What’s this talk, goin’ around town, Junior Wells tune, but Baby Huey, man…Huey makes it rock. You keep meaning to go see him live. Club on Diversey somewhere. One of these days. Messin’ with the kid. You tried saying that out loud once or twice, without the music. You made sure Fats and Flash weren’t nearby. “You don’t want to be messin’ with The Kid.,” you said, real casual and with what you think, hope, is an air of quiet menace. “Hey! You want to watch yourself. You just may be messin’ with The Kid.” A warning, but you were still cool. Always cool. Immer kühl. Make sure Fats and Flash are still busy in the kitchen. OK. The Kid. You try it with Linda. Not much reaction. She just looks at you. She doesn’t get The Kid. OK. You don’t always have to be The Kid, you suppose. You weren’t always The Kid, of course. Third grade; Bobby Roberts. You’re new in the school, and he walks up to you at recess and demands “Whose side are you on?” You don’t know what he’s talking about, but you see from the look on his face that this is a serious question. You try the via media: “I’m not on anybody’s side.” Wrong answer. He punches you in the stomach. He Who Would Be Kid crumples to the asphalt. “Hey, Four-Eyes!” What? “I said, I’m gonna get more ice. Where are you?” “Nowhere. Here. I’m fine.” Still, a fine song. Better than the A side. One evening soon after the last jukebox update, you’re sitting here reading when Kargman runs – runs! – into the place and back to the box. He pumps in a quarter, punches some numbers, and runs – runs! – out again. You wait. “Monkey Man.” OK. It plays through, then…”Monkey Man.” And then, just once more, “Monkey Man.” What the hell? You look at Schick; Schick looks at Geo; Geo looks at Byers. What the hell, wonders the hive mind. Kargman looks like a frat rat: haircut a quarter-inch longer than Peter Gunn’s; madras shirt; penny loafers. Business major, ambitious, cocky. So what’s the deal with Baby Huey? You ask around. Somebody says he’s managing the group now. So this is what a manager does? Runs in a restaurant full – no, not full, mostly empty – of people who, let’s face it, will not be on the Homecoming committee and punches up his boys’ song on the jukebox? But a couple of days later it happens again. And then again. Still, manager? He’s just a kid. Maybe under-assistant West Coast promo man? Or whatever the Midwest equivalent would be. No seersucker suit in the Midwest. Madras. Linda rises to leave. “House meeting,” she says.” “See you tomorrow.” Quick kiss. You try and fail to prolong it, and she’s gone. Good to be kissing after all this time. What was her name? Pat. Freshman year. You used to walk her back to Shepard, find an empty study lounge, and make out. The RA would come around from time to time to break it up, knowing upperclassman smirk on her face. One day Pat asked “When are your hands going to start wandering?” That pulled you up short. You hadn’t really considered it, not right there where anybody might walk by, look in. “I don’t know.” Safe answer. “Well, I just want you to know that when they do, you’ll be disappointed.” That took a second or two to sink in. Then you rose to the moment, played the gallant, the chevalier sans peur et sans reproche. Reassurance was called for, and you knew just what to say. “That’s OK. My girlfriend in high school was the same way.” You figured you were certainly The Kid. Might as well get some reading done. A little coffee first, then settle in. William James. Objective evidence and certitude are doubtless very fine ideals to play with, but where on this moonlit and dream-visited planet are they found? You don’t know the answer to that one. You rather hoped he did. When is one of these guys going to tell me what I want to know? You read on. The few others in the place also read, or talk quietly, or stare at nothing, or doze. You know this: This is a place to be. You have no wish to be elsewhere. The door opens noisily, and you glance around. Kargman? At this hour? Avoiding all eyes, bent on his mission, he hurries toward the back and the jukebox. One hand is in his pocket, digging for a quarter. He passes you, and you turn to watch management in action. But he slows his pace and then stops. Impossibly, you would have said, Byers has come out of a deep sleep, dashed around by the kitchen counter, and made it to the box first. There he slouches, one hand on either side, encompassing the great scroll of titles. He peers at them as though he expects something he’s not seen before, or as though they all, collectively, spell out a private message that he is carefully decoding. Kargman waits. He naturally assumes that Byers will soon choose his songs and make way. But Byers lingers and lingers. Kargman takes a step toward the box. Then another. He tosses and toys with his quarter nervously. One more step. Byers slowly looks up at him, utterly deadpan. He is motionless, and emotionless. A long minute passes. Abruptly, Kargman turns and leaves. Byers takes one last look into the box and returns to his booth. Well, you think, that was…and then you’re not sure what that was. You read. Our errors are surely not such awfully solemn things. In a world where we are so certain to incur them in spite of all our caution, a certain lightness of heart seems healthier than this excessive nervousness on their behalf. Next: Song for My Father |