The Best of Good

by Sara Lewis

  He shook his head.

  “Oh, well. Just hold it. Here. It will feel so good!”

  He shook his head again.

  “Come on,” I said. “You don’t have to play anything. Just hold the guitar.” Diana was giving me this look, like, Take it easy, would you? And the things I was saying, the sound of my voice, made it seem like I was trying to make him do something bad, something he really shouldn’t, I knew I was pushing, but suddenly it was really important to me that he take the guitar from me at least and just hold it.

  He took it, making it very clear that he didn’t want to. He set it across his lap and leaned his elbows on the strings. I didn’t say, “Don’t do that! You’ll get it out of tune!” I had some self-restraint. A tiny little scrap of judgment.

  “I’ll play you one of the first songs I ever learned,” I said. I got another guitar, an electric one. I plugged it into a small amp and played “Gloria.” I didn’t sing. Frankly, it sounded lame without words. As I played, I heard the neighbors’ door open and shut. When I was finished, I looked up to see Mike trying to peek through my window while appearing to make some minute adjustment to the wheels of his skateboard.

  Jack was leaning on his hand, waiting for me to be finished.

  “OK,” I said. “Well, it’s pretty simple. I could teach you to play that, if you want.”

  For the first time, he looked me straight in the face. He said, “No.” He looked at his mother. “Thank you.” It was then that I realized he didn’t look that much like me; he looked more like my brother, Jack. His mouth had the same shape, and his eyes were the same gray blue. It was unnerving being stared at with those cool eyes again.

  I put my guitar down. I nodded. “Got it.” I took the one he was holding and put it back. “So, tell me. What are some of the things you like to do? Are you a skateboarder? Do you surf?”

  He wasn’t going to answer. For maybe the first time in my life, I was conscious of what it meant to be regarded as an adult, and not in a good way, either. I searched for something to say that might redeem me. “Do you listen to music? Who do you like? What radio station do you listen to? How about that new blink-182 CD. Do you like that?”

  Silence. Then, “That CD has a parental warning label. I’m not allowed—”

  Quickly, I said, “Of course, and you shouldn’t—”

  Then Diana said, “He doesn’t care for music much. I mean, it’s not a big passion with him the way it is with some kids. He doesn’t listen to music at all, actually. We have a radio in the car that we never turn on. And we don’t use the one in the house.” She shrugged, apologizing.

  I could allow for differences in taste. I knew there were plenty of people who didn’t like what I liked or follow popular music with my particular zeal. But how could he not care about it at all when he was so obviously my kid? Could there have been some mistake about that? I found myself wondering. He had the Good nose, the hair, the eyes, that was for sure. But how was it possible that he could get my family genes for physical features and not the passion for music?

  I looked at Diana. She shrugged again. “He likes video games,” she said hopefully. “There’s this one he’s been working on lately. It’s called ‘Escape from the Nanolobe.’ There’s this main character named Parsifal, and he—”

  Jack interrupted, suddenly coming to life. “He’s locked into this tower at the beginning of the game. There’s these evil guys who took over when Parsifal’s father died. They each have special powers, but you don’t know what they are at the beginning. You have to find out what they are and how to get around them. ’Cause, see, the whole place really belongs to him. To Parsifal. He has to get out of there and go to this other land, get all these powers, and then come back and get control of the castle.”

  “He’s really good at it,” said Diana. “He works so hard! You should see how he concentrates. He’s beaten two levels already!” She patted his back.

  “That’s not that good. I’d be further if I could play it every day, instead of just on weekends.” Jack shot her a look.

  “I don’t let him play on school nights,” Diana said.

  “Everybody else gets to play anytime they want,” Jack whined.

  “What if he has all his homework done?” I wanted to know.

  Diana sat up straight and pressed her lips together, “Weekends only. That’s the rule.”

