Monday, November 1, 2010

Hit Single

I write the songs that make the young girls cry,
I write the songs, I write the songs

Bobby Devine had been in the trade long enough to know. No one hits a home run every night, but he lied to himself whenever he blew off lukewarm audiences as if they didn't matter. As the last note of his music ascended beyond the spotlights, he lifted his fingers from the piano keys. This was the moment when everything hung in the balance. Would his listeners serve as the tinder for the spark in his soul?

It seemed that he had been working with wet wood for a long time.

He scanned the late morning audience at The Mosaic, one of the casino's smaller lounges. A dozen or so people sat scattered at tables staring into their drinks – refugees from bored lives hauled by charter buses from small Illinois towns like Kankakee, Ottawa, and Pontiac. Each had spent his wad in another try at bringing something real back into his life. Tonight they would be asleep on the bus home. God bless 'em.

He exhaled, smiled, and shifted into advertising mode. "That's it for me. I'll be back here tomorrow morning at 10:00 with more soft hits and smooth jazz. Until then, enjoy your stay with us at Harrah's Joliet." He grabbed his tip bowl and exited stage right toward the dressing room. If wishes were horses he would have enjoyed more stage time, but it had been a while since the name "Bobby D" had held sway on marquees from Vegas to Atlantic City. Those were the days before the club scene was oversold and the public's taste diluted. A good piano man used to have the run of things.

“How was the crowd today?” Bobby recognized the voice of the attractive brunette in her early thirties sitting in a peach-colored dressing gown at the mid-point of the make-up counter. Her image reflected back at her from a row of mirrors illuminated with 100-watt bulbs. She held a spray bottle and the fragrances of freesia and peony drifted to him. Her name was Lacy Edwards. They had shared drinks at The Mosaic’s bar a couple of times and she carried herself like an old pro on the circuit, calculating and shrewd.

He remembered how her audition had impressed the manager a few weeks ago. He rewarded her with the early afternoon set at The Mosaic. It was the first step to better gigs at the larger Stage 151 on the other side of the hotel. Unless they screwed her over, she had a good enough voice to earn it. Bobby didn’t think that would happen.

He removed his sunglasses and propped himself against the thinly-painted wall. "About the same. Like usual."

She turned one eye towards him like the jack of hearts. "So the applause was small and the tips even smaller."

Bobby slipped a hand into his pocket where three one-dollar coins and six quarters clinked dully against each other. At least the food was cheap where the gaming was hot. God, he was even starting to think like a commercial!

She looked back into the mirror. "How many places like this have you worked?”

“Enough. Why?”

“I was listening to your last song this morning. You do Manilow really well. I saw him once as a kid. Back in '88 he played at what they called the Wolf Trap Arts Center outside of D.C. It was crazy. My mom and the other women acted like he was Elvis reincarnated or something. But even Elvis changes with the times. That’s the trick Bobby. Your style can change but the substance always shows.” He watched her run a brush through her shoulder length hair. Each smooth stroke seemed to deepen its sheen from the reflected lights. “Have you ever heard of Fanilows?” Bobby grunted. “It’s what they call his fans. I read it on a website.” She laughed a silly laugh that flittered across his skin before evaporating.

Bobby had long ago given up hope of an "Elvis experience." Especially after Annie left him that note on the bathroom sink. He had known from the beginning that they were too different. While his highs were mediated through a musical scale, she sought hers through running shoes and tennis courts. The relationship was abrasive and she had threatened to leave him more than once. Things came to a head the weekend of their third anniversary when he stayed on in Vegas for a great day of recording and even greater night of partying. When he finally got home on a Monday dawn, he weathered a hell of a storm. He consoled himself with the knowledge that she just couldn’t know the power of a perfect song.

He found her six weeks later giving her love to a dancer from Des Moines with a perfect smile. He punched out the jerk and spent the next week in drunken oblivion. It was lucky he hadn’t been thrown in jail. When he got back to the circuit, the best promoters had moved on to fresher voices. How quickly had he fallen off their radar. His so-called friends told him that he had been a fool to risk his career on a jealous rant. Since then, he had been playing a slow game of catch up.

