The only Seattle things I knew to do were catch a fish, visit the Space Needle, and watch the Mariners play. The fish market was closed, the Space Needle wasn’t striking my fancy, and the Mariners were off, starting a three-game set against Texas tomorrow.

            I could’ve stretched my legs around town until I heard music streaming from open windows. Plopped a seat at the bar and ate a plate of fries while listening to a band I’d never heard of cover songs I’d known my entire life. I could’ve stretched it out to the next spot recommended by the bartender, also probably too cute for me, and finished the night with drinks and music and be happy I was alive and in Seattle at Dad’s direction. 

            Or I could visit Paul and get it over with.

            Eat the toad. 

            The address on Sycamore Lane took me North of the city. It would’ve been easier if Dad or Deacon had given me Paul’s number. A text and confirmation and next thing you know we’re meeting up in public for a beer. Casual. Comfortable. Those weren’t the rules, not that any were spoken other than, Meredith saying, “You have to do this, Fender.”

            I entered a ritzy residential community. Manicured green lawns glowed neon under fading daylight. Shuttered windows on the first, second, and third floors. House fronts like kings and queens dozing after a feast. The dingiest vehicle in any driveway was a Jeep with traces of mud on the mud flaps. A sign pointed left to the golf course. I took a left, following the GPS. The white columns on each house appeared to grow wider and taller the further back I drove. One front porch wrapped around both sides of the house. A woman paused watering the hanging flowers to wave at me. Another house had a Washington Huskies flag flying. 

It was a community. Nerves had blended with excitement, and I was overthinking things, wondering what to ask, how to say hello, what not to say. At what age do you stop putting up pretenses? What were the wrong questions anyway? 

Paul’s address was .25 miles away on the right. The road sloped down, pointing towards the dead-end roundabout entrance to the golf clubhouse, an all-white facility that looked freshly broken from its mold. The flags flying from poles in the front lawn were decorative markers for how to play the course that day. 

            One time me, Dad, Meredith, and my buddy Guppy (he drank like a fish) golfed a course in Petoskey, Michigan. Northern Michigan is gorgeous. This isn’t a blog about 100 spots you must visit, but it’s also not not that, so when you’re booking your next vacation, consider Pure Michigan. Jeff Daniels would be proud. Just don’t go to watch golfers like the four of us, who lost a combined thirty-four balls, culminating in Dad crushing his 3-wood over the green, through the trees, and into the window of the house behind it. The man trimming the hedges put the trimmer down, walked inside the house, came out with the ball, and tossed it underhanded onto the green. It rolled within three feet of the cup. Dad hollered thank you and said, “I’m playing it where it lies.” 

            That’s a memory I want to keep.

            The closer I got to the clubhouse, the more my blood pressure rose. The house at the bottom of the hill on the right had an inflatable castle on the front lawn. Multi-colored and tiered with a slide and cords stringing from four directions anchoring it to the ground. 

            Vehicles lined the curb before and after the house and across the street. People milled about on the lawn and in the open front garage that was as big as some people’s houses. I slowed at the castle and stopped when a guy in a straw hat and tank top waved at me. He clenched a glass mug like barmaids carry in Germany. 

            “Henrietta’s birthday party? You’re good, you’re good. Park across the street a few houses down. The one with the Hummer. That’s my house.” 

            I scanned the crowd for Paul and found only strangers. Smoke billowed from a grill next to the garage. I drove through the roundabout at the clubhouse and said, “You couldn’t have just set up a tee time for us, Dad? Would that have been too easy?” 

            I parked on the curb at the house with the Hummer and checked my face in the mirror. The shiner had faded. I could pass it off as too many nights on the road. What I couldn’t pass off was the ring finger on my hand twitching. I kept it to my side or in my pocket, where I fingered the silver ring Laramie had given me. Nothing left to do but go meet some new people and catch up with my past.

            I walked up to the lawn and the people in their flowing blouses and shirts and drinks with and without cocktail umbrellas. A memory flashed of Mom, of all people, someone I rarely thought about, saying with slurred words, “Sprinting from your past is like running with a parachute on your back.”

            Dad was normally the one to speak in metaphors, not her. She’d picked up a thing or two from her years with him. 

            “Hello! How can I help you?” 

            The world’s least welcoming greeting at a child’s birthday party came from a woman with teeth so big it made her look like a shark. Her scrawny arms made me want to eat a pizza. Her tan was the type of brown that made me want to live in a cave for a year. I was judging her, and immediately, and backtracked with a smile. 

            “Hi! How are you? Yeah, I’m new here. No kids for the party. Ha ha.” 

            In the pause to catch my suddenly short breath, the man with the beer mug joined her. “You busting balls, Cin? This guy’s cool. Look at him. Looks like he got in a bar fight. You’re not going to cause a ruckus, are you? George Huntley. My house is the one with the Hummer.”

            I shook his hand and hated how my hand didn’t slip firmly into his massive paw. He didn’t seem to care.

            “Fender,” I said, and debated it, but finally added: “Carradine.”

            Cin’s eyes lit up. George Huntley didn’t know or notice. “Let me get you a beer, Fender. What’s your poison? Light beer? You want a cocktail? They’ve got sangria. Anything stronger, you’ll have to ask Paul. He keeps the good stuff in his game room. Marley! Meet my new friend, Fender. Fender, Marley. Marley, Fender. Fender, Marley’s my partner in our law firm. Smartest chick this side of the Rockies.” 

            Marley was Laramie if Laramie was four inches shorter with dark brown hair. She was young compared to George’s easily fifty years considering the laugh lines and eye creases. Any guy with that much glee had his demons, we all do, but I was grateful for his hospitality, and for the alcohol that surely aided it. 

            Marley made eye contact while shaking my hand and my heart said Hey oh, noticed that Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes” was playing, skipped a beat at the absurd timing, and resumed its normal act of keeping me alive long enough to say, “Hi, Marley. It’s nice to meet you.” 

            “Likewise. Drink?”

            The Paul I remembered would’ve had a bartender working at his kid’s birthday party. The modern version had two plastic tables wrapped in bright happy birthday plastic. The bar was fully loaded and even had a small square table to the side with pitchers of lemonade and a sign that said, “Kids drink for free.” 

            “Please. Beer’s fine. Thanks.” 

            She cracked a can and gave it to me, and I saw her working a bar in Seattle during undergrad, rushing from drunk dude to drunk dude, towel over shoulder, brown hair tied back in a ponytail, maybe even a headband to help with the sweat, all to rake in tips to pay for school so that the only debt she had were her exorbitant law school loans, which were much more easily paid back when you became a partner with a man like Big George Huntley. 

            “Enjoy the party. I think Paul went inside to grab more meat.” 

            “Thanks. Bye.” 

            George pointed his beer mug at Marley. “Tomorrow. Brunch. Mimosas. The Waverly stuff.” 

            “Yes, George” floated from her curved back. 

            The kids in the inflatable castle made noises like amp feedback. They reminded me of bouncing off backstage couches, diving off the top bunk with an elbow drop aimed at Dad’s chest. Carrying the plastic WWF title belt on my shoulder afterwards, sporting wraparound shades like the Hit Man Bret Hart. I’d have to dig through Heather’s photos to see if she captured any with my skinny boy chest puffed out. 

            A sweaty girl hopped out of the castle and ran up to us. She paid me no mind. “Dad.”

            “Daria.”

            “I think I’m ready for a hot dog now.” She gulped air. “Please.”