  It dawned on me kind of late that she had expected me to back her up on this. “Right,” I said. “Exactly right. School nights are for, well, school stuff and, uh, and reading. Books. And all that.”

  “It’s not fair!” Jack mumbled. “I’m the only one who has that rule.”

  “I bet you’re way smarter than those other kids, though,” I said, trying to score points with both of them. “I bet you read really well, and I bet you’re great in all your other subjects.”

  “No, I’m not. The kids who play video games all the time are way better than me.”

  “Oh. Are you sure?” I looked from Jack to his mother. “But it’s not because they play video games all the time, is it?”

  “What is it because of then? They were just born smarter?” Jack said.

  “No, of course—what? Are you kidding me? I’d bet anything you’re the smartest kid in your school. Seriously, you seem extremely smart to me. I’ll bet you’re great in school. I’ll bet your teacher thanks her lucky stars every day that she has you in her class.”

  “Yeah, right,” Jack muttered.

  “So listen,” I said, desperate to change the subject, “was there anything you wanted to ask me? You probably have some questions, too, right?”

  “Well, yeah,” Jack said.

  “OK, shoot.”

  I was leaving myself wide open here. He could ask, “Why didn’t you marry my mom?” or “Why haven’t you ever sent me a birthday present?” or “Why have you lived in this tiny apartment for all these years?” He might want to know, “What happened to you that you just sit in here and make up songs that no one ever hears?” I braced myself.

  Jack took a breath. “What kind of car do you drive?”

  “Oh,” I said. “Uh, car? Oh, I mostly drive a motorcycle. I do have a car though.” I looked at Diana. “My car is a Honda wagon.”

  He curled his lip a little bit. “I’ve never even heard of a Honda wagon.”

  “Yeah. Oh, sure. They made them for quite a few years. It’s not their most popular model, for sure. I bought it used. I got a very good deal.” What did he want to know about my car for?

  “He’s into cars,” Diana said. “It’s another one of his interests. Loves cars and everything about them! One of the first things he learned to name, right after colors, was models of cars! Before some animals. Really. He was two when he started pointing and saying, ‘Toyota!’ ‘Ford!’ ”

  “Oh. Well. That’s—amazing. I guess he gets that from you.”

  “By the time he was three, he had all the makes memorized. I can’t tell a Lexus from a Mercedes, frankly, but Jack’s really good at it.”

  “Hmm,” I said. If there was one thing that left me cold, it was cars. But I guess I could see the appeal. Sort of. Maybe I could get interested, if I worked at it a little.

  “Listen,” Diana said, standing up. “We have to go. Jack has homework.” She gave Jack a visual nudge, sort of narrowing her eyes and pushing her head forward a little.

  Jack stood up. “It was nice meeting you,” he said to the floor.

  “It was a pleasure meeting you, Jack.”

  They walked to the door.

  “OK,” said Diana. “So, I’ll call you, OK?”

  “Sure.”

  I followed them out the door and walked them to their car. After Jack got in, I closed the door for him, first making sure that his hands and feet were out of the way. I waved as they drove off. After they were gone, I stood next to where their car had been, looking at the For Sale sign that had recently gone up in front of the house across the street.

  Sho
ot, I was thinking. They didn’t even go in the kitchen or the bathroom! I bought all that new stuff and they hadn’t even seen it.

  twenty-one

  I turned around to go inside. Mike was standing there. “Who was that boy?”

  “Believe it or not,” I said, “he’s my son.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Are you giving him guitar lessons? I wanted guitar lessons, and you said no.”

  “Well I—” I stammered. “Remember your hands are still too small.”

  Mike looked at his hands. “What should I do?”

  “Wait,” I said. “Until they get bigger.”

  “I want to do it now. I want to play ‘Kryptonite.’”

  “I know you do. I understand completely. I know exactly how you feel. You just have to wait a little longer, that’s all.”

  “Can you play it for me again?”

