 
## Icy Sidewalks

### by Glenn Cutforth

Other books by Glenn Cutforth

Fiddling Under Vesuvius

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

eBook Edition: Copyright 2013 Glenn Cutforth. Thank you for downloading this free eBook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial and non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

Note: Canadian/UK spelling is used throughout. For example, doubled letters (i.e. focussed), ou's (i.e. colour) and 're' (theatre) and so on including other differences from American spelling.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Other books by Glenn Cutforth

Preview of Fiddling Under Vesuvius

### Chapter One

Sometimes life is like walking down an icy sidewalk—if you don't watch your step, you could end up flat on your face.

To tell you the truth, being flat on your face is actually one of the better angles in which to get a clear perspective on your life and since I have a habit of always leading with my chin, I've become an expert at detecting when I should brace myself for the next plunge.

For instance, marriage is difficult—men are from Mars and women are from Venus—and all that stuff. I've always wondered what it would be like to actually meet your soul mate. The perfect relationship without all the headaches and worries and fighting over the remote control and money and ... sure, in your dreams, Eric.

It was now two years since I'd last pulled myself off the sidewalk, this time shifting my life into neutral while I tried to recover from bad memories and relationships that had drifted out to sea and, for the most part, I had succeeded. After briefly reaching rock 'n' roll stardom with my hard rock band Pepper & Ice, and then struggling through a disastrous marriage, my life was now basically a holding pattern waiting for the next adventure life had to offer. I wouldn't say my life was dull—routine would be a better word—but at least it wasn't so routine I needed to take up sky-diving or bull fighting to keep my blood from freezing up. Being partners with Gus in our fledgling advertising agency was enough to ensure that much, at least.

And so, I rode the elevator down to the lobby with little expectation the day would be any less predictable than any other day, except, since I made part of my living as a music critic, to reflect on the realization that rock 'n' roll music was now basically dead, despite all proclamations otherwise. A sure sign: All the classic rockers have grown old ... or died and the music of today has little resemblance to the glory days of rock. A new sound has taken over the radio airwaves, one that is less melodic with a more hypnotic pre-programmed drum beat that either put you to sleep or made you want to punch someone out. The one positive is that at least there hasn't been a revival of Disco music. Disco wasn't so bad, not really, it just wasn't so good, either.

I stepped off the elevator and began my usual routine—a brief trip to the mail room to check my usually empty mail slot and then a leisurely fifteen minute drive downtown to the shabby offices of Fun Gus Productions where I did a reasonably good simulation of working for a living.

But today, the mail slot wasn't empty.

I was a bit surprised. Now I had to decide whether to open my new treasure immediately, or shove the letter back into the mail slot to be picked up in the evening when I returned from another tough day of rape and plunder in the world of business.

I suppose I should have been pleased, at least the letter wasn't another piece of junk mail and really _was_ addressed to me and hadn't been slipped into my slot by mistake (the usual reason when my slot wasn't empty). However, as I turned it over in my hand a familiar fragrance invaded the air around me and, like clockwork, that old, also familiar, tingling in my jaw began its early descent.

The envelope was long, skinny and mauve, and postmarked two weeks earlier, March 22, from Montego Bay, Jamaica. There was no return address, but Sarah's fingerprints were all over it and for once in my life I was pleased with our lousy postal service since it had spared me a few days of anxiety. Sarah's vacations in the sunny south weren't usually characterized by any form of communication with me—not even a post card—but then, communication was never one of the strong points in our relationship.

A long, deep sigh helped to clear away the numbness that started invading my circulation. I hesitated for a moment before stuffing the envelope into the back pocket of my jeans. No matter what the envelope contained, it was likely my world of peaceful routine was about to be disrupted in ways only Sarah could create. I stood there and stared at the parallel rows of mail slots.

Okay, steady now. What's with this weird apprehension just because she sent you a simple perfumed letter? This was annoying. Why would a grown-up person like myself, an expert at emotional self-preservation, be so thoroughly jolted from his secluded and comfortable cocoon. Of course, I knew the answer. When it came to Sarah, I was never really in control.

She always seemed to be the one who played the trump cards, at least, until I walked out on our ten years of sharing the same bed, traversing the same lies, beating each other into emotional pulp—it was definitely not a marriage made in heaven. Our separation had finally acknowledged the need to save what was left of our shell-shocked sanity, though it was hard to realize that our shared expectations had been tossed to the wind like dandelions gone to seed.

I suppose that's why I now had such a strong urge to hide out in the corner of the tiny mailroom until old age set in and I never had to deal with Sarah again. It had taken me a long time to revert back to a level of emotional blandness that made life manageable and I guess I didn't relish the thought of my new found stability being interrupted by anything Sarah had to say.

Yuk! Self-pity was one of my bad habits so I quickly tried to keep my mind from falling back into that abyss. I couldn't help wishing we had completed divorce proceedings back when the reasons and animosities were still clear. A separation agreement seemed the right move at the time. However, as I stood there, once my automatic responses dissipated, I had a difficult time dredging up the exact nature of our problems. I guess the passage of time brought on a fuzziness, an uncertainty in my mind and it seemed strange, but I really wasn't ready for that final end in our marriage that would inevitably have to come.

Suddenly, it seemed very important to remove myself from the tiny confines of the mailroom before an overwhelming sense of isolation reached out and crushed me. As I stepped into the hallway I almost ran over Jerry, the mentally challenged kid from the second floor who was on his way to the lobby lounge where he spent his days staring out the window.

"Good Morning, Mr. Taylor," he said, except for Jerry it came out sounding more like: "Goo maun Misser T-ta-lur."

Jerry was returning from the first of many trips to the laundry room pop machine and was carrying a Pepsi can in his left hand and his metal cane in the other. Both his feet dragged along the floor like the hunchback of Notre Dame and his upper torso jerked rhythmically back and forth, giving him the momentum that carried him forward. Other than his messy blond hair and the smoothness of his pale skin, he looked like a ninety-year-old man wearing blue jeans.

For people like Jerry, life is one slow, agonizing, headlong slide down an icy sidewalk.

"Hi Jerry, how's the pop today?"

"Real cold," he said, his lucid blue eyes shining with the delight.

For the past year I'd been spending a few minutes in the morning talking to Jerry before I cranked up the old Volvo and headed downtown to the agency. He was a good kid, but most of the people zipping through the lobby did their best to ignore him. Jerry usually responded with a look of disappointment as he tried to get a friendly hello from one of the empty faces that hustled by without acknowledging his existence.

They obviously refused to look beyond his outward appearance and I knew that no matter how much sympathy I felt for him, it wouldn't change his situation, so I did my best to treat him like a regular guy.

I followed him into the lounge just off the main entrance to the apartment building and sat opposite him on one of the two facing couches that were beginning to show noticeable signs of wear. Jerry dropped a pocketful of change onto the coffee table—his supply of pop money for the day—and then he sat down and began the endless rocking of the upper half of his body, back and forth, back and forth as if some private song was going through his head, its infectious melody making it impossible for him to sit still. Sometimes he would stop for a moment and move his head to stare out the window for a few seconds, and then he'd shift to staring down the hallway, and then back to the rocking.

"So, did you have a good weekend?"

I was never very good at making small talk and found it difficult getting a conversation going. Jerry, on the other hand, was a real talker when he wanted to be.

"Ya," he said, his head nodding vigorously, "I got to stay up late and watch a moovee—a John Wayne moovee —he strong, kill all the Indians. Mama wanted me to go to bed, but I told her to leave me alone."

He abruptly stopped rocking and picked up the can of Pepsi, gave it an energetic shake and then popped open the top, squealing with laughter as the foaming cola sprayed all over his face and lap. He then placed the can on top of the coffee table and pushed it towards me.

"Wanna drink?" he asked as he smacked the sticky puddle on his lap with the palms of his hands.

"No thanks, Jerry. If I drink pop in the morning I get an upset stomach."

He shrugged, grabbed the can, raised it to his mouth and took a long gulp. Droplets of pop slipped through on both sides of his mouth, and when he finished, he wiped them off with his sleeve, and then he started rocking again.

"Like my new jeans?" he blurted out with obvious pride.

"They look great," I said smiling. I had recently started working on an ad campaign for a new line of fashion jeans for which I was expected to come up with an appropriately _sexy_ name. I wondered if Sol Bernstein would consider calling them Jerry Jeans. Not likely.

"My Dad got them for me."

"Really? Has your Dad been around to see you?"

"Ya, and he said I could stay up as late as I want to." Jerry's radiant smile revealed a mouthful of tiny, yellow teeth as it spread across his face. No doubt getting a new pair of jeans from his Dad was by far the major highlight of his whole life up to that point.

Jerry's parents were divorced. I had only seen his father once and he had impressed me as being one of those slobbering, greasy drunks who walk up to people on the street begging for their loose change. Jerry's Mom called him 'the bastard', so I was surprised he'd been around.

"Gee, I didn't think your Dad could afford to buy such nice jeans, does he buy you lots of other things?"

I asked, but it was immediately clear I was treading on sensitive grounds. His face dropped about a mile and a look of consternation took over as he rolled his eyes and shook his head rapidly back and forth, and then he suddenly stopped rocking and stared at me, his eyes squinting as he concentrated on my face.

"You look sick, Mr. Taylor," he said triumphantly and then he sat back and started rocking again.

I wasn't surprised by his perception. Obviously the unexpected jolt back to memories and emotions I hadn't experienced for a while back in the mailroom had left a few exterior signs.

"What makes you say that?" I asked defensively.

He stopped rocking and then he leaned over until his head stretched hallway across the coffee table. He squeezed his eyes tightly together for a moment and then he stared directly into my face again.

I moved forward so he could get a better look.

"You red."

"What?"

"You face."

"Oh."

This was, no doubt, his way of getting even for questioning his Dad's ability to pay for his jeans. I sat back on the couch and mumbled, "Thanks a lot, Jerry."

They say people with handicaps develop increased strength in their other senses, which in Jerry's case meant he must have developed an amazing sense of hearing because he mumbled back, just as softly, "You welcome." He then slid down to the end of the couch, as far away from me as he could get, dragging his cane along with him.

"Look Jerry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you."

His response was to grab the half empty can of Pepsi and throw it onto the floor.

"My Dad said I could stay up as late as I want to!" he screamed, and then he turned around and stared out the window.

I shook my head, annoyed with myself for opening my mouth and letting something stupid pop out. But, alas, it was the story of my life. People always seemed to react strangely to what seemed to me like innocent remarks. Maybe they sensed an underlying tone of cynicism that I wasn't aware of, or perhaps I was too quick to point out the obvious—things that were sometimes better left unsaid. Or maybe I just saw reality too clearly and, deep down, I had an unconscious need to stir up people's hostilities by only dealing with my observed sense of the truth, without wasting time on shades of grey.

Who knows!

I glanced down at the bubbly, foaming puddle of Pepsi that had formed on the floor where the can had spilled out its insides. It suddenly occurred to me that a lot of people were like that can of Pepsi—it usually took a nasty shake and a turning upside down before they were able to spill out their insides.

I was probably number one on that list.

I headed for the parking garage with a one last glance over my shoulder at Jerry. As I departed, a well-dressed lady stepped into the lounge—probably to wait for a cab—but when she noticed Jerry, she quickly changed her mind and instead walked straight towards the lobby entrance.

Jerry had stopped rocking and was trying to get the lady's attention with a friendly smile, but as he watched her walk away, the smile disappeared and a look of depression crossed his face. I wanted to run back and tell him not to put so much importance on people like her, but decided there wasn't much point.

I could feel my own black clouds beginning to form and it would only be another case of the blind leading the blind.

I stepped through the door to the garage and paused for a moment while my eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. I was bombarded by the usual stench of any large, enclosed area that housed a couple of hundred cars, a mixture of gas fumes, oil and dust.

My mind began to wander as I moved slowly down the concrete floor towards my parking space. Faces from the past and present kept popping up in flashes and then disappearing like ducks in a shooting gallery.

I trudged along wondering if I would ever feel the sense of freedom I had always assumed living alone would bring. Not likely, since freedom and peace of mind rarely came easy for a person who had trouble not feeling guilty every time he screwed up, as if failure was not a viable alternative since everyone always expected you to succeed.

I wondered how many times in my life I'd screwed up. More important, at least for my own peace of mind, how many times had I _not_ screwed up? No doubt the balance was relatively equal, especially when you considered that I was quite capable of brushing my teeth, tying my shoe laces or putting on my socks without making too many mistakes. But the human creature seems to have a self-destructive habit of amplifying the negative and down-playing the positive almost as if you would wither away and die if you didn't get your daily dose of depression.

I felt a sudden chill and as I zipped up the front of my leather jacket, a brief glimpse of my red Volvo broke through the parade of faces in my mind and I started walking in the general direction of where it was parked.

But when I looked again, the car was nowhere in sight.

I looked around feeling lost and disoriented.

"Okay Taylor, let's get a hold of yourself!" I said out loud, and then I noticed the numbers painted on the concrete poles that designated the different parking areas were blue, which meant I was in the wrong area since my number was painted in white.

I quickly changed directions, but as I stepped into the driving lane between the parked cars, I was greeted by the terrifying screech of tires and the frantic blasting of a car horn. I jumped back with the dexterity of a black cat who wasn't interested in losing one of its nine lives, but my knee caught the side of a shiny blue Camaro as it whizzed by, its occupant slinging back a deluge of profanities.

I bent over and started limping, feinting serious injury, but the guy in the car didn't seem too concerned as he stepped on the gas and left me standing in a cloud of smelly exhaust fumes. I let him have a few of my own profanities as I shook my fist wildly in the air, but he kept right on going. I watched him until he disappeared from sight and then I turned and started walking towards the Volvo.

But my limp wasn't quite as phoney as I'd assumed, and now it was accompanied by a sharp, throbbing pain in the pit of my stomach.

By the time I found the Volvo my heart was pounding and each breath was coming in short, uneven gasps. My eyes were beginning to water and the stinging smell of oil and dust had attacked my nose and throat causing me to cough and sputter like a worn-out old engine.

I fumbled with the key and finally got the door open. After dropping heavily onto the torn and tattered seat, I slipped the key into the ignition in an attempt to get the car started, but my leg shook so badly I couldn't keep the clutch down and it kept jumping to a stop. My mouth felt dryer than the parched bones of a dead rodent baking under the desert sun. I took a deep breath and then I allowed my hand to slip away from the key and slid down to massage my aching knee.

My state of frustration slowly drifted away as I warmed to the friendly interior of the Volvo and it occurred to me that this old car and I had a lot in common since it was made in 1999, the same year I'd stumbled through the second major plunge in my life when I precipitated the break-up of the briefly famous rock 'n' roll band I'd co-founded back in the summer of 1996. The band crashed in 1999 which was also the year I'd married Sarah, but that didn't qualify as a major plunge, only a minor one. The major one came two years ago when we ended the whole unhappy relationship.

Actually, it was quite amazing how comfortably poor I now felt even though I'd spent almost ten years of my life selling real estate for Sarah's father and enjoying the rich trappings that accompanied being the son-in-law of the illustrious Hubert P. Livingston. In fact, the transformation from driving a brand new Lincoln Continental while wining and dining my many independently wealthy clients, to writing music reviews and ad copy for numerous products ranging from fashion jeans to fabric softener and driving a bright red 1999 Volvo with bad brakes and a clunking transmission was one of the few periods of adjustments in my life I'd handled without too much anxiety.

I'd never really felt comfortable in that environment. I was more like a fish out of water than the hustling shark it took to be really successful.

I had also never been very good at being a part of someone's "team", especially during over-blown sales meetings that were skilfully designed to churn out "company" men who faithfully followed the corporate philosophy on how they should live their lives.

Making tons of money, getting that next big sale, keeping up with the Jones family—it all ran contrary to the independent streak I'd inherited from my father and it made my years in the selling game very difficult, to say the least. Hub had always done his best to understand me, even backing me up on occasion when one of his sales managers got on my back about some dumb regulation—but Sarah never tried to understand.

She constantly picked at me, saying over and over again, "Look Eric, forget about what you were, you're not a rock star anymore, you're my husband and I have a right to expect you to provide us with a decent standard of living."

It would have been difficult for one of those money hungry corporate robots to keep Sarah in a style she was used to, but for someone like me, it was impossible from the beginning. I could never convince her that music had been, and would always be, the most important passion in my life.

After our separation I had little money and no job, but I still needed a reasonably reliable car. The salesman at the used car lot assured me there was still a few good years left in this old Volvo and, for once, a used car salesman had been right. Old cars are, in a way, not much different than people—there is always a few good years left in them if you treat them right.

The enclosed interior of the car began to feel hot and stuffy as my breathing returned to normal, so I rolled down the window. The air outside wasn't much better, but at least it wasn't sitting still. I reached up and turned the key in the ignition, but stopped short of turning it all the way.

Instead, I pulled out Sarah's letter which, by now, was burning a hole in my back pocket. I wondered if I should read it or just tear it up and throw away the pieces. I decided I wasn't in the right state of mind at that moment, but I knew I would get around to reading it before the day was over.

It was now clear that my reaction to the letter was only a defensive mechanism I had build up inside me. It's sudden entry into my stagnant life had stirred up feelings and emotions I hadn't experienced for a long time—like when you stir up a bowl of vegetable soup that's been sitting for a while and all the peas and carrots and green beans have floated to the bottom. I thought I had buried those feelings forever, but I guess they were only resting silently on the bottom of the bowl.

I gazed through the dusty windshield, my heartbeat back to thumping its normal, redundant rhythm, and wondered if I had ever really come to terms with my self-imposed exile from intimacy. I assumed I had, but I guess deep down I knew that living alone again hadn't turned out to be the wild and wonderful lifestyle I had expected. My two years of solitary confinement had confirmed what I should have known in the first place. I needed more, someone to share my life with, even if the relationship wasn't perfect. But any thoughts of avoiding the final break with Sarah were down right ridiculous and likely stemmed more from a need to be with somebody again, and less from any feelings I had for her.

I have always had a tendency to burn my bridges behind me and, with the exception of Gus, once someone is no longer a part of my life, it's as if they had never existed. So why was I so concerned this time with Sarah's sudden return into my life?

My mind shifted to Jerry's disturbed reaction to my question about his father. It really wasn't a reaction to me, personally, but to my status as the messenger who voiced something that stirred up feelings he was trying to hide from, just like the unexpected receipt of Sarah's letter was my messenger.

For a moment I felt sorry for Jerry. He had no choices and few options. He was stuck sitting in the lobby staring out the window. He couldn't roam around and try to get a handle on the situation, but I could.

I took a deep breath, let the air out slowly and then stuffed the letter back into my pocket. I noticed my gas gauge was registering close to empty and made a mental note to fill up on the way home after work and then I reached over and turned the key in the ignition.

This time my leg held firm on the clutch.

### Chapter Two

Fun Gus Productions is located downtown on the third floor of an old building over a family shoe store and what I call a regular restaurant, as opposed to one of those fun fast food eateries that line the streets and boulevards all over town. I'm the Vice President of the company, which doesn't amount to much, since Gus and I started the business with very little money and _then_ we learned about things like cash flow and working capital.

On the day we took the papers down to get the business registered, we flipped a coin to see who would be President. Gus won, which meant he got to fill out the space that read: Name of Business—thus Fun Gus or, closer to reality, fungus.

In order to engage the services of our agency, a prospective client is required to climb thirty-eight death defying stairs up an oppressively narrow and steep stairwell, to which s/he soon discovers: one false step and it's a bumpy ride back down. I sometimes wonder if business would be a little better if we could somehow transform the stairs into a long, sweeping escalator ... failing that, maybe hire a big Russian weightlifter to carry people up. I know there are mornings I am totally disheartened when confronted with the unavoidable climb and if I didn't have to make a living, I'd be tempted to say 'the hell with it' and go home.

However, halfway up there's a four foot landing and to your right a huge glass door that leads to Universal Models and it's an ideal spot to catch your breath and, if you're lucky, maybe catch a glimpse of several gregarious young ladies earnestly painting their faces.

As I stood facing the long, uninviting hallway that loomed before me like the foothills of Mount Everest, I knew it was one of those mornings I would rather go home. My knee was still feeling the effects of its calamitous collision with the blue Camaro, so I limped along slowly, hoping it wouldn't seize up on me and send me rolling backwards. Many nights I've had nightmares about losing my balance and tumbling down, but I always end up landing in the arms of one of the gorgeous models from the second floor. Somehow the reality of the situation didn't offer the same prospects of a happy ending ... which wasn't surprising the way the day had started.

I reached the landing without mishap and as I paused to catch my breath, I cursed myself for not starting the exercise program I'd been planning to start for the past few years. The slight paunch that had been developing around my middle from the time I said so long to my twenties hadn't really changed much, since I'm a moderate eater, especially now that I have to cook my own meals, but my stamina was slipping away rapidly.

As I glanced through the doorway into the modelling agency, I promised myself I would start doing sit-ups first thing in the morning, (but, of course, as soon as I made it to my office I would promptly forget the whole idea).

The usual assortment of blondes and brunettes were busy in front of the mirrors. I caught the eye of Maria Danielli, a terrific lady who owned one of the most perfect faces I've ever known, and waved. She winked back with one of her sensuous brown eyes that always seemed to be sending out subliminal suggestions, an excellent device for a model who is usually trying to sell something.

Her dark Mediterranean features gave her a young and healthy look, even in the middle of winter when most people's tans had faded away. Anyone seeing Maria for the first time would immediately guess that she was a model. Her cheekbones were so high they almost touched her forehead. She seemed to be all arms and legs but her body was very well-proportioned, though not overly voluptuous. Her dark brown hair was long and silky, which made her the perfect candidate for those hair shampoo commercials which featured an almost naked model luxuriously shampooing her hair underneath an exotic waterfall.

In the early days after my separation when I thought I was going to be out every night with a different lady, I had frantically roamed the singles' bars without much success. I gave up the scene when I realized how outdated I felt and it really didn't do anything to boost my spirits having to con my way into some lonely lady's life.

I met Maria after we opened the agency and we'd dated a few times, but I soon realized there was no room in her life for anything besides her ego and her job. It had been a welcome lift to my self-esteem just being seen with her; the only trouble was, she spent most of the time during dinner pulling out her compact and checking her face to make sure everything was perfect, while I sat quietly entrenched in my self-pity, totally unable to communicate. It finally occurred to us that we would never click as a romantic couple and once that notion was out of the way, we formed a platonic friendship that included the occasional dinner set up mostly to cry on each other's shoulders.

As Maria walked towards me and opened the door, I could feel lascivious emotions begin to stir. She was wearing a bright red mini skirt that showed off her long legs rapturously and a white, cottony, almost transparent blouse full of ruffles and ribbons. The blouse clung tautly around each of her nipples as her high, perfectly shaped breasts jiggled freely under the flimsy material.

It was during moments like these that I regretted our relationship had remained platonic.

"So, what's your problem?" she said, eyeing me from head to foot.

If there is anything about Maria you could—heaven forbid—call a flaw, it was her modulation, which could only be described as bland, and the way she expressed herself. Not too much class there, but then, models are not very often paid to talk.

"I'm okay," I said, "just banged my knee up a bit." I felt like a little boy who, while holding back the obvious need to cry, was trying to pretend the ball that just hit him in the face hadn't really hurt.

Her manner immediately flowed with motherly concern. "You sure you're okay? You don't look well at all. Maybe I could help you the rest of the way up."

"It's not that bad, really," I said. My spirit was willing, but my head knew better. "You're just trying to make me feel helpless like you always do, Maria. Besides, you know how much you turn me on and if you put your arms around me, I won't be responsible if I lose control and attack you."

She laughed and then punched my arm—none too gently. "You wouldn't have a chance ... I've been taking self-defence lessons." She jumped into a karate stance, her hands chopping the air. "One false move and they'd have to scrape you off the floor, " and then more seriously, "you sure you're okay?" It was hard to distinguish the more serious inflection, since the tone of her voice never seemed to change, but I could tell by the way she furrowed her eyebrow.

"I'm fine, thanks anyway Maria," I said as I looked at the remaining twenty odd steps, but as I started up, I wasn't so sure.

"Alright then, I'll see you later, okay?" she said as she stepped back inside the agency door, but I could sense her watching me as I made the climb.

I plodded along until I reached the top landing and was tempted to take the left hand door which led to the roof of the building that backed up against our building, but I decided I'd wasted enough time for one day. I took the right doorway instead, my mouth still feeling parched and thirsty.

Mrs. Archer, our receptionist, was sitting behind her desk busily transferring paperclips from one box to another. Her grey hair was stylishly coiffured in a medium length layered look and she was neatly attired in a two-piece navy suit with a matching silk scarf drawn loosely around her neck. She appeared to be putting on a lot of weight lately, since all her clothing looked about half a size too tight.

Mrs. Archer was the only 'old' person working at Fun Gus Productions. (At thirty-five, I guess old meant anyone over fifty.) Gus had hired her during one of his unusually sedate states of mind, saying something about needing an older person around to keep all the crazy people in line. However, I've never felt comfortable working with older people who had a compulsion to explain everything to you as if they were the only one intelligent enough to do things the right way. She was always lecturing me on how I should do the tedious little duties that were a part of my job as if I'd never done them before.

Sometimes Mrs. Archer drove me crazy, but then, there was definitely something to be said about having an old person around to keep all the crazy people in line.

When she saw me coming through the door she pushed aside the boxes of paperclips and then looked at me, her face drawing back in horror.

"My lord," she said, "what happened to you? You look like something a cat would be ashamed to drag home."

Her we go again, I thought.

"Nothing, I'm okay," I said with an edge. I tried to walk with a less noticeable limp and then I remembered how thirsty I was. I changed my tone and said sweetly, "Mrs. Archer, could you get me some coffee—and lots of it, please?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Taylor," she said gleefully, "but I don't get coffee."

"Right, I forgot ... maybe you could get someone else to ... " but my voice trailed off as she expressed a wordless 'you've got to be kidding' look, "... no, I don't suppose so. Anyway, are there any messages?"

She pulled out her appointment book and meticulously turned the pages until she reached the right one.

"Yes, Mr. Bernstein called to see how the fashion jean ads were coming along and he wants you to call him back." She then looked disapprovingly at my jeans and I knew what was coming next. "You know, Mr. Taylor, I do wish you would start wearing a suit, there is something undignified about the Vice President of a company wearing denims all the time—and that Mr. Griffin, he's just about the strangest President of a company I have ever seen."

I smiled, but I was really gritting my teeth. I suppose I could have told her I'd worn a suit for years but it hadn't made me a better person or helped me sell real estate any better—or saved my marriage, for that matter, but I didn't bother. She meant well and would have rambled on forever about the importance of a dress code, so I politely interrupted her.

"I know, Mrs. Archer, you're absolutely right and I promise you I'll surprise everyone some day and wear one of those five hundred dollar suits I have hanging in my closet, okay?" That seemed to satisfy her. She nodded and then she smiled tolerantly. "Now, are there any other messages?"

She fumbled with her book again.

"Yes, Mr. Reid would like to see you as soon as you have a free moment."

"Fine, would you please tell Tim to either drop by my office or give me a buzz when he has a moment."

Along with the advertising agency we also published a monthly entertainment review and calendar of coming events called _After Dark_. The last thing this city needed was another entertainment guide and after five shaky issues, we were having a difficult time maintaining enough advertisers to keep it from vanishing like so many others had, but Gus kept insisting that ours was the best one around and it just needed a few more months to get established.

Tim Reid was the editor and wrote the movie and restaurant reviews as well as hitting the pavement trying to sell advertising. I helped out by writing and editing the music, nightclub and concert reviews.

I walked down the hall to my office. It was in its usual state of organized confusion.

What else can you say about an office?

It has four walls, a desk, a filing cabinet and a large antique oak cabinet I'd managed to sneak away from Sarah as part of our separation agreement—she got the house, all the furnishings and the Lincoln Continental, even though she's never bothered to learn how to drive, and I got the oak cabinet—a fair exchange if I ever saw one.

On top of the cabinet rests a stereo receiver, a CD player and a couple of dozen CDs. The carpet is a sickening dusty pink and brown shag, one of those cheap carpet deals Gus had picked up at Carpet World, and it contrasted horribly with the oranges, yellows and greens of the ugly modern art painting Mrs. Archer had insisted on placing in the middle of the wall behind my desk. My window overlooks the downtown area and sometimes when I'm alone at night working late, the constant flashing of the theatre marquee across the street drives me to distraction.

I pulled out Sarah's letter, dropped it onto my desk and then I switched on the stereo. _I Can't Tell You Why_ by the Eagles flew across the room and I lost myself in the melody.

As the song slipped smoothly into its guitar solo, an image of Sarah's face suddenly appeared in my mind. It was almost as if she was standing in front of me; the soft cheeks; the fragrant perfume; the distant blue eyes which had never allowed me beyond their inscrutable surface.

It always frustrated me the way she would never open up and share her true feelings with me. She was good at performing, putting on eloquent displays of belligerent anger followed by lengthy periods of wounded feelings when she would slink away by herself and refuse to talk or kiss and make up as if she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders and she had to face her trials and tribulations alone. Our marriage gradually settled into a continuous state of head bashing until neither of us could tolerate being together. The last year had been spent like a indifferent siblings, rarely touching or saying anything more than cursory remarks.

I replayed our last day together in my mind and as those bristling moments played out, I wondered whether I had made a mistake by forcing the issue and leaving. As I contemplated on that thought, my heart seemed to pick up a couple of beats and I felt a sudden rise in temperature, as if I had walked from an air conditioned building into a sweltering hot sun.

She had actually held the door for me as I struggled out with the last box of my possessions, her face vaguely teary, but determined not to show it.

"Marriage is supposed to be forever, you know," she said as I walked by.

I hadn't thought in those terms for a long time and I turned and said, "Nothing is forever."

So why was I now questioning what had been a perfectly rational and adult decision? Did I feel guilty because I hadn't stuck it out longer? Or was it because I was finally realizing how difficult it was to simply walk away and forget about a large chunk of my life without paying some kind of a price?

There was a knock at the door and as I looked up, I was startled by a human hurricane as it swept into the room. A few feet inside the door a little gremlin must have stuck out its foot because the hurricane made an unexpected crash landing onto the carpet.

It was Angie, our short, perky and also very clumsy Art Department manager. Angie had the mind of a hamster in a cage—she liked running around in circles. If she ever had a part in a serious, dramatic movie, she would be the character who comes on for comic relief.

As she picked herself off the floor in one rolling motion, almost as if she was practising for the city gymnastics team, I had a difficult time stifling a laugh.

"I'm sorry, Eric," she said huffing and puffing like she'd just completed a thirty-mile marathon, "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

She was wearing the typical garb of the middle-of-the-road, physical fitness, health food, racket sport crowd: medium grey fashion sweat pants, a red and yellow striped t-shirt and thick-soled yellow and white Adidas running shoes—excuse me, jogging shoes. Her curly brown hair popped severely out of a white sweat band that circled her forehead and always seemed to be covering her eyes. Maybe it was this lack of a clear vision that made her so clumsy.

"No, not at all, come on in," I said, an uncontrollable grin spreading across my face. I liked Angie. She always seemed to raise my energy level up a couple of notches. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, I've got some preliminary drawings for the fashion jean campaign ready," she said as she dropped them in front of me. "I'm just wondering what brand name I'm supposed to draw on the back pocket."

"I dunno, I haven't come up with a name yet. You got any ideas?"

"Sure," she said as she leaned her tiny body against the edge of my desk, "why don't you call them Jordache Jeans and when the real company threatens to sue, pretend that you've never heard of them. It may cost you a zillion dollars when they win their case, but I'll bet you'll sell a helluva lot of jeans."

"Thanks Ang, but I think we'd better go for a more original idea. Sol would probably have a heart attack if anyone ever accused him of being a crook—even though he probably is. Got any more bright ideas?"

"Yep," she said as she lowered her face to within a few inches of mine, "why don't you just dump the whole project, I mean, does the world really need another brand of jeans? Think about it!"

She had a strange look on her face as she stared down at me and I thought she was going to make some wry comment about my appearance, but she managed to restrain herself.

"I know, you're probably right," I said, "but we're just the advertising agency, we don't plan on investing in the company."

"Thank heavens for that, it's hard enough earning a living around here." She reached up and pulled her sweat band a little higher on her forehead, which gave me a clearer picture of the serious look on her face. "Speaking of which," she said with a touch of anger in her voice, "are we gonna get paid this week or what?"

"Gee Ang, I dunno. I'll have to check with Gus and see whether our cash flow position has improved since last week. You really should be talking to him though, you know he's in charge of all the money."

"That fat-assed freak! All he does is growl at everyone. He acts like we're slaves and should feel privileged just to be working for him —well, it doesn't work that way!" Her face had turned a pale shade of red, almost the perfect match for the stripe in her t-shirt. "Come on, can't you talk to him? I'm really hurting for some cash. I'll tell you one thing, if I had control of the money I sure as hell could manage it a lot better than he does."

"I'll see what I can do," I said, "but I can't promise anything."

"Well, you let me know." She grabbed her drawings from my hand and started out the door. "And if you come up with a name for this crap, I'll be in the darkroom. I still have to process that roll of film you shot at the Bon Jovi concert." She then turned back and said "I shall wait with bated breath."

"Ang," I said casually, "would you do me a favour and get me some coffee?"

She stopped dead and gave me a look of shock and annoyance. "I'm sorry," she said indignantly, "I don't get coffee."

"That's okay, I didn't think so, just checking."

She turned around and on her way out she slammed the door a little harder than necessary. Women's Lib strikes again!

I decided the only way I was going to get some coffee was to get it myself, but when I stood up, the pain in my knee started throbbing like it had a nasty migraine, so I gave up on the idea. I sat back down, reached over and dropped a Stevie Wonder CD into the machine and then I pulled the Bernstein account file out and spread it over the top of my desk. I waited for some inspiration, but for the next few hours I kept coming up empty.

Visions of sleek, lithe nymphs gyrating at a night club, decked out in their—whatever—jeans kept popping into my head but, unfortunately, that approach was no more original than calling them Jordache Jeans. I kept getting this overwhelming feeling that Angie was right—nobody really cared about jeans anymore. They had gone the way of the hula hoop, Nehru suits and the Edsel Ford.

I leaned back in my chair, stretching my arms straight back, trying to relieve the tightness in the back of my neck. My office felt crowded and uncomfortable. I glanced out the window. Swirling gusts of windswept snow were pummelling the busy street. It had been a long, hard winter and watching the beginnings of our second April blizzard only succeeded in adding to my frustration. Having snow so deep into spring is like having your feelings hurt by your best friend—you know the hurt will go away quickly, but at the time it seems like the end of the world.

I began to fantasize about Sarah lying comfortably on the beaches of Montego Bay, soaking up the sun. I visualized a man sitting next to her, but I couldn't distinguish the face. Could it be her father? Not likely. A boyfriend? Maybe.

I got stuck on that thought for longer than I cared to until I finally wondered if I was projecting myself sitting with her on the beach.

Damn!

Why did I continue this silly ping pong game in my head? One minute I hated Sarah and the next minute I was imagining myself lounging around under a hot sun as if nothing else was important than getting our bodies brown and beautiful.

Damn!

It didn't make sense, especially since her letter would no doubt signal the closing of the final curtain on our marriage. I had never been one to get caught up in fantasizing. I had always looked ahead, straight as Clark Kent on a good day. Fantasy was for weak people who were steeped in illusions, unable to get a grasp on reality.

And then it suddenly occurred to me ... wasn't that what the selling of fashion jeans was all about? Fantasy! Illusions! People who thought the label on their butt made them a better person. Well then, why not Fantasy Jeans?

I pulled out a blank piece of paper and wrote in large letters: FANTASY JEANS.

Sure, why not? I reached over and pressed the intercom button for the Art Department.

"Angie, how do you like the name Fantasy Jeans?"

I could hear her breathing, but there was no immediate response.

"I suppose it's as good as anything else," she said finally. "You sure that's original? Isn't there some kind of hair shampoo called Fantasy?"

"I don't think so, but I'll check it out. In the meantime, you might as well use the name for your drawings."

"Okay, you're the boss. By the way, did you find out about our pay cheques yet?"

"Not yet, Ang. I'll talk to Gus before I leave today."

"Well, you let me know, okay?"

"Okay, but I still can't promise anything."

I turned my attention back to the file. Now that I had finally come up with a name, I was feeling a bit proud of myself, unfortunately, the thought of coming up with some ideas for radio and TV ads put me into a cold sweat. I decided I had had enough of jeans for one day, in fact, I saw no reason why I couldn't take advantage of my position as Vice President and cut out early for a change. I wavered for a moment and then decided I should at least return Bernstein's call, so I picked up the phone and dialled his office. His secretary told me in a sullen voice that he was on the other line and then she put me on hold.

There are certain intervals in your life when time seems to stand still: 1) you've got front row seats for a concert for which the scalpers squeezed two hundred and fifty bucks out of you, it's forty minutes past the starting time and the stage crew is still doing the sound check, 2) you and your wife (girlfriend, fiancée, mistress, etc.) are going out for the night, you start getting ready an hour after she's started and you still have to wait an hour after you're ready, 3) you get a sudden toothache and make an emergency appointment with your dentist and an hour after the appointed time you're still sitting in the waiting room reading a magazine and trying to ignore the pain and 4) being put on hold for more than thirty seconds.

I waited for what seemed like a ridiculous length of time, (actually, not more than a minute or two) and then I hung up. At least I could say I had called back.

I went to my layout table and picked up a stack of CDs Tim had left me, with a note reminding me that he needed at least three reviews ready by deadline on Friday. One of the nice advantages of being the music critic was all the free music, but as I leafed through them, the odds I'd like many of them didn't stack up well. The names of the artists only stirred up a deep loathing inside me—Britney Spears, A$AP Rocky, P!nk, Rihanna, PSY—the only one that looked promising was a new Bruno Mars album.

I wondered how many new and rotten things I could think up to say about most of them. A few years ago my rock 'n' roll upbringing had retreated into jazz. I had to review the stuff, but that didn't mean I had to like it. I often wondered where all the new, innovative leaders of rock music were hiding. Rock 'n' roll truly was dead—at least for me.

My mind wandered back to the days when I was considered one of the most promising new songwriters in rock, but I didn't allow myself to dwell too long and days gone by ... that was all in the past, a past that could not be relived or changed, even though I sometimes caught myself wondering why I had screwed it up so badly.

### Chapter Three

I turned off the stereo, shoved the stack of CDs under my arm and was about to get my jacket when the intercom buzzed.

It was Mrs. Archer.

"How are the jean ads shaping up?" she asked.

"About as well as the storm," I replied, "which means now that I've got a name for the damn things I'm gonna leave early and try to come up with some new concepts at home." I've always liked the word concepts, it gave the impression you were working on something really important.

Mrs. Archer chuckled.

"Oh, I see so, in other words, if Mr. Bernstein calls, I should tell him you're at home sweating blood over his account and you'll likely have the whole campaign ready for his inspection first thing in the morning."

"That's right, Mrs. Archer, and you can also tell him if he will agree to pay us some money up front instead of doing the job on speculation, I'll come over to his house tonight and personally tuck Mr. Bernstein, Mrs. Bernstein and all the little Bernsteins into bed and make sure they all have a nice glass of warm milk and plate of cookies."

We both laughed and I was about to hang up when she said, "By the way, there's a nice young man on line two who wishes to speak to, quote: 'the guy who does the band reviews in _After Dark_.'"

"Is it a client?" I wasn't very anxious to get tangled up with some angry nightclub owner who had taken offence to my review of the entertainment at his establishment. Nightclub owners are a touchy bunch and now that I'd decided to go home early, I didn't feel like going through the aggravation of trying to explain my point of view.

"No, I don't think so, he just said he 'dug' your style and he'd really like to speak with you."

"Okay," I said reluctantly, "I guess I'll take the call. Thanks." I pushed the button for line two and said, "Eric Taylor speaking, can I help you?"

There was no immediate response, but I could hear what sounded like musicians practising in the background. The guy on the line yelled at the players to turn down the volume and then he cleared his throat and said, "Yes, I'm sorry to bother you, but I was wondering, are you _the_ Eric Taylor?"

The way he said my name startled me. The voice was strangely familiar, a voice I knew I'd heard before.

"What do you mean by _the_ Eric Taylor, I mean, I'm sure there's lots of people in the world with that name." I replied cautiously.

"Yes, I'm sure there is," he said, "but the only one that counts is the guy I played drums with in the world's greatest rock band back in the day. We also wrote some classic rock 'n' roll songs together and his name just happened to be Eric Taylor. My name is ... "

"Carl Pepper!" I exclaimed as the day's second attack of numbness invaded my body.

"Yep, at your service."

"You've got to be kidding!"

"Then it's really you, Shaky?"

The sound of the nickname from my youth which I hadn't heard in years sent an extra shiver down my spine. Carl called me Shaky because I used to get so nervous before a concert. He had a nickname for everyone.

"Hey, can you believe it, guys," he yelled out to the people in the background, "it's really him," and then to me, "Hey man, how are you? I'm in town, I've got this little jazz group and we're opening tonight at ... what's the name of this place? Oh yeah, it's called The Hideaway."

The Hideaway was one of the few clubs in town that featured jazz groups, which meant that Carl's group had to be top of the line to play there.

"But how did you find me?" I asked. "You didn't just pick up the phone and call Fun Gus Productions out of the blue, did you?"

"No, no, we've been here rehearsing all day and I got to wondering what was happening around town, you know, in case I wanted to go out for a pizza or something and somebody handed me a copy of this newspaper of yours, _After Dark_. I was just looking through it and I saw your by line under a lot of the reviews so I thought, what the hell, I'll call and see if it was you ... so, you still cranking the ol' keyboards?"

"No, I gave that up years ago."

"Now I remember, you married that chic who used to hang around the band ... what was her name? Uh, Sylvia or something ... "

"Sarah."

"That's right ... so, how's ol' Sarah these days?"

"Ah ... I don't really know, we've been separated the last couple of years."

"I'm not surprised, Shaky, she always was kind of a pushy broad."

The casual indifference of that statement annoyed me, but then, Carl was never one to mince his words.

"So, what are you doing these days besides writing music reviews?" he continued as if suddenly aware of my silence. "Have you any idea where the hell Benny or Gus are?"

"Would you believe Gus is the President of Fun Gus Productions?" I said as I tried to think of a way to fill him in on the last twelve years of my life in twenty-five words or less. "Actually, we're partners. He was bummin' around singing in coffee houses and pubs and I was out of a job after Sarah and I split up, so we decided to band together and see if we could beat the system."

"Really? I don't believe it, I'd have thought Sticks would have killed himself by now after the way he went berserk the last time I saw him ... " His voice suddenly trailed off and then he cleared his throat. "Anyway, that's another story. So what about Benny? What's he up to these days?"

"I don't know what happened to our Benny Campbell, but knowing Benny, he's probably sitting on a mountain somewhere in Tibet teaching the Dalai Lama the meaning of life." We used to call Benny the 'quiet genius'. He was an incredible bass player and would have been even better if he'd ever really put his mind to it.

Carl laughed. "You've got that right. He really was a strange cat—but lovable."

I could hear Carl take a drag off his cigarette, and then there was a long, gurgling sound. For some reason I could almost smell the beer and cigarette through the telephone line.

"We never could figure out Benny, could we?" I said.

"Nor Sticks, for that matter."

"So, you still knockin' the ladies dead with that sexy smile of yours?" I asked, "or have you finally settled down with someone?"

"Are you kidding? Me settle down? I'm afraid there ain't a female on earth capable of corralling this old stallion ... I'm much too wild for just one to handle."

His cockiness was beginning to show, but then, Carl never had any trouble backing up any of his claims of masculine prowess. His tall, muscular body, sun bleached shoulder length hair and his remarkable ability to communicate with an audience at an uncommonly intimate level usually produced a long line of idolizing snuggies (as he used to call them) waiting to get their hands on him after every concert.

"Same old Carl," I said laughing.

"Well, to tell you the truth, I've mellowed somewhat over the years ... it's just that I've never been able to picture myself remaining faithful to only one person. Anyway, the hell with that baloney, what are you up to tonight? Why don't you come down to the club and catch the band, you may even want to bring your notepad and give us one of your reviews. I'll save a table up front and we can do some heavy reminiscing about the good old days. Man, has it really been twelve years?" He paused for a moment and then he added, somewhat reluctantly, "Bring Gus with you if you want."

"Sounds good to me, but are you sure you want me to come as a critic? I might give you a bad review."

"No way, man, this is the best group of musicians I've ever been associated with ... you'll be absolutely dazzled ... of course, that doesn't count you, Shaky, you're still the best over all musician I've played with."

I started to dispute that last statement, but ignored it instead. "Well, you guys had better be dazzling 'cos I'm gonna be in one of my most critical moods. What's the name of the band?"

"Comrades."

"Comrades! You guys Communists or something?"

He laughed. "No, it's just a name, but sometimes I wonder. By the way, you still got that camera of yours? You used to take great pictures, I still have some of the shots you took of the band around somewhere. Why don't you bring it with you?"

"Don't worry about that, I always bring my camera when I review a band."

There was a knock at the door and then Tim Reid stepped inside. I motioned for him to have a seat.

"Okay then, I guess I'll see you guys tonight."

"Sure thing, Carl. It should be an interesting reunion."

I placed the phone down, feeling a bit dazed, and then I glanced up at Tim who towered above me and had obviously ignored my invitation to sit down. He was about nine feet twelve inches tall, (actually, he was about 6' 6", but once you get over six feet, who cares, tall is tall), solid as a rock and he possessed one of the deepest, most resonant radio announcer voices I've ever heard. However, I've also never met anyone so uncomfortable with his height.

His physical appearance would certainly cause most people to assume Tim would be a strong, overpowering person, but he was actually very meek and mild-tempered. Whenever he talks to someone shorter than he is (almost everybody) he tends to bend down in an attempt to reduce his presence, as if he was embarrassed by his size and he preferred talking at everyone else's level. I'm sure that if it were possible to remove about five inches of flesh and bones from the area between his knees and ankles, Tim would jump at the opportunity.

He usually wore faded jeans that barely reached his ankles and dull navy shirts and he was always puffing on a long, black Sherlock Holmes pipe, favouring tobacco with the woody smell of bark or wood shavings.

"You look like you've just seen a ghost," he said, his voice booming out like the MC at a wet t-shirt contest. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," I said as my mind crawled back from the shadows of my memories. "I just talked to someone I haven't heard from in twelve years."

"Anyone I know?"

"Yep, I think you've heard of him—Carl Pepper."

"You mean the Carl Pepper who was the drummer for your old band Pepper's People?"

"That's the one."

"Hmmm." Tim tossed that one around in his head for awhile and then he said, "Never knew the fellow personally, of course, but I wouldn't mind meeting him someday."

"Well, you can. His jazz group is playing at The Hideaway this week."

He shrugged. "Naw, I don't go to nightclubs. The wife can't stand the smoke and smell of beer."

"That's okay, maybe I can get Carl to drop by the office and meet everyone."

"That'd be interesting," he said. He paused for a moment and then a devilish grin spread across his face and I knew it was rock 'n' roll trivia time.

I've always had an uncanny ability to remember trivial names, dates and events, whether world history or just common everyday occurrences from past years. It used to annoy Sarah the way I could remember the names, occupations and the conversations we had with people we'd met at parties.

One of my special areas of interest has always been Rock 'n' Roll Trivia and Tim was always trying to stump me with questions. He even kept track of how many I got right and so far I was averaging better than nine out of ten. However, we have an agreement that if I ever slip below 90%, I have to buy him a case of his favourite French wine. At one point he was throwing so many questions at me we ended up doing nothing but talk about music, so I had to limit him to one question per day and, of course, every time I get nine out of ten questions correct, he has to invite me home for one of his wife's home cooked meals (I'd do almost anything to avoid eating my own cooking). I guarantee you I've had more free meals than Tim has collected bottles of wine.

"Okay, I've got a good one for you," he said slowly. "Who replaced Joe Walsh when he left The James Gang?"

"Geez Tim, I don't where you come up with such gems."

He shrugged, his manner hopeful that he'd come up with a winner, since this was question number ten and I had one wrong so far.

Inside, of course, I was gloating, since I could already smell the luscious aroma of Linda's wonderful pot roast dinner with roasted potatoes and Caesar Salad. But I couldn't let on right away, so I flashed an expression of grave concentration and a heavy sigh ... and then I began.

"Joe Walsh, after going solo for awhile ended up with The Eagles, of course, and was actually replaced by two fine, young Canadian musicians, Roy Kenner on lead vocals and Domanic Triano on lead guitar. Both had been members of The Mandala—remember The Mandala Soul Crusade...no? Anyway, The Mandala recorded one moderately successful album which I still have somewhere in my record collection."

Tim was by now sucking steadily on his pipe, sending teaming billows of smoke into the air.

"Shall I go on?" I asked, though I hated to gloat.

"By all means," he replied, but he had lost his enthusiasm.

"The original lead singer for The Mandala was George Olliver whom Roy Kenner replaced when Olliver split, eventually to join a group called Natural Gas for one album and then as a solo singer. When Triano left The James Gang, he screwed around for awhile and made a couple of very bad solo albums and also reformed The Mandala briefly under the name of Bush, making another really terrible album. Then he joined The Guess Who for their last couple of albums where he proceeded to drive Burton Cummings crazy by trying to steal the spotlight from good ol' Burton. This led to Burton's decision to leave the band, which was rapidly going down hill anyway, and start his long overdue solo career. After The Guess Who, Triano ... "

"Okay, okay, you win," Tim interrupted, "I'll let you know which night for dinner, any preferences?"

"The usual."

"Damn, I was really looking forward to that Beaujolais for the weekend."

In a way, I felt sorry for him, he really did try to come up with good questions—but not very sorry since I usually brought the damn French wine when I came over for dinner anyway. I guess it was kind of a neat arrangement since we both ended up winning.

"You know," I said, "all that stuff just seems to stick in my mind, and I don't know why. Now, is there anything else, Tim?"

"Yes ... who was the lead singer for The Zombies?"

"Come on, you know our agreement, one answer is all you'll get out of me today."

"I'll bet you don't know."

"Ask me tomorrow. Now, let's get back to business. How's the ad sales going for next month's issue of _After Dark_?"

He pondered for a moment and then he said, "You know, I'm really quite pleased. We've done quite well this month. I think this thing is finally going to take off. Danny managed to renew all of his accounts and he even talked Taco Village into a six month contract. If you want to wait a second, I'll run back to my office and get some statistics for you to look over."

"Don't bother, I was just about to take off for the day. Have you told Gus the good news yet?"

"No, I haven't, not yet. Nope."

"Good, I've got to talk to him, so I'll tell him on my way out. He'll really be pleased. Catch ya later."

Tim walked to the door and started to open it and then he turned back halfway to face me.

"Uh, by the way," he said meekly, "you couldn't lend me, ah, twenty bucks until pay day ... " He didn't vocalize the rest, but it was obviously going to be something like: 'whenever that might be.'

"Sure," I said felling a bit guilty. I didn't like the pattern that seemed to be developing. I pulled out my wallet and after a quick inspection, I pulled out two tens and handed them over to him. "How long has it been since everyone's been paid, anyway?"

"Oh, a couple of weeks, maybe a month—but no problem. We all know that once we get some regular accounts and a few big jobs under our belts money won't be so scarce. Don't worry about it ... but a few bucks here and there help a lot."

"Okay Tim, I appreciate your attitude, but all the same, I'm gonna talk to Gus and see if we can't spare a couple of weeks wages."

"That'd be great," he said as he turned to leave.

When he got to the door I yelled out, "Colin Blunstone."

"What?"

"The lead singer for The Zombies."

"Oh yeah, right." He nodded his head and then rolled his eyes and said, "One down, nine to go," and then he left.

I leaned back in my chair, took a deep breath and then I picked up Sarah's letter. I had a sudden urge to tear it open and indulge myself in whatever pensive message that might be contained inside, but the command from my brain got lost somewhere along the way and I just stared at it instead.

It occurred to me that I was part of what would have made an excellent rock 'n' roll trivia question—What year did the self-indulgent rock band Pepper & Ice break up? —and more important, at least to me—Why?

My mind drifted back to 1999, the last time I'd seen Carl Pepper. I felt a strange sensation of floating through the curtains of time and seeing a young, confident—but very nervous face and realizing with a sharp stab to my chest that I was seeing myself, twelve years younger, not any happier, but with more hopeful anticipation.

Accepting change had been so much easier then. I'd been so certain at the time that leaving the band and marrying Sarah was the only way I could continue to grow as a person, but as the faces of Benny, Carl, Gus and myself in our long-haired, fuzzy-faced getups flickered in my mind, I felt a deep longing for the old days. But I had been the guilty party, the one who had precipitated the end of our dreams, my restless need to reproduce myself more important than the friendship we'd developed over the years. We were in the most creative and exciting time of our lives and I had turned my back on our future success because of my silly obsession.

