Justin Tussing - Vexation Lullaby

P.S. My middle name is Calico. And, yes, after “Calico Floozy”! My parents didn’t realize that most people know the song title, but aren’t aware that Calico is not a floozy, but very chaste.

Dear Teresa,

What an interesting subject. I am more than happy to respond to your questionnaire.

Like most people, I can’t really identify a time before I knew Cross’s music — it might surprise you to know that I haven’t always been a fan. In fact, I didn’t connect to his music until I saw him perform a live show.

The short answer is that I spend all of my hours on Cross, easily seventy to eighty hours each week.

I met Cross for the first time on 4/26/91, at a Mexican restaurant called La Noche in San Antonio. Sadly the restaurant has since been renovated into a cat hospital. He was having dinner with his stage manager and a woman I didn’t recognize. He was very friendly.

I don’t have space (and you don’t have time) for me to answer this question. The short answer is: profoundly.

I watch football games on occasion, but I would not say I follow the sport.

On the street? How about from a few blocks away. As of today I have seen Jimmy perform 2317 live concerts. He would probably recognize me even if I wore a disguise.

In 1996, I was in a car accident outside of Flagstaff, Arizona, that fractured my left tibia. I saw the show that night and the next day I drove a rental car to Las Vegas. Not to be insensitive, but the closest I’ve come to missing a show was after 9/11. Cross played Chicago on 9/10 and flew to Miami that night. I was scheduled to fly at midday the next day, but, of course, the flights were canceled. I would have missed that show, but Cross didn’t perform — there was a feeling that six thousand people under one roof for a concert would be disrespectful; plus we’d be sitting ducks for the terrorists.

I spent 100 % of my personal wealth following his tour. More recently, I have spent approximately 60 % of an inheritance to continue this project. Should Cross tour into his eighties, I will almost certainly be destitute.

I think you should reconsider whether you want to ask this question of your subjects. For one thing, if a certain number of people happen to answer in the positive, then you will find yourself in the position of reinforcing what I think to be a rather hurtful stereotype (that fans are nuts). Second, I don’t see how it relates to the other questions. It comes out of the blue. Has your advisor looked at this questionnaire? Does he or she approve? And why, if you’re going to bother asking, do you say it’s “Optional”?

Sorry if that the last question triggered such a strong response. Please don’t get the impression that I resented your email. This was a lot of fun!

Best,

Arthur Pennyman

There are also a number of emails that I do not respond to. I’ve included some below:

Jimmy smokes dog cock. Neil Young Rules.

(A bully, my father used to say, is a person who punches someone when they want to punch themselves. Neil Young Guy is a man in Oklahoma. 19He emails at least once a week. “Don’t point at the monkeys in the zoo,” was the advice offered by Captain Bisquick, 20my informal tour mentor during my first year on the road. In CB’s formulation, a “monkey” was anybody not on tour, while the “zoo” was the cage everyone’s life tended toward. One didn’t point because reminding the monkeys they were caged only inflamed them.)

Dear Mr. Pennyman,

We are writing to update you on our continued search for Kathleen Potts, our only daughter. As you may remember, she has not been seen nor heard from since July 8, 2002. Credit card records show she purchased a ticket for the Jim Cross concert that night (like you, she is a big fan of the musician). We know also that she had rented a hotel room within walking distance of the concert hall.

My husband and I have attached a picture of Kathleen to this email. If you see her, please call us immediately. There is a $15,000 reward for information that leads us to her. If you’d be willing, we’d like to send you more copies of the Missing Person poster.

Thank you again for your time,

Ellen and Dale Potts

(Maybe something terrible happened. Or maybe she doesn’t want to be found. I’ve looked at the picture many times. If I saw her, I believe I’d recognize her. But what I’d do then, I can’t say. Though they don’t mention it in their note, Kathleen was twenty-five when she disappeared. She’d be thirty-three now. I don’t reply because I’ve got no news for them and the last thing they need is for me to feed them hope.)

At ten the next morning, Peter said good-bye to his condo and his charmless car and took a cab to the Regency. He brought a large roller suitcase stuffed with clothes and personal effects. A smaller carry-on contained — in addition to the memorabilia — basic medical supplies: nitrile exam gloves, gauze and tape, burn dressing, two compressions bandage, a glucose meter, an IV kit, one bag of glucose, one bag of sodium chloride, one bag of Hespan, one bag of sterile water, a blood pressure cuff, a penlight, two insulin pens and two epinephrine pens, heat packs and cold packs, an intubation kit, a suture kit, a portable pulse oximeter, a stethoscope, a CPR mask, Ativan and tramadol, ibuprofen and Ambien, an infrared thermometer. He had enough space left over for the portable defibrillator that the band’s insurance rider required travel with Cross.

Peter had agreed to meet Bluto in the hotel’s lobby at ten-thirty, but the manager was nowhere to be seen. The elevators kept burping out people in suits and ties.

A few minutes after eleven, the elevator shuddered to a stop and a bellhop wrestled two overloaded brass carts into the lobby. He towed the luggage past the front desk, out a side door, and parked it beside the valet station.

“You been here long?” Bluto wore a maroon tracksuit that made him look like a tick. His smooth cheeks looked slapped.

“Not too long,” Peter said.

“You ready to get your cherry popped?”

“Something like that.”

“I’ll tell you when we’re ready to go.”

Peter looked toward the hotel’s entrance. A glossy black bus had pulled up to the curb. As he watched, the driver went around unlatching the side compartments.

“You want a hand?”

“Don’t be a Boy Scout.” The tour manager rolled Peter’s luggage outside, shaking his head.

At eleven-thirty Peter’s phone buzzed. Bluto asked, “Where are you?”

The driver waited by the door of the bus, gray curls stuck out beneath a Greek fisherman’s cap. Peter introduced himself. “Okay,” the man said, “don’t make us late.”

Two booths and a deep leather sofa constituted a little lounge at the front of the coach. Bluto sat in the second booth, a sheaf of spreadsheets and a laptop in front of him. A heavy blue curtain blocked off the rest of the bus

“Is it just us?” Peter asked.

Bluto hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “The rest of the inmates are getting some undeserved rest.”

“Should I say hello to Mr. Cross?”

Bluto checked his watch. “Mr. Cross is in California.”

Peter wished he’d brought a magazine.

The driver took his seat and closed the front door. “We clear for takeoff?” he asked.

Without looking up, Bluto said, “Kick it.”

A few miles outside of Buffalo, a barefoot kid in a chef’s hounds- tooth slacks and a black T-shirt emerged from behind the curtain. He slid into the booth across from Bluto.

“You need something?” the road manager asked, still tapping away at his computer.

The kid pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and flattened it on the table.