Andrew Gross - Eyes Wide Open (aka Killing Hour)

The same people down the line who when the tide eventually turned-and it always did-were banished from his sight.

His biggest customers-not just lowly buyers but upper management, even store presidents-loudly thrown out of his showroom and told to never come back. His panicked salesmen scurrying after them, feverishly apologizing. They even came up with a brand that poked fun at his legendary outbursts: Lenny Didn’t Mean It, it was called.

He would introduce me to his pals as the “Remarkable Dr. Jay,” even as a kid. And I had to admit it always made me feel like the most important person in the world. Growing up, he would take me out for dinners with his drop-dead girlfriends at Gino’s or to sit at the bar with his Irish bookies at PJ Clarke’s.

Then he wouldn’t call for weeks, completely forget important events. Disappoint me terribly.

I never understood what was behind my father’s rage. The truth was, if he were diagnosed today, maybe we would know. He ran away from Brooklyn in the forties and headed out to Hollywood, where he took up with starlets and ingenues and managed to become the right-hand man of Louis B. Mayer, the head of MGM. His homes were always filled with bikinied beauties in the pool and glamorous people dropping by. Opera blasted over the beach on the stereo.

He made millions over the years-and gave back every penny.

At the end, his business partners grew shadier and shadier, as the glamour crowd wanted nothing to do with him. The Wall Street honchos became shiftier and the retail bigwigs turned into low-priced discounters.

There was the suspicious fire in his warehouse in Brooklyn. The SEC was on his back over cash that had disappeared from the firm, as well as the IRS over back taxes.

He became sort of a sad figure, driving around in his ten-year-old Mercedes, scrounging around the city’s flea markets, arriving unexpectedly at the house with some bizarre new “find”: paintings no one wanted or retro board games for the kids missing the key pieces. “ Lenny Presents! ” they grew to call him.

We managed to become close in those years.

Ten years ago, he downed his usual two Rob Roys at a local watering hole in the Hamptons, where he still had a small house near the beach. The bartender remembered him going on about some new idea. A couple of women were at the bar, but they didn’t want to be bothered by him. He threw a twenty on the table and waved good-bye.

The next morning they found his car at the bottom of Shinnecock Bay.

After dinner, we sat around the living room, Charlie strumming on the guitar. “Evan was getting pretty good himself,” he said with pride. “Even better than me!” He picked through versions of “Get Back” by the Beatles, the Byrds’ “Mr. Tambourine Man,” “White Room” by Cream, Rod Stewart’s “Maggie Mae.”

“Jay …” His eyes lit up. “You remember this?” He sang, “ Just when you say your last good-bye / Just when you calm my worried fears…”

I did recognize it. It was the song he had recorded back in L.A. More than thirty years ago. “One Last Thing.”

“Just when the dawn is breaking / There’s always one last thing…”

He always played the same two verses. Only them. To this day, I wasn’t sure I’d ever heard the whole thing through.

Charlie cooed, happily. “ Ooooh, girl, it’s always one last thing…”

He put down his guitar. “You know it got to number twenty-nine on the charts,” he said with his ground-down grin. “In 1973. Of course I was crazy as a loon back then. Not to mention I was popping LSD like vitamins. I got to thinking my record company was trying to screw me. Hell, I thought everybody was trying to screw me then…” He cackled, a glimmer in his eye.

“Hey, check this out, Jay!” He went over to the chest against the wall and came back with a bulging photo album. It was stuffed with artifacts from his past: pictures of him, of him and Dad in happier days at his beach house. Charlie growing up in Miami in the sixties, before his crazy hair and wild eyes.

He laughed, “I was so deluded on acid I told them I would burn down their fucking building if they didn’t send me out on tour. And you know what they did? They pulled the record! Right off the airwaves.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that! And you know what? I could hardly blame them. Who would put a nut job like me out on the road?

“But you know what, Jay? Maybe if I hadn’t been off my rocker back then, you might be sitting here with Rod Stewart. You wear it well… In a mansion in Brentwood, not this shit hole here, right? Look…”

He opened the album and pushed it over to me, a soft smile lighting his eyes.

It was a clipping from an old Billboard magazine. Yellowed, dog-eared, protected in a plastic liner. Top Singles for the week.

I noticed the date: October 1973.

At number one was “Angie” by the Rolling Stones. Midway down, I saw a red, drawn-in arrow marking number twenty-nine:

“One Last Thing.” Charlie Earl.

“Hey! ” I grinned. I’d never seen this before. I never even knew if I truly believed him, all the times he talked about it.

Charlie winked. “Not bad from your loony older brother, huh?” Then his grin seemed to wane. “Hell, who’s kidding who, right? Biggest moment of my life, and I fucked up the whole damn thing. Guess that’s where all our similarities end, right, Jay?”

He picked up his guitar again.

“Charlie, what do you want me to do?” I asked him. I came over and sat across from him. “About Evan. You want me to find you a lawyer? You want to try and make a case against the hospital? You know I’m going to have to go back in a couple of days.”

My brother nodded, scratching his scruffy beard, pushing his graying hair from his eyes. “We don’t want a lawyer, Jay. People like us can’t make waves. You go. Gabby and I, we appreciate what you’ve done. You just being here.”

I patted him on the shoulder and got up. “I’m going to make a call.”

I went outside and stood against the building in the cool night air. Their apartment faced a grassy courtyard. Beyond it was a darkened street. The light from a single streetlight cast a glow.

People were arguing loudly in an apartment across the courtyard.

I called the house.

“Hey, how’s it going?” Kathy answered, happy to hear my voice. “How are Charlie and Gabriella?”

“The poor kid should never have been released.” I exhaled. “You should see where they put him.” I took her through my day, my frustrations. “All the doctors here are just stonewalling us.”

“You’re going to be coming home in a couple of days. What are you going to do, Jay?”

“All they want is an answer, Kath. Someone has to take responsibility. That’s what I’m doing.” I told her about visiting the rock and the halfway house. Then the TV station.

“I warned you, didn’t I,” Kathy said, a little in jest, but a little in truth too, “you’d get drawn in.”

I was about to tell her she was wrong. This time I wasn’t being sucked in. I just had to help get them through some things.

That’s when I noticed something out on the street.

A car, black, or dark blue maybe, parked beneath a tree. A VW or a Kia or something. A hatchback.

And someone sitting in the driver’s seat. The person’s face was hidden under a cap. I couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman, but the window was cracked slightly and the person was smoking.

And they seemed to be watching me.

“Jay…?”

Kathy’s voice brought me back. “Sorry…” I said, ducking back under the carport.