He brought himself back into the present, spread his feet apart and looked up into the ceiling in a stage move, one hand raised as if in supplication to God.

Tryin' to get the feel-ing again, The one that made me shiver,
Made my knees start to quiver every time she walked in.

When he looked back, Lacy was staring into the mirror, her hands resting in her lap.

“Lacy?”

She turned her head slowly and looked at him with both eyes, a smile turning the corner of her lip like the Mona Lisa. “Cool.” He searched her face for some clue of meaning. Instead of her familiar calculation of advantage, he saw understanding -- even compassion.

“It’s something when it happens, isn’t it? Whatever side of the stage lights you’re on, you want it to last forever. You know what I mean, don't you?”

“Yeah.” Bobby felt something pass between them and wondered if she had anyone in her life.

“Stay with me Bobby. Sammy doesn’t usually get here for his shift until 3:00.” He nodded, his breath shortening and quickening. When Lacy stood up, the light from the bulbs revealed how sheer her dressing gown was. She stepped behind a changing curtain, slipped it off, and sat down on the single bed there. Bobby locked the doors and then moved to join her.

Afterwards, he watched her eyes roam past him. The flame was already fading. He rolled away from her and stood up, pulling on his slacks. He reached for the door that opened upon a short hallway that led to the employee exit to the lobby.

“I've got to go.”

Lacy sat up, wrapped in the sheet. “Where to?”

“Lunch. After that, who knows? Got to follow the muse.” He gathered the rest of his clothes. “I’ll see you around.”

“Sure, Bobby D.”


He paid the waiter, pushed away from the table, and left the snack shop. As he passed the hotel entrance he saw a billboard as tall as he was announcing opening night for The Legendary Smokey Robinson at the Rialto Theater.

"Bob! Hey, Bobbo!" Bobby turned and saw Jake the head desk clerk, dressed in his gold vest, black slacks, and silver name pin. The young man was one of Bobby’s less distant acquaintances and they had shared a few late night movies and pizzas. "Elle wants to see you." He looked at the clock on the wall behind him. "She said she'd be in her office until 1:00."

Bobby put on his confident face. "Oh, yeah? Well it's about time she gave me a better time slot."

"Yeah, Bobby. Whatever you say."

He entered the administrative office area and found the door with a plate on the wall beside it: Elle Stronman, Vice-President of Entertainment. Stronman's assistant let his boss know that he had arrived and Bobby disappeared into her office. He came out five minutes later, dropped a sheet of paper into the secretary’s wastebasket and left Joliet for good.


Something about the bus's motion stirred Bobby awake. He had found it useless to try to sleep until the Greyhound cleared the Chicago metro area. An interstate sign rolled past and then one reading Purdue Stadium Next Exit. He checked his watch: 9:00 P.M. The bus was quiet. He knew it wouldn't stop until Indianapolis where he would change for the bus to Dayton and points east. He found a less tender place on his temple, leaned his head over, and closed his eyes again.

Sleep resisted him. He could still hear Stronman’s voice droning on in her pointless explanation about why she needed to let him go. She needed! What a crock! What about what he needed?! It was the same old thing. He was nothing more than a small cog in the wheel of business that she spun. She herself was a little bigger cog connected to an even larger one at corporate headquarters. What did she expect of him anyway? He had done his best with the shift she gave him. It was getting tiresome being screwed over by women.

At 10:30 P.M. the bus rolled into Union Station. Four other buses already waited at the gates for fuel and passengers. Bobby tramped through the terminal doors into the waiting area where a dozen people camped on benches. A woman in a wrinkled ankle-length dress stared at a coin-operated television mounted in the arm of her chair and held two sleeping toddlers on her lap. He walked past her toward a small lunch counter on the far side of the lobby that offered hope of a meal. Thankfully, he had only a thirty-minute layover until his next bus left.

