Mom taught me how to swim.

            When I was seven. At her friend Marissa’s pool. She saw me pouting because other kids were splashing around in the deep end, diving down to retrieve plastic rings, carefree in water that filled me with dread. She took the hotdog out of my hand, set it on a plate, picked me up by the armpits, walked over to the end marked eight feet, held me over the water, looked me dead in the eyes, and said, “I’m not going to save you. You have to save yourself,” and released me.

            I remember panic. And churned water from flailing limbs. Noise fractured as my head plunged in and out of the water. Kids laughed, not at me, maybe at me, but I didn’t have time to worry about it. It was eight feet deep, and I was drowning. 

            After what felt like hours but was surely ten seconds, I let myself sink. I closed my eyes. Was it the first time I checked in? Voices above water murmured. My heart beat faster, and then slowed when I hit the bottom of the pool. I opened my eyes. The pool lining was patterned with rainbow speckled pebbles. The lining and water distorted my vision. Two rings, one red, one blue, shimmered on the pool floor. I reached for the red one, the tiny hairs on my arm waving in the water, and secured it in my fist. My lungs burned. I swam to the surface, my feet the propellers I’d seen Bugs Bunny use plenty of times. There was a splash above me, and a person – Mom, her eyes peeled and frantic – diving past me. I waved at her, and she made an underwater “Huh?” that we still laugh about. 

            I popped out of the water and held the red ring up, my chest heaving, my heart breathing. Mom popped up next to me. She swam over and hugged me, pulling me to the side of the pool so we could both grasp the concrete lip.

“What were you thinking?” she gasped. 

“I saved myself,” I said. 

            “You scared me.”

            “Sorry. Do you want to play with the ring?” 

I knew she didn’t because she made the tired face she often made when I asked her to play. “For a few throws. And then you can play with the other kids. Make some new friends.” 

I stopped telling the story and waited for EJ’s response. That I had even told him – a relative stranger, despite our similarities – shocked me. Hopefully he didn’t withdraw his invitation for the envelope and Jock Jams, Volume 3. 

He mulled my story over from the comfort of his kayak. I sat in mine, acclimating to the wobble on the swaying water. It had been a minute since I’d gone out in one. The last time was with Laramie. There were another twenty people in kayaks around the cove, which I’d learned from EJ was properly named China Basin, where the mouth of Mission Creek met the San Francisco Bay. Seven boats ranging from canoe to mini yacht were anchored outside the right field wall of Oracle Park with us. Fans and fisherman alike waved from a pier to the northeast. Further northeast, past the sea of boat masts in the marina, was the Bay Bridge. And further was Seattle and how far I’d come. Home beckoned in the invisible distance. 

            The 6:10 first pitch made for perfect baseball weather. The sun dipped on the other side of the city. Cold water splashed into the sides of the kayak. 

            “What did that do to you?” EJ asked. He drank from a can of beer. 

            I rested my beer against my chest, leaning back in the kayak, listening to the ballpark organ. What would that job be like? Playing an organ at a ballpark? “It made me more fearless than I realized I could be. Only, do you ever get into a situation, and react a certain way, and then after the fact you regret how you acted? You’re capable of self-awareness after the emotions die down, but in the moment, they’re so intense you can’t control them? At least you can recognize it after, and hopefully the damage done wasn’t too bad?” 

            “Yes, to all those questions. What’s that got to do with being fearless?”

            I twisted the tab on the beer can. “Any time in life where I’ve been faced with a decision to do something new and scary– doing a spelling bee in front of an auditorium, asking Molly Rangold to prom, moving away for college, starting a job at an accounting firm when my Dad suggested writing, or journalism, or that he’d even pay me to run his publicity, anything but a corporation. Going on a cross country trip with only an address and the trust of a strong woman. One of the scariest thing I’ve done: starting therapy. None of it happens, I don’t think, these iterations– I’m really trying not to overthink it– without my mom dropping me into the pool.” 

            He drank and smashed the top and bottom of the can, squashing it into a flat cylinder that he placed in a plastic bag. I finished my beer and tried to do the same trick. My can bent sideways and looked like abstract art. I tossed the can into the open bag at the front of his kayak.

            “You should tell her that.”

            “I probably should.”

            Anchors made for easy floating in the cove. A DJ was set up on the deck of the mini yacht. Two narrow standing speakers, a mixing table, a rubber Barry Bonds mask. The bass thumped to an up-tempo remix of A Tribe Called Quest’s “Can I Kick It?” 