So why did I continue to feel guilty after all these years? Maybe it was because the crazy notion that had driven me seemed so unimportant now that my marriage was a failure and it still hadn't been fulfilled.

I stood up and walked over to the window which by now was encrusted with snow and ice. The street was almost deserted except for a few people standing at the bus stop, some wearing light jackets, caught by the unexpected spring blizzard. An old man wrapped in a tattered beige raincoat, dragging an unwilling cocker spaniel on a leash, struggled against the wind, and a couple of sweat-suited joggers slipped and weaved their way around accumulating ice patches.

A stinging sensation clouded my eyes and they began to water, so I rubbed them with the tips of my fingers. Sentimental tears? Or just a reaction to the pipe smoke that still lingered in the room.

I returned to my desk, stuffed Sarah's letter into my pocket, slipped my jacket on and then grabbed the pile of CDs.

As I walked past Mrs. Archer I asked her if Gus was in his office. She lifted a steaming cup of coffee to her lips, sipped, flashed me an ironic smile, and then she nodded towards his door.

"Yes indeed, the 'fat-assed freak' still remains in his habitat," she said with a chuckle.

I smiled. It was a relief to see that Mrs. Archer was finally beginning to act like one of the 'crazy' people.

### Chapter Four

The sign on his office door read: Fun Gus Griffin – President, which usually made me snicker when I saw it, but instead I felt a wary reluctance to enter. Gus had never been a very good person when it came to human relationships and I was feeling almost too fragile to handle him in my present state of mind. He had an absolutely fearless kind of insolence, as if he thrived on confrontation and I never knew from one day to the next whether he would give me a kick in the pants or just stare at me like a sullen rooster.

The door was closed, but I could hear the gentle plucking of an acoustic guitar. I knocked once and then entered.

Walking into Gus' office was like stepping into another era, as if the space within the four walls had been immune to the passage of time. The room was painted a bright psychedelic pink, yellow and purple combination with small gold stars placed seemingly at random until you stood back and noticed they formed the outline of a Fender Stratocaster guitar. The remaining wall space was a gallery of posters and pictures of mostly dead '60's rock musicians—Jim Morrison, John Lennon, Janis Joplin, Keith Moon—but glaring out ostentatiously amid the clutter was a huge, expensively framed charcoal drawing of Jimi Hendrix. I sometimes wondered if Gus' seeming preoccupation with dead musicians was a sign that he had a death wish of his own.

His desk was not really a desk, but a large door with the door knob removed and painted a bright orange and supported by two small, wooden barrels. Behind the desk is another door which either led to a closet or another room, I wasn't sure which. One time I was looking for a CD I'd misplaced and as I started to open the door, Gus almost attacked me and warned me to stay away from that door, it was private. I could never figure out what he so desperately needed to keep secret.

Across from the desk sat two of those ugly, yellow bean bag chairs that I'd learned to refrain from sitting on, no matter how weary I felt. Under the window, which also overlooked the downtown area, sat a stereo and tape deck on another small, wooden barrel.

Gus was sitting cross-legged on top of his desk (door), hunched over a battered acoustic guitar, playing a haunting melody I had never heard before, probably something he had just made up. His bearded face was a mask of concentration, eyes closed, head bobbing slowly up and down. His long, dirty blond hair hung in wisps across his mouth and jaw like a veil, and he was wearing a bright yellow T-shirt that declared: _Rock 'n' Roll Will Never Die_ in large, red lettering. The whole look was complemented by wide, multi-coloured suspenders and faded bell bottom jeans that made his gaunt frame appear even skinnier than it really was. His round, wire-rimmed glasses sat precariously close to the edge of his nose and threatened to slide all the way down to the several years growth of scratchy beard that covered his cheeks and chin.

As I stood quietly in front of him watching his fingers floating across the fret board, my senses were stirred by the sweet fragrance of incense and hashish. After a few minutes he finished the tune, opened his eyes and stared at me as if it was the first time he had noticed my presence.

"Nice," I said. "Something new?"

"It's just crap," he replied gruffly. "Pure garbage."

He set his instrument on top of the desk and then he hopped down from his lofty roost. He gave me a look that said 'what the hell do you want' and then he sat down on the wicker chair resting behind his desk, reached over and turned on the stereo, picked up a joint from a guitar shaped ashtray and dragged long and deep allowing the smoke to escape slow and easy.

"What the hell do you want?" he said, his face blank and devoid of emotion.

"Just checking to see if you were still alive."

I hadn't talked to him in days and sometimes I wondered what he actually did as President of Fun Gus Productions, other than handle the money. Once in awhile he would come up with a crazy idea, including voices and sound effects for a radio spot, but most of the time we didn't hear too much from him. I had never had a problem getting money for myself when I needed it, since I was a partner, but I had learned to live on as little as possible.

"Oh, I'm alive and well and floating in outer space," he said with a sardonic laugh, "which is more than I can say for this fuckin' place."

Nice guy, I thought, but I decided there was no point in my trying to match his sarcasm volley for volley, a game he usually won and one I wasn't in the mood for playing. I won more points by staying calm and pretending we were having a normal conversation.

He did his best to ignore me, his eyes flitting rapidly around the room, so I remained silent until they finally landed briefly on me. The most annoying thing about Gus was his refusal to look you in the eye. He always seemed to be looking behind you—or through you.

"Just thought I'd let you in on some semi-good news." He tried to act indifferent, but his eyes sliced through me like a sharp surgical instrument. "I just talked to Tim," I continued, "and he says he thinks _After Dark_ is really starting to take off. All of our accounts have renewed for next month and Danny even signed one to a six month contract." The feeling that I was a slobbering puppy dog dropping a stick at its master's feet swept over me as I waited for his response.

"So what do you want me to do, give you a metal?" he said as his gaze continued to probe through me. "Didn't I tell you guys it would work? If I hadn't insisted that we keep going, you idiots would have given up after a couple of issues." He glared at me like a self-righteous Baptist minister. "Well, didn't I?"

"Yes, I suppose you did."

I felt like slugging him, despite my pacifistic inclinations, but then, it wasn't the first time he'd stirred me close to violence and it no doubt wouldn't be the last.

He hesitated, expecting a more punchy reply, but when it wasn't forthcoming, he continued, "You should have twenty or thirty long term contracts by now. What's the matter with you guys? Hell, I'd go out and get them myself if my appearance didn't turn off those asshole advertisers."

He was trying to step up the pace of his volleys, not realizing he was the only player.

"You're absolutely right, Gus. I guess everyone will just have to try harder, even though nobody's got paid in a month." I tried to keep an edge off of my voice, but it was difficult as I watched his face turn from antagonism back to mild indifference.

He stumbled around for a moment and then he said defensively, "We've had a lot of expenses this month. There just hasn't been enough cash to pay anyone, that's all," and then he got angry. "Look, the god dammed books are open, anytime you want to inspect them, feel free!"

"Hey man, that won't be necessary, I'm not accusing you of doing anything dishonest, but surely we've got enough cash flow by now to pay them something, I mean, we can't expect everyone to go on working for nothing. Can't we at least give them a week or two? I don't blame them for being upset when we're that far behind."

"I'm keeping track of every cent we owe them and they'll get paid when we get paid from our accounts, just like everyone else." And then he changed the subject. "So, what's happening to that crook Bernstein's account? If you were any kind of a salesman you would've figured out a way to pry some money out of his grubby little paws. It sure would help the bank account."

I felt like screaming, 'I'm _not_ a god dammed salesman', but I held my temper in check. "What the hell else can we do? We're still working on spec because we agreed to when we signed the contract so we could get the account and you can't blame them for being careful. We sure don't have much of a track record for them to check out."

"Ya, well you shouldn't be fooling around with a guy like Bernstein anyway. I've heard that if the company he's doing business with doesn't deliver on time or if he doesn't like the work, he isn't above sending a couple of his goons around to convince you to do a better job."

"Come on, you don't believe that crap, do you? Besides, we really do need the business and now that I've come up with a name for the jean line, maybe he'll like it well enough to pay us something."

"What name?"

"I've decided to call them Fantasy Jeans."

He grunted. "That's kinduva dippy name."

Shit! What do you have to do to please this guy? I thought. I was having a hard time keeping my exasperation under control so I picked up his guitar, leaned against the door/desk and then I started my unspectacular rendition of _Malaguena_. I could feel the intensity of his gaze and I knew the comparative incompetence of my guitar playing would only fuel his feeling of superiority, but I had to keep my hands busy. The steel strings cut through my fingers like razors since I hadn't played a guitar in a long time and the blisters on my fingers had smoothed out, but I kept going.

"What's that?" Gus said as he reached across and plucked Sarah's letter from my pocket. He read the front and then his eyes started searching the top of his desk before picking up a long, plastic letter opener.

It was a good thing I was holding his guitar or my hands might have found a comfortable position around his neck and squeezed until his eyes popped out.

"It's none of your business," I said through my teeth, "and if you don't hand it back I'm gonna get myself a sledge hammer and smash down the door to that private little room of yours."

For a moment our eyes sparred with each other like two boxers determined to beat each others brains out and then his face took on the look of a little boy who had been caught with his hand in his mother's purse. He shrugged and then handed me the letter, but a spiteful grin spread across his face and I knew I had lost the first set, even though I hadn't been playing the game.

Such was my partnership with Gus; a delicate balance between tolerance and outright antagonism. Sometimes I wondered why I allowed him to manipulate me into a position of having to express my anger while he sat back in the remoteness of the walls he'd built around himself, never allowing his true inner feelings to show. He was subconsciously punishing me and like a dumb sacrificial lamb I tolerated it because of my inherent need to feel guilty.

Gus had loved being a member of Pepper & Ice, and I knew he could never be as successful on his own as he was with the group when I pulled the plug on the band. I knew he would never forgive me, even though words had never been spoken to that effect. So why did I go into business with him? Probably because he helped me through some bad times after my separation just by being there when I needed someone to hang out with.

I suppose it also had something to do with the occasional flash of helplessness in his eyes that desperately pleaded for friendship and understanding even though the darker side of his character insisted on testing me as if I was a double agent bent on stealing his secrets and selling them to his enemies. But damn it! I needed friendship too, someone I could confide in; talk to intimately, not a raving maniac who did his best to stomp me all the time. 'Come on, Gus' I pleaded silently, 'why can't you be like a normal friend who doesn't demand so much?'

I took the letter and slipped it back into my pocket and then I resumed strumming the guitar. I tried to contain my emotions, but the tensions of the day seemed to catch up with me and I suddenly felt very tired.

"So, howcum you got your coat on, you leaving early?"

"Yep."

"It's a helluva mess out there. Have fun getting home."

It occurred to me that I had never been to Gus' house or apartment or wherever it was he lived. I wondered if he was going to have fun getting home.

My fingers started to feel more comfortable on the strings and it had a soothing effect on my psyche. Even Gus seemed to have calmed down. He sat quietly puffing on a freshly lit joint while staring aimlessly out the window.

I stopped playing and watched him. He isn't such a bad guy, I thought, he just needs somebody to love—no different than anybody else.

"Oh yeah, by the way, guess who's in town?" I waited a moment, but he didn't seem interested, but I continued anyway. "Carl Pepper ... can you believe it? He's got his own jazz group now and they're playing down at The Hideaway. He wants us to drop by and see him tonight."

I'm not sure what kind of response I expected, but I wasn't quite prepared for what followed. His face lost its flush and he suddenly grew pale.

"C-Carl Pep-Pep-per," he said slowly, stumbling over the name and pronouncing each syllable as if maudlin memories were sapping away his energy. I could feel him growing remote from me as he reached up and started tugging at his beard.

"Carl Pepper!" he bellowed, this time in a loud, forceful shriek. There was a stricken look in his eyes, the look of a man who had just been stabbed in the back. He stood up and stared at me like a cornered animal trying to decide between rapid flight or sudden attack.

"Gus, are you alright?" I said softly.

He nodded, but he had undergone an abrupt change. There was a battle going on inside him and I wasn't sure what he would do next when he lurched at me and snatched the guitar out of my hands. The quick movement startled me and I thought he was going to hit me with it, but he turned around and flung it heavily against the wall.

A sour-noted symphony rang out as it hit with a thud, snapping off a couple of the tuning keys and causing the Hendrix portrait to lose its hold on the wall. Guitar and portrait landed noisily on the floor as if they had been shot out of the air by a passing hunter.

He stood facing away from me, hands on hips, joint hanging from the corner of his mouth in a defiant stance as if he was posing for a poster to be added to the collection of faces still clinging to the wall.

Without turning around he said, with a calm ferocity, more to a picture of The Beatles than to me, "Tell Mr. Pepper he can go fuck himself ... if I never see him again it'll be too soon."

I couldn't think of anything to say so I waited for him to offer me an explanation, but instead he abruptly walked over to his private room and entered quickly, slamming the door behind him. There was a click as he turned the lock and then silence.

I stared at the door, desperately trying to conjure up some magical power that would allow me to see through it and somehow understand. I searched my brain to try and find another reaction to the scene that had just played out before me other than complete shock, but it was the only emotion that really summed up my feelings.

There didn't seem any point in hanging around and trying to lure him out, so I went over and picked up the Hendrix drawing and placed it carefully on the desk. It's wooden frame had a couple of nasty scratches etched along the lower section, but otherwise it was intact despite its tumultuous ride.

As I closed the door, to the sound of Heart's _Barracuda_ coming from the stereo, I could feel my hands shaking and there was a sudden reminder from my brain of the throbbing pain in my knee.

### Chapter Five

The traffic on Richmond Street was having trouble sorting itself through the freshly accumulating snow. Visibility was poor at best and the Volvo's worn out wipers were having a difficult time keeping up, making it necessary for me to bend and squint to find a reasonably clear spot on the windshield to see through. The radio was filled with apologies from city politicians for the tardiness of the road clearing crews but, unfortunately, they had been "put into moth balls" at the first signs of spring and it would take time to get them back out. Thus, the usual five minute drive to Oxford Street frittered away the better part of an hour and my head was filled with dusty cobwebs, puffy white clouds and a lot of unanswered questions.

Why did the thought of reading Sarah's letter send such chills through my body? Our marriage had never been a very good one, even during the best of times. So why couldn't I shake this feeling of attachment, this odd sense of connection, of still being emotionally bound to her?

I remembered the days leading up to our separation and the next few days after and how it had all seemed so unreal, as if I was watching a movie in which Sarah and I just happened to have roles. When I was finally alone and settled, my days fluctuated between brief intervals of self-confidence and euphoria and long periods of distress, loneliness and depression. I found it very difficult to make even minor decisions; at times I even regretted I'd left. But as I slowly reorganized my life, I realized it had been the right decision.

So what was the problem now? It was only natural that one of us would someday want to initiate the final break. Accept it and worry about something else!

What about Gus? I'd always thought he was deeply disturbed about something, but I hadn't realized the extent of his distress. It was obvious something serious had happened between Gus and Carl. But what could possibly have provoked such vehement hatred? I should have been forewarned when Carl mentioned on the phone something about Gus going berserk the last time he'd seen him. I seemed to recall a marked lack of enthusiasm in Carl's voice when he talked about Gus.

How the hell was I supposed to approach Gus now? Did I go and see Carl and act as if nothing had happened? Or did I attempt to bring the warring parties together for some kind of reconciliation? My first inclination was to ignore the whole mess—force of habit, I guess, brought on by a lifetime of running away—but then I realized how much I cared for both Gus and Carl.

There had to be something I could do!

The essence of bitter cold stung at my nostrils and I banged the dashboard with my fist in a valiant effort to breath some life into the cars weary heater. As I rounded the corner like A.J. Foyt on a slick track, the radio station began broadcasting one of their popular flashback shows. The DJ announced that today he would be playing the words and music of Bobby Vee.

I allowed my mind to slide back to a more innocent time when the lyrics of a song said no more than I love you, I need you, I want you; a time when I received my first jolting plunge down an icy sidewalk; a time when loving smiles and happy dreams rapidly turned into frantic groping and hellish nightmares; a time when, slipping and sliding, I first ran away.

For a few minutes I was fourteen again, wandering aimlessly through the heavy bush that surrounded the modest country home which had been the centre of my universe from the time I was born on a bitterly cold and grey February morning. My life had been carefree, innocent and happy—until that day.

I had spent the first night away incommodiously tucked in a large Poplar tree watching the stars blink on and off while I ceremoniously tore hundreds of its shiny green leaves into tiny pieces and then tossed them into the wind. I had somehow managed to sleep, the stiff branches serving as my comforter, but I awoke in a trance, dizzy from the altitude and almost lost my balance and plunged to certain death or injury.

I spent the following day lounging around in the long, soft grass along the creek that circled the northern edge of the bush, my trusty transistor radio at my side, listening to the same lyrics that now came from my car radio.

It was spring, and my father, Frederick Charles Taylor had had the gall to actually die. Although a not too uncommon occurrence for a man of his age, seventy-six, for the first time in my life I tried to understand why my parents had gone through with having a child at their advanced age when the odds were they would be dead long before I was able to get a handle on my life. I kept thinking and wondering—What do I do now? My mother, Ethel, was sixty-two years old, her mind sharp and alert, but her body racked with cancer and she was deteriorating rapidly.

As I sat on the bank of the creek, staring at the murky water, I started screaming, "You can't do this to me! I need you! I'm not ready to be alone!"

It didn't help ... nothing helped. I had known when I ran away the day before after coming home from school and finding my father sitting peacefully on his favourite easy chair, his chin on his chest, eyes closed, flesh as cold as ice, that there was nothing I could do to change things. I walked up to him and touched his face and remembered what he had told me that morning before I left for school.

"You know, kid," he said in his squeaky voice—he always called me kid and I called him Fred, just like we were best friends, which we were— "You know, kid, when you came along in our old age, Ethel and I were surprised and scared ... scared for you more than ourselves—we'd already lived our lives and we knew we wouldn't be around to help you out later on."

Fred was never one for touching but he held both my hands tightly, making it impossible for me to eat my cereal.

"We'd decided early on we wouldn't have children, except sometimes you're not careful enough ... but you've been a joy and we wouldn't ever change what happened. Someday ..." he gulped and then he actually said my name, "Eric, you'll have a son of your own and you'll know what I mean, just don't you be waiting too long like we did. You keep playin' that guitar of yours until you're good enough to make a livin' with it, then you find yourself a young lady to love and have yourself a bunch of babies ... some grandchildren ..." His voice trailed off then and his eyes clouded with tears, but my childish innocence could not understand what he was trying to convey to me at that moment.

It wasn't until I was leaving and I looked back to see him wiping his eyes that a terrifying, cold chill swept over me as if I was walking through a graveyard at midnight. I could sense that something dark was about to change my life. It was five years before I could bring myself to play a guitar again and even then it had taken a lot of coaxing from Gus. Somewhere along the way I had switched to piano, a move that often made me feel guilty that I had somehow let Fred down.

I spent two more days hiding in the bush, searching, wondering how my life could continue without Fred and Ethel. Fred was a cagey old man, strong-willed and a fanatic about protecting the simplicity he felt life should be. He was also a confirmed agnostic, an attitude that had, rubbed off on me, so I had no "supreme being" whom I could turn to with my problem. I only had myself and the memory of my old man.

I suppose I also inherited my belligerent frankness from him. He had a habit of throwing his arms in the air in frustration and exclaiming, "I can't believe people can be so stupid!" Maybe my friendship with Jerry was my way of making amends with all the people my father had dismissed as lower creatures who barely deserved to even exist, let alone live on this planet.

On the third day, feeling tired and hungry, I went back. I entered the funeral home and walked directly to where Fred was lying in a plain, blue velvet casket; a simple coffin for a simple man. I was completely oblivious to the funeral eulogies that were in progress. I saw only Fred and myself. I gently touched his face for the last time and then I shouted, "Stupid damned old man, you forgot to say goodbye!"

I turned around and for the first time I became aware of the shocked, silent faces around me. Ethel was sitting quietly in the front row wearing a new, black dress, her face veiled and pretty. I gazed into her eyes. There were no tears, but they said more to me in those few moments than an hour long eulogy could have expressed.

She smiled. I smiled.

She winked. I winked back.

"Goodbye, son," she said calmly.

************

Twenty minutes later I crawled out of the endless line of cars on Oxford Street and pulled into the long, rising driveway that led to my apartment complex. I stopped at the variety store and picked up a large Dr Pepper, several cans of cat food, a can of cashews, a loaf of bread and one cold can of Pepsi and then I managed to steer the Volvo into my parking spot without getting lost. I spent a few minutes clearing away the sloppy snow from the hood and roof and then I wove my way through the parked cars, keeping a sharp eye out for shiny blue Camaros.

Struggling with the bag of groceries and the CDs under my arm, I walked through the lobby to the lounge where Jerry was still sitting. There were three empty cans of Pepsi and a couple of bags of chips on the coffee table, the products of his long, lonely day. I sat down on the couch and noticed the empty can of Pepsi still lying on the floor where Jerry had tossed it this morning. Jerry continued to stare out the window as if I wasn't there, so I reached into my grocery bag and pulled out the cold can of Pepsi, placed it on the coffee table and then I left.

On impulse, I decided to walk up the six flights of stairs to my floor, wondering whether I was trying to punish myself or if I was actually making an effort to start that exercise program. By the time I reached the top, the bag of groceries and pile of CDs felt like lead weights and the throbbing in my knee seemed to be tauntingly saying "it serves you right."

I was sweating like a basketball player about to start the fourth overtime as I unlocked the door to my apartment, #614, and the second I entered, Sam pounced on me, yelping and rubbing my leg. For a slinky, chocolate point Siamese cat, Sam isn't a very aristocratic name, but he has an earthy, human quality about him that somehow doesn't suit the usual cat name like Fluffy or Tiger. Besides, ever since I saw Bogey play Sam Spade in _The Maltese Falcon_ , I've always wanted to call someone Sam on a regular basis.

I dumped the CDs in the living room in front of my stereo and switched on the radio. I went to the kitchen, pulled Sarah's letter from my back pocket and threw it on top of the fridge and then dropped the bag of groceries onto the table. Sam immediately jumped up and started nosing his way into the bag. I gave him a swat and he retreated to the living room with an angry yelp. He continued to scold me until I finally fished out a can of Seafood Platter and dumped it into his dish. The smell almost knocked me out, but at least it stopped the sneak attacks while he devoured his dinner.

I tried to ignore the letter as I opened the fridge and surveyed its contents, but the urge to read it and get it over with was getting stronger. There wasn't much to get excited about in the fridge; some leftover spaghetti about to give birth to a fresh crop of fungus, three bottles of Pepsi with about an inch of pop left in each one, a badly decomposed onion that smelled worse than my dirty socks and an unopened package of bacon.

There were also several half used packages of cold cuts—bologna, cooked ham, salami, etc. wrapped in waxed paper. I picked up one of the packages and carefully smelled its contents. I didn't like what I smelled, so I gathered up all the packages and dumped them into the plastic garbage bag I had hiding in the cupboard under the sink. I vowed, if I could overcome the guilt, that from now on I would automatically throw out half of everything I bought as soon as I got home from the store and save myself the grief of constantly throwing away smelly packages.

I grabbed the bacon and took it to the counter where I found a tomato that looked to be edible, though a bit over-ripe for my taste. I fried the bacon and then I made myself a greasy bacon and tomato sandwich. The only good thing about the bacon was it killed the smell of the Seafood Platter sitting mostly uneaten in Sam's dish. I wondered how I could get him to apply for Morris' job as the most finicky cat in the world. At least the bread was reasonably fresh.

I wolfed down the sandwich before it had a chance to get too soggy and then I got a wet rag and pushed a few crumbs around on the table and dumped the dirty dishes into the sink. I had never claimed to be a tidy housekeeper and today certainly wasn't going to do anything to harm my reputation. However, the combination of putrid odours—old garbage, fishy cat food and fried bacon—were enough to make even a bad housekeeper weak, so I reached into the cupboard and pulled out a can of air freshener and lavishly sprayed every square inch of the kitchen. The sweet, flowery fragrance wasn't much better, but at least it didn't bring on an ongoing need to barf the night away.

I grabbed the letter from the top of the fridge, carried it into the living room and dropped it onto the coffee table. All around me a week's worth of accumulated newspapers littered the floor. I glanced across the room at the same Pioneer stereo that rested against the wall amid hundreds of records and tapes; the same ancient PC computer sitting on my writing desk next to the stereo and the same cheap, but extremely large bookcase that housed my huge collection of books and magazines. I walked across the same boring, gold shag carpet that would need a shampoo even if it had just been shampooed and closed the same beige curtain that blocked the light coming through the same sliding glass doors that led to my balcony.

I plopped down on the same chocolate brown velvet couch opposite the desk and stereo, turned on the same lamp sitting on the same end table and stared at Sarah's letter sitting on the same coffee table as I had left this morning—but it didn't feel like the same room, it felt more like a prison cell; stark, bare and emotionless.

I got up and returned to the window, parting the curtain so I could stare out onto the courtyard swimming pool that was drowning in a sea of snow and ice. Damn blizzard! I longed for the hot, humid summer days when I could once again lounge on my balcony and soak up the sun while gazing languorously at the sleek sunbathers who gathered around the pool like wild animals in a desert gather around an oasis.

With a sigh, I switched on the TV and then flopped down on the couch, propping my head up with the two ever present pillows. The Four O' Clock Movie was just starting on Channel 7. Dustin Hoffman as Benjamin Braddock in _The Graduate_ was sitting in his room ignoring his father's pleas to come downstairs and join the party.

I'd watched that scene at least a dozen times in the last fifteen years. Maybe it was because I was a lot like Ben Braddock—always reluctant to come downstairs and join the party.

An hour later, feeling jittery and tense as if I was wearing a slowly tightening vice on my head, I got up and switched off the TV and then flopped back down onto the couch. I lay there in silence until Sam jumped up and tried to find a small corner of my lap to rest on, but I wasn't too willing to give him any space. He gave me a forlorn look of annoyance, licked his chops and then curled up on the arm of the couch. I reached over and gently rubbed his smooth, silky fur which caused his shiny, black face to transform itself into an expression of feline ecstasy. He closed his icy blue eyes and began to purr softly and then he plopped over onto his back, his paws swinging in the air as if he was doing the backstroke. I caressed his soft belly and watched him with admiration. I had never known a man, woman or beast who could relax quite like Sam.

My head and knee continued their rhythmic pulsations as visions of the past leaped up in my mind, like targets at a pinball arcade. I felt desperately alone, my state of solitude pressing down and around me as if it was my nature and fate to always feel this way.

I suddenly wondered why I was still sitting in silence, since I usually got edgy if there wasn't any music on. Music was my solace, the protective curtain that shrouded me from the harshness of reality. I got as much of a high from listening to a good piece of music as I did from losing myself in the passionate ecstasy of good sex. Unfortunately, my marriage to Sarah had not been characterized by very much good sex during the last few years before our separation.

My mind kept slipping back into past realities and I wondered why I had allowed the dream to end. What quirks of human frailty had caused me to suddenly abandon the success that all four of us had so desperately clawed and fought our way towards? I closed my eyes and tried to conjure up images of those final few weeks leading up to the bands breakup, but my brain seemed to have hidden the events behind a forbidden curtain as if to protect me from the lurid details. It seemed ironic that I could remember minor particulars about hundreds of other rock bands, but the specifics of my own group were, for the moment, lost somewhere in my subconscious to be recalled sometime in the future only when I didn't care anymore.

I got up, wandered into the bathroom and popped a couple of aspirins. Drugs rarely appeased my aches and pains, but I decided the way my head was throbbing, it couldn't hurt. People who live alone tend to fall prey to mentally induced complaints because there is much less competition for their concern. Their pains seem to expand in order to fill up the amount of time in which they have to worry. I wondered if my head and knee hurt more in my mind than they did in actuality.

On my way back through the hallway, I opened the closet door and rummaged through the stacks of boxes that held the balance of my music collection. Most were albums and CDs I hadn't played in years and the covers were dusty and ragged. It took me about ten minutes, but I finally came away with an album that had the words _Mass Media_ blazoned across the front cover in large, white Gothic letters that were surrounded by satirical drawings of newspapers, television sets, radios and movie screens. The back cover displayed a picture of four long-haired, obviously smug musicians sitting close together and dressed in what appeared to be colourful band uniforms, reminiscent of The Beatles portrait on the inside cover of their Sgt. Pepper album, except this one was not in colour, but a bleakly grainy, high contrast black and white and the background was filled with mushroom clouds.

I dropped the CD into the player and hit the PLAY button and was immediately attacked by an almost impossibly fast drum solo. I went to my writing desk, opened the top drawer, pulled out a 2001 edition of the Rock 'n' Roll Encyclopedia, (one of my secret weapons against trivia question), and returned to the sofa. Sam, noticing a sudden opening, jumped onto my lap and after a minute of carefully inspecting the most comfortable contours of my thighs, settled in for a nap.

For a moment I listened to the music. The voice was high-pitched and shrill and sounded like a white man trying to impersonate a black rhythm & blues singer. The first cut ended amid an intricately timed drum and bass exchange and the distant sound of a radio announcer frantically screaming a warning of an impending enemy attack. The second cut opened with a blistering electric guitar lick and my senses felt as if they were the victim of an aggravated assault.

I flipped through the Rock 'n' Roll Encyclopedia until I reached page 273—and there we were, resting quietly between an obscure group called Pentangle, and rock legend Carl Perkins.

I read the words with a mixed feeling of pride and resignation.

Pepper & Ice/ Carl Pepper (lead vocals, drums), Gus Griffin (lead guitar), Eric Taylor (guitar, keyboards, vocals), Benny Campbell (bass guitar, vocals).

"In 1997 the word was around that Pepper & Ice was the group to watch. They came from Canada where they had been a top group since forming in the summer of 1996. They had original songs by Pepper and Taylor, one of the fastest lead guitarists around in Griffin and a ten minute Campbell bass solo at the end of every concert that usually brought the house down. Their first album, Mass Media, released in 1998, was greeted with rave reviews and quickly climbed the charts, ultimately reaching the number five spot on the national chart. After leaving Canada, they were signed up on the spot by Spirit Records, but all that promise died quickly. In 1999 the group disbanded."

There it was, summarized in one short indifferent paragraph, the life and death of "Rock 'n' Roll's most promising new group."

We'd had it made, all we had to do was stay calm and take our success one step at a time—carefully and with a little bit of common sense.

But we blew it!

Or, more accurately, I blew it!

I had hoped they would continue without me after I quit, but they decided to disband instead, and I knew I would never stop feeling guilty for being the one who had precipitated the end of Pepper & Ice.

After the first six songs, I jumped up and paused the CD, to the consternation of Sam. A bit of a breather was in order. Our music was hard rock heaven for those who still longed for the glory days of Led Zeppelin and AC/DC.

When I started it up again, the barrage continued as I struggled through the foggy shadows of my memories, trying for a mental picture of how the band presented itself on stage. Carl was our leader, lead singer and resident sex symbol. His jet black Rodger drums were setup central stage on a ten-foot high platform so the audience could focus their attention on his bare-chested, sweat-drenched, high-pitched, frenetic performance. I usually setup to Carl's left, surrounded by my Hammond organ and Leslie speakers and a Fender Telecaster guitar that I kept beside me, though I rarely used it.

Gus and Benny were to Carl's right with Gus occasionally sneaking out front to do his Jimi Hendrix impersonation on his Stratocaster. Benny played an old, beat up Hofner bass guitar and he always remained in the background until the final ten minutes of the concert when he would jump out front and all eyes would suddenly change their focus to the little guy wearing granny glasses and one gold earring that dangled from his left ear and played bass like a lead guitarist.

I decided I would try to corroborate my mental images with the real thing, so I jumped up again and returned to the hall closet. Sam hopped down, reluctantly, and retreated into the bedroom, finally giving up on the idea of getting an undisturbed nap anywhere close to me.

On the top shelf of the closet rested my gadget bag, which contained my Olympus 35mm camera, telephoto lenses, filters and all the paraphernalia usually contained in a serious photographers bag. Next to the gadget bag sat my old Pentax Spotmatic, the one I had used during the '90's to take all the pictures of the band the old fashioned way before the digital age took over photography.

As I picked it up, with its chipped black finish, dented lens and bent rewind button, I felt as if I had picked up a large chunk of my past. I remembered clearly the day I woke up with an uncontrollable urge to buy a camera and learn how to use it. It was during the early days of the band when we were still learning how to play our instruments properly and was probably triggered by the realization that I had very few decent pictures of Fred and Ethel. I had decided that I would never get caught again without clear reminders of the people in my life who I really cared about.

Just after Sarah and I got married, I had entertained the idea of becoming a fulltime photographer and had gathered together the necessary tools of the trade. I started taking pictures of everything, from dead leaves on the sidewalk after a thunderstorm to close-ups of Sarah's eyes, ears and mouth. All the photographic attention drove her crazy and she finally persuaded me to take a position with her father's real estate company.

It was during those years in real estate that I seemed to lose track of my creativity but, in a way, I missed working for Hub. Even though we didn't see eye to eye, he was like a father to me and a very down to earth guy despite his money and influence. At times I actually regretted having resigned from Livingston Real Estate after our separation.

I pulled down about half a dozen of the photo albums sitting next to my camera equipment, carried them back to the coffee table and started leafing through them. The first one contained pictures of the early days of Pepper & Ice, when we still resembled a scraggy collection of street musicians—heavy on decor but starkly lacking in charm.

My heart started pounding as I turned each page and the four of us gradually transformed into a well-knit, highly polished musical team. No one, except perhaps myself or Carl, could have perceived the subtle changes taking place from only looking at the pictures. As the atmosphere and feeling for the period began to come into clearer focus, the protective curtain that had been hiding my memories slowly began to widen. My life had changed so drastically in the past fifteen years that sometimes the '90's seemed as far away and distant as the Roaring '20's must seem to a senile octogenarian.

I finished leafing through the photos and then I started at the beginning of the book again, this time doting slowly and carefully over each picture, as if I was greeting long lost friends. There was Gus; turtle neck sweater, tight jeans, hundred millimetre cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, attacking his Stratocaster like a raving mania—actually, not much different than the way he looked any day of the week to this day. Another picture of Benny and Carl sitting in some dingy dressing room, surrounded by a rapturous bevy of groupies.

Page after page. Concert photos, backstage candid shots with someone usually caught with his finger up his nose ... a hilarious picture of Carl mooning an unappreciative audience as he left the stage. It must have been one of those rare times he hadn't found himself a warm snuggy for the night.

There was a noticeable lack of pictures that included me, which wasn't surprising since I had taken most of them. But the earlier pictures that did include me showed a reluctant, nervous person who wasn't sure he belonged. I had always found it difficult to take part in the antics and practical jokes carried on by the other guys and the road crew, which led to my being labelled the serious one. Gus was known as the flake; Carl was the sex symbol, of course, and Benny was the quiet genius. Carl could also have been called the comedian. He was great at doing all the latest comedy routines and generally keeping us in stitches.

Halfway through the second photo album, there was suddenly fewer pictures of the band, and a proportionate increase in the pictures of a rich little groupie by the name of Sarah Livingston, which clearly showed the direction my head quickly turned. Her white, vinyl boots, micro-mini skirt, mesh stockings, heavily made-up eyes, long straight blonde hair, slim, almost fragile figure and sharp, arrogant wit had me totally mesmerized. The pictures of myself also took on a new look, showing what appeared to be a more confident, aloof person.

There was also a couple of shots of Sarah and another dark-haired girl who could have been her sister, but it was her best friend Rita ... Rita ... Jenkins—no, Jennings, that was it, Rita Jennings. Rita must have been popular because she kept popping up in various pictures with her arms around either Gus or Carl. I tried for a clearer image of Rita, but drew a complete blank, but then, when Sarah was around, I never seemed to notice anyone else.

The final page contained just one picture, a group shot taken in front of a Greyhound bus and it included Sarah, myself, Benny, Carl, Gus, a couple of faces I couldn't place and Rita. Everyone appeared to be happy and smiling, but I could sense a strange, translucent atmosphere of hostility that seemed to hang over the group, like a dark, ominous cloud.

They say a picture tells a thousand words and for me, this picture was saying more than met the eye.

I closed the book and set it back down on the coffee table. The old pictures and the sound of our old music had embraced my emotions like an old sweater that was torn and tattered, but the sentimental value made you loath to throw it away.

My mind continued to run on, rapidly reliving the years that followed. Our wedding took place on a sunny spring day in the back yard of Hub's sprawling mansion. Both Sarah and I felt out of place among the affluent rich folks due to our continued devotion to rock 'n' roll. We had refused to dress in the traditional wedding garb of tuxedos and expensive, flowing dresses, though our appearances rapidly changed back to socially acceptable standards after the honeymoon.

It was a very difficult day that wasn't made any easier by the fact that Sarah's mother had walked out on her father the year before and she had refused to participate. I had never met Caroline Livingston, my mother-in-law, but I got the impression from talking to Hub that she was a haughty, arrogant woman who didn't like being tied down to a husband.

I was soon to discover how much her daughter shared these same characteristics.

Sarah stopped thinking like a rock 'n' roller about 2003. The world was changing and Sarah was ready to be taken along for the ride; feminism, physical fitness, hot tubs and scuba diving. She had the wealth, looks and energy to do it all.

Shortly after Sarah's metamorphosis, I also made some changes, cutting my hair, at last, and joining the modern world, although I continued to wear a moustache and beard until after our separation. But I refused to be a dancing freak! The monotonous rhythms, mindless lyrics and aggressive narcissism of the changing world of music always brought me close to retching. I was a musician, not a dancer and the hurt, annoyance in Sarah's blue eyes as she exclaimed over and over again, "You're no fun!" did nothing to change my attitude.

Sometimes I felt trapped by my own insensitivity to her feelings, but I was neither mature enough nor smart enough to allow myself to bend a little. Actually, I had the feeling that Sarah was a much better dancer than she let on. She even took ballet lessons at one point, but she would never allow me to see her perform and after about a year she gave up on her lessons. I've always wondered whether she lacked the confidence to pursue it further or whether she just refused to allow me the satisfaction of seeing her do something creative.

Even though I had started on my new career hustling real estate, I continued writing songs, but the momentum faded after about a year of marriage and Sarah's sudden, overwhelming indifference to anything I did ... other than make money.

_Mass Media_ beginning to wind down, so I went to the kitchen and made myself a stiff Black Russian—heavy on the vodka and light—very light—on the ice cubes. I carried the drink back into the living room, sipping it generously as I mentally prepared myself before reading the letter.

A song called _Blame It On The Pigs_ , one that Carl and I had written one night somewhere in the middle of Ohio, after a long, all night drive highlighted by some of the best Columbian grass we had ever laid our hands on, was in the process of harassing my speakers. It was a song that had not come out very easily, simply because of its depressingly hostile nature, but we were heavily into protest and rebellion by then and it was like therapy getting it out of our systems. The song ended with a sickening chorus of pigs snorting and children screaming and then there was an unusually long pause before the last song started.

As the vodka began to do its dirty work on my system, I chuckled as I remembered why there was a full thirty seconds of silence separating the song from the rest of the album. It seemed silly in retrospect, but it was a strong protest from Carl and Gus—Benny didn't care one way or the other, though I suspect he was on their side—for my insistence on including the song on the album. It was their way of warning listeners that " _this song does not belong_ " and as the soft, almost benign opening organ chords began, I realized they had probably been right. The song really didn't belong—but I was still glad it was there.

The whole album had been conceived and recorded as a vicious attack on the political and social values we had all grown up with, typical of the revolutionary thinking prevalent at the time. Each song was meant to batter the senses into submission over the complete hopelessness of the world's situation. I had been in full agreement with these ideas, but I wanted a more hopeful, upbeat ending and had written a soft ballad which I intended to sing accompanied only by my Hammond.

After several violent arguments between myself and the opposing factions, which meant almost everyone else, all of whom wanted a consistently nasty ending, we dumped the whole problem on our Producer's lap. After a couple of days of meditation, he came in on my side and the song was included. He improved on my basic arrangement by adding strings and giving the song a classical feel, but the controversy marked the beginning of the end for the band. It was never the same after the album was released. The spirit of togetherness was lost and replaced by silly bickering and resentments.

The song was called _Living For A Dream_ , and as I listened to my frail, slightly off-key, but highly emotional voice, I realized it was my one and only masterpiece as a songwriter. I had been searching for a way to take some of the hard edges off the album and had decided to try my hand at writing a song that pleaded for love and peace without beating your brains out.

And it had worked!

The album immediately climbed up the charts and we were proclaimed "the most promising new group," with my song the only one to receive major radio airplay and the only one that could be called a hit single.

But we paid a high price for my being right about the song. The rest of the guys were frustrated and angry that my gentle song became the most popular and in their minds, this took away the thunder from the heavy bashing of rebelliousness they'd hoped to dump onto the unsuspecting older generation we pretended to despise so much.

I listened carefully as the song played out, silently mouthing the lyrics as the last verse came around.

It's easy to be weak, it's hard to be strong

Usually the easy way, ends up being wrong

So let's try to be strong, what harm can it do?

Living for a dream, of peace for me and you.

The song ended as quietly and peacefully as it had begun marking the end of our dreams. As I picked up another one of the photo albums and opened it to the first page, a feeling of deep melancholy swept over me. I stared at the portrait of my parents taken on their wedding day when my mother was young and my father was middle-aged and they were vibrant and full of life, never suspecting that I would come along twenty years later.

I closed the book and set it back down on the coffee table. Without a moments hesitation I picked up Sarah's letter, tore it open and read it quickly.

Dear Eric:

Time passes quickly and before you know it, years have gone by and it seems like something you intended to do yesterday has slipped through your mind and now you can't remember why it was so important at the time. However, what was ignored in the past must eventually be taken care of no matter how unimportant it now seems. Excuse my rambling, but there are so many thoughts coming into my mind, I'm having a hard time getting them organized.

I know how much you guard your privacy and I'm sorry to bother you, but something very important has come up and I have to talk to you. If you don't mind, I'll drop by or call sometime during the week of April 11, probably on Monday or Tuesday night.

See you then

Sarah

PS: Please don't jump to any conclusions! I'll explain when I see you in April.

What is that supposed to mean? I wondered as I dropped the letter onto the floor.

The deafening silence of the living room seemed to press closer around me as I realized that today was Monday, April 12. I went to the stereo and put on a David Sanborn CD that began with _A Change of Heart_ and then I returned to the sofa and stretched out.

What seemed like days passed as my mind smouldered on the fringes of consciousness before I finally dozed off.

### Chapter Six

I was standing in a black, cast-iron frying pan. On the far side of the pan a large, sizzling slab of butter was melting. I couldn't feel the heat, since I was wearing heat resistant running shoes, but I somehow understood that if I touched the butter, I would also begin to melt. I couldn't see above the top of the frying pan, since I was only about two inches tall, so I ran across the greasy bottom, up the sloping side and grabbed onto the smooth, round edge. I was about to jump over the side until I realized the pan was suspended high above a crackling campfire that was belching shimmering sparks of light into the cold night air.

I sat there, between the slowly rising river of butter and the glowing light of the fire, trying to figure out which fate would overtake me first, when a large, stainless steel kitchen knife began banging itself against the side of the pan as if it was trying to knock me off.

An especially heavy jolt from the knife sent the frying pan crashing down towards the fire and I woke up with a start, expecting to be completely surrounded by the hot, glowing embers of the campfire. I jumped up quickly and then stopped dead in my tracks, as if the peaceful darkness of the room had reached out and soothed me like a drugged dart shot into a raging grizzly bear. It had been the kind of dream that would probably scare the hell out of you if you ever had it analyzed.

I stood still in the blackness that surrounded me for a few moments and then I groped my way across the room with only the dim white light that radiated from my now silent stereo to guide my way. I removed the _Mass Media_ CD and replaced it with _Mr. Gone_ by Weather Report.

As the synthesizer sound crashed through my speakers, I tried to lose myself in the complex arrangements that always seemed to keep my mind fully occupied as I followed the music but, instead, bits and pieces of memories began flashing in and out of my brain. I closed my eyes and once again my mother's face was in front of me, her intelligence challenging me, her words of encouragement stimulating me into feeling I could accomplish anything I set my mind to, her love of music and dreams of being an opera singer willingly sacrificed to marry the man she loved ...

A sharp knock at the door startled me out of my trance-like state. I tired to shut out the intruding sound from the self-created cocoon of my mind, but the second knock was sharper and more impatient, so I flicked on the lamp and as I turned and headed for the door, I could feel a tightening in my stomach. I hesitated for a moment and took a deep breath before turning the knob.

Somehow, I knew it would be her.

She looked dazzling, as usual, wrapped in a three-quarter length, pure white ermine coat. Her ivory blonde hair seemed to have been charged with electricity the way it exploded in long, crinkly curls around her deeply tanned face. She stood with one wrist resting on her hip and the other firmly holding a long, black handbag by its gold strap. Her presence implied richness; Perrier water and champagne, lavish dinners for two at swanky restaurants, which made her look completely out of place in the dingy hallway, and the look on her face seemed to acknowledge that fact. Her cool, blue eyes stared directly into mine with a lusty directness, but there was a faint glimmer of panic showing, as if she was about to bolt away like a wild horse.

"Hello Sarah," I said with surprising calmness considering how overwhelmed I felt by her presence.

"Hello," she said softly.

I stood there frozen, unable to move. I wasn't sure what to do next, so I just stared at her, as if I had gone into another trance.

"You look surprised to see me ... didn't you get my note? I told you I was coming."

"Sure, I got your note," I said, but I still didn't move. The hallway was filled with the sound of loud, aggressive Punk Rock music coming from the apartment across the hall, which only added to the panicked look in her eyes.

"So, can I come in?" Her lips formed a hopeful smile that caused my heartbeat to slip up a couple of notches.

"Oh, sorry ... come on in," I said as I opened the door wide and stepped aside so she could enter. "I was just trying to figure out how you got into the building without buzzing up."

"I was just about to," she said as she stepped quickly inside, "when this weird little crippled kid came over and opened the door for me. He was terribly excited about something and he kept pointing at his pants, but I couldn't understand a word he was saying."

The haughty nature of her statement pulled me out of my trance as a flood of vexatious memories snapped me awake.

"Hey, that's Jerry. You weren't nasty to him, were you?"

"No, of course not, darling," she said as she slipped out of her fur coat, which obviously meant she intended to stay past the first round. "I tried to understand him, but he wasn't making any sense. I finally thanked him and escaped on the elevator. I was afraid he was going to follow me up." She seemed to shudder at the thought.

I took the heavy coat and hung it in the closet. It looked as out of place on one of my plain, brown wire hangers as she had standing in the shabby confines of the hallway.

"He was just trying to show you his new jeans. He's really proud of them."

"His what? You mean you know him?"

"Sure, Jerry's my buddy." At least, he used to be, I thought. At that moment I wasn't so sure. "You're probably the first person to say anything to him all day, besides me." I tried to keep an edge off my voice as I realized that Sarah was probably another one of those empty faces who refused to look past Jerry's outward appearance. "I don't think he's used to blue-eyed blondes even recognizing his existence, let alone thanking him, so you can't blame him for getting a little excited."

Her tiny nose furrowed and her expression said, 'how stupid of me,' the kind of sorry look that crosses your face when you get caught gossiping about someone behind her back.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize ..."

"Never mind. I don't think you'll ever understand what life is like when getting a new pair of jeans is one of the major highlights."

"I said I'm sorry."

"Forget it, it's not your fault."

I wondered how genuine her apology really was. With Sarah, I could never tell for sure. She was the kind of person who always needed an audience and wasn't much good at one-on-one conversations where her performance wasn't being judged and approved. I always wondered if she was as nervous and fidgety when she was alone with other people and not just when she was alone with me.

We stood facing each other for an uncomfortable moment, sizing each other up like two bees getting ready to sting each other. She was wearing a cream coloured cashmere sweater and black, baggy satin pants separated by a wide gold cummerbund that matched the gold strap on her purse. She looked a little heavier than when I'd seen her last. She always did have a ravenous appetite, but her vanity usually took precedence over her need for food. Even with the extra weight, she still looked terrific.

"You've shaved your beard," she said coyly. "Do you realize this is the first time I've ever seen your face? Hmmm, looks nice ... makes you look older."

"Gee, thanks. How old does it make me look?"

"Well, you always used to look like a little boy trying to look grown up ... so I'd say you now look about thirty—no, thirty-three."

"I'm thirty-five ... in case you're forgotten."

"I know."

She gave my face another quick inspection. "All the years I tried to get you to shave your beard and you never would. Howcum?"

"I thought you liked my beard!" I said with mock indignation as I tried to avoid answering her question. I didn't really feel like explaining how I had decided to become a new 'me' after I left that day. I had quit smoking, shaved my beard, bought some new clothing, laid out in the sun until my skin was nicely bronzed—everything that made me look like a new person. Funny thing was, I discovered I was still the same person inside. I discovered it takes a lot more than surface changes to have any effect on the interior.

"So, you wanted to talk?" I said after another moment of silence.

"Yes."

For the first time since she had arrived, I noticed she was still wearing the opal ring I'd given her on our fifth anniversary. Despite my previous anger, I had an urge to put my arms around her and give her a big hug, but the idea somehow didn't seem appropriate. I wasn't sure how I was supposed to act, since I had never played host to what amounted to be my ex-wife before, but something inside kept telling me that separated people are supposed to hate each other.

I started to reach for her hand and lead her into the living room, but instead I just turned around and said, "Let's go and sit down." We had never been very good at making small talk, so I was interested to see how the conversation would go.

I'm not usually one who feels embarrassed about my lack of discipline as a housekeeper—that's the way I am, like it or not—but as we stepped into the living room, I felt a little uneasy about the newspapers, photo albums, records, books and other general garbage that took up almost every square inch of the carpet, desk and sofa.

I rushed ahead with some strange notion that I could clean up the mess in two seconds flat before Sarah noticed, but even before I had figured out where to start, she was sitting on the couch skimming through one of the photo albums. I realized she wasn't too concerned with the mess, having lived with me for over ten years, so I gave up on the idea of cleaning up and went to the stereo and put on an Antonio Carlos Jobim CD and then I plopped down on the carpet and leaned one elbow on the edge of the coffee table.

I watched her face, which seemed to be going through the same gamut of emotions I had experienced earlier, as she turned the pages.

"My God!" she exclaimed with a girlish giggle, "can you believe the makeup we used to wear in those days! My lipstick is so pale I can't even see my mouth."

She spent a few moments staring at each page, with an appropriate laugh or shake of her head, but when she reached the final picture of the group standing in front of the bus, her face took on a more sombre look. She stared at the picture for a long time before she closed the book and placed it back down onto the coffee table.

I brushed my fingers along the top of the table and they turned black from the dust. I wondered if I had a can of furniture polish around somewhere. I looked at Sarah and she seemed to be lost in a trance. It was obvious that slipping into trance-like states was becoming a habitual occurrence within the confines of these four walls.

She sighed, almost inaudibly, and then she said softly, "Very interesting."

"You know, I was wondering," I said trying to get the conversation going again, "whatever became of your friend Rita Jennings?"

"Huh? Oh, ah ... I think she died, ah ... I don't really know," she said, transferring the sombre look to the tone of her voice and then, quickly changing the subject, she said, "You know, you're not a bad photographer."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

She flashed a frustrated grimace and wagged her head. "Of course it's a compliment!"

"Well then, why don't you say it like a compliment?"

"Oh, damn you, Hot Shot! Why do you always have to pick at me like that? I've only been here five minutes and all I've done is apologize."

That was a nickname I always despised. Sarah had kiddingly called me Hot Shot back when she first started following the band around and I always felt like she was mocking me when she used that name.

"There you go again," I said, I suppose with unwarranted anger, "why the hell do you have to do that?"

"What do you mean?" she said, surprised.

"Why do you always have to antagonize me like that? You always loved to make fun of me, didn't you!"

"Tell me what the hell you mean?" she exclaimed with a growing sense of frustration.

"When you call me Hot Shot," I said, "you know I hate it!"

"You do? Really? I didn't realize ... it's just a habit I got into years ago ... oh, damn it, never mind!" She looked genuinely sorry as she lowered her eyes and noticed her letter on the floor. She picked it up and looked at the front of the envelope and then she dropped it back onto the carpet.

I suppose she really wasn't trying to annoy me, perhaps I was just being too sensitive. We remained silent for a few moments, both of us lost in our ambiguous reflections.

"We never did communicate very well, did we," she said at last.

"No, I guess we didn't," I replied, "and we're not doing too good a job of it right now, either. Look, I'm sorry. Let's start this whole conversation over again. Would you like a drink or something?"

"Sure," she said, her eyes regaining some of their original shine. "I could use a stiff belt of something. What have you got?"

"Let's see, I've got some vodka ... but no orange juice. How about some apricot brandy? I think I've got some Pepsi." I thought about the three almost empty bottles and wondered if there was enough to make up one drink.

"Don't bother with the Pepsi just give it to me on the rocks."

"Okay."

I hopped up and went into the kitchen hoping I could find a reasonably clean glass. I was out of luck, everything was dirty, so I fished two glasses out of the sink, ran them under the hot water and then wiped them clean with a dish towel. I went to the cupboard and pulled down a bottle of McGuiness Apricot Brandy, went to the fridge and got some ice cubes, dropped a couple of them into each glass and then I poured in a healthy portion of the liquor. The odour of Seafood Platter, fried bacon and the cheap, perfumed air freshener still hung heavily in the air, so I dug up a can of Lysol and sprayed around the room before I picked up the glasses and headed back into the living room.

I was astonished by the scene that greeted me as I set the drinks down on the coffee table. Sam, who had at last ventured out from his self-imposed isolation in the bedroom, was sitting comfortably on Sarah's black satin-panted lap. She was simultaneously rubbing one hand along his furry body right through to the tip of his tail, causing his back end to slope upwards and with the other hand she was expertly scratching under his chin. Siamese cat hairs floated freely in the air like a light spring shower and I shuddered at the thought of what Sarah's satin pants must look like under Sam's appreciative cat body.

All of this may not seem too strange, unless you consider that during all the years I had known Sarah, she'd always had a pernicious hatred of cats or pets of any kind, one of the main reasons being she refused to put up with the fur all over the furniture and her clothing. Besides, Sarah was the kind of person who liked to have control of everything around her and the temperamental indifference and independence of a cat only succeeded in frustrating her. I had always had a pet when I was a kid and I had assumed we would have one when we got married, but after several bitter arguments, I decided it wasn't worth the aggravation.

Also consider that Siamese cats are usually extremely close and loyal to their owners, but tend to give the cold shoulder or get downright nasty with anyone else. Sam hadn't been in contact with very many human beings, living in isolation with me, so the combination of the two seemed alien to what was happening. I half expected Sarah to suddenly shriek with horror when she realized what was happening and send Sam flying across the room, but as I sat down on the couch beside her, she remained as calm as a bee on a berry. I also realized that, since her arrival, she had shown no sign of her usual nervousness at being alone with me.

"So, where did you learn how to seduce a cat like that?" I asked.

There was no immediate response but she was obviously aware of my surprise at the scene I was watching. Sam's purring had reached such a loud crescendo it threatened to drown out the sound of Jobim's piano.

"People can change, you know," she said suddenly, as if my comment was a personal threat.

I nodded, but remained silent.

"Actually, I have a cat of my own, now," she continued. "A little white Persian ... I call her Muffin." She seemed pleased with the name, as if it wrapped her in warm memories.

"Really? I never thought I'd see the day ..." I tried, without success, to picture Sarah cleaning out a pan of kitty litter.

"I know, I never thought I'd see the day either," she said, "but ... but it gets lonely sometimes living alone and ... anyway, I guess I've learned not to get so upset about such little things like I used to ... " She continued rubbing under Sam's chin and he looked like he was going to fall down drunk, but hunger must have finally got the best of him and he jumped down and trotted into the kitchen.

"What's her name?" she asked as her eyes followed him out of the room.

"It's a him," I said. "His name is Sam."

"Sam?"

"Ya, Sam ... you know, like in Sam Spade."

"Oh, I see," she said, nodding her head, and then, "Who's Sam Spade?"

"Never mind."

She shrugged, but continued to gaze at me. "So, are you seeing anyone these days?" She was trying to be nonchalant, but her annoyed manner told otherwise.

"No, I'm not, at least, not at the moment," I remarked casually.

"What about that model?"

"Model? What model? ... oh, you mean Maria. What do you know about her?"

"Nothing ... except people talk and ... someone told me you two were quite an item."

I chuckled. "No, I'm afraid we're no more of an item than Bert and Ernie ... we only went out a couple of times and we're just good friends. I don't know how those silly rumours get started."

I leaned over, picked up her drink from the coffee table and handed it to her. She wrapped her fingers delicately around the glass tumbler, raised it to her lips and took a few cautious sips, as if she really didn't want it after all. I sensed a change in her mood. She seemed to be getting more uptight by the second, her mind drifting away and lingering on faraway thoughts. The sudden lack of conversation didn't bother her in the least as she continued to sip on her drink and stare straight ahead at the glowing light of the stereo. Her face squinted with deep concentration, like a lady high jumper in the midst of psyching herself up for her final attempt at six feet. The Brazilian rhythms of the music bouncing off the walls created a false atmosphere of gaiety and carnival celebration.

"Eric," she said softly, "I have to ask you to do me a big favour."

"So why don't you ask?"

Here it comes, I thought, the big: 'will you give me a quick divorce so I can get on with the rest of my life' request.

"I'm ... I'm afraid to." She turned around to gaze into my eyes, her own flickering on the edge of tears. "I'm afraid you'll think I'm imposing on you."

"I can't decide that unless you ask." I gave her a reassuring smile, hoping it would help settle her down. "Look, I'm not a monster, I'm not gonna bite you, so you might as well get it over with."

"Okay ... it's Father, I think ... he's dying—no, not physically," she said quickly cutting off my look of astonishment, "I think he's going to have a nervous breakdown or commit suicide or something ... "

"What?"

"You know how bad the real estate business has been the last few years ... with so much unemployment and all; people just can't afford to buy a house anymore."

I nodded.

"Well, Father's company has been hurting badly. Every day the housing industry steps closer to complete collapse and he's going to be swept away with everyone else in the business."

The thought of Livingston Realty going bankrupt seemed as incredible as my failed vision of Sarah cleaning up after her cat.

"But I thought Hub had lots of money behind him? He used to tell me about the nest egg he had stashed away for his retirement, surely he'll still have that to fall back on."

She stared at me, her eyes blinking with a new intensity and determination to hold back the tears. Her hand holding the drink began to shake, causing the ice cubes to make a rapid clinking sound against the side of the glass.

"Not anymore."

She was beginning to sniffle despite her best attempt to remain calm, so she reached down and opened her handbag, pulled out a hanky and began dabbling at her nose and eyes.

I felt completely helpless, wanting desperately to take her in my arms and reassure her that everything would work out, but afraid that she would reject my compassion like she had so many times before.

"How come?" was all I could muster. It sounded so inadequate.

"Last year when everything started going bad, he gambled that the economy would pick up again to a level people would start getting back to work. He knew there would be a pent-up demand for housing, so he put all his available cash into a new subdivision north of the city. He thought he would make a killing, but now the builder has gone out of business and most of the houses are only half finished and people still aren't buying ... it's ... it's a real mess. The best he can do is sell the houses for what he invested, but there isn't a very big market for half finished houses."

"Can't he get another builder to finish them? I'm sure with so many people out of work, somebody would be willing to do the job."

"He tried, but so many have gone under there's not many left willing to take on any new projects. They're scared. They can't afford to sit back and do nothing, but they can't afford to borrow the necessary funds to finance any new projects either. Nobody knows what to do."

She gave me a bleak look of hopelessness that I knew all too well.

"So why are you telling me all of this? What can I do? I don't have any money; I'm not even sure I have a company of my own to go back to ..." I pictured Gus' guitar crashing against the wall and I wondered if it had symbolized the end of our partnership.

"I thought that maybe ..." she hesitated, as if asking me a favour was the most difficult thing she had ever had to do in her life, "... maybe you could go and talk to him. He just sits around in his office all day like a condemned prisoner on death row waiting for the call that will send him to the electric chair. He's lost all his fight ... his will to survive. I can't seem to get through to him ... that the money isn't important—God, it's awful watching him slowly waste away. He doesn't even bother to shave half the time and he's really been hitting the bottle lately." She was talking in fragments now, as if the flood of thoughts going through her head were coming out too fast for her to form them into complete sentences. "Really, I wouldn't bother you if I didn't think you could help, he always had a deep affection for you ... blamed me for our separation." She peered at me, her face flooded with anguish and dismay and this time she couldn't hold back the tears. "It's just that ever since Mother left, he hasn't been the same ..."

This time I didn't hesitate as I let my carefully guarded feelings free. I took her into my arms and she buried her face on my shoulder. I held her tightly, slowly stroking her hair as I whispered softly, "It's okay, everything will be alright." It felt so natural holding her; the familiar fragrance of her perfume, the soft textures of her cheek against my skin; the passion that stirs within you when you feel needed.

We held each other tightly like two lonely koala bears, but I could sense a reluctance in her to really let herself go completely. As her sobbing subsided, she pulled herself back, her face a mask of wet mascara; her eyes red and blinking.

"I'm sorry ... I didn't mean to ..."

"Don't be sorry," I said as I took her hand and cupped it in mine. It felt nice to hold someone close, but as I began to softly stroke her wrist she seemed to be struggling inside herself, as if she was committing a terrible transgression by letting me hold her hand. Her earlier panic seemed to return and I was afraid she was going to get up and run away.

She slowly worked her hand free and picked up the hanky which had fallen to the carpet, pulled her compact from her purse and then started wiping her eyes. She had moved so gracefully I didn't feel the least bit rejected, only a sudden sense of emptiness. For a brief moment we had shared our deepest feelings, an intimacy that can only happen between two people who cared deeply for each other, but the moment vanished as rapidly as it had flared up and I felt awkward sitting so close to her. I stood up and stretched my legs, trying to put on an air of casual aloofness, pretending our moment of mutual vulnerability had never occurred.

"What exactly would you like me to do?"

I couldn't imagine my being able to help someone who was on the verge of committing suicide, although I couldn't say I had never had those same feelings myself at one time or another, but I was willing to try. Sarah seemed to sense this and she breathed a heavy sigh.

"Just drop in and see him, you know, like an old friend. Maybe take him out for dinner, as if it was your own idea—don't tell him I sent you, though, or he won't respond at all ... he hardly talks to me anymore."

Her eyes were pleading for some kind of an answer. It was clear that she had come to me only out of sheer desperation. I wondered if our brief moment of intimacy had been real, or just the unguarded feelings of two people who had been rejected by someone close to them. Maybe we didn't hate each other after all ... maybe I had unconsciously isolated myself because I had secretly wanted a chance to reconcile with Sarah ... maybe.

My thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of my intercom, which startled both of us. I glanced at her as I walked across the room to the intercom and she seemed to have a sudden urge to wipe off the mass of cat hairs on her lap. I had no idea who it could be, but there was something in Sarah's eyes ...

I pushed the talk button and said, "Yes?" I then switched to the listen button and a tinny, echoing man's voice responded immediately.

"Ya, is Sarah Livingston there?"

My first reaction was: 'who is Sarah Livingston?' but after a moment I caught on and then I wondered why anyone would call Sarah by her maiden name.

"Yes, she's here, who are you?"

"Ya, ah, this is Tony. I'm here to pick her up."

I glanced across the room at Sarah who had obviously heard the conversation. She was now standing up and frantically brushing her lap.

"Ah ... this guy Tony is here to pick you up," I said, more as a question, half expecting her—no, I suppose I was really _hoping_ she would say she didn't know who he was.

"Damn him!" she exclaimed as she walked towards me, "I told him I could get home on my own. I had better go. Where's the bathroom?"

I pointed down the hall and she stepped past me.

"So what do you want me to tell him?"

"Tell him to wait downstairs and I'll be right there."

I had a sudden, overwhelming desire to find out what this guy Tony looked like, so I said instead, "Come on up, Tony. Sarah is a bit indisposed at the moment, but she'll be ready in a few minutes." I smiled and then I added, "Sarah, you'd better put your clothes on fast ..." and then I released the button.

Sarah let out a shriek that I swear could have been heard on the fourteenth floor.

"What the hell did you say that for? Are you crazy?"

I gave her a silly grin and then I shrugged. "Who is this guy, anyway, your boyfriend?" I asked, oozing as much mockery into my voice as the situation required.

She looked at me defiantly.

"He's my fiancé," she screamed and then she slammed the bathroom door.

### Chapter Seven

I was stunned. I also felt very foolish.

Fiancé?

How the hell could she have a fiancé? And if she's engaged, why isn't she wearing an engagement ring? Of course she isn't wearing an engagement ring, stupid, she's still married to _me_.

I backed up into the living room my mind frantically trying to understand why she really needed me to go and talk to her father, after all, she had a boyfriend ... a _fiancé_ ... surely he could keep the old guy from self-destructing. It had to be a conspiracy to completely drive me crazy. She had taken me in with her false vulnerability; her deviously deceptive flattery; her sudden friendliness to cats ... now she's hitting me with the jolt that will send me over the edge. She wants me to have a heart attack so she can collect the life insurance money and live happily ever after with this dim wit Tony.

I stood there fuming, my mind running on like a leaky faucet, when the first knock came. I quickly stepped forward to answer the door and in the process I stomped heavily on Sam, who must have darted out from the kitchen on his way back to the quiet sanctuary of the bedroom. He let out a blood curdling screech that sent my heart into my throat. I jumped back, startled, and banged my elbow against the wall and then, as I watched Sam scurry away, I started laughing hysterically as I realized I didn't have any life insurance for Sarah to collect.

As I rubbed my newly injured elbow which, at that moment didn't hurt nearly as much as my old injured knee, the ludicrousness of my line of thinking finally hit me and my laughter reached a new level of hysteria. How could I be so naively dumb to think that I was so important, people ran around plotting and conspiring against me? I really had fallen into a deep crevice of self-pity, so deep I'd forgotten how to laugh at myself.

There was a second flurry of impatient knocks on the door and I tried to imagine what Tony must think was going on inside, which only triggered another bout of laughter. There I was, standing alone in my hallway, my soon to be ex-wife powdering her nose in my bathroom, her fiancé impatiently pounding on my door, my one and only true friend sulking in the bedroom with a sore tail caused by my clumsy feet—and I couldn't stop laughing.

Another flurry of knocks.

"Ah, get lost," I mumbled.

My laughter subsided and I realized that the insanity of the situation had snapped something inside my brain, as if a heavy weight had been removed and I was being offered the opportunity to crawl out of the crevice that had surrounded me for the past two years.

I decided I had better greet Tony with a straight face, so I rubbed the laughter out of my eyes and then I opened the door.

"Hello, Tony," I said as I reached out to shake his hand like I was a used car salesman zeroing in on his first customer of the day, "come on in. My name is Eric."

He seemed startled by my apparent friendliness as he reached out and limply shook my hand before he gruffly pushed past me. His eyes darted around the room, as if he expected to find a dead body. When he didn't see anyone besides me, he turned around and said, "Where's Sarah?"

"She's in the john powdering her nose," I said cheerfully. "She should be out in a minute. Would you like a drink while you're waiting?"

"No thanks," he said. He kept looking down the hallway. Maybe he thought he would find a dead body in the bedroom. When he noticed the bathroom was occupied and then heard the toilet flush, he seemed to calm down and I spent a moment inspecting him form head to toe.

Except for the light odour of perspiration, likely stirred up by his excitement, he smelled like he'd spent three weeks rubbing himself down in the shower with perfumed soap—over-clean and over-fragranced. He stood over six feet, wore a light grey, two-piece pinstripe suit, but no overcoat, and his face looked as if it had been chiselled out of marble in the likeness of some Roman God. His short hair was jet black, with a sprinkling of grey around his sideburns and it was slicked straight back in a greasy style that reminded me of a '50's greasers and I knew he had to be a salesman of some kind.

In sort, he was tall, dark and handsome and I hated him immediately.

"You sure you don't want a drink?" I asked smiling. This time he didn't answer me, so I shrugged and pointed towards the sofa. "You might as well go and sit down, then, you know how long it takes women to freshen up." His glaring eyes seemed to be deciding whether to slug me or not, but he finally turned around and walked over to the sofa and plopped down, not bothering to wipe off his wet shoes.

The Jobim tape had ended during my run in with Sam, so I went to the stereo and turned on the radio to a classic rock station. A James Taylor tune filled the room, "I've seen fire and I've seen rain ..."—and I remembered listening to that tune back in the early days of my real estate career one night when I was driving home after showing a particularly infuriating old couple about a dozen homes they weren't really interested in buying. It had been the end of a very frustrating day and I'd gone home to Sarah feeling drained and needing warmth and sympathy, but she was too busy fretting over whether we should paint the master bedroom in our new house Sky Blue or Almond Beige.

I went to my writing desk, flipped the chair around and sat down facing Tony. He seemed overly nervous and obviously anxious to leave as he ran his hand through his greasy hair, looked at his watch, picked up Sarah's letter from the coffee table, glanced at it quickly before tossing it back down, looked at his watch again and then he finally looked at me. I watched him closely, not quite sure whether his nervous energy wouldn't get the best of him and cause him to suddenly start breaking things. He had hands the size of a gorilla's and I felt terribly threatened, but also a bit cocky.

"So, what do you do for a living, Tony?" I asked, continuing with my slightly mocking tone that seemed to go completely over his head.

"What? Oh, ya, I'm in sales," he said.

Bingo! I almost burst out laughing again, but I caught a glimpse of his knuckles and was able to stifle myself.

"What do you sell?"

He crossed his legs, uncrossed them, crossed them again and then he started pulling on his tie, which was too wide and too striped.

"Real Estate."

"No kidding, I used to sell real estate, too. I just loved it, all those muddy sidewalks you get to walk on, the smell of freshly painted walls, working ninety-two hours a day while your marriage totally disintegrates before your eyes—yes sir, just loved it ... so, who do you work for?"

"Livingston Realty," he said slowly, warily.

"No kidding, so did I."

"I know," he said, his gaze cold enough to freeze up my eyebrows, and then he mumbled, "boy, do I know."

I had no ready answer for that one, so I just smiled. I decided I knew Mr. Tony about as well as I wanted to—too well—so I let the conversation lag.

He picked up one of my photo albums and started snickering at the pictures of all the long-haired freaks, so I got up and went into the kitchen to check on the time. It was a little after nine, still plenty of time to get downtown and see Carl, provided the blizzard had calmed down enough to allow the Volvo to get through.

When I returned, Sarah was sitting on my chair, dragging slowly on a long, thin cigarette. Her face was freshly painted and sparkling. Her eyes stared directly at Tony, who seemed to be melting under her glare. I was amazed by the change in his attitude now that Sarah was present. They seemed to have a master/slave relationship and my wild imagination half expected Sarah to pull out a whip and start beating him with it.

"Have you got an ashtray, darling?" she asked. The look on her face sent a silent message that I read as a warning to be on my best behaviour and watch what I said.

"No, I don't, just flick the ashes on the carpet and I'll clean it up later," I said trying to get a laugh, but all I got was two quick stares that were obviously questioning my sanity. "Just kidding," I said as I retreated back into the kitchen to see what I could find, but I so rarely had company, I didn't bother keeping a real ashtray around, which meant I had to give her a dish or a bowl. I decided on one of my spiffy, old, mustard yellow saucers, just like the one I used for Sam's cat food dish.

Actually, I had a feeling the ashtray wasn't that important, Sarah just wanted to get rid of me for a minute. I made a great show of it, slamming cupboard doors, rattling a few dishes around, but I was really straining to hear what they were saying.

"Anthony, dear," Sarah said in her most exquisite rich bitch tone, "I'm very distressed that you chose to go against my wishes. I specifically told you I wanted to come alone and that I would get home on my own."

"But angel, darling," Tony—that is, Anthony pleaded, "I was desperately worried. The snow just kept piling up and I was afraid you might get stranded. Forgive, my dearest, I didn't mean to offend you." A hush came over his voice and I really had to strain to hear the next few words. "... but you must tell me what this Eric fellow means to you."

Sarah's voice sounded appropriately offended. "I told you, he used to work for my Father and they were close friends, that's all, besides, we're not married yet and you have no right to follow me around."

"I'm sorry, my darling, I was just concerned because of the weather."

He sounded like one of those slobbering Latino Lovers who likes to have his women stand on his face with their spiked heels. I couldn't take listening to anymore of his drivel, so I carried the dish back into the living room.

As soon as I entered, they lowered their voices, but they kept on scolding each other. I handed Sarah the dish, which she took with no more than a brief glance, but I noticed the Opal ring she'd been wearing earlier had disappeared and she was now sporting a dramatically extravagant diamond engagement ring that looked as if it was too heavy for her finger.

I didn't know where to go, since Tony had clearly staked out a claim to the couch and Sarah was now sitting on the only other chair in the room, so I walked over to the balcony door, pulled the curtain aside and stared out the window. The blustering gusts of wind and snow had increased in intensity and I found myself shivering at the thought of having to go outside once the party wound down here.

I watched the flurry of heavy snow piling up on the white patio table and chairs I'd prematurely put out a few days ago, until I noticed the stilled voices behind me. I turned to face them. The Greaser looked red in the face and he kept pulling on his tie—so hard, I thought he was going to strangle himself. I imagined a news flash in the next issue of _After Dark_ : "Music Critic Arrested For Strangling Wife's Fiancé."

Sarah was in the process of butting her cigarette and grimaced at the tackiness of the dish I'd given her. She handed it back to me as if it was a smelly, dead mouse.

"Well, folks," I said as I took it, "I've really enjoyed our little get together immensely, however, I do have to make a living, so ..." I left it hanging there, hoping they would get the hint.

"I suppose we should be going then," Sarah said. "Anthony darling, would you please go down and warm up the car, I have a couple more things I have to discuss with Eric and I'll join you in a few minutes."

Tony's eyes darted back and forth between us. They were making desperate accusations, as if he thought we would continue the liaison he suspected we were having once he left the room. I tried to remain nonchalant, but for some reason I felt guilty—of what, I wasn't sure, but I'm certain it showed in my face.

He finally stood up and said, "Of course, dear, I'll wait for you out front."

I followed him to the door, once again offering my hand which he refused to take, as if he was getting even for the distress I'd caused him. I rushed ahead and opened the door and as he walked past me into the hallway, I could hear a rush of mumbled obscenities. I closed the door and almost had another attack of laughter, which was starting to puzzle me since I didn't normally take pleasure in other people's weaknesses.

"Don't you dare laugh," Sarah said from over my shoulder.

I turned around to face her. She was standing so close to me, her breath almost singed my eyebrows and I suddenly felt some of the panic she had shown earlier. I wanted to run away and bury myself in a snow bank, somewhere dark and quiet where I wouldn't be bothered by names and faces and hapless smiles.

"Who me? I wouldn't think of it," I said as I backed away and stepped towards my bedroom with the idea that I would start cleaning myself up and change my clothing. My brain was mixed up and confused and angry and hurt and mixed up and sad and frazzled—all at the same time. "What else did you want to talk about?" I yelled as I went through the bedroom door.

I walked directly to the small, white apartment sized piano that took up most of the space at the foot of my bed. For a very long moment and stared at it, my mind stuck on hold, and then I lifted up the cover and played a couple of chords and scales. I hadn't bothered to play it in so long, it was a shade out of tune, but it felt good touching the keys again.

"Do you play much anymore?" She was standing in the doorway, her arms folded under her breasts, her eyes searching to find mine, her toe tapping an impatient beat on the floor.

"Not much," I replied sullenly.

I pulled the cover down and then I went over to the closet, pulled off my shirt and jeans and tossed them onto the bed. I did my best to ignore her presence as I slid open the closet door and stood there in my shorts and socks trying to decide what to wear.

"I'm sorry," she said, breaking the turbulent silence that had been building up.

"Haven't you apologized enough for one night?"

I tried not to be nasty or mean or insolent, but I had a sudden feeling of déjà vu, as if I'd done all of this before and, of course, I had—many times, only in the past, it was me who was always say, 'I'm sorry.' I was surprised by my lack of embarrassment as I stood there half naked in front of her, in fact, I felt quite comfortable.

"Tell me something," I said as I turned around to face her, "if your Father is in such rough shape, what were you doing running off to Jamaica with this Tony character?"

She sighed and it sounded like thunder crashing through the room. I pulled out one of my flannel shirts and a fresh pair of jeans and slipped them on while I waited for her reply.

"Tony doesn't know that Livingston Realty is close to going under—no one does, for that matter. I didn't want him to know because he gossips a lot with the other salesmen and I was afraid if they knew they might panic and walk out on Daddy."

"Don't you think they have a right to know?"

"All in due time, but not yet."

"So what does that have to do with going to Jamaica?"

"Well ... we'd planned the trip for quite some time and I was getting so worn down, I had to get away for awhile, besides, I couldn't come up with a legitimate excuse for not going without giving it all away."

"That and the fact that you're still married. Why didn't you just tell Tony you had to get a divorce before you could get engaged?"

She gave me a blank stare and said, "Well, he's Catholic ..." and then she shrugged, as if that explained everything sufficiently.

She crossed the room to where I was standing and put her hand on my shoulder, so I stopped doing up my shirt and waited. She didn't say another word, but her eyes sent out a barrage of messages that I did my best to deflect. I knew if I allowed my natural instincts to get the best of me, I would only be asking for trouble, so I bit my tongue and just stood there like a department store mannequin.

Her hand moved gently from my shoulder to my cheek and she started to gently stroke my skin.

"Sometimes you're so blind." she said.

"Not necessarily blind," I replied, "just cautious."

She shook her head slowly and then she removed her hand. "Will you get my coat, please?" Her mood seemed to change abruptly, as if she had been auditioning for a part in a play and the director had yelled, 'Cut.'

We walked to the front closet where I helped her slip on her coat.

"So, where are you off to tonight?"

"I have a date with Bert and Ernie ..."

"What?"

"... not really, actually, Carl Pepper is in town—remember Carl?"

She nodded. "Of course."

"He's playing at The Hideaway with his jazz group and he wants me to come down and review the band."

"I see, so you'll be there the rest of the night?"

"Probably."

She suddenly turned around and gave me a hug. I had a hard time holding her through the mounds of fur and satin.

"You _will_ go and see Father?"

"Sure, I'll try to make it sometime this week."

We held each other for a few seconds longer than necessary and then I reached over, with a dramatic swirl, and opened the door.

"By the way, how did you plan on getting home tonight?"

She stepped into the hallway, her head held high like some sophisticated princess and then she turned around and flashed a sassy wink.

"Who planned on going home tonight?" she said, and then she was gone.

### Chapter Eight

I could feel the Volvo begin to sputter as I ploughed through the half-foot of mushy snow that had accumulated on Richmond Street. There wasn't a snow plough in sight, which didn't help my cautious optimism as to whether I would make it safely to The Hideaway in one piece.

Traffic, however, was light, most people having enough sense to stay home, but it still would have been impossible for me to turn around if I decided to go back home, so I just crossed my fingers and ploughed on. I stepped on the gas, throwing caution to the wind, telling myself the faster I travelled, the sooner I would get there, but the move only succeeded in causing the car to shimmy and shake like a nervous mouse trying to hide from a prowling cat.

I eased up, which only made matters worse and the engine died altogether. Fortunately, the momentum carried me far enough to enable me to manoeuvre the car into the parking lot of a nearby gas station where I tried to get it started again. The engine turned over, but it wouldn't kick in, which made complete sense when I finally checked the gas gauge and discovered it was, of course, registering empty. I looked out the fogged, snow-covered window only to discover the gas station was closed. I cursed abundantly under my breath, knowing that I should have filled up on my way home this afternoon, but realizing my mind had been too occupied with dusty cobwebs and anomalous questions.

I glanced at my watch. It was after ten, so I decided I might as well hoof it the remaining six blocks to the club since I was too far away to walk back home and I didn't feel like calling a tow truck or taxi. I grabbed my camera bag from the back seat and slung it over my shoulder. Luckily, I'd remembered to bring my gloves, but I wasn't very confident in the ability of my leather jacket to keep me from turning into a popsicle. I pulled the zipper up as close to my neck as possible, flipped the collar up around my neck and stepped outside.

The sidewalk was a gauntlet of ice and snow and after slipping and sliding my way for a few yards, I wondered if I could make it all the way without falling flat on my face. However, after a block, conditions improved and I was able to walk without the overpowering fear that I'd break my neck. I sniffed the air like an old dog. The wind was beginning to die down and there was now only a few errant snowflakes floating through the air, sparkling mysteriously in the radiant glow of the streetlights.

The rhythmic sound of crunching snow under my feet brought on a strange sense of tranquillity, as if I was sailing through the eye of a hurricane. Was it just the calm before the storm while my emotional mechanisms gathered their second wind while preparing for another shift in the bleak curtains of my life? Or had they been scarred to the point where they had become limp and lifeless like a worn out typewriter ribbon? Would I forever be tarnished by disillusionment? Or was it possible for me to ignore the past and set sail on a new voyage.

I'd always been the kind of person who went into a situation taking too much for granted, assuming that other people felt and reacted like I did. It had often resulted in my getting hurt, but the wretchedness that made me human would cause me to turn around and plunge into the next situation with the same gullibility, having learned nothing from my previous wounds. Thus, as I carefully reviewed the day's events in my mind, I tried not to read too much into what was said and how I had reacted to it at the time. Instead, I tried to concentrate on the hidden meanings that were revealed by the flick of an eyebrow, the gestures or mannerisms or the tone of voice.

My chest began to heave from the weight of my camera bag and I watched with fascination the streaming crystalline fog that marked each breath. All around me the world seemed to disappear except for the snow, the luminous streetlights, the cold night air, the icy sidewalks—and the thirty-five year old lost soul wandering through it all.

Why did I feel more anguish from Jerry suddenly ignoring me than I did from Tony's obvious desire to beat me to a pulp? To many people Jerry was nothing more than a subhuman, but to me he was more of a real person than Tony would ever be.

Why, after so many years of not communicating, had Sarah come to me for help? Sure, her father's state of mind was a reasonable excuse, but as I recalled the pensive frustration that had shadowed her face as she stroked my cheek, I knew she was trying to put into words something she'd kept to herself during most of the years we were married. The words, though never spoken, were becoming clearer in my mind, but I refused to dwell on feelings that had only been implied and not actually stated. Until she said what was really on her mind, I would refuse to be a mind reader and say the words for her.

As I trudged along, I was suddenly filled with an intense reluctance to see Carl again. It was as if somewhere in my subconscious a bell had tripped, warning me I may not be able to handle the regrets and lost opportunities brought on by my own snap decisions that had led me to my present state of isolation. Maybe it also had something to do with the painful recollection of my last meeting with Carl and the fierce barrage of vindictive words he'd spoken after I told him of my decision to leave the band.

We'd been on the road for ten weeks and it was during our last concert in Buffalo that I reached my decision to quit. However, it wasn't until we got home for some rest and recuperation before starting work on what was to be our second album that I found an opportunity to tell Carl. It had been a particularly difficult tour characterized by poor attendance and the almost continuous drug-induced stupor of Carl, Gus and Benny had decided to keep themselves in, even though they knew it was having a bad effect on our performance.

We'd had one of the best selling albums in the country the year before, but in the eyes of the public, you're only as good as your current hit and it was for that reason I'd wanted to go into the studio and do our follow-up album before going on the road again. There was a lot of bickering and arguing and I was finally over-ruled by the other three who preferred to go out one more time before doing any more recording.

As it turned out, we were no longer "hot", and the smaller, less enthusiastic crowds proved I'd been correct. When we got home, I knew they were waiting for me to say 'I told you so,' but by then I'd decided to just quit. Of course, I was certainly influenced by the fact that Sarah had been travelling with me and our relationship was getting more serious. But I'll always believe that if we had done the album first, I probably wouldn't have left, at least, not at that point, and who knows where we'd be today ...

At first, Carl wouldn't believe me. All four of us had threatened to quit at one time or another during our four years together as a group. After I told him, he tried to laugh it off as just another one of those snap resignations that usually lasted for only a few days.

"Hey man, a couple of days off and you'll be itchin' to get back and start working on the album," he said.

"Not this time, Carl. I've had enough. I'm out."

"Go on! You can't be serious."

"As serious as I've ever been in my life, Carl. Look, you guys can get along without me—just think of it, you won't have to put up with anymore of my opinions or play any of the songs I want to play. You can even blow your brains out on drugs anytime you want to without having to listen to my snide comments. Hell, you're all going to have a lot more fun without me around."

I was being sarcastic, of course, figuring if I could get him mad, it would give me a good excuse for blowing up and leaving in huff. I didn't have the guts to just do it and leave.

"So, that's how you feel!" he yelled. "Now it's all coming out in the wash. What the hell are you going to do without the band, dig ditches?"

"Well, Sarah and I ..." but that was as far as I got.

"Sarah!" he bellowed. "You mean you're going to give up your career for that damn broad? Can't you see that she's just using you? She's nothing more than a rich bitch groupie who's out to marry herself a rock star, and you actually think she cares about you. Damn it, Shaky, I thought you had more brains than that."

At that point he stormed out of the room before I had a chance to react. If only he'd waited, I would have told him that it didn't matter to me what Sarah's motivations were. She made me feel wanted and needed and loved, and I wanted her ... but I would have kept to myself that I knew deep down I was filled with a passionate obsession to have a family while I was still young and this was my chance.

It hadn't occurred to me that Sarah would feel any different but, as usual, I'd assumed too much and as the years went by and she kept saying, "I'm not ready to have children," I started building up a deep, unjustified resentment towards her for being the main cause of my lost creativity. Sure, I had never really been able to shake the feeling that doing something like playing and writing music was not a respectable way to make a living; it was too easy, too much fun; life wasn't supposed to be so easy; you were supposed to hate your job and career. But, of course, I was too stupid and immature to admit it to myself.

And so, our sex life turned into a cat and mouse game of trying to see who could go the longest without showing any signs of desire for the other. Occasionally, on the spur of the moment, we would both give in to our need to be touched and held, but the resulting display of feelings usually proved to be sex for the sake of sex; ultimately unsatisfying, but at least the tension was reduced for awhile.

But there had been moments; brief encounters, romantic interludes when it seemed as if we would somehow overcome the tug-of-war that had always plagued our marriage. Unfortunately, they were too few and spaced too far apart to have any lasting effect.

As if to show its agreement with my dark thoughts, a sudden, fierce gust of wind whipped past my ears and I pulled my collar closer to my face in a feeble attempt to protect myself from its stinging bite. I knew I was getting close to my destination, so I tried to obliterate my continued self-torture by making my mind go blank. Instead, an image of Sarah and Tony making love flashed through my mind, and a jolt of jealousy flashed through my system. I wondered if they did it in the conventional missionary position or whether Tony was a real super stud who used whips and chains.

Damn it! Why couldn't I get rid of this strange feeling of attachment I still felt for Sarah? I had absolutely no right to get jealous, after all, it had been _me_ who had walked out on her. I certainly couldn't blame her for giving up on me and going on with the rest of her life; finding someone else, but still ...

It was with an overwhelming sense of relief that I finally found myself standing in front of The Hideaway. I pulled open the heavy wooden door that looked like the entrance to a castle and stepped inside, brushing the snow from my shoulders and then stuffing my gloves into my coat pockets. I hadn't realized how cold it really was outside. The sudden rush of warm air immediately brought on an awareness of how numb my ears, nose and mouth were. They were burning and tingling as if they'd fallen asleep, so I rubbed them with my hands trying to get my frozen blood circulating again.

As I stepped into the new kind of darkness, this one filled with overhead fans and bamboo curtains; cool people listening to hot jazz—an atmosphere carefully created so that you expected to see Bogey walk up and introduce himself as Rick and hear Sam tinkling away at _As Time Goes By_ , I realized how alone I felt. I was sorry I hadn't asked Maria or someone to come with me, just so I had someone to cling to in case the evening of "heavy reminiscing" didn't go as well as I hoped it would— "Well, I've had a great time, but I do have to get my date home now ..."

I made my way to the front of the long stand-up bar which ran along the right side of the club, almost to the edge of the small rectangular stage where Carl and Comrades were doing an exuberant version of Weather Report's _Palladium_. At that moment, I knew if I tried to talk, the words would come out sounding more like Jerry, at least until my face thawed out, so I leaned against the bar and managed to order a double Black Russian. When it arrived, I gulped it down quickly, hoping the burn would reawaken my senses, and then I turned around to survey the players on stage.

There were four of them and, to my astonishment, the keyboard player was a woman. I remembered Carl saying 'guys' on the phone, so it hadn't occurred to me that one of them would be female. Her hair was long, straight and black, but I couldn't make out her face since I was standing behind and to the left of where she was sitting hunched over a wide assortment of electronic keyboards and synthesizers. She wore a bright blue or, as the designers would say, a "luscious peacock" sweatshirt with a long, boat-neck collar, matching blue pirate boots and black leather pants. The blueness of her boots and sweatshirt contrasted nicely with the dark blue wall behind the stage and they seemed to be giving off an iridescent glow that created an eerie atmosphere straight out of _Star Wars_.

I surveyed the sparse audience and they were all as fascinated by her as I was. A couple of well-dressed business types sitting at a table a few feet from where I was standing shushed the waiter for talking too loudly, and several other patrons were leaning back with their eyes closed while their heads bounced to the beat of the music. Others were intensely tapping out the rhythm with their hands on the table tops. It was a refreshing change to see an interested crowd, small thought it was; unlike the crowds at a rock bar where their main concern was getting nookie for the night.

My critic's instincts quickly began to take over as I reached into my shirt pocket and pulled out my note pad and a pen and started jotting down a few of my impressions. I used a self-invented form of shorthand which helped jog my memory later when I was typing up my review, but I'd forgotten to bring my tiny pocket flashlight, so I had to struggle along writing in the dim light of the bar.

Carl was setup, as usual, on a high platform in the centre of the stage and was wearing a black turtle neck sweater and white, cotton slacks, as were the bass and sax player. Somewhere deep down I had playfully hoped that Carl would be fat and bald by now, but he still looked as young and muscular as ever, except his shoulder length blond hair was now cut shorter on top, but long and straight at the back, a style that made him look much younger than his thirty-six years.

Childhood memories obliterated the tiny stage like a sudden burst of eerie sunlight and it seemed to transform itself into a cold, damp basement where a dreamy-eyed eighteen-year-old kid with short blond hair and a constant smile sat behind his new set of cheap drums, furiously testing the resilience of the shiny white skins.

He continued his noisy bombardment until his wrists ached and then he stopped, a look of satisfaction on his face and watched as his seventeen-year-old companion hammered frantically on the keys of the ancient player piano next to him. The blond kid's face turned sour and he yelled out, "Damn it, Eric, you don't know how to play that thing ... why can't you go back to playing your guitar?"

The younger kid ignored his friend as he tried to work out a series of chords that avoided using the several out-of-tune keys, but he was having very little success. The drummer, realizing his friend rarely changed his course once he'd set his mind on something, went over and sat next to him on the piano bench.

"Hey, did you hear me? I think we need a guitar player."

"Well, it won't be me," came the reply between the chorus of sour-noted chords.

The blond kid shook his head and then put his hand on the other kid's shoulder. "That's okay, man," he said softly, "we'll just have to find someone else."

At that moment, a bond of friendship that had been growing since the day we'd become classmates in high school four years before was sealed. As the visions from half a lifetime ago slowly faded away, I wondered if there would still be any lingering fragments of that friendship between us.

It was the bass player who turned out to be fat and bald. Well, not exactly bald, but almost. A tuft of wiry, black hair circled his head from ear-to-ear and his dark brown skin was drenched with sweat. He was wearing dark sunglasses and a vicious scowl of concentration as he plucked his Fender Bass, and he was sooo _cool_. He played with surprising dexterity for a man of his size; not quite as hypnotically as the legendary Weather Report bassist, Jaco Pastorius, but close.

The sax man was tall and lean, with medium brown hair and a meticulously manicured bushy moustache. His eyes never seemed to open as he flitted in and out of the structured downbeats of the music. My initial impression was that he was a good player, possibly even great, but his style wasn't nearly as exciting or interesting as someone like Wayne Shorter or David Sanborn.

I joined with others in the crowd and closed my eyes in order to get an overall feel for the music. I immediately realized the band was playing the song at a slightly faster pace than Weather Report's version, which was fine since it meant they had a style of their own and didn't do just carbon copies of other group's songs. I was sure they would also have several original compositions in their repertoire.

As I listened, I couldn't keep my feet and head still as I lost myself in the musical conversations being played out. It became clear that the melody structure of _Palladium_ was only a basic guideline to a collective improvisation which gave the music a rambling, unrehearsed quality. However, it was absolutely certain this drifting was part of the game plan and the four players were well acquainted with each other's musical moods. Each instrument interacted with such variance, there seemed to be no distinction between soloist and accompanist. A spiralling splash of sax was followed by a transitional bass line and then a long sweeping piano counter-melody while Carl interjected musical comments on his drums that didn't just keep time, but often put him in the forefront of the song.

Beautiful!

I changed my focus from the overall sound and concentrated on each performer, visualizing each separate sound and chord change, beginning with keyboards. I had never heard a woman play with such feeling and improvisational skill. It made me feel slightly jealous when compared to the static ability of my own piano playing over the last ten years.

I opened my eyes and watched her arms move back and forth across the keys. I was becoming fascinated by her near effortless command of the instrument, like a five-year-old watching a fish tank for the first time and I had an uncontrollable urge to walk up on stage and sit down next to her so I could get a better look. But the tune finally slipped back into the more structured melody and then quickly wound down to its conclusion before I had a chance to move.

The audience immediately broke into a tumultuous cheer, many whistling and calling out "Bravo." I decided Carl wasn't being cocky when he told me it was the best group of musicians he'd ever been associated with. He was right; I was dazzled.

The band paused briefly while the bass player pulled out a large white towel and slowly wiped his face and pate and then, after a cue from Carl, they began playing Herbie Hancock's _Maiden Voyage_. The exuberant crowd, all of whom had suddenly come alive to express their appreciation, immediately settled back into their state of joyous concentration. Dozens of freshly lit cigarettes caused billows of hazy smoke to slowly drift through the air like miniature white tornadoes.

I gulped down the last few drops of my Black Russian and then ordered another. I suddenly realized how warm I was getting now that I'd infiltrated the hot atmosphere of the appreciative audience, so I slipped off my jacket. There were a few empty tables on the other side of the stage and closer in, so I carried my drink and gadget bag over and claimed one. I pulled out the Olympus, popped off the lens cap and turned on the light meter, deciding that I might as well get a few pictures before the band's break.

I raised the camera to my eye and did a quick check of the lighting and then I carefully attached my automatic winder. I did another light check through the meter, but I didn't like the way it was reading the scene, so I switched it to manual and then I set the lens opening to f2.8 and the shutter speed at a 60th and I was ready to go.

From where I sat, I was able to frame all four members of the band into the composition using my normal 55mm lens. I got up and wandered a bit while I fired off a couple of shots from several different angles, bracketing the exposure up and down to make sure I got at least one good one, although I knew I could do some manipulating in the darkroom if necessary.

I went back to the table and changed the lens to my 75-150mm zoom so I could get some close-ups. I knew it would be tricky getting any decent shots since my largest lens opening was only f5.6, but I decided to do my best. I sat down and carefully planted my elbows on the table top and brought the bass player's face into focus. I was about to take the shot when I heard someone call out behind me.

"Hey man ... pssst ... hey."

"What!" I exclaimed as I turned around, annoyed at having missed the shot.

There were two obviously drunk black dudes sitting at the table behind me. One of them was leaning over trying to get my attention, a stubby filterless cigarette dangling from his mouth.

"Hey man, you takin' pictures?"

"No, I just like to hear the clicking sound when I push the button ... I never use real film," I said as I pointed to the shutter release. I knew I was taking a chance with my snappy reply, but the guy had broken my concentration and I was upset.

It wasn't until the words had escaped that I noticed his massive size and I immediately regretted my annoyed response. He was wearing a sleeveless tank top t-shirt that did an excellent job of showing off his enormously muscular arms and shoulders. His facial features, especially the nose and lips, were also large and his head was totally hairless, as if he shaved it every morning.

"Hey ... you a comedian or sumpthin'?" he retorted with a slight scowl.

I was afraid he was going to try and start a fight, so I said, "Nope, I'm just a photographer."

He looked puzzled for a moment, his brow furrowing and his eyes rolling and then his face lit up and a beaming smile flashed across his face. "Hey man, then you _is_ takin' pictures!" He immediately slapped a ten-dollar bill into my hand, along with an inch of ashes that finally fell off the end of his cigarette. I couldn't fathom what he was trying to do until he said, "Look man, I sure would like a picture of dat dere lady playin' piano up on the stage. If you gets one that turns out nice, I want you to make one up fo' me, okay?"

"Sure," I replied, but you don't have to pay me, I'd be glad to make one up for you." I tried to return the money but he refused to take it back.

"Nope, you just makes sure I gets one. My name's Jimmie, what's yours?" He reached out and shook my hand and added, "This here's my friend Freeman."

I shook his hand and said, "My friends call me Shaky," not quite understanding why I would use my nickname from days gone by.

He immediately started laughing. "You be usin' a big long lens like that and yo' name is Shaky? Hey, I love it, man!" He continued laughing and I smiled, although I felt a bit embarrassed. Freeman finally smacked Jimmie with his elbow and told him to keep quiet, but Jimmie kept chuckling and talking to himself as he leaned back in his chair. "Shaky photographer with a zillion millimetre lens and no flash!" He slapped his hands on the table and then he said, "Sho' would like a picture of dat lady, tho', she really sumpthin'."

At that point, his hypnotic snickering finally got to me and for the second time that night I was lost in uncontrollable laughter, but out of respect for Comrades, I was able to stifle the sound, though I'm sure I paid a price by turning blue.

"Hey, Jimmie," I whispered, "how am I supposed to get the pictures to you ... send them by airmail?" which succeeded in breaking us up even more and Freeman, who had been trying to ignore us, finally couldn't hold himself back and joined in our laughter.

"Well, I'm usually here a couple nights a week, but with these cats playin' I 'spect I'll be here every night this week. You can just drop them off any night."

"Okay, I expect I'll be back, but for ten bucks I'm going to owe you more than one picture. You want shots of anyone else?"

He thought it over for a moment. "Ya, sure, you can give me a big 8 X 10 glossy of Jake, that fat ol' nigger boy up there wearin' the shades."

"You've got it," I said and then I turned around to face the band. I pointed and said, "I'd better get back to work."

Jimmie rolled his bloodshot eyes and waved back as he chugged down a mug of beer. I sat still and watched for a minute, slowly calming myself down and wondering whether I was going crazy. I hadn't laughed so much in one day in all my life and it worried me because I really didn't have very much to laugh about.

The sax player was going through a frantic solo as I lifted the Olympus and took a close-up of his flittering hands that were wrapped tightly around the shiny gold instrument and then I turned my attention to the lady. I zoomed in on her face very slowly and gradually as if I was stalking a wild boar, even then, by the time I hit the 150mm mark I felt slightly dizzy. I studied her face carefully as I patiently waited for her to sit still long enough for me to get the shot.

Everything about her face suggested an exquisitely mixed heritage. Her skin was a deep olive colour and along with her black hair, it suggested perhaps a Middle Eastern or Indian background, however, her facial features seemed to be much more Caucasian than might be expected. The nose was perhaps a shade too long, but her mouth, which seemed to be talking to the music, was set into a permanent pout. Her jaw curved gently into a prominent dimple and her dark eyes were big, round buttons that had been put in place with the specific purpose of hypnotizing anyone who looked at them for longer than a moment.

And hypnotized I was as I kept zeroing in on her face, taking one picture after another until I ran out of film. I quickly reloaded the camera with another 36 exposure roll and then continued with my quiet bombardment. I felt possessed, as if it had suddenly become my mission in life to capture that lovely face on film for all the world to see.

_Maiden Voyage_ finally ended, to another enthusiastic cheer and this time I joined, clapping and whistling my approval. It occurred to me that I was having a great time just taking pictures and listening to good music and I wondered how I could arrange my life so all I had to do for a living was more of the same.

As the cheering slowly faded, Carl pulled down a mike which was suspended on a boom over his head and started talking.

"Thank you ... thank you very much ... you've been a great audience." His voice was deep and strong and the sound of it made me want to hear him sing again. "Before we take a break, we'd like to slip back in time to the year 1967, a time when a wild tribe of primitive people called hippies roamed the earth, the price of gasoline was less than thirty cents a gallon; you could get enough drugs to stay high forever, and a nasty little war in a place called Vietnam was wasting so many good people that even the college brats were stirred up enough to get violent."

While Carl spoke, the keyboard lady moved out front into the spotlight carrying a flute and the sax player sat down at the keyboards.

Carl continued. "A number of blues bands were doing quite well in '67 and this is an interesting little period piece called _Flute Thing_ done originally by The Blues Project. I would like to dedicate this song to a very special friend with whom I shared many fond memories and whom I haven't seen for over twelve years ... and he just happens to be in the audience tonight."

For a moment I stood frozen—hey, that's me he's talking about! I sat down feeling embarrassed, half expecting all eyes would be on me, until I realized nobody knew who the hell I was.

Piano and flute swung easily into the tune and I watched with awe as the lady flute player performed as flawlessly on her new instrument as she had on the keyboards. Once again, the melody structure of the song served only as a basic guideline as the musicians slipped into their collective improvisation. The song had been arranged into a kind of jazz/blues symphony which gave you the impression, especially if you closed your eyes, that a lot more than four instruments were being played.

So, I closed my eyes and listened, and for one fleeting moment I could almost picture myself on the stage with the band, my hands flying across the keyboards, my mind totally lost in the music—until Jimmie tapped me on the shoulder, his head bobbing, fingers snapping.

"Hey, Shaky, she really sumpthin'. You make sure you get some pictures of her on dat flute, okay?"

"Right," I said as I raised the camera and cranked off a couple of shots. I got up and moved as close to the stage as I dared, not wanting to distract anyone and then I zoomed in on her face again. It was a mask of concentration, her eyes closed, except for a few seconds when they opened and stared directly at me—a quick wink, and then back to the job at hand. The unexpected acknowledgement of my presence startled me, but it also stirred up a deep desire within me to get to know this amazing lady a lot better.

I finished the roll of film with several shots of Carl and the bass player, Jake, and then, as I was walking back to my table, the music slowly began to fade away as if the musicians had become weary of playing. For a moment there was total silence, but just as I turned around and sat down, the words to _Stormy Monday_ floated across the room, slicing through the darkness like a high-powered beam from a towering lighthouse.

"They call it Stormy Monday, but Tuesday's just as bad ..."

She had placed the flute on a stand behind her and she was standing with her hands wrapped around the mike stand, her body tilted gently to the left, her long, black hair circling her face like a protective mask—a provocative stance that echoed an earlier era.

As the music slowly built in intensity, the singers soulful sensuality seemed to have a profound effect on everyone present. There was total silence with all eyes riveted on her, and as the song progressed, she displayed an amazing amount of flexibility and control, her voice easing down into the textures of the music and then soaring high above it.

The music reached a climax and then stopped abruptly about four bars before the end of the song, leaving the singer a completely unencumbered space with which to seize every fibre of pain and suffering within her and squeeze it out in an exhilarating display of emotion that transferred the pain into the hearts and minds of every person who knew what being hurt felt like.

"I try to find my baby ... won't somebody send him home to me."

The lights faded on the stage and for half a heartbeat there was an awed silence before the entire room roared with a tumultuous round of applause and whistling. I stood up, offering my own appreciation to the haunting performance that had taken place, and then I sat back down feeling emotionally drained and weary.

As the cheering slowly died, I could feel my earlier reluctance begin to build as the reunion with Carl grew nearer. I told myself there was nothing to get nervous about, but as the band began to disperse and I found myself walking on the stage towards Carl, I began to breakout into another cold sweat.

Ten years worth of memories flashed through my mind as if I was clinging to the edge of a high cliff and it was important that I remember every small detail before I fell off the edge.

### Chapter Nine

Nervous young faces with raw talent slowly dissolved into hardened musicians studiously listening to replays of their budding masterpieces, eccentrically insisting that every note be played to perfection. Endless hotel rooms; smoke-filled back seats ... more hotel rooms; hustling broads to fill the empty spaces—building a following ... sharing a dream ... wanting it _all_ ... and the dream was getting nearer ...

... and then he was shaking my hand and pounding my shoulder, his natural charm putting me totally at ease.

"Been a long time, man, a long, long time. You ol' son-of-a-bitch, you still look like you're twenty-one, even without the beard. You got some secret fountain of youth you been dippin' yourself into?"

"Me!" I exclaimed, "what about you? I half expected you would be fat and bald by now, but you look like you just got out of high school." It really was amazing how young he looked, the only telltale signs being the tiny wrinkles lining the edges of his eyes and the noticeable grey fleck to his hair.

Our handshake turned into an uninhibited embrace with both of us mumbling, "It's great to see you, just great!" and I was suddenly angry with myself for not trying to keep in touch with him during the last twelve years.

"Come on, I want you to meet Amina," he said.

We sauntered over to where she was sitting behind her keyboards. She had a dazed expression on her face, the look of someone who had just gone through a deep emotional crisis and I realized she was still trying to come down from her self-induced high. I looked at Carl and he seemed oblivious to her state of mind and went right into the introduction.

"Eric, I'd like you to meet Amina Ashe our keyboardist, flautist, vocalist and all around talented lady."

I offered my hand and she shook it limply. "I'm very pleased to meet you," I said, but she hardly seemed to notice me.

"Hello," she said, the distant look still in her eyes. "I've been looking forward to meeting you."

"I must tell you how much I admire your work," I said. "You've got marvellous hands." I waited for her response, but she just nodded her head slowly as if she was having a hard time comprehending what I was saying. I looked at Carl again.

"Oh geez, I forgot," he said, "she's always like this after she sings _Stormy Monday_. She'll snap out of it in a few minutes, so we might as well have a drink and she can join us later. The other guys seem to have disappeared, as usual. You got a table?"

"Yep."

We walked off the tiny stage and back to my table where Jimmie was watching my camera bag. I sat down, but just as Carl was about to pull out his chair, a very buxom waitress happened by and he latched onto her wrist and twirled her around until she was hanging from his arms in a Valentino pose.

"When I'm away from you I turn into an animal," he said lustily and then he planted a kiss on her hysterically giggling face. In one quick motion he twirled her around again and with a pat on her ample behind, he said, "Bring beers for my friend and I, fair maiden, lest we should die of thirst. And be quick about it!" She wandered off in a daze, still giggling from her unexpected dip.

"You're a crazy man," I said laughing.

"It's all a matter of how you approach them," he said, quite seriously, "you gotta give the ladies a lot of attention if you expect to get anywhere with them—if you know what I mean."

He always did have a natural instinct for gauging how far he could go with his playfulness without turning them off and I had always envied him for that; always wanted to have his charm.

"Hey, you've got a different camera," he said as he picked up the Olympus and examined it carefully. "It looks like a good one—and complicated."

"Now, how the hell can you tell it's a different camera?"

"Hey, I remember that beat-up old Pentax you used to lug around. It had a black body and this one is chrome. Remember when you first got it you went around taking pictures of everybody's feet and you always said, 'Oh, I'm just practising, I gotta learn how to use this thing' ... remember?"

"Sure and I've still got the best picture collection of people's feet of anyone in town."

"So, did you get any good pictures of the band ... need I ask? I'm sure a photographer of your abilities would have no troubles, except, of course, there's no light in here to speak of and I doubt if the musicians sat still long enough for you to get a decent shot. Minor problems, right?"

"Well, it's not quite that bad," I replied, "but not by much. We'll have to wait and see. I haven't gone digital yet so once I get into the darkroom I'll have a better idea if I got anything worthwhile." I was sure I had, but I never like to sound too confident just in case I screwed something up.

"So, you're a music critic now," Carl said, his tone edged with sarcasm. "You know, some of my favourite enemies are music critics."

"Hold on now, don't get carried away. I'm only a critic by default. I certainly don't have any credentials for the job, I just happen to own half the paper and there was no one else available to do the job."

A grin flashed across his face. "What do you mean you don't have any credentials? You're one of the most creative musicians I have ever worked with. Actually, I was impressed with your reviews, they're intelligent and witty and you stick to reviewing just the music, not personalities or what kind of clothes the artist is wearing. Most of the twits they have doing reviews don't know a damn thing about music and are probably better suited for cleaning up horseshit at the circus."

"Now, now, Carl, do I detect a note of bitterness there?"

"Naw," he said, "I just like to mouth off once and awhile. It's just that some of those guys don't know what the hell they're talking about. You, on the other hand, know exactly what you're talking about, but I got the feeling you were a little bored by all the new stuff you were reviewing. I take it you're not too thrilled by the new music around these days. You used the word 'rehash' a lot."

"Well, isn't that true? A lot of this so-called new music is nothing but blatant rip-offs of classic rock, the only difference is the lyrics are ten times nastier nowadays. I find most of it very boring. I suppose that's why I've gotten more into mainstream jazz, jazz-fusion and even classical music the last few years."

"Well, I feel basically the same way, Shaky, that's why I've been playing jazz for most of the last ten years. Some of the old bands from our day are still making good music but you sure have to look hard to find any good new bands. Oh well, I guess it would be too much to expect another band like The Beatles or even Led Zeppelin."

"Yeah, I think you're right."

We were both silent for a few moments, lost in our own thoughts.

"Oh well, such is life," I said not wanting our reunion to turn into a morbid reminiscing about things we could never change.

"Such is life," he echoed. "Anyway, to change the subject, what did you think of the band?—as a music critic, of course." He seemed to be anxiously interested in my reply, as if my opinion really mattered, which made me feel good.

"What can I say, Carl, you've put together an absolutely dynamic group of musicians. I have to be careful, now. As a music critic I'm not supposed to be good at superlatives, however, I can truly say I've never in my life seen a lady play keyboards with such style and ability—she's incredible! I really like Jake, he plays the bass like he was born with a guitar in his hand. I guess my only criticism would be the sax player. He's good, but I really couldn't get into his style ... a little too 'honky' for my taste."

"I agree with you, but that's just the way Henry is. He reminds me a lot of Benny in that playing comes so easy for him, he doesn't really devote all of his talents to it." He waited for a moment and then, when I didn't add anything, he said, "Anything else?"

I looked at him blankly and then I said, "Oh yeah, the drummer ain't bad, if only he'd learn some new riffs ..." and then I laughed.

"Thanks a lot, friend," he said and then he punched my arm.

"Ouch! I'm just kidding," I exclaimed as I pulled back and rubbed my arm, "you really are one helluva drummer, Carl, but then, you always were a natural musician. I think you and Amina are both in that rare category of people who could do absolutely anything they wanted to do in music."

"Well, that's certainly true of Amina, at least," he said, his eyes lighting up with the admiration of a proud papa showing off his child's straight 'A' report card. "She's so talented, even I have a hard time believing it sometimes."

"Where the hell did you find her?" I asked.

"Uh ... well, she's been with me for a long time ..."

"What's her heritage? She's got the most exotic face I've ever seen."

"Hmmm, I'm not sure ... Arabic or Lebanese or something like that."

"Is she married or going with anyone?" I asked. It wasn't normal for me to be so inquisitive, but I seemed overwhelmed by this need to know everything about her.

Carl seemed to be getting restless with all my questions. "No, she's single," he said, but seemed reluctant to say anything more so I didn't press the issue. He picked up my camera again and fiddled with the knobs for a few seconds before setting it down. "Hey man," he said finally, "I'm not very good at apologies, but I'm sorry about what I said on the phone about your ol' lady. I didn't mean to sound so uncouth, it's just that I've had a bad case of hoof and mouth disease lately and ..."

"You too, eh!" I interjected. "Look, don't worry about it, I seem to recall a few words of advice you gave me regarding Sarah a few years ago, so I wouldn't blame you if you came right out and said 'I told you so.'"

"Come on, I'm not that much of a slob," he said and then he grinned. "On the other hand, I guess I did tell you so, but not the way you thought. All that stuff I said about Sarah being nothing but a groupie out to marry herself a rock star was only a smokescreen to try and talk you out of leaving the band. Actually, I liked Sarah a lot. She was quick and witty and she has a great set of bazooms ..."

"Ah huh," I interrupted, "so that's what it takes to impress you ... a great set of ..."

"No no, of course not, but let's face it, I'm on the road a lot so I don't have time for what you would call a 'meaningful relationship'. So for me, most women are tits and ass, slam, bam thank you ma'am ... see you around."

I was about to dispute his attitude when our well-endowed waitress placed four bottles of Budweiser on the table and Carl continued his opulent flirtations. Once again, I was struck by how little he seemed to have changed. He was still the consummate teenager out having a good time, yet his overall manner was that of a mature "man of the world" who had lived life hard. The waitress finally left, giggling like an embarrassed kid, with a five-dollar tip and an invitation to swap baseball cards after she got off work.

"Now that's a great set of bazooms if I ever saw one," Carl exclaimed, his eyes focusing on her body as if he had Superman's X-ray vision.

"Don't you ever get tired of chasing women?"

"Are you kidding? What else is there to life besides wine, women and song?" He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and then he took a long gulp of his beer. We seemed to have settled into a comfortable, but probing conversation, as if we were trying to catch up on each other's thoughts while at the same time make amends for past transgressions. "Anyway, getting back to Sarah," he continued, "I really did like her, she was just a bit screwed up for my taste. You know, the 'rich daddy syndrome' that made her over-cautious with people because she was afraid they only liked her because of her father's money."

"You mean you thought she was the one who was screwed up? Hell, I'm the one who was so screwed up I couldn't even tell who my friends were."

"You!" I was surprised by his incredulousness. "I can't believe that! I know you had problems when your parents died and all that, but you had a lot more on the ball than the rest of us put together."

"Me!" It was my turn to be incredulous. "Man, I must have hidden it well 'cause I was about as mixed up and confused as a newborn calf. Even now I'm your perfectly screwed up teenager rapidly closing in on forty and I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up."

He laughed and then he ran his fingers through his choppy, blond hair while his eyes shifted to catch a glimpse of a group of well-proportioned ladies sitting at the next table. "I know where you're coming from, man. I still feel like I've got a long way to go before I'm all growed up ... but I always thought you really had it together, I mean, leaving the band to get married and have a family—now that took a lot of guts. It was the first mature thing any of us had done all the time we were together."

For a moment I just stared at him, somehow aware the conversation was suddenly moving into an area that would have a profound effect on the way I had been thinking all these years. "Would you run that by me again? I was always under the impression that you guys hated my guts for leaving the band when I did. You mean, you really felt that way?"

"Well, I suppose deep down I did, but at the time I was as uptight as everyone else. It wasn't until a year or so later that I got to thinking and I finally figured you had done the right thing. I mean, there's more important things in life than being number one on the charts ... it would have been nice, though."

I could feel a strange clunking in my brain as another lead weight seemed to fall off my shoulder, but this time the curtain of guilt that had nagged at me all these years refused to be completely convinced and the weight only made it about halfway to the ground.

"Sure," I said feeling suddenly exuberant, "how many people can say they had the number five album on the whole damn continent like we did. Heck, our little band didn't do so bad, even though our moment of glory was brief." I took a long gulp of my beer and it felt great going down. "You know, you wouldn't believe how relieved I am to hear you feel that way. Maybe you understood me better than the rest of the guys because we hung out together when we were kids. After my folks died, I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been there. You kept me from going completely out of my mind."

The conversation had now slipped into a kind of wimpy, mutual admiration speech pattern, as if we were making up for lost time by voicing thoughts and feelings we'd never been able to put into words before. It didn't matter how silly we sounded, it was more important to keep the trap door off of our emotions.

"You were like a big brother to me," I said as I gave him an affectionate slap on the shoulder. "I always looked up to you and wanted to be more like you. I'm so damn stubborn and intense and I take myself too serious, whereas you were never like that. I always admired your carefree, confident nature, as if life was nothing but a simply game of cards."

"Hell, I'm only covering up for my lack of convictions, like when we were making the album ... I never really knew what I believed. You were the one who always came up with the most profound material. Man, if I had only had your discipline and creativity ... it's too bad you just stopped like you did, I mean, the rest of us were talented, but you were the driving force who kept it all together. In a way, I think we were all a little in awe of you ... that's probably why we took it so hard when you decided to quit."

"What do you mean I kept it all together? You were the leader of the band, not me."

"Maybe I was the leader when we were on stage and in the eyes of the public, but you were the one behind the scenes who threatened and cajoled us into performing to the best of our abilities. You were like a den mother, you bawled us out if we drank too much, you screamed and yelled if we got too carried away with practical jokes and you dumped on us if we lost sight of our goals ... you were like ... like the glue that kept all the parts stuck together so we didn't get splattered all over the sidewalk."

I couldn't think of anything to say to that so I kept quiet while I took another sip of my beer.

"You know ... I've just got a brain wave," he said, suddenly sitting upright in his chair. "Hmmm, it could work ..." He was still contemplating, but then he seemed to reach a decision. "Ya sure, why not? Look, you may think this sounds crazy, but at least hear me out, okay?"

"Okay, I guess."

He hesitated again while his eyes tried to dig into my brain to see what was going on inside. "I've been working on a recording contract for the band for the last few months and if everything works out we'll be leaving for New York next week to start work on our first album."

"Hey, that's great news, Carl. I'm really glad for you guys."

"Well, it's not so great—yet. The reason it's taken me so long to put the deal together is they keep insisting we use one of their in-house Producers who just happens to be the owner's nephew." His eyes lit up with anger the way they had earlier when we talked about music critics. "But there's no way! The guy thinks he's some kind of a musical genius, but he just hasn't got the right understanding of what I want to do, especially with Amina. She's very sensitive and she's going to need a lot of special attention when it comes to laying down her vocal tracks." He paused, his eyes probing through me again.

"So, ah ... what does all this have to do with me?" I asked, afraid of what I knew was coming.

"Look, I need someone who can rule with an iron-fist, someone who can cut through all the crap and get the job done, someone who knows how to handle egotistical musicians, someone who has a feel for the music and can get the most out of everyone involved ... in other words, man, I need you!"

"What! Me! Are you crazy?"

"Why not? You'd be perfect."

"You've got to be kidding. I've been away from that kind of thing for so long there's absolutely no way I could do it."

"Naw, I don't believe that, you've got a natural ability for Producing. I keep getting this vision in my head about the way you ran around telling those supposedly knowledgeable A & R guys what to do when we were doing the _Mass Media_ album and nine times out of ten you were right. All I can say is that it's a good thing you made them do things our way or the album probably wouldn't have made it to five hundred on the charts let alone five. Come on, what do you say? Do an old friend a favour."

"I can't do it, Carl!" I couldn't believe it but I was actually shaking. "What if I screwed it up? What then? I couldn't live with myself if ..." but I didn't finish saying what I was thinking.

"You wouldn't screw it up and you know it! Besides, I'd be willing to take that chance. You did it when you were a twenty-one-year-old kid who wasn't supposed to know anything about it and I know damned well you could do it again."

"Yes, but back then we had a cause that drove us on. We were all trying to say something that might have an effect on the world." I paused for a moment and took a deep, smoke-filled breath that almost made me cough. "I don't feel that intense about anything anymore. Nope, you'll have to find someone else, I don't have anymore creativity left in me."

"I won't accept that for an answer," he said slowly. "You think about it."

We remained silent for a long time as we sipped our beers and watched the people around us. The smoke from Carl's cigarette began to irritate me eyes, so I rubbed the burn with the tips of my fingers. The world inside my head seemed to be shifting and changing like a man caught in a pool of quicksand as I contemplated my past from Carl's perspective. It all seemed so alien, so completely different than the one I had known and had never been able to stop feeling guilty about.

Somewhere deep inside my brain, the section where three or four wires got tangled up years ago, the hand of a skilful surgeon seemed to be trying desperately to repair the damage, even though the job was extremely difficult at times. The difficulty was no doubt due to years of flagellated habits that would not die easily. I couldn't shake the feeling that I would never be that creative again.

"I guess the so called 'music' revolution didn't really do much to help the real world, did it," I mumbled, my voice barely above the sound of a whisper.

"What did you say? I couldn't hear."

"I said, our music really didn't do much to help the real world, did it?" this time with a stronger sense of conviction.

Carl's eyes stopped roving and settled on my face, and then he stared directly into my eyes. He fidgeted with his beer bottle and then he attempted to butt his cigarette in the ashtray, except he missed the ashtray altogether and crushed it out on the table, leaving a black pile of ashes. For a moment he stared at the pile and then he took a deep breath and pursed his lips, letting the air out slowly as if he had dragged on an imaginary cigarette.

"In my opinion," he said, "that revolution, change the system stuff was—for lack of a better phrase—a load of crap. Let's face it, who could possibly have a more vested interest in maintaining the established system than successful rock stars. Every damn one of them, from Mick Jagger to Johnny Rotten have been more interested in having these kids shell out their bucks on albums and concerts than they were in throwing bricks through the window of some idiot politician. Why else would the momentum of that rebelliousness die out so quickly? The damn kids grew up and finally realized they were being conned and it was no different with that punk stuff either. It's all just an illusion to help the 'industry' sell more product."

It was the first time he'd been really serious since our conversation had begun and it somehow made him look his real age—if not older. Wrinkles I hadn't noticed before suddenly appeared on his face and I was beginning to understand why he maintained his carefree, skirt chasing attitude.

"I suppose you're right," I said. "Deep down, I guess I knew back when we made the album. Our high ideals had less to do with rebellion than getting to the top of the charts."

He lit another cigarette and then he lifted his empty beer bottle in the air and signalled the passing waitress to bring four more. After a moment of stretching his arms in the air, he turned back to face me.

"You were the only one who was really sincere about getting across some sort of a message," he said, "that's what set you apart from the rest of us. Shit, all Gus, Benny and I were interested in was selling as many albums as possible so we could become rich and famous. If we needed protest songs to sell more albums, fine, let's write a protest song. If it had taken nursery rhymes set to music in order to sell more, that's what we would have done, no problem. Man, we used to get a kick out of all those phonies—us included—who were only in it for the drugs and free sex. You were one of the few, sincere musicians I've ever known who truly believed in a peace and nonviolence philosophy and I respected you for it."

"Come on," I said with more annoyance in my voice then I had intended, "you make me sound like some kind of a hero. I was just a mixed up kid and I needed something to take my mind off the fact that when my parents died I no longer had a security blanket to fall back on—hell, sticking it to the establishment just occupied my mind until Sarah came along and I thought I had a chance to create my own security blanket. I dropped the whole scene as easily as I had started and as soon as something better came along."

"That's not true!" Carl said with surprising force.

"What do you mean?"

"I think," he said, and then he paused, allowing my anticipation to build. "I think you just grew up like everyone else and realized there was no way you or anyone else was going to change the system as long as the money men and politicians were in power. So you just backed out and went your own way."

"What makes you think you know me better than I know myself?"

He laughed and then he took a long, deep drag on his cigarette. "Well, like I told you, I'm one of those guys who never did grow up. Why do you think I'm still running around trying to find a way to be rich and famous? Besides, I've had twelve years to think it out and it's funny how all the bitterness and confusion has a way of sorting itself out as the years go by."

"Okay, let's say I buy all that, maybe I did just realize there was nothing I could do to change things, but didn't you tell me a few minutes ago you lost your innocence and turned to music to voice your protests the same way I had. Isn't that a contradiction to what you just said? I think you cared more about making a positive contribution than you're giving yourself credit for."

"Maybe I did at first while we were struggling along trying to get noticed, but once the album was out and we got more famous, all that revolution stuff was a whole lot less important than just having a good time. I mean, all of a sudden it was easier to get drugs, it was easier to get chicks and it was a lot better having some bucks in your pocket. We all let the notoriety go to our heads until you brought us back to earth by turning your back on it all."

"But why didn't you guys just replace me and keep going? I didn't expect the band to break up when I left, in fact, I was hoping you guys would go on to even more success."

The whole time I was making my most recent proclamation he was shaking his head. "No way, man, it just wasn't meant to be. It wouldn't have been the same without you and we knew it."

Somehow Carl's explanation didn't sit comfortably with me. It seemed to me there was more to it than what he was actually telling me.

"Look, I've got to know something," I said and I gave him a critical glare that was supposed to melt his face into submission.

"What's that?"

"I'm sure you've noticed by now that Gus didn't come with me. I want you to tell me exactly what happened between you two."

He flinched slightly and this manner immediately became hesitant, wary. He crushed out his cigarette and then lit another one before answering. "I really didn't expect he would show up. Actually, it caught me off guard when you told me you were partners with him. I didn't think he was still around. Did he get upset when you told him I was in town?"

"Upset! It was more like the third world war."

There was a helpless look in his eyes, the look of a person in a wheelchair who is suddenly confronted with ten flights of stairs and no elevator. He shrugged. "Oh well, like you said on the phone, we never could figure out that guy. He was always so super sensitive, acting as if the whole world revolved around him and everyone had to treat him with kid gloves. Man, I got tired of that crap, let me tell you."

"Come on, Carl, he wasn't that bad. I know he was always a little too high strung for his own good, but that still doesn't explain why he went so totally berserk when I mentioned your name."

At that moment more beers appeared on the table. The waitress waited around for a moment expecting more attention, but Carl didn't take his eyes off of me and she finally wandered away.

"You know," he said at last, "I can picture the whole scene in my head, but I'm having a hard time remembering what was said. I'll see if I can get it straight for you." He shook his head as if he was trying to shake loose some dusty cobwebs that were stuck inside. He lit another cigarette but stubbed it out after a couple of drags when he realized he already had one burning. "After you quit the three of us had a meeting to determine what we were going to do. By the time Gus got there, Benny and I had already decided it wouldn't be the same without you and we would pack it in and go onto something else. Gus didn't agree. He kept insisting we carry on, but he finally gave up when he realized he wasn't going to change our minds and then he went crazy ... started yelling at me about some broad—I couldn't remember who he was talking about."

"What was her name?"

"I honestly can't remember, but I was supposed to have gotten her pregnant or something ... but do you realize how many broads I'd been getting it on with in those days? After awhile all the faces and bodies seemed to run together in my mind. Anyway, he got very nasty so I finally slugged him and left and I haven't seen him since. I guess I should add at this point that Gus and I had been feuding for years and it had just as much, if not more, to do with the split as your leaving."

"What!"

It was beginning to sound like we were discussing the plot of some bad novel and with each revelation from Carl, the loose wires in my brain kept sparkling and crackling in a desperate attempt to readjust to each change.

"Sure," Carl continued, "everyone acted like it was all your fault, but you were just a convenient scapegoat. If you hadn't left when you did, I was about to call everyone together and insist that we replace Gus, which likely would've had the same effect."

"Geez," I said shaking my head, "I knew you guys got on each other's nerves, but how come I never noticed you were outright enemies?"

"Hey man, you were so busy writing and keeping the whole thing from falling apart, I'm surprised you had time to sleep."

As he finished speaking, a strange feeling swept over me, the kind of feeling you get after you frantically tear the house apart looking for your car keys only to discover they were in your coat pocket all the time—a mixture of relief and anger at yourself for getting so upset over nothing. At the same time, I could feel the lead weight that had been floundering around my shoulders fall the rest of the way to the ground.

"What's the matter?" Carl asked warily. "You look kinda funny."

"What?"

"You look like someone just told you a funny joke and you're having a hard time stifling a laugh."

"Really?"

Now I knew I was starting to go crazy because I was actually snickering under my breath. Huge gusts of air seemed to swell up into my throat and I wasn't sure whether I was going to break out laughing or start to cry. I took a deep breath and then I did a Dizzy Gillespie with my cheeks, holding the palm of my right hand over my mouth and blowing hard. The room started spinning around—not surprising since I'd consumed four beers in addition to my earlier Black Russians, and when I looked at Carl he seemed to have grown an extra pair of eyes next to the ones he was born with.

"You know, Carl," I said, my tongue having a difficult time wrapping itself around the words, "I feel great!"

"You do?" he exclaimed, all four of his eyes going wide. And then he smiled. "You know, you're almost as crazy as I am. We always did make a good pair, it's too bad we lost track of each other all of these years." He reached over and we shook hands vigorously, like two businessmen who had just consummated the deal of the century.

"Yep, you're right ... but like ol' Frank Sinatra said ..." I rustled up my best Sinatra voice and crooned "Regrets, I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention ..." and then I started laughing like an hysterical chimpanzee. Carl joined in and together we croaked out a chorus that would have made an inebriated frog proud. "And I did it Miiiiieeeee Waaaaayyyyy ..."

Unlike my earlier madness just before I'd met Tony, my laughter was more genuine; less hysterical. It felt great to really laugh again, to laugh with Carl, to feel the warmth of friendship and to sense that it didn't matter anymore what had happened between us in the past; it was possible to resurrect that old spirit, the youthful innocence that had been lost to the cancer of ambition and self-seeking glory. It was like finding buried treasure, and maybe it even signalled the return of my self-confidence, but I didn't want to speculate on that ... I was having too good a time.

As we completed our rendition of the song, we raised our bottles and chug-a-lugged the beer in a foamy race to see who would buy the next round—I won, of course. We were then joined by Jake, Henry, Jimmie and Freeman and after some quick introductions on both sides, we immediately started a terribly off-key, but highly exuberant version of Sinatra's _That's Life_.

It seemed like the party would go on forever until, despite my hazy drunken condition, I noticed a lurking figure standing behind Carl. At first it didn't register " only a fleeting glimpse out of the corner of my eye " but then something clicked and the familiarity struck me, so I turned my head to get a better look.

The figure lingered at a distance for a few seconds and then walked up and tapped Carl on the shoulder. Carl looked around, his face immediately turning pale and then he stood up and after a brief moment of contemplation, he offered his hand.

The figure continued to glare at him, and then, without warning, he landed a vicious right fist on Carl's unexpecting jaw.

It was Gus.

The force of the blow sent Carl reeling backwards into my arms where I managed to break his fall—but he looked like he was out cold. The people around us had gone into an alarmed hush and I felt completely helpless standing there holding the dead weight of his body. But after a few seconds, when it became apparent there was no more immediate danger, everyone crowded around and offered to help. Amina seemed to appear out of nowhere and I was able to lay Carl down and transfer his head to her lap where she began to soothe and caress his face.

When I looked up again, Gus was nowhere to be seen. I looked down at Carl, who was by now groaning as consciousness slowly returned, and then I continued searching the faces in the crowd, knowing I had to somehow find Gus. I stumbled through the rows of anxious bodies, feeling like a match on fire and I managed to get through the front door of the club.

The cold chill hit me like a bare-handed slap on the face as I scanned the deserted street. There was no one in sight, but I blundered my way down the icy sidewalk for a block before I realized that in my intoxicated condition, I stood a good chance of falling flat on my face and breaking my neck, so I turned back.

I wondered why there was always so few dry patches between the oceans of slippery ice and snow where your feet could get a decent grip.

### Chapter Ten

The all-night donut shop was comfortably subdued after the crowded jauntiness of The Hideaway. The coffee was steaming but bitter and I sipped the coarse, black liquid carefully, not wanting to add a burned tongue to my growing list of aches and pains.

My companion, bright-eyed and beautiful, sat across from me, her chin resting on the top of the bridge formed by her hands and arms, her seductive face intense and searching and yet, I felt comfortable, as if I'd known her all my life. She had a calm, straight forwardness about her that didn't demand more than you were willing to give and except for her sultry sexuality which kept my attention riveted on her face, we could have been two factory buddies having coffee before going to work on the night shift.

For a moment, I wondered what I looked like through her eyes. Could she see the weariness that dragged at me as if I hadn't slept for days even though it was only an hour or so past midnight? Through her eyes, did I look like a former rock musician/real estate salesman turned Ad Agency owner/music critic who lived in a messy sixth floor apartment with a Siamese cat named Sam, whose wife was engaged to an Italian grease ball, whose rich father-in-law was going bankrupt and who couldn't decide whether his business partner was going crazy or already there?

Or was I just another guy she'd met in another town on another day in her life that was no different than any other day? Time would tell, but it seemed to me that every breath she took, every flick of her hypnotic eyes and every meaningful stare was telling me she wanted more than just a quiet chat over coffee.

The last thing I'd expected after returning from my foiled attempt to find Gus was that I would end up having coffee alone with her. She'd been waiting at my table talking to an obviously enthralled Jimmie, and when I appeared, she greeted me like an old friend and explained to me the final set had been cancelled and that Jake and Henry had taken Carl to the hospital and left her behind to keep me company.

"How is Carl? Is he going to be okay?"

"Sure, he'll be fine. It takes a lot more than a broken jaw to keep Carl out of action, believe me."

"Broken jaw!"

"Hey, don't worry," she said as if Carl's getting punched out was a regular occurrence, "he'll still be able to play again tomorrow night. He just won't be able to talk very much for a few days ... which isn't such a bad idea the way he's been acting lately." She leaned over and whispered softly in my ear, "I think he's going through menopause—men do, you know." She nodded her head with mock seriousness and then she giggled like a giddy teenager.

"Menopause? At his age?" At first I wasn't sure whether she was pulling my leg or not, until I saw the devilish look on her face. I couldn't help smiling despite my tension. There was something endearingly charming about the playful poutiness of her raspberry lips and the twinkling of her cocoa eyes that totally disarmed me.

She put her hand on my arm and said, "It's too stuffy in here, why don't we go somewhere else and talk."

"But I don't have my car ..."

"That's okay, we can take mine."

We found a quiet corner table and I spent a lavish amount of time singing the praises of her masterful keyboard playing which she accepted with an appropriate amount of modesty and cocky self-confidence. She knew she was exceptional at what she did and she wasn't afraid to have someone pat her on the back for it. I also determined she was indeed of Lebanese heritage, born in Toronto the same year I was born.

I blew at the steam rising from my cup, attempted another sip with dire results and wondered if Amina would trade me her hot chocolate if I promised not to say, "you've got marvellous hands" again. Not likely. She had already informed me that she did not indulge in coffee, beer or drugs which seemed out of character for a travelling musician. But then again, not every salesman wore loud, tasteless suits, not every basketball player was over seven feet tall and not every male hairdresser was gay—it only seemed that way.

I tried to feel guilty about not feeling guilty about what had happened between Carl and Gus, but to no avail. Perhaps I was all guiltied out, or maybe my absorbed fascination with the way she moved and talked and gestured had crowded out all other emotions as if I were a twelve-year-old kid having the first signs of being in puppy love with his new History teacher.

It was her eyes, I decided. They reminded me of Buttercup's eyes in _The Princess Bride_ , the way they smiled and danced when she laughed; the way they looked deeply into mine, penetrating and discerning with uninhibited intensity ... but it was also her hands. Ordinary hands, really, with unpolished nails and fingers that were long and slender ... but it was the way they moved and gestured with the same intensity and conviction as her eyes.

"You've got marvellous hands," I said again. I couldn't resist.

"And you've got expressive eyebrows," she responded immediately, "they talk as much as your eyes do."

"Oh really? And what do they say?"

"I'm not sure—yet," she said, her face pondering. "I sense ... I don't know, a kind of sadness, as if you'd just spent a year vigorously training for the Boston Marathon, absolutely certain you would win, but instead, you came in second ... you know what I mean?"

"Second!" I exclaimed, my voice shading too close to bitterness, "I should be so lucky. I'm usually one of the stragglers bringing up the rear."

"Oh, come on, that's silly," she said, her eyes searching, "just because you're going through a fallow period it doesn't mean you're a loser."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, everyone, especially creative people, have down times in their lives when they question their abilities. It's a shame, but someone with your talents should be supremely confident ... but that's the way it is, sometimes ... what can you do?"

"My talents? What do you know about my talents? I mean, we just met."

She gave me a crafty smile. "Oh, I know a lot more about you and your talents than you might think I do. For instance, I know that you're stubborn as hell, don't like to wear a hat or be categorized with any particular group, but you're also a good leader who is able to draw out hidden talents from people who might not be able to do it on their own. You've written some very poignant songs that transcend typical rock music."

I interrupted her. "Wait a minute, how the hell can you say—"

She interrupted right back. "Don't interrupt!" she said as she slapped my wrist gently.

"Okay, okay."

"Now," she continued, "you're also a very good photographer, an excellent keyboardist and I've recently discovered, a knowledgeable music critic, although I don't agree with your intolerable attitude towards the new rock music. Let's see ..." she put her hand on her chin, "... you're a strongly independent person who doesn't believe in religion or politics, your wife's name is Sarah but you've been separated for some time ... and you used to have a beard. How am I doing?"

"Great, but how do you know?" and then it occurred to me, "of course, Carl!"

"Yes. Carl speaks so highly of you, sometimes I've wondered if the person he's been telling me about all these years was just a figment of his imagination."

"Maybe that person is," I said.

"No, I don't think so. I think that person is just going through one of those down periods in his life. Carl was really disappointed to hear you didn't keep playing keyboards for a living, especially since you were the one who inspired him to become the accomplished musician he is today. He really admires you."

"I'm finally beginning to realize that. It's funny how your mind is always your own worst enemy. All these years I thought Carl hated me for breaking up the band and it turns out he neither hates me nor blames me entirely for the split; he blames himself and Gus just as much."

Once again I let my mind slip back into the greyness of my memories. I took a sip of coffee, the taste still bitter, but in an oblique way, refreshing. I watched as Amina pulled out a small compact from her handbag and quickly refresh her lipstick. She didn't mind my watching her or seem concerned about my sudden silent spell.

After she returned the brush to her purse, we sat quietly, the constant buzz of the busy donut shop all around us. For a few moments my thoughts returned to Gus and the overwhelming hatred that still smouldered inside him even after all of these years. I wondered what was at the bottom of it all and I realized only Gus could answer that question since Carl didn't seem to know. I had to find Gus and somehow wring the answer out of him if necessary before I could do anything to help either one of them make amends.

"What made you quit?" Amina asked. "Being a musician, that is."

"I don't know," I said, wondering how much more of me I should reveal. "I guess I had enough success to satisfy the part of me that needed that. Then I got married and my wife wasn't as interested in music as I'd thought she was, so I just stopped writing songs. She was so indifferent, it seemed like a waste of time to even bother and once I started selling real estate, I didn't have time to be creative—no, that's not true, I guess it wasn't a matter of time, it just wasn't very important to me anymore ..." I left whatever thoughts that remained unspoken.

"I see, you lost your passion."

"Lost my passion? What do you mean?"

"Well, when you left the band you no longer had an outlet for your creativity and since Sarah was indifferent, there was no incentive to help you sustain your courage to create. So, you lost your passion. In other words, you lost the spark that burns inside a creative person which enables him or her to continue despite the pain and hard work. Let's see, Dashiell Hammett was one and even John Lennon stopped creating for over five years."

"Hmm, that's all very interesting, but what makes you think I had any passion or even any creativity to lose?"

"Because the same thing happened to me." She seemed to fall back into her own dark memories for a moment. "I couldn't do anything for three years. It was terrible! I started playing piano when I was only four and by the time I was eighteen I was sick of it. I was tired of the practising and studying and I couldn't imagine ever doing it for a living. Fortunately, I have my, ah ... my, Father to thank for getting me turned on to jazz and I was able to rekindle the spark I'd lost and find my way back. My fallow period only lasted three years, but I really know what you're going through. You've taken longer to come out of it, but don't worry, you'll make it back okay."

"Make it back from where?" I asked sharply, "what I'm going through is absolutely nothing; I have nothing more to create. As far as I'm concerned, I was just a one-shot wonder, a flash-in-the-pan. I stumbled into a situation that allowed me a certain amount of freedom and I was able to take my mind off my personal problems at the time. Not everyone is lucky enough to have that happen and I was smart enough to take advantage of the situation, but that's all it was for me—pure luck, plain and simple."

"You really are stubborn, aren't you?" she said, her brow furrowing with annoyance, and then she smiled. "Look, I know it seems like everything you've done in the past is worthless, but that confidence will come back. Most people don't understand creativity, they think you just sit around waiting to be inspired, but it doesn't work that way. The one thing I learned during those years was you can't ignore your talents, you have to keep working at it even if you only produce drivel ... that really takes courage, but if more people tried a little harder, there would be a lot more creative thinking going on in this world." She was so caught up with what she was saying, she was almost shouting and the people around us were beginning to stare.

I felt like a kid who was being chastised by his piano teacher for not practising hard enough. Maybe that's what I needed, a good swift kick in the butt.

"You really are passionate," I said, my eyes quickly glancing sideways and then back.

Her eyes followed mine and when she saw the staring faces, she giggled and then she reached over and covered my hand with hers, tossed her head back and said in a sensual semi-whisper, "I love being with you, Darling, I don't often have an opportunity to cut loose like this, but you allow me the freedom of not having to wear a mask and that is what passion is all about; being able to express ones self totally, in every circumstance, whether you're writing a song, painting a picture or ... or making love." She paused while her eyes dug deeper into mine.

The warmness and gentle squeezing of her hand on mine felt comfortable and I could feel a spurt of another kind of passion stirring inside me.

"Just don't give up on yourself," she said. "Believe me, these things have a way of working themselves out, whether it takes two days or twenty years. You just have to change some of that negative complexity into some positive self-confidence."

"Okay, you win," I said laughing. "I'll start practising again first thing in the morning, but you may have to stand over me with a whip for the first little while until I'm able to stick with it."

"That would be nice," she said slowly, "I'd like that. We Arabs are a passionate people, maybe I can instil some back into you."

There was a long pause as we both seemed to mediate on what we had just said. Dared I assume that she was interested in more than a passing friendship?

"Tell me about yourself," I said. It seemed like a logical direction for the conversation to go since we'd done my life to death. "How in the world did you end up playing jazz-fusion? I don't believe there are very many Lebanese jazz musicians around. You must have a fascinating family tree."

As I finished speaking, there seemed to be a slight stiffening in her manner. For a moment, she turned her head and looked away, slowly moving her hand back to her cup. She seemed to be withdrawing into herself as her fingers curled around the cup and she raised it to her lips and sipped. I got the feeling she was wasting time in an attempt to avoid responding to my question.

She lowered the cup and then said, somewhat reluctantly, "What would you like to know?"

"Everything there is to know about you?" I said with a grin. "Unless, of course, you'd feel I'm prying."

"No, of course not ... it's just that ... I don't like talking about myself."

"Well, I don't particularly enjoy talking about myself either, but that's what I've been doing ever since we got here," I said, my curiosity now piqued at her diffidence.

Her gaze returned to my eyes. She was still hesitating, still determining and then a look of decisiveness crossed her face and with a barely audible sigh she began speaking with a tone of frazzled emotionalism, a side of her I had a feeling she rarely displayed.

"My grandparents," she began, her voice tentative, unsure, "came over from Lebanon in the early fifties to the so-called 'land of opportunity' of America. My grandfather opened his first restaurant in New York City—are you sure you're really interested in this?"

"Absolutely," I said, "we're not leaving until I know everything about you."

She took another sip from her cup and then she gave me a shrug and a grin. "My mother was a budding teenager when the family arrived," she continued, "and she was immediately taken by the fascinating wonders of city life. She was young and naive and even though she'd been raised a strict Muslim, she was easily influenced by her Arabic girlfriends who hadn't been brought up so strictly and who were experimenting with the less restrictive ways and customs of the Western world.

"One night when she was seventeen or eighteen, I think—she was enticed by some of her girlfriends to go down to 52nd Street with their American boyfriends to one of those hot jazz clubs and—to make a long story short, she met and fell in love with a young, and very talented jazz pianist by the name of Gregory Steel ..."

I must have given her a dubious look because she threw her hands into the air and said, "I know, you're going to say how in the world could a devout Lebanese Muslim girl who could hardly speak English fall in love with an American jazz musician ... sounds impossible, right? Well ..." she shrugged, "... well, stranger things have happened."

"Sounds very romantic," I said. "What's your mother's name?"

'"Yasamin." She said the name with affection, but her eyes showed signs of sorrow. "Yasamin Ashe."

"Oh, then you have your mother's last name."

"Yes, I'll explain." She paused again as her gaze turned inward towards her past as she seemed to be searching for the least painful words. "This is difficult," she said, "I ... I've never told anyone before ..."

She was losing her composure and I didn't know how to react so I just covered her hands with mine and remained silent. I felt a wonderfully warm sense of connection.

She took a deep breath, exhaling slowly through her mouth. "The affair was brief, my mother finally came to her senses; but it was too late, though she didn't know it at the time. When she finally realized she was pregnant, she knew she was being punished by Allah for her transgression, but she couldn't keep herself from returning to the club in search of her Gregory. With some difficulty she discovered the band he was playing in had left town a few days before for this strange place called Chicago ... and she never saw him again."

Amina paused, a grim smile trailing across her face. "I should explain the seriousness of the situation she found herself in. The Muslim faith does not allow forgiveness for what she had done, in fact, if her family had still been in Lebanon there is a good chance her father would have allowed her to be put to death for her sins. My mother knew this would not happen now they were in America, but she had to face the fact she would be treated as an outcast by her family, and especially her father who would be horrified when he found out what his daughter had done.

"That night she wandered aimlessly through the streets of New York, not really caring, almost hoping she would be mugged and murdered, thus saving her from a life of shame and isolation, but fate did not cooperate with her wishes. She found herself standing near the Hudson River, the dust and grit of the city clinging to her from head to foot, and with a silent prayer, she prepared to throw herself into the murky water. But something inside her would not allow her to commit the act of suicide and the feeling passed. She decided she would instead return to her family and face the consequences."

The next minute passed in silence while the image of a young, desperate girl caught in the clutches of a strange new world filtered through my mind and I felt sad. Amina's eyes remained fixed on the wall behind me, as if a giant movie screen was playing back images and people from her past who seemed to haunt her mind.

"What happened when she returned?"

"They rejected her, of course, but then, they had no choice. it was the way things were done."

"Where did she go?"

"For a time she stayed with one of her close friends from school, but it was difficult for her, being so close to her family but not being able to communicate with them. It turned out her friend was from Canada, temporarily staying with relatives in New York, and when her friend returned to Toronto the following spring, she asked my mother to come with her. Mother accepted the offer and so she left New York City forever. I was born a few months later on a hot August day, which makes me a Lebanese/American/Canadian—and I've never been to New York City, though someday I know that I must return to the place where I began ..." Her voice trailed off, her hands quivered slightly and a solitary tear slid slowly down her cheek.

"That's the saddest story I've ever heard," I said softly as I reached over and wiped the tear from her cheek with the tip of my finger, my emotions jumping and pitching inside me. "Is your Mother still in Toronto?"

"Yes, she lives alone now except for when I come home to visit and she's the best damn food service consultant North General Hospital has ever had and you know, I've never heard her express a bitter word or complain about what happened to her."

"Has she ever tried to contact her parents?"

"No. Maybe if she hadn't moved so far away she might have someday reconciled with them, but she learned to live her life without them, and after all these years she feels it's too late now."

"It's such a pity how one mistake can turn someone you are close to against you and have such a dire effect on your life. Somehow it doesn't seem fair."

"Oh, I don't think my mother feels that way. She's accepted the fact she'll never reconcile with her family and she's content that her punishment was fair considering the sin she'd committed. She's still a devout Muslim and I admire her for the way she turned her life around."

There was no longer any sign of sorrow on Amina's face. She seemed to have taken on a new strength and admiration for her mother and the life she'd been forced to live. As I watched her face, I could feel a yawn coming on so I removed my hand from hers in a vain attempt to cover it up.

"Perhaps we should be going," she said, smiling warmly, her lashes fluttering. "You look as if you could use some tender loving care."

I lifted my cup in order to drain the remaining coffee and was startled by its emptiness. I'd been so absorbed with Amina, I'd finished the bitter coffee without realizing it. I stood up and helped her with her jacket and then we made our way to her car, one of those classic Z28 Camaros; black with a wide gold racing stripe, square front headlights and a stereo system that could blow your brains out. It was nice running into a friendly Camaro for a change.

The temperature had risen above freezing and the heavy snowfall had now turned into a light drizzle and a noticeably diminished wind. We walked slowly across the parking lot, the cold dampness in the night air causing me to shiver, and yet the closeness of Amina gave me a warm glow in the pit of my stomach. I could feel a strong bond growing between us, as if our lives had been drawn together by a strange magnetic force.

I tried not to think about where my past had led me and where my future would take me and instead I focused my complete attention on the moment. I tried hard not to fall back into my usual behaviour of assuming too much, fearful I would upset the delicate feelings and unspoken emotions that seemed to hang in the air, but wanting desperately to show some sign of my willingness to get involved. Impulsively, I reached over and held her hand until we reached the car. Her response was warm and willing and I was loath to let her hand slip away as we entered.

I felt amazingly tranquil in the cold, dark atmosphere of the car. I sunk into the low-slung bucket seat and stretched out my legs, my hands warming to the softness of the velour interior. I was surprised by how much I suddenly missed the flashy opulence of owning a fancy new car and then something inside me —was it guilt? —told me I should be scouring the city streets and bars in search of Gus, but the feeling passed as I watched Amina watching me.

She slid a CD into the stereo and the sound of Chick Corea's _Spain_ filled the small interior of the car to overflowing. I sat up, leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips and then I sunk back down into the seat, allowing my energy to drain away. My mind was filled with unanswered questions about Amina—was she feeling the same way I was? Did the connection between us seem right? —but for the moment, I was satisfied to just sit quietly in the dark and allow whatever was going to happen, happen.

She started the car, allowing the engine to warm up for a minute and then she turned to me and said, "Where to, Boss, your place or mine?"

"Where's your place?"

"The Holiday Inn."

"Better make it mine."

### Chapter Eleven

"Are you a complicated person?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

She smiled. "On whether you think I'm complicated. Sometimes I'm very complicated to a person who doesn't understand me." With that statement she broke into a passionate laugh, maskless and pure and then she scanned through some of the albums and CDs in my collection and pulled one out. "You've got to be kidding!" she exclaimed with a bout of giggles that punctuated her amazement, _The Monkee's Greatest Hits_?

I shrugged, feeling somewhat embarrassed. "I know, but they were a lot better than some of the junk out today," I said defensively.

"I could give you an argument on that," she said, "but I'm not in the mood for arguing right now." She continued her search until she came across the _Mass Media_ album. "Do you mind if I play it?" she asked. "Carl has a copy but it's old and scratched. This one looks like its in better shape. I wouldn't mind hearing it without all those pops and crackles."

"You sure you want to hear it? That music is a bit dated."

"I don't think it's dated at all," she said as she placed the CD in the player, but she kept the volume down low, a good idea since I don't think the neighbours would have appreciated the noise this late at night.

We'd been sitting on the floor in the middle of my living room for at least an hour surrounded by my music collection, photo collection and the ghosts of our memories and I was still trying to comprehend Sam's reaction—non-reaction would be a better word—to Amina. Earlier he'd carefully inspected her and then wandered away, seemingly indifferent which I didn't quite understand, she'd been friendly enough. Perhaps he'd expected Sarah again, who knows!

Amina and I had continued our delicate probing into each other's childhoods, philosophies of life, deepest, darkest secrets and the hopes and dreams that would shape our futures. I'd learned how she started taking piano lessons at the age of four because her mother was determined Amina would not end up being a waitress all her life. The wonders of Mozart, Chopin and Beethoven had filled the void of not having a father and Yasamin had carefully sheltered her young daughter from all other types of music.

However, as a teenager, the influences of rock 'n' roll were easily available and Amina found herself wanting to try her hand at playing the songs of Lennon and McCartney, Elton John and The Eagles, among others. Her mother fiercely opposed that idea, steadfastly refusing to allow her daughter to play anything but the classics until, by the time she turned eighteen, Amina decided to stop playing altogether.

"I guess I was just being stubborn, but at the time I didn't realize I was only hurting myself. Suddenly, without music in my life, I got restless and I started questioning my mother about my father; where he was, where he came from and so on. She really couldn't tell me much, since she'd never really known him, except that he'd gone to Chicago, 'wherever that is'. I became obsessed with finding him—and I did, still in Chicago, still a jazz musician, married and divorced three times with eight children and living alone with a sheep dog and a cockatoo. He refused to believe I was his daughter, even though I obviously resembled him, but he claimed he remembered my mother. 'She was the most beautiful woman I have ever known', he told me, but he couldn't remember her name. I guess it didn't matter, at least I'd found him."

At this point she sighed, her face surprisingly vulnerable as if she was walking across a tightrope and she had lost her equilibrium and was trying desperately to maintain her balance.

"I spent a year in Chicago with him, listening and learning and he restored my vitality for music. He taught me how to play by ear and the principles of improvising ..." She chuckled. "He kept telling me 'You've got to _feel_ the music, if you don't _feel_ the music, you might as well spend your life digging ditches 'cos you ain't gonna be no piano player'. Needless to say, I loved his music, from the Big Band stuff like Ellington and Goodman to bebop, like Miles Davis and Charlie Parker—you know it ... it was quite a learning experience."

She seemed to be having a good time remembering her father, so I kept quiet but my hand somehow developed a mind of its own and it slid across the carpet until it was holding her hand.

"When I returned to Toronto, my mother was furious," she continued, her tone quietly sombre. "It took her a long time to realize I was now a different person; I had different goals and ambitions than the ones she'd planned for me. It was very tense for a year or so, but she finally got used to the idea that I wanted to be a jazz pianist like my father and now she has even learned to enjoy the music." She paused for a moment. "Once that was settled, I threw myself into learning jazz-fusion—and then one day I met Carl ... and here I am, playing the music I was born to play and lovin' every minute of it."

As she finished talking, the _Mass Media_ CD went into the thirty seconds of silence just before the opening chords of _Living For A Dream_. For a moment I felt strangely embarrassed, as if I was about to be forced to spend the next three minutes standing naked in front of a convention of Psychiatrists and I was afraid that nobody would notice me. I had a sudden, desperate craving for a cigarette, something that hadn't happened for over a year. My eyes flicked around the room in a useless search since I knew there wasn't a cigarette anywhere in the apartment, unless you counted the smashed remains of Sarah's still sitting in the ugly yellow dish on the coffee table ... I wasn't quite that desperate.

Three minutes later, as the player turned itself off, I was surprised by the feeling of pride and euphoria that had risen up inside me. It really _was_ a good song—maybe even an excellent song! Maybe someday I could do it again ... if I worked hard ... if I got my priorities in order ... I had to talk to Gus, work something out ... maybe sell him my half of the company so I could ...

"It's a beautiful song."

"Huh? Oh, sorry. What did you say?"

"I said: it's a beautiful song. You should be proud of it." As she spoke, she stretched her long, willowy body along the carpet and then rested her head on my lap. "Do you remember what you were feeling at the time? What you were trying to express?"

"I guess I was just trying to say what everyone else was at the time—stop hating, try to tolerate one another ..." The closeness of her body kept pumping up my adrenaline and I played with the idea of reaching down and caressing her lovely, soft breasts and then slowly working my way to her hips and thighs ... instead, I gently ran my fingers through the soft textures of her silky black hair. "Why do people hate?" I asked, not really expecting an answer. "I mean, other than listening to Chris Matthews talk about politics, I can't remember ever really hating anyone enough to actually try to injure them—other than myself, of course."

She turned her face and looked up at me, her eyes penetrating, intense. "You're still uptight about what happened tonight between Carl And Gus, aren't you."

I nodded. "There's something about the ferocity, the hatred I saw in his eyes that scares me. I've learned to live with his insolent nature, to me it's all an act; his way of getting attention, but I never thought he was capable of violence ... I could never ever hit anyone like that. Something nasty has been brewing inside of him for a long time—something none of us know about and if I don't find out what it is and try to settle him down, there's no telling what he might do to himself."

"Hatred is a strange thing," she said, "we're all capable of it, but some are able to keep it under control better than others. I think it has a lot to do with conditioning, the way a person is brought up, the values they're taught. Parents teach their children their moral standards, their religion, even their way of cooking or driving a car, so it only stands to reason they would also teach their children to hate the things they hate, whether it's other people or objects or maybe just certain ways of doing things. What was Gus' childhood like?"

I thought for a moment and then I realized I didn't have any idea. "You know, I haven't got a clue. I've never really talked to him about his parents or his childhood. Isn't that strange? I've known the guy for about eighteen years and yet I know so little about him"

"No, that's not unusual, some people don't like to talk about their early days" she said with a grin and a wink.

"I suppose not. You know, I was just thinking about what you were saying about parents teaching their children how to hate. Wouldn't the same thing apply to love?"

"Absolutely! I'm a good example. If my mother had been bitter and angry about what happened to her, she would have taught me to hate my father, probably all men. But instead, she instilled a love for music in me, without which I would never have gone to Chicago."

"You were fortunate your mother was intelligent enough to see beyond her own suffering and not try to make others suffer because of it ... not everyone's so lucky. Maybe that's what happened to Gus, maybe he had lousy parents who ignored him or something, I don't know."

There was a tantalizing sliver of skin showing between her sweatshirt and pants and I almost reached out and touched it.

"Maybe, but I think Gus is filled with a different kind of hate, more of a reactionary type, like when somebody walks up and insults you and you simply respond to what the person said. That's the kind of hate we learn all by ourselves. If someone does something to hurt us, we react accordingly, probably by wanting to hurt them back ...

"But if somebody approaches us with a loving or an understanding attitude, we'll most likely respond with love—just like we're doing now, right?" This time I couldn't resist and I rubbed my finger gently along her exposed belly.

She reacted with a giggle and then she slapped my hand playfully. "Stop that, I'm ticklish. I thought we were having a serious discussion here?"

"Okay, okay," I said as I pulled my hand back. "Now, was your reaction to getting tickled love or hate?"

"Hate!" she yelled with mock rage.