            “You think you’re ready? Are you telling me that because you want me to know when you’re eating or because you want me to get it for you?”

            “Um.” In the pause, I saw Laramie waiting before she told me she didn’t think it’d work out, only it was an “Um…” in a text message preceding pages of text instead of a phone call or in person meeting after years together that told me everything I needed to know about her. “I want you to get it for me.”

            “And yet you stand there with your two arms and two legs a few feet from the food table.”

            The girl didn’t make a pouty face. That’s what I expected. She wrapped her thumb and forefinger around her chin and tilted her head. I’d bet the mint condition Ted Williams card in my office that she’d seen her father make that stance a time or ten. “You make it so much better than me. With the onions and pickle stuff. Please?”

            She was bouncing between feet now, seeing her father’s broad shoulders loosen. “I’ll show you how I make it this time so that next time you can make your own, and maybe even show it to one of your friends.” 

            She hugged onto his side and hopped towards the table set with trays of hot dogs and hamburgers and assorted side dishes and condiments. “None of them like relish.” 

            He rubbed her shoulders and rustled her hair. “That’s why you introduce it to them. Most of them have never tried it. You want anything, Fender?”

            I could’ve eaten two hot dogs in under a minute, but I didn’t want to eat Paul’s food without connecting first. “No, thanks. Later, yeah. Long drive.” 

            I rubbed my belly like a dork. George chuckled and shook his head. “Paul’s been manning the grill over there. Enjoy catching up. I’ve heard a lot about your old man. Paul has stories. Nice to meet you.” He shook my hand again and grabbed two paper plates. “Alright, kiddo. Do you remember what’s in relish?”

            She guessed pickles as I headed to the grill. I blinked rapidly, checking in, left finger twitching. I thought of children, and bonding, and creating a part of me, the children I didn’t have, and the ones we talked about having. I thought about Dad and what it had to be like raising a baby with a woman he had nothing in common with while trying to form a rock band. I thought of Paul telling Dad he was a shitty father for bringing me on tour. That children didn’t belong on the road. They needed a home. Stability. My filter had broken. I said, “And inflatable castles.” 

            Ladies and Gentleman, Paul Newman.

            He came through a backstage door in the garage holding a tray of steaks and chicken breasts. He wore camouflage shorts and flip flops and a Ben Harper shirt. He was the same 5’8”, with the same veiny arms and calves. Larry would bike twenty stationary miles a day and stay undefined as a thesaurus. Paul Newman was born toned. 

            I don’t know what I was expecting. The night before I’d found pictures of him online from fundraising events and his real estate company. His dark hair was turning gray, but it was the regular length you’d see in a Touch of Gray commercial.

 Rather than lose it, his hair seemed to be growing thicker. Grayer, but shoulder-length like back in the Spin Cycle days. 

            “Nice hair, old man. You in a band or something?”

            Have you ever seen someone smile from behind? Like their shoulders giggle? Paul did that. He set the tray of food down and turned. His eyes were thundercloud slate and hadn’t softened a smidge. Dad’s voice singing “Tides Turn” in Vegas: He’ll cut you down before he picks you up. 

            “Hey, Buck.” 

            “Hey, Paul.”

            We hugged a real hug, not the fake one armers, a real clench. The last time we hugged I was small and he was bigger. Now I had to lean down. He released and stepped back to size me up. 

            “Jesus Christ.”

            “Yeah. You should see the other guy.” 

            He opened the grill, forever the host. The steak and chicken went on. “No, you’re taller than I remember. Where’s that come from? Damn sure not your dad or Janey. And your grandparents were short, right? Like that old guy and his wife from UP. Didn’t you have a tall uncle? Shit, Fender, anymore, I don’t know how any of us end up the way we look or think. I stopped worrying about genetics and the way things are a long time ago.”

            Wind blew heat and scorched meat in my direction. I couldn’t remember the last barbeque I’d attended. I wanted to stand there with my cold beer and listen to Paul Newman tell stories for five hours. The past was the past and how about new futures? 

            “You ever see the picture of me and your dad after that brouhaha we had in Big Sky? Shit, maybe I’m the only who has it. What’s her name took it. The chick with the camera. I snatched the camera from her. Didn’t bother with the film. Felt bad about it, to be honest, still do. Cameras weren’t cheap back then. Still aren’t, although I hear she’s doing great now. Has cameras growing on trees. But I’ll show you later if you stick around. First, I’ve gotta continue feeding these monsters, big and small. You hungry? Thirsty? Good, you found the beer. Do me a favor: find Big George and ask him if he and Cynthia are eating steaks. Can’t miss him. Forehead like a sledgehammer. Thanks, Fender.”

            I slugged my beer and did as he asked. 

            Just like the old days fetching ice for Dad and his friends. They were Spin Cycle, and the band – not the Band, this wasn’t Levon Helm or Robbie Robertson; although the talent was similar, in my fully biased opinion – but at the end of the day, they were first and foremost Dad and his friends. And if they needed ice, or to confirm who wanted steak, I was on it. 

            Paul’s timing wasn’t coincidental. The night was descending, iodine ran through sky blue. Steaks and chicken meant the families were thanking Paul and a woman in a red dress wearing large sunglasses and many golden bracelets on her arms. Lines like “We have to do brunch sometime” and “You need to see my guy. He costs more, but recovery time is instant” were tossed out. The kids climbed out of the bouncy castle with the exhausted look of servers after a double shift. Marley the lawyer hugged the woman in red and didn’t look my way before leaving. 

            In the pause between songs – Marshall Tucker’s “Can’t You See” faded out – I forced my left hand to stay still on my hip. There was no song to tap to and no anxiety necessary. I was here. The ice had been broken and would melt soon.

            Breathe, Kid. I didn’t make this scavenger hunt to hurt you, even though some of it might hurt. Enjoy the ride. 

            It was getting harder to figure out where James ended, and Dad started. 

            George stood oak like by a picnic table with one foot on the bench. He held a hand at his forehead like a captain surveying the sea. “Woodpeckers will be out again. You hear that? Oh, hey, Fender. Listen closely.” 

            I didn’t know what to look at, so I looked at any number of trees in Paul’s yard, and around the golf course down slope. I’d grown to appreciate the colors and sounds of our natural world. I’d once heard a colleague marvel over a vacation to Maine where they could hear the dew falling at dawn during their morning coffee. My mornings consisted of the truck next door with the bad muffler coming to life.

            I shook my head internally by blinking and refocusing. Early Springsteen played – “Growin’ Up” – which I compartmentalized to one ear. The other waited, and heard chirps, chatters, chitters, a pause, more chirps, a chitter, and then a loud drilling that sounded like Larry wailing on his kit during rehearsal. The bird’s bill drilled and mixed with Bruce singing “I had a jukebox graduate for a first mate; she couldn’t sail but she sure could sing.” 

            George inspected one tree in particular, rising to the left of the back deck. I followed his gaze and saw the small bird on the bark, white-chested with black wings and a spot of red on its cap. “Nature’s carpenters, woodpeckers. You’re hearing a downy, which is smaller, but louder. Those tiny bodies vibrating like madmen. Just like this asshole. Paul, are you making me a steak? The kids worked up my appetite.” 

            Paul slid a plate of steaks onto the table. “Medium rare. Hun, yours is still cooking. Chicken done in five.” He winked at me and for some godforsaken reason I made a finger pistol gesture, which he laughed at. 

What the fuck was that?

            “Thanks, darling,” the woman in red said. 

            I forged on. “We haven’t met yet. I’m Fender.” 

            She removed her sunglasses and set them on the table next to a margarita. The ring on her finger could’ve funded the studio time to record all four of Spin Cycle’s albums, with spare cash to take the band out for a night on the town.

            I made a point to make eye contact. She peered into her margarita, swiped the straw away, and drank from the rim. Her lips were plump and unnatural like an inflated air mattress. The margarita hovered at her equally as inflated chest. She raised her eyes to me. The sunglasses made sense. Without them, she looked like an older woman desperate to feel young again. I saw fossils of her previous beauty, before she’d aged and smoothed and puffed and ruined it all.

            “Mariah,” she said and raised her glass to me. I reciprocated. We drank.

            “And is it Cynthia?” I asked the woman with the big teeth, who had joined us at the table.

            “Exactly,” she said, cutting into her steak.

            Daria sat next to me, and the birthday girl Henrietta across from her. They were drawing tigers with crayons on white construction paper. Henrietta wore blonde pigtails with pink berets. She had her mom’s previous beauty. 

            “What do you think,” she said, holding her paper up to me. “Who drew the better tiger?” Daria held hers up and I tapped my chin. 

“I like Daria’s tail and how it curves. I also like the blue eyes. But my vote is for Henrietta’s. The Tiger looks real, plus with the grass and sky and sun I can imagine it on an actual safari. But they’re both great.” 

            Daria took my words as feedback and flipped her sheet over and began drawing again, starting with a blue line for the horizon. Henrietta said, “Thank You.” I had hope for the world.

            Mariah cleared her throat quietly, like a rodent chewing. “Nice work, girls. Fender, darling, I have a question. Please do not be offended, but I’m curious.  Was your dad always a world class dick? Or did that just happen once money started flowing and he thought it’d be okay to cheat Paul out of his half? Again, I mean no offense, I truly want to know when it started.” 

            I heard Paul closing the grill and shutting the propane off. I didn’t check his way. I kept one hand on my beer and the other on the table. If this were an old western, everyone at the table would be waiting for me to flip it and start firing. The downy woodpecker hammered a hole into the tree. “Thank you for the food and the beer. I appreciate it. I don’t have an answer, at least for sure not the one you’re looking for. I know the band split everything equally, no matter who wrote what. That was the only thing dad made it a point for me to take away. As for those two. My Dad and Paul had their differences. They fought, like many leaders of a band. It’s complicated, is my unfortunately unhelpful answer. And my dad was a stubborn man. That was formed in the womb and only strengthened by years of growing up in Midwestern winters.” The eyes at the table locked on me. Rather than give up, I rolled with it, baby. “This is according to stories from my grandpa. Stubborn, yes. A world class dick? Not even close. There are ten sides to any story, and you have one of them. One of the most important, and telling, for sure, but still only one. My Dad was a good guy who could make it difficult for you at times. I know. I’m his son. That’s why I’m here. To figure this out.”

            “So,” she said, and she sipped slowly from her drink, licking salt from her lips. “Once a dick, always a dick.” 

            “Hey,” George started. 

            Cynthia checked her phone.  

            “Look!” Daria held up her second effort, a play on Henrietta’s safari, now including a brown jeep, a zebra, and three white birds with red caps. 

            “Wow!” I said, nodding, trying hard not to crunch the beer can in my hand. “I love it.” 

            Mariah leaned forward. “And now all this stuff Paul has pl–”

            “Alright! Now we can get down to eating.” Paul put a plate with steak in front of her. He set the tray of chicken in the center of the table, and slid bowls of macaroni salad and baked beans around until the tension mellowed. 

            “Thanks, darling,” she said and took up a steak knife in her hand. 

            Paul sat at the end next to her and made the sigh of a chef whose duty has ended. “To a complicated guy, and one Fender and I will have plenty to discuss about later, to Brett Carradine.” 

            He raised his beer. Everyone followed. Cynthia didn’t look up from her phone. Mariah didn’t stop staring at me. I looked like my dad, which could’ve had something to do with it. More likely, Paul had told unsavory stories about Brett for years. I’d take the dagger eyes over a punch in the eye any day. 

            We ate and drank and stumbled through a chat about the Mariners and the Tigers, and debated whether we’d prefer the 162-game slog of the MLB schedule over a 17 game NFL season. My stomach hadn’t been that full and happy in a week. Plates and utensils were trashed. George, Cynthia, and Daria walked home after a hug and neck shake from George straight out of Conan the Barbarian.

            Paul rubbed his hands. “Quick tour, and then I owe you bourbon and stories.” 

            I’d always wondered what it’d be like to own a large house with multiple levels, open foyers, and rooms for every fancy. Would I feel compelled to give every guest a tour? Would it be to show it off? Was it out of a sense of pride? Was it part of the contract when the house was built? The bank loan had pages in the contract saying tours for guests were required. If I was anything like my father, who never spent his money on houses or cars, for the most part, the place on Lake Michigan notwithstanding, I would invite them in and make sure they knew where the bathroom was and leave the rest unspoken for. 

            Paul was not my father.

            The four of us entered through the garage and mudroom, which was long enough for a regulation game of darts. Mariah took Henrietta upstairs for a bath. “I’m sticky like peanut butter,” she said. Past the mudroom opened into one large living space, high-ceilinged and vast, first the kitchen with two sinks and a massive island with a gray stone countertop. On the short side, I stretched my arms from one end to the other and couldn’t reach either end. 

            “Ten by eighteen,” Paul said. “And a quarter. That’s soapstone. Had it installed a few months back. You can see the patina forming. See? Veins of green.” 

            There was a standing wooden table at the end of the island in front of a window that looked over the golf course and the hills beyond. A fabric chess board was set up on the table. To the right, a door opened to a wide deck. An aged wooden dining room table connected the kitchen to the living room. The table had chairs and a bench. An eccentric light fixture with Edison bulbs in mason jars hung over the table. 

            “You like that? Got it at Mondo’s Market. Had to hassle the damn kid down. Every mason jar was used to store pickles at Graceland. The King’s pickled goods watch over us as we feast. And this bad boy. Alexa, play – what do you want to hear?” 

            I assumed he was referencing the large TV hanging in the corner of the room to the left of the bay window and the right of the immense fireplace. I didn’t see speakers, which was probably the point. 

            I hemmed and hawed. “St. Elmo’s Fire?”

            “St.,”, he laugh-squinted at me. “Alexa, play St. Elmo’s Fire.” 

            The robotic voice announced, “Playing St. Elmo’s Fire by John Parr.” The TV turned on and the opening piano played uplifting notes to a song we used to listen to when we played Nintendo. It sounded like it came from every molecule in the room, including inside me. My body vibrated with the feeling of standing next to a powerful bass speaker, only it wasn’t overwhelmingly loud. The air had been replaced with music. 

            “Wow,” was all I could offer. 

            “It’s a new electronics company out of Sweden. Andlig. It means spiritual. Buddy of mine started it. Microscopic speakers on a strip of tape. They’re treated with chameleon DNA, so the strips blend into whatever shade of paint on the walls.”

            “Sounds great. Holistic. I can feel it in my bones.”

            “Hey! I like that. They’re still finalizing branding. Mind if I steal that?”

            “Be my guest.” 