  Actually, I wanted to sit down and stare into space for a minute, to think about what just happened. But this kid was so urgent about everything, it was hard to keep telling him no. “Is your mom home?”

  “Yeah,” Mike said.

  “Then go ask her if it’s OK if you hear me play ‘Kryptonite’ again. Tell her we’ll be right outside here.”

  Mike took off at a run. I went inside. I could hear their conversation through the kitchen wall.

  Mike: “Mr. Good is going to play ‘Kryptonite’ again for me. Is that OK?”

  Robin: “Was it his idea or yours?”

  Mike: “Mine, but he said yes if you say yes. We’ll be right outside here. He said to tell you.”

  Pause.

  Mike: “Can I?”

  Robin: “See, I don’t want you to bug him. He’s not used to kids. He doesn’t have any and—”

  Mike: “Yes, he does. One was just over there. Bigger than Elise. No, really. He’s giving him guitar lessons, and he said when my hands are bigger—”

  Robin: “Did he say it was his kid? Are you sure?”

  Mike: “Yeah. So can I go?”

  Robin: “For a few minutes. And be polite. Make sure you say thank you after he plays the song for you, OK? Don’t keep asking him to play songs. Just the one is enough, OK? He might have to go somewhere and—”

  Mike: “I’ll be so polite!”

  He was already knocking on my door by the time he finished the sentence.

  “Well, what a surprise!” I said, opening the door.

  “Are you joking?” he asked, tipping his head to one side.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh. What are you doing?”

  “I’m taking these chairs outside, one for you and one for me.”

  Outside, Mike looked over his shoulder toward his own door. “Thank you for inviting me,” he said.

  “You’re welcome. Wait right here a sec, OK?”

  I went back inside and took down the same guitar I had been using when Jack was here. “OK, buddy. Let’s go.” I played some of “Kryptonite.” The kids face lit up like a little beacon. It was hard not to feel good about your performance with that kind of audience response.

  “OK, now I’m going to let you play it.”

  “What?” he said. Shock flooded his little freckled face.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’ll tell you what string to play. OK, now this one right here. See, I’m pressing it down up here with this hand. Perfect. Now that one. Right. This one. Wow, you’re good.” I got him through the chorus. I never saw such a small face concentrate so hard. It took a long time. I had to restrain myself from smiling, he was so serious. “You’re great, bud. A real natural. Want to do that again a little faster?”

  “OK,” he said, getting ready to concentrate.

  “Wait,” I said. “You need a little break, I think. Am I right?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “It’s hard.”

  “Sure is, but you’ve got talent. Hey, you want a cookie, while we’re having our break?”

  “Yeah!” he said. “I mean, yes, please.”

  “OK,” I said. “Do you like Oreos?”

  He nodded.

  “Wait a second. I’ll get you a couple.” Since I had them, I might as well use them. Mike stood at the door watching me get the cookies from the kitchen. I left them out on the counter, in case he wanted more.

  “Thank you,” he said, taking two Oreos. “We don’t have cookies.”

  Uh-oh, I thought. “You mean, your mother doesn’t let you eat sweets?”

  “No,” he said. “I mean, we eat them so fast we always run out.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. “Well, I have plenty.”

  We played the chorus again, very, very slowly. He was standing in front of me, while I told him what to do. His tongue was sticking out a little, and he was holding his breath.

  When the chorus was finished, he said, “Wait! I have to go get my mom!” Halfway to his door, he turned around. “Can you please do it again with me for my mom?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Of course.”

  Robin came. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Is he bothering you?”

  “Not at all. We’re having fun, aren’t we?”

  “Yeah,” Mike said. “Hey, Mom, he has cookies. You want a cookie?” He opened my door to go get her one.

  “Mike!” she said. “You’re a guest!”

  Quickly, I said, “Please get your mother a cookie, Mike. Get her two. They’re on the kitchen counter.”

  “OK,” Mike said, hurrying inside. “Do you want one, Mr. Good?” he called from the kitchen.

