting on stage in her black academic gown, saffron sash. Forcing smiles all over the place. I can tell she’s antsy to get started.
Birdwell’s there, too, in his black gown, purple sash, with other senior representatives of the faculty. They sit two rows deep behind the podium.
The Kenny G is full, right up to the balconies. Out in the crowd, a few seats to the right of Mimi, a few rows farther back, is Vic, the father I do not know. A baby cling
s to his neck. He’s sitting beside an Asian woman barely half his size.
Right away, I know it’s their baby. It’s in the squirmy, presleep stage. Kind of mini-monkeying all over him. Vic cozies it under his chin. Pats its rump.
That’s sure not the way he patted my rump.
Or Telly’s.
But maybe—maybe!—he’s not the same anymore. God knows, every pat on that little ass might be another step down Vic’s evolutionary road.
The fact is, he’s here. He’s not tightening lug nuts.
In back, at the entrance to the Kenny G, there’s a ripple. People crane. A few even stand to get a better look.
Eddie—The Vedder—strides up the aisle. Brooding rock star. Skater poet.
He’s wearing a flannel shirt, black leather vest. Glasses. Average as anybody, yet lit differently. Hair pulled back into a ponytail, and he’s got a scraggly beard. He trolls for a seat. He could sit in the VIP section—my invitation included a pass—but instead he bounds upstairs into the balcony and squeezes between two unsuspecting grandmothers, who don’t catch on.
It’s a nice move. Humility. Anonymity.
Jeezus! Everybody showed up.
The lights go down. Go up on the jazz band.
Mr. Tillmann steps to the mike. “Here’s a little chart the senior jazz ensemble wrote called ‘Wildcat Symphony.’ Gonna play it in the Count Basie style, key of life.”
He lifts his wand. The jazz band crashes into the tune. Mr. Tillmann shimmies, swings his shoulders. A clarinet player bursts out of her chair, blows a wild stream of notes. Behind her, three trombone players leap up, blast away.
I’m standing in the wings, running my fingers through the note formations of “Crossing the River Styx.”
Of all guitars I’ve ever played, the Ric has the tightest, smoothest action. The strings are so finely aligned on the neck that the slightest pressure gives you contact and sound. Most guitar strings cut into your fingers, but the Ric’s are as soft and pliable as egg yolks.
They are the same strings that Telly once touched.
Mr. Ridenaur, the head counselor, is making a speech about socks. He wants to give every graduating senior a used sock donated by the faculty. He points to a large cardboard box on the edge of the stage. Asks every senior to take one sock after picking up a diploma.
“So, seniors, abide by this strategy, for it will serve you well in life: before you speak that first idiotic thought, stuff a sock in your mouth.”
“Psst—Jonathan!”
Uh-oh, Birdwell.
“Don’t you know how to spell?”
He flutters up in his academic gown. I turn the neck of the Ric to fend him off.
“I’ve counted more than one hundred typos in your Cosgrove memoir, Jonathan. What about spell checker? What about grammar checker?”
He doesn’t even mention that I turned in the book on time—on time!
“I read the whole thing last night, Jonathan,” he says. “All one hundred and eighty-four pages. Did you even look at the words as you typed? Let me tell you, let me tell you—”
“Hold up!” I say. “Don’t tell me! DO NOT TELL ME!”
Birdwell’s eyes bulge. “Ah,” he says, “of course. Now’s not the time or place.”
He points to Gupti. “She knows exactly how I feel.”
Gupti is standing. In three long strides she’s at the podium. Her braided ponytail is visible only where it intersects with her saffron sash.
She lets the light settle on her tall frame. Beams professionally, a full sweep of the auditorium. “Graduating seniors, parents, faculty, and staff . . .”
Kyle nudges me. “Dude, remember, Kong has a bad foot, so stay centered. Now, go on out there and write some history.”
Nick leans close. “Go for it, man.”
I’m feeling strangely detached from them. Butterflies, yes.
But also numb. Mummified. As if I’m wrapped in some spiritual gauze.
Everything in my life seems to be the material from which this gauze is made: the death of Telly, my thirst for taurine, months of sleep deprivation, my performance anxieties, David Cosgrove—his death and life.
Plus the fact that here, in the audience, are all of the movers and shakers in my life.
Thicks, thins, teachers.
Mimi.
Biological Vic.
Beak-nosed Birdwell.
Shambly, coffee-addicted Frank Conway.
Katie, hiding her illness under a wig.
Agnes, who wants to be an angel.
Gary Death.
Even The Vedder is here. Emerging from his fame cocoon to flit among the ordinary moths.
Normally I’d have the jitters playing to The Vedder alone. Thor-voiced singer, crunching guitar player that he is. Now I’m playing to him and twelve hundred others.