            EJ pointed to the right field wall. “Some fun facts: McCovey Cove was named after Giants legend Will McCovey. First baseman. Lefty. Played in the 60s and 70s, mostly for the Giants. He’s one of the reasons the shift was invented. Dead pull hitter. Superhuman power. Retires in 1980. The park was built in 2000. Guess who hit the first ball into the cove.”

            “Bonds.” 

            “Bonds hits the first one into the cove, and we’ve had 100 more in the 20 plus years since then. That’s only the homers by Giants players. They keep a tally on the scoreboard. Over 60 by opposing players.”

            I counted 15 people with fishing nets resting on their kayaks. One person sat on the front of a boat in a wetsuit with goggles and snorkel.

            “You ever get a ball?” 

            “Not yet. Prince Fielder hit one in 2008 that I just missed. Lady in a friggin’ Brewers hat got it before me.” 

            The mention of Prince Fielder led to a riff on baseball for longer than anyone needs to read. It’s funny what parts of our life we choose to share with others. Vulnerability is a tricky thing, and not easy for anyone. I had to make that call to Mom and thank her. 

            Three beers in with the sky darkened to denim, EJ’s expression grew serious. Or less goofy. He was hard to read. “We’ve reached the point in the night where I share my story about Brett Carradine. Are you ready?”

            “I don’t know. Do I need to be?”

            “He’s your dad. I’m just the messenger.” 

            “Fearless, right?”

            He wiped his mouth and yawned. “Man, I get it. I miss my old man. Not a day goes by that I don’t wake up and wish I could go into the shop and see him reading a book in a barber’s chair.”

            “I get it.”

            “But I’m just messing with ya. This is a fun one. They’re all fun, because they’re real, ya know? All we can ever hope is to live a life to its fullest. Clichés exist because they’re true. I know my dad lived his that way. That’s how he met your pops. You sell someone an autographed book. That person can’t afford it because certain autographed books cost an arm and a leg, so he barters. Me and my old man end up at a kick ass rock show that sparks my interest in music and sets me on a path to study music in school, to travel abroad to Germany and Switzerland, and yada yada yada. Back to your pops.” 

            He waved his arms as he talked. Demonstrative was the word swimming through my head as he spoke. Animated. I wanted to close my eyes and live in EJ’s memory of the good old days, but James nudged me – the little fucker hadn’t left after all – with a simple, Stay in the now, Buck. 

            EJ spoke. “It’s 2010. Brett’s in town playing the Great American Music Hall. Ritzy ass venue. Small, 500 people. Perfect for his work then. More Jackson Browne than Ozzy. Although early Spin Cycle like what I saw as a kid, playing the GAMH? They’d need to renovate afterwards. Those marble columns would crumble.

            “He swings by the shop to see my pops like he always does. Dad’s showing him this old baseball autographed by the 1919 Black Sox. Brett calls bullshit on it. Says no way that exists. Dad’s got his magnifying glass out, and they’re hemming and hawing, comparing Joe Jackson’s signature on the ball to printouts he found online. The Black Sox Scandal is what led the MLB to get their first commissioner, by the way. Neither of them reaches a definitive answer on the authenticity (although later Dad gets it authenticated and makes a killing on it), so they switch to talking music.

            “Your pops looked tired. I don’t know how much you saw him then. I know you were busy, he said as much, or at least the two of you weren’t connecting as much as he would’ve liked, but he looked tired, withered even. He always came across as mellow, but there was an energy beneath the surface that came out in his music, or when he cracked jokes or told stories. His hair was shorter, which didn’t help. And I don’t think he was sick. You’d know better than me. He just seemed exhausted. Go figure. Guy is creating some of his best work and wants nothing to do with it.

            “Dad asks him how he feels about playing the Great American Music Hall. Brett shrugs, says, ‘I miss the old days.’ You wonder where I get my smart mouth? Dad responds, ‘So bring them back.’ I’m watching this, two legends of their trade, one convincing the other to turn back the clock. Brett asks, ‘How?’

            “I had to leave. Dad calls me an hour later, tells me to make sure I’m at the tavern on the bay at 10. I asked him why, and he says don’t worry. I go to Brett’s show at 7. It’s understated. Almost spoken word with an acoustic guitar. It’s delicate. His porcelain doll phase. It’s beautiful, and worth the accolades, but I felt the frustration he showed in the shop. He’d overcorrected his style to the other end of the spectrum. He wanted to write music for movies and ended up doing sweeping songs with broad overtones that fit epic movies and had zero room for riffing. It’s like Springsteen’s ‘Born to Run,’ the song itself. They spent what, a month perfecting it? When it comes time to play it live, there’s no room for flexibility. Same thing with Brett playing that night. He played the songs exactly as he’d written them. They sounded perfect. The audience clapped politely.

