Struts & Frets (10 page)

“Sammy—”

“No, really. I'm still trying to figure out how to do it. I know that. I think it would help if we rehearsed more. And I feel kind of limited because I know there's some stuff I want to write that he would never sing because it's too emo or whatever.”

“Sammy? Emo? No way!” Rick said.

“Do you think TJ is mad at me?”

“TJ will get over it,” said Rick. “But you have to decide what you're going to do about Fiver.”

“I really don't know what to do. For real.”

“Do you think she's hot?”

“I've never thought about it before,” I said. “She was just my friend, you know?”

“You gotta start thinking about it.”

“Why? Why can't I just pretend you never said anything and go on being exactly like I was?”

“Well, first of all, there's TJ,” said Rick. “He's only going to wait so long and then he's going to ask her out.”

“Yeah,” I said. “And also, Fiver. She's only going to wait for so long before she gives up on you and finds someone new.”

“She told you that?”

“Of course not. She's convinced she'll wait as long as it takes or she'll never date anyone. But I know better. And you know better. Fiver is not going to put up with this bullshit forever.”

“I know.”'

“And it
is
bullshit, you know?” He leaned forward a little. “We've all be waiting for you two to hook up for years.”

“Who's ‘we'?”

“All of us. Shit, even your mom is waiting for it.”

“You haven't talked to my mom about—”

“Of course not. I'm just saying that it's so obvious to everyone else that there's something there. Chemistry, magnetism, mojo. Whatever. It's present.”

“I guess,” I said, swirling the wooden stir stick in my coffee. “But it's just so . . . weird.”

“What is?”

“Thinking about her like that. She's my friend.”

“Are you seriously expecting me to believe that?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.

“What?”

“That you've never thought of her as anything other than a friend?”

“Yes.”

“You would swear to me that you never once thought of her while jerking off.”

“Jesus!”

“I'm serious. Can you tell me that?”

I said nothing.

“Exactly,” said Rick, tapping the table like he had just scored a major point. “Now, look. Let me tell you what your real problem is.”

“Oh, this'll be good,” I said.

“Your problem is this: You freak out about the tiniest little stuff. You get all passionate and intense naming a stupid band or thinking about whether your favorite singer sold out or whatever. It's like life or death to you. But then when it comes to really important stuff, you totally puss out. It's like too much and you overload or something. It's time to grow some huevos, amigo. Be a man.”

“What about you?” I asked.

“Huh?”

“When are you going to ask somebody out?”

“That's totally different,” he said, shaking his head.

“No, I don't think it really is.”

“There's no one for me to ask out,” he said.

“Have you looked?” I asked.

“Just forget it,” he said. “It's too weird talking about this.”

“It's not weird at all. In fact, we were just talking about this stuff with me. You're just making it seem weird.”

“Now, wait a minute,” he said. “I brought you out tonight so that I could pick on you, not the other way around.”

“Are you sure you're even gay?” I asked.

“What? Of course.”

“Then why don't you ask someone out on a date?”

“Are you sure you're straight?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Then why don't you ask out the coolest chick in school when you already know for a fact that she'll say yes?”

“Oh,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “When I put it that way, it makes you feel a little stupid, doesn't it?”

house. Sure, Mom only worked a few hours on Saturday, but that still meant nice clothes, hair, and makeup for her. So on Sunday, she sat around all day without makeup, in baggy sweats, and didn't leave the house. What this meant for me was that if anything needed to be done, like errands or shopping, I did it. I pointed out to her that the Starbucks coffee barista would probably forgive her if she showed up looking like a scrub once a week. But she just said it was a girl thing and I wouldn't understand.

Fortunately, we were pretty well stocked on the basics, so it was a quiet day until dinnertime. That's when one of Gramps's neighbors called and said he was acting weird. The
neighbors were used to his normal weirdness, so anything they thought was unusual worried us. Someone needed to check it out. Usually, that someone was Mom. But since it was Sunday, that someone was me.

“I'm sure it's nothing,” said Mom as she settled down on the couch for TV and ice cream.

When I pulled up in front of his building it was starting to get dark out, but I could still see what had worried the neighbors. Gramps had dragged a chair out onto the lawn in front of the apartment building. He was sitting with his hands in his lap, staring up at the sky between the building tops, looking totally at peace. And the strangest thing was that he was all dressed up correctly in a suit and tie. It looked like he'd even combed his hair.

When I opened the car door, I heard the last few bars of a song. The music ended and I saw him lean down and press the button on a small boom box at his feet. The music started up again and the smoky horn and lightly disjointed rhythm told me it was definitely Miles Davis.

He had returned his hands to his lap and he looked so still, I was afraid to startle him. But as I walked up the sidewalk, he turned calmly and looked up at me.

“Ah, Sammy,” he said. “I knew you'd come. I knew she'd
send you. She's a smart one.” He smiled quietly to himself. Then, “Have a seat.”

