Justin Tussing - Vexation Lullaby

On the edge of the Carnegie Mellon campus, I duck into a café. Inside, young people are sprawled out over the furniture as though they’d been gassed. I’m older than any three of them combined.

A plump girl with short blue hair — it’s styled in a severe manner that no one of my generation could look at without thinking of Adolf Hitler — says, “What do you want?” Reading the written-in-chalk menu on the wall, I realize that they don’t sell food. It’s all juices! I ask for their most substantial juice. “You want meat and potatoes, huh?” She calls something to a skinny boy wearing what looks like a woman’s blouse, who mashes a bunch of things into a howling contraption. He hands me a pint glass full of bruised liquid that’s the consistency of cream of wheat.

“What’s in here?”

“Beets, carrots, potatoes, spirulina, kale. . and red grapes.”

Exactly what I deserve for trying to revisit the past. I fork over nine dollars, pinch my nose, and drink it down.

THE GARAGE NEXT to the Peabody Center wants ten dollars. Since I know my way around, I drive until I find a free place on the street. Walking to the venue, the clouds spit rain, but I stay dry from my neck to my ankles. A lot of people believe you have to coddle leather goods, but nothing could be further from the truth. When properly treated (with waxes and plant oils), leather excels in inclement weather.

When I get to Will Call I shake my jacket and the raindrops fly away! But my smile disappears when the high school kid manning the booth says he has no record of my ticket. I tell him to look again, so he turns around and spends ten seconds pretending to check other places.

“I’m not finding a ticket,” he says, not looking me in the eyes.

I see a hundred and fifty dates a year, I see shows in Panama, I see shows in Moscow, in Oakland, in Latvia. In each of those places I’m able to walk up to Will Call and collect my ticket, but in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, there’s a problem. If I went back to my car, I’d be able find a copy of my receipt in the plastic accordion file where I keep my expenses, but it wouldn’t do me any good. I know exactly where my ticket is: it’s in Cyril’s pocket — this is how he punishes me for me shooting Alistair at the airport.

The jet sat parked on an empty corner of the runway. Cross had slept through the landing, through the cabin door being opened and the brisk Pittsburgh air rushing in. He’d slept while the rest of the band, Bluto, Wayne, and Alistair deplaned, cramming into a passenger van en route to the Warhol Museum for a VIP tour. The musician snored through his overlong nose, while someone from the ground crew snapped plastic covers over the engine intakes and exhausts. He slept while Cyril ducked outside to take advantage of a break in the clouds to stretch his legs.

Though Peter had been curious about the museum, he was happy to be on the plane. He finally had a job to do. Even if babysitting underutilized his skill set, Peter liked having expectations that he could meet.

To entertain himself, he sent two picture messages to Martin. The first shot, a fish-eye portrait of the plane’s interior, failed to illicit a response from Vinoray. Upping the stakes, Peter sent a close-up of the singer’s monogrammed kangaroo-leather cowboy boots.

Bring me those boots , Martin replied, and I’ll make you the hospital’s liaison to Rochester’s Junior League.

Peter lifted his phone to capture the coup de grâce , a photo of the sleeping singer. But, though Cross still snored, his eyes had opened.

The singer wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Were you taking a picture?”

Peter waved the phone around. “I was checking my reception.”

“People used to say hi. Now they just shove a phone in my face. When I have to piss, I make Cyril clear the place out first.” Cross swiveled his head. “Where’d everyone vanish to?”

Peter explained about the Warhol Museum.

“Maybe thirty years ago I got invited to this party in a warehouse on the East River. The warehouse didn’t have rats because the rats expected the place to fall into the water. But the place was infested with artists. The owner was a Getty and he had ten million reasons to hate his family.

“This woman and I were dropping hot dogs through a hole in the floor, trying to get a seal to eat them. Someone came over and told me Andy wanted to say hi. I’d met him a couple of times, so I said, Send him over. Andy was pink in real life, not gray like his estate would have you believe. He came over accompanied by this cosmonaut — his friend’s wearing the full getup, boots, gloves, helmet, those crazy Cyrillic letters on everything. The guy inside the suit is sweating so much it looks like he’s having an attack of malaria. There’s condensation on the inside of the face mask. I said, Andy, who’s your friend? You know who it was?”

Peter couldn’t have imagined a name that wouldn’t sound ridiculous.

“It was Rocky! Sylvester Stallone.” Cross kicked off the blanket, walked to the back of the plane, and ducked into the restroom.

Peter checked his phone. Martin hadn’t texted back.

When Cross returned, he said, “How does Allie seem to you?”

The singer wanted a first impression? A diagnosis? The truth: Alistair looked like a candidate for coronary artery disease. In another ten years he might give himself a heart attack by shoveling snow, or sleeping with a twenty-year-old. “I offered to look at his back, but he seemed a little suspicious of me.”

“He’s suspