Andy Abramowitz - Thank You, Goodnight

“Sandy’s a saint, Mingus,” Jumbo said, prying open a green army trunk. “Probably the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I loved her. Frankly, I miss making love to her.”

“Would you do me a favor and never say that again?”

People stopped “making love” when it became unfashionable to cry softly during sex. The very expression conjured up images of Magnum, P.I. mustaches and women in shoulder pads. Shasta fizzing on the night table. Roberta Flack.

I asked, “How is it that you got demoted to her basement and she brought in another husband? How did that go down?”

Jumbo looked uncharacteristically bruised. “I’m not the easiest guy in the world to live with, you know.”

“If you say so.”

As I returned the acoustic guitars to their stands, Jumbo fished around in the army trunk that doubled as a liquor cabinet. “You still a Southern Comfort man?” he asked.

“No, I’m not.” The question pissed me off, freighted as it was with bad history. “Why don’t you just have a nice civilized glass of wine with the rest of us, or a beer? A beer.”

“Chill, Mingus. I’m a mellow guy these days,” said the man who had stuffed a bag of weed into my glove compartment just hours earlier. “Do I have the occasional martini? Sure, but that’s just for the antioxidants. You don’t have to go acting like a wiener just because I offered you some SoCo. Sue me for wanting to celebrate with the good stuff.”

“I already told you—there’s nothing to celebrate. We’re keeping this quiet for now, James. Do you understand?”

When we reached the den, Israel was setting down a tray on which our hosts had arranged a cascading pile of sliced gouda wedges encircled by a neat ring of melba toast. Jumbo said “Sweet!” and immediately plopped a hunk of cheese between two pieces of toast. With a loud, pulverizing bite, he instantly turned the crackers into a heap of crumbs on the rug. Israel’s smile tightened. Jumbo proceeded to assemble another gouda sandwich.

Sandy entered the room carrying two glasses of red wine. Handing one to Israel, she smiled at me and said, “I’ve got red, white, beer, anything you’d like.”

“Red wine is fine, thank you. I can’t stay long.”

I had a busy night ahead of me. I needed to drive home and grab a few hours of sleep so that I could wake up at 4:03 and stare into the darkness until it was time to get up.

Sandy returned with a glass of red for me, then watched worriedly as her ex-husband splashed a generous dose of SoCo over a glass filled with ice. At that point, the four of us took seats on the sectional like one big, happy dysfunctional family.

“So, what were you old rockers up to tonight?” Israel asked. “I saw guitars.”

Jumbo thumbed in my direction. “You should’ve seen this guy. He hasn’t lost it. Got up and did a few songs at the Muddy. Blew the place away.”

Sandy looked at me. “I didn’t know you were still playing. I’m sorry—was that insulting?”

I shook my head. “People said that to me throughout my career.”

“Jim always said you’d gotten out of the music industry.”

“I did. This was just for fun. Old times’ sake.”

That’s when Jumbo made an august announcement: “Teddy and I are getting back together! Wait—how gay was that? Let me try that again. Tremble is getting back together.”

I shot him a look that said Shut the fuck up.

Sandy’s eyes volleyed uncertainly between Jumbo and me. “Really?”

“Yeah, that’s why Teddy came down today,” Jumbo explained, beaming.

I stared into my wine, wishing I could dive in and dissolve into the scarlet.

“Mingus here has decided that the time is right to bring Tremble back to the world. He’s written a bunch of new songs—awesome fucking tunes—and he played them for me at an open mic tonight. They frickin’ rock! I’ve always said this guy is like the reincarnation of Bob Dylan.”

“Well, Bob Dylan is still alive,” Israel pointed out, “so technically, Jim—”

“This is him, right here! Bob Dylan reincarnated. In the flesh!”

I shook my head at Israel. “Don’t bother.”

“I’m telling you guys, we are so back,” Jumbo blathered on, unheeded. “We’ll round up Warren and Mackenzie, head back into the studio, and cut a record worthy of the Tremble name.” He grinned like he’d just won the lottery.

I gave my hosts a feeble wince. “We really don’t know what we’re doing just yet. It’s all very preliminary. Jumbo is overstating it. Talking out of turn. Like he tends to do.”

The clod took a loud slurp of SoCo and refueled his mouth with things he shouldn’t say. “After a decade, Mingus here has had this amazing creative storm. Trust me, I have an ear for these things.” He touched his ear, showing us where his ears were. “And I’ve obviously still got it, so, you know, sky’s the limit!”

A speechless Sandy gazed out from behind her dated eyewear.

Israel pointed to me with a confused look. “Why does he keep calling you Mingus?”

I shrugged. I didn’t know.

“Well,” Sandy said, crossing her legs with aristocratic reserve, “that certainly sounds very exciting. Jim, maybe this will give you that boost you’ve needed, the direction you’ve been looking for.”

“Fuck yeah!” Jumbo said, erecting another double-decker gouda-and-melba sandwich. “I always knew we had more left in the tank. If you ask me, we gave up way too quickly.”

We gave up when we delivered a record that didn’t sell and I compounded the sin by insisting we promote it all alone, instead of, say, sharing the stage with a band people actually wanted to see. We gave up when the world had given up on us.

As Jumbo applied a disintegrating chomp to his cracker concoction—a spot-on metaphor for the day—my head shook with paroxysms of doubt. He’d gotten worse. There had to be thousands of desperate guitar players out there. All I needed was one. What was I doing here in this house with these people?

“What about your job?” Israel asked his housemate-slash-wife’s-ex-husband. “The midwife thing?”

“Music has always been my first love. You know that, Is.”

Sandy, sensing many a devil in the details, retreated to generalized benediction. “Well, I, for one, wish you two the best of luck. Jim, you know you’re always welcome in our house, but I know this isn’t what you want.”

“Things are changing for me,” he said, frothing with cockiness and sporting a bumptious grin. “I can feel it.”

With that, he threw his arm around my shoulder and shook me, forcing a swirl of red wine out of my glass and onto my slacks. And the rug.

“Nice, Jumbo,” I said, frowning at the fresh stains.

“Oh, did I get you?”

It looked like I’d been shot. Felt that way too. “Yeah, you did.”

“Oh, don’t worry, that’ll come right out,” he assured everyone, as Sandy scampered off in search of a rag.

One day I’ll die, I thought to myself, and this will be one of the things I did with my time.

I set my glass down on the table and thanked everyone for a lovely evening. The creeping bloodred blotch on my pants served as a reminder that Jumbo was a lot harder to appreciate when he didn’t have a musical instrument in his hands. I shook hands with his landlords and made for the exit.

“What are you so pissy about?” he called after me as I evaded his attempt to escort me down the driveway.

“You’re a fucking embarrassment. How could I have forgotten that?” I spun around and faced him, my finger brandished in anger. “What did I just say to you before we came upstairs?”

“I don’t know. You gave up SoCo? Sandy looks like Tootsie?”