            He showed me two bedrooms to the left of the fireplace, including one with a walk-in shower bigger than my bathroom. Back in the living room, he opened a door to a small closet next to the front door. “Oh, yeah. Mops, Cleaning supplies. Whatever the hell this thing is. She buys all these fucking gadgets and never uses them. If I gave you four guesses, could you tell me what this is?” 

            “It looks like a fan,” I said, and added, “Maybe one of those bladeless fans?”

            It was definitely a bladeless fan with a tall narrow oval sitting on a stand. The tag hung from the side.

            “What ever happened to a good old fashioned box fan? You remember that shitty one we had on the tour bus with the chipped blades? Larry was always chucking playing cards into it. Let me show you downstairs and then we’ll head outside.” 

            The steps went down to a landing and turned left. I was greeted at the bottom by the largest cat I had ever seen. It was tall and wide with long black hair and stripes of white on its face and back. It stood statuesque, blue eyes waiting for me to make a move. 

            “That’s Chauncey Man. You remember the ‘Going to Work’ Pistons? Chauncey Billups? Rasheed? Big Ben?” 

            “Of course.” I squatted and held my hand out. Chauncey stared at me, my hand, back at me, and then sniffed my fingers. He rubbed his nose against my knuckles. “They should’ve won back-to-back.”

            He walked past Chauncey to the pool table, where he inspected a spot on the felt. The room opened up to the right where a bar with sink and fridge butted against a couch which looked on to another mounted TV. Every wall, nook, and cranny were filled with Detroit sports memorabilia. A framed and signed Steve Yzerman jersey with two pucks. An aerial photo of the Big House. A Bad Boys Pistons Starter Jacket hung from a clothes rack in a corner. A Barry Sanders jersey and autographed helmet. A photo of Al Kaline and Alan Trammel having a laugh. Dad had the same one in his basement. 

            “Dad,” I started, but Paul was already down a hallway in the back. I followed him into a room covered with dark vinyl padding on the walls. One side of the room had a table arranged with a mixing board, keyboard, and a computer with three monitors. The other had a microphone attached to a swivel mount hanging from the ceiling. It also had two couches arranged across from each other with microphones mounted to the wall that extended out in front of the couches. 

            “And here’s your studio,” I said.

            “Here’s my studio. Pretty cool, right? The tunes aren’t coming as much as they used to, although I still wake up with the occasional lick in my fingertips. Have to run down here and record it before it’s gone.” He walked to the couches and touched one of the hanging mics. “The podcast has taken off, which I didn’t expect. I know there’s been a resurgence of our old stuff, but I didn’t think anyone cared to hear from an old fart like me, especially if it’s just catching up with friends from the business. What are the odds I can get your old man on the show?”

            We each made a face at the other wondering why he’d said it.

            “Sorry, bad joke. But imagine that episode. That’s not an episode. That’s a double, maybe triple album. Playing all the hits and the unreleased stuff.” He paused and touched the mic, looking around the studio. He looked from the mic hanging from the ceiling to the guitars leaning against the wall, to the keyboard and mixing board. To the missing music. There was a sound of silence. “Anyway. This is my studio.”

___

            “What’s the deal with the hair?” 

            That question came while lounging on Paul’s second floor deck off the kitchen. We sat on a couch so soft I could’ve passed out. The cushions could have been stuffed with clouds pumped from the sky with specialized equipment designed in the same lab as the Swedish micro-speakers. Night had taken over. The downy hummingbird called it a day. A light breeze blew. I pulled a blue blanket over my lap, picking at the fibers. 

            “That’s alpaca hair. Peruvian company Mariah’s friend founded.”

            “It’s nice.” 

            “It’s a fucking blanket.” He sighed and sipped from three fingers of bourbon. I wasn’t a big bourbon guy but matched him. It burned and warmed my chest. A bat flapped its wings through the sky towards the golf course. The driving range and first hole were visible. The rest was shielded by trees, like daggers thrust into the ground handle first. A pond sat smack dab in the middle of the first fairway. “I’m growing my hair out. I’ve been talking about your dad a lot lately. He’s been on my mind so much that I’m having conversations with him when he’s not here. I’ll be taking the trash out and say, ‘No, Brett, it’s a C and then the first fret of the B chord. Ride that until you get to the G. Tell me what you think.’ Fender, I hear him in my head like those early days in Pontiac in my parents’ garage. ‘Why don’t you just let me jam? Isn’t that what we’re here to do?’ An hour goes by, we’ve been jamming, but you can tell he’s also thinking about where his fingers go. And I’m watching him overthink it, until it clicks. He does that over and over and over. I don’t say a word, just sync up with him, fill in the gaps. Later, we’re lounging on a couch like this in the garage, fingers stinging, and Brett says, ‘You were right.’ And I just nod because you learned quickly not to belabor a point with your old man.”

            “When did you realize you had it?” 

            “It? Like that spiritual fiber connecting us with the music? Brett and I had it the first time we played. I was always sped up when he was slowed down. Later we learned to invert that, but that’s how we started. It wasn’t until Larry joined that we developed that full-on psychic connection. I heard Flea talk about that on a podcast recently. Psychic connections. It’s real. The best bands have it. We did for a while. Still do, I bet, if we reunited. Fuck, Fender, imagine that show. Ladies and Gentlemen, after thirty years apart, the punk legends reunite for one last show. I give you… Spin Cycle!” 

            He made applause noises and fist pumped with glassy eyes. 

            I let the applause die down and nearly lost myself in that imaginary show. Where would they play? Would Deacon drive promotion? Would Meredith dust off her tambourine? Would they let me butcher background vocals like the old days?

            “What has anyone said about the lost album?” 

            He ran his tongue inside his upper lip. “Deacon mentioned that. We recorded so much, I can’t say. I know the break-up hurt Brett the most because we’d written our best work during that final tour. And we recorded most of them. They’re damn good songs. Who knows where they’re at now. I haven’t talked to Larry much. Not that we don’t get along, we’re just busy living. I thought I’d get to my sixties and things would slow down. Shit. My body can’t move as fast as it used to, but that hasn’t stopped life from flying by.” He sat up, excited, fueled by bourbon and memories. “Picture this. It’s 1986. You’re, what, four years old then? Too young to remember. Me, Brett, Janey, and my girlfriend Cassie go to the theaters to watch Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Brett and Janey are holding hands back then, if you can imagine it.”

            I choked on a sip of bourbon.

            “It was real, for the time being. Cassie and I were a summer fling. She was visiting her cousin for the summer. The movie comes out in June. We’re there opening night. Brett and I are John Hughes freaks like everyone else. We’re there to see Matthew Broderick skip school because let’s be honest, no matter what age you are, playing hooky at school or work or life never gets old. And to do it with such swagger? I’ll be honest, I had that swagger. I saw myself in Ferris. Brett didn’t. He developed his own version, but he was never comfortable in that space. And he didn’t have to be. That’s where people get our beef wrong. It’s not complicated, but if you don’t know the feeling of ignored tensions building to a boiling point, then of course you’ll get our breakup wrong. Shit, where was I?”

            There was no slowing Paul Newman down when he got rolling. “Ferris Bueller. Opening night.”

            “Right.” He took another drink and waved his glass around like a wand. He had the rhythm, the liquid sloshing to the rim of the glass. “We’re there to see Broderick skip school, but we’re also there to see what music Hughes uses in the soundtrack. The year before you had Weird Science. The title track was Oingo Boingo and–”

            “Danny Elfman.” 

