The Musician

by Douglas Gardham

“It went well,” Ethan replied, keeping his voice even and low. “I liked it.”

  “What kind of role is it?”

  “I started reading the part for a maître d’,” Ethan said, smiling into the phone’s handset. “It wasn’t much, but when I finished, they handed me something else. I’ve been sworn to secrecy.”

  As he spoke, whispers of something else fluttered in his head, as if he’d been there before.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really,” Ethan said. “Did they call you?”

  “No, why?”

  “They asked me who my agent was.”

  “Did they now?”

  “I gave them your name.”

  There was a pause. Ethan pictured Jonah rubbing his hands together.

  “You must be fucking ecstatic,” Jonah finally said.

  “You could say that,” Ethan replied, thinking of the character he was to play, who was shy and withdrawn and had an affinity for computers. “They asked me to come back on Wednesday. I’m headed out to get a revised script now.”

  “Cool!”

  “Yeah, it’s cool all right,” Ethan said, “but I don’t expect it’ll go down as cool with the others.”

  “We’ll work it out.”

  “By explaining what exactly?” Ethan asked, raising his left hand in the air as if Jonah were in front of him.

  “Whatever you want to.”

  “Really,” Ethan said. He didn’t want to think about it.

  “Ethan, it’ll work out,” Jonah said.

  Ethan pictured Jonah looking off into the distance from wherever he was, his mind already on another trajectory. It annoyed Ethan. He was going through life decisions, and Jonah acted as if it were just another day at the office. Maybe it was. Ethan was about to say more when Jonah returned, a heightened intensity to his voice.

  “Ethan, what I’m about to tell you is very important to what will happen over the next few months. No, it’s more than that. It’s fucking important to the rest of your life.”

  What Jonah explained next changed Ethan’s thinking.

  Several months earlier, even before Randolph had asked the Release to record songs for his movie, Jonah had, by chance, met a film executive he knew of by name only: Rom Kami. Rom produced films. He’d recently had a hand in Clint Eastwood’s Pale Rider. Two other projects were on his plate. The first was After Hours, which a young director named Martin Scorsese was directing, coming off the critical success of Raging Bull. Rom had met Scorsese only once. The other, Death Wish 3, involved director Michael Winner and another star: Charles Bronson.

  Rom had been in Medora, North Dakota, as part of a fund-raiser for Theodore Roosevelt National Park and had stayed in Dickinson, North Dakota. Jonah had taken a couple of days’ break from his usual hectic schedule to go on an excursion into the national park, knowing little about the Badlands or Roosevelt’s legacy. They’d met in the lobby of the Best Western and, both being alone, had agreed to meet for dinner. Rom had described his search for a new, unknown actor for a movie project he was producing. He’d told Jonah the search in California and up the West Coast had yielded nothing. They needed another approach. Rom didn’t want a Hollywood type and was convinced they weren’t looking in the right place. The actor had to come from somewhere else. He wanted someone with a set of values contrary to the Hollywood mind-set. Hollywood had become so comfortable in their packaged world that it was impossible to see things in a new way. Over dinner, Rom had become convinced Jonah was the guy who could find him the right actor. “We’re all actors,” Rom had told Jonah. “We just end up in different parts of society. You can find this guy.”

  At the time, Jonah explained to Ethan, he hadn’t had a clue what to think. But Jonah, as Ethan was beginning to understand, wasn’t about saying no. Jonah told Ethan watching him perform was spellbinding. He made songs Jonah knew and had heard hundreds of times before feel new. He believed the camera would see it that way too.

  “You hold a magic, Ethan,” Jonah said, his voice not losing any of its intensity. “Einstein said something that I quoted to Rom that evening: ‘Things aren’t solved the same way they’re created.’”

  Jonah went on to say that after meeting with Rom, his schedule had become a disaster. He’d spent no time on Rom’s request and owed him an answer. He told Ethan that Hollywood and Los Angeles were remarkable, if for no other reason, because nothings turned into somethings, and the somethings were often nothing at all.

