Andy Abramowitz - Thank You, Goodnight

“I was but a young whippersnapper, but I do have some wonderful memories of Shanghai and all of us living together in my grandparents’ puny apartment. Every evening, my grandfather and I would sit and listen to music, just the two of us. He’d put on records of old Chinese folk songs and we’d park ourselves on the floor, side by side. I remember the dusty vinyl smell of the speakers, the claw scratch of the needle dipping on the grooves. I can still picture the way the old man would soak up that ancient music, his eyes closed, a contented smile on his face. Looking back on it now, I know he was trying to pass these songs on to me because he feared that his round-eyed son-in-law would one day drag his beloved daughter and granddaughter back to the States—shanghai us away, if you will—and I would live my whole life estranged from my native culture. Which is exactly what happened. And thank the good Lord for that.

“Then one day my dad came home with a Beatles album. Rubber Soul . Imagine, Teddy darling, what a coup that was. This was China in the early seventies. You couldn’t exactly flip on Casey Kasem’s American Top 40 . I have no clue how he got his hands on it or how it even got into the country, but it wouldn’t be totally outlandish to suggest that my family was the only one on the entire mainland to be rocking out to the Fab Four.

“Now, I’m sure my dad expected his old-world Chinese father-in-law to recoil in horror at this brash, obnoxious Western music. You know, like, Dude, where’s my lute? But he fucking ate it up! Couldn’t understand a single lyric, mind you, but the guy went bananas for ‘Norwegian Wood,’ ‘Michelle,’ and ‘In My Life’ like an American schoolgirl in heat. So now my grandfather would come home in the evenings and instead of putting on creaky recordings of a bamboo flute from the Ming Dynasty, we’d sit together and spin Revolver , Magical Mystery Tour , and Sgt. Pepper , because my wily old man somehow got hold of the whole freakin’ catalog.”

I found myself transfixed, amazed by how much I hadn’t known about Alaina. I guess I’d assumed she’d just materialized on the planet one day in her current feline form, accessorized and pissy.

She snapped her fingers at the air. “Pay attention. I am going somewhere with this. So, when I was seven, my dad finally came to his senses and said enough of this shit. He got a job at a restaurant here in the city and moved my mom and me to New York. My grandparents, of course, stayed behind in the old country like the good little Commies that they were. Now, I know it’s been decades upon decades, but God, Theodore, I have a clear memory of that last night together, the night before we left China. My grandfather and I sat down on the floor like we always did, but on our final night under his roof he didn’t put any records on. He was too sad. He just sat there with this dark look on his face. He looked like he was losing everything. I still see it, Teddy, I really do. I didn’t know what to say to him. I was just a stupid, albeit uncommonly beautiful, kid. I didn’t understand distances, separation, missing somebody while you grow older, any of that.

“Finally, after sitting there quietly for a long time, I got up and put on a record. It was ‘Let It Be.’ I told him not to be sad. One day I would move back to China and we’d be together again, but until then, he could play his Beatles records over here in Shanghai and I’d play them in New York, and we could each imagine that we were sitting in the same room, listening side by side like we always did.”

I stared at her, hoping she wasn’t going to come apart. I wasn’t good with that.

“See? I was kind of a nice kid,” she said.

“We’re talking about forty years ago,” I reminded her.

“Anyhoo, I obviously never moved back to Shanghai and I only saw my grandfather a handful of times after that. But when he died a few months ago, my mother and I flew over there to go through his things. We were cleaning out the apartment—that same little place I knew as a kid—sorting through all the random shit you accumulate over the course of a lifetime. And do you know what I found?”

I shook my head.

“The albums of one stupid, insignificant, boring little band. A collection of nobodies that named itself after its marginally talented, bland-faced front man. The same marginal talent that’s sitting in front of me now. None of the other acts I’ve worked with over the years were to be found, and need I remind you, there have been some big ones. Real big. A lot bigger and a lot better than you.”

“I think you’ve made your point.”

“The only records in his collection that had anything to do with his precious granddaughter’s career were yours. You were my first client to make it big, and I imagine that made him a whole mess of proud.”

I blinked at her, unsure how to respond.

Alaina suddenly turned dark and serious. “It’s a terrible thing, Teddy, to die while missing someone. Don’t you think? It seems like something too brutal for the universe to tolerate.”

Then she rose and walked around her desk, positioning herself directly in front of my chair. It was a simultaneous act of intimacy and control.

“So, my little rhubarb,” she said, folding her arms. “Are you catching my drift?”

“Did you really just say ‘a whole mess of proud’? We’re Eudora Welty now, are we?”

She kicked me on the shin. “Are you getting my point?”

I looked up at her. “I think you’re trying to tell me that you have an overdeveloped sense of loyalty. Either that or your grandfather lost interest in your career very early on.”

“I have an overdeveloped everything.” She smiled warmly. “It’s good to see you again, Teddy Tremble. And in the name of my grandfather, I forgive you for ignoring my existence for the past ten years.”

I rolled my eyes. Then, heavily, I reached into my jacket pocket and removed a CD. “I’m actually not here to talk about the past.”

Alaina’s eyes turned devilish at the sight of the CD, and she accepted it with a quizzical twitch of the nose. “What is this? Do you have a son or some grandnephew in a band?”

“You can go fuck yourself, you know that?”

“Oh, believe me, I know.”

“It’s me,” I confessed lamely.

“You?” she gasped. “But . . . but . . . I’m confused. You’re not a musician. You’re a lawyer. You gave all this up years ago. You left it behind, turned the page—”

“Will you give it a rest?”

She regarded the jewel case dubiously. “This is really you? I’m speechless.”

“That’s not what speechless sounds like.”

“So, go ahead. Tell me your story. There’s obviously a story behind this, probably sadder than the one I just recounted about my dead grandfather, but you’re clearly dying to tell it to me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because FedEx still costs less than a train ticket.”

“You got me there,” I said.

“Beautiful does not seem stupid.” Leaning her slender body over the credenza, she inserted the disc into a glistening piece of stereo equipment that had a CD tray, a USB port, an MP3 dock, and anachronistically, a tape deck. “Is this new music you’ve brought me or swing versions of your oldies? Extended dance mixes with Moby? Tremble for Babies?”

“It’s new stuff.”

“Hmm. Delusions of relevance. I’ve seen this movie before.”

“Maybe I’ll exceed your expectations.”

“That’ll be easy.” She snickered. “So before I subject my delicate ears to your cacophony, tell me where you think this fits in.”

This was the familiar Alaina, the one constantly aquiver with a marketing angle. Everybody had to fit in somewhere. The Pet Shop Boys were still at it because the musical tastes of Eurofags hadn’t evolved in the past quarter century. The few members of Lynyrd Skynyrd who hadn’t ridden over themselves with their own motorcycles could still do “Gimme Three Steps” to a crowded barbecue because somebody had to make music for dirtballs. So where did that leave me?