            “Elfman. Think of that guy’s career. Him, Trent Reznor. Your dad, sort of. Tangerine Dream? You know them? Look them up. Weird Science had some others on it: Kim Wilde, OMD, Los Lobos, I think Roy Orbison? My memory’s shit these days. Before that, you have Pretty in Pink. Hughes didn’t direct it, but he wrote it, and you’re damn sure he was instrumental in having ‘If You Leave’ play at the end. That’s a fun story, by the way, that I’m not going to tell because I’m already sidetracked, but OMD wrote that in the 12th hour, when their original song didn’t quite fit. Imagine writing that under pressure. That’s how we got ‘Lazy Susan’. Deacon said the label needed – demanded; this business is a crock – a hit single. We thought two of the songs from that album would’ve been hits: ‘Well Water’ and ‘Little of the Glory Of’, which were both punk versions of Springsteen’s ‘Glory Days’. The label said no. We need a hit. So Brett and I do what you and I are doing now, drinking bourbon and talking, until he starts bitching about how lazy people have gotten, and how all technology does is make us sedentary trolls and one day we’re going to wake up reincarnated as lazy Susans, and he starts riffing on Kafka and Vonnegut. You get the picture. The guy’s on a roll. I pick up my guitar, hit some chords as he’s ranting, pace it with the way he speaks, that one-beat off pause, like he’s not going to finish the sentence until he does. Two hours later, we have the bones of our biggest hit. According to the label. And the royalty checks. Business is a crock, but it’s also rock, and it can pay well.” 

            My head swam. I checked to see if James was listening and got crickets, and then one of the crickets winked. James, the trickster. “Clearly.” I guided my glass to the golf course, the deck, to the vicinity of his house. 

            “It’s nice stuff, and I’m grateful I have it. Still: stuff is stuff. If I could go back and live in those memories. Me, Brett, Janey, Cassie, seated at Ferris Bueller, ready to see how Hughes tops ‘Don’t You Forget About Me’ and ‘If You Were Here’.” 

            “Oh yeah.” I said deep and slow and electronic, like from the movie. 

            Paul cackled. “Yes! Yello. We loved it. It’s irreverent, catchy, and repeated later in the movie, so it sticks. Hughes, man, that dude was smart. They talk about having a finger on pop culture. He was pop culture. But, no, not only that, there were two Dream Academy songs. You’ve got fucking Wayne Newton’s ‘Danke Schoen’?”

            “The first time I watched it with my friend Zach I thought Ferris was actually singing ‘Twist and Shout’. Like, I didn’t realize it was a Beatles song.” 

            It used to be that I’d hesitate to share a fact like that out of embarrassment, regardless of how long ago it was and how much I’d grown. Was a week on the road, one black eye, a strange woman met, a treacherous trip up a mountain, and visits with Deacon and Paul enough to change me? 

            Also, the bourbon. 

            “And the Top Notes before the Beatles, although yes, Ferris is lip-syncing John Lennon. I saw Brett’s career the day we walked out of that theater.” His words had begun to slosh. My lips were numb. “Hindsight is 20/20, and I know your dad better than anyone on this earth, including Meredith, no offense to you, Buck, but it’s no secret you and your pops have some catching up to do, or else why are you on this trip?”

            I wished he was wrong. “That’s fair.” 

            “I saw his future. I knew that if we got a break or two, and if we had someone fighting for us, that we would succeed. We had talent. Brett didn’t know what he, or we, had. He knew I was good, and told me often, actually. More than people realize. He just didn’t like to do it in front of people. He was a relator. I love him for that. But I also knew our trajectory was equivalent to one of those puddle jumper planes. The quick up and down flight. Fifty minutes, from Atlanta to Mobile. A damn fun flight, that one, with all the rock and roll mythology you can cram into a book – or a podcast! Are you writing about this journey, by the way? Did I ask you that? If not, you should be. Record it. Preserve it. Damn, more memories tumble out of my head every day. That’s why I’m doing the podcast. I can tell people when I realized Brett Carradine would become a world-renowned songwriter for movies.”

            “1986.” 

            He raised his glass. I clinked. What little bourbon left sashayed like a belly dancer. “1986. Right before I boned Cassie in the back of someone’s pick-up truck. Haven’t thought of that night in ages. Thanks, Brett.” 

            Insects chirped in the quiet night. I no longer needed the blanket but liked the way the Alpaca fabric felt on my fingers. I saw Mariah in a bathrobe checking on us through the window in the door to the kitchen. Her make-up was washed off. The edge appeared to have dulled as well. I smiled and she waved and closed the window blinds. I remembered what it was like to defend a partner. To go to war for a loved one, no matter the reason. 

            “How long have you been with Mariah?”

            He finished his drink and set it on the table next to the half-empty bottle. He held his hand up to me. I shrugged at my glass and drank the remainder, teeth clenching, and gave it to him. He refilled and sat back. 

            “Bottle’s still half-full. It’s not so often I get time with Fender Carradine. Cheers.” 

            We cheersed again, one of many that night.

            “Mariah and I have been together fifteen years. She’s my north star. My shining light guiding me not to fuck up. Funny enough, she could care less about my music. I’m not even sure she likes rock. It’s all Enya and spiritualism and nature sounds, all of which, by the way, I love. But you see someone like your dad connecting with Meredith on another plane of music existence, and you think, ‘Is that what I need?’ And it turns out, that’s their thing, and I found mine. You spend your entire life searching for the one and one day she shows up at a fundraising event. And she’s the one. A ball buster, which you saw. Just protecting me, is all.”

            He paused long enough to reflect. Blurred vision crept in from the edges. 

            “Between you and me, I decked your dad to speed up the inevitable. Was there money involved? Sure. He and I wrote the majority of Spin Cycle tunes. We would always split our chunk of those royalties. Larry argued he didn’t contribute, when we all know damn well he did. That was our deal. Touring itself brought in enough money to live beyond comfortably. Once you get past the money, the credit of it, the attention, takes over. Sure, we’re getting paid, but you know who really founded Spin Cycle? That shit.” 

            The bourbon didn’t burn as much going down. I noticed my left finger standing still on the glass. The cricket chirped on my right shoulder. I tossed the blanket onto the floor. “Sorry. Got hot.” 

            “It’s okay,” he said, one leg coolly folded on his knee. “I’ve never slept with a pack of alpacas, but I imagine it might get toasty. Honestly, Fender, I’ll say it. I founded Spin Cycle. If by founded, you mean I bought Brett his first guitar. And if by bought you mean gave him my cousin Ronnie’s hand me down Fender Strat in 1980 because I needed someone else to jam with, then yes, I founded the band. Which wasn’t true. A band isn’t founded until they find their sound. Until they play their first show and connect psychically, the music equivalent of finishing each other’s sentences.”

            “Lazarus Club, 1981,” I said. 

            His eyes popped. “Nicely done. First show. First on-stage panic attack. First flubbed lyrics. First encore. Lukewarm from a hundred people paying half attention, but a first is a first. Never forget that. Crowds in Pontiac were tough back then. But you show up and perform, you earn their loyalty fast. It didn’t hurt that we went full throttle until the lights went up.”

            “And then Larry joins.” 

            The outline of their origin story had been drilled into me from my time on tour. You pick up things, a line about “Thank God Larry joined when he did” and “Remember that set in Akron in ‘87?” and “Tell me, Brett, who founded the band?” 

