Andy Abramowitz: Thank You, Goodnight

This was my legacy. This was what the world now thought of the lead singer of Tremble, one of the most popular bands in the world a short decade ago. When they thought of him at all.

I struggled to suppress the stream of profanities boiling upward in my throat, and I came dangerously close to spending the night in a British jail for attacking a defenseless photography exhibit.

One final poster cemented my disgrace. It spelled out the title of this collection in bold black letters:

FADED GLORY:

WHERE DO THEY GO WHEN THEY HAVE NOWHERE TO GO?

A mug shot of the artist was conveniently located underneath, just in case the viewer was moved to spit, deface, or otherwise trash what he or she was looking at. This Heinz-Peter Zoot was a burly, shaven-headed, toothsome son of a bitch, some breed of carnival barbell slinger looking merrily proud in a white muscle shirt—fucker got all dressed up for his photo. I studied the features of this meathead, a man soon to die by my hand. To my immense horror, it dawned on me that I knew him.

I marched back to the picture of me and the nachos. Yes, goddamnit! I knew him! The memory of the encounter came roaring back. The cantina was in Amsterdam, where I’d traveled two years ago on firm business. All I’d wanted that night was a quiet dinner, but I kept noticing some jerk staring at me. I probably said something polite, like “Do you fucking mind?” and he apologized in heavily accented English—English dunked brusquely in the milk of Somewhere Else. Then he said he recognized me the moment he walked in and couldn’t believe his luck. He was a big fan. I must’ve been in a good mood, because instead of swiveling my chair in the opposite direction, I invited him to pull up a stool. Which he did, and then proceeded to regale me with the extent of his fandom. He sang the praises not only of our first record, but also of our follow-up album—which exactly nobody owns—and even claimed to still listen to our music on a regular basis. I didn’t dislike him. I bought the moron a drink. I smiled for his camera. I raised a Corona with him as another patron took our picture together. I was downright affable, and usually I am downright not.

And where did all that accessibility land me? In one of the world’s most famous galleries, looking like the King of the Schlubs. In case the world was wondering where that loser from that nineties band was hanging out these days, he was sitting alone in a cheap Mexican tourist trap, a big fat salsa stain on his shirt and something gross in his teeth.

I glared at the act of betrayal hanging on the wall and plotted a riotous squall of violence. “I’m going to fucking kill him,” I seethed.

A sudden flash of light burst onto the canvas. At first I thought the photo had somehow come alive. Then I turned my head. The flash went off again, this time searing into my eyeballs. Someone was now taking pictures of me, right there in the Tate. When I regained the use of my retinas, I saw the culprit. He looked like a rat. “Ha! It is him!” he crowed. Today was this scrawny little punk’s lucky day. He’d watched the subject of a photo witnessing himself in that photo, and thought, Well golly, that itself should be a photo. How meta. How Being John Malkovich . There’s something slightly audacious, scandalous perhaps, about the way in which the miserable slob observes himself being portrayed as a miserable slob.

I bared my teeth at the kid, but was somehow only able to point to the sign in the doorway. “No photos! Can’t you fucking read?”

He hooted and darted off in a blaze of raw denim, leaving me to worry about which gallery that picture would end up in.

My exit from the music world was not graceful. We called the second record Atomic Somersault , but a more apt title would’ve been Atomic Belly Flop . No hit single, undetectable levels of airplay, and an unacceptably low draw on tour, all culminating in the inevitable blow of being dropped by our label. My agent, the otherwise indefatigable Alaina Farber, conveyed that particular news item at her chic New York office, rare vapors of surrender in her voice. Clad in a tight, hypnotically pink pantsuit—the color of teenage rebellion hair—she rocked back in her desk chair with a leg up on the table. While squeezing one of those hand grippers that make your forearms look like a relief map of Mexico—Who’s the go-to person for opening jars now!—she informed me that she’d gotten a call from the record company.

“Game over, cupcake,” she said. “Tremble is being released.”

I’d seen it coming, but still it stung. “What are our options?”

“Well,” she sighed. I’d never seen her sigh before. “We could always see if there’s interest from an indie, something smaller but still with decent distribution. It’s worked for other bands.”

These suggestions were infused with exactly zero enthusiasm. Alaina had other clients, ones that actually sold records, ones whose concerts were a gathering of people, not empty seats, ones who could support her expensive perfume habit.

Lifting herself out of her leather chair, she strutted around the mahogany desk and leaned her slim figure against it. “Maybe now’s the time to downsize, go small and less commercial. Free yourself of public expectations.”

“I think the public expected us to make good music. Maybe we didn’t do that on this record.” My eyes remained downcast on Alaina’s stiletto heels, which at that moment struck me as the ideal implement for puncturing a balloon. Or someone’s dreams.

“Buck up, sugar packet.” She playfully tousled my hair. “You hit the jackpot with that stupid song of yours. It’s going to bankroll your kids’ rehab stints. You’ll be collecting royalty checks until you’re wearing Depends.”

I let out a weary breath and proceeded to look abused and dejected, mistreated by the industry and misunderstood by the vox populi. I didn’t think Atomic Somersault was a bad album, just one that, as it turned out, had limited appeal. That wasn’t really my fault, but record companies weren’t concerned with the assignment of blame. A sense of accountability only came with the burden of a conscience.

“Listen, you know I’m not the kind of girl who says I told you so, but headlining a tour by yourselves instead of going on the road with the Junction? Head-scratcher, man. You shocked us all with that display of self-admiration. I say this with love, Teddy, but you were a dumbass of the highest order to turn down a tour with those guys. No one’s saying they’re not despicable human beings, but because they sell out everywhere they go without even trying, we overlook the occasional lapse in moral judgment. Six months of packed stadiums opening for the Junction would’ve set you guys on fire again. But no. You had to go it alone. Because you’re Teddy Tremble and special and you had one hit like two years ago—an eternity in this business—and a new album that nobody cared about. You kind of fucked the dog. You fucked it hard.”

“All of this you’re saying with love.”

“I’m just saying it was a missed opportunity, and I never really understood why.”

I contemplated the carpet.

Two of her fingers, delicate as satin gloves, lifted my chin. “You’re sulking, Theodore. You do know there’s a fine line between tragic cowboy and wallowing drip.”

“This is my life we’re talking about. I don’t get five minutes of self-pity?”

“Self-pity is a gateway drug. Look, we’ll get a suite at the Paramount, we’ll shoot back Jameson from the minibar. There’s an awful lot I can help you forget.”

The fact that Alaina’s body couldn’t distract me from my crumbling life only underscored how unfit I was for this industry. Besides, her stab at seduction was no more than the playing out of a familiar dynamic. She’d made a sport of offering herself to me, and I’d made a rule of declining. I’d already, on one occasion, mixed business with pleasure. It happened only once, it involved my wife, and nothing had been the same for me since.