Justin Tussing - Vexation Lullaby

Peter watched the rest of show while standing beside Cross’s son. Instead of watching the spectacle of his father on stage, Alistair kept himself busy fiddling with his phone. Maya, who had edged closer to the action, bounced on the balls of her feet and applauded whenever the mood struck her. Peter had heard somewhere that sports reporters were forbidden from rooting for a team while sitting in the press box, and he wondered if a similar rule might be in effect backstage. Between songs he clapped in a noncommittal way.

At one point, Cross posted up next to Dom so they could trade riffs. The audience ate it up, the pulsing lights, Albert whomping on the bass drum, Sutliff sawing away on a contraption that looked like a piece of string art. The whole hall was on its feet. And in the middle of this, this event, Alistair leaned over to Peter and said, “I need to get something to eat. You want to come?”

Peter didn’t understand how anyone could walk away just then.

Alistair tapped Maya on the shoulder. When she gave him her attention, he pointed a thumb at the back of the hall. Just like that, they were gone.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, after the band had left the stage, and after the audience had managed to call them back for an encore, Cyril squeezed Peter’s shoulder and said, “Follow me.”

The bodyguard led Peter outside, to a narrow alleyway buzzing with a frantic, sickly light. A pair of black town cars idled.

Cyril opened the front door and pushed the doctor inside.

“Wait,” the bodyguard said, either to Peter or the driver.

The two men waited in silence.

The next thing Peter knew, Jimmy was inside the car, the bodyguard beside him.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Cyril said.

The driver rolled out of the alley, merging with traffic. As they passed the front of the concert hall, Peter could see bodies filing into the lobby.

By tilting his head, Peter was able to catch Cross’s face in the driver’s rearview mirror — Jimmy had a towel around his neck, his face shined with sweat. Thirty-five years before, had Judith watched him onstage? Had she tried to catch his eye?

Jimmy pinched the towel over his nose and blew. “Where’s Allie?”

It seemed to Peter that the question had been directed at him.

Cyril said, “He and the girl split. He was worried about finding a place with an open kitchen.”

“Maya,” Peter said.

Cross took another sip of water. “You fixed his back pretty fast.”

“He didn’t let me touch him.”

The driver took a sharp turn and the car dove underground. They came to a stop in front of a pair of yawning elevator doors. A bellboy stood there, waiting for them. Peter, Jimmy, and Cyril boarded the waiting elevator.

“Did Allie invite you to tag along?”

Peter turned around so he was facing Cross. “He did.”

When the doors opened, Bluto stood before them, a friendly frown stamped across his face. He handed Peter a key card before walking Jimmy and Cyril down the hall.

IN HIS ROOM, Peter removed his tour pass and lay it on top of the dresser. On its back, in a rectangular space where a photograph might have gone, someone had written, “Short brown hair / buggy eyes / probably in Dockers.”

Peter missed his own bed. He was susceptible to homesickness. His first semester in college he’d considered dropping out because he couldn’t stop imagining Judith sitting alone at their kitchen table. He’d been happy otherwise and didn’t have trouble making friends.

Medical school hadn’t been as rough. Right after Peter entered the program, Judith sold the store and moved away. After the fledgling flies away, does the mother bird dismantle her nest? He might have taken it personally, if he hadn’t been so preoccupied with not failing out. Who changes careers and time zones when they’re forty? Judith Silver, that’s who. Compared to her, Peter was gutless.

He didn’t drift to sleep; he plummeted.

Dear Mr. Pennyman,

Did you notice that on 10/10/2010 the tenth song Mr. Cross played, “Blackstrap,” was also the 10th song on his 10th album (counting LPs and EPs together). I thought it was interesting. I checked out 7/7/07, 8/8/08, and 9/9/09 (he didn’t play that night) and didn’t see any patterns. It was probably a coincidence. I only noticed because 10 is my favorite number.

What if he plays “Linda of Fort Orange” on November 11, next year? That would be so great!

The reason my email address uses a woman’s name is because it’s my mom’s. I’m not old enough to have my own email. I’m twelve!

Sincerely,

Aidan

Dear Aidan,

Thanks for your letter. I hadn’t noticed the 10s and now you’ve got me excited about next November — can you believe we have to wait a year to test “Aidan’s Hypothesis”? I hope you’re right.

Your friend,

Arthur

Dear Disgusting,

My boyfriend got us tickets to the Providence show. It was a present for our six-month anniversary. Both of us volunteer as community activists and agents of change; we don’t have a lot of extra $$ for things like concerts. I was really excited for the show. And then I saw you, two rows in front of us, wearing the flesh of a once beautiful animal. Have you ever thought about the sentient being that was tortured and murdered for your “fashion” sense? I could smell the suffering coming off that hideous coat. I started crying and then my boyfriend started crying, too. I wanted to say something to you, but the thought of standing any closer to you made me physically ill.

Later my boyfriend realized who you were and showed me this site. If you are a human being, do me a favor and imagine this: right before you die, someone sticks a steel hook through your ankles, hangs you upside down, and peels your skin off your body.

Alyssa

Dear Alyssa,

I’m sorry that I ruined the concert for you. In my defense, I’ve had the coat for a long, long time. By now I would probably have gone through five or six or more synthetic coats — produced by processing oil, the application of poisonous chemicals, dyes, solvents. Once those coats outlived their use, they would probably wind up in a landfill somewhere.

I will try to be more mindful in the future. I hope you get a chance to see another show.

Arthur

Mr. Pennyman,

This past spring, my wife and I celebrated our forty-second anniversary. She liked to tell people that we would have been high school sweethearts if only I hadn’t been so shy. She had just started phased retirement at the freight company where she’d worked her whole life and was volunteering for a local women’s shelter. On July 16th, on her way home from the shelter, she fell asleep at the wheel and her car drifted into the oncoming lane. The surgeon who worked on her when she came in said he didn’t understand how she could be alive. He told me she must have had a lot of love connecting her to the world. For three days our sons and I sat beside her and urged her to keep on fighting. When the boys and I woke up on the fourth day, the hospital’s PA was playing Cross’s “Mourning Psalm” and we knew the time had come to say our good-byes. She passed that afternoon, having never regained consciousness after the crash.

I’m writing to you in hopes that you might consider adding her story to your archives. My wife’s name was Della Anne Mason.

In gratitude,

Gregory, Patrick, and Owen Mason

Dear Gregory, Patrick, and Owen,

I am very sorry for your loss and I am humbled to receive your letter. I will not forget Della.

In friendship,

Arthur Pennyman

Dear Pennyman,

Longtime fan here. I’ve been reading you since your newsgroup infancy. Up until now I haven’t had a reason to write, but you were correct about Rochester. Cross hasn’t been feeling like himself. Don’t ask how I know;-)