            “At 10 PM, he said ‘I’m going to be a rockstar.’

            “There’s a tavern on the bay. Over there, south, on the other side of the pier. You see Pier 48. That’s a big ass conference center. They host the annual Thrift and Used Goods Conference in October. If you ever come back this way, it’s a fun one to work. You might see some familiar faces. Across the street and kitty corner is the tavern with views of the bay and Oakland. There’s a rooftop.”

            Goosebumps rippled my arms. San Francisco during the summer was warm, but not that warm, and not on the water at night. That was half of it. The other half was thinking of the Harvey Keitel fella in Atlanta, of the greedy kid at Mondo’s Market, of Ms. Vaughn in Mobile, of Deacon. What was Deacon doing for the 4th? Could I convince him to join me for the final leg home? I didn’t think the kid ringing in trading cards at Johnny’s Used Goods was named Johnny, but I called him that anyway. And finally, EJ, with his long hair cascading down his neck like a cape, narrating a story about my old man I wish I had been there to witness.

            Over the stadium speakers, the announcer thanked all military veterans for their service and reminded fans of the Willie Mays bobblehead giveaway on the 4th of July. 

            “It’s a Saturday night. The Giants are down 7-3 to the Astros in the 8th. The tavern is packed. I get there at 9:30 with an inkling of what’s about to go down. It’s not happening downstairs. Too many people squeezed into tables and milling about outside. There’s no room for rock and roll.”

I grunted, emulating my dad, and his dad. “There’s always room for rock and roll.”

EJ smirked. “The Giants get a 2-run jack to cut the deficit in half. From around the corner comes Brett Carradine, carrying an amplifier and guitar case. He’s changed from tuxedo into ripped jeans and a Gimme’ Head Till I’m Dead shirt. You have to understand, and I’m telling you this like you don’t know, even though I’m certain you do, that your father carries a certain gravitas. Most musicians who come around that corner carrying an amplifier and guitar case, the people eating their oysters and avocado salad don’t think twice. Maybe they get excited, didn’t realize there was live music tonight, and decide to stick around. When your dad walked through the downstairs restaurant and up the stairs to the rooftop, I saw people ask their friends who that guy was. They didn’t recognize him – probably the short hair, maybe they were babies when Spin Cycle ruled the world – but they sensed importance.”

            He paused to wet his whistle. The yacht DJ played techno remixes of Steve Winwood’s greatest hits.

            “I followed Brett upstairs. The bar was two deep with three TVs tuned to the game. I heard someone say, ‘Is that Brett Carradine?’ Your dad hears it while he’s setting up in the corner, on the side overlooking the bay. I gave him a hug. Congratulate him on the GAMH set.”

            Water lapped against our kayaks. I ran my hand through it to anchor myself in the moment, to put myself there the night Dad rocked San Francisco. 

            “Brett goes, ‘Yeah, but did it rock?’ And you don’t bullshit a bullshitter, right? I go, ‘No, Brett, it did not rock.’ And he says, ‘Do you mind grabbing us a couple of beers? Put it on my tab.’ I head back downstairs because the upstairs bar is chaos. I get us two beers, pay for it myself because too much of his life has been people taking advantage of him for being too nice. The Giants hit another homer. It’s 7-6. The place is buzzing. When I go up to give him his beer, he’s already got his guitar strapped and plugged in.

            “I shimmy past a table to sit his beer on the railing next to a speaker. This couple in their 60s are sitting at a table closest to his corner. Loudest seats in the house. They have no idea what’s about to happen, or so I think. They’re in pastel colors on Easter Sunday. J. Crew models. Empty margarita glasses. ‘Excuse me,’ the woman says to me. ‘We were at his show tonight at the Great American Music Hall.’ 

            “‘Me too,’ I tell them.

            “She’s tipsy, almost whispering. ‘To be honest, don’t tell him this, but we prefer his older stuff.’

            “The husband leans in. He’s got jowls like a turkey. ‘Can you ask him to play ‘Castles are Closed, and Protests are Happening?’” 

            I gasped. “A deep cut.” 