"Oh really? Well then, I'm going to have to punish you for that," I said and then I immediately attacked her, my hands methodically tickling her stomach and breasts until she screamed with laughter.

She finally broke loose and got to her hands and knees and tried to crawl away, but I caught her ankle and pulled her back, which only prompted her to go on the offensive. She lunged at my stomach and before I knew it, my belt was undone, and then my shirt was resting on the floor on top of her sweatshirt and our childish playfulness had turned into gentle embraces and I closed my eyes and wondered when I would wake up from the wonderful dream I was having. But when I opened them again she was still there and I tried to remember the last time I had experienced such invigorating contentment and it turned out to be the day Carl and I completed the final editing of _Mass Media_ , our arduous creation finally completed ... which made me wonder why it wasn't the day I found out the album had reached the charts.

It was inevitable our embraces would lead to the bedroom, and as I carried her in, I pictured myself as Bogey in _Casablanca_ , and she was my Ilsa and despite the war and the Nazis and the hatred that surrounded us, we had been lucky enough to find each other again and it would take a lot more than a German General or the good and bad memories of Paris to keep us apart.

Not a word passed between us, only savoury looks of anticipation. It was as if our actions were being directed by some kind of mental telepathy. There were no reveries, no guns exploding or bells ringing, nothing to signify anything beyond two people expressing their mutual respect and caring and yet ... and yet, it was like a new adventure of exploration and for once in my life I wasn't standing outside of myself, watching, grading, trying to determine whether my performance was adequate or just passable.

Her hands were marvellous as they touched, caressed with an insistent wanting that made the moments last for years and the sensations explode as they raced frantically back and forth between my fingers and toes. It was so different then making love to Sarah had been. This time there was no rush to finish because it was getting late and we had to get up in a few hours and besides, 'I just changed the sheets and they'll get messed up and anyway, didn't we do this last night?' and then it became 'didn't we do this a couple of days ago?' and then 'a couple of weeks ago'—it was about the time it had become a couple of months ago that I left.

No, this time we had all the time in the world. We were on a space ship to Jupiter with years of secluded intimacy separating our launch and our final arrival. But would our landing at that final destination be smooth and gentle? Or would we discover the new landscape was cloudy and barren, the ground too covered with hazardous rocks to allow us to walk safely?

It didn't seem to matter. Nothing mattered beyond those moments. It was an incredible release, an abdication of worry and doubt and a rekindling of a spirit I thought I'd lost forever; a realization that someone could care despite the uncertainties and imperfections and when it was over, we held each other close and continued to delve into each other's minds, talking in spurts, followed by lengthy, tranquil silences.

"Why did your marriage break up?"

I hesitated for a moment, conducting a deep, thorough search into the recesses of my mind before answering. "I guess you could say I'm a mover on-er. In other words, rather than hang in there and deal with the problems in a relationship, I've always moved on. Things weren't working out the way I'd hoped, so I quit — gave up — ran away, just like I'd done with the band and when my father died. I thought ten years of trying was enough, I'd done my best ... I couldn't give anymore—now I'm not so sure."

"Do you still love her?"

I hesitated again. "I don't know ... probably."

"Did you ever have an affair?"

"No, but I wanted to."

"Why?"

I took a deep breath and then let the air escape slowly. "I was never a hustler, even when the band was popular and there were all kinds of groupies hanging around. Somehow it just didn't seem right to treat another human being as an object of your own pleasures. Oh, I had the occasional one night stand like everyone else, I mean, I'm only human, but I had too much respect for most women to carry on the way Carl does."

My eyes moved around the darkness of the room until they landed on a shadowy figure sitting cautiously on top of the piano. I gave a quick signal and Sam immediately jumped down with an 'it's about time' yelp and found a comfortable nook on the bed next to me and then I continued.

"During the last year when it became obvious neither Sarah nor I were going to make an effort to prevent our marriage from falling apart, I thought having a mistress might help to relieve some of the tension—you know, someone to confide in, mentally as well as physically. But of course, I was at a loss as to how to go about finding one. If it had just happened without my actively seeking it out, I probably would have taken advantage of the situation, but it didn't happen. Sometimes I wonder if we would still be together if it had."

"What makes you say that?"

"I don't know. I read somewhere that sometimes an affair can help a marriage ... sounds kind of silly, I guess."

"No, not really. Did Sarah ever have an affair?"

The question startled me. Instead of answering, I worried Sam's whiskers until he started swinging his paw at my hand. I had never thought in terms of Sarah having an affair, a state of mind attributable to the male ego part of me, no doubt.

"Gee, I don't think she did," I said tentatively, and then I remembered Tony and even though I no longer had any claims on how Sarah conducted her love life, I felt all the pain, anger and hurt that I would have experienced if I had. "Ouch! Come on Sam, I give up, let's call a truce." I did my best to scratch him under his chin until he calmed down.

I turned my attention back to the warm, steady stream of Amina's breath on my chest and the soft contours of her body against mine. It was a moment I wanted to remember for the rest of my life, like the first time I kissed Sarah back in ...

"Do you still want to have children?"

My fists clenched, breaking the spell. I started to say one thing, but said something else instead.

"No ... maybe ... damn, I don't know!" I saw a fuzzy, grey-haired old man who looked a lot like me trying to explain something to a little boy who just couldn't seem to understand.

Amina raised her head until her lips were next to my ear. "You tensed up. I'm sorry, I should have realized you were still trying to work that out," she said softly and then she kissed my cheek.

My fists immediately lost their grip. "S'okay." I found myself gazing out the window at the faint shafts of moonlight that had managed to break through the light, misty fog of the night. "What about you?" I asked. "Do you think you'll ever get married and have children?"

Silence.

I waited.

More silence.

I wondered if she had fallen asleep or if I should ask the question again, but then I heard her clear her throat.

"Maybe."

"Would you care to expand on that a bit?"

Heavy sigh. Silence.

"I suppose I might get married someday ... if the right person came along." There was more doubt than conviction in her tone of voice. "Getting married is something I have never really pictured myself doing. I've got so many other things I want to accomplish ..."

"Are you afraid of marriage?"

She snickered, and then she mumbled, "No, not really ... but I know someone who is ..."

"Huh?"

"Skip it. Actually, I would probably enjoy the security of marriage, but I'm not sure that's really necessary for happiness. Look at it from my perspective. My mother has never been married and it has never hurt our relationship. On the other hand, my father has been married three times and he has eight children — nine counting me, and he doesn't know any of them. So which is better? In the long run, I think it's more important being loved then being married. Besides, it would take a very special man to put up with my being on the road so much."

"It must be strange for you travelling with three guys."

"Not really. I get teased a lot, but they're great guys. Carl handles the business end of things, taking care of the bookings and accommodations and we've got two roadies who usually bring along their wives, so I do have some female companionship, although I wouldn't miss it if they weren't along. We don't really travel all that far, usually clubs around the east coast. This is the first time we've been to here."

I thought about the times I'd spent playing music and travelling on the road with three guys and, for a moment, I wondered why I'd given it up. Looking back now, it was easier to remember the good times, the fun we had pretending we really knew what we were doing, the shared memories that had somehow affected each of us differently. "You really enjoy your lifestyle, don't you."

"Love it."

"I envy you for that. You know exactly what you want and where you're going. That's a lot more than most people ... maybe someday I'll get my life figured out like you have."

"You will."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Well, first of all, don't you think for an instant I've got everything in my life figured out. I don't, just the creative side of things. But you're a lot like me. I can't believe how much I've been able to share with you in such a short period of time. I've told you things I wouldn't have dreamed of telling anyone else ... and I've felt good doing it. We're both free spirits, we're not comfortable when we think our independence is being shackled. That's been your problem, you keep surrounding yourself with situations that don't seem to allow you very much freedom, at least, that's what you think at the time and you're always trying to break free."

"But why me? Why haven't you been able to confide in Carl? You've known him for a long time."

There was a long pause and the rhythm of her breathing seemed to intensify.

"Carl is, ah ... very special to me. We ah, shall I say, have an ... an understanding, but he's a lot like my father. He's wild and reckless and if I ever talk too long about myself and the things that bother me he usually falls asleep." She reached across my chest and rubbed her hand between Sam's ears, causing him to immediately break out into a loud, expressive purr. "But Carl is street smart," she continued, "he can think on his feet and adapt quickly whereas we tend to look for the profound meaning in everything before we act. Maybe we sometimes analyze too much in an effort to understand things better ... it does take a lot of the fun out of being spontaneous and impulsive if you dig too deep all the time."

"You know, you may have something there. Sometimes I wish I could just do things without thinking it over so much. I've never been able to do that."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," she said and even in the dark I could sense the warmth of her smile. "What about tonight? I don't think either one of us planned for this to happen, it just happened ... naturally and spontaneously. Maybe we're both starting to learn how to take things a little less seriously. For myself, I sensed a deep sensitivity in you that made me feel comfortable and I like the way you look at me. I feel as if you're interested in my as a person, not just sizing me up for the possibilities of a one night stand, like most men I meet ... and besides, I had to get you under the sheets before I could get even with you for tickling me ..." and with that she immediately attacked my stomach.

I wasn't quick enough to stop her and before I could grab her hands, she had me screaming 'uncle'. I finally managed to overpower her and as my lips searched out the sweet ridges of her neck, I wondered why more days that had started out so bad couldn't end so well.

### Chapter Twelve

I awoke to the sound of a Beethoven piano sonata and the music filled me up and made me feel whole. I rolled over. The window was open, which accounted for the steady, cool breeze that danced around my face. The day looked sunny and bright; the air was brisk and refreshing and my mind was crystal clear. The digital clock radio on my night table read: 10:24, a time of morning that usually found me scrounging around for advertising ideas. This morning, I didn't really care if I ever dreamed up a way to make fabric softener sound like something you could _not_ possibly live without again.

I sat up and stretched. There was no sign of pain in my elbow, neck or leg, which made me realize I'd found a new wonder drug for major, as well as minor hurts. A small, brown overnight bag sat opened at the foot of the bed revealing its contents of make-up, toiletries and intimate undergarments. I got up and padded over to the dresser and slipped on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and then I sat down next to Amina on the piano bench.

She was wearing a pair of faded jeans and one of my old football sweatshirts with the number 33 on the front and back. I watched with envious fascination as her hands splashed effortlessly across the keys like a stone skipping across water. She was into an intricate passage that required a substantial amount of concentration and dexterity when her right hand got ahead of her left and a chorus of sour notes rang out.

"Damn!" she exclaimed with a laugh and then she quickly backed up and tried the passage again, this time flying through it perfectly. Upon completion, she flung her arms around me, her laughter pure and child-like. "Now that was fun! I haven't played Beethoven in years. I'm surprised I could remember any of it."

"That was great," I said. "How many years of classical training did you say you had?"

"Let's see ... I started when I was four and I stopped when I was about eighteen, so that would make fourteen years."

"Hmmm, it must be like riding a bike, once you learn, you never forget."

"Well, not exactly, playing Beethoven and Chopin is a lot more complicated then riding a bike." She paused as we rubbed noses, our eyes no more than a centimetre apart. "So, how are you feeling this morning?"

"Like a kid set free in a candy store."

"Oh, so that's why you're so sweet."

I suddenly became aware of my morning breath and pulled my head back. "I don't feel so sweet," I said. "I think I'd better take a shower."

"Okay."

I got up and headed for the bathroom.

"Ah, by the way, while you were catching your last hour of sleep, I slipped down to the car and got my bag and on the way down I dropped off the garbage and when I got back I fed Sam. I hope you don't mind."

I stopped, turned around and looked back at her. "Why should I mind?" I asked, but I was surprised that I did feel some annoyance.

"I don't know, some men might feel it's an invasion of their privacy or something," she said and her sweet smile was enough to charm the pants off Attila the Hun. "But I didn't think you'd mind. Anyway, I was going to make us some breakfast, but I'm afraid, my dear, the cupboard is bare."

There was something about her wide-eyed innocence that completely disarmed me and any brief flash of annoyance quickly disappeared. "That's okay, we can run out to Smitty's and grab a bite to eat, I've got to pick up my car at the gas station anyway."

"Hey, I want to make some breakfast," she said with a little girl pout. "Is there a store close by where I can get some bacon and eggs and some orange juice?"

"Sure, there's a variety store next to the entrance to the parking garage, but you don't have to go to all that trouble ..."

"Come on, humour me, I never get to make breakfast. When I'm home Mother insists on waiting on me hand and foot. She won't even let me do my own laundry and when I'm on the road, I always have to eat out."

"Ooookay," I said, "if you insist. Let me take a shower and I'll walk down to the store with you."

"Grrreat!" she exclaimed, "hurry up, then." She turned back to the piano and jumped right into what sounded like a Mozart minuet or something. I never did like Mozart particularly, my classical tastes leaning more towards Tchaikovsky or Dvorak's _New World Symphony_ , but I stood in the doorway and listened for a few moments anyway. I was still in awe of her ability but, unlike my feelings of the day before, there was a growing sense of anxiousness inside that wanted desperately to get busy and rediscover my own creative abilities.

As the hot, steamy spray billowed around me, the heat sinking bone deep and working on my consciousness like a relaxant drug, I caught myself reflecting on what life would be like sharing it with Amina. Holding hands, jazz ... dreaming up new ways to photograph her lovely face ... appreciative audiences, creative stimulation and taking long, hot showers together. The idea filled me with excitement; a passionate longing for a better way of life then the one I was now living.

I tried to regain control of myself, but I couldn't seem to hold back the fantasies. They overwhelmed me, as if they had a secret life of their own and wanted to carry me away to a world made of "tangerine trees and marmalade skies/marshmallow dreams and mellow sighs."

I dried off quickly and then wrapped the towel around my middle and walked into the bedroom, a new, lilting bounce characterizing each step.

When I returned to the living room, she was standing on the balcony, her hands gripping the top of the wrought iron railing, the bright sunlight reflecting from her hair. I was surprised by the mildness of the air. It seemed like the world had finally come to its senses and returned to spring. The snow and ice that was piled up in and around the swimming pool looked to be soft and slushy as it was fighting a losing battle against the onslaught of the warm, morning sunshine.

Amina seemed lost in her thoughts, subdued, melancholy—reflective. I caught a glimpse of her eyes and smiled. She moved her hand along the top of the railing and placed it over mine.

"I love balconies," she said. "It's like having your own private observation tower that allows you to escape the humdrum of your own life while you sit passively and watch the world go by."

"I can't argue with that," I replied. "I'm one of the world's greatest balcony sitters. I love it when there's a hazy, humid night filled with a million stars and the full moon is so bright, you feel like you can almost reach out and touch it. Sometimes I sit out here for hours."

"Have you ever noticed how much the stars are like people?"

"In what way?"

"Well, on nights when the sky is so filled with stars it seems like there is hardly enough room for them all, some are bright and clear and others are distant and barely visible. Some seem to be blinking on and off as if they can't make up their minds whether they want to be seen or not. If you look closely, there's always one or two that are clearer and brighter and stand out the most and if you stare at them, they seem to be moving around, as if they were doing loops and bends like an acrobatic airplane." She shrugged and it seemed as if she was having an argument with herself inside. "That's the way people are. Some are bright, some are distant, some can't make up their minds and some never seem to be standing still."

"Interesting ..." I said as we turned to face each other. For a moment our eyes did loops and bends like the acrobatic stars she'd been talking about. I could see that her eyes were struggling against a heavy tide and about to give up as she put her arms around me and squeezed hard, resting her head on my shoulder. My intuition told me I should be cautious but my heart got lost in our close embrace, the pressure of her breasts against my body warm and reassuring. "What's the matter?" I asked softly, trying to tread very carefully.

"Nothing, really ... I was just thinking about my father and ... and ... things. I try to think of myself as one of the brightest stars in the sky that never stands still, but sometimes I feel more like one of the ones that can't make up it's mind." She was going through one of those sombre moments we all have from time to time that seem to pass as quickly as they flare up and after a few seconds she pulled her head back and smiled. "Don't mind me, I get this way once in awhile. You ready to go?"

"Yep." We stepped back into the living room and as we crossed to the door, I decided I'd better call the agency and let them know I wouldn't be in for awhile. "Hang on a sec, I just want to make a phone call." I picked up the phone and started dialling the number and then I said, "Shouldn't you call someone and let them know where you are?"

"No, that's okay, I'm a big girl now. Besides, they'll be sleeping for another couple of hours." she said with a noticeable tone of annoyance in her voice.

I nodded. The phone rang several times and I was about to go into my impatient toe-tapping bit and hang up when Mrs. Archer finally answered.

"Good morning, Fun Gus Productions." Mrs. Archer had a way of talking when she answered the phone that sounded like she was answering for some ritzy lawyer's office.

"Hi, this is Eric. How are things going this morning?"

"Oh, hello Mr. Taylor, everything is going just fine."

" Good. Are there any messages for me?"

"No ... I don't think so ... should there be?"

"Not really, I was just wondering if you've heard from Gus."

"No, I don't believe Mr. Griffin has come in yet."

"Can you check and see if he's in his office? He might have gotten in before you did."

"Okay, hold on, I'll check." There was a sound of the phone clunking down and then I could hear her fooling around with the intercom. "No, I'm afraid there's no answer. Do you want to leave him a message."

"No, that's okay, I'll check again later. Did Bernstein call?"

"Oh yes, he did and he just loves the name."

"Didn't I just ask you if there were any messages?"

"Pardon?"

"Never mind. Anyway, what name are you talking about?"

"Why, Fantasy Jeans of course."

"Oh ... right, I forgot about that."

"You know, Mr. Taylor, I don't like that man, there's something ... I don't know, something evil about him."

"That's silly, he's just a tough businessman who comes on a little strong once in awhile," I said, but I took note that she was the second person to express bad feelings about him. "Did he have anything else to say?"

"Yes, he wants us to produce a television commercial for the Fantasy Jean campaign he's planning for this fall. He also wants you to call him back immediately."

"Did he offer to pay us for the work we've already done?"

"No, I'm afraid he didn't."

"I'm not surprised. I wish we hadn't signed that damn contract with him, he's going to try to milk us for everything he can. Oh well, I'll have to get back to him later. The reason I'm calling is to let you know I won't be in until sometime this afternoon—if at all. Okay?"

"Yes, that would be fine. Will you be someplace where we can communicate with you if need be?"

"I'll be home, but unless it's a matter of life or death, I'd rather not be disturbed. Try and get a message if anyone wants to speak with me and I'll get back to them when I can ..." I lowered my voice and said softly to myself, "... once I get back from Paris."

"What was that last bit," Mrs. Archer said.

"Oh, never mind, nothing."

"Well, okay then, can you hang on for a moment? Mr. Reid would like to speak with you."

After a moment Tim came on the line. "Ya, ummm ... you're not comin' in today?"

"I'm not sure, Tim. I might be in later to do some work in the darkroom."

"Well, the thing is, I need your record reviews if I'm gonna fit them into this month's issue ..." It sounded like he was chomping on an apple or something and every word was interrupted by a few seconds of chewing, "... you couldn't drop them off ..."

"Can't do it, Tim. I haven't even written them yet."

"Didn't think so. Okay, how about answering this for me ... name the first jazz album to sell over a million copies."

"You never give up, do you. Look, that's kind of a tough one, I don't have time to think about it right now, I was just on my way out ..." I could hear him chuckling, so I said, "Hang on a sec." I set the receiver down and then I winked at Amina who was standing by with a puzzled look on her face. "He wants me to name the first jazz album to sell a million copies."

"That should be easy enough," she said.

"I know, I just like to make him think he's got me." I went over to my CDs and after scanning through the jazz section, I pulled one out and then returned to the phone.

"Tim, are you still there?"

"Yep."

"Okay, it was _Headhunters_ by Herbie Hancock. It was released in 1973 and the players consisted of Paul Jackson on bass, Harvey Mason on drums, Bernie Maupin on horns, Bill Summers on percussion and, of course, Herbie Hancock on keyboards. It's a great album, one of the first jazz-fusion classics."

"How do you (chomp, chomp) do it, man?"

"I don't know, talent I guess."

"So, you have those reviews for me tomorrow?"

"I'll try."

"Okay, see ya later."

****************

The elevator ride from the sixth floor to the lobby was a bombardment of trivia questions. Amina, having discovered my obsession, decided to get into the act and try her hand at stumping me. As we crossed the lobby to the front door, I decided to run back and check the mail, which gave me a couple of minutes to come up with the answer to her three-part stumper: Name the trio Linda Ronstadt started out with, the group's biggest hit song and who wrote the song. The answers were slowly coming as I stepped into the small room.

I quickly checked my slot and it was empty. For a moment, I was filled with a strange sense of disappointment as if I'd been expecting something—a letter form Sarah's divorce lawyer, perhaps? My mind stirred up memories of my initial reaction to Sarah's letter and I couldn't believe how much my feelings had changed in a little more than twenty-four hours. Was I finally ready—no, anxious even, to face our inevitable divorce?

At that moment, standing in the mail room, maybe I was, but the feeling slipped away and no matter how much I tried, I couldn't picture Sarah being married to Tony, and worse still, I couldn't picture myself not married to Sarah. What did it all mean? Why was I not convinced that Sarah was really serious about Tony? And even if she wasn't, why did I even still care what Sarah did with her life? And then, what about Amina? I couldn't answer that one. Why couldn't I just stop thinking for a change and learn to take things as they are, at least, as they appeared to be? But the brain kept running on and on and on ...

As I stepped back into the hallway, I could hear the sound of distant laughter. I crossed the lobby to the lounge where Amina was sitting with Jerry. She was admiring the shiny, new portable radio that was sitting on his lap, a set of skinny headphones wrapped around his head, and he was laughing and giggling as he had done the day before when he told me about his new jeans. The ever-present can of Pepsi and bag of chips sat on the coffee table between them.

"Hello there," Amina said as I sat down beside her, "Jerry was telling me that you're his best buddy."

"Hi, Mr. Taylor," Jerry said before I could answer her, his eyes wide with excitement, "look what I got." He held the radio up proudly. "My Mom got it for me. It's really neat, I can let everyone listen ..." He pulled out the cord connecting the headphones and the sound of rock music blared out from the tiny speakers, "... or I can listen to it all by myself." He plugged it back and then his head bobbed back and forth while he simulated listening to the music all by himself. He then popped the headphones off and handed the radio over for me to inspect.

"Hey, that's really great, Jerry," I said as I took the radio and carefully inspected it, pushing a couple of the buttons and trying on the headphones. "I didn't know you liked music so much."

"I luff it."

"He likes The Police and Kenny Rodgers," Amina said.

"And The Stones and Chicago and ... and, oh yeah, The Beatles," Jerry added. He took it back and set it on his lap and then he picked up the can of Pepsi and started to take a drink, but instead he offered the can to Amina.

She took a small sip and then said, "Mmmm, that was good. Thank you, Jerry, you're so generous."

Jerry's smile was as wide and bright as his face.

We were all starting to get into the music when an angry voice yelled out from behind us, "You people shouldn't be playing that damn music so loud in here, you're disturbing everyone."

I turned around and there was a grey-haired man dressed in a navy topcoat and carrying a briefcase walking by. He didn't stop to press the issue with us, but as he went through the front door, we could hear him grumbling, "Damn teenagers ... no respect for other people ... think they own the place."

When he was gone, we all broke up laughing and then we turned the music up a couple of notches.

****************

Half an hour later, the greasy, potent aroma of crackling bacon filled the kitchen. I had insisted on cooking the bacon, but as the fourth splash of grease flew off the griddle and burned my wrist, I was beginning to regret my courtesy. When it came to cooking, making bacon wasn't one of my areas of expertise, I was much more skilled at flipping the eggs.

Amina was busy stirring up the can of frozen orange juice concentrate and Sam was pacing restlessly on the table, a steady stream of berating demands pouring form his impatient cat throat. If you have never heard a Siamese cat screeching to be fed than you can count yourself as one of the lucky ones because the continual harassment has a way of slowly driving you crazy.

"Come on, Sam," I said angrily, "give us a break. You've already eaten, it's our turn."

Amina giggled as she put the top on the plastic container and started shaking it like a bartender doing up an exotic drink. "Is he always so demanding?"

"Demanding! This is mild compared to when he's really hungry, which is most of the time." I flipped over a couple of strips and then I turned to face her. "Hey, be careful, you're spilling juice all over the place, that container leaks."

She had been watching Sam and when she looked down there were splashes of the sticky juice all over her hands and in a long, straight puddle across the floor.

"Oops, you didn't warn me," she said as she set the container down and grabbed some paper towels. "I'll get you for that," and then she punched my arm.

"Sorry," I screamed, shrivelling back in mock terror. "Don't hurt me, please!"

"Okay, I'll let you go this time, but don't let it happen again."

We both laughed and then she bent over to wipe the floor, but Sam had already beaten her there. She waited patiently while he carefully sniffed and then licked at the puddle, but it wasn't what he'd expected so he wandered off in a huff.

Amina cleaned the floor and then rinsed her hands as I speared the strips of bacon and placed them on a paper towel.

"Bacon's ready."

"Okay ... you know, I just got a bright idea. Why don't we eat out on the balcony. It's a little chilly, but there isn't too much wind and it should be reasonably warm sitting in the sun."

"Sounds good to me."

****************

Breakfast had never tasted so good, or perhaps my mind was, for once, taking notice and finding enjoyment in small pleasures. The mid-day sun felt surprisingly warm, the air fresh and invigorating and I sipped contentedly on my cup of coffee and watched as my unexpected guest tore off a pieced of toast and carefully wiped the egg yolk from her plate. In the distance, a frantic, screaming siren cut through the mellow sound of Grover Washington's saxophone coming from my stereo—the world outside still active and crazy, but the world on the sixth floor private observation tower was quiet and peaceful.

Amina picked up her glass of orange juice, sipped and then, as if she were a mirror of my own feelings, she said, "I feel very content right now. I don't know why, but I just feel so comfortable." She gave me a look of cautious puzzlement and then a smile cascaded across her face, her eyes twinkling and fluttering like a wandering butterfly. "It's a nice feeling."

"Yes it is. I was just thinking the same thing."

She set the glass down and then began to impatiently tap her fingers on top of the table. "Well, I'm waiting."

"Waiting? Waiting for what? More food? Sorry, I sent the cook and waiter home early, so if you want more, you'll have to make it yourself."

"Now now, you're just trying to avoid the issue here. Don't tell me I've actually stumped the resident rock trivia genius already."

"Well, not quite, but ..."

"Come on, stop playing games with me. Do you know the answer or not?"

"Well, I don't usually allow three-part questions, but I'll give it a shot. The trio Linda Ronstadt had her first success was The Stone Pony's and their hit song was _Different Drum_. Right?"

"Right, now who wrote the song?"

"Well ..."

"What happens if I don't know the answer."

"Then you have to be my slave for the rest of your life, and believe me, you'll wish you were working on a chain gang after you feel the sting of my whip."

"Hmmm, that sounds terribly gruesome, but I guess I'll just have to face my fate as bravely as I can."

"You mean you don't know?"

"I'm afraid not—I should, but I don't. Give me a hint"

"Michael Nesmith from The Monkees," she said as she clapped her hands together gleefully.

"Good hint," I deadpanned. I'd suspected who it was, but the thought of being her slave for the rest of my life seemed like a more interesting proposition.

"Okay slave," she said, her voice mockingly harsh, "your first duty is to clear the table and do the dishes and they had better be spotless or I'll make you do them over again until you get it right!"

For a moment, the mockingly serious overtones of our conversation hung in the air, and then, like a dam bursting, we both broke out laughing, neither one of us able to sustain the silliness any longer. We settled back down after a few minutes.

"You must be excited about the prospects of recording with the band in New York," I said trying to keep any hint of envy out of my voice.

"Oh, so Carl told you about that ..." she said with a look of surprise. "Well, it isn't definite yet, but yes, I am excited ... I guess."

"You don't sound like you're jumping for joy."

"Oh, I am. It's just that Carl wants me to do two vocals, and I haven't been able to come up with the right songs yet. I suppose I could do a couple of old standards, but I would like to have at least one fresh, new song." She shrugged. "I shouldn't let it bother me so much, I suppose we can figure it out once we get into the studio, but I would rather go in knowing what I'm going to do."

"I wouldn't worry about it, I'm sure you'll come up with something. When we did the _Mass Media_ album we only had some basic ideas of where we were going, but everything worked out once we got started."

She hesitated for a moment and then she said, "I've sort of got one song already picked out ... that is, if you don't mind."

"If I don't mind? What do you mean?"

"Well, I was thinking of doing _Living For A Dream_."

"My song? You're kidding!"

"No, I'm not, I've been thinking about it for a long time. I'd like to update it a bit using an acoustic guitar instead of an organ and maybe add a few more instruments—I don't know exactly, we'd have to work on the arrangement. Would you mind if we gave it a try?"

"Mind? Are you kidding? I'd be honoured if you recorded the song." I wondered if I should tell her I'd turned down Carl's offer to produce the album. I decided not to—she'd find out soon enough.

"I promise we'll do a good job," she said as she reached over and touched my hand and then she sat back and a sombre look crossed her face. "You know, if everything works out, we'll be on our way to New York next week—I can't believe it ..." she said and then her eyes looked off at nothing in particular. "Once I get there, I may not come back for a long while ..."

I watched her as she seemed to get lost in her own thoughts and it suddenly occurred to me that New York City was probably the farthest place in the world from this moment in time. There was an abrupt change in my metabolism, as if I'd just swallowed a quart of sour milk. I knew, though I had refused to acknowledge, that the past twelve hours with Amina could only be a momentary glimmer in the otherwise dull bleakness of my life. So why did I keep thinking in terms of her and me and tomorrow and the next day ... and yet, even with this surge of foolish optimism, there was a portentous reluctance to make another change in my life, as if I was afraid another change would just blow up in my face like all the others had.

"Did you hear me? I think there's someone knocking on the door," Amina said as she tapped my wrist gently.

I strained my ears and listened, trying to hear above the music. "I think you're right," I said. "Excuse me, I'll be right back." I piled up some of the dishes and carried them into the kitchen and then I went to the stereo and turned the volume down. As I walked towards the door, I suddenly felt weak-kneed and empty—back to my old self again. I threw open the door not knowing who to expect, but the way the last day had gone, I had a feeling it wasn't going to be the Avon lady.

It was Sarah and she looked out of breath and frantic. She was wearing the same outfit as last night, which struck me as strange since I had never known Sarah to wear the same outfit twice in the same season. The white ermine coat had lost its dazzle and gaped open revealing her rumpled cashmere sweater and satin pants.

When she saw me, a look of relief crossed her face as she stepped quickly inside, the words pouring out of her like hot lava streaming from an erupting volcano.

"I'm so glad I caught you ... I called the agency and they said you were still at home but you can't always believe what people tell you on the phone ... I hope you're not sick or anything, you must have been out late last night ... seeing Carl and all, but I had to see you ..." She paused for a second while she gulped down more air, "... it's Father, he's in the hospital, oh Eric, it's been such a terrible night ... I think he tried to kill himself. He's driving me crazy—can you come and talk to him?"

"Whoa, slow down. What are you talking about?" I put my hands on her shoulders and shook her gently and she finally seemed to run out of breath. Her electrically charged, crinkly hair of last night had lost its curl, her eyes were on the edge of hysteria and she reminded me of the way Faye Dunaway looked at Warren Beatty in Bonnie and Clyde when the G-men were closing in on their hideaway. "Now calm down and tell me what happened," I said soothingly.

"It's so hot in here," she said as she pulled off her coat and dropped it on the floor and then she wandered into the living room and plopped down on the couch. "Can you bring me a glass of water, please?"

"Sure."

I picked up her coat and set it down on the couch and then I went into the kitchen and returned with the water and handed it to her.

She sipped slowly as if she really didn't want it and then she set the glass down on the coffee table. I picked up the chair from my desk and brought it closer to the couch and sat down. Sarah pulled a package of cigarettes from her purse and while she fumbled with her lighter, I glanced quickly towards the balcony where Amina was still sitting and wondered whether I should tell Sarah that we were not alone. Instinctively, I wasn't anxious for them to meet but I couldn't figure out how to avoid it.

"Sarah picked up the astray/dish which was still sitting on the table from last night, pulled a face and then after a few drags, she smashed the cigarette out. She kept sniffling as if she was going to cry and I was about to get up and get her some Kleenex when she pulled out a hankie and patted her nose and eyes.

"Now, tell me what happened last night."

She looked at me cautiously and then she put her hand to her forehead and said, "Can ... can you please turn down the music? It isn't helping my headache."

"Sure," I said and got up and turned it down fractionally, which seemed to satisfy her and then I sat down. I caught another glimpse of Amina on the balcony and she had by now turned her chair around to face inside and was watching us. I was amazed that Sarah hadn't noticed her yet. Why didn't I just get up and introduce them? Was it guilt? Why the hell should I feel guilty? Damn!

"Where's Sam?"

"He's probably sleeping. Look, are you going to tell me what happened?" I was beginning to feel edgy. "How is Hub? Is he okay? What do you mean, he tried to kill himself?"

She was in the process of lighting another cigarette. She blew the smoke out and then she made a face as if she wasn't really enjoying it. "Well, last night after Tony and I left here we went back to my place. He was very angry and upset and kept asking me if I was having an affair with you."

There was a devilish tone to the way she said, 'affair'.

"So why didn't you just tell him the truth?"

"I did—almost."

"What do you mean?"

"I told him about us being married, but ... I also told him we were already divorced ..."

"Sarah!" I said sharply as I glared at her. "Why do you have to lie about us? Why can't you just tell the truth and get it over with?"

"Weeelll ..." she said defensively, "what am I supposed to do?" She lowered her head and said softly, "I need somebody ... I, I didn't want to lose him." She dabbed her eyes, her face a mask of anguished frustration.

"Somebody! Why do you have to settle for just somebody?" And then I caught myself. What the hell was I yammering on about? I certainly couldn't argue with that statement, after all, she was only feeling the same things I was feeling. I suddenly felt angry with myself for reacting so harshly towards her all the time. It was a reaction that came easily when dealing with people who were close to you and I knew I had to try and take my emotions off their automatic mechanisms and show her a little more sympathy and understanding. I got up and then sat down beside her and took her hands in mine and tried to redeem myself. "Look, I didn't mean that, I guess I understand," but I shrugged my shoulders to indicate I wasn't quite sure. "It's just that a relationship should be based on honesty—but you must really care for him. What did he say about your being divorced?"

She sighed. "He said he would have to think about it."

"Which means?"

"I ... I don't know. Sometimes he's so hard to talk to."

"Do you love him?"

She shrugged.

There was a long pause before I spoke again. "Okay, what about Hub? What happened last night?"

"Tony had told me earlier that he hadn't seen Father at the office all day, so I decided around midnight to call him after Tony went home and see if he was alright. I've always worried about him living alone in that big old house, it's so isolated out there in the country. Anyway, he didn't answer the phone and I got scared so I took a cab over and ... I had to break in. I found him in the living room sprawled on the floor ..." She closed her eyes and put her hand over her mouth.

"What happened? Did he have a heart attack or something?"

"Remember I told you he'd been drinking a lot lately?"

I nodded.

"Well, there was an empty quart bottle of whiskey lying next to him and he just reeked of liquor—it turned my stomach. He'd thrown up all over himself ... I really think he was trying to drink himself to death. I got him to the hospital and the doctor was able to revive him, but he told me that Father had so much alcohol in his system, by rights he should have been dead." Once again she paused, as if she'd been telling me about a dreadful nightmare she'd had during the night and the memory was becoming too unbearable to recite.

I tried to think of a way to tell her that he would be alright, but after my brief discourse on honesty, I decided there wasn't much point in trying to pretend. I allowed my imagination to let itself run free, but it didn't help me change the image of the debonair, sophisticated Hubert Livingston I had known into that of a suicidal drunk. Sure, we'd occasionally shared a social drink or two, but he never impressed me as someone who would plunge down the icy sidewalk of alcoholism. It only goes to show, each person handles their nightmares of distress in different ways. For myself, it was music and I felt thankful I had always been able to lose myself in a good melody rather than resorting to drugs or drinking.

"How is he now?" I asked.

"I stayed up with him all last night and he finally woke up early this morning. He's in rough shape, but when he saw me he just glared at me and refused to talk ... that's why I thought that maybe you could go and see him ... talk to him ... try to make him understand that I love him and ..." She buried her face in her hands for a moment and then she said, "I have a cab waiting downstairs and if you could come over right now ... Who is that?"

I looked up and Amina was closing the screen door behind her and then she stood there just inside the living room.

"Ummm, I'm sorry to interrupt," she said, "but ah, it was getting a bit chilly out there and ..."

I jumped up immediately, feeling incredibly stupid for letting her stay out there for so long. I stood between the two of them not knowing what to say. Sarah's face deflated at the sight of Amina and then took on the look of a woman scorned. Amina fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve and seemed to be waiting for me to say something and it finally occurred to me that I should introduce them to each other.

"Sarah, this is Amina Ashe. She's the keyboard player in Carl's band. Amina, this is my wiii ... ah, Sarah Livin ... ah, Taylor."

A simple damn introduction and I blew it!

"Pleased to meet you, Sarah," Amina said. Sarah just nodded. It was another one of those moments when time seemed to stand still while everyone tried to think of something to say. "Well, I think I'll go and powder my nose," Amina said at last. "Excuse me."

I watched her as she walked out of the room and when I heard the bathroom door close, I turned back to face Sarah.

Her eyes pummelled me with a thousand questions and I didn't really know why I felt obligated to explain. It must have been the feeling of connection, of being emotionally bound to her as if the past two years of separation had never occurred and I was still morally expected to remain faithful.

Rather than return to my position on the couch next to her, I sat down on the desk chair. "My car ran out of gas on the way to The Hideaway last night and Amina gave me a ride home because all the gas stations were closed ..." but I stopped in midsentence, deciding that I would only get myself into more explaining than I cared to if I went on.

Sarah continued to stare at me, the frail anguish now replaced by a kind of arrogant annoyance. She abruptly stood up and started putting on her coat.

"Well, I can see you're busy. I'm sorry I disturbed you, I'll just go back to the hospital now."

I knew her well enough to know she was more upset that she had somehow lost control of the situation than anything else. I made no move to help her with her coat and when she stepped towards the door, I fell in beside her.

"Look, don't act like that, you know I'm concerned about Hub and of course I'll go and talk to him, but it'll have to be later this afternoon. Which hospital is he in and what is his room number?"

She gave me the information and then as we stood in front of the door, neither of us making a move to open it, she seemed to soften up a little and she reached over and gave me a warm hug. My first reaction was to back off, but she held me tight enough that there didn't seem any point in struggling.

"I'm sorry for being so abrupt," she said, "it's just that I'm so tired and confused I don't know whether I'm coming or going."

Her nose brushed against my ear and it set off an electric charge inside me. "I understand, I've been mixed up and confused myself lately," I said and then her warm hug turned into a passionate embrace and I closed my eyes in response to the touch of her lips on mine and when I opened them again, Amina was coming out of the bathroom at the end of the hallway. She looked at us for a moment and then she disappeared into the bedroom.

Sarah noticed my distraction and her hips pressed harder against me, her eyes wide and frosty, like icy blue water. "Are you sure you can't come now?" she cooed softly in my ear.

I couldn't believe what seemed to be happening. Was I really being seduced by my own wife? Or was it just another one of her performances? I dug down deep and called up an effort I wasn't sure I possessed, untangled myself from her arms and stepped back.

"No, I'm afraid I can't come now."

"Well then, if you do see Father this afternoon, I probably won't be there, I have to meet Tony ... so just tell him that I care and ask him if he would please start talking to me ... I don't know, maybe he won't even talk to you."

"I don't see why he wouldn't," I said as I reached for the door, "but then, if I had just tried to drink myself to death, I don't think I'd want to talk to anyone either."

"I suppose not, but try, that's all I ask." She stepped into the hallway and with one final squeeze of my hand, she left.

I closed the door and then I went to the stereo and turned it up—loud! My brain felt like a plate of chicken fried rice that had been laced with a healthy dose of cat meat; scrambled up with something that seemed right—but wasn't! I wandered into the bedroom, each step noticeably devoid of any bounce whatsoever.

Amina was stretched across the bed, her hand briskly rubbing the top of Sam's head. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be enjoying himself, but just as I sat down beside them, he suddenly took a swing at her hand and then disappeared under the bed. Maybe she rubbed him the wrong way.

"Your wife is very beautiful," she said after a long, noisy silence.

"Yes indeed, she is."

She got up and busied herself with repacking her overnight bag, but the going was tedious since there wasn't much to pack and she obviously wanted to keep herself busy doing something.

"Are you going to see your father-in-law?"

"Yes, but there's no rush."

She had already changed from my football sweater to her blue sweatshirt and she folded the sweater neatly, placed it in the dresser drawer and then she went back to the overnight bag and shuffled a few things around.

"You know, if you just dumped everything out on top of the bed and tried again, you might get it packed properly." The expected smile failed to appear. She just nodded and continued with her shuffling. There seemed to be some kind of a wall slowly closing in around her. I have never been very good at breaking down walls, so I gave her a friendly smile and then I went and sat down at the piano.

"Anger!" I yelled, and then I pounced on the keys, making a noisy racket that caused Sam to come out of hiding under the bed and take off out of the room.

"Not bad," I said as I lifted my hands in the air, but I kept them ready to pounce again. I had seen Stevie Wonder do this during a television interview. Barbara Walters would say a word and he would compose a melody on the spot to illustrate the word. He was better at it than I, no doubt, but it was the feeling that counted.

"Confusion." My hands hit the keys hard, but then I immediately softened up for a couple of bars before attacking again—then soft again, then hard, as if one foot was nailed to the floor and I was going around in circles.

"Touch," I said softly, but the melody that came out sounded too much like the theme from a movie about two lovers who spent most of their time in the sack, so I gave up.

"Amina!" I said with feeling. My hands hovered over the keyboard for a moment and then the first chord that came was a C#m. I gradually structured a chord progression that seemed to build nicely for a couple of bars, but then I got lost somewhere along the way and stopped. I tried again, but I got lost at the same point.

"Back to confusion," I said and then I tired again. It was just a silly little melody that should have meant nothing to me, but I had the flicker of an idea that I knew would work if I kept at it long enough. "Have you got your whip out?" I asked without turning around, my hands resting on the keys while my mind tried to close in on the right sequence of notes and chords. Why had it suddenly become so important that I get it right? I continued tinkering, aware of her presence close behind me, and this time the notes flowed a little smoother.

I could feel her hands on my neck and then she said over my shoulder, "Don't stop, you'll get it right."

But I did stop. It was as if I'd suddenly run into a brick wall and I kept going up, and then sideways, but I couldn't seem to go straight ahead. Once again—C#m, F#—not right! Again—C#m, F# ... minor? —better. Again—C#m, F#m ... G# ...7?? —No! Too familiar, how about B7—not bad. Again—C#m, F#m, B7 ... E—no, no, no, how about—C#m, F#m, E, B7—better, but not great. I let out a long, deep breath in frustration.

"Don't try so hard. Let it flow ..." She sat down beside me and ran through the chord progression and then stopped.

"How about a Brazilian beat?" I said and then I tried it, but I didn't have very far to go since I only had four chords and no structure or hook. "Hmmm, that may have possibilities."

Amina then put her arms around me and squeezed tightly and then she put her lips close to my ear and whispered urgently, "Just don't give up ... you can do it!" but there was a strange quivering to the sound of her voice.

I sat there frozen, my fingers wiggling helplessly, my mind unable to summon up a response.

### Chapter Thirteen

I've never liked hospitals, which is probably the main reason why I've never been sick enough to stay in one. A hospital smells so much like ... like ... well, like a god dammed hospital! I guess—antiseptically clean, but you knew damn well it was full of dead bodies.

I've also never been very good at following directions in the hallways that were supposed to help you find a particular room. The tiny, wooden sign hanging from the shiny, grey-tiled wall that read "Room 304-335" and pointed to the left always seemed to lead me to the maternity ward or the nurses' lounge or somewhere I didn't want to go ... although the moaning and groaning coming from every other room as I tiptoed down the corridor might have distracted me enough to cause me to turn right instead.

As I retraced my steps around the same corner for the fourth time—at least, I thought it was the same corner—I was suddenly surrounded by shrieking screams of day-old babies. My first startled reaction was to run, but instead, I found myself standing in front of the glass, staring inside. There were people all around me, cooing and making faces and they sounded like the happiest people I have ever seen in my life.

A young father proudly pointed to his cherished bundle and a small army of relatives clapped and shook his hand and smiled and laughed and there was a tear in his eye as he said, "Natasha. We've decided to call her Natasha." He turned to an older lady standing next to him and said, "For Mother," and then they embraced and everyone cheered again and suddenly a handful of cigars appeared that had "It's A Girl" written on the cellophane wrapper and someone shoved one in my hand and I didn't know what to do with it so I put it into my pocket.

Another older couple standing next to me pressed their faces to the glass and exclaimed, "There he is!" and I followed his pointing finger and settled on a solemn, wrinkled face with mounds of dark brown hair, sucking on its thumb and wrapped in a blue flannel blanket. It was ugly, like all newborn babies, as was the brown-faced bundle next to him, with the sparkling dew drop eyes and the screaming, red-faced little girl who's arms and legs kept pumping and writhing as if she wanted to get up and run away.

Someone behind me asked, "Which one is yours?" and I just shook my head and walked away and when I turned the corner and tried to focus on the little wooden sign again, I had trouble reading the numbers because of the wet stuff in my eyes.

"Can I help you?"

I turned and there was a blue-eyed, blonde nurse standing next to me, a look of concerned sympathy on her face and I felt like saying, 'Can you take me home, now?' but instead I mumbled, "I'm looking for Room 319."

She pointed down the hall. "Turn left when you reach the end of the corridor."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." Her smile was bright and cheerful as if she was not only used to helping uptight people, but also enjoyed doing it.

I wanted to follow her, wherever it was she was going, but then, maybe it was to a room filled with moans and groans, so I turned around and when I reached the end of the corridor I turned left and sure enough, there was Room 319, just as she said it would be.

I stood outside for a moment and listened for unnatural sounds, but there didn't seem to be any, so I stepped inside. There were two beds in the room. The first one had a white curtain drawn all the way around it, so I moved past, wondering if there was a dead person on the other side, until I reached the second bed where an old man who resembled Hub was sleeping. I sat down in the chair next to the bed and took a deep breath, letting the air escape quickly through my mouth.

The muffled snore that emanated from Hub's slumbering body had a soothing effect on my frazzled nerves. I settled into the chair since there didn't seem any point in waking him for my sake, and I watched the nurses as they scurried back and forth past the open door. I wished I'd brought something to read, but then, I probably couldn't have concentrated on anything deeper then a first grade reader anyway.

I kept seeing Amina's face just before I'd gotten out of the car. She'd parked next to the Volvo and I was getting ready to jump out when I said, "Thanks for the ride." I moved back across the seat and kissed her on the cheek. "I guess I'll see you later tonight at the club."

She had smiled and gestured and talked the same way she had the night before and the next morning, but as I waited for her response, her eyes seemed to have a separate life of their own, and even when she said, "Okay," I felt as if something had slipped away, as though I was trying to hold onto the hand of someone hanging over a cliff and no matter how tightly I squeezed, I couldn't seem to keep it in my grasp. I sat there not wanting to leave her, my intuition telling me I would never see her again—but that was silly, I was going to see her tonight and tomorrow night and the night after that and ...

I got up and stood next to the bed. Hub's face looked pale and withdrawn and years older than when I had seen him last. His thinning white hair was brushed straight back and his chin showed a few days growth of beard. He was lying on his back, his hands stretched out and resting on top of the blue flannel blanket in a pose that reminded me of someone resting peacefully in a simple coffin lined with blue satin.

I watched his face and it made me think of the last time I'd seen and talked to him. We were sitting in his office a few weeks after I'd left Sarah. Our separation agreement was being negotiated, and I had just offered him my resignation.

"Don't be foolish," he said. "There's no reason why you can't still work for me. I know my daughter isn't the easiest person to get along with—she's too damn much like her mother!" His face scowled at the thought of his former wife, "But I'm sure you two will work things out."

I tried to explain to him that maybe it wasn't his daughter, maybe it was me, maybe we would never work out our problems because there were too many differences between us, but he would have none of it.

"Nonsense," he replied, "besides, you still have to make a living and if I know my daughter, she'll insist on a healthy financial settlement if you don't work things out. Now, if you want to take a few weeks off to get your head straight, that's fine with me, but I'll expect you back at your desk as soon as you've had time to work things out—and I won't take no for an answer!"

It was just like Hub to think that he could make a definitive proclamation and the whole universe would bend its butt to make sure his will was carried out. Unfortunately, it was never that simple.

I never did go back to my desk. Over the next week, I gradually took home a few things each day until it was empty and then I just didn't show up for work one day and that was it. I didn't say goodbye to anyone; there was no fanfare or handshakes or best wishes. It's the way I'd wanted it to be, just to quietly slip away with as little pain as possible.

Now, here I stood, facing the man who'd been like a father to me, silently trying to rectify my actions. What else could you have expected, Hub? I ran away from my real father when I couldn't face the situation, what made you think I wouldn't do the same to you?

"I'm sorry," I said out loud, "I wish I'd been able to do things different, but ..."

He looked as if he was dead. I glanced away, my eyes blinking through a moribund mist. I seemed to have this habit of standing next to dead old men ... I saw the coffin surrounding him, the look of anguish on Sarah's face as they lowered him into the ground ...

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"What?" I looked back down and his eyes had popped open and he was struggling to sit up. "Hub! I thought you were ..."

"That I was what?" He seemed to frown and grimace at the same time. "Dying? Come on, you know how much she exaggerates everything—damn it boy, don't you know anything about how to treat an old man?" he said gruffly, but there was the glimmer of a smile on the corners of his mouth. "Grab onto that crank at the end of the bed and give it a couple of whirls so I can sit up. If I have to lie here much longer my ass is going to fall off from inactivity."

I did as he asked.

"That's better." He popped the pillows up behind his back and then he folded his arms across his chest. In a way, he still looked like he was drunk; his face was red and his head seemed to weave about. Actually, he looked almost comical in his red and white striped pyjamas and if I hadn't been feeling so down, I probably would have been chuckling a bit.

"What have you been sniffling about? You look like you've just been to a funeral." He squinted his eyes and looked up at me. "Hey now, don't you get any ideas, you won't be going to my funeral for a helluva long time yet."

"Well, that's good news," I said trying to look less dreary. "I keep hearing these rumours that you've been getting suicidal lately."

He contemplated that for a moment, his thumb and forefinger rubbing across the stubble on his chin. "Could be, you know. I've been so drunk lately, I don't really know."

"Howcum, Hub?"

He shrugged, rubbed his eyes.

"Look, I know about the company's problems, Hub. Sarah told me you have a slight ... shall I say, cash flow problem." That was a problem I knew all about.

At the mention of Sarah's name he seemed to change, become wary. "The hell with Sarah!" he said sharply.

"You gonna tell me about it?"

"Oh, it's just that damn greaser she's been going around with," he said, "he's a turd, the worst kind of human garbage."

"What do you mean?"

"He's a leech, a creepy crawly spider, his nine legs desperately searching for someone to clamp onto so he can suck out their blood ..."

"Hold on, Hub, spiders only have eight legs and I think it's mosquitoes that suck blood."

"Whatever! Anyway, he sickens me, makes me puke with the vomit of disgust ..."

"You know, you would have made a great movie critic, Hub."

"... a slimy, squishy shark ..."

"Come on, Hub, is he really that bad?"

He finally stopped and flashed a silly grin. "Naw, I guess not, but he's just not _you_ , boy ... you were the best thing that every happened to her and she knows it! I wish you two would get things straightened out between you, she's been like an angry bear since you left."

"Really?"

He glared at me and shook his head. "That's enough of that, I need my pill." He reached over and pressed the button for the nurse. "God damned nurse, never around when you need her."

He kept pushing on the button while at the same time muttering and growling like an impatient tiger waiting to be fed, and then he began to cough, sharp and hacking and I thought he was going to lose his breath and start choking.

"Are you alright, Hub?" I asked. I felt totally helpless. I wasn't sure if I should pat him on the back or shake him, but luckily, the nurse came breezing in before I had to make a decision.

It was the same blonde nurse who'd given me directions and she was carrying a small, white paper cup which contained two green pills in one hand and a glass of murky looking water in the other.

"And how are you feeling this afternoon, Mr. Livingston?" she said cheerfully. It amazed me how she could remain so bright and peppy in such a depressing place. She looked at me and smiled. "I see you found your way."

"Yes, I did," and then I nodded towards Hub who was still hacking away. "I think he's got a problem."

She didn't seem too concerned as she set the cup and glass down on the table next to the bed. "Now Mr. Livingston, you've got to stop that coughing, it isn't good for you."

And he did! Immediately! I guess you just had to know how to handle sick people.

"Where on earth have you been?" Hub barked, but there was a twinkle in his eye and he seemed to be having fun playing the gruff old patient. "You promised me you'd be here over half an hour ago."

"Now don't you talk to me like that, you know there are other people in this hospital besides you." She gave it right back to him and he seemed to enjoy it even more and then she handed him the pills and water and said, "Be a good boy and take these."

He took the paper cup and held it to his nose, sniffing the pills carefully. Now that he had them, he didn't seem so anxious to take them. "What did you say these were for?" he asked cagily.

"They're just going to make you feel better," she said, her voice still pleasant, but stern, "make you feel more relaxed. Now get 'em down!"

"You sure they're not going to make me throw up?"

She laughed and so did I, and then we both shook our heads. "No, they're not going to make you throw up."

"Okay then." He popped them into his mouth, made a face and when he had swallowed them, the nurse handed him a menu. "What's this for?"

"This is your dinner menu. You just check off what you want."

He surveyed the paper quickly. "You've got to be kidding! Apple sauce? Cottage cheese?"

"I'm sorry, but the doctor has ordered you to go on a bland diet for the time being. You won't be able to tolerate anything too heavy until your tummy gets a little better."

"You mean I can't have a steak? I have a steak every week."

"I'm sorry, but it's for your own good."

"Damn! This place could drive a man to drink." He tossed the paper down. "I don't want anything, unless you can find me a good bottle of Scotch."

"Oh, Mr. Livingston, what am I going to do with you?" She put her hands on her hips in mock disgust and then she picked up the menu and started to leave. "Okay, suit yourself then, we can always give your food to the people who really need it."

She was almost out the door when Hub yelled, "Nurse! Oh, Nurse!"

She came back and stood at the foot of the bed. "What is it? Mr. Livingston."

Hub pointed his thumb towards the white curtain surrounding the other bed. "When are you going to move him?"

"The orderlies will be around shortly, just be patient. Now, is there anything else, Mr. Livingston?"

"Nope."

"Okay, goodbye." She rolled her eyes and then she left.

Hub's eyes remained steadfastly on her until she was out of sight and then he turned to me and said, "Cute kid, eh?"

"Yes, she is," I replied, and then I pointed towards the curtain. "Who's him."

"Him? Oh, that's Mr. Seymour Bradley Junior ... and he's dead."

I gulped, suddenly feeling very nervous. "You mean, I'm standing in a room with a dead person?"

"Yep ... and an almost dead person." His face became serious and then he sighed. "Died just before I had my nap. It was the strangest thing ..." His voice began to quiver and he stared straight ahead as if he was being hypnotized by something on the wall across the room. "He must have been at least nine hundred years old, skinny as hell and almost totally wasted away from old age, but he was still as happy as anything. Once I got rid of Sarah, I was able to talk to him for awhile this morning, and he kept telling me what a good life he was having. Would you believe he was old enough to remember the day President McKinley was assassinated?"

"No kidding! God, that's old."

He nodded. "Yes, but he had a hard life all the same. He told me about fighting in the trenches in France during World War I and how he'd been gassed and had to spend the next five years of his life in the hospital. When he finally recovered he went into farming and was doing quite well until the depression when he lost everything. It didn't stop him though, he just picked himself up and kept on going, winning and losing a couple of fortunes along the way. You know, I got the feeling he looked at life as nothing more than a game; sometimes you won and sometimes you lost, but it was a lot more fun taking a risk once in awhile then sitting back and doing nothing—and his family! It's gigantic. He got married in 1925 and has—had—twelve children, thirty-four grandchildren, seven great-grandchildren and even one great-great-grandchild, can you believe it?." Hub tore his eyes away from the wall and looked at me with a sense of wonder and amazement, "And even wasted away like he was, he was anxious to get out of here so he could take care of his new business—he was into Video Games. Amazing! A man of his age! He was in the process of opening up a new high concept Video Arcade when ..."

At this point Hub seemed to get stuck on the words and stopped for a moment. I was beginning to understand and share his sense of wonderment.

"Guess what his favourite movie was?"

"Geez, I don't know ... _Gone With The Wind_?"

"Nope, _Star Wars_ ; he said he loved the robots. Crazy, huh? The only regret he had was that he wasn't a younger man now, so he could 'create the next generation of computers' ... he was so damned excited about living and life, it's a shame someone like him has to die."

He paused again, and it seemed as if all the natural colour was slowly returning to his face as he talked about Mr. Bradley. "Anyway, Seymour was in the middle of telling me how he'd survived the depression when his voice got very squeaky and then his mouth was moving but there wasn't any sound coming out of it and I got up and sat next to him and he put his bony hand on my arm and smiled." Hub reached up and rubbed his eyes, trying to hide the tear that snuck its way to the surface. "Then ... he just closed his eyes and died ... with a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye. It was so peaceful, so beautiful ... I always thought death had to be horrible, but for Seymour it seemed to be ... well, kind of poetic, I don't know." He glanced up at me and through the sadness, there was a look of resuscitation.

There was a long silence and I stared at the white curtain. Mr. Seymour Bradley Junior sounded like a person I would have liked to have known, someone who had lived his life the way he wanted to and died knowing he had a good time doing it.

I looked back at Hub and said, "Did you really try to kill yourself last night?"

He ran his hands through his hair and then he shrugged. "I don't really know, I wasn't particularly thinking in those terms at the time, but I guess the more I drank, the more I felt sorry for myself and by the time I was halfway through the bottle, I decided I would see what would happen if I drank the whole thing."

"Now that you know what can happen, do you, ah ... have any intentions of maybe, ah ... trying again?"

He smiled faintly and then he wagged his head slowly. "Don't think so," he said, "but then, I never thought I'd be in a situation where I even thought about suicide." His face had become very intense and he seemed to be digging deeply into his own psyche. He continued to stare straight ahead for a moment and then he looked up at me and said, "Would you please sit down, I'm getting a kink in my neck looking up at you."

"Sure Hub." I pulled the chair up closer to the bed and sat down.

"That's better," he said as he stretched his arms above his head in a long, relaxing stretch and then he yawned. "Now, can I do a bit of philosophizing for a moment, Eric?"

"Sure, I think I'm in the perfect state of mind right now to listen."

"Okay, how old a man do you think I am?"

"Good gracious, I don't know, I've never thought about it before." I looked at him carefully and decided I'd better guess on the low side. In his current state, he looked about eighty, but I knew he wasn't anywhere close to that age. "I'd say about fifty-two or three."

"Thank you, but you're doing me a favour by guessing under ninety the way I look right now. No, I'm fifty-eight." His eyes caught mine for my reaction and I nodded. "Fifty-eight! You know, you're never too old to learn and I think I've learned a thing or two from ol' Seymour here." He pointed towards the white curtain.

"What did you learn, Hub?" I asked softly.

"Well ... last night when I started on that bottle, I guess deep down I really had decided that I didn't want to see the light of day again. When I woke up this morning, I was angry as hell seeing Sarah sitting there, she had saved me and taken away the easiest way for me to escape the financial mess I'm in ..." He frowned.

"Now, this is going to sound extremely basic," he continued, "it's going to sound like something you've heard a million times before but, well, for some people like me it takes a long time to sink in." He took a deep breath. "We only go around in this life one time, which means we only get one crack at it. Ol' Seymour here learned early in his life that if things don't always work out the way you want, there isn't any point in sitting around and belly-aching about it because that's life and you can either give up and end it all, or you can pick yourself up and move on to the next adventure, struggling on the best you can. You with me so far?"

"I'm with you, Hub."

He crossed his hands together and rested them on his chest as if he was praying. He spoke slowly, hesitating whenever his mind seemed to get ahead of the words coming out. "Making money has always been very easy for me, almost as easy as breathing. Oh, I've had a few minor failures, but I've never had to face total failure on the scale that I've been faced with for the last year ... and, I guess my system hasn't been able to adjust to having everything turn sour all at once. It's been total agony and I kept having this crazy nightmare ..." His eyes squinted and he grit his teeth as if he was reliving the terror. "I always saw myself walking across a deserted highway ... I'm only about halfway across when all of a sudden everything changes into slow motion and my feet seem to turn into lead weights and no matter how much I try, I can't seem to put one foot in front of the other ... and there I am, my arms swinging like crazy, sweat pouring down my face, when I look up and there's this huge two-ton truck with a faceless driver bearing down on me ... I frantically increase my efforts to move, but I still can't and my eyes are filled with terror and the truck just keeps coming and coming and coming ... but it's funny, even with the terror, I feel a strange fascination and curiosity as I watch the truck bear down on me."

He seemed to lose himself for a moment and as I watched him, I wondered where I had recently seen that same look of terror—and then I saw a guitar crashing into a wall and a portrait of Jimi Hendrix hitting the floor.

"I always woke up before the truck hit," Hub continued, "feeling terribly shaken and scared—after a few months of that I couldn't sleep anymore. That's when I started drinking, it was my way of taking my mind off of what would happen after the collision and you know, it sure worked, I haven't been bothered by that damn nightmare since ... but then, I haven't been able to walk very straight, either."

He looked at me and winked, and then he chuckled, the agony now gone. "It's the first time in my life I've ever done something so self-destructive, I don't know what got into me, but I know it's about time I quit feeling sorry for myself by trying to avoid the collision and get on with the rest of my life. Someday I plan on dying peacefully at the age of nine hundred, just like Mr. Bradley here—but I sure won't make it if I don't stop this drinking, that's for damn sure!"

"That's great news." I let out a sigh of relief. "But didn't I just hear you ask the nurse for a bottle of Scotch?"

He chuckled. "Ah yes, well, sometimes bad habits don't die that easily. I've been on a liquid diet for so long, it's going to be difficult getting back to real food, but what the hell, life is difficult. It's hard getting up in the morning, it's hard changing your way of thinking and it's hard accepting failure for the first time, but I guess that's what makes life so interesting." He bit his lower lip and then he gave me a sheepish smile. "Kinda silly, an old man like me finally figuring that out, but I'm only fifty-eight and fifty-eight from nine hundred still leaves me ... what? —eight hundred and forty-two years to get out of this rat race and start to enjoy life doing the things I've always wanted to do."

"So, what's the next step?"

"Declare bankruptcy, I suppose. All along I've avoided thinking about it, but last night when I figured out I was half-a-million in debt, I realized there was no other way. It was about then that I decided to drink the whole bottle of whiskey."

"But what will you do after that? If the business goes bankrupt, you'll lose everything."

His sly grin told me all I needed to know.

"Don't worry about me, I've seen the inevitable coming for long enough to, let us say, make a few discreet arrangements. It won't be so bad, hell, I never liked selling real estate anyway, never liked rich people either, most of them have too high a sense of self-importance for my taste—don't look so surprised, I didn't choose to go into the business, it was my wife ... former wife, who pushed me into it ..." He sighed. "But once I became successful and I realized how easy it was for me to make money, I turned into a workaholic and she finally walked out on me because I spent so much time working. I guess that's why I've always directed so much of my anger at Sarah ... but it was a mistake, she never deserved any of my misguided anger. Old mistakes and bad habits, Eric my boy, they always seem to come back to haunt you, but there's nothing you can do to change things, all you can do is ask for forgiveness and hope the hell you don't repeat them. I guess I'll be asking a lot of people for a lot of forgiveness for the next little while, including that greaser—what's his name? —Tony? I suppose he isn't such a bad person."

I didn't really feel comfortable with Hub's suddenly tolerant attitude towards Tony. I liked it much better when he was reaffirming my own dislike for the guy. But I guess what it came down to was that everyone was different, everyone had their good points as well as their bad and if Sarah and now Hub thought he was okay, then I had no right feeling otherwise, at least until I could think of a good reason for still disliking him—the possibilities seemed endless.

"So what happens after the business is gone?" I asked. "You going to find yourself a tropical island somewhere to escape to?"

"Now that's not a bad idea. Actually, I've always wanted to be an artist and a tropical island wouldn't be such a bad place to work—although it might get a little lonely."

"Really, you mean, you're really an artist?"

"Really," he said. "Actually, I'm quite good at it." He reached under the bed and pulled out a large sketch pad and a charcoal pencil. He flipped up the cover and the first drawing was of an ancient old man who really did look about nine hundred years old. The shaky signature under the portrait read: To my talented friend, Hubert—Seymour Bradley Jr.

"I got Seymour to autograph the portrait for me." Hub flipped the page and the next drawing was the pretty blonde nurse caught with one of her brightest smiles.

"Those are damn good, Hub," I said. I was truly amazed.

"You never told me you were an artist, Hubert," a female voice said from the foot of the bed. As I looked up I was about to say, "Hello Sarah," but the words got stuck in my throat because it wasn't Sarah. It was an older version of Sarah, and she was just as dazzling—the same cool blue eyes, the ivory blonde hair, the deeply tanned face and the direct, but faintly haughty stance.

"Hello, Caroline," Hub said.

I looked back at him and then at her and there seemed to be bolts of electric charges passing between them. Their eyes locked and for a moment, I could tell that years of memories were passing back and forth. I had learned to live without knowing my mother-in-law but for some reason, as I watched her watching Hub watching her, I knew I would have a difficult time ever considering her as only a "mother-in-law."

"Caroline," Hub said, "I would like you to meet your son-in-law, Eric Taylor."

"I'm so pleased to meet you, Eric," she said as she stepped over to where I was standing and wrapped her arms around me and squeezed tightly, the aroma of her perfume threatening to drown me in a sea of sweet smells.

It was an awkward moment. I wanted to ask her why she'd stayed away for so long, why I'd never had the opportunity to get to know her—maybe it would have helped me to understand Sarah better, but of course, it wasn't the appropriate time to ask such questions and the underlying nervousness that showed in her voice despite her cool, confidence told me enough.

"I apologize for barging in on you like this," she said looking intently at Hub, "but when Sarah called to tell me you were in the hospital ..."

"Now I've got it figured out," Hub interrupted, "all I have to do is end up on my death bed and all the people who haven't bothered to call for a couple of years will suddenly turn up," but there was a cynical playfulness in his voice. "I should've done this years ago."

Caroline looked embarrassed, but she smiled, a smile that only came after seeing someone you cared about after a long separation and you were really glad to see them. There was love in Hub's eyes and a vague expression of relief.

"Well, I think I'd better be on my way," I said.

"Now don't you go on my account," Caroline said as she backed up a step.

"No no, that's okay, I've got to get back to the office anyway." I reached out and shook Hub's hand. "You take care of yourself," I said. There was so much more I wanted to say, but the words got choked up in my throat.

"I'll be just fine, in fact, I'm getting a little anxious to get out of here and get back to taking care of business. It was nice seeing you again, Eric," and then he looked at me sternly and said, "I'll see you again soon, right?"

"Right Hub." I turned towards my mother-in-law. "It was nice meeting you."

"Nice meeting you, Eric—at last. I hope to see you again soon also."

I nodded. "So long."

I stepped towards the door, but before I headed down the hallway, I hesitated for a moment. There was no sound of voices behind me so I turned around, and they were in the midst of an emotional embrace. Maybe it wouldn't be so lonely on Hub's tropical island after all.

I wandered down the hall until I finally found one of those nurse's stations near the elevators. The blonde nurse with the deep blue eyes was sitting behind the counter doing paper work and when I approached she smiled.

"What's your name," I asked.

"Helen."

"Okay, Helen, I'd like you to do me a favour, if you don't mind."

"Sure."

"Well, I just came from Room 319."

"Yes, I remember, Mr. Livingston's room."

"Right. I understand Mr. Seymour Bradley Junior passed away earlier today."

She nodded, a sudden look of sadness on her face. "That's right. He was such a sweet man," she said.

"Okay, well, I would like to attend Mr. Bradley's funeral, so I was wondering if you could call me when the funeral arrangements are made and let me know where and when they will be held. Can you do that for me, Helen?"

"I'd be happy to."

"Have you got something I can write my name and phone number on?" She handed me a scratch pad and a pen. "Call me anytime, day or night. If you don't get me home, have someone call at three o'clock in the morning if you have to ... it's very important to me."

"No problem, Mr. Taylor. As soon as we know, we'll let you know."

I walked over to the elevators and pushed the DOWN button. Waiting for an elevator is another one of those intervals in your life when time passes slower than a snail hitch-hiking across the Sahara Desert, so while I was waiting, I wandered back to the counter where Helen was sitting.

"Helen, can I ask you something? How old are you?"

"I'm twenty-three."

I nodded my head slowly. "Still young and innocent," I mumbled incoherently to myself.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing. Are you married?"

"No, I'm not."

"Good, how would you like to run away with me?"

She started to laugh. "Oh, Mr. Taylor, you can't be serious," but then she must have caught the serious look on my face. "Well ... I'd love to, but I don't get off until midnight, and if I skipped out early, Shirley—that's the head nurse—she would be so mad ..."

At that moment the elevator door opened, and as I made a mad dash for it, I yelled out, "That's okay, I understand ... I wouldn't want to get you fired ... maybe next week ..." I barely made it inside and just before the doors closed, I caught a glimpse of her smiling and vigorously waving goodbye.

I pushed the button for the main floor, but instead of going down, the elevator went up. I checked the row of numbers—the sixth floor light was on—and I could have kicked myself for not checking to see if this elevator was going up or down. Next to hospitals, I hate riding for very long in an elevator, and the thought of riding in an elevator in a hospital for six floors was almost more than I could stand. It was bad enough having to take the elevator down six floors in my apartment building everyday.

The door opened at the sixth floor and I expected a rush of people to crowd in, but there was no one in sight. I slammed my fist down on the CLOSE button and the long descent began.

It could have been the queasy feeling I always get on moving elevators or it could have been the eggs I'd eaten in the morning backing up on me, but I suddenly felt feverishly warm, as if I was having a hot flash. I closed my eyes, not the smartest thing you can do in a moving elevator, and my mind took on a dream-like quality. The confined, moving space became filled with trees bending in the wind—muddy lawns in front of half built houses ... baseball players in pin-striped uniforms ... a simple blue velvet coffin ... sexy ladies in dapper new jeans ... and fuzzy-faced musicians smashing guitars and amplifiers amid strobe lights and clouds of smoke.

I opened my eyes, wondering what in the world it all meant, when suddenly the lyrics to the last verse of a song by the rock group Kansas began running through my head like bolts of lightning through a dark, cloudy sky.

Dust in the wind

All we are is dust in the wind ...

The words "Dust in the wind" kept repeating themselves over and over again in my mind until the door opened and all the images seemed to be sucked out of the elevator, leaving me standing there alone and dizzy.

I stepped into the lobby and then I checked the time. The digital dial on my watch displayed 5:16, so I decided to call the office since I couldn't make it there by 5:30 when everyone left for the day. I noticed some pay phones by the main entrance and headed in that direction.

I fumbled around for some loose change and found some quarters, dropped them into the slot and dialled the number. After several rings, Mrs. Archer answered and she sounded confused and distressed.

"Good morning, ah, even ... oh my, I'm sorry, good afternoon ... Fun ... Fun ... Gus Productions—I am sorry, can I help you?"

"Mrs. Archer, is there something wrong?"

"Mr. Taylor!" she exclaimed, "Oh, Mr. Taylor, I really am sorry, I don't very often get mixed up like that ... it's just that, I've been trying to reach you ..." She stopped talking and it sounded like she was whimpering.

"What is it, Mrs. Archer?"

"Remember this morning when you called you said that unless it was a matter of life or death that I was to take a message and you would call the person back?"

"Yes, I remember."

"Well, that Mr. Bernstein called again insisting on talking to you. I told him you weren't here and couldn't be reached, just like you asked me to, but he got very mad. He said he wanted to talk to you personally and that you didn't return his call yesterday and the least you could do was return his call today."

"But I did call him yesterday," I said defensively, and then I added, "I got put on hold."

"Well, he got very nasty, said something about having a contract that required you to present him with an advertising campaign by tomorrow."

"Did you tell him you can't rush the creative process? Sometimes it takes time to come up with the right ideas."

"No, I didn't but I did tell him that if you had a contract with him, I'm sure you intended to fulfil your commitment. He said that you had better or he would ... would ..." She hesitated.

"So what did he say? He would do what?"

"Mr. Taylor, I will not repeat those words ... they're disgusting and Mr. Bernstein is a disgusting man for having said them."

"Well, just give me the gist of what he said."

"Weeelll, he said he would ... he would ... do something nasty to your insides if you didn't have the advertising ready by tomorrow."

"Damn it, that's all I need now is Bernstein on my back. Okay, I'll worry about him later. The reason I called is to find out if you've heard from Gus."

"No, we haven't. We checked his office again after Mr. Bernstein called, but it's still locked up. Mr. Reid knocked on the door several times, but there was no response, so we don't know where he is."

"Son-of-a-bitch!" I said. "Ah, sorry Mrs. Archer, I didn't mean to swear ... it's just that I'm getting worried, he seems to have disappeared. Do you happen to have his address somewhere? I don't recall ever having his home address or phone number myself."

She thought about if for a second—I could tell because of her heavy breathing, and then she said, "You know, I don't have it either ... isn't that strange? I mean, the President of the company and I don't even have his home phone number ... oh, this has not been a very good day for me—Can I go home now?"

"Sure, Mrs. Archer, you can go home now," I glanced at my watch, "it's almost five-thirty anyway."

"Oh, thank you Mr. Taylor. Goodbye." She hung up.

"No! Wait! Mrs. Archer, I didn't want you to hang up yet ..." I yelled quickly, but I was too late. I checked my pocket for more quarters in order to call back, but I didn't have any. I could have gotten change somewhere, but I didn't bother. I decided I'd had enough of being in a hospital for one day.

### Chapter Fourteen

Downtown was a rush of people catching buses or escaping in their cars after a long day's work. I found a parking spot easily and then I had a bite to eat at the regular restaurant before I headed up the thirty-eight death defying stairs to the office.

I made it up without running into any new catastrophes, carrying my camera bag and the rolls of film I'd taken of Comrades at The Hideaway. My intentions were to spend a couple of hours hiding in the dark while I developed and printed the pictures for Carl and Jimmie, as well as giving myself a chance to sort out the rapid changes that seemed to be trying to force my life to sway like a seesaw suspended from a high tension wire.

There were times I knew I should update to the digital age with a digital camera and avoid all that time in the dark room. However, this wasn't one of those times. I was looking forward to spending a few creative hours in the dark.

The agency was by now deserted and as I wandered around, the calm peacefulness of not having to talk to anyone did wonders for my perplexed state of mind. But I still couldn't figure out where the hell Gus was or whether he was still my partner. No matter how much I tried, I couldn't seem to come up with an image of him sitting quietly in the middle of his living room watching TV—domesticity not being one of his obvious traits. No, a vision of him holed up in some dingy motel, chain smoking joints and kicking the walls came closer to my imagined reality of what he was likely doing at that moment.

I stopped in front of his office door, knowing it would be locked, but I tried anyway. I realized that I should have taken him up on his offer to let me inspect the books now that I seemed to be the only one in charge. I hesitated for a moment and wondered if I should attempt to break in, but finally decided to wait for at least another day before giving it a try.

I continued down the hall to the large room where Angie did all the art work. The pictures she had drawn for the Fantasy Jean ads were attached to the wall behind her desk. She'd finished putting the logo on the back pockets and I spent a few minutes inspecting her work. She really was a terrific artist and as I moved from drawing to drawing, ideas for TV and newspaper ads began running through my mind. I knew if I allowed my subconscious to let itself go, something worthwhile might eventually find its way to the surface.

I walked across the room and pulled aside the heavy black curtain that led to our well-stocked darkroom. The room was so small, it immediately told you to sit down, but it was well organized and Angie kept it spotless. I dropped my camera bag onto the counter and then I reached over and inspected the strip of negatives I'd shot at the Bon Jovi concert that Angie had developed for me. They appeared to be reasonably clear and I decided I would print up a couple of shots so we could include them in this month's issue of _After Dark._

I switched on the stereo to a station playing jazz and then I set about mixing the chemicals and preparing the trays. My mind quickly settled into the task at hand: loading the negatives into the processor, keeping the temperature of the developer between 65-70 degrees Fahrenheit, timing each step precisely, and afterwards making sure the negatives were clean and free of dust and then grading each one for contrast. I hung the strips to dry, briefly looking them over and discovering that my rapid-fire method of shooting Amina's face had given me a marvellous range of poses to choose from.

While the Comrade negatives dried, I removed the Bon Jovi negatives and placed them into the enlarger. I chose the texture and grade of paper and then took an educated guess at the correct exposure, since I had printed hundreds of similar pictures in the past, and then I started the printing process. The first print was almost perfect, but a shade too light so I tried again, opening up the lens one stop and giving the exposure a few more seconds. After the third try, I pulled the dripping, finished print from the fixer and turned on the light.

The magical process of making pictures from blank sheets of paper never failed to fascinate me and as I studied my portrait Jon Bon Jovi the ultimate hair metal hard rock star—his emotionally contorted face; hair dripping with sweat—I felt a tinge of regret as I wondered how my life would have turned out had I chosen to continue with my musical career back in 1999.

If I could have somehow reversed positions with him and, instead of selling real estate, gone on with a solo career and become the accomplished songwriter and entertainer he is today, would I be happier now? Maybe ... probably, but not because of the fame or money, but because I would have spent all those years doing what I probably did best—making music. So why was I still aimlessly roaming around searching for the right place to hang my hat?

I dropped the picture into the print washer, turned out the lights and then I started the printing process again, this time using one of the negatives which would result in an 8 X 10 glossy of Amina doing her stuff. As I pulled the finished print out of the fixer and studied her pose over the keyboards, I realized that all the success in the world would be very empty without someone to share it with. I really did want to be her slave for life—or did I?

I dropped the second print into the washer and continued on, time becoming unimportant while I lost myself in the dim glow of the safelight, my mind gradually falling into a pattern of questions and possible answers that would have never occurred to me only a few days ago.

It was while I was mixing up a fresh batch of developer that the first line popped into my head. I immediately turned on the lights, dug up a pen and scrap of paper and wrote down the words:

Our love started with a dream

I pondered for a moment and then I wrote down the second line.

Of candlelit dinners and clear mountain streams

I folded up the scrap of paper, stuck it into my wallet and then went back to mixing the developer.

When I emerged from the darkroom a few hours later, my hands smelled of chemicals, my forehead was drenched with sweat, but my mind was at ease with itself and what the future would bring. The world outside was also shrouded in darkness. The pictures of musicians at work tucked under my arm, especially those of Amina—my new mentor—had rejuvenated something inside me and as I set out for The Hideaway, I seemed to have regained the lilting bounce that had abandoned me during Sarah's last visit.

I almost flew down the stairs and when I reached the open air of the street, I breathed in huge gasps of clean, fresh air which helped eliminate the feeling of stuffiness that clung after hours in the confines of the tiny, chemical-drenched darkroom. A quick inspection of the city streets revealed the ice and snow had noticeably dissipated after a day of warm sunshine and the return to spring, and even with the chill in the air, it seemed to have a cheerful effect on the people strolling by.

A quick glance at my watch revealed the time as 9:43, which meant I would be in time to catch Comrades' first set.

The short drive to the club was accomplished in a flash and as I swept through the heavy wooden door, I was amazed how different I felt compared to my passing through these same doors less than twenty-four hours before. Was I finally finding my way out of the deep crevice that I'd fallen into for longer than I cared to admit?

At that moment, I felt completely confident I'd turned my life around, but as I stepped through the bamboo curtain into the darkness of the bar, I immediately sensed something was dreadfully wrong. The room was moderately filled, as usual, with people chattering away while they sipped their beers. Smoke hung in the air like a heavy, dancing fog, the waitresses rushed quickly from table to table trying to keep up with their orders and the overhead speakers blared out a cut from Pat Metheny's _American Garage_ album.

... and that was the problem!

The music was coming from overhead and not from musicians on stage, in fact, there weren't any musical instruments on the stage—it was totally empty—completely devoid of anything, except perhaps dust—about the same as the empty feeling that had crawled back into my stomach.

I surveyed the crowd, desperately searching for a familiar face, certain I would find the members of the band gathered around a table laughing and talking, but I saw nothing but complete strangers.

I was about to flag down one of the waitresses and demand to know what had happened to the band, when I noticed a big black figure across the room waving at me. It was Jimmie. I weaved my way through the tables of people to where he was sitting.

"Hey man, you made it," he said as he shook my hand, a wide grin flashing across his face, his shiny bald head somehow reflecting the dim light. "Come on, sit down." He stopped one of the waitresses. "Watcha havin' man?"

"Nothing!" I said as I sat down next to Freeman. "What the hell happened to the band?"

He ignored my question while he ordered a round of beers and then he said, "hey, I see you got my pichers." He reached across and I handed him the brown envelope. "Shit, these are really great, Shaky, you really is some damn good photographer. Look at these, Freeman baby, ol' fat Jake ain't never looked so good—and oooowwwweeee, that piano lady gots the sexiest face!" He handed the pictures to his friend one at a time and I was beginning to think I would never find out what was going on.

For the next five minutes I was unable to break through their jaunty conversation and when the beers arrived, I willingly accepted one and then I tried again.

"Okay, you guys, I appreciate all the flattering comments, but which one of you is going to tell me what happened to the band."

They both flashed a look of surprise and then Jimmie said, "Hey, I thought you'd heard by now ... they's goin' back home."

"What?"

"Hmmm, guess you didn't hear."

"What do you mean, they went back home? When?"

My voice sounded shrill as if invisible hands were trying to choke me and as I lifted my bottle of beer towards my face, I somehow missed my mouth and ended up with beer all over my lap. I set the bottle back down and did my best to ignore the foamy wetness that started playing games with my privates.

"I thought you knew, man, I really did," Jimmie said. "They's supposed to be leaving tonight."

"Leaving tonight? But why?"

"Guess they had to cancel out the rest of the week here 'cos the drummer man, Carl, was still hurtin' from gettin' punched out last night and won't be able to play for a few days. The piano lady sat here and had a drink with us while they were tearing down the equipment—what was her name again?"

"Amina. You mean you've talked with her?"

"Yessa, that's her ... she said something about leavin' for New York City next week and wantin' to have a few days at home with her mother and to rest up before leavin'."

"New York! Damn! Did she mention anything about me, I mean, did she say ... I don't now ... leave a message or anything?"

Jimmie shook his head and then he picked up his beer and drained the bottle in one long gulp.

"Hey, dummy," Freeman said as he spiked Jimmie with his elbow, "why don't you give him the letter?"

"Letter?"

"Ya, you know, the letter she gave you for him." He nodded towards me and then he looked back at Jimmie.

"Ohhh ... that letter, I forgot." he reached into his back pocket, pulled out a small, white envelope and handed it to me.

My name was written across the front of the envelope, and as I held it in my hand, my heartbeat shifted into overdrive and the empty feeling in my stomach seemed to transfer itself to my throat.

"Damn!" I whispered softly.

I felt relieved she had at least left some form of communication, but I couldn't help wondering if this letter would have the same emotion-wrenching effect on me as Sarah's letter had. I balanced the envelope on my fingertips for a moment and then I tore it open and pulled out the single sheet of Holiday Inn stationary.

I read it quickly, hoping I could skim through the bad news. Unfortunately, it was almost all bad news, so I read it again, this time slowly and carefully while I searched desperately for hidden meanings I might have missed the first time through.

Dear Eric:

If this letter reaches you after we've left, I apologize for not saying goodbye in person, but our plans have changed rather suddenly and I did try to reach you all night, but nobody seemed to know where you were. I tried your apartment and your agency, I even tried to get hold of your wife, but no luck.

Anyway, I guess I was wrong about Carl's injury, your friend Gus must have packed his punch with a lead weight. Carl tried to play his drums this afternoon but he was still too shook up and dizzy, and being the perfectionist that he is, he refused to go on if he couldn't do his best and then he got word that our recording session in New York was confirmed for next week and the guys decided to head home for a few days rest and rehearsals before flying out next week.

So, I guess this is goodbye, at least for the time being. Maybe we'll meet again someday, in the meantime, please! please! don't give up on yourself and your creativity. You've got a lot of talent and nothing would make me happier than to see you resume your career as a songwriter and musician. I know you can do it!!

Forever yours

Amina

'Maybe we'll meet again someday!!' ' _Maybe_ we'll meet again _someday_!!'

I reached for my bottle of beer without taking my eyes off the letter, but my hand didn't make it all the way around the bottle, my fingertips clunking into the side, knocking it over and sending the contents across the table. Luckily, the bottle was almost empty, but I reacted quickly, grabbing it and turning it upright while I let loose a deluge of profanities and then I banged my fist down hard on the table.

"Hey, man, there sumpin' botherin' you?" Jimmie asked, his expression friendly concern.

"No!" I answered, "there's nothing bothering me, what makes you say that?" I then picked up his half empty bottle of beer, stood up and with one mighty swing, I threw it across the room. It landed with a noisy crash on the empty stage, its uncovered spout spewing forth the frothy spray like a machine gun as it spun around and around.

Jimmie immediately jumped up and wrapped his powerful arms around me, his voice soft and soothing. "Whoa, man, whoa! Calm down! You're gonna explode if you're not careful."

At first I struggled, but his strength completely zapped my resistance and I realized the futility of my efforts to break free. "I'm sorry," I said as he guided me back to my seat, "I guess I got carried away. Why don't you call the waitress, I owe you a beer."

"Don't worry about it," he said, "I can get destructive myself when I get upset. What's your problem?"

"Jimmie," I said, my mind searching for the right expression, "have you ever reached a turning point in your life when ... when you thought you had finally crawled out of a deep, dark hole that you'd been buried in for a few years ... and ... and then just as you reached out to pull yourself over the top ... someone comes over and chops off your hands?"

He laughed and nodded vigorously. "Sure man, most every damn day. But you know what they say, 'he who hesitates is lost.' Sometimes you just gotta move faster than the person with the axe."

I gazed steadily into his hard but friendly face, my eyes squinting and blinking. "You know," I said slowly, "that makes a helluva lot of sense. How long ago did you say Amina was here having a drink with you guys?"

"Hmmm, they couldn't have cleared the stage and left anymore than twenty minutes or so before you got here."

I stood up and pulled a ten-dollar bill out of my wallet and threw it onto the table. "Do you know whether they checked out of the hotel before or after they got their equipment?"

"Don't know man ... what's this money for?"

"Oh, that'll buy the next round on me. I'll see you later."

I headed for the door and almost ran all the way to the Volvo. It was a long shot, they were probably long gone by now, but I knew I had to talk to her. I had to tell her what I was feeling inside, that I could do it, that I could be creative again, but I needed her to be there, I needed her to inspire me when ...

The parking lot at the Holiday Inn was completely full. I circled around a couple of times, but there were no empty spaces in sight so I finally left the car near the front entrance in a _No Parking_ zone, hoping nobody would notice it. I rushed through the lobby to the front desk. By the time I got there I was completely out of breath and I just stood in front of the clerk gasping for air.

"Can I help you with something, sir?" he asked politely, but the look on his face showed more contempt than politeness.

"Yes," I said as I rubbed the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, "can you tell me what room Amina Ashe is in?"

"Amina Ashe?" he said and then he reached down and picked up a key and a long white bill that looked like a statement of some kind. "Yes, she _was_ in room 922," he said as he held up the key, "but I'm afraid she checked out about two minutes ago."

His look of satisfaction at having delivered the bad news annoyed me enough that if it wasn't for my abhorrence for violence, I would have reached out and clouted him one just for the satisfaction of watching his sly grin turn into a fat lip. But it occurred to me that Amina might still be in the vicinity somewhere so I just grabbed the key out of his hand and took off across the lobby and out into the parking lot.

I could hear him yelling after me, "Sir, you can't have that key, it's private property. Sir! If you don't give it back I'll have to call the police!"

I pictured the cop at the police station who would take the call from the hotel clerk calling the troops ... "We've got a maniac out there guys, stealing hotel keys—better get the dogs and sharpshooters ready for action ..."

I found myself standing in the dark, surrounded by hundreds of cars and not knowing where to go. I kept running around in circles—did I really think I would find her? —until I finally realized I was looking for a needle in a haystack with no needle in it. I slowed down to a trot and then finally to a slow, plodding walk, my side aching and my mouth so dry it seemed like my tongue was permanently stuck to the roof of my mouth.

I was getting close to the street and was about to start walking back to where I'd parked the Volvo, when I noticed a black Camaro with a gold racing stripe sitting a few feet in front of me with its blinker on and about to make a right turn. My weary mind immediately thought: 'nice car', not registering anything more for a few seconds, until it finally dawned on me that it was Amina's car.

I lunged forward, grabbed onto the passenger door knob and tried to open it just as the car started to pull away, but the door was locked and as it started moving, I thought it was going to tear my hand off—but there was no way I was going to let go. I banged my fist on the window and after what seemed like an eternity, the car abruptly stopped, its shocked occupant reaching over and unlocking the door.

My overwhelming sense of relief seemed to reach out and almost crush me as I opened the door and jumped in. I was breathing heavily again and I thought I was going to have a heart attack as I collapsed onto the soft, velour seat.

"Where in the world did you come from?" Amina almost screamed, her eyes wide and searching.

I couldn't seem to catch my breath, so I just waved my finger rapidly, signalling her to get moving since I could hear a car impatiently honking behind us. She finally understood what I was trying to say and slipped the car back into drive and stared moving at a snail's pace.

"Where do you want me to go?" she asked.

"Anywhere ..." I finally managed.

She wheeled the car around the corner and found a deserted parking lot and pulled in, which wasn't exactly where I had in mind. When she finally pulled the car to a stop and turned off the ignition, I really and truly expected we would fall into each other's arms in a frantic display of love and affection, but she just sat there staring into the darkness, her fingers fidgeting with the steering wheel. I couldn't bring myself to move towards her; it was like we were strangers and I kept thinking, 'This isn't the way it happens in the movies.'

We sat quietly, neither one of us making any attempt to get the conversation going. She had a Count Basie Big Band CD playing and the hypnotic, swinging beat filled the hollow, emotionless space between us. But for the first time in my life, I found myself sitting completely still, with not even my toe tapping to the music. There just wasn't any room left for the simple pleasure of listening to good music, in fact, it seemed to play havoc with my concentration and the things I wanted to say and actually began to get on my nerves.

"Can you turn the music off for a minute?" I asked cautiously.

"Sure," she said without looking at me and then she reached over and pushed the eject button. The CD popped out, instantly killing the horns and drums and piano and bass with such a sudden jolt, that now the empty spaces between us were truly empty and I immediately became annoyed by the silence.

"Okay," I said trying to sound warm and gentle but feeling cold and hurt, "What did I do wrong?"

"What do you mean? You didn't do anything wrong!"

"I must have, the way you're sneaking out on me like this."

"What! I'm not sneaking out on you, I tried to get in touch with you all night—you've got a lot of nerve saying that, I mean, I only met you yesterday, it's not as if I'm obligated to you in any way."

"Oh, I see," I replied with more sarcasm in my voice than I had intended, "so in other words, what happened last night was nothing special, just another common everyday experience."

"I didn't say that ..." She closed her eyes for a moment, her hands gripping the steering wheel as if she was riding on a roller coaster, her face seemingly caught between confusion and the need to get something off her chest. "Last night was wonderful ..." she said after a brief pause, "... I'll always remember it, but ... but, it wasn't real life, it was only a fleeting moment, a dream we got caught up in that seemed for a moment as if it could go on forever, but ..."

"Why can't it? Dreams don't always have to end?"

"No!" she said forcefully. The sharpness in her voice startled me. "It could never be, can't you see that? This is reality, this is the hard, cruel world where people are not robots who just walk through your dreams—they have minds of their own and don't always react the way you expect them to."

"But I love you!" I blurted out, and as the words ricocheted off the empty spaces that were now rapidly getting overcrowded, I could feel a lump swell up in my throat and my eyes begin to water. "I need you with me to ... to help me continue to rejuvenate myself ... to help me begin to create again. You're my inspiration, the one who finally got me turned in the right direction, but I can't go the rest of the way without you."

She seemed to rise up in her seat, a look of traumatic anxiety frozen on her face. "Damn it, Eric, don't say that! You don't love me, you couldn't possibly ... you just think you do."

"But I do!" Until that moment I hadn't exactly thought in quite those terms, but it came out so easily I knew it had to be true. "I've waited all my life for someone like you to come along and I can't stand the thought of going through the rest of my life without you—I might as well just keel over and die."

"Now that's not fair! You can't put that burden on me, I certainly didn't ask you to fall in love with me and you can't accuse me of leading you on, I certainly didn't indicate to you that I was interested in getting tied down or changing my lifestyle in any way—I don't know what I did to make you feel otherwise."

"Come on, I'm not a complete idiot, I can tell when someone is reacting and feeling the same way I am. I saw the look in your eyes, the smile on your face, I felt the squeeze of your hand and the way you kissed me ... unless you're one helluva good actress, those feelings were real, I know they were! It's only logical for me to assume they had the same effect on you as they did on me."

"There you go, analyzing again, breaking everything down to its tiniest little detail. Why can't you just accept the fact we had an enjoyable night together and nothing more? I refuse to believe you're not capable of getting back your courage to create all by yourself. No one else can do it for you."

"But I don't want to do it alone, I want to be with you!"

"Well ... well," she was struggling to find the words, "... well, you can't always get what you want!"

That statement shut me up fast. She was right, of course, but I couldn't believe I'd misinterpreted her feelings—I wouldn't believe it, there had to be some reason why she had changed so quickly.

I took a deep breath and let it out loudly with a noisy whoosh. The empty spaces between us were now crowded with caustic vibrations and it seemed like a good time to keep quiet and try to reorganize my thoughts. I gazed through the increasingly fogged windshield at the bright, steady stream of car headlights that flowed by until I couldn't see them clearly through my water filled eyes. The atmosphere seemed to be very heavy, as if the fog on the windshield was slowly dispersing itself into the air, diabolically intending to try and suffocate us.

On impulse I reached over and squeezed her hand. "Can we step outside and talk, it's getting kind of stuffy in here." There was a faint glimmer of a response as she nodded and then opened the door.

I hopped out and went around the back of the car to her side where she stood leaning against the door. As I stepped towards her, my feet found an errant patch of ice that must have survived the days onslaught of sunshine because the next thing I knew, my body seemed to be running parallel to the ground and I had a strange sensation of floating.

Amina reacted quickly, throwing her arms around my shoulders preventing me from crash landing into the side of the car. Both of us almost tumbled down, but my foot managed to find a dry spot on the pavement and I quickly found my balance again.

"Damn ice!" I yelled, but actually, I wasn't too displeased with my sudden flight since it had resulted in my ending up surrounded by her arms.

"Are you okay? you could have broken your neck!" she said as her arms slipped away from my shoulders, but her hands quickly grabbed onto mine.

"I'm okay ... I guess." I shook my head and I was seeing stars after all, but the closeness of her body and warmth of her hands made up for any injury I might have suffered. She continued to hold my hands, which I thought was a good sign, but the moment of concern soon passed and we seemed to slide back into our previous mood of antagonism.

"So when do you leave for New York?" I asked.

"I'm not sure, I think maybe Tuesday or Wednesday, it depends on how Carl is feeling, we haven't really discussed the details yet."

"Congratulations ... I think," I said, "you must be pleased, finally getting what you've always wanted—to go to New York City." There was a cynical undertone to my voice as I made the 'getting what you've always wanted' comment, and she picked up on it right away.

"Thank you ... I think," she said, her nose pointing towards the sky, "anyone with enough patience usually gets what they want."

"What do you think you'll find in New York?"

"I don't know ... my roots, I suppose." Her eyes kept searching my face and then flickering away, and then back to my face and then away again and her hands were clamped so tightly around mine, my fingers started to get numb. "I'll probably just find a dirty-old-smelly-people-infested city—but it's where I have to go."

"I want to come with you."

She closed her eyes and shook her head vigorously, but her hands squeezed mine even tighter. "No! You can't, you know you can't."

"Yes I can!" I wanted to tell her that Carl had asked me to come, that he had pleaded with me to come, but I couldn't figure out how to tell her I'd turned him down—or if I could somehow bring myself to change me mind.

"Look, you've got your own life to live, a life of wonderful hopes and possibilities. You lost yourself for awhile, but we all flounder around occasionally, don't let our brief moment together play too important a role, you've got people here who need you, who love you ..."

"I've got nothing here," I said. "Since when have you become the all knowing soothsayer who can tell a someone what he should be doing and who really cares for him?"

"What about your wife?"

"What about Sarah?"

"Well ... you can always go back to her." Her tone had turned a bit nasty. "She obviously likes to have things her own way. Maybe if you're a good boy, she'll even let you play your piano once in awhile." Even though she was making a good show of being sarcastic, it didn't seem to come naturally to her. The words came out as if she had been rehearsing them all day in front of a mirror, and her eyes began to plead and search.

"Damn it!" I yelled, "leave Sarah out of this, she's got nothing to do with us and my feelings for you. Just because you've never been able to maintain a long term relationship with anyone you've got no reason to talk that way. If you had, you would know it's not that easy to forget ten years of your life with someone without going through some hesitation and pain when the relationship ends."

She wasn't impressed with my proclamation. "Huh!" She said, with a haughty forbearance and a flick of her shoulder that reminded me of Sarah, but she was still holding onto my hands, "that's what you think. I've had plenty of relationships. I travel around a lot you know, I meet lots of guys ..." and then her haughtiness seemed to disappear as a far away look came into her eyes and she whispered, "... in fact, I have a special relationship with someone right now, but I'm not sure ..."

"Oh sure," I interrupted, my hurt and anger finally reaching an aggravated peak, "I think I've finally got you figured out, you're nothing but a female version of Carl or your father, jumping in and out of bed with a different man in every town—and I was stupid enough to think I could really mean something to you, what a sucker I've been ... " The words were meaningless drivel meant to sting, not to wound, but the look of devastation on her face told me the cutting edge had sunk too deep. I stopped abruptly, my anger dying quickly.

"Is that what you think?" she said and this time she let go of my hands.

"I'm sorry ... I didn't mean it that way ..."

"Well, I don't care what you meant ... this conversation is _over_!"

She pushed me aside and opened the car door, jumping in quickly and locking the door behind her. The engine started with a roar and without bothering to warm it up, she pulled away, leaving me standing in a cloud of smelly smoke.

I should have grabbed her and hugged her when she made her move to leave. I should have begged for her forgiveness. I should have made her understand that if I couldn't be with her, there would never be any point in my life. I should have chased the car and made her turn around and come back—but I didn't. I just stood there and watched her drive away while I tried to figure out how I was going to pry my foot out of my mouth. Luckily, I only wore a size 8 1/2 shoe so it would likely take no more than an hour or two.

"At least we'll always have Paris," I mumbled as a sudden, desperate need for a cigarette and a bottle of Scotch overwhelmed me.

I watched the black Camaro until it merged with the flow of traffic coming from downtown and until I couldn't see it anymore, and then I turned around and started walking back to the entrance to the Holiday Inn where I'd left the Volvo. When I got there, a big, white tow truck was backing up towards the front of my car, so I grabbed the yellow parking ticket stuck to the windshield, ripped it into small pieces and then I jumped into the Volvo and made my escape.

As I pulled away, I caught a brief glimpse in my rear view mirror of the tow truck operator standing in a cloud of smelly smoke, cursing and shaking his fist at me like a deranged wrestler.

****************

Later that night (or early the next morning), as I sat in the middle of my living room, the key to Room 922 at the Holiday Inn held tightly in my hand, the apartment in total darkness and my mind a sombre mass of mushy brain cells, I discovered that Dr Pepper and vodka would never be one of my favourite drinks. I'd played my entire collection of Simon & Garfunkel albums starting with _Wednesday Morning 3AM_ , and when I reached _Bridge Over Troubled Waters_ , I played it over and over again and wondered if I should call someone.

I analyzed my way through everything that had happened during the last two days but, like a cross-eyed sparrow who kept flying full tilt into a clean glass window trying to get to the other side, but only ending up with a massive headache for all it's troubles, I couldn't figure out what was going on.

I kept running hot and then cold. One minute I wanted to go back to the way I was two days ago—hopelessly alone but emotionless enough not to care. The next minute I realized that without yesterday and today, I would never have met Amina, and even though she was gone, without her I may never have found some of the answers that could change my attitude and allow me to see myself in a more favourable light.

But the changing process would be agonizingly slow, I realized since, once again, I'd caught myself in the trap of assuming too much. What the hell was the matter with me? Why couldn't I learn that other people have their own minds and will usually do the exact opposite of what you expect them to do?

When I thought about it, nothing in my life had really changed, except I didn't know where the hell Gus was—but I certainly did feel different. At that moment I felt the way Ben Braddock must have felt the day after he was forced to tell Elaine Robinson that he'd had an affair with her mother. He'd spent the next few weeks mostly sitting in his room and staring out the window, his brain, no doubt, the same kind of sombre, mushy mass as mine.

It was while I was trying to remember what Ben had done next that the telephone rang. I jumped up quickly, like a madman waking from a nightmare and I knew it had to be her, I knew she'd changed her mind and was calling me back to ask me to come to New York with her—I knew it!

I had absolutely no trouble finding the phone despite the darkness that surrounded me. I picked it up and with an unashamed burst of emotion, I said, "Amina, I'm sorry, I was an idiot to say what I did—you've got to forgive me ..." but the lady on the line responded with uneasy laughter.

"That's very sweet of you," she said, "but I'm afraid I'm not Amina."

"Oh."

"Are you Eric Taylor?"

"Yes."

"Good, this is Victoria Hospital calling and you ..."

"Victoria Hospital? Oh no, who died ... did Hub?"

"Hub? No, I'm calling with reference to Mr. Seymour Bradley to let you know about the funeral arrangements."

"Oh, that's right," I said with relief.

"Well, we have that information for you now. The funeral service will be held at the Finnegan Funeral Home at 11:00 AM tomorrow, with burial services immediately afterwards at Mount Pleasant Memorial Gardens."

"Okay, thank you very much, I appreciate you taking the time to call."

"You're very welcome, Mr. Taylor." She hesitated for a moment, and then she added, "I hope Amina calls."

"Uhhh ... thanks," I said, and then I hung up.

For a long time I stood there in the dark watching the hazy shadows around me, my mind and body in a stage of total exhaustion. I finally decided to turn in, and as I stumbled across the room towards the bedroom, my floundering foot accidentally kicked over the glass of Dr Pepper and vodka I'd abandoned in the middle of the carpet, the ice cubes clunking against the side of the glass before dropping silently onto the thick fabric.

I just left it there.

### Chapter Fifteen

I woke up automatically at 8:30 AM, even though I hadn't fallen asleep more than an hour or so before. I was sprawled across the bed, my arms reaching out as if I'd been searching for someone to touch, and for the first time in over two years, I felt restless and edgy about waking up alone. It was certainly a strange way to feel, since the times I'd been with someone were out-numbered by over six hundred to one. But that one morning, now a faraway dream, had spoiled me and my half-conscious brain struggled to find a reason why I should even bother getting up at all.

A shrill, high-pitched screech that could only have come from one source suddenly broke through the tangled barriers of my mind and I rolled over onto my back and opened my eyes, realizing I still had one small, but vitally important duty to perform no matter how pointless my life now seemed.

Sam was sitting in his favourite spot on top of the piano, his agitated eyes watching my every move, like a spectator at a hockey game whose team was down by one goal with less than a minute to play and they'd just pulled their goalie for a sixth attacker. He repeated the shrill screech and then he jumped down onto the bed and stepped cautiously towards me.

"You getting hungry?" I asked as I rubbed the top of his head. His agitated demeanour quickly disappeared as he savoured the attention of my hand and he began to purr loudly and rub his cheek against my face. For a few moments, I too savoured the pleasure of giving and receiving comfort and then I said, "Okay, you win, you've sweet-talked me again." It struck me that no matter how alone I was, I would never really be alone as long as Sam was around.

I threw the covers off and sat on the edge of the bed. Sam jumped down and did a silly dance around my feet and then he took off, no doubt expecting me to go rushing after him so I could dump something into his dish and thus satisfy his never-ending hunger pangs. But I just sat there, unable to move, my head spinning around like an out of control ferris wheel. In the distance, I could hear what sounded like the telephone ringing but I ignored it while I rubbed my face and eyes with the palms of my hands trying to stir more life into them and then I bent over and grabbed my wallet from the floor where I'd flung it last night along with my clothing. I carried it to the piano and sat down on the bench and then I pulled out the piece of paper I'd written the fragments of a lyric.

For a few minutes, I played around with the chord sequence I'd put together with Amina, meshing the chords with the opening lines of the lyric. I was surprised by how well they blended together and as I continued to work on the song, the next two lines presented themselves and I wrote them down to complete the first verse. I now had a reasonably good opening.

Our love started with a dream

Of candlelit dinners and clear mountain streams

Of touching gently in the night

Of being one until the morning light

Where did I go from there? I stared at the words I'd written down—Love was a dream ... Of touching nights ... and morning light, but—dreams are not always what they seem ... And what can happen to dreams? They tend to drift and fade ... And what is left? ... and all that's left is wishful thoughts ... that never get repaid.

I wrote down the second verse.

But dreams aren't always what they seem

They tend to drift and fade

And all that's left is wishful thoughts

That never get repaid

Now I needed to work on a hook, something that distinguished the melody and lyrics and made them stand out and stick in a listener's mind. I tried about twenty chords but none seemed to fill the transition in the still unwritten chorus and when Sam returned, still yelping and scolding me, I decided it was a good time to break off before and got lost in another sea of frustration and discouragement.

I followed him into the kitchen and as I pulled out a can of Scrambled Egg and Beef, his cries intensified, his tail fluttered impatiently in the air and he kept rubbing his face against my leg.

"Alright already!" I exclaimed, "keep your tail on, I'm going as fast as I can."

I opened the can and scraped its smelly contents into the dish and then tossed it into the garbage. I then turned back and watched as Sam slinked slowly up to the dish, his eyes concentrating, his nose carefully sniffing like an aristocrat inspecting the quality of his snuff. Inspection complete, his tongue flashed out and secured a tiny morsel of meat and then, with a shake of his head as if the food wasn't up to his standards, his right paw twitching, he stood up and walked away.

"Damn cat!" I screamed with mock rage, "you're gonna drive me crazy," and then I took off after him into the living room. I knew that his usual method of escaping my clutches whenever I felt like wringing his neck was to run behind the couch, so I headed for the opposite side, got down on my knees and waited. He came out like a shot and I lunged at him and managed to grab his front paws and pull him back, however, two quick swats with his sharp claws and I was forced to let him go or have them turn my hands into mangled pieces of flesh.

He stopped in the middle of the living room, got down on his haunches like a lion stalking a herd of antelope and watched me as I crawled slowly towards him on my hands and knees. I pretended not to notice him as I crawled by and then I turned around and lunged, wrapping my hands around his body and flipping him over onto his back. I grabbed both of his front paws in my left hand, keeping his deadly claws at bay and then I tickled his stomach playfully, but I forgot to cover the rear and his powerful hind legs did the backstroke up my arm and he was free once again.

He headed down the hallway and I was in close pursuit until he turned into the bedroom, jumped onto the bed and bounced off the other side and then disappeared underneath—but only for a moment. He came flying out and before I had a chance to react, he was past me and heading back down the hallway. I continued the chase, but by the time I reached the living room, my heart was pounding and I knew he had outfoxed me again. I collapsed onto the couch, my head still spinning around and tried to catch my breath. Sam jumped onto the arm and started to taunt me again with his high-pitched screech and I couldn't help laughing.

"Okay, you win, but I'll get you next time."

He jumped down and walked along my legs until he reached my stomach and then he circled once before plopping down and making himself comfortable. I scratched his head and he rewarded me with a friendly cat smile and then he closed his eyes and settled in. Not wanting to disturb him right away, I also closed my eyes and decided to sit still for a few minutes ... but when I finally opened them again, I had a strange feeling they had been closed for a lot longer than a few minutes.

I stared at the crack in the ceiling and tried to remember where I was and what I was supposed to do. I stared until faces and places and schedules and time slowly began to drift back into my mind and fill the empty spaces and then I sat up, gently placing Sam back down on the couch.

My mind was slowly filling up as I walked into the kitchen and checked the time. It was closer to ten o'clock than I had expected, so I went to the phone and dialled the office. The line rang only twice before someone picked it up, but it wasn't Mrs. Archer.

"Hello?"

"Tim, when you answer the phone you're supposed to say Fun Gus Productions."

"Oh yeah ... I guess I forgot. Oh well, better luck next time."

"Where's Mrs. Archer?"

"She's ah ... in the, ah, in the little girl's room."

"Oh. Well, I guess I can tell you then. I'm gonna be a couple of hours late in case anyone is wondering where I am. I'll see you this afternoon."

"Okay. You get those reviews done?"

"Nope."

Silence.

"You still there, Tim?"

"Yep."

"Are you upset?"

"Yep."

"Oh well, nobody's perfect. Why don't you fill the space with a couple of the pictures I took at the Bon Jovi concert. I left a review and five of the pictures on Angie's desk."

"Hey, that's a good idea, that'll fill the space just fine."

"Is there anything else before I hang up."

"Yep. What was the name of Ian Thomas' first band?"

"Tranquillity Base."

"Damn!"

"Two down, eight to go. Can't wait for that terrific roast beef. Catch ya later."

I hung up the phone, turned on the stereo and then I went and had a quick shower and shave. As I walked back into the bedroom and opened the left hand side of my closet, a side I rarely used, I tried to slip my brain into automatic—no more analyzing, no more breaking every detail down into its smallest element, no more anguished annoyance because I couldn't change the things I had no control over and I determined I would try to get a better handle on myself through the eyes of other people.

I pulled out my three-piece navy pinstripe suit, powder blue dress shirt and navy polka dotted tie and with slow, graceful movements, I carefully got dressed, as if I was performing some kind of ritual.

When I'd finished, I went over and surveyed myself in the mirror. I was impressed. The person standing there looked amazingly at ease and comfortable, though his dark brown hair could use a trim and his grey eyes were bloodshot and obviously in need of more sleep. But he stood erect and there was an air of rejuvenated confidence in his manner. It's surprising how much the donning of a different uniform can sometimes change the person inside.

I went to the front closet and found a reasonably clean pair of black dress shoes and put them on. They felt tight and uncomfortable but they were the best I had and they would just have to do.

The journey down the elevator felt unusually long as I continued to fight off my normal feelings of uneasiness. When I got off the elevator, I walked down the hallway, making a point to ignore the mail room and headed for the lobby lounge where I knew I would find Jerry sitting.

Sure enough, he was there, dressed in the same spiffy new blue jeans and faded red and white checked shirt, but to my surprise, there was a pretty young girl of about twelve sitting next to him, her face wide-eyed and fascinated by Jerry's explanation of the wonders of his new transistor radio. He slipped the headphones over her long, brown hair and then plugged them into the radio and turned up the volume. The little girl immediately responded with a bouncing of her head and a smile that revealed a mouthful of braces.

Jerry reached out and held her hand and said, "You can listen as long as you want to," despite the fact she couldn't hear him.

I sat down opposite them and watched for awhile until Jerry finally managed to tear his eyes from her face and look at me.

"How are you today, Jerry?" I asked, although I knew that if the grin that filled his face was any indication, he was happier than I had ever seen him.

At first he didn't say anything, the grin vanishing as he carefully inspected me from head to toe and the smile returned and he said, "Good mornin' Mr. Taylor. Did you Dad buy ya some new clothes, too?"

I couldn't help grinning as I replied, "He sure did, Jerry, how do you like them?"

His brow furrowed in serious concentration as he once again inspected my appearance, forgetting for a moment that he was holding someone's hand. "I like them," he said at last. "Your Dad must really love you to buy you all that too." He pointed at my tie and then at my shoes.

"You're right, Jerry ... my Dad ... my ... my Dad really loves me too ..."

I had a sudden urge to pull him over and give him a great big hug, but I doubt if I could have pried him away from the attentions of the little girl who had by now removed the headphones and was whispering in his ear. He listened politely and then he turned to me and said, "I have a new friend, just like you do, she's Elv-Elvvv-Elv-i ..."

He couldn't seem to get his tongue around the name, so she piped up in a surprisingly deep voice, "Elvira."

Jerry looked relieved that she had finished for him. "Shake hands," he commanded, "this is Mr. Taylor. He's my friend."

She stood up and offered her delicate hand, but rather than shaking, I kissed the back of it like Lancelot greeting the Queen. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Elvira."

She withdrew her hand slowly, giggling and tugging at the front of her dress like all little girls seem to do when they're embarrassed and then she sat back down and whispered in Jerry's ear loud enough for me to hear, "He's cute, just like you, Jerry." His blue eyes beamed and then she added, "I like living here already."

And then, I swear I saw her wink at me, the movement barely perceptible, but enough to make me look at her in a new light. Suddenly, she wasn't a little girl, but a perceptive, mature adult/child, one of those special people who looked at Jerry and didn't see the twisted body or hear the garbled language, but saw another loving, caring human being. I watched her closely as she put her arms around him and kissed his cheek, but her face had suddenly changed into the face of someone I had known briefly, someone with round and searching brown eyes, with a mouth set into a permanent pout ...

I blinked rapidly and then shook my head and when I looked again, there was a little boy and girl sitting in front of me laughing and giggling and listening to rock music on the radio and I had to get up and walk away before they saw my watery eyes.

### Chapter Sixteen

The funeral home was one of those huge, old houses that was built in the days when they still used plaster on the walls and real oak panels for the stairs and banisters. It was located on the edge of town, surrounded by gigantic poplar and maple trees that were, no doubt, as old and majestic as the converted house they had been assigned to protect. The atmosphere was that of a country mansion, warm and welcoming, but the throngs of mourning people quickly dispelled any mood of happiness or gaiety the surroundings created once you got inside.

As I pulled into the crowded parking lot, I wondered if I would be able to find a place to leave the Volvo or if, once again, I would be forced to leave it in a _No Parking_ zone. But after a couple of spins around the lot, I managed to find a space between a massive, pink Cadillac and a bright yellow Mustang convertible that was just big enough for me to wedge the car into with little more than ten inches to spare. I squeezed my way out the door and sauntered across the parking lot, keeping a sharp eye out for runaway Camaros with obnoxious drivers.

Next to elevators and hospitals, funeral homes have always been my least favourite places, but at least the aroma of flowers and plants was a lot less offensive to my senses then the smell of drugs and medicine and even the sombre drone of organ music had a more soothing effect than the constant echoing voices in the hallways of a hospital calling the doctors to their battle stations.

I joined the crowds of people moving into the house and it occurred to me that I was a complete stranger in their midst. It seemed funny, but I didn't feel the least bit uncomfortable or out of place. In fact, I felt as though I was a fourteen-year-old kid who had come to terms with the hard, cruel world and the fact that his life wasn't always going to be filled with loving smiles and happy dreams but he would have his share of plunging down icy sidewalks and falling flat on his face—and he had decided not to run away.

I walked down the hallway, my feet sinking into the thick, plush blue carpet to the large, tastefully decorated room where the service was being held. I stood at the back and surveyed the people gathered in the room and I was impressed by two things—the diverse mixture of people; young and old, rich and poor, black and white, and the amazing calmness that seemed to permeate throughout the room. There were even a few smiling, though appropriately sedate faces.

I focused my attention on two very old ladies, one sitting in the last row of seats and the other standing in the aisle, her back bent over and her head lowered to within a few inches of the other.

"Seymour always knew how to draw a crowd, didn't he Margie," the one sitting said.

The other smiled and nodded. "He sure did and if he was somehow able to be here with all these nice people, he would probably end up taking them all home for dinner."

"Yes, he had such a generous and loving nature," came the reply and then her eyes filled with tears. "He was such a good man ... it's a shame he had to pass away, but I guess we have no reason to complain, he lived a full and happy life and he's left behind a wonderful legacy for all of his friends and family to remember him by."

As I listened to the ladies speaking, I once again wished I had met Mr. Seymour Bradley Junior. I decided I would go and pay my last respects to the generous old man lying peacefully at the front of the room, but as I stepped slowly down the aisle, the voices and the people and the organ music seemed to disappear. All I could see was a simple, blue velvet coffin and a simple but generous old man lying there as if he had decided to take a nap while wearing his only suit, a heavy navy blue serge with wide lapels and two-inch cuffs.

I stood there in front of the casket for what seemed like a long time, alone with my thoughts and the over-powering fragrance of spring flowers ... Spring! A good time of the year ... a good time for new beginnings and the breaking of old habits ... a good time for making amends and renewing shared expectations and holding hands and drinking wine and long walks in the park and feeling free ...

I blinked and the voices and people and organ music returned and I noted that Seymour Bradley looked exactly like his portrait. I was about to return to the back of the room when I felt a hand on my shoulder and I turned around and for a fleeting moment I expected to see the face of an elderly lady wearing a new black dress, her face veiled and pretty, but ...

It was Hub.

His face was faintly pale and haggard, with an overall reddish tinge, but otherwise, he looked like the Hub I've always known. He was wearing one of his expertly tailored three-piece grey pinstripe suits with a white shirt that showed exactly the right amount of cuff and a burgundy tie and puff—the picture of class and elegance.

He stood next to me, his head bowed, his hands clasped in front of him in a pose of humble deference to the gentleman who had spent the last day of his life helping Hub to regain his self-respect. The look on his face was that of a person who had, on impulsive, been about to jump off a high cliff but had changed his mind at the last second and was now meditating on the consequences of what he'd almost done.

The chatter of voices around us began to die down as the organ music stopped and a nattily dressed young man began talking at a podium surrounded by wreaths and potted plants. Hub and I moved to the back of the room and listened to the young man's stirring eulogy to his grandfather.

I tried to concentrate on the words, but my mind was too crowded with my own thoughts and only a few fragments managed to break through— "Granddad knew how to inspire people ..." and "... his generous spirit made him loved ..." and "... he possessed such an overwhelming zest for life ..."

When the eulogy ended, Hub and I slipped out the door and started moving across the parking lot to our cars. We were both too emotionally piqued to talk until we reached the Volvo and I turned to him and said, "Why is it that some people are able to handle the ups and downs in their lives better than others?"

He shrugged. "Who knows, but there really is no trick to it if you think about it," he said, a look of determination in his eyes, "and I've thought about it a helluva lot the past few days, believe me."

"What do you mean, Hub? What's the trick?"

His face was steeped in thought and then it brightened, as if all the answers had finally sorted themselves out. "Look, I don't want to sound like a philosophical old man who thinks he knows all the answers, so this is the last time I'm going to talk about all this, from now on I'm just going to live it, okay?"

"That's fine with me, Hub, but at least share your secret with me."

He smiled. "It ain't no damn secret, just common sense." He stroked his chin with his fingers and then he went on. "Okay, I think you need three things. First, you have to have faith in yourself no matter what other people might say about you or what you're feeling inside when you're depressed. The worst thing you can do is get caught up in self-pity or feelings of inferiority, they're absolutely the most unproductive emotions you can feel. You understand me?"

"Yep, you're absolutely right on that count."

"Okay, and the second thing you need is to have a goal—or dream or fantasy, whatever, just as long as it's something you can wrap yourself up in and work towards so that no matter how many times you stumble, you know you're going to have the guts to pick yourself up and continue on. Thirdly—and probably the most important because without this the other two are likely wasted—you've got to have someone to share your ups and downs with. It doesn't matter if the relationship is perfect—nothing's perfect, as long as you really care about each other deep down." He finished and then after a momentary pause he said, "Well, what do you think?"

I put my arm around his shoulders and said, "Makes a lot of sense to me. Maybe you should become a guru and charge people for advice on how they can straighten out their lives—you could make a fortune."

"No way, I've had enough of making fortunes, I'm looking forward to getting away so I can start doing the things I've always wanted to do. I don't have that many years left to get some real pleasure out of my life," and then he chuckled, "unless, of course, I live to be nine hundred like ol' Mr. Bradley."

I removed my arm from his shoulder and then looked directly into his eyes, and I realized that I was looking at a man who had really found himself after a lifetime of searching. "I'm glad to see you've worked everything out, Hub. What happens once you've disposed of the business?"

"I've decided I'm going to gather together all of my canvases and brushes and paint and head up north and see if I can't capture some of this beautiful country of ours on canvas."

"Where up north?"

"Well, Caroline has this place up in northern Michigan ... have you ever been up that way?"

"No, I haven't."

"It's a beautiful part of the country, you should come up and visit sometime, it would likely do you a world of good to get away yourself."

"I just might surprise you and do that someday. Are you two getting back together?"

He shrugged. "It would be a little premature to say that right now, but I guess only time will tell. We never should have bothered going through with the divorce ... the same way you and Sarah have never bothered. We always knew we still loved each other, but sometimes a marriage just needs a change of pace and a little time to heal the wounds that were inflicted when you were both too immature to understand what you were doing. Anyway, maybe we can pick up the pieces of our lives that we left dangling thirteen years ago, maybe not, but we're going to give it a try."

"I'm so glad to hear that, Hub." I reached over and shook his hand.

He started to speak, and then he hesitated for a moment. "You know ..." He looked directly into my eyes. "... you know, you might want to try the same thing yourself. Now, I'm not trying to tell you how to run your life, but I know that Sarah still loves you and ..." He left it hanging there. "You've just got to stop feeling guilty about what you've done to each other in the past and try to make a fresh start."

"I don't know, Hub, it's awfully difficult to change bad habits."

"Well, you think about it."

"I will."

At that moment a small, grey Toyota driven by Caroline pulled up. Hub gave me a big bear hug and then he got into the car and after the two of them once again invited me to come and see them up north, they drove off.

As I watched the car pull away, I knew that someday I would get to know them both a lot better.

### Chapter Seventeen

I left the Volvo in my usual parking spot downtown and as I walked the two blocks to the office, I anticipated the looks of astonishment I was going to get, especially from Mrs. Archer, when I walked in wearing a suit. The walk up the stairs was uneventful until I reached the landing where Maria Danielli was standing, a look of confusion on her face.

"Hi Maria, how's it going?"

"Fine," she said and then she turned and stared up the stairs towards Fun Gus Productions.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"I'm not sure," she said. "Have you been out for lunch or are you just getting in for the day?"

"I'm just getting in, why?"

"Well, there's something strange going on up there?"

"Like what?"

She shrugged. "Geez, I don't know, just something."

Since she couldn't offer any further explanation, I matched her shrug with one of my own. "Okay well, I'm on my way in now so I'll check it out. See ya."

I was about five steps up when she yelled after me, "By the way, I like your suit, you look very macho."

"Thanks, Maria," I said over my shoulder, "next time we have dinner I'll probably bring my own mirror so I can stare at myself like you do."

She laughed and I continued on.

I quickened my pace and when I got to the top, the first thing I noticed was the door to the left that led to the roof was partially ajar and the door to the agency was wide open. I turned right and went inside the office, closing the door behind me.

The first sign that 'something strange' was going on was the fact that Mrs. Archer wasn't at her desk. I walked past where she's usually counting paper clips wondering where she could be and continued down the hallway to the Art Room, but there wasn't anyone there, either. I retraced my steps and when I got to Gus' office, I tried the door and this time it opened. I went inside and everything seemed the same as when I'd been there a few days ago. The Hendrix portrait was still sitting on his desk where I'd placed it and all the pictures on the walls still stared down as if they were watching my every move. However, as I walked around the desk, I noticed the door to his secret room was wide open. Without hesitation, I went inside to check it out.

The room was long and narrow, about the size of a small eat-in kitchen. Running along the right hand wall was a cot with a couple of sheets and a flannel blanket on top that had obviously been slept in regularly. The blankets smelled of sweat and smoke and looked like they could use a good cleaning. At the end of the room was a tiny kitchen table that was covered with the empty bags and wrappings from just about every fast food place in town and the aroma was a combination of hamburgers, chicken and fish & chips.

Along the left hand wall was a long, narrow cupboard which left only about a foot between it and the cot. I knelt down and opened one of the doors and inside, folded neatly, was a large selection of jeans and t-shirts. I stood up, trying to take in the whole scene before me and I tried to imagine the kind of person who would want to live like this. I wondered why I'd never realized what was going on.

A large 11 X 14 photograph of a young, innocent looking dark-haired girl with distant brown eyes and a tentative smile who couldn't have been any more than sixteen or seventeen was taped to the wall above the cupboard. In fact, the entire wall was covered with pictures of the same girl and as I scanned over them, I couldn't help feeling I knew the girl from somewhere.

I studied the larger picture again and then I carefully and meticulously went over each of the smaller ones. As streams of recollection slowly began to unwind themselves from my memories and find their way to the surface, I realized that I was intimately familiar with most of the pictures ... but that didn't make any sense until I came across a group shot taken in front of a Greyhound bus—apparently happy faces, but there was a strange atmosphere of hostility—Sarah, myself, Benny, Carl, Gus ... and then it hit me like a thunderbolt of lightning and the words, "Oh, my God!" involuntarily escaped my lips as I realized I was looking at the pictures of Rita Jennings, Sarah's girlfriend, that I'd taken myself all those years ago ... and there was the picture I'd taken with her arms around Gus, the same one I had in my own photo collection.

I stood back feeling a little dazed but my mind was a lot less confused as the pieces of the puzzle that made up a strange guy by the name of 'Fun Gus' Griffin began to slowly fall into place. For the first time I noticed the top of the cupboard was covered with opened letters and notes. I picked three of them up, leafed through and quickly discovered they were all written in a frail, almost child-like feminine handwriting and some of them were beginning to fade, as if the ink wasn't interested in being preserved for posterity.

All the letters were dated, the earliest appearing to be April 10, 1998. I picked one up that was dated December 16, 1999, about the time the band was halfway through our final tour, and it read:

To My Gussy, With All My Love

If the world was mine

To you I would give it.

If there was a life without sorrow

I would want you to live it.

If your wildest dream could ever come true,

I would wrap it in love and send it to you.

Because for you, nothing is too good to give

And my life, for you, I wish to live.

Forever Yours

Rita

I placed the letter down and picked up a few more. Most of them were of a similar type of mushy poem and always signed: Forever Yours—Rita. I glanced back at the 11 X 14 picture, trying desperately to put a living, breathing human personality with the face, but I kept drawing a blank, except for the words spoken to me by two different people during the past few days ...

"... I was supposed to have gotten some broad pregnant ..."

"... I think she died or something ..."

I dropped the letters and walked back into the outer office, through the door to the hallway and by the time I got to the reception area, I was almost running. I opened the door that led to the stairs and ran straight through the landing and through the door that led to the roof. The sudden burst of sunlight blinded me for a moment, but I clattered on anyway across the ocean of tiny pebbles that covered the top of the roof, slopping through dozens of puddles of filthy water along the way.

When I got halfway across, I stopped for a moment to get my bearings and to catch my breath. I blinked a couple of times but I was unsuccessful in removing the ball of flame that crowded out my ability to see clearly. I tried to calm myself down as I realized I wouldn't be any good to anyone in an agitated state, even if I was too late. But some sixth sense kept pumping up my heartbeat as thoughts of standing at the edge of the roof and looking down three floors at a gruesome sight I didn't want to see crossed my mind.

I did a quick pirouette, trying to take in every square inch of my lofty surroundings—and that's when I saw him. I took in a deep breath and let it out quickly, my overwhelming sense of relief threatening to buckle my knees and cause me to collapse.

He was sitting at the end of the roof, his legs dangling down like someone sitting on the edge of a swimming pool with their legs kicking freely in the water. He was no more than twenty feet from where I was standing. I started walking slowly and cautiously in his direction, fearful that my sudden presence might spook him but at the same time wanting to run as fast as I could and pull him back from the edge before something terrible happened. I tried to get a tighter grip on myself, knowing I had to approach him as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening—there could be no panic or fear in my voice.

His guitar was lying on the gravel behind him, the broken tuning keys already repaired and shiny. As I got closer to the edge, the sight of all the free-flowing, empty air and dozens of tiny cars in the parking lot below made me feel dizzy to the point of having a strong urge to throw up.

I stopped moving when I was just a yard to his right and then I sat down and hung my legs off the edge, the same way he was sitting. It felt sooo good to take the pressure off my legs, since I was beginning to have doubts as to whether they were capable of keeping me from plunging down and bouncing off one of the shiny new cars three floors below.

I glanced nonchalantly over at Gus. His arms were folded across his chest and his eyes seemed to be following the distant line of cars running up and down King Street. I picked up a handful of pebbles and started tossing them one by one into the air and watching as they made their silent plunge to the ground far below. I wondered what anyone glancing up would think if they saw the two funny looking guys—one dressed in a three-piece suit and the other in a bright yellow t-shirt and faded jeans—sitting on the edge of the roof watching the world go by.

"So ... did somebody declare today a National holiday and forget to tell me about it, or what?"

I couldn't think of anything else to say. It seemed so stupid considering the situation and, of course, he continued to ignore me. In that sense, our conversation—or lack of it—was normal. I picked up another handful of pebbles and tossed them into the air one at a time. Visions of a battered guitar crashing against a wall crowded with pictures of mostly dead musicians and the emotionally unpredictable person who had thrown it there flashed in my mind. I had never been one for praying, but if I had been that kind of person, I had a feeling this was one of those times when you would be babbling on while doing your best to wear out the knees of your pants.

He didn't seem interested in answering my question, so my only choice was to ask another one.

"So ... where is everyone?"

This time I got a meagre response. He turned his head slightly in my direction and then turned it back.

"I sent them all home." he said.

"Oh, so you're the generous one who can afford to give people holidays in the middle of the week. Is this a paid or unpaid vacation?"

"It's a goddamned _permanent_ vacation!" he sneered.

"Well, thanks a helluva lot for letting me know what you're doing, maybe I'd like to continue to make a living ... but I sure can't run the damn place by myself."

For the first time since our conversation began he turned completely around and looked straight at me and it was immediately evident that his earlier calmness was only a facade. His face was red and his eyes were bleary and bloodshot and he looked as though he hadn't slept in a couple of weeks.

"Look man, we don't have any fuckin' money to pay them, we don't have a clue as to how to run an advertising agency and I'm getting fed up with this goddamned fuckin' city ..." He turned his head around and then he said in an anguished whisper, "... and I'm getting sick of living in this whole fuckin' world!"

It could have been the pompous nature of his attitude that seemed to say he was the only person in the world with problems or it could have been the fact that he had no right to make such an important decision without checking with me first, but I was suddenly angry, and my automatic mechanisms quickly took over and searched for an equally nasty response and when I found it, I threw it out without a moments hesitation.

"So, does that mean you're gonna jump, then? Cause if you are, I might as well ask you right now if I get to keep your stereo and guitars—just in case you haven't made out your will. It'll save a lot of hassles later on when everyone is fighting for their share of your meagre possessions."

He sat perfectly still, his arms still folded across his chest like an Indian chief, so I continued. "You know, there are a lot better ways of doing it than this, hell, you're only three floors up, not enough to kill yourself. If you jump from here you'll probably just bounce off a couple of cars and break your spine and be crippled for life. Nope, that's not the way to do it, if it were me, and I really wanted to make it permanent, I'd be checking out the twenty-first floor of the Northern Life Tower before I did anything too hastily that I might regret later. I mean, it's probably a lot better to do thorough job of doing yourself in rather than just ending up in a wheelchair for life."

For some reason, as the words came out, I had completely lost my sympathy for him. Maybe it was because I realized I was a lot closer to feeling the way he did than I cared to admit and I was really talking more to myself than to him and I realized we both needed a good smack in the chops to wake us up.

The words were nasty and mean and meant to cut, to break down the walls and reveal our inner feelings regardless of how vile or disgusting they may be, and for a hazardous moment, I knew that if he jumped, I probably wouldn't try to stop him and there was a good chance that I would follow right behind ... but the feeling was gone in a flash and replaced by a strange exhilaration, as if I'd been sky diving and my parachute hadn't opened but I had somehow managed to survive without so much as a scratch.

I looked at him expecting no change in his belligerent attitude, but there was the faintest trace of a grin on the edge of his mouth that seemed to be implying that he preferred the biting sting of my sarcasm.

He reached up and rubbed his eyes and then he let out a long, mournful yawn. "If you're so certain the jump isn't high enough, why don't you try it out for me. If you survive, then maybe I'll check out this Northern Life Tower."

"Don't be an ass," I replied, "you're not gonna jump and you know it."

"What makes you so certain?"

"You've got too much to live for, damn it!"

A mistake! I knew it was a mistake the second after the words came out. Of all the reasons why he shouldn't jump, that was probably the dumbest one I could have come up with and sure enough, he immediately broke out into a vicious laugh.

"Geez, you always were the dumb naive kid! Always blundering through life thinking everything would turn out okay if only everyone would do things your way; always the pacifistic jerk who thought that everything could be solved with that peace and love crap ... man, when are you going to learn that the real world out there can get damn violent! People kill each other; people kill themselves everyday and there's not a damn thing you can do about it— _damn_! I haven't got a fuckin' thing to live for ... the only person who ever cared for me is dead and buried and I've never been able to figure out why I didn't join her long ago."

He was so angry, for a second I thought he was going to lose his balance and fall before he got finished with his depressing little soliloquy.

"That was really a wonderful speech, Gus," I said, the biting edge to my voice sinking deeper, "and I always thought you never got past the third grade, hell, you must've at least finished public school to come up with something so deeply profound." I waited for a moment for that statement to sink in, and then I continued on, my own anger sizzling past the boiling point. "Look, my being nonviolent may not always be the answer, but it sure beats ending up like you, drenched in your disgusting self-pity because you treat everyone like garbage. No wonder you haven't got any friends to help you through times when you're feeling down, no wonder you don't have anything to live for ... you've never bothered to treat anyone with any amount of decency and respect to make them give a damn about you!"

As I finished speaking, his right eyelid began to twitch, his fists were clenched tightly and he seemed to be having a hard time breathing. If I hadn't known him better, I would have thought he was on the verge of breaking down and crying, but he was obviously trying to maintain control of himself.

He turned to me and said through his teeth, "Why don't you buzz off and let me contemplate the end of my life in peace," and then he returned to staring at the line of cars passing by on King Street.

"Sure, man, whatever you say, but just remember while you're out there floating through the air," I swallowed hard, my hands were shaking and I wondered if I was ever going to wake up from this bad dream I was having, "just remember that you're not the only one in the world who has ever lost someone you loved so much, you thought you couldn't possibly live without them ... remember, I lost the only two people I've ever been able to really love, both within a week of each other ...

I took a deep breath, trying to remove the quivering in my voice. "So don't give me that self-pity crap, I know where you're coming from, I've been there ... but it doesn't give you the right to walk around with a chip on your shoulder and make other people suffer just because 'poor little Gussy's been hurt' ..." Once again, I couldn't tell whether I was talking more to myself than Gus. "And then you've got the nerve to complain that nobody cares for you. Man, you really are unbelievable ... if you want someone to care, you've got to show them some love and respect, not bash them over the head all the time."

From behind, somewhere in the distance, I thought I heard someone call my name, but it barely registered and I chose to ignore it. "And just because Rita is no longer here to care for you, it doesn't mean there will never be someone else someday who'll care just as much—even someone who could put up with you ..."

At this point I ran out of gas. My name kept floating down from somewhere in the distance, but it still didn't quite register with my emotionally charged brain. I looked at Gus and his face showed mostly annoyance and anger and I wondered why I was wasting my time.

"By the way," I said, "I was wrong, this is plenty high enough to kill yourself. Just dive off head first, that should do the trick. It'll be interesting to see you splatter all over the place and watch them carry you away in a plastic bag."

The wind seemed to pick up at that moment and it whipped at our faces as we sat there in silence, the fiery sun beating down; an angry ball of hot lava sitting in judgement of us. I fully intended to sit there as long as he did, all night and all the next day if I had to, but the sound of my name being yelled in the distance was now accompanied by a lot of vulgar words and a nasty tone of voice that was beginning to annoy me. I turned around and I could see two men standing on the other side of the roof at the doorway leading back inside. I couldn't quite make out their faces but one was quite tall and the other was much shorter and dumpier.

"Hey, Taylor, you stupid schmuck, what the hell is going on around this damn place?"

The voice sounded vaguely familiar. I turned back and looked at Gus. His feet were swinging slowly back and forth, his head was bowed and his face had taken on a stoic indifference that made it difficult for me to figure out what was going on inside his head—as usual.

I hated to leave him there, but I had to find out what the two idiots behind us wanted, so I crawled carefully off the edge of the building and started walking towards them.

The taller man was wearing a navy topcoat and an expensive looking fedora like that of a well dressed businessman. The short guy was scruffy and tough looking, dressed in a short, black leather jacket and a pair of jeans that were so faded, they were almost white. It wasn't until I reached him that I recognized the tall man as Sol Bernstein, but I didn't know the other guy and just by the way he glared at me, I knew he would never be high on my list of people I'd want to meet. Guys like him usually had names like Bruno or Ricco.

"What's your problem, Sol?" I said trying to put on my best 'go away, you're bothering me' tone of voice.

"What's my problem!" he replied incredulously. "What's _my_ problem!" He smacked the little guy on the shoulder. "You hear what this schmuck said, Sidney? He's got the nerve to question me with that tone of voice."

"You want I should crash him, Mr. Bernstein?" the little guy responded as he stepped menacingly towards me.

His voice was surprisingly high-pitched for a tough guy and that, along with his name—Sidney for god's sake—caused me to snicker despite myself.

"That won't be necessary," Bernstein said, "I'm sure Mr. Taylor has fulfilled his side of the contract. We're just here to make sure everything is in order." He was wearing a pair of very tight-fitting black driving gloves, and as he talked, he unbuttoned the clasps at the back and pulled them off one finger at a time and then he placed them in his right hand and began smacking his thigh area as if he was a deviously confident Nazi General showing his authority with a whip.

Sidney continued glaring at me and then he put his hands together and started cracking his knuckles before reluctantly backing up a step. I just glared back at him and then I looked at Sol.

Smack! "Now, my boy." Smack! "Why don't we just go back inside to your office ..." Smack! "... and discuss the Fantasy Jean ad campaign ..." Smack! "... in more civilized surroundings ..." Smack! Smack!

He had a tolerant, fatherly grin on his face and a gentle tone to his voice as he turned around and started back through the doorway, obviously expecting me to follow him like a slobbering puppy dog. People like him who thought they had the right to push other people around annoyed the hell out of me, and I just stood where I was, glad to see him leaving, but certain he wouldn't be gone for very long.

Sure enough, he was back in five seconds flat, as soon as he realized I wasn't following him.

"Didn't I just ask you to come inside with me?" he said shaking his head and wagging his finger in my direction. He turned to Sidney and said, "Didn't you just hear me? I thought I'd made myself perfectly clear." He turned back to me, still doing the tolerant, fatherly act, but this time a little more forcefully. "Now, Mr. Taylor, shall we go inside, please?"

"Look Sol," I said patiently, "there's no point in us going inside. I have no advertising campaign ready for you to see, therefore there is nothing for us to discuss. In fact, there is no longer any Fun Gus Productions—we're out of business, so you might as well just put the leash back on this creep of yours and take your business elsewhere." It wasn't the smartest thing I could have said considering the circumstances, but since I had lately fallen into the habit of cramming my foot into my mouth, one more time wouldn't make much difference. Besides, it felt really good saying what I shouldn't be saying if I had any sense whatsoever.

Sol's manner immediately turned nasty. He walked up and stood so close to me our bodies were touching and since he was at least a head taller, I felt like the little sprout standing in the shadow of the Jolly Green Giant.

Smack! "But I have a contract with your company that states very clearly you must provide me with an advertising campaign by today ..."

"Look Sol," I said, defiantly looking up at him, "all of that is irrelevant. We haven't got any money to produce anything and right now I've got more important things to worry about than your stupid damn fashion jeans ..."

"But the contract ..." he said as he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out some folded up sheets of paper.

"Damn it, Sol, what do I have to do to get through to you?" I said as I threw my arms in the air with exasperation, and then I grabbed the contract out of his hands and ceremoniously tore it in half. "Look, _now_ do you understand?" I waved the pieces of paper in front of his face, "your damn contract is worth exactly that," and I tossed them into the air and clapped my hands together. "Nothing! Absolutely nothing!"

A look of horror spread across his face. "I wish you hadn't done that," he said, shaking his head ruefully. "That really was a very stupid thing to do." He took a step backwards and then walked slowly towards the door. When he got to where Sidney was standing, some kind of a signal passed between them and the 'animal's' face lit up with a malevolent grin as he once again stepped towards me.

Sol stood back, still shaking his head and mumbling to himself, "I tried to be tolerant, but these young punks just don't care about fulfilling their obligations," as if it was enough reason to have his goon beat me to a pulp.

I felt like I was in the middle of a 1940's detective movie as I watched the strange little man coming towards me with a lot more than dancing in the moonlight on his mind. I took a step backwards, and then I wondered what Bogey would have done in this situation and I decided I was damn well going to stand my ground, even if I was destined to be broken in half.

Sidney got close enough for me to catch a whiff of his bad breath and then he pointed at his jaw and said, "Hit me, sucker. Come on, I'll give you first crack ... hit me!"

So what did I do now? Bogey would've picked him up with his bare hands and broken him in two without so much as getting his suit wrinkled. But I wasn't Bogey. I wasn't Cagney in _G-Men_ or Dick Powell in _Murder My Sweet_. I wasn't even a sombre-faced Elliott Gould in _The Long Goodbye_ , but at that moment I wanted desperately to be a tough guy—but I wasn't. I was only me, the same person who'd proclaimed peace and love as the only way and who was proud of his nonviolence stance.

"Look Sidney, I'd rather not hit you."

He seemed disappointed. "Come on," he said pointing at his jaw again, "haven't you got any guts? Hit me!"

"Hey man, I don't believe in violence. What the hell do you want me to hit you for, anyway? I thought that was your job."

He laughed viciously and growled, "That way I can claim self-defence if you try to sue me for assault ... so you'd better get your licks in while you still have a chance."

I shook my head and turned away, stupidly thinking I could dismiss him from my presence. "Nope, not interested," I said, "I wouldn't want to mess up that pretty face of yours."

As my eyes shifted back to the spot where Gus and I had been sitting, I was horrified to see that he was no longer there, and neither was his guitar. I immediately pictured him flying through the air with his guitar cradled in his arms like an angel carrying a harp and my knees began to shake. Damn! I shouldn't have left him alone just when he needed me most ...

I had completely forgotten about Sidney and was about to start running back to the edge of the roof when I felt a blow between my shoulder blades ... and then I was flying through the air and, it seems incredible, but the only thing running through my mind was that I was going to get my suit dirty.

I landed with a thud and slid along the ocean of gritty gravel, through a couple of filthy puddles and came to rest with my arms spread-eagled above my head. Sharp stabs of pain attacked every square inch of my body and I knew I was going to have a hard time getting up, so I just lay there grimacing while I waited for the next blow, resigning myself to the fact that not only was I going to get my suit destroyed, I was most likely going to have several new open wounds to contend with.

But the next blow didn't come, instead, the familiar sound of a guitar crashing into something solid rang out, it's sour-noted symphony bringing a smile to my face. I managed to sit up and turn around and there was poor Sidney sprawled on the gravel a few feet away from me, a nasty cut slicing across his forehead, and he was most assuredly out cold. Standing over him was Gus, one very battered guitar in his hands, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth and a triumphant, almost ambiguous look on his face.

I looked up at him through slightly dazed eyes and said, "It's about time you showed up, you expect me to handle these gorillas all by myself?" and I couldn't help grinning.

He smiled and then offered his hand to help me up. "Sorry I took so long, but I had to run back and lock the door so that other bozo didn't get away. You okay?"

I inspected myself quickly. My hands were scraped and bleeding and my suit was wet and dripping along my right side where I'd rolled through the puddles, but otherwise, I was feeling okay, except for the sharp pain between my shoulder blades. However, the physical pain seemed like nothing compared to the other kind of pain I'd been feeling earlier when the temptation to jump was so strong.

"I'll survive."

"That's good, 'cause we've got one more animal to take care of," Gus said nodding towards where Bernstein was desperately trying to tear off the door knob. "I'll save my 'I told you so' about these guys for later."

The odds were now decidedly in our favour as we walked slowly towards our next adversary. Gus was holding the guitar in an upside down position resting on his shoulder like a baseball bat and it struck me as funny the way a tough guy like Bernstein could so quickly change into a pussy cat when the situation was suddenly reversed.

We stood on either side of him and when he finally noticed we were there, he stopped his desperate attempt to escape and turned around, a nervous grin breaking out, his eyes searching our faces while he no doubt tried to figure out what our next move would be.

"You know, I think we should drop this guy off the end of the building and see if he can fly," Gus said, his manner crude and menacing, but he was obviously having a hard time keeping a straight face. "What do you think?

"Well, I don't know." I pretended to be seriously pondering his question. "I think I would rather see him walk on water, but unfortunately, we don't have a lake nearby, so I guess your idea would be best." I couldn't believe how much I was enjoying watching Bernstein squirm, but at the same time I wondered how long we could keep our little charade going before the two of us broke up completely. After all, we weren't tough guys and we knew it.

Bernstein's eyes flitted back and forth between Gus' face and mine. "You guys must he joking," he said apprehensively. On cue, we both put on our meanest faces and then we started walking slowly towards him like a couple of zombies from _Invasion Of The Body Snatchers_. "You can't be serious, you have no reason to do such a thing."

"No reason!" I yelled, imitating his earlier incredulousness. "No reason!" I turned to Gus. "You hear this creep, he thinks it's okay for him to send his henchman after me, but he doesn't like a dose of his own medicine." I did my best Peter Lorre laugh and then I turned back to Sol and said, "I suppose you weren't serious about Sidney breaking a few of my bones. You know what I think, Sol? I think you at least owe me an apology and a new suit." I grabbed his gloves out of his hand and started smacking them against my thigh and I was amazed by the feeling of power my actions seemed to give me. Smack! "Yep, that seems reasonable to me, otherwise, I might have to sic the Mad Guitarist on you, and I'm sure you wouldn't appreciate the outcome of that encounter."

"Gentlemen, you understand, it was only business and we have a contract that states you own me ..."

"Screw the contract, Sol, if you think you can force us to live up to our end of the bargain by using threats and violence." I smacked him across the shoulder with the gloves and he shrunk back, obviously annoyed and a little frightened, but doing his best to maintain his dignity. "I think we should dump him, Gus."

"No no no, you wouldn't do anything so foolish, besides," Sol said as he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a long, black and very thick wallet, "my intentions in coming here today to speak with you was to provide your company with enough funds to cover my advertising needs for the coming year—I in no way intended for Sidney to harm anyone, it's just that sometimes it's difficult to control these low-lifes ..."

He pulled out a wad of bills that caused both Gus and I to go bug-eyed for a few seconds, even though we tried to maintain our menacing postures. It seemed to renew Bernstein's confidence and he stepped forward waving the money in his hand and then he stuffed the wad back into his wallet and said, "It's all for you guys, but I have a deadline to meet. I must have the advertising campaign ready immediately now that the jeans are in production—by the way, I loved the name, Fantasy Jeans, just loved it—anyway, I must have everything ready within thirty days, posters, slogans and so on so I can hit my buyers for the fall market ... there's big bucks in it—big bucks!"

"How much did you plan on paying us up front?" I asked, the thought of having some ready cash to pay Tim and Angie and everyone else sounding very attractive.

Bernstein hesitated for a moment, no doubt weighing the cost of what he thought his hide was worth which made it obvious this paying up front bit was only a spur of the moment idea brought on by his fear of the way Gus kept looking at him. "Well ah ... can't we negotiate?" but then he saw me shaking my head, "... well, I have ten thousand with me ..."

"Not good enough, Sol. It takes an incredible amount of capital to do just one TV spot and we're a young company that's terribly under-financed ... no, we'll need a lot more than that."

He looked surprised. He must have figured he could buy us off cheap. "How much more?" he said sternly.

"Hmmm, I want fifty grand up front for starters, which is awfully cheap considering the talented people who'll be working for you."

"Fifty grand! But that's ridiculous ..." but he stopped short when he caught a glimpse of Gus raising his guitar over his head. "Ah, well, ah ... I suppose it would be acceptable, but I don't have that kind of cash with me."

"That's okay, we'll take whatever you've got now as a down payment and you can pay the rest as we go along. It would also be a good idea if we wrote up a new contract just to make sure everything is down in writing and since the old contract seems to have—gone with the wind."

His beady eyes shifted back and forth between us again and then after one more quick glance at Gus, a look of resignation crossed his face and he said, "I guess I haven't got much choice."

"Good," I said cheerfully. "So what do you think, Gus?"

"I still think we should dump him—but I suppose it makes more sense to take the money and run."

"Well, I guess it's settled then—a unanimous decision." I reached out and gave Sol his gloves back and then I shook his hand. "Why don't we go inside now and draw up the necessary papers."

He looked relieved, but I sensed too much contemptuous cockiness in his manner, so I stepped back and signalled Gus and before Bernstein had a chance to get any ideas about changing his mind once we got inside, he was greeted by the sight of a battered, but still very dangerously solid guitar body flying through the air towards his head.

He reacted quickly, dropping to the ground like a quarterback about to get creamed and at the same time, Gus raised the path in which his weapon was travelling and it crashed harmlessly, but very noisily against the metal door, the impact shattering it into splinters and snapping off the body where it hung like a yo-yo from the strings.

Gus stood there for a moment looking down at Bernstein with the demeanour of a raving maniac and then he tossed the remains of his once playable instrument on the ground and laughed like a kid who had just intentionally destroyed his favourite toy.

"Sorry about that man, but I think I'm getting addicted to that sound," he said calmly, and then he pulled out a key and unlocked the door.

### Chapter Eighteen

I sat at my desk carefully counting and recounting the nine one thousand dollar bills and the ten five hundred dollar bills spread out in front of me, and even though I knew they'd come into my possession through the most disgusting form of extortion I'd ever been a part of, I felt absolutely no guilt. Maybe it had something to do with my feelings of an eye for an eye and every person only gets what they deserve in the long run, but I also knew that Sol was going to get his money's worth now that Fun Gus Productions had a some capital to provide him with the services he required. Besides, it was only pocket money to a guy like Bernstein which became apparent by his willingness to turn over four thousand dollars more than we'd expected after he listened to Gus' idea on how we should market the Fantasy Jean line.

After leaving the roof, the three of us had gone into the Art Room and carefully studied the drawings that Angie had finished, trying to get some ideas and Gus had come up with the slogan: "When life is getting you down, why not take—a Fantasy break?"

"Picture this," he'd said, "Beethoven is sitting in his study behind this huge grand piano, all decked out in his frilly costume from that time period, his hair white and puffy, and apparently working on one of his latest symphonies. The look on his face is deep concentration and you can hear bits of what he's trying to compose—the Ninth Symphony, whatever—as long as it's familiar."

He paused for a moment, his face frozen with concentration, "Okay ... the work isn't going very well and a look of frustration crosses his face and he stops playing and ah ... let's see, then he puts his elbows on the piano and rests his chin between his hands and suddenly a look of ecstasy takes over—cut to a dreamy sequence where Beethoven is frolicking with some foxy chick, I don't know, on a beach or something like that ... and of course, they're both wearing Fantasy Jeans and having a great time ... and then, slowly dissolve back to Beethoven sitting at the piano, a sly grin on his face and then he nods joyfully and as he starts playing the music again, this time getting the notes exactly right, the announcer says, 'When life is getting you down, and things just aren't working out ... why not take a Fantasy break?—It could do wonders'. You could do a series of spots featuring any number of historical figures—Wellington at the Battle of Waterloo at the moment when Napoleon seems to be winning; Edison when he was having trouble finding a substance that would keep burning when he was inventing the light bulb, and so on."

Of course, Bernstein loved the whole concept, even making a couple of suggestions of his own as to what historical figures we could use and when he pulled out his wallet and plunked down the money, we almost had a heart attack. I couldn't believe someone would walk around carrying so much cash, but I guess that's what made him feel like a big shot—for some people it was driving a big, fancy car and for others it was getting a new pair of jeans or a new radio with headphones. It was all relative. It depended on the person. For most people it was just having someone to love and care about them.

After signing the new contract, Bernstein had left with a smile on his face and Gus had disappeared into his office. He came back once to dump all the books and records for the business on my desk and then he'd returned to his office, a look of grim determination on his face. I could tell that he'd made some kind of a decision and in a way, I envied him, at least he seemed to know exactly what he was going to do in the future—which was more than I could say for myself.

I slowly stacked the pile of bills with the thousand dollar ones on the bottom and the fivers on top and then I stared at the pile of money and wondered why I wasn't overjoyed at the prospect of finally having a decent amount of money to throw around. During those few minutes when I thought Fun Gus Productions was out of business, I had actually felt a sense of relief. I'd never really wanted to be the Vice President of an Advertising Agency or a music critic who's outgrown rock 'n' roll.

But what the hell did I really want to do?

My thoughts were interrupted by the door opening and Gus walking in wearing a heavy windbreaker and a new pair of jeans, a guitar case in one hand, probably his Stratocaster, and two motorcycle helmets dangling from their straps in his other hand.

"Are you busy?" he asked cautiously.

"Nope, I'm just contemplating our new found riches."

He shook his head. "You mean _your_ new found riches."

"Hey, no way man, you're the guy who came up with the idea that calmed Bernstein down and opened up his wallet, you should be sharing ..." but then it occurred to me that he was wearing travelling clothes and I stopped.

"No thanks, man, I can get along without it," he said and then he looked at me in a way I'd never seen him look at me before. "If you're not busy then ah ... I'd like you to come for a ride with me ah ... if you don't mind."

I tried to probe deeper into his eyes, but he looked away. "Sure," I said as I stood up. I was still holding the stack of money and I couldn't think of a safe place to put it, so I stuffed it into my pocket. "Where we going'?" I asked, but he didn't answer.

I followed him down the hallway to the reception area where he picked up a large flight bag that seemed to be bursting at the seams and handed it to me.

"Here, carry this."

We continued on down the stairs, past the Modelling Agency to the street where we made our way around back to the parking lot behind our row of buildings, the same parking lot that had come precariously close to having itself splattered with the weary bodies of two guys who were frantically trying to pull themselves up from their latest plunge down another icy sidewalk ...

As we wove our way around the parked cars and then stood in from of a large, black Honda motorcycle, I wondered if we'd made it all the way back up.

"Get on," he ordered, handing me one of the white helmets.

I took it, but I couldn't bring myself to put it on right away. I'd never been a motorcycle person, my practical mind deciding years ago they weren't safe, and the thought of sitting on the back while wearing a rumpled and dirty navy pinstripe suit and a silly looking helmet didn't appeal to my sense of how to have a good time.

Gus noticed my hesitation as he tied on the flight bag and guitar case and said, "Come on, get on, it won't bite you. I'm a very safe driver."

I slipped the helmet over my head and immediately felt very foolish and then I jumped on behind him. After the usual period of intense revving up, he took off like a maniac and before I had a chance to scream my protests, we were streaking down the street, the wind acting like a muzzle and forcing the words to catch in my throat. I had no choice except to put my faith in Gus' abilities as a driver and hope that he had abandoned any idea of contemplating the end of his life.

To my surprise, it wasn't very long before I settled down and actually felt quite comfortable. There was something about travelling at a high rate of speed with nothing but air and empty space above your head and the ease with which Gus was able to zip around any car that got in his way that gave me a wonderfully euphoric feeling of freedom and I decided that maybe I'd been wrong all these years about the dangers of riding a motorbike—another one of my old beliefs and bad habits to be shot down during the past few days.

I had no idea were we were going, but for awhile, I wanted our ride to go on forever ...

************

The past few days had also found me willingly going to places I'd always tried to avoid—hospitals, elevators in hospitals and funeral homes, and now, I found myself walking through another one of those places that usually had me gritting my teeth—a graveyard. But for some reason, I didn't feel uptight, probably because the grass was a healthy bright green, the rows of trees and bushes seemed to circle the grounds and protect everyone inside from the pain and frustrations of the outside world and thus the atmosphere was calm and tranquil.

The small, grey gravestone in front of us had the words: Rita Jennings—1981-2000, printed across the front, and next to the larger grave was a small stone, about two feet high that said it all in its simplicity: Richard–2000.

The unassuming, soft-spoken guy standing next to me was a stranger, a stranger I'd known for over eighteen years, but had never met. I had a feeling he was a person who only showed his face when he was alone or when he was standing in front of the two gravesites. His hand kept tugging at his beard and then wiping his red and blinking eyes which kept filling up with uninhibited tears—not flashy tears or pleading tears or tears looking for sympathy, but just tears. Good quality tears, the kind that only come when the person inside had completely lost the will to hold them back.

I looked at the guy standing next to me and wondered if I would ever again see such an honest display of emotion from a person who was not in the habit of showing his emotions. Until that moment, I'd never really experienced the kind of unguarded feelings based on complete trust that were reserved for special moments between very close friends or lovers and I silently vowed I would spend the rest of my life trying to cultivate the same spirit of closeness with the people who remained important to me.

"Tell me about Rita."

He sighed. A long, heavy, emotional sigh that seemed to leave him weak. "I love to sigh ... you know? It makes me feel better ... relieves the pain and tension."

He looked at me with his big, brown puppy dog eyes and for the first time I really noticed how brightly blond his hair was compared to his fuzzy, dark brown beard and I wondered why you could know a person for so many years and yet never notice little details about them.

"Rita was the only person I've ever known who seemed to ... to understand me ... and despite my not being able to show her any affection, at least not at first, she still cared. I mean, I couldn't believe it, here I was treating her like garbage, the same way I treated everyone else ... and she still kept hanging around. I tried to get rid of her, not because I didn't feel myself falling in love, but because I just couldn't get it through my head that someone could actually look at me with any amount of affection or caring." His hands began to tremble and for a moment I thought he was going to collapse, but he got a grip on himself and continued. "She was different than any other girl I had ever met in my life. She seemed to able to see through the facade of the nasty character I've been playing all my life and she found someone underneath who she could really care for." He shrugged his shoulders with such a degree of unbelievably that it showed how difficult it still was for him to believe it.

"Was Richard your son?"

"No."

"Carl's?"

He nodded. "I was a bloody fool for letting ... for letting her get involved with someone like Carl ... but like I said, I ... I was too dumbfounded by her kindness ... I thought she was just trying to use me ..." There was anguish in his eyes. "Pretty stupid, eh? but I was always the kind of person who questioned another person's motivations if they were too nice to me. I always had to wonder, 'What do they want? They must want something because people just don't act that way if they don't want something.'" He was standing facing the sun and a fine dew of perspiration lined his upper lip and forehead. "But I was wrong ... sometimes people genuinely _do_ care." He paused. "You, for instance. I don't know how the hell you've put up with me for the past two years."

"Neither do I, Gus."

He gave me a half smile and I finally realized that he needed and wanted the same love and affection we all needed, but in order for him to feel completely comfortable with it, it had to be tinged with a little sarcasm and cynicism.

"Anyway," he continued, "you remember how Sarah and Rita used to follow the band from city to city when we were on tour and then turn up backstage after every concert? At first, I thought Sarah and Carl would end up together and Rita would end up with you, but then I realized that Sarah was a lot better person than Carl would ever deserve the way he slept around and used his physical attractiveness to play with people's emotions and I was really glad when you and Sarah got together. Unfortunately, it was Carl's willingness to screw around with anyone he could get his hands on that got Rita involved with him—Carl would have balled his own mother if he'd had the opportunity ..." He stopped for a moment and a blazing furnace of rage seemed to flow out of him. "I think she was trying to make me jealous out of frustration, but she was so damn young and naive she just didn't realize the kind of trouble she was getting herself mixed up in."

"Look, Gus," I interrupted, "you don't have to go into all of this, I know it's hard for you."

"No! It's okay ... I want to ... I've got to tell someone, I've kept it bottled up inside me for so long that ... "

At this point he stopped and for a long time we watched a couple of robins hopping around on the grass in a fruitful search for worms. After a successful stab into the ground, they would fly over to a large Poplar tree where the distant chirping of hungry mouths could be heard. It was spring. New life was being created.

Gus let out another one of his heavy sighs. "Carl was the first person who ever made love to her ... I was the second, unfortunately, she was already pregnant—and he didn't give a shit about what he'd done, said he didn't even remember her ..." He kept shaking his head as if the memories would somehow lose their balance and slip away. Then he hammered his right fist into his left hand. "... I wanted her to have an abortion, but she wouldn't do it. She was too sensitive and caring a person to even consider it ... but she was too frail, too young and I should have forced her, somehow ... she just couldn't handle the stress on her body ... and there were too many complications ... _damn_! It was all my fault for rejecting her in the first place and then for not insisting hard enough that she have the abortion ..." A streak of sunlight filtered through the trees where the family of robins were feasting, silhouetting them like a shadow on a movie screen. "... they both died while she was giving birth ..."

A light breeze eased its way through the trees and my eyes followed it as it passed quickly down the rows of graves that surrounded us and I wondered why I didn't feel nervous about being so close to so many dead people and then I looked at Gus. He'd lit a cigarette and he was slowly drawing in the smoke and sending it out as if it brought him some sort of relief. His eyes were closed and there were no more tears.

He looked at me with renewed intensity and said, "You've got yourself one helluva woman in Sarah, you know. I don't know what's driving a wedge between the two of you, but all I can say is get rid of it, man, 'cause it's a helluva a lot worse being alone."

"It's not that simple, Gus."

He paused, his eyes slipping back into a look of resignation. "I know, it's never that simple, is it." He closed his eyes again and then sucked in another drag, the smoke pouring wistfully around his face. "Nope ... not that simple ..." He seemed to have drifted away, as if he'd suddenly been caught up on a tempestuous grey cloud that had started out being black when he got up this morning, but had fought it's way back to grey and if he tried real hard, it might even stop raining and some day turn into one of those puffy white clouds that sits high in the sky on a warm summer day with the sun peeking lucidly above it.

It was one of those moments when a person was alone in the world with only his thoughts and he had to work things out for himself. So I waited, silently cheering him on, but at the same time being unable to keep my mind away from the names and faces and people and places we had shared during our lifetimes and wondering if we would ever really make any sense of it all.

He abruptly opened his eyes, flicked away the cigarette and then he turned around and started walking away like a someone who had finally made up their mind after years of indecision. "I'll never come back to this place again," he said. "I've shed enough tears for her."

I watched him as he walked determinedly back to the Honda and hopped on and then I turned around and studied the simple, grey gravestone for the last time.

Somehow, I knew that Rita would understand.

### Chapter Nineteen

The ride back downtown was characterized by a heavy feeling of finality. I searched my mind for some wonderfully profound proclamations I could make once we got back, but as we pulled into the parking lot, my head was still lined with dusty cobwebs and half frozen, but still unanswered questions.

As I jumped down and handed him back the helmet, I tried to simulate a person who had everything together, someone who had it all figured out and would never have to slip and slide again ... but when he extended his hand towards me and I shook it with the mournful grip of a father saying goodbye to his college bound son, I knew it didn't really matter. No one ever really got it totally together and now wasn't the time for guarded emotionalism, but a time to reaffirm and strengthen a friendship that had gone too long without expressions of affection and caring.

"You take good care of Fun Gus Productions for me, okay?" he said and then he sniffled a bit. "Maybe someday we'll get together again and reminisce about that crazy day we beat Bernstein at his own game." He laughed. "It'll be a great story to tell your grandchildren ... maybe ... maybe someday ..."

I nodded. "Maybe someday ..."

"I'll get in touch with you later and let you know where to send the rest of my stuff."

"Sure, no problem ... so, where are you off to?"

He shrugged. "Don't really know ... anywhere—just away from here. I shouldn't have come back in the first place."

His hand squeezed tighter on mine and our eyes locked briefly in an overflowing display of feeling that needed no words. I wanted to tell him how much I regretted this moment hadn't come years ago when it might have made our lives a little easier to bear. I wanted to rectify the hurt; exorcize the pain; do away with all the frazzled emotions that had picked away at us like a piranha fish picks away at a live carcass ... but the words were not there—or needed.

As our hands withdrew, I almost asked him to postpone leaving until we could go out and have a good drunk together, but when I saw how anxious he was to be on his way, I knew that he had to leave now for the sake of his own sanity. I'd slipped my hands automatically into my front pockets after the handshake, and there I rediscovered a lumpy mass of green stuff that I'd completely forgotten about.

"How're you for money?" I asked.

"Not great, but I'll get by, I always do. Besides, I've got my guitar, I've made a few bucks with it before and I sure as hell can do it again."

"Uh huh, sure," I said and then I quickly peeled off four of the five hundred dollar bills and shoved them into his hand. "Well, that should help out until you get your first paycheque."

"No way, man," he said as he tried to give the money back, "that money is for the business."

I took a step backwards and put my hands behind my back. "Look, take it. Since you're no longer going to be President of Fun Gus, consider it my payment for buying out your half of the partnership."

He revved up the Honda as if it was an extension of his own frustration and anxiety, but the smile on his face was filled with warm sunshine.

"Okay, whatever you say," he said as he stuffed the bills into his pocket and then he gunned the engine and went flying across the parking lot.

Just before he pulled onto the street, he turned around and flashed me a thumbs up sign and then, with a burst of speed, he pulled away and disappeared into the line of cars making their way down King Street.

It was the last time I laid eyes on Gus and the memory of that final, positive gesture will be etched in my mind forever.

************

When I got back to my office, I turned on the stereo and then stood by the window and stared at the mid-afternoon crowds walking up and down the street below. I played with the idea of taking the money and running as Gus had suggested. Maybe he was right, maybe we weren't cut out to run an advertising business, but it seemed a shame not to allow the talented people who had faithfully stuck by us a place where they could continue to create and expand their talents. One of the main reasons they'd continued working with us, despite our financial problems, was the hassle-free atmosphere and the opportunity to experiment and try out new ideas. But there was a limit to how long anyone could go on working without getting paid.

An idea ran through my head and I decided to call Tim and Angie and ask them to come back to the office. Angie was a little reluctant, but when I told her there was a good chance she would be getting paid all her back wages, she quickly changed her mind.

While I waited for them to arrive, I set two chairs in front of my desk and then I got out a sheet of paper and briefly outlined Gus' ideas for the Fantasy Jean advertising campaign. When I finished, I placed it, along with a copy of the new contract we'd signed with Sol Bernstein on my desk and then I pulled out the remaining twelve thousand dollars from my pocket. I put two of the one thousand dollar bills into my wallet and then I placed the rest on top of the contract.

I quickly checked over all the books that Gus had left with me and determined that they were completely up-to-date, and he was right, we didn't have a helluva lot of money to keep going, at least, not until our run in with Sol. Our bank balance was just under twelve hundred dollars, but we also had debts, not including the back wages owing, of over five thousand dollars, mostly to the bank for equipment. On a more positive note, our accounts receivables totalled enough to cover our debts once they were collected. However, even with the money from Bernstein, our financial situation was far from ideal, but at least the new found cash flow gave the business a new beginning.

I closed the books and then I put my feet up on the desk and stretched out. I felt worn out and rumpled. My suit was full of water stains and wrinkled as hell and it hung on me like an old suit worn by some wino who lived in the streets—but I didn't really care. Wearing the suit hadn't made me feel any more important or intelligent then if I'd been garbed in a bright yellow t-shirt and a faded pair of jeans.

As I sat there contemplating my toes, the familiar sax solo into to one of Phil Collins' songs from his _Face Value_ album came on the stereo and the haunting melody sent a chill through my senses as I listened to the lyrics. It was one of those amazingly powerful songs that could zero in on your emotional solitude and wrap its arms around you like a comforting friend.

If leaving me is easy, then you know, coming back is harder.

************

Tim was the first to arrive and I directed him to one of the chairs in front of my desk. He was wearing his usual dull blue shirt, but for the first time since I'd known him, he was wearing a pair of navy dress pants that were actually long enough to cover his ankles. He sat down after glancing at the contents of my desk but he didn't make any specific comment and we whiled away the time with idle chatter. When Angie arrived, she breezed in with her usual flair for the dramatic.

"What's all this baloney about getting paid ..." she blurted out as she took her seat, but stopped abruptly when she saw the money.

"Thanks for coming back," I said trying to sound like a real businessman, "I imagine you guys are having a difficult time figuring out what's been going on around here for the past few days." I paused and they both nodded. "Thought so ... well, I'm not sure I know myself, but let's just say there's going to have to be a few changes made."

"Is this going to take very long?" Angie asked as she looked at her watch impatiently. "It's almost 3:30 and I've set up a job interview for 4:00, so I don't have a lot of time to listen to you cry on our shoulders," and then she added, "I thought we were going to get paid?"

"Okay, Ang, I understand and I'll try to be quick about it, but I think once you've heard what I've got to say, you might decide not to bother with your interview."

"I'll be the judge of that," she responded sternly.

"Indeed you will," I said, but I couldn't help chuckling. "What about you, Tim, have you got any pressing engagements?"

"Nope, I ain't goin' nowhere, take all the time you need."

"Thank you." I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms across my chest. "Okay, Tim, I've got a rock 'n' roll trivia question for you. Are you ready?"

"Huh? Ah ... sure, I guess."

"Okay, what year did the self-indulgent hard rock band, Pepper & Ice break up?"

"Nineteen ninety-nine," he said immediately, but he was obviously puzzled by the question.

"Absolutely correct," I said joyfully, like a TV game show host about to give away a new toaster. "Congratulations Tim, by answering the skill-testing question you have just won yourself the recently vacated position of President of Fun Gus Productions. All those in favour of this new appointment please raise your hand and say 'Aye'." I raised my hand and said, "Aye," and then I motioned with my other hand for Angie to do the same. She looked terribly confused, but she finally complied. "Who would like to second the motion?" I asked looking directly at her.

"I second the motion," she said, somewhat meekly.

"Very good. Well, then, I guess it's unanimous. Mr. Timothy Reid is now our new President." I extended my hand towards him and said, "Congratulations, Mr. Reid, I know you're looking forward to taking on your new position."

He hesitated before he took my hand, as if he was someone who thought he had just gotten conned by a slick used car salesman. "Ah ... thanks—I think. but what's happened to Gus?"

"Hmmm, that's a difficult question to answer, suffice it to say that he's decided he doesn't want to be in the advertising business anymore and he's resigned in order to free himself to do some ah ... travelling. So, I suppose you might as well take over his office."

"Really? Hey, that'd be great! Can I redecorate it?"

I laughed. "Tim, you can do whatever you want, you're the boss now." I turned back to Angie who was beginning to fidget around in her chair. "Now, I know I'm just the Vice President, but before Tim gets too caught up in the complexities of his new position, I would like to make a couple of recommendations." I looked at Tim and then back at Angie. " First, I would like to recommend that Miss—that is Ms—Angie Larsen be made Vice President in charge of Finance, as well as continuing her role as Head of the Art Department. In other words, Ang, I would like you to be the damn bookkeeper, which means you'll be in complete control of all the money as well as paying the bills. Are you interested?"

"You dirty rat," she said, but this time she was smiling. "You know I am."

"Good, I was hoping you'd say that. Any objections, Tim?"

"No, not from me. I think Ang will make a great VP."

"Then I guess everything is settled." I stood up and walked in front of the desk and then I picked up the contract, money and outline and handed them to Ang. "Before Gus left, the two of us were fortunate enough to have the opportunity to renegotiate our contract with Sol Bernstein, President of The Elegant Fashion Company and Sol generously provided us with a down payment of fourteen thousand dollars towards the work we'll be doing for him in the coming year." I waited for her reaction, which could only be described as bedazzled and then I went on. "The advertising campaign will begin with his new Fantasy Jean line and will be based on the outline I've drawn up from an idea 'thunk up' by our former President, Mr. Fun Gus Griffin."

"Hey, this is good stuff, you mean Gus actually came up with this idea?"

"Indeed, he did. Now, I'm sure your next question will be, what happened to four of the fourteen thousand dollars from the money we got from Bernstein? Well, please note for your records that the two founding members of this company, that is, Gus and myself, have withdrawn two thousand dollars each for past services rendered. For myself, the money will represent my entire salary for the rest of this year. I would suggest, Ang, that you deposit the remaining ten thousand dollars in our bank account first thing in the morning and I'll make arrangements to have both you and Tim authorized to sign cheques."

I picked up the set of heavy journals that held our books of account and placed them onto her lap. "It might be a good idea if you went over these to get an overall picture of where the company stands financially. You might also want to consider transferring these numbers to a good accounting software program. Another suggestion—time to go digital with the photography department ... sorry I kept us in the dark ages for so long with my old fashioned ways but ... sometimes change doesn't come easy." I looked at them and then I sighed. Gus was right, it did make you feel better. "I guess that's about it. I'm putting my complete trust in your abilities and talents to make this into a successful company, since this Vice President is now officially on vacation—and he's not exactly sure when, or if, he'll ever be back on a permanent basis."

There was a long, shocked silence as they stared at me as if I was a crazy person.

"Are there any more questions before I take off?"

"Yes," Ang said, "what about our pay? Can we take it out of this money?" She held up the ten thousand dollars.

"Well, I would say that's up to you, since you're now in charge. If you think the company can afford to pay everyone in full, then go ahead. The contract we signed with Bernstein was for fifty thousand to start, so there'll be more coming in on that job. However, if you think it would be best to pay only part of your salaries until more business comes in, then that's okay also. It's whatever you think is best."

"Sneaky," she said shaking her head. "Very, very sneaky. Just put us in charge and if we take our back pay, we only have ourselves to blame if we run short of cash." Her face was serious and contemplative for a moment, and then she started to laugh. "You know, I couldn't have done it better myself," she said. She stood in front of me a I got the feeling I had finally learned how to break down walls. She came over and gave me a hung and said, "Thanks for trusting us and giving us this opportunity. We won't let you down."

As my arms circled her tiny, firm body, I knew I'd made the right decision. Tim came over and shook my hand and for a moment I thought we were all going to break down and start crying.

"I think I understand what you're trying to do," he said, "and I have to tell you that I think it takes a very big—some people would say foolish—man to step aside and let someone else do what he doesn't have his heart into doing. I appreciate what you're doing for us. We're going to miss you around here."

"Thanks, Tim, I'm gonna miss all of you guys, also, but I'll be around from time to time and I'll always be available if you need me."

I turned around to leave but when I got to the door he came running after me. "Hang on a sec, I forgot to tell you something." He pulled out his wallet, took out a piece of paper and handed it to me. "I should have told you earlier that Carl Pepper called this morning before Gus sent us home and said he was having a hard time getting in touch with you. He left his home number and he wants you to call him back tonight around midnight ... said it was very important."

"Okay, thanks," I said as I stuck the piece of paper into my pocket. "Well, I guess I'll see you guys later." I looked over to where Angie was studiously leafing through the books. "Have fun, Ang."

"Oh, I will," she said. "By the way, I like your suit, but the next time you wear one to the office, couldn't you at least get it cleaned and pressed first," and then she gave me a silly grin.

I made a face and then I formed a gun with my finger and thumb, pointed it at her and pulled the trigger.

### Chapter Twenty

The night air on my balcony was rich with warm breezes, resilient starlight and the steady drip of melting snow and ice—the dampness of my seat as it rested on my patio chair giving testimony to that fact. I raised the glass of Dr Pepper and vodka to my lips (I was actually starting to like the taste), and took a sombre sip while I read over words and music to the song I'd managed to finish after having one of those massive bursts of creative energy that I hadn't experienced in years.

The song was in its rawest form, but I knew that a decent arrangement, some imaginative orchestration—the Brazilian beat had worked after all—and I knew there was only one drummer who could correctly interpret the rhythm going through my head—and a good hook with the right voice could make it into a decent effort. The title, _Start All Over Again_ , and words made me realize that sometimes it was possible to reach deep down and pull out the definitive statement that had characterized your whole life.

So where did I go from here? I'd written a new song. So what! What did it mean? That a person could lose himself and after a period of searching, somehow regain what he'd lost? Hardly! But there was something to be learned ...

I lost track of my thoughts as the mournful sound of Otis Redding singing _Try A Little Tenderness_ from his _Live In Europe_ album filtered through the screen door, an album I hadn't played in years.

My mind sailed back in time and as the song went into its frenzied climax—the driving horn section blasting through the beat, the deliriously screaming crowd and Otis' soulful 'sock-it-to-me's'—I remembered my own delirium the first time I'd heard the song before Carl and I started the band.

I'd been so excited by the gut-wrenching, heart throbbing emotion that seemed to jump out at me from my speakers I immediately grabbed the album from my turntable and ran all the way over to Carl's house to play it for him ... but I was no longer a teenager, I was just a guy sitting on his balcony watching the stars blink on and off ... feeling all the emotions and pain of the people I'd watched change their lives over the past few days ... yet I still wanted to run over to Carl's house and tell him about this new song ... to tell him that maybe ... just maybe I could do it again.

I visualized Carl's phone number that I'd memorized from the piece of paper Tim had given me. All I had to do was get up and dial the number ... set the wheels in motion; crawl all the way out of this self-inflicted dungeon—but I just sat there.

I felt like someone who was learning to swim. I kept sticking my foot into the icy cold water and getting my toe wet, but I was afraid to just plunge in and get it over with. It was scary to realize that I was completely in control of my own destiny. I wanted to jump into the water, but I kept thinking about those agonizing first few seconds when you submerge and the cold sends shock waves through your body as it's trying to adjust to the new climate.

Why was it always so difficult to overcome the terror of that initial plunge? Why couldn't it be easier for a change? Was it the fear of making the wrong decision and having to pay for it for the rest of your life? Wouldn't it be a lot easier to just run away and thus avoid making that final decision, avoid the pain of leaving yourself open to failure? Of course it was easier to run away ... that was something I had a lot of experience at, but that didn't make it right, after all—It's easy to be weak, it's hard to be strong, usually the easy way, ends up being wrong!—But did I really believe that?

Damn! I was good at coming up with questions, why couldn't I come up with some answers for a change? Damn! Another question!

People's lives had been changing all around me, but in my own life, nothing had really changed—yet everything was different. I was still sitting alone on my balcony trying to find a place to hang my hat ... a place that could make me feel warm when I was cold ... loved when I was hurt ... soothed when I was angry.

Did such a place exist? Of course it did! It existed in everyone's own mind ... just like Abraham Lincoln once said, each person is about as happy as they have made up their mind to be. Just because I couldn't seem to find any answers as to how to make it all happen, it didn't mean that everyone was so dreadfully blind.

Hub had found some answers— "Don't lost faith in yourself—find a goal, dream, fantasy—have someone to share your life with even if the relationship wasn't perfect ..." Jerry had found a friend and discovered that both his Mom and Dad loved him in their own way. Angie and Tim had taken advantage of a well-deserved opportunity to continue developing their creative talents.

And Gus ... well, Gus was still searching, but at least he'd discovered the first of Hub's three answers after spending so many years agonizing over the loss of the third.

And then there was Amina. Had I really misinterpreted her feelings for me so completely? It seemed to me the answer was both yes and no. She was definitely feeling deep emotions for someone, but had it been completely for me or for someone else—or a little of both? We'd both been in desperate need of love and affection that night, as if we were both on the rebound from a disastrous love affair and through some quirk of fate we had found someone we could relate to and trust and we allowed our usually guarded emotions free and it had been wonderful and warm and fresh and sincere and maybe, given another place and another time, it could have developed into something special and permanent.

But a relationship just doesn't sprout in one night, it takes years of care and understanding and patience—and suddenly it occurred to me how right she had been; it was only a dream, something that could not be. She'd been the realistic one who had put an end to it before we got carried away, which would have likely ended in both of us getting hurt, and I had been the dreamer who couldn't see past my nose.

I began to squirm in my chair at the thought of my being a foolish dreamer, but then I thought ... What's wrong with being a dreamer? Dreaming isn't always foolish, sometimes it's the only thing that can pick up a life that has sunk so low, you have to look up to see the water pouring down the gutter.

Amina had cared for me and I had cared for her, but maybe the feelings we expressed were more connected to a past relationship we were both attempting to get out of our systems and then something she said just before I crammed my size 8 1/2 shoe into my size 4 1/2 mouth finally began to sink in— "I have a special relationship with someone right now ..."—and everything began to click into place in my mind and I realized that the past was the past and the future was still to be played out and I could either sink or swim; give up before the race was over—and then a clear picture of Ben Braddock and Elaine Robinson chasing a dream played itself out before my eyes.

I set my glass down, stretched my legs out until they rested against the wrought iron railing that surrounded my balcony and then I took in a deep breath of the fresh night air. Every muscle in my body, every fibre of my existence was tensed up and ready to start moving—but that vast empty space between my ears kept sending out warning signals telling me to back off and sit still. I wondered why the hell I couldn't seem to keep myself from analyzing my life to death.

Why couldn't I stop thinking and just act for a change? Why couldn't I pick myself up and force myself to forget about those first few seconds when your body hits the water and the freezing cold completely surrounds you? Why?

I stared at my shoeless feet stretched out in front of me and I thought ... because I'm _me_ ... I just _can't_ do it ... and I noted the date in my head—Wednesday, April 14—because it was a day I was going to remember the rest of my life as the day I almost made it ... the day I almost brought myself to take the plunge, but had instead backed up and walked away ... and I thought, at least I wasn't running away, which was a little bit of an improvement—and I looked up from my feet into the friendly sky and the stars seemed to be doing loops and bends like an acrobatic airplane, never standing still for a moment, and something inside me screamed ... _yes you can_ ... and I felt exhausted from the battle going on inside my head and I was about to explode when a sharp, guttural yelp, the sound of a restless feline, rumbled somewhere behind me like distant thunder and a furry-faced, blue-eyed cat body came running through the half-opened screen door and jumped onto my lap and started rubbing and licking my face; a friend who had come to see me for some tender-loving-care just when I needed some myself and I clutched his warm cat-body close to mine, scratching his chin while the top of his head dove at my hand with uninhibited pleasure and the screaming inside me had turned into an inspirational chant ... _Yes you can_ ... _yes you can_ ... _yes you can_ ...—and I breathed a sigh of relief as I picked up my glass of Dr Pepper and vodka and drained it. The sudden burn made me pull a face, but it also made me feel a whole lot better.

"It must be midnight by now, Sam?" I said and then I let my automatic mechanisms take over as I stood up and walked back into the living room and headed straight for the phone. I placed Sam down on the couch and his tail immediately shot straight into the air while he did a crazy little dance and resumed his frantic, low-pitched shriek and I knew that he was cheering me on like the cheerleaders at a Dallas Cowboy football game.

I dialled the number, my heartbeat jumping up a notch as I waited for the connection and after the first ring I thought, I don't care how long it takes, I will _not_ hang up this phone until Carl answer—it only took two rings.

"Hello?"

"Carl, this is ah ... Shaky."

"Shaky!" he exclaimed, "damn, I'm glad you called, I've been trying to get in touch with you all the day. Where the hell have you been?"

"Where have I been? Well, I guess you could say I've been taking care of business."

"Good, that's what I want to talk to you about."

"Fire away."

"Okay, first I want to apologize for leaving town so suddenly, I should have let you know what was going on, but everything's been happening so fast I haven't had time to think."

"Forget it, man, I understand."

"I guess you've heard by now that we're leaving for our recording session in New York next week."

"Yep."

"Okay, when we talked on Monday about your producing the album for me I told you I wanted you to think it over ... well, you've had two days now and I haven't got a whole lot of time to argue with you so I'm asking you once again to do an old friend a favour and come to New York with me ..."

"Okay, I'll do it."

"I really need you, man ... I know we can restore the energy and chemistry we had back in the nineties when we were living our dream ..."

"Damn it, Carl, will you listen to me! I said I'll do it!"

"Huh? You will? Fantastic! I thought I was gonna have a battle on my hands the way you talked the other day. What made you change your mind?"

I laughed. "Well, that's a long story, Carl. I don't think I really understand completely myself right now, all I know is that I'm anxious to get started."

"What about your advertising business? Are you gonna be able to get away from it for a couple of months?"

"That's all taken care of, Carl. Don't worry about it."

"Great! So how soon can you get here so we can go over a few things before we leave next week?"

"I should be able to make it by the weekend. I've got one more thing I have to take care of first." I hesitated for a moment and then I decided, what the hell, plunge on. "Carl, can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

I hesitated for a moment, not exactly sure how to approach the subject. "Carl, do you have a special relationship with Amina?"

There was no immediate response and then he mumbled, "What do you mean by special relationship?"

"I'm not exactly sure myself."

The sound of a sigh filtered through the telephone receiver. "Ya ... I guess you could say we have a special relationship."

"Does that mean you're going to marry her someday?"

He laughed, somewhat self-consciously. "Naw, I wouldn't go that far ... I've been tempted to ask her, but ... but I've never been able to picture myself settling down and getting married—you know how lousy I am with serious relationships, they scare the hell out of me ... I really don't know if I could ever change my ways."

"Don't say that, Carl, we all have to change sometime and believe me, it's never too late."

"Too late for me, 'ol buddy ..." And then there was a moment of silence. "I suppose you're right, though," he continued, "and I've been thinking about it a lot after seeing you again and then what happened with Gus—I just don't know—I think I might actually love her, but not in a way that would ever change my ways, it wouldn't be fair to her to pretend I could ..."

"What are you trying to say, Carl?"

"I'm not trying to say anything in particular, it's just that the week before we left to play at The Hideaway, I basically told Amina the same thing I just told you ... she was very upset, but what the hell, she'll get over it, she's not the first lady I've disappointed and she certainly won't be the last ... with Amina it's different, though ... I hurt as much as she does and ... well, I guess that's why I've avoided a serious relationship ... I don't like the hurt!"

There was a long silence before either one of us spoke and I knew that if he had been standing next to me, we would likely have our arms wrapped around each other ... but that would have to wait. Sam had curled up on my lap so I ran my hand along the top of his body, the texture of his soft, silky fur feeling warm and friendly. I tried to come up with the right words to help Carl ease the pain, but somehow, the silence that echoed through the telephone line seemed to carry the right message.

I finally broke the silence. "Carl, you're the closest thing to a brother I've ever had, but there really isn't anything I can say to help you work this out, except that if you really want to change, you've got to ignore the first few seconds of freezing cold and just dive in and ..."

"There you go again," he said playfully, "just like the old days, analyzing everything to death—what the hell are you trying to say?"

I stopped babbling, realizing there was no point in dwelling on the past, it was time to look ahead to the future. "Never mind," I said, "you'll figure it out, you don't need me ..."

"Thank you very much," he said with mock sarcasm, and then he added, "but you're wrong, I do need you and so does Amina and the rest of the band."

"Okay, well you've got me—you've sweet talked me again, you old charmer you."

"That's my job, charming the pants off of every living, breathing animal on the face of the earth."

We both laughed and then I said, "By the way, I've written a new song, and I want Amina to sing it for me."

"Really? That's great! What's it called?"

" _Start All Over Again_."

There was a short silence and then he said, "That about says it all, doesn't it."

"Yep. We can talk about it more when I get into town."

"Okay man, I guess I'll see you in a couple of days."

"Sure thing, Carl."

I placed the phone down and then I settled back onto the couch and slung my feet across the coffee table. I sighed ... a long, deep, heavy one and it made me feel good. It seemed as if a whole lifetime had passed by during the last few days and I needed a moment to sit still and catch my breath.

I stared at the dim light that radiated from my stereo and then I smiled as I stood up, got my sheet music and then picked up Sam and cradled him in my arms.

"I think it's time we went for a ride, Sam," I said.

### Chapter Twenty-One

The street was your typical suburban avenue where every other house looked the same and there was a noticeable lack of full grown trees and shrubbery. The house was at the end of the crescent where the street curved around into a little circle and was the big, white brick four-level with a double garage, three bedrooms and baths, a formal dining room, a splendid country kitchen with tons of cupboards and an oak-paneled recroom with a sliding glass door that led to a twenty-foot patio and heated pool.

As I pulled into the driveway and parked next to a huge black Cadillac that looked like Godzilla next to my puny Volvo, I wondered if my Lincoln Continental was still parked in the double garage or if she'd gotten rid of it.

I turned to Sam, and he was going into another series of hysterical screeches and moans while he scratched and clawed at the area around the passenger window in a frantic effort to get out. He never did like driving in a car, and I felt sorry for him. I knew what it was like to lose control of a situation and be so scared, all you wanted to do was cry and scream until you turned blue.

"It's okay, Sam," I said soothingly, "we're almost there." I ran my hand along the top of his head a couple of times and then I attempted to peel his front claws out from where they were imbedded in the upholstery. It wasn't easy, but by being gentle and patient, he finally let go and I lifted up his quivering body and stepped outside into the cool night air.

The dim glow of the street lights shrouded the front of the house with a dark, ominous shadow and as I walked down the familiar sidewalk and stood in front of the door I'd gone in and out of more than any other door in my life, there seemed to be an eerie atmosphere surrounding the area that was trying to reach out and scare me away. Fortunately, Sam had settled down and seemed satisfied to be resting in my arms, his eyes alertly darting back and forth across the porch, otherwise I might have succumbed to my feeling of being a stranger in a familiar land and turned around and headed back home.

I wondered if it was true what they said about not being able to go home again ... and then I decided, what the hell, I might as well find out.

I raised my arm and then lowered it again.

Come on, dummy! Knock! He who hesitates is lost. It didn't matter that the house seemed to be in total darkness and there was a good chance something erotic was going on inside. There was only one more door to open ... one more ocean to cross ... one more hill to climb ... one more—and my mind kept dredging up every cliché I could think up until I suddenly felt very strong and determined.

Now was not the time to turn into my usual weak-kneed wimp who couldn't handle the pressure and made a habit of running away. I raised my arm again to knock, but this time I heard loud, agitated voices coming from somewhere inside. I decided to just try the door instead, but it was locked.

Now what? I turned and retraced my steps back to the driveway and then I walked around the side of the house to the backyard. There was a faint glow coming from the patio doors and as I got closer, I could see Sarah sitting on the couch across the room gently stroking a small, white ball of fur that was sitting on her lap. Tony was pacing back and forth in front of her, his arms gesturing forcefully in the air.

He was wearing the same grey pinstriped suit and ugly wide tie as when I'd seen him last and the sight of his furious anger directed at Sarah surprised and perturbed me. Sarah had a mournful look of resignation on her face as she looked up at him and then back to the ball of fur that suddenly took a swipe at her hand. The glass door was wide open and I could hear every word they were saying.

"Well Sam, you think we should disturb them?" I whispered softly. He answered me with an annoyed yelp and I laughed. "I think you're right, I don't like the guy either."

I stepped closer but decided I would listen for awhile longer before I revealed my presence. I quickly surveyed the room and it looked exactly the way it had when I left over two years ago; potted plants all over the floor and hanging from the ceiling; a comfortable beige and brown colonial couch with rocking chair and a small Steinway piano in the corner next to the fireplace. The warm and homey atmosphere was created by the rich, oak panels and the burnt-orange shag carpet.

After a quick inspection of the room, my gaze returned to where Tony was standing and for the first time I noticed he was holding a diamond ring in his hand.

"... this is crazy," he was saying, "you can't expect me to wait around forever while you try to decide whether you're going to get a divorce or not. It's bad enough you didn't tell me you were still married in the first place ..." His face was flush and he was obviously very agitated. He started hammering his right fist into his left hand and for a second, I thought he was going to take a swing at Sarah. Instead, he got down on his knees in front of her and took her hand into his, kissing it like the slobbering idiot that he was. "Why can't you just call your lawyer in the morning and begin the proceedings?"

"I just can't do it right now," Sarah said with finality. "I think we should just call off the engagement until we both have time to think things over, besides, in another few months Eric and I will have been separated for three years and getting a divorce will just be a formality then. Why can't you wait? It's only a few months. If Eric should decide to fight my petition, there could be quite a battle and I'm just not the right state of mind for that right now. It would just be an unnecessary expense and it seems silly to waste the money when ..."

"But why would he fight the petition? He's the one who walked out on you. I think you're just trying to find any excuse to cancel our wedding plans, and I want to know why!"

I could hear a rush of air come from Tony and then the little ball of white fur swung its paw at his face and I could see its flaming yellow eyes as it valiantly tried to protect its mistress.

The Greaser quickly moved his head back out of reach and then he continued his frustrated pleading. "I don't understand why you're hesitating, there shouldn't be any problem proving adultery by now ..." He stopped, waiting for her to speak and when she didn't, he seemed to get angrier.

At this point I slowly and very carefully slid the screen door open so Tony couldn't hear me and then I stepped inside, hoping Sam wouldn't cry out and give me away. Sarah's eyes caught mine and I immediately put my finger to my lips signalling her to remain silent.

She looked back at Tony who was still rambling on. "... I don't know what I'm going to do with you, this damn bastard of a husband of yours has your head all screwed up ... he's a good for nothing son-of-a-bitch and you should be anxious to get even for what he did to you."

It struck me that he wasn't being exactly clear as to whom would like to get even with whom. He certainly could be a lot different from the slobbering idiot when he wanted to, but I guess a person's true character will always come out in the long run—he was as much of a hot-headed fool as he was a slobbering idiot.

Sarah shifted her eyes back to mine, her expression anxious and pleading and as our eyes met, the sparks began to fly as questions and answers flew back and forth across the room. Both of us seemed to latch on tighter to our new found best friends, finding warmth and comfort as we shared moments from the past, dissected reasons and excuses ...

"I absolutely must insist that there is no delay ..."

... tearing away the walls of anxiety, crying on each other's shoulders ...

"... I'm absolutely sure your Father would be willing to help out with the expense ..."

... renewing shared expectations, rekindling lost emotions and spirit ...

"... your Father has enough money to pay for a dozen divorces, I know he'd love to get rid of such an incompetent son-in-law ..."

... Forgiving and Forgetting! —A few seconds that said more than all the worn out arguments of the past.

I smiled and then I gave her a thumbs-up sign and her cool, blue eyes lit up and then she smiled, a warm and loving smile that I had somehow forgotten about as the years flew by—and then she winked and turned back to face Tony.

"... why shouldn't people with lots of money be willing to share some of ..."

"Antonio!" Sarah said abruptly, "why don't you shut up and listen to me? My Father doesn't have any money, in fact, he'll be formally declaring bankruptcy tomorrow morning, but even if he still had money, there's no way you would ever get your paws on it. As far as his son-in-law is concerned, well, my Father has very deep feelings for Eric and I think he'd resent you calling him incompetent, but then, maybe you should take that up with Eric himself."

"Huh? What are you talking about?" Tony said sceptically as he stood up. "I know the real estate game is a little bit tough right now, but it can't be that bad—can it?"

"Where in the world have you been, living in a cave?" Sarah said sternly. "Of course it's that tough." She looked back at me and as our eyes met, I could tell she was suddenly having a good time making an ass out of her ex-fiancé.

Tony took a step backwards, obviously stunned by what Sarah had told him and her sudden change in attitude and then he turned around and saw me standing there.

I flashed him an incongruous smile and then Sam started struggling in my arms, so I set him down on the carpet and he immediately let out a high-pitched yelp before crouching down and creeping stealthily towards the couch.

"So, the incompetent bastard has the nerve to show his face around here," Tony said nastily, like a king standing confidently in the midst of his kingdom's serfs and slaves. "Haven't you hurt enough people?" He seemed to have completely forgotten about Sarah as he went on the offensive.

"Now Tony, that's not a very nice way to talk," I said trying to remain calm, but then, maybe he was right, maybe I had caused a lot of people pain, but no more pain than I'd inflicted on myself—and that was now in the past, never again to be dwelled on or worried about.

"I'll talk any damn way I feel like talking," he wailed as he walked boldly over to where I was standing, swaggering and prancing like a male cock about to attack its adversary.

He seemed to be overreacting to the situation, but then again, maybe he really was surprised about Hub going bankrupt, maybe the thought of there suddenly being no money in the family had rotted his brain.

"Well, that's fine, Tony, you talk anyway you feel like, but I don't think it's very nice to swear when there's a lady present."

"A lady! You call her a lady?" He pointed at Sarah. "She's nothing but a lonely, conniving bitch who's desperate to latch onto a real man like me before she ends up living the rest of her life as an old maid, so why don't you get lost, buddy."

I glanced quickly at Sarah and she shrugged, one of those silly expressions on her face that said, 'what can I say?' The helplessness in her eyes was showing through and for the first time since I'd walked out on her, I had an inkling of understanding as to what she'd been going through.

"Look fella," I said sternly, "you can say anything you want about me, but I won't stand for you talking to Sarah like that."

His mouth curled upwards into a scowl that would have made Elvis proud and then he flashed me a haughty grin. "Fuck you ... you creep!"

That's when I slugged him ... pulled back my right arm and let it fly with all my might, my fist connecting with a loud smack against the soft jelly of his left cheek. As I pulled my hand back, I thought it was broken and I had to shake it a couple of times to make sure it was still there. I had never hit anyone like that before, but the look of astonishment on Tony's face as he went flying backwards, landing with a crash against a huge Yucca plant, knocking it over and sending dirt all over the carpet was worth every ounce of pain.

I walked over and looked down at him. I felt absolutely no pity or remorse. "Fuck you too, Greaser," I said, and then I bent down and pulled him up by his lapels. He was a little groggy, but still conscious and there was already a nasty bruise forming on his cheek but, to my relief, there was no blood.

I carefully guided him towards the open screen and with a gentle push, I sent him stumbling out the door. He was all the way across the patio and teetering at the edge of the pool before he finally caught his balance and stopped. He turned himself around, his eyes watching me like a hawk zeroing in on its next meal, took a couple of tentative steps forward, and then he suddenly took off as if he thought I was a boogie man who was going to chase after him.

I stepped out onto the patio and watched him until he disappeared around the corner of the house.

"So much for nonviolence," I mumbled out loud to no one in particular—except maybe myself.

I walked slowly across the patio and stood at the edge of the pool. The fresh fragrance of chlorine filled my senses as I stared blankly into the shimmering, reflective night light that radiated with an eerie glow five-feet below the lapping waves of the pool.

So many thoughts and memories and worries and fears clamoured for my attention that I thought I was going to get lost in the barrage, but one thing seemed to stand out above the rest: I'd done something I never thought I would ever do, and though I wasn't proud of my actions, I didn't feel guilty, either. Maybe sometimes you did have to defend the honour and self-respect of the people close to you. Maybe sometimes you had to sink so low the only way you can raise yourself up again is to ignore the pain and take a good hard look at the people who've sunk lower than you have.

I turned and walked back to the house with a determined bounce characterizing each step. I closed the screen and sliding glass door behind me, making sure it was locked. I noticed immediately that Sarah had already cleaned up the dirt on the carpet—everything must be neat and tidy and in its proper place. She never could stand a mess.

I turned around and she was now sitting on the rocking chair and watching the couch where two very different looking cats eyed each other cautiously. Sam took a step closer, a look of curious puzzlement on his face and then he let out a low wail and stepped back. The white Persian was standing menacingly with its back hunched up and its long, fluffy hair bristling in the air. For a moment, sparks flew between them and then Muffin jumped down and ran out of the room. Sam hesitated for a moment, looked at me with his icy blue eyes (the look saying quite clearly, "What the hell!") and then he followed.

I watched him until he disappeared from sight, perhaps to the beginning of a new friendship and then, without a word, I walked over to the piano and sat down. I pulled out my sheet music from my pocket and set it down in front of me. I limbered up my fingers for a few moments and then I took a deep breath before resting them on the keys and slowly working my way into the intro of the song.

I played the intro three times before I finally felt confident enough to start singing. At first my voice was weak and hesitant, but as the full meaning of the lyrics began to sink in, my voice strengthened and I closed my eyes and imagined I was sitting on a stage in some dark and dreary piano lounge surrounded by lonely, tear-streaked faces.

Our love started with a dream

Of candlelit dinners and clear mountain streams

Of touching gently in the night

Of being one until the morning light

I opened my eyes before starting the second verse and I could sense Sarah's presence close by.

But dreams are not always what they seem

They tend to drift and fade

And all that's left is wishful thoughts

That never get repaid

I was beginning to feel more confident as I slipped into the chorus and the feel of Sarah's hands on my shoulders inspired me on.

We've got to back up

And start all over again

Separate our dreams from reality

Open our minds and really see

What makes a man and woman free

Sarah sat down on the piano bench beside me and as I looked at her I realized I didn't need the sheet music, I didn't need to read the lyrics, the words had been there all along ... I had just never found a way of saying them to her. I sang the next verse staring directly into her eyes.

The hardest part of living together

Is thinking of two as one

Remembering that there's more to love

Than holding hands and fun

As I went into the final verse, I looked back down at my hands as they glided across the black and white keys.

But dreams don't always die

You have to search to find

That if you give it one more try

The love you had still rhymes

I sang the chorus one more time and then, as the sound of the final chord vibrated into the stillness of the night, I turned around and faced Sarah.

"Hello there," she said softly, and then she gave me a hug.

"Hello there? Is that all you've got to say?"

She looked surprised. "What else do you expect me to say?"

"Well, I don't know ... don't you understand, I wrote that song for you, I guess I expected more of a reaction ..."

"Oh! Well, it's a pretty song—what can I say ... it's wonderful, Eric."

"Well, I thought you'd be a bit more emotional about it."

"I am," she said defensively, "I'm very moved."

"You don't look it ..."

She put her hands on her hips. "Oh, come on Eric, you're just over-dramatising things, as usual."

I slid away from her on the bench. "Bitch!" I said sternly.

She reacted immediately. "My, you are a hot headed bastard!" she said, and then she smiled ... and then she snickered ... and then she was laughing out loud and before I knew it, we were embracing and laughing so hard we almost fell off the piano bench.

We finally managed to calm down and then we got up and slumped down onto the couch.

"Did you see the look on Tony's face when he went flying across the room," Sarah said still chuckling. "God, I couldn't believe you had it in you to punch someone like that."

"Neither could I," I replied.

She shook her head. "I don't know what I ever saw in him ... I suppose I was just getting lonely." She looked at me and now the smiles were all gone. "You know, you've changed," she said, her brow furrowing with serious contemplation.

"I certainly hope so," I replied.

"I first sensed it on Monday night. There's a new kind of warmth inside you that I've never been aware of before ..." She shrugged. "I don't know ... maybe it's me who's done the changing."

"We've probably both changed," I said. "I think they call it growing up. It takes a lot longer for some people."

She sighed. "You've come to say good-bye, haven't you."

"Not necessarily ... I could stay if you want me to."

She caught my eye and said firmly, "No!" And then she smiled. "I really meant what I said to Tony, I've had enough of men for awhile. I need to be alone again ... get my life organized ... get to know my parents again."

I gave her a hug. "And I meant what I said in the song—dreams don't always die, you've got to search to find—I think we both need to do a little more searching."

She nodded. "But not too much longer."

"But not too much longer," I replied slowly.

"Where are you going?"

"Well, I've decided to try and pick up the pieces of my musical career where I left off twelve years ago. Carl's asked me to help him produce and arrange the first CD he'll be recording with his new band Comrades. We'll be leaving for New York city in a couple of days and ..."

"That's wonderful," she said with genuine excitement, "I always knew you wouldn't really be happy until you went back to your music ..." She squeezed me tighter. "I'm so pleased! Are you going to record my song?"

"Yes, I think so."

She loosened her grip and then she said, "Is ... is _she_ going to be there?"

I caught her eye and said, "Yes, she is ..." but that was as far as I got.

She put her hand to my mouth and shook her head. "Don't say anymore, okay?"

"Sure. Can I ask you a favour, then?"

She nodded.

"Since I'm going to be away for a month or so, I need someone to babysit Sam for me ... would you mind?"

"Don't mind at all," she said as she stood up and pulled me after her. "I think Muffin and Sam will get along just fine." She held my hand and started leading me across the room.

"Where are you taking me? I asked innocently. When we got to the foot of the stairs she smiled, and I lifted her into my arms and started up. I was surprised by my own strength, she felt light as a feather and as I walked through the bedroom door I said, "Suddenly I have this uncontrollable urge to make love to you, I hope you don't mind?"

"For some strange reason, I have the same urge," she said. "It should be fun, I haven't done this for almost three years."

"Really?"

"Really."

"But I would have thought if you were engaged ..."

She put her hand over my mouth and then she stroked my cheek. "No!" She said firmly.

************

The glowing, first light of a new spring morning filtered through the curtains as I slipped out of bed. I dressed quickly and just before I left the room I looked back at her slumbering body. She was awake, but I knew she was pretending to still be asleep. I stared at her for a long time and then I slipped downstairs and wandered into the recroom.

At each end of the couch, I could vaguely distinguish a different coloured ball of fur. I crept closer and was about to stroke the grey one, but then I changed my mind. Instead, I turned around, walked through the house and stepped out the front door. Before heading down the sidewalk to where the Volvo was parked, I stole the morning paper from the mailbox and shoved it under my arm.

I stood on the porch, looked up into the sky and took a deep breath.

There was something about morning ...

It was a time for sombre reflection ...

It was a time for opening new doors and chasing old dreams and ...

It was a time for letting go.

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Other books by Glenn Cutforth

Preview of Fiddling Under Vesuvius

Short Summary

Casey Thomas, freelance journalist and blues musician, is in a bit of a pickle. Bruno Pulchinski, a hulking body builder extraordinaire, is out for Casey's hide, his ex-fiancée Dana Cranston is trying to ruin his life for breaking off their engagement and, worst of all, the evidence seems to point directly at Casey as the killer of world famous writer/playwright Warren Kramer.

It's only a matter of time before the Cranston police department comes calling.

Fiddling Under Vesuvius features a cast of quirky characters and a whimsical metaphysical theme as Casey tries to untangle himself from the "wicked web" that weaves itself around him.

### Prologue

The sounds and flashes of light in a simultaneous swirl jogged me awake, though my eyes stayed closed as I reconciled myself to the pain that gnawed its way up my right leg. I tried to move, but another hot spot just above my right ear made its presence known. I felt like I'd overdosed on twenty sharp knocks against a concrete wall. I could hear myself moan, but felt strangely detached, as if one part of me was experiencing agony, but the conscious part was observing from a distance.

"Who's there?" a voice called out. Another click, flash and whirr and then the sound of footsteps from above me.

I didn't budge, but another moan escaped my lips—and then there were hands all over me.

"Goddamn—another body ! Casey! Casey! Wake up, man! Oh, shit! I don't know what to do ... ah, let me see ... I gotta call the cops! Don't you move, Case, I'll be right back ... I'll have an ambulance down here pronto!"

I wasn't going anywhere, but I managed to roll over enough to feel my right leg twisted at a weird angle underneath my body. In agony, I was able to straighten it out and then I stopped trying to move. Lights suddenly flashed all around me and then the sound of someone running down the aisle.

I opened my eyes. A sudden click ... flash ... whirr ... in my face.

"Hey Jack, what are ya tryin' to do, blind me? I got enough pain right now!"

"My god, sorry!" He rushed over, his arms flailing, camera dangling from his neck.

I lifted my upper torso, with Jack's help, and managed to sit up straight. I was lying in the five foot aisle between the stage and the first row of seats. The old carpeting had been ripped out for the renovation. The floor was cold concrete—cold and hard as hell—my pounding head could certainly confirm without an argument. I looked up at the stage—six feet straight up never looked so far. I started to feel nauseated again and closed my eyes. Sparkling lights filled the darkness.

"You gonna be all right? Any broken bones?" Jack continued to hover over me like an anxious puppy waiting for its rabies' shot.

"Geez, Jack, I dunno—I'm not a doctor."

"What the hell happened? "

"Gimme a minute, will ya?" I opened my eyes, and then I remembered Kramer. "Hey Jack, forget about me, did you take care of Kramer?" I tried to stand up, got half way there and he helped me the rest of the way. The leg was too sensitive to step full on, but I figured I could hop if I had to. "I think he had another heart attack. He'll need some medication ..."

"Hell, he had a lot more than a heart attack!"

"What do you mean?" I leaned on him. His camera swung around and clunked against my arm.

"Oops, sorry." He swung it around over his shoulder. "Can ya take a few steps?"

With his help, I took a couple of tentative steps. I had a strange sensation that I was about to explode like some hapless character from a David Cronenburg horror flick.

"I think I'll be okay, just a bit of a twist." I put full weight on the leg—it held. "I think I can make it, Jack. Now where the hell is Kramer?"

It was the look in his eyes, a mixture of anxiety, fear and hesitation that gave me a clue something was amiss. He stood there not moving as if his legs were made out of lead.

"What's up, Jack?"

"It ain't a pretty sight."

"What are you talkin' about?"

"Can you walk?" He started up the stairs to the stage.

"Ya, I think I can make it."

"Follow me."

I started moving up the stairs, slowly at first, but I decided it was better to keep moving or I'd probably fall flat on my face, so I picked up the pace. Jack kept close, anxiously watching me as I shuffled along.

"Be careful! Slow down!" he said.

I stopped. "Thanks, Mom, but I'll make it!"

He gave me a sheepish look and backed up a step.

I moved across the stage wincing all the way while I rubbed my right temple trying to alleviate the pain that lay there like a clump of dirty laundry. It was difficult to focus on anything else as I shuffled along with Jack walking backwards in front of me. And then he stopped and stepped aside.

I had an abrupt, full view of the spotlight that was still gracing the centre of the stage.

"Oh my God!" I exclaimed.

I immediately had to throw up, but since my stomach was mostly empty, it came out as hacking dry heaves. Jack quickly moved closer. I leaned against his shoulder for a moment, shook my head, tried to regain focus and then I looked back.

Kramer was still in the centre of the spotlight. He was sitting on one of the chairs from his office, his body slumped backwards, mouth wide open, tongue dangling. His long, shiny dagger protruded from the middle of his chest from a jagged wound that had spilled a generous amount of crimson blood down his front.

I stood there mesmerized, consumed by a sharp pain jabbing through my own gut, his last few words running through my head ... _"Death, death, O, amiable, lovely death! ... I find I seek to die and seeking death, find life!"_

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Fiddling Under Vesuvius

Available for Sampling or Purchase at Smashwords.com as well as other fine Internet eBook retailers