  “You’re like that,” Jonah said as Ethan tightened his grip on the phone. “You’ve come out of nowhere. An offhand conversation with an acquaintance at a party I wasn’t even supposed to be at.”

  Raj had introduced Jonah to Randolph, a new movie guy he was working with. Randolph had mentioned an interesting performer, singer, and musician. The details had been sketchy. Raj had had to push Jonah to go see Ethan and the Release. Jonah had seen only Ethan—and his answer for Rom. It had seemed unbelievable yet believable. After all, now it was happening.

  “So now you know,” Jonah said.

  There was nothing left to say. Ethan was beyond excited.

  “This year, 1985, is going to be a busy year, my man,” Jonah added. “Merry Christmas.”

  CHAPTER 45

  Monday, December 24, 1984

  After speaking with Jonah, Ethan couldn’t sit still. What he’d heard was hard to imagine, even if his feelings were mixed. It was like dating a nice girl only to have the right one come along. Hurt was on the horizon. But now was the season to be merry, and merry he would be—maybe the Release and acting could coexist. But finding out whether they could would have to wait. It was Christmas Eve.

  No sooner had he put down the phone with Jonah than his father called, offering to pick him up. Ethan liked that. He’d bought Christmas presents for everyone, and with his clothes and everything he had to bring, he hadn’t wanted to ride the bus while lugging along a full hockey bag. He didn’t say anything about his chat with Jonah or the audition. He’d pick up the script and meet his father back at the house.

  On their way back from Sarnia, the band had stopped at a service center in the early-morning hours to exchange Christmas gifts with each other and share a little Christmas cheer from a bottle of Crown Royal. Nobody had any money, but somehow they’d managed a little something for each other. Gus had given everyone a cassette stuffed in a white envelope. Ethan had received Led Zeppelin’s debut album. A note had accompanied the cassette, thanking him for crossing the street while he was mowing the lawn. A twinge of guilt had pressed Ethan’s stomach as he thought of his audition later that day. Syd had given him the latest issue of Guitar Gear with a note that said, “The magazine that started it all,” adding further to his guilty feeling. Greg’s gift had been a black-and-white photo of their band from high school. They’d come a long way since those days. Ethan had given everyone a copy of Browning Station, meant as a keepsake from their recording experience. He’d also bought copies for himself, Carlyn, and Christa. He doubted he’d see Christa before Christmas, but he would at least have something if he did. The celebration was short but a nice way to wrap up the band’s year.

  His father’s Accord pulled into their short driveway half an hour after Ethan returned with the new script. He was ready to go.

  “What’s new?” his father asked as Ethan climbed in.

  “Not much,” he said. He knew there was a lot but was unsure how much he wanted to tell and how many times he would have to tell it. Pulling the passenger door closed, he thought of their trip back from Ottawa. It didn’t seem that long ago, but much had happened. Strange that he would think of Robbie. One thought seemed to nudge another, ending in silence.

  “Come on,” his father said, backing out. “I haven’t seen you in weeks. You’ve been all over with this band thing. There must be something.”

  “You know,” he said, trying to
distance his memory of Robbie from everything else. Like debris from a sunken ship, things seemed to surface at the least expected times.

  Two lines popped into his head: I don’t know where I’m going, only know where I’ve been. It’s not supposed to matter, but I know that I’ve sinned.

  His hand shot to the pocket of his ski jacket. Pens and paper were in every corner of the house, but again, he found himself without them. Like a watch, they needed to be attached to his body.

  “Do you have a pen?” His words came out sounding quick and panicky.

  “In the glove box,” his father said. “What’s up?”

  “Words,” he answered, pushing the button on the glove-box latch. He rifled through the contents but couldn’t find what he was looking for.

  “Hey,” his father said in a deprecating tone that made Ethan feel like a ten-year-old, “slow down; you’re making a mess.”