He ordered a sandwich and decaf and shifted his mind into neutral. Or at least tried to. His thoughts returned again to his dismissal from the casino. He should be thankful that he had lasted there as long as he had. It had squeezed the last juice out of Crossing Wind to get onto Harrah’s stage. It was two years ago that the song rose to number twenty-seven on the Billboard charts. An eternity ago. Annie left three weeks later and he had written nothing since.

Last night I said goodbye, now it seems years.
I’m back in the city where nothing is clear.

He remembered the moment’s escape from pointlessness he and Lacy had conspired to snatch together. A pang of regret tried to surface in his conscience and he shoved it down. It was becoming easier to do that. It seemed that any price had become worth paying even for just a taste of the real – even if it was a saccharine substitute.

Someone sat down on the stool next to him. "They got any more of those?" the man asked, eyeing Bobby's overloaded chicken salad on wheat.

Bobby grunted. "Don't know. It's alright though, as late it is." He took a bite.

"Where're you headed?" the man persisted.

“I've got people in Virginia," Bobby answered and reached for his cup.

"Oh, yeah? It's good to have people."

"Yeah."

The waitress came over and told the man that she had one more sandwich left. He could have it for half price. "I'll take it,” the man said. “And a pop."

Pop? “Where are you from?” Bobby asked. His mind ran the possibilities. Midwest for sure.

"Ever heard of Grayling, Michigan? It’s about half way between Bay City and Mackinaw."

"I thought as much. They say coke down here." He took another bite.

The counterman placed the man’s food in front of him. "Looks good, but I'll be glad to get home to my wife's cooking."

Bobby's mouth turned down in a grimace before he could catch himself. "What's the matter? You sick or something?" The man’s eyes dropped back to his plate.

"No. It’s just . . .” A blob of chicken salad fell from Bobby’s sandwich and landed square on his fly.

“Oh crap!” He wiped off the mess with his napkin. The man handed him another napkin and Bobby felt his face get red. He extended his hand. "I’m Bobby Devine."

As they shook hands, recognition fluttered across the man's face. "The Bobby Devine? Crossing Wind and all that?"

Bobby smiled. "That was a while ago, but yeah."

"Great song, man. Spoke to me and my wife at the right time." He pulled piece of paper from his back pocket, heavily creased and gray at the edges from lint. Lines of flowing script filled one side. He turned it over. "Would you sign this?"

Bobby took out a pen and quickly scribbled his name. "A letter from your wife?"

"She wrote a poem after we worked things out. My name's Sam. Sam and Katy Ketchen." A voice announced over the loudspeaker, Bus for Dayton, Columbus, Pittsburgh, and points east loading at this time at Gate 1.

Bobby slugged down the rest of his coffee. "That's me. Have a nice life, Sam."

"You too, Bobby D."

Bobby gathered his duffel and shoulder bag. He had taken three steps when Sam called, "You got another song coming out?"

Bobby turned around. "Maybe. I'm working on it."


A green sign flashed past his window: Dayton 45 Miles. He leaned his tired head against the glass and felt the vibration of the bus’s tires through the axle and into the frame as they surrendered microscopic bits of rubber against the abrasive surface of Interstate 70. He thought he felt the start of a belt separation and imagined the tread peeling off and flying wildly through the air to join the other alligators lying in wait in the cruising lane.

“People in Virginia” amounted to a cousin he hadn't seen in five years. What really interested him was Maryland's booming horse track industry. Every new track included a full-service casino in order to guarantee profitability. Even down-home conservative states like Indiana had them these days and gamblers wanted good food and good music to go with their sport.

He pulled a folded scrap of paper from his left pocket. Before he had left Joliet, he had called his former agent and cashed in one remaining favor. The scrap held two addresses: a casino at a horse track called Fort Washington Park outside D.C. and that of his cousin Jack who lived a few miles away in Alexandria, Virginia. His agent had gotten him an audition with the casino manager. His cousin said he could stay with him until he got his own place. The seat next to him was vacant so he stretched his legs toward the aisle. Ten more hours and he’d be there.