            “Our first drummer was a friend of my older sister’s. Daryl Jones. Jonesy. Jonesy did percussion in high school band and was born with a metal rod up his ass. He’d graduated two years before us and took courses at the community college. Nice guy. Eccentric, but nice. He was always showing up to band practice with another type of bug he’d caught and put in a glass jar with holes punched in the lid. Every session I’m over here catching up to Brett, who didn’t know music but played like a savant. The new guy’s showing me up, so I’m working overtime to improve. Iron sharpening iron. Daryl’s doing his same robotic bum-bum-tss, bum-bum-tss, giving us the rhythm for practice. All the while, a fucking praying mantis the color of gold and bigger than my fist stares at me from a glass jar on the work bench. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you that praying mantis was head nodding to us jamming, but I’m telling you anyway. That praying mantis was nodding to us jamming. So did the cockroach. So did the caterpillar, which didn’t stick around long enough to turn into a butterfly because Jonesy lasted about that long.”

            He smacked his lips, and it sounded like Velcro. “Pause.” He went inside the house and came back with two glasses of water. I drank half of mine without thinking twice. He finished his.

            “Game on. First time we played live, we went to freestyle, and Jonesy didn’t have it. He knew it, we knew it, and the crowd knew it. He wasn’t bad. He was limited. And all Brett and I felt was the world at our fingertips with each lick we played.” 

            I was back on tour, a little kid on the bus asking Paul Newman questions to keep his story going. The only thing missing were my Batman pajamas. “You needed Larry.” 

            “That guy. Do you know he won a drumming contest at the Michigan State Fair when he was six? In the 7-10 age bracket. But I have to stop. I’m not supposed to tell that story. That’s for Larry. Plus, I’ll use this moment to promote my podcast, Paul Newman Speaks. You can find it everywhere you listen to podcasts. If you like what you hear, please subscribe and review the show. It means a lot.” 

            I tried to give him an eye roll and got dizzy. Two Paul Newmans were emerging. “I’ve listened.” 

            “Yeah? What do you think?”

            “It’s good. I’m learning a lot. Anyone who loves music will love it. Anyone who doesn’t should still like it.” 

            “Thank you. First creative thing I’ve done in years where I’ve felt it, ya know? That pop. That excitement. Some song ideas scratch the surface. This drills down. Good, good. There’s a Larry episode. Check it out, although maybe wait until you visit him. And stay tuned! There’s a big announcement in a few days.” 

            There I was again, back on the bus, Paul reading a comic book, Larry sprawled with his feet in the air, Paul ribbing him about it. Larry responding, “We’re not meant to be sedentary creatures. We’re roamers. Gatherers. You and Brett run around the stage. I’m stationary. My legs need reverse blood flow to keep this machine oiled.” 

            Paul scrunching into his chest and announcing, “Ladies and Gentleman, on the next episode of As the Wheels Turn, I interview Larry, a curious man with an even more curious habit. Stay tuned to WKPR at 9PM every Tuesday. Until then–” and he’d maestro to the bus. Anyone awake joined. “– Be Good. Be Great. Goodnight.” 

            “That makes me happy,” I told Paul in the present day.

            “Me too. Anyway, fuck, Buck. You’ve got me talking like the old days. We meet Deacon, we get going. The press gets going. Groupies and fans asking who’s responsible for what. The pressure to perform each night, which for us wasn’t especially hard, and back then not nearly as exhausting. You know how much we slept. The pressure to write the next album. And one day Brett’s the one founder, the leader of the band. He’s the lead singer. It happens. To me and us and to every fucking band ever formed. Your ego is the first to go. Damn thing fills like a balloon until it pops. The hose filling the balloon? Rosie from the New Orleans Gazette. Dan Kelly from the Washington Post. Leno. Letterman. SNL. We didn’t even interview with them, although we did do that sketch on SNL, the one where I played Brett, and he played me. You ever go back and watch those performances? I try not to, mostly because I’ve worked hard to appreciate who I am now, and rabbit holes can obscure my focus, but some nights I will. Sitting out here. Laughing about the good times. Put a clip from SNL on. Watch young versions of us. Hey, do you want to?”

            “Let’s do it.” I said it, and then worried I wouldn’t get enough sleep and I wouldn’t have the energy to drive to the next stop on the journey, wherever that was. And I’d push through, and it’d be my turn to fall asleep at the wheel and careen into traffic. I was the semi, plowing into cars and killing myself. And I suddenly didn’t want that. Alcohol was a depressant, and it was making me want to live.

            Slow down. There’s no rush. I didn’t put a time limit on the quest. Only that you needed to complete it. You’re always so worried about accomplishing the next thing that you forget to enjoy the current thing.

            “You’re right,” mumbled from my lips. 

            Paul didn’t notice. He toggled a remote on the mounted TV hanging from the ceiling. He entered “Spin Cycle SNL” into the search bar and hit enter and then play on the first video that popped up. An ad played for Old Spice deodorant. “I miss ads. I could pay so these things don’t show up, save me fifteen seconds. Why pay to get rid of something I enjoy? People are always in such a damn hurry. Attention spans like gnats. They’ve done studies. The human attention span has shrunk, on average, from nine seconds to six over the last decade. People pay to get to the point when isn’t the point going through the process? One Super Bowl, me and your dad, ope, never mind. Another story for another day.” 

            The footage was grainy. Laramie used to joke that the video quality we grew up with looked the way grizzled old men sounded. I thought it was perfect. 

            Christian Slater announced the band. “Ladies and Gentlemen, Spin Cycle.” Could’ve been my hype from watching old Spin Cycle videos on Paul Newman’s deck during a summer in Seattle. Could’ve been the bourbon. Could’ve been that Spin Cycle was a legitimate rock band who fans adored. But the crowd exploded louder than most SNL crowds. I wondered who would’ve gotten a bigger pop at that time – Nirvana, maybe, Pearl Jam, always the Stones – and stopped before I got sidetracked.

            They started the same way on every show: Dad on the right, Brett on the left, Larry in the middle. Later they’d add Niles on keyboard and Meredith on backup and tambourines, but it was still that set-up. Simple. Garage band gone big. With the same sound, only amplified. 

            Dad wore tight black jeans with holes in the knees and his Booger “We’ve Got Bush” shirt. There was a great photo somewhere of him in that shirt with Dana Carvey in George W. Bush make-up.

            Paul played the straight man, as straight as dressing like a punk rock Ducky from Pretty in Pink could be. He wore the bowler hat and Lennon glasses. He wore the black-trimmed blue suit with metal bolo tie with black clasp. His hair under the hat: coifed. 

            “Fun fact: that’s the actual Ducky suit. I had Deacon ask around. Turns out that Jon Cryer and I are the same height.” 

            He moved in the suit like water. I caught Larry grunt when Paul stopped playing for long enough to tip his hat to the audience when Dad stepped to the microphone. 

Lazy Susan watches us

Toggle and melt

Into our couch cushions

            The camera panned around to catch Larry’s arms whirling like pistons. He was the opposite of a bad boy, except when he was drumming. Paul’s mouth hung open while watching his longtime bandmate wail.

            “I just,” he said, pointing at the screen. 

            “The best.” 

            “Simply,” he Tina’d.

            Paul floated over to Dad when he sang again so that the two were side by side. 