  He finally found a pen at the back of the small compartment but still had no paper. He pulled out the car’s manual and flipped it open, looking for a blank page.

  “What are you doing?” his father said.

  Ethan could feel his father’s stare and didn’t answer. He wrote down the two lines in his head. He knew if he didn’t, he’d forget them as quickly as they had come. They turned onto Lawrence Avenue.

  “I gotta write things down when they come to me,” he said, feeling a calm come over him at having the words written down. “If I don’t, they’re gone.”

  His father didn’t say anything.

  Ethan tore out the page he’d written on.

  “Hope I don’t need that page,” his father said, his tone unchanged.

  Ethan knew his father didn’t like his stuff being touched, never mind torn up. “It was blank.”

  They drove in silence for a few minutes. With pen in hand, Ethan waited for the next words to come. It was his father’s words that came instead.

  “Okay, let’s start over. Merry Christmas, Ethan.”

  CHAPTER 46

  Monday, December 24, 1984

  “You did get something for your mother?”

  “Dad,” Ethan said, stretching out the word in reply to the onerous question. “What kind of son do you take me for?”

  “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to,” his father said, smiling, “but it wouldn’t be the first time you didn’t get her one.”

  “It’s not much,” he said, ignoring his father’s comment, “but I think she’ll like it.”

  After finding Christa in the small gallery down the street from Focus Sound, he had gone back later. His mother loved the Group of Seven. A small-framed print of Lawren Harris’s Summer Houses had caught his eye. He really couldn’t spare the thirty bucks it cost but had bought it anyway. Christmas hadn’t been far away. Now he was glad he had.

  “You know, your mom’s real excited about Christmas this year.” His father had the habit of explaining how his mother felt to express how he did.

  “I don’t doubt it,” Ethan replied.

  “You know, she never thought you’d come back.”

  Ethan caught his father’s sideways glance. “I know,” he said, reminded of how he went away during songs. He still hadn’t told anyone about his episodes. But it was Christmas now, and he didn’t want to go there. “Tonight and tomorrow will be fun.”

  Bing Crosby singing “Silver Bells” came on the car’s radio.

  “Christmas is Bing Crosby,” his father said as the warm air from the dashboard vents blew across Ethan’s face. The temperature had dropped overnight. Late November and early December had been unseasonably warm, but the last week was making up for it. It wouldn’t be a white Christmas, but it might be close.

  “This song especially,” Ethan said. The song was the epitome of Christmas, bringing back Christmases of years past. He recalled the decorated tree with gifts piled under it in his parents’ living room. Christmas was a fun time. Maybe they would relive some of those memories tonight and tomorrow.

  Twenty minutes from the house, they came up to a liquor store. The parking lot was jammed.

  “I don’t think I want to go in there, but your mother,” his father said, not finishing his thought. He turned in. Ethan could see the lineups through the front windows.

  “I’m okay with Coke and coffee,” Ethan said, remembering the bottle of Crown Royal in his bag—his father’s Christmas gift.

  “Really?” his father said. “That surprises me, living with a bunch of musicians.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I didn’t mean—” His father slammed on the brakes to avoid the car backing out in front of them. In another two feet, they would have been outside trading insurance policies.

  “Dammit,” his father said, hitting the horn after stopping.

  It made no difference; the other driver was seemingly oblivious to what he or she had done.

  “Can you believe this shit?” his father shouted.

  Ethan didn’t respond. He knew his father was anxious.

  “You know, maybe I need some too,” his father said. He pulled into the now vacated parking spot in front of the store. “Where one door closes, another opens. Gotta love it.” He stopped and turned off the Honda. “You coming?”

  “Nah, it’s okay,” Ethan said, and he pulled out the piece of paper he’d written on. Maybe another line would serve itself up.

  “Suit yourself.”