Bobby groaned and became aware of the sound of bass drums being pounded close by. Dried tears matted his eyes shut but he could tell it was daytime. He pried his eyes open in time to see a blurry wall of green rush past his view and vanish. Something like a huge spear planted butt first in the soil appeared in the bus window, its sharp point thrust into the clouds.

“Either use your earphones or shut that damn thing off,” a man shouted two rows behind him. "I’ve listened to that crap all the way from Hagerstown!”

“Screw you, old man! It’s a free country!” a younger man hollered back with a voice distorted by too much of something inhaled or swallowed. Bobby twisted his stiffened neck until he saw a man in his early twenties, dressed in worn jeans and a stained gray athletic T-shirt with a knit cap pulled low across his forehead sitting across the aisle from him. Sound blared from a boom box he held in his lap, held together with duct tape, a relic of pre-mp3 days. Bobby recognized the music genre: grunge – a version of alternative rock that emerged during the mid-1980s, sung by angry young men inspired by hardcore punk and heavy metal. It had been a long time since he had met anyone who still sang the stuff. The older man was right. It was too early in the day for distorted guitars and angst-filled lyrics.

“I’ll show you a screw or two . . .” The older man stepped into the aisle -- 5’3” but determined looking. The punk turned toward him just in time to catch a hardback version of James Mitchner’s Alaska against his jaw. Bobby jerked backward and his phone fell out of his shirt pocket to the floor.

The injured man roared to his feet and Bobby heard the sound of his phone crunching under the weight of the young man’s shoe. The boom box fell from his lap and hit the floor. The station switched and Bobby recognized the tune:

You came along just like a song and brightened my day.
Who would have believed that you were part of a dream?
Now it all seems light years away, and now you know . . .
I can't smile without you. I can't smile without you.
I can't laugh and I can't sing. I'm finding it hard to do anything.

The bus lurched to a sudden stop as the two men squared off for round two. The driver moved quickly to quell the action. “Sit down or you can walk the rest of the way to the station!” When they saw the Louisville Slugger in his hand they returned to their seats.

Bobby collected the remains of his phone and then turned back toward the window. By now his eyes had cleared enough to see that the giant spear was actually the Washington Monument framed by a sky of blue and white clouds.

It was a beautiful morning in the nation’s capital.

Ten minutes later they arrived at the bus station. Bobby collected his bag from the cargo hold beneath the bus and waited for the green Explorer that his cousin Jack said he would be driving. Twenty minutes later and no Explorer, Bobby found a city bus heading for Alexandria.

An hour later, the bus let him off six blocks from his cousin’s address. He saw a sign in a convenience store that advertised soft drinks any size for sixty-nine cents. He went inside and served himself a large root beer at the fountain. He drew three deep slugs of the beverage and his throat thanked him. There was no line at the counter and a disinterested high-schooler put down a magazine and rang him up. Bobby couldn’t help staring at the metal stud in the boy’s lower lip and three small rings that adorned the lobe of his left ear.

“Donut your change for miclur scrosis?”

“Excuse me?” The boy gestured toward a scratched plastic box with a slot in the top next to the register. A photo of a portly Jerry Lewis smiled at him from inside. “OK, though the condition is muscular dystrophy.” The boy looked up at him through drooping eyelids. “That’s the charity Jerry Lewis sponsors. You know, ‘Jerry’s Kids’?”

“Whatever. Just doin’ my job.” The boy dropped the remaining thirty-one cents through the slot and Bobby left the store. He noticed a brick building with tall narrow windows sat across the street. Its glass-paned front door opened and an attractive woman in a cream-colored overcoat exited. She carried a bundle wrapped in brown paper. When her eyes fell upon him he thought he saw anger, as if she had lost something to him simply in his noticing her first. Four purposeful strides brought her to her car – a navy blue Audi. Moments later she was gone.

Bobby looked again at the building. It seemed old, but not dilapidated. He thought he heard something like music coming from it and felt a sudden curiosity. He crossed the pavement and read the sing that hung over the entrance: Xavier’s Gifts.

He should call Jack and have him come pick him up. Maybe in a minute. There’s probably a phone inside. He moved up the steps and grabbed the doorknob. The sound of music came to him from within. Not Manilow. Something much older. The sound quality dated it as an LP, maybe even a 78, being heard through a single speaker. The sound seemed to flow to him through the crack in the double door. He saw movement through the glass as several customers moved about.

He pulled open the door and the music grew louder. He stepped inside and felt the warmth of furnace heat rising up through the floor grates. Tall shelves held items of various kinds. He followed the sound of the music into a smaller room to the right. A piano sat in the middle of the room. Across the way near a window sat a wind-up record player with the characteristic horn, the kind that the RCA Company had a dog sit in front of on its label. The voice coming from the record belonged to Bing Crosby.

Where the blue of the night meets the gold of the day, someone waits for me.
And the gold of her hair crowns the blue of her eyes, like a halo, tenderly.
If only I could see her, oh how happy I would be.
Where the blue of the night meets the gold of the day, someone waits for me.

The song ended and Bobby lifted the needle.

“A special composition for a special time, don’t you think?” a voice said from behind him. Bobby turned and saw a thin man with glasses. His name badge read Xavier.

“Yes, it was.”

“Are you looking for something in music?”

“Man, you don’t know the whole of it.”

“Are you a musician?”

“I sing, play the piano, and write a little.”

“Then it was fortunate that this record was playing today.” The man looked at Bobby as if he knew a secret. “You write a little?”

Bobby shifted his weight and looked past the man to the street outside the window. A garbage truck rumbled past, blocking the view. “It’s tough out there. A lot of songs get written that never get heard. Other songs get heard that should never have been written.”

“Are you writing something, Mr. ?”

“Bobby. Just Bobby. And yeah, I’m writing something. It’s not like you can just sit and compose. The muse comes when she’s ready.”

Xavier picked up the record and slipped it into its protective sleeve. “Did you know that Bing Crosby considered this song his theme? Do you have a theme song, Mr. . . . Bobby?”

Evidently the man would go away only when he was good and ready. “That’s the million-dollar question. I’ve got a gig over at Fort Washington Park. I’m staying with a friend until I get set up.” A thought came that might finally satisfy the storekeeper. “It would be nice to get my friend something for his trouble. He likes classic country. Do you carry any old sheet music?”

Xavier smiled broadly. “Certainly. Right over here.” Bobby followed him to a chest of drawers full of papers. “Take your time. Any price you find is negotiable.”

“Thank you. I’ll tell you if I find something.” He started sorting though the scores of compositions.

The storeowner walked away toward the main room. “I hope you find enough fuel for your fire.”

Bobby’s head jerked around. “What was that?”

Xavier replied without turning around, “I said that I hope you find a few for your friend.”


The cabinet held a sizable collection of American sheet music for a small shop. They were arranged in alphabetical order and each piece had been slipped into a protective sheath of clear plastic. Bobby started with the As and leafed through to the Ds: Paul Anka, Harry Belefonte, Mama Cass, Bob Dylan.

He pulled some hopefuls. From them he would choose semi-finalists, then a top ten, and then finally narrow the choice to the one for Jack. His eye fell upon a yellowed page halfway through the Es: Everyone’s Song. He pulled it and looked for the composer’s name but found none. Nor was there a date or place of publication. He removed the pages from their plastic cover and searched each one thoroughly. At the bottom of the back page he found the word Genesis written in flowing script. Nothing more.

It was a simple tune, just four pages long. He started reading the words. By the end of the first stanza the lyrics flowed through his mind as if they had been birthed there. It took him to places in his memory and out to his surroundings. He felt connected to everything around him – the other customers whose voices carried across the hard wood floors to him, and even to the floors themselves as if filled with the spirit of the trees they once had been, planted in the vibrant soil of the earth. As he reached the last stanzas he seemed to be everywhere at once – on the far side of the world, at the bottom of the ocean, soaring at the edge of space.

He turned the manuscript over with trembling hands and checked his watch. Only a few minutes had passed. He was still alone and unobserved. He looked again at the first line of the manuscript and found that he could not recall what it had said. He started reading through it again. This time his experience was even more profound. When he finished he dropped the pages onto the cabinet. What was going on?

He could not take his eyes off the piece. What about the notes? He approached the spinet in the middle of the room. A shaft of light seemed to encircle the instrument like a spotlight. He looked up and saw a window in the ceiling directly above that let in the noontime sun. He sat on the bench and spread the music before him. He tested the feel of the keys, checked the piece’s signature, and started to play. He did not sing, preferring to focus on the notes, though he read the words silently for the third time. They seemed new to him as before, but this time in the company of the melody and harmony, they carried even more power.

Afterwards, he wondered if he had even breathed during the minutes it took to play the piece. The world beyond the music had seemed to both disappear and become more real at the same time. His hands tingled and a tear ran down his right cheek.

He heard a muffled cry behind him; a soft sound, almost childlike in its vulnerability. He turned slowly and saw a woman. She was around his age, dressed in a tan long-sleeved blouse and brown pants, with shoulder-length hair. A boy no older than eight stood beside her, holding her hand. They seemed to look at him and through him at the same moment.

“Hello.”

The woman seemed to shudder and took a deep breath, as if she were rising from a dive into a deep pool. “What was that song you just played?” The child pulled his hand from the woman’s and approached the piano. He began stroking the warm mahogany wood of the piano’s leg with his right hand as if fascinated with it.

Bobby glanced down at the boy. “It is called Everyone’s Song. It’s the first time I played it.”

“It’s beautiful.” Though her face seemed relaxed, he saw the start of lines around her eyes.

The boy continued caressing the piano leg. “Is this your son?” Bobby asked.

“Yes.”

Bobby noticed how, unlike some mothers who kept their children on short leashes lest they become an embarrassment to them, this woman did not get after her son for crowding this stranger. He did not mind as he was still feeling the congenial effects of the music. “What is his name?”

“Scott. I’m Lisa.” Her lips parted and a sigh escaped, followed by tears from both eyes.

“Is something the matter?” Bobby started to rise in concern for this woman who seemed on the verge of some distress.

Anxiety flooded her face. “Don’t get up! Play it again, please. It’s been so long.”

“So long?”

Her eyes shifted to her son who remained at the piano. “We’ve been alone since his father left us. During your song, I felt that we would be okay. That hasn’t happened in a long time.”

Bobby saw the need in her face and something at the edge of his consciousness urged him to be careful. Careful of what? He lived for moments like this. He turned to the manuscript and stretched his fingers over the keys. The words above the notes seemed to blur, taking on new meaning. Was the miracle in his voice or in their ears? Did it really matter?

By the time he reached the end, a small crowd had gathered. Lisa applauded as did the others. Bobby stood and gathered up the manuscript. He knew that they would keep him singing all day if he did not leave. He brushed past his audience and approached the main desk where Xavier stood waiting. Lisa and the others remained at the piano talking together and touching the instrument with a devoted tenderness.

“I’ll take this piece of music. I’ve never heard anything like it,” Bobby said.

“I would say not. You have made quite an impression with it.”

Bobby reached into his pocket for his wallet. “Do you have any information on the composer. It doesn’t say.”

“Really?” Xavier picked up the manuscript. “That is strange. I can tell you that one of our buyers found it only yesterday at a flea market outside of Gettysburg.”

“So I am the first customer to consider it?”

“That is true.”

Bobby retrieved the composition and turned it over. “Someone wrote the word Genesis on the back. Do you know what it means?”

“Apart from the Biblical reference? No, I am sorry. Unless it is written by someone famous, such additions usually reduce the value of collectibles.” Xavier paused and Bobby thought he was going to give him his price. “Mr. Devine, do you believe in the words follow your heart?” He looked at him intently.

“What? How do you know . . .?”

“I would think that a musician would be familiar with the idea. If your listeners don’t feel anything when you sing, then what is the point? People who want facts read almanacs. If they need to total a sum, they can find a calculator. Hearts are moved only by drama, comedy, or tragedy. Why else do you think country music remains so popular?”

A Hank Williams song began to trundle through Bobby’s memory like a broken-down jalopy driven by Jethro Bodine. “So . . .?”

“I have operated this establishment for quite some time. Every once in a while something special takes place. I thought it had already been a significant day. But then you arrived.”

Something slivered through Bobby’s gut like the time he was swimming as a kid and plunged down to touch the bottom of a lake but couldn’t. How much farther was it before he could push off again to the surface? “You are making a big deal of a simple sale,” he managed.

“Antiques are just my commodity. My real business is in appointments. I arrange them for people who need them.” He offered a price and Bobby decided not to quibble. Xavier ran the credit card and Bobby signed the slip. “I hope that you enjoy your new music,” the storeowner said shaking Bobby’s hand.

When Bobby’s cousin Jack saw him standing on the porch of his house, he launched into an apology for failing to pick him up at the bus station. Bobby let him off easy, being glad to have a place to be for a while. The next day, Jack drove him to Fort Washington to meet the casino’s manager. The favor Bobby’s agent had offered held good. He was cast as the new second act for the afternoon shift of two shows.

It was on Tuesday of the second week that he added Everyone’s Song to his set. Within a half a minute of his first note, conversations lowered and then stopped. By sixty seconds, every face had turned his way. Patrons that normally hurried to the tables and slots appeared in the doorway and then found seats. From that point on, the lounge was filled to capacity every time he was on.

“I don’t know what you’re doing, but keep it up,” the casino manager said one morning. After the customers listen to you, they play more games than others. We need to get you on stage more often.”

Bobby moved to the Monday to Thursday evening shift when higher rollers normally played. When winter ended the horse racing season the casino stayed open with Bobby as the Friday to Sunday evening lead act.

He saved enough by New Year’s to move out of Jack’s place and into a nice condo. An added benefit was the regular offers of female company following every performance. His life took on a rhythm of evenings on stage, nights partying with people he didn’t remember, and days sleeping. He still could not remember the words from one performance to the next, but it didn’t matter anymore as long as the audiences kept coming. The fire was raging now and he hungered to feel its strength night after night.

Two days after Valentine’s Day his alarm woke him. “This is oldies 100.3. W-Big.” Music began playing and he swung his legs around until his feet hit the carpeted floor. His phone started to ring from where it lay on the nightstand. He slid the cell’s cover back: Unknown number, the display read. He turned the music down a little. “Yeah, Bobby D. here.”

“Bobby! How are you doing man?”

Bobby yawned and recognized his former agent’s voice. The man must have heard about his rebound from oblivion and wanted in on it. He rolled out of bed and moved toward the window.

“Good enough, I guess. You know it’s kinda early yet.”

“That’s funny Bobby,” the man chuckled. “You’re making news, man. How long are you going to stay in the bush leagues singing for the old folks? I can get you a spot at Trump’s Atlantic City for a fair share of the first month. I’ve heard . . .”

Bobby pulled back the curtain and took in the panoramic view of the Potomac that had sold him on the place. “What you’ve heard is that Bobby D is back! Thanks for the call, but what do I need you for now?”

The sound of the man’s swallow passed over the line. “That’s low, Bobby. I get you in the door at Fort Washington and you’re gonna drop me?”

Bobby’s fingers tightened around the phone. “I don’t need you or anybody else! All I need is my music!”

The line stayed silent for long seconds. Then the agent’s voice continued more softly. “What will you do when they want to hear something new? A singer has to grow. One hit wonders fade fast.”

“That’s not me.”