  “No, thanks. I’m not really a cookie person.”

  “How come you got ’em, then?” he said, returning to hand the cookies from his sweaty little hand to his mother’s smooth, white one.

  “I got them for the little boy you saw earlier. My, uh, son. He didn’t want any, though. Shall we play?”

  “Yup,” he said. He looked at his mother and smiled.

  “OK, scout,” I said, “That one.” I pointed; he plucked. “Now that. That.”

  We played. They both smiled at me. “Thank you,” Robin said. “That was really nice of you.” There was a long pause. She ran her hand over Mike’s hair. “I didn’t know you had a son.”

  I nodded. I was so pleased with myself for not blurting out, “Neither did I!” or “You could have knocked me over with a feather!” I didn’t say anything.

  “No wonder you’re so good with Mike.”

  “No, I—well, to be honest, I just met him today. This afternoon.” So much for my tact.

  “Oh!” she said, as if she’d stepped on a bee. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. Thanks for letting Mike play your guitar. And thanks for the cookies.”

  She hurried him to their door.

  twenty-two

  The Point Blank show was at Staples Center in Los Angeles. I had been there once before, at the opening a couple of years earlier when Bruce Springsteen played. That was the last concert I’d been to—besides the ones at The Club, I mean.

  The show was sold out, though a comp ticket was waiting for me at the box office, as promised. Inside, I looked around at the sea of milling people. With a jolt, I realized that I had started this. Me, of all people, Mr. Inertia. But now all that seemed to have happened to another person. There were lots of old people like me in the crowd but plenty of teenagers too. Broad appeal was the key to Point Blanks longevity. I found my seat, a good one in the center, close to the stage but not so close that saliva and sweat could possibly land on me or that the stage rushers would step on me or block my view.

  As soon as I’d sat down, a young guy, about nineteen or so, started making his way down my row. He was looking at me, I checked the number on my ticket, checked my seat number. They matched. Did I know this guy? Had I waited on him at The Club? What did he want?

  “Hey!” he said to me.

  “Yes?” I said, feeling old again, the way I had with Jack, a grownup in the children’s department.

  “Are you Tom Good?’ ”

  Buckets of sweat gathered to spill out o
f my armpits, “Yes, I am. How did you know that? Who are you?”

  “I’m Spike. I’m a fanatic fan. I’ve met all the guys in the band. Except you. Until now.” He smiled, proud of himself. “And there was a Behind the Music about Point Blank. They had your picture. I taped it, and I’ve watched it like a hundred times.”

  I looked for Exit signs, which all seemed way too far away.

  “Besides, every serious Point Blank fan knows about you. If they don’t, they’re not real fans. You’re famous, dude.”

  I managed a small smile, forcing my face muscles to pull my lips up. It wasn’t easy, but I did it.

  “Really,” he said. “You’re like the Pete Best of Point Blank.”

  The fake smile was gone instantly. I looked at the empty stage. Could I just go back to my car right now? I didn’t know this kid. It didn’t make any difference what he thought. The band didn’t have to know I had ever been here. In two hours, I could be home.

  “Pete Best was the Beatles’ drummer before Ringo,” the guy explained to me, as if I might be slow-witted. “I did a paper on him for a history of rock ’n roll class.”

  I said, “There’s one major difference between me and Pete Best.”

  The boy thought about this. “OK. Wait now. I’ll get this.” He looked up, thinking. “Oh!” he said and clicked his fingers. “I know! He played drums and you played guitar?”

  “Play guitar. I still play. Every day.” He didn’t have to know this. Did I think I had to prove myself to some Point Blank fan? Of course not. It didn’t matter to me one bit what he thought about me. I said, “The difference is, Pete Best got fired. I left.”

  The guy just stood there looking at me, not saying anything. “Why?” he said, “What happened?”

  “I didn’t want to be in the band. I was done. I had other plans,” I said.