  His father left, shutting the door a little harder than he might have if he’d been more relaxed. He was like that. One minute, he’d be talking happy thoughts, and the next minute, something unexpected would happen and freak him out, and he’d be pissed off and cursing at whatever had disrupted his expected course of events. It didn’t seem to matter who was around him or whether he knew them or not. Ethan wondered what he was like to work for—maybe more like Uncle Al than Ethan wanted to think about.

  Ethan looked inside the liquor store. Even the drunks would be deterred by the lineups, he thought. Only the desperate would bother, and there were more than a few.

  He looked down at the words he’d written. Nothing more was there. He wrote anyway: “I’m going to be coming.”

  Nothing followed. He put a line through the words and put the paper back in his pocket.

  It seemed more people were going in than coming out of the store. His father would be a while if he managed to stay.

  There was only a day, Christmas Day, before his follow-up audition. He hadn’t said anything and was glad he hadn’t. It would be big news and add to the excitement of Christmas Eve. That night would be a special one, especially after last year’s. He wondered what his family had done. It seemed odd he didn’t know.

  There was no sign of his father in the liquor store. Ethan still doubted he’d make it out with a purchase and smiled. He pulled out the paper again but didn’t write anything. He thought of Christa. He’d tried her number a couple of times without success. She must have had someplace to go for the holidays, but he didn’t know. He wanted to see her but knew she was struggling to see him. One didn’t pick whom he or she fell in love with; love didn’t work that way. He hoped she was happy.

  He thought of his copy of Browning Station in the back. Maybe he’d read a few more pages. He’d have time.

  He reached over and pulled the lever to release the trunk lid.

  He’d wrapped and stacked the books together to pack in his old hockey bag to keep from damaging them. In addition to Browning Station, he’d bought Margaret Atwood’s A Handmaid’s Tale and Stephen King’s The Stand for Carlyn. He’d never finished The Stand but wanted to. His sister might. He should have bought a couple more books for Christa too. Maybe he’d give her A Handmaid’s Tale. He pulled out his copy of Browning Station and hopped back into the passenger seat.

  He loved the feel of a new book—the
crisp pages and sharp edges bound in a tight, neat package of another’s mind. He didn’t recognize the author’s name—Louis Noir—written in small letters below the title. During all the time the band had spent on the songs for the soundtrack in the studio and all the discussions he’d had with Randolph on the book, the author’s name had not come up. It was like that for songwriters too. Unless the performer wrote the song, people rarely knew who’d written it. People mostly cared about how the song made them feel. Remembering the title was hard enough most times. With books, unless the reader cared who’d written it, he or she cared only about the story. Outside of a select few, authors were a group of quiet unknowns. Browning Station was no different—at least for now.

  Ethan had read the first chapter the night before. He was just getting into the second when his father opened the door, startling him.

  “Damn people,” his father said, sliding into the seat.

  Ethan had known how his father’s trip inside was going to turn out. If you touch a hot iron, you get burned.

  “No one knows anything. We live in a world of idiots.” He started the car.

  Unlike his father’s previous Chrysler, the Honda always started, but his father didn’t seem to notice the difference; he took it for granted. Ethan didn’t want to think about the explosion that would have taken place if the car hadn’t started.

  “You won’t believe what they’re doing in there,” his father said. He eased the Honda backward out of the parking space. A car horn sounded behind them. The Honda jerked to a stop. His father craned his neck. Ethan pretended not to notice, but he couldn’t read with his father’s angst. The car then eased backward.

  “They don’t even have all the cashiers on!” his father said, all but shouting. “It’s mind-boggling how no one gives a shit!” Then, as if suddenly aware he was not alone, he said, “Sorry, but I just can’t believe it!”

  No kidding, Ethan thought, having started reading the same sentence three times. Maybe you should relax, like you always tell me to.

  “The Christmas rush is so unnecessary,” his father added, and Ethan raised his head as a couple dashed across in front of them. “You’d think people might think further ahead.”