“What are you Bobby? So you’ve got some audiences screaming your name. Is that all there is -- singing a song somebody else wrote who knows when? What have you written lately?”

Bobby swallowed against the dryness that filled his throat.

“Crossing Wind was a great song because it came from your heart. I know you’ve got more like it in there.”

Bobby sat down. “I thought so, but then Annie . . .”

“Yeah, Bobby. I know that was hard. I was afraid for you when you stopped returning my calls.”

“I tried writing, but when I found Everyone’s Song it was like . . .”

“Easier?”

Bobby almost threw the phone through the window. “You don’t know what it is like to connect with an audience like this again!”

“But is it real?”

“What are you? A psychologist?”

“No -- your agent. It’s my job to look out for you.”

Bobby looked down from his window and saw a young family walk from the building to their car: a man, woman, and a girl about ten years old, each with a sets of ice skates with the laces tied and slung over their shoulders. They were bundled against the weather and wore broad smiles as they climbed into the car and drove away.

He heard the song from the radio:

My home lies deep within you,
And I’ve got my own place in your soul
Now, when I look out through your eyes,
I’m young again, even though I’m very old.

His throat grew tighter as once again he missed the life he could have had with Annie. Something had gotten in the way. One of them had changed and the other couldn’t or didn’t want to keep up. The pain had hollowed him out, like an empty grave. Then he had found the song. At first, it was almost felt like his music was helping them. But then the same people kept coming to his shows long after they should have gone home. Didn’t they have jobs, families and lives? He also found himself thinking constantly about his nightly shows, as if he couldn’t wait to get on stage again and sing. His life seemed to be shrinking onto the pages of the manuscript. When he stepped off the stage it was as if he stepped into nothing. What good was it to sign autographs for people whose faces he could not carry with him? He wasn’t serving them. He was serving only himself.

His voice lost its power. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be OK.”

“You can’t write what you used to because you’re not there anymore. Honor where you are now and the fans will come.”

“Now you sound like a preacher.” Bobby felt his breathing slowing and the hostility draining from him.

His agent chuckled. “I wasn’t talking about singing Gospel, but if that’s what it takes . . .”

“I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”

“Take care of yourself, man. You know what they say -- a heart is a terrible thing to waste.”

“Who says that?”

“I just did. You never know. It might catch on.”

Bobby grunted. “Bye, man. I need a shower.”

He closed the connection. On his way to the bathroom he saw Everyone’s Song on the nightstand. Funny how it was the only song in his set for which he needed the music. The well-worn paper sat lightly on his fingers, almost as if it weighed nothing at all. Once again tonight he would hold sway over two hundred or more enraptured listeners. Didn’t that mean he was on his way up again?

He looked at the song’s first stanzas and they blurred as if resisting him. He entered his living room and sat down at the baby grand piano around which he had built his condo’s décor. He spread the music on the cabinet but found that he did not know where to begin playing.
He found himself humming lines from a song Manilow wrote during his comeback after enduring the obscurity of the 1980s.

You remind me I live in a shell,
Safe from the past, and doing' okay, but not very well.
No jolts, no surprises, no crisis arises:
My life goes along as it should,
It's all very nice, but not very good.

He turned Everyone’s Song over and read what someone had written by hand: Genesis. The word seemed to stand out clearly in contrast to the distortion of the rest of the manuscript.

Annie’s leaving was an ending, but it was also a new movement in his life; something he could not find until he came to the end of his demandingness. He lay the manuscript on the bench beside him. Then he placed his hands upon the keys, and -- humming the first bars of a new original song -- began to play.


It was past closing time. The customers had left and then also his small group of employees. Xavier walked through the shop, as was his way. He entered the conservatory -- the name given to the room he had laid out to accentuate the 1899 Christman piano -- and saw a mailing envelope lying on the piano’s bench. It was addressed to him. There was no stamp or return address. He opened it and found Everyone’s Song with a handwritten note.

“Return this to your collection for your next appointment. However, this time you might add a warning label. Sincerely, B.D.”

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