At such a time, all the safety of thickness can’t prop you up.
You’re on your own.
Standing on the guardrail of the bridge.
Where you gotta either fall or fly.
It’s like they’re out there, David and Telly, but not in the audience. Maybe in the foyer, sipping bottled water. Jabbering with each other.
Standing on the guardrail of the bridge, you see this.
Both your aloneness and connectedness.
It’s not about stuffing socks in your mouth. It’s about pulling them out.
Hacking up the snot.
Spitting it out.
And shouting, “Life!”
If Telly were here, in my place, he would rise like the sun. Shake his golden head. His fingers would fly up and down the Ric, striking sparks. He would be great.
Me, I’m not great.
I’m just gonna play how I feel.
And leave it at that.
Gupti’s rambling.
“. . . one of our finest young poets and the youngest winner ever of the Quatch, the most prestigious student poetry competition in our state. And now a gifted biographer. Yesterday, he presented Dr. Bramwell with his latest achievement.”
She holds up the manuscript that contains all of my taurine-fueled words about David Cosgrove. Waves it high above her head.
“These pages tell the story of a man—old, blind, and forgotten.
“Yet an Everyman. A timeless truth seeker, as all of us must be, in every phase of our lives.
“Jonathan has titled this memoir Swimming Toward the Shimmer. This morning, I began reading—and my oh my . . .”
A sweet sigh.
That fades to a frown.
“I do not approve of every word or phrase. Lord knows, some of this”—Gupti smacks the manuscript—“is undercooked. But then I think of the proverb ‘The tiger grows strong supping on raw meat.’
“We learn from these pages . . .”
Gupti talks on and on.
She talks about hearing me sing and play guitar. That rainy winter day Kyle and I broke into the music room. Cracked open the Ric.
She talks about Telly.
“He wasn’t just a brother, he was a twin brother.”
Everybody knows this already. But it’s always nice to be martyred once again. To let them see the arrows sticking out of your ass.
“How should one deal with grief?” Gupti asks. “Well, I can think of no better way than to transform it into art—the art of the heart. Poetry. History. Music. Jonathan, you are an artist!”
She smiles into the microphone.
“I’ve asked Jonathan to perform my all-time favorite song. None of us has heard him in rehearsal. This is strictly a student-owned production. He’ll be playing a beautiful guitar donated by Mr. Eddie Vedder, in memory of Jonathan’s brother. So without further ado”—she waves my manuscript above her head again—“I give you Jonathan!”
Darkness falls on the Kenny G.
A tavern light goes up on the jazz band.
Mr. Tillmann lifts his wand. Whispers “a-one-an-a-two . . .” The band bursts into “Pick Up the Pieces.”
Ov
erhead, the ceiling begins thunking and clunking. Javon, up in his techno bird nest, toggles a stick that plants the hook onto the loop behind the Velcro Kong. Javon entices Kong from the wings, lures him front and center. Fringes him in midnight jungle green. Suddenly, he’s not a prop. He’s a beast. Primal. Staring across the void.
The audience gasps. Feels Kong’s power. Cameras flash.
Kyle nudges me. “Crack it, dude!”
I step onto the pallet. Jordan cranks the lever. Halfway up, Javon fires a pin light at me.
Whoa!
I’m shining like a polished spoon.
The light is impossibly bright—the Star of Bethlehem, both near and far.
Up close, I can see the staples and duct tape on Kong. All the amateur workmanship. The water stains. Yet he seems noble and alive. Facing the horde. Ready to die for his honor.
It’s just a short hop through the air into his cupped hand.
I grip the Ric. Make the leap.
Feel tension on Ricky’s safety harness as we fly through the air.
Javon tracks me.
The Ric and I land in Kong’s hand.
Kong wobbles. Back and forth . . .
Centers himself.
Javon’s pin is achingly bright. But nothing is brighter than the Ric.
It has to be the cherry-reddest guitar in the world.
Not a scratch or chafe or nick. It looks unreal.
I reach into my pocket. Open the Ziploc bag.
Grab the last handful of my brother.
Hold up my fist. Let his dust fall. Sprinkling the air.
Javon’s light catches it.
Telly falls in quicksilver particles.
Dusting my shoes, the palm of Kong, and the Ric.
But Telly’s dust doesn’t let go that easily.
The very last of him clings to me, a faint resin on my pickin’ and chordin’ fingers.
I adjust my headset. Reach into my pocket for a pick—I have at least twenty, just in case.
Choose the thickest of all.
Position my left hand on Ricky’s neck.
Speak into the impossibly bright shimmer. Light so bright everything else is dark.
Into twelve hundred sets of ears that may or may not be there.
Adios, Nirvana Page 16