            “The deepest. And I’m so happy for them, but also Brett. I say, ‘Of course.’ I relay the message to Brett, who’s tuning his guitar for the outdoor vibe. He looks up from his guitar and sees them both waving. That rock fans can look this adorable was a first for me. Brett does the thumb and pinky rock and roll sign. The kind Keanu Reeves does in Bill and Ted. The couple is delighted. They order another margarita from their server and tell me to order whatever I want. I tell them it’s okay, I have a beer. They don’t accept that and order a bucket of Coronas.

            “Brett’s voice cuts through the rooftop din. It’s a rocket shot through the night. ‘Evening, everyone. I appreciate you letting me entertain you tonight. My name’s Brett Carradine. I used to play in a band called Spin Cycle.’ 

            “And there’s applause and hoots, which he wasn’t aiming for but couldn’t avoid. He’s just trying to explain who he is like he did when they were coming up. He’s not ignorant, your father, but he’s never presumed to think anyone should know who he is. He goes, ‘I was in town for a show and figured I hadn’t played a bar in years, so why not. If you don’t mind, I’m going to jam a bit and hopefully add some flavor to your evening. No tips for me, but please share with your wait staff. They’re working hard tonight.’

            “He strummed the opening chords to ‘Lark Ness Monster,’ someone cheered, and he said into the microphone, ‘If you want to hear anything in particular, don’t be shy. If I can remember it, I’ll play it. And he dives into it, loud. High octane. Old school. Man.”

            There were a few videos online from that night, each one from a different vantage point. All loud and raucous. All making me wish we hadn’t been on the outs for so long. All proud. 

            “The crowd grew as he played. One, it’s live music. Two, it’s the best live music. And three, word spreads that Brett Carradine is playing a pop-up show at the rooftop of the tavern. Fender, man, we should’ve been friends sooner. You would’ve loved it.” 

            “Oh, I know.” 

            “You’ve watched it, right? He played all the hits. He played deep cuts like ‘Castles’ and ‘Chirping Daisies.’. He took one break for the pisser and to eat a plate of fries. He comes back on with a smirk and flips the Avonlea soundtrack on its head, playing it double time, so it’s a dance tune, like this DJ playing the Winwood tracks. The crowd’s on their feet, clapping and stomping. His fingers are riding the guitar like a bucking bronco. Somewhere in there the Giants strike out to lose 7-6, but no one cares. He’s onto covering ‘Bette Davis Eyes,’ and ‘Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door,’ and ‘My Sharona.’ Plays all night. Shuts the bar down. We had a nightcap on the tables outside after he’s loaded his equipment. Talked about traveling and antiques and you. He said he’d contact you and connect us.”

            “Yeah.” 

            Anyone who has had a fight with someone knows how this goes.

            “One of my favorite nights. Those are few and far between. There are more of them left, I think.”

            “You think?”

            “Just a hunch. Trusting that ol’ gut of mine. You might want to do the same.” 

___

            On the ride back, we bantered about the Steroids Era. Both of us had written papers on it in high school, citing the same Sports Illustrated articles and running into similar teachers who disagreed with our stance: there were no actual rules policing it at the time, so why blackball certain players taking advantage of loopholes when it was common knowledge everyone was doing it?

            “At the end of the day, Sosa, Big Mac, Bonds – they saved baseball.” EJ stopped at my car so I could grab my backpack. He turned into an alleyway on the side of Earnest Ernest. No more than two inches on either side separated his doors from brick walls. The squeeze felt like my head. 

            “Isn’t that sports though? Only policing rules when they stop benefiting management? What’s the word? For chess pieces that get taken out early.” I was tired. And maybe a little tipsy.

            Behind the store opened up into space for five vehicles, with plenty of room to turn around. He backed into a spot and cut the lights. “Pawns.” 

            “Pawns. How in the hell did I forget that?” 

            “Long journey, my man. Lot of dice tumbling around in your head. Come inside. I have a cot you can crash on.” 

            The A/C cooled my clammy skin. “High paid pawns, I might add,” he added. He turned off the security system and flipped lights as we walked through the back room. It was three quarters storage, one quarter living space. The shelves were lined with more limited goods that any other store owner would have tripped over themselves sprinting to inspect. A pair of jeans worn by George Michaels. A letter from George Washington to Martha Washington. A mold used to craft the sand worm from Tim Burton’s Beetlejuice. The more obscure, the more likely EJ had it in stock. 