She ain’t afraid of big, bad tech

Or Humpty Dumpty’s neck

Break us down, tape us up

Color TV should be enough

            They faced each other and sang the chorus into the mic: 

Lazy Susan, she’s cruising

We’re bruising

All night long

Lazy Susan, she’s musing,

We’re choosing,

Where we belong

            They separated and roamed the stage space, guitars held low, fingers blurring. Larry head banged, strings from his mop of hair blinding him from the crowd and his kit. It didn’t matter. I’d watched him play with eyes closed every night during rehearsals. 

            Paul and Dad looked up from playing and smiled at each other. The smile of two kids who learned how to play Mott the Hoople’s “All the Young Dudes” together in an open garage during the height of summer. The smile of two young men who played a club in Chicago wearing Detroit Pistons shirts. 

            Paul, in his sixties and lounging, bourbon almost gone, let a tear slip down his cheek. He didn’t notice, just kept his fingers tapping his knee while they finished an electric performance. The crowd showed their appreciation. Larry held a drumstick in the air. Paul tipped his hat. Dad waved, pumped his fist, and high fived Paul. 

            Paul pontificated. “People don’t always realize bands have been playing for years before they make it big. Most don’t. We got lucky. Not everyone finds their Deacon. And whatever, it’s late. Plenty more driving for you. We fought. You hang around anyone long enough you’re bound to fight, verbally or physically, or in our case, that slobber knocker at Big Sky. And guess what? He got his licks in, I got mine, we’re both bloodied up, although his looked way worse because I threw an ashtray at him and caught him above the eye. Busted him open like a wrestler. Blood’s gushing. He definitely needs stitches. What does he do? ‘Deacon, get me some glue.’ Deacon gets him some glue. He seals it up. Grabs those bags of stuffed animals the two of you won, struts onto the stage like it’s round 12 of a title bout and starts chucking them with his blood-covered hands into the crowd. He hands me a bag when he realizes I joined him. There’s blood everywhere. Fans either don’t notice or don’t care. When you’re doused in piss at shows, what’s a little blood? We empty the bags. We look at the state of each other. And we start the show.” 

            The night breathed. I mirrored it, pinching my skin hard. I felt nothing. “Why the grudge then? Why fifteen, twenty years without talking?” 

            “Who says we don’t talk?” 

            “Well. I don’t know, my dad, I guess. Larry?” 

            He finished his drink, considered the final pour in the bottle, and cut his hand across the air. “Like I said: you and your old man have your own things to sort out. I never stopped talking to him. The band broke up, but it’s not like we died. When you’re together that closely for that long, a natural separation occurs. It’s necessary. Don’t believe everything you read or that your head tells you. We make up stories to fill in the blanks. Shit, kid, all you had to do was reach out. You Carradines are as stubborn as stubborn gets. Finish the bottle. I’m taking a piss and crashing. Mariah set up your room back to the left of the fireplace. Henrietta’s room is next to it, so mum and all that. Night, buck.” 

            “Night.” 

            He disappeared without turning the TV off. The next video was from a show in Houston in 1992. It was filmed with one camera and straight on. The audio sounded tinny, with an echo, which could’ve been from the recording. Dad’s voice came, not italicized but a memory: “Let’s play it a beat slower. Or else they won’t understand anything we say.” 

            Which led to this slower, paired down version of “Pause Patrol”. 

            I did as Paul asked and poured the rest of the bourbon into my glass. Acid bubbled in my stomach. My vision stumbled. My eyes crossed. It wasn’t a good idea. I had to drive the next day. Where? Larry, probably. Phoenix. Or somewhere else. Who knew? I didn’t. I was happy. Relieved. Maybe let down? I don’t know what revelation I was expecting. Most of my life had been reaching a point where I realized nothing was a surprise. Given enough time to reflect. Laramie and I broke up because of course we did. People break up, almost always because one person is more in it than the other. I was angry more often than I wanted to admit. I hated my job and being a cog in the machine. I hadn’t dealt with my not talking to Dad. Or the many things I witnessed on rock and roll tours. And I also felt stupid feeling that way. I had a decent job that more than paid the bills. My father was a genuine rock and roll star. I had met numerous other musicians and thought nothing of it. My parents had split years before, which I thought I’d gotten over. And in that moment, with Laramie, I was in love with a partner I could communicate with, unlike past partners and anyone else in my life. Life, seemingly, was good. And yet. I was bitching and moaning. 

I shared it all with Laramie, who listened, but I could tell had grown tired of it. She had her own problems to work through. She recommended friends from back home in Michigan. Or a therapist. 

“Therapists,” I was sure to tell her, “Are full of shit.” 

            I remember you saying that. 

            “Of course, you do.”

            I was too drunk that night to go down my journey to find the right therapist, but I knew enough to say, “Let me rephrase that. ‘Some therapists are full of shit.’” 

            Fair. 

In short, I was a weight to bear. She wasn’t as perfect as I thought while we were together. Even after we split, when anger could’ve soured any notions I had about her as a person, I saw why she did it. It was human. The how was flawed, but who ever handles things expertly? And who is to judge how it should be done? Especially the dumped? 

            I cried to sleep. It is what it is. Better in than out. Some of it was shrapnel from Laramie. Lots was about Dad and Paul Newman. I don’t know if it was my Shelob stabbing me with poison. It’d been building and needed to come out, one way or another. I’d rather cry than vomit. 

This is all stuff you don’t want to hear, but it’s what my drunk brain thought twice while seeing double. The darkness on the edge of the golf course was too far away. Squinting to focus and see anything in the black caused a hiccup. 

            I took the remaining quarter of a glass in one shot. I gagged and barely got the bottom of the glass to the table before dropping onto the couch and closing my eyes. The alpacas were dancing. 

___

            A chorus of birds woke me up. My discombobulated brain translated their chirps to Bob Marley. I pulled the blanket to my chin, rolled onto my side, and the sweating began. The deck faced west. Dawn had only rolled out of bed. A shade or two had been raised, painting the sky a pale shade of gray. The fairways would be wet from the night. I imagined running my fingers through the grass and splashing my face with the cold water. Diving into the pond on hole one, submerging myself until my lungs burst, and launching out of the water with an armful of lost golf balls.

I was still drunk. My eyeballs vibrated in their sockets. My toes gyrated. I smelled pine in the morning dew. My stomach said better find somewhere fast, bucko. 

            Somewhere fast was the bathroom next to Henrietta’s room. I found the toilet too late. I had to cup my hands to catch the first wave of vomit, chunks of something that I dumped into the trash can so I could open the toilet lid and empty the rest of my unhappy guts. Everything was burnt orange and rancid. I flushed it. The porcelain cooled my forearm where I laid it so I could rest my head, which throbbed like a bad tooth. My throat was scorched earth. The sea in my stomach still toiled. 

            “What are you doing, Fender?”

            Feel any better?

            “Dunno.”

            That’s a no.

            I sat up, sweating and bleary-eyed. The room was scented with wooden sticks in a jar of lavender oil. Was there such a thing as lavender oil? Did they squeeze branches of the flowers to extract the oil? Was the scent infused? Why was this so important? 

            The second wave came. I didn’t bother holding it off. It splattered. My throat burned. My stomach suction cupped in and out until the bad guys left the building. I leaned both hands on the rim. “Fuck, that sucked.”

            “Good morning.”

            The voice was sweet, and young. Henrietta stood in the doorway holding a stuffed giraffe. She wore pajamas with a cartoon character I’d never seen before. A girl in a red suit holding a fist into the air. 

            I wiped my mouth with my hand and flushed. The toilet bowl was a mess. I stood and blew out a wicked breath. “Good morning. I’m really sorry.” 

            She went to the cupboard below the sink and pulled out a wax cup, a roll of toilet paper, and a bottle of cleaning solution. She set her giraffe on the counter and handed me the cup. “It’s okay. Dad’s stomach gets mad at him, too. Normally the nights he’s outside watching TV.”

            “Thank you.” I drank three cups of water while acknowledging silently that I looked like a strung out Skeletor. The bags under my eyes were puffy plums. 

            Henrietta sprayed bleach cleaner onto the toilet and ripped off four sheets of toilet paper, folding each one to fit in her little hand. 

            “No, no, no. Please, let me.”

            “It’s okay,” she tried. 

            “Consider it a favor. I’ll owe you. Please, let me clean.” 

            She relinquished the bottle and paper towel with a tired okay. I made quick work of my quick mess, tossing the paper towels into the trash can. I removed the bag and tied it. 

            “Is there outdoor trash?”

            “This way.”

            She took her giraffe and shuffled her feet along the wood floor through the kitchen. The microwave read 6:07 AM. A coffee maker was brewing something chocolatey. She led me back through the den and to the garage. She had to tip toe to open the door. The black trash can stood in the corner. She pointed it but I’d already noticed it, along with an original metal Spin Cycle sign hung from the side wall. 

            I dumped the puke trash and thanked her.

            “I know what favor I want.” 

            We walked back into the house, and she led us towards the basement staircase. “Follow me.” 

            I did as I was told. She flicked a light switch to illuminate the couch and TV portion of the basement. Detroit sports came to life once again. I missed home, and knew it, and knew I needed to go back sooner rather than later. Whenever this journey reached its conclusion. 

            She jumped on the couch and turned the TV on. There were two wireless controllers on the coffee table. Two familiar controllers with only a D Pad and the A and B buttons. And select and start. 

            “Do you want to play Nintendo?”

            Yes.

            “Absolutely.”

            I took both controllers and gave her one. She hit start and a screen loaded with a list of every Nintendo game. From Adventure Island to Zelda. I’d heard of new consoles that came prepackaged with 250 games. And yet I was shell shocked. 

            She scrolled down the list to Super Mario Bros 3. The digital red curtains rose. Luigi jumped and bopped Mario on the head. The title lowered. A Koopa Troopa, green shell, and buzzy beetle shell appeared. A leaf floated down. She hit play.

            I was rusty and it showed. My fingers knew what to do, but my brain wasn’t processing fast enough. But just like when I was a kid, if I had a headache or a sore throat or an upset stomach, focusing on the game helped it go away. I thought about my conversation with Paul, about natural separation, and about stubborn people. 

            “Why are you so much better than me?” I asked Henrietta, whose bouncing bare feet barely reached the edge of the couch. 

            “Because you’re old.” She licked her lips while she concentrated on flying Mario to a platform of clouds and climbing a vine to a bonus coin screen. 

            “I don’t know how you mean that, but you’re not wrong.” 

            “Good morning.” 

            A new voice, still female. Kinder than I recalled from the day prior. Mariah came around the edge of the couch holding a cup of coffee. The eye liner and mascara and lipstick – her face, as I’d heard someone say, was gone, replaced by her actual, paler, but more naturally beautiful face. There were wrinkles. Why hide them? Why hide who we are and where we’ve been? She’d tried by puffing up her lips and cheeks, which only served to put lipstick on the proverbial pig. 

Her posture was looser, her expression accepting. Her yoga pants and tank top and running shoes read morning jog. I thought about my head, shoulders, knees, and toes. Red Rocks and Denver were the most movement I’d had in weeks. 

            “Good morning. Thanks for letting me stay.” 

            “Of course, Fender. Any time. Paul’s feeling it this morning. He’s in the shower, but if you want, there’s bacon and eggs upstairs. Coffee, too. Henrietta, we have to get you moving. Charlie’s birthday party is at 10 and your hair is a mess.” 

            Henrietta’s hair seemed far from a mess, nothing a quick shower and brushing wouldn’t fix. Who was I to know? “Another party?” I asked, setting the controller down.

            “Always. Henrietta?”

            She focused on Mario, jumping over a flower rising from a tube, sprinting towards the finish line, and hitting the star at the end. She gave herself a quick nod and turned it off. “Thanks for playing with me, Fender. Yes, Mom. Can you do my hair in pigtails? Janice had them yesterday and I liked how they looked.”

            We went upstairs and I devoured bacon and eggs. Coffee chased it down and hit my stomach hard. The caffeine smoothed out the wrinkles in my aching head. Mariah went outside. Paul finally emerged in shorts and a polo; his long hair tied back in a ponytail. 

            “Fender mother blanking Carradine. Good, you got some breakfast. I was feeling it this morning. You?” 

            Henrietta hummed while she ate. She sat on her kitchen stool like me with Dad at a roadside diner.

            “A bit, yeah. Thanks for breakfast. I needed it.”

            “Good, good.” He drummed his fingers on the island, working through his mental checklist. “Okay, Henrietta, Mom’s got you for Charlie’s birthday. Are you excited?”

            Henrietta nodded while focused on something invisible I’d never know. Perhaps her own James. Or the lyrics to the song she was humming. 

            “Check. That’s going to be fun. One of those indoor trampoline parks. Kids love it. Don’t recommend it for adults. I tried jumping one time and was laid up for a week. Okay, let me grab some food and then I have a showing, and Fender, I need to give you info on your next stop.”

            “I want to go to your showing.” Henrietta plopped a grape into her mouth.

            “Someday, but not today. Be a kid. Enjoy it. You have your whole life to be an adult. But thank you for expressing interest in my job. Let me find that info.” 

            He ate bacon and searched the drawers in the kitchen and den. He disappeared down a hallway I hadn’t explored, presumably master and an office. Mariah came back inside with a newspaper and a stack of mail. 

            “Hun,” Paul called, coming back into the kitchen. 

            “He’s getting forgetful,” Mariah said. She pulled a slip of paper from underneath a magnet on the fridge and handed it to him. 

            “Thank you. It’s funny, your dad remembered the smallest details that all of us had forgotten about. We visited Johnny’s Used Goods one time, back in ‘89 during our first tour. One time. Innocuous. I couldn’t tell you if I bought anything. Meanwhile, he can describe the way the paint peels from the walls like crayon shavings while he’s searching for a spot to hide your next clue.”

            “When did you talk to my dad?” 

            “Recently enough. This isn’t about us, remember?”

            I was confused. The hangover didn’t help. Henrietta’s humming was sweet but another noise. I squeezed my twitching left fingers into a fist and breathed slowly from my nose to avoid attention.

            “Take this,” Mariah said. She had a pile of pills in different colors. “Motrin. B12. Niacin. Trust me.” 

            I did and swallowed it down with coffee. Paul gave me the slip of paper. It said Johnny’s Used Goods and the address. “Ask for Peach.” 

            “Don’t ask me,” Paul said. 

            The morning fast forwarded to us outside his house, the respective parties going their separate ways. Mariah gave me a hug with a legitimate squeeze. Henrietta went for a high five. Paul went for a handshake. I gave him a hug.

            “Thank you. Have fun at your party. Good luck at the showing. Hopefully I see you sooner than twenty years.” 

            “You will,” Paul said with those eyes that were winking even when they weren’t.