Now that I was closer, I saw that he had actually brought out two chairs. Had he planned this?

“How long have you been out here, Gramps?” I asked as I sat down.

“As long as Davis's
Kind of Blue
album,” he said. “I wonder why I can remember every note in that album but I can't remember who the president is.” He sighed and looked back up into the night sky.

We sat there in silence for a little while. Then I said, “So why are you sitting here?”

“I'm looking for the moon,” he said.

“The moon? It's right there.” I pointed at the half-moon hanging in front of us.

“That?” he asked, his lip curling up a little. “That's a big rock with astronaut footprints that floats around in space.”

There was another silence.

“Uh, yeah,” I said. “That's the moon.”

“When I was a boy, the moon was something different. It was magic. It was mysterious. Some people said a man lived up there.”

“What?” I said.

“Haven't you ever heard of the man in the moon?”

“Well,” I said. “That R.E.M. song . . .”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“Anyway, people believed there was a wise old man who lived on the moon. You could see his face on certain nights.”

I looked up at the moon now. At the dark craters on its surface. Maybe sometimes the craters lined up in a way that looked kind of like a face. I couldn't see it, though.

“Other people,” continued Gramps, “said aliens lived up there in giant subterranean caverns.”

“Okay, now you're messing with me,” I said.

He smiled and shook his head. “No one knew for sure because there was no way of knowing. Anything was possible.” He rubbed his dry, wrinkled hands together and his face darkened. “But Kennedy needed a new measuring stick against the commies, some way to show America's dominance that didn't involve launching nukes, so they picked space. First one to the moon wins. And that night—that horrible night— when what's-his-name walked on the moon, that was the moment the moon's magic died. When it was no longer the moon. Just a rock floating in space.” He scratched his beard slowly. Rhythmically. Then he said, “And I've been looking for the moon ever since.” He turned to me then. “You're like me,” he said. “Always reaching for the moon.”

“Gramps, I know what the moon is.”

He chuckled quietly. “Is that what you think? That you're just like everyone else? All the other boring farts out there just trying to live a sorry, carefree life? You might wish that were true. I can't blame you. Looking for the moon is hard. There's so many times when you've run out of hope and you feel like it's impossible. But it is possible. I know that for a fact.”

He stared up into the sky for a little while, then said, “I know it because I touched it once. It was the night Chet Baker came to town and asked me to sit in on a set. Now, I know some people say he was a mediocre horn player and that he didn't really come into his own until he got his front teeth knocked out in a bar fight and had to do more singing and less playing. And maybe his playing wasn't the sharpest or most innovative. But that man knew where the music was. Where the moon was. And he showed me that night. Wouldn't let me fall back on my usual tricks of stylish trills and fancy footwork. He just kept shaking his head, right there in the middle of the set with an audience looking on and saying, ‘Come on, Jack. You're more than that. Reach further. You can do it.' So I kept trying, kept ranging further out on solos and riffs and when it came around for me to take the Russ Freeman ‘Summer Sketch' lead, I just pushed and pushed and I couldn't even believe what my fingers were doing and damn if he wasn't right. That song
woke something up in me. It made me realize that there was something I'd been missing. And one thing I knew, I was going to hold on to it.”

He shook his head. “But you can't. Not for long, anyway. Life beats it out of you real quick. So you just have to keep looking for it, over and over again. And you hope that someday you'll be able to hold on forever.”

He closed his eyes and was quiet for a little while. So long, actually, that I started to wonder if he'd fallen asleep. But then he said, “It's a beautiful thing when you touch it. But there's an awful price to pay. Look what it did to me. And I'm one of the lucky ones.” Then he opened his eyes and looked once more into the night sky and sighed. “But it was worth it. Such wonder. Such magic.”

When I got home, Mom was sitting on the couch still, but the TV was off, and she had a glass of wine in one hand and a paperback novel in the other. I sat down next to her and waited for her to look up.

“How was he?” she asked.

“Really calm,” I said. “I haven't seen him like that in a long time. I had almost forgot what he used to be like.”

She nodded. “It comes and goes.” Then she put down her book. She gave me her serious therapist look and put
her hand on my shoulder. “He's slipping away from us, you know.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I guess I knew that. Do you think
he
knows?”

“Probably,” she said. “Although when I've brought it up, he denies it.” She took a sip of her white wine and stared out the dark window. “Imagine how awful that must be. To feel like you're slowly sinking into a confusing dream and to suddenly come up for air and everything is clear. But you know it won't last. That you'll sink back down, further and further each time, until you never come back.”

I stared at the blank TV for a little while. Mom drank her wine.

“Do you ever worry?” I asked at last. “That you'll go crazy like him?”

She laughed. “Worry? I can't wait! Then someone else can listen to
me
ramble on for hours.”

The thing that always bothered me about Sundays was that during the day it was a weekend, but at night it was a school night. It was hard enough to concentrate on homework other nights. But homework on a Sunday was almost impossible.