            “But then it’s not always about the money for the legends, right? It becomes about legacy, and the commissioner’s impact with hall of fame bans, for instance.” We could’ve talked baseball for days. My eyes felt like sacks of cement. 

            “Sure. But then again, despite the lax rules–Sosa, Bonds, McGwire– also knew the unspoken rules of the game they were playing. Push the limit and see what happens. Icarus, flying too close to the sun again. Bathroom’s over there. Fridge has water, and there’s some pretzels and snacks in the pantry. Help yourself. I’ll be back in the morning to get you on your way.”

            “Thanks, EJ. I really appreciate it.”

            “No problem. Catch some zzzs. Another long drive ahead of you.” 

            He grabbed a satchel from under the desk and set the alarm before leaving. I chugged two bottles of water, took out my contacts, plugged in my phone, set it to a Paul Newman podcast, and crashed onto the cot. 

___

I woke to whistling.

            I slept a dreamless sleep. The blanket was tossed on the floor. I drank half a bottle of water and pulled a shirt over my head. Something was going on in that head of mine. 

            “Morning, Fender,” EJ said from a small square table with two chairs. He was arranging logs of aluminum foil and napkins.

            “Morning. I remembered something last night. Forgot to ask you. Your first Spin Cycle show, what song did they start with? Dad says it was ‘Dog Tags Galore.’ So does Paul. It’s been years since I asked Dad, but they debated it forever. There’s no recording of it, so no one can say for sure. Larry swears up and down it was going to be “Dog Tags,” but last second, he fucked with them and started into ‘Seventeen Candles’ and they played along. Seems like the sort of detail you’d remember, but after so many shows, you know?” 

            He set coffees on the table. “Not a chance in hell I remember that. Great show. I was, what, seven? You’ll have to ask him yourself. Hope you’re hungry. These are the best burritos in town. You’ve visited Colorado. You know green chili. Dig in.” 

            I dug in.

            There were jokes and laughs and talk of a visit to Atlanta whenever my Tolkien journey reached its end. Two weeks prior, my stubbornness had been making assumptions about the trajectory of the second half of my life, if I even made it that far. 

            Three quarters of the way through a tasty burrito, I circled back. 

            Pop Quiz, Hot Shot: 

            Who made this statement? You can’t make new old friends.

            A: Me, recounting my story about the gas station Taco Bell to EJ. 

            It’s nice when there’s no need for multiple choice.

            “Keep your eyes peeled. That too cute for you woman is still out there, roaming the open road. Kindred spirits, all that jazz.” He rubbed his stomach and gave me a thumbs up. “Alright, upward and onward. I have things for you.” 

            While he fiddled at his desk, I packed up and checked my face in the bathroom mirror. The bruising around my eye was all but gone. One blue speck the size of a freckle remained above my eyebrow. 

            I joined him at the desk, standing in front of it like a customer. “How much is this going to cost me?”

            His laugh sounded like a snare drum. “One solid hang in McCovey Cove. And a promise that you’ll see this thing through, no matter where it takes you.” 

            I looked him in the eye. “Deal.” 

            “Why so serious?” He laughed again. “Alright, two things. Meredith mailed me his copy of Catcher in the Rye. Your old man read it so many damn times the binding fell apart.” He set a book with a green cover and binding on the desk. It looked brand new. “Most people don’t read limited edition autographed collector’s items like this.’
            “Books are meant to be read,” I said in Dad’s voice, which was mostly my voice, only deeper. 

            “He’s not wrong. No cost on that. I know a guy who owed me a favor. And this, my new old friend, is for you.” He placed a Polaroid of Larry and Dad looking side-eyed at each other. Each was moments from bursting with laughter. I remembered the photo because I took it in the back room at a show in Phoenix. Larry had just told a joke about three rabbis walking into a bar that I didn’t understand. Heather had given me her camera and smacked me on the butt.

            “Address is on the back. Back east you go.” 

            My heart swelled. I’m convinced goosebumps happen because there’s a great big heart inside of everyone, and in moments like that, when it all comes together, that heart glows and grows and the only way we keep from bursting into a million pieces of light is from our skin rippling into goosebumps. 

            “EJ, thank you.” We shook hands, brought it in, and hugged. 

            Outside, I breathed in a urine stench that couldn’t dampen my mood. I punched in the coordinates for Phoenix, hit Go, tuned the radio to a mix starting with Clapton’s “Lay Down Sally,” and drove east over the Bay Bridge, the waters glistening like melted snowflakes in the California sun.