Greg Abraham: Front Man

“See you later.” Thump stepped backward toward the door, accidentally drove his case into it.

“Watch it! Watch it! ”

“Sh’tka’heh wants to listen to me some more.” Thump swung the case upright and leaned against it. “He says that he heard something tonight that makes him think there’s hope for us after all.”

“What hope? Who needs hope? They’re fixing things. Now come to bed.”

“You’re wrong.”

Ron saw it, and almost burst with a winner’s glee. A tremor in Thump, like fatigue or fear. “No, you’re wrong. If you leave, you don’t need to come back. Not tomorrow. Not ever.” Oh, yes, that did it. Thump missed a beat, two, three. A bass player, and he’d lost count!

He slumped against the case and stared at the floor. “The Noiesni aren’t fixing anything. They’re just looking around trying to figure out when we’re finally going to snuff ourselves. They’ve never seen it before, people as destructive as us. Greed and judgment and hate everywhere. But they love us.” Thump looked up and found half a grin. “Maybe they can’t help us, but they love us, so they’re not going to run away sooner than they need to. But I’m gonna prove to ’em tonight that maybe them and us can find a way for them to help.” He finally drew a deep, easy breath, let it out through his nose.

He smiled as if he’d just remembered something he’d been grasping at for a lifetime, then he spoke again, more softly than before, “Sh’tka’heh says we’re losers, that the whole fuckin’ world has started to lose, and now it wants to keep on losing because it’s easier that way. When we lose, he says, we’ve only got to lose once, then we know we’ve lost and we can quit. But when we’re winning, every day’s a risk, because we’ve got to keep winning all over again, every day. They—the Noiesni—have been around longer than us, and that means they’ve been risking it a lot longer, too. We ought to listen, like they do.”

Thump’s eyes had that loving, respectful look again. “Movement, they hear it all. When the sun comes up, they hear it. The world’s rotation, its revolution, the precision… no, the precession… Sh’tka’heh showed me how to hear a little bit more, and I’m gonna play the dawn and show him we’re not losers.”

Something loud filled Ron’s head. It wasn’t music. It was like fire crackling so that he didn’t have to hear anymore. “You think you’re going to be front man for the world?” Ron brought his hands together as if he meant to applaud. “The only reason you’re even in a band is so you can stand around and make other guys look good.”

Thump’s eyes lost their gleam. He’d taken the blow. “No, Ron. I play bass. The sun’s in front… the morning and the sun. I’m just gonna make them more beautiful than they are. It’s time.” He pulled keys out of his pocket. “I’d better go.”

“Isn’t your alien going to pick you up? And shouldn’t you tie your shoes?”

It hit. Thump’s upper lip tightened as he narrowed his eyes. “Lay off, Ron. I wanted to say good night, okay? He’ll find me easy enough, but I gotta go.”

“Not in one of my cars.”

“I’ll take the Pontiac, okay?”

Ron reached for the keys and Thump jerked them away. The two of them stood no more than a foot apart. “Give me the keys. And the keys to the house. If you’re not going to stay here tonight, then you’re not going to stay, period. Get your shit out of here.” He grabbed for the keys again, got blocked by Thump’s shoulder.

“I’ll take a cab. I’m sorry, Ron.”

“Where are going to call one? You’re not using my phone. You’re out of here.”

“There’s a phone down the street on Westover. See you in the morning.” Thump reached for the doorknob.

Ron grabbed him, felt the biceps flex beneath his hand. His hatred swelled like that muscle. “Get your shit out of my house.”

“This is where I live.” Soft words, but they pled nothing except the truth.

“Get your shit out of here or I’ll throw it out.”

“There’s laws, Ron.” His smile said: Stop now and I’ll forgive you.

How had he stained his teeth so badly by the time he was only twenty-five? Except they’d looked every bit as bad two years ago. They were just crummy teeth. “Laws? Show me a rent receipt. You were a guest. Now you’re out of here. Do you understand? Get out of here. ”

He kicked the guitar case. It skidded across the hall. Thump fell as he lunged after it. He hit the floor and sent a shockwave through the house. He moaned and sat up to pull on the jacket, worked his splayed legs back underneath him.

Ron stood over him. God, there was so much power in making a man cry, but then you had to watch it, tears devastating in their subtlety. Ron had never seen Thump cry before. It was harsh in its stillness. The hurt came and went in a blink, a swallowed sob. An eye shimmered like the dark body of Sh’tka’heh’s guitar, and that light got ground away with a fist.

And Ron rode his own tumbling heart downward. A man’s tears were the death of an innocence, and he wanted to feed on this instant, a part of Thump dead. The only soul worth owning was the one that hadn’t been destroyed yet, but nobody could own that kind of soul, so Ron had to destroy it after all.

With his left arm Thump drew the guitar case near; he still tried to get up.

Ron bent over him.

Thump drove an elbow into his stomach.

He staggered back. Can’t breathe, his ribs shrieked, but I smell your jacket… Thump’s shoulder hammered him against the doorjamb, pinned him there with chin raked back so he still couldn’t breathe. His pulse sizzled; there could have been other boys here tonight, why this one?

Thump’s low voice pounded thick in his ear, like a slurred serenade, “Don’t ever kick my guitar again. Don’t ever.” The words spelled the death of an old universe. “Why? You’re making it harder… why d’you want to make it harder?” Thump backed off.

Ron lurched into the kitchen and grabbed the phone. He poked at the 9.

Thump stood in the doorway.

Ron tapped 1, punched it again. “Police. I need to report an assault and an auto theft.”

Thump turned and left.

The police would act as if it were a joke. He hung up, because the police wouldn’t treat him like a person, wouldn’t treat him like a man.

“Thump!” Ron yelled.

The front door closed. He rushed toward it, stomach and chest aching. He still couldn’t breathe, almost hit himself in the face when he yanked open the door.

The porch light was off.

The clarity of the night could eat a soul alive. A breeze told the aspens obscene stories about the death of wonderful things. Thump disappeared down the hill. I’m sorry, Ron wanted to scream, I don’t know what’s wrong, God, I’m so stupid. Thump, I’m sorry… but his lips couldn’t open, his larynx was sutured shut by those threads of starlight. And no loud arguments in the middle of the night, please, not in this neighborhood. No, the autumn or childhood or morning or the sun can’t make me yell that I’m sorry.

Because I’m not.

Because you’re a loser, Thump. You are outside. It’s my world, Thump.

And the world is a dead place… as dead as the flesh you left here when you wouldn’t scrape it away with your stubble, dark as the night, sharp as the stars.

Sh’tka’heh, play him into the ground, bury him with your twisted, backward hands. Please. Please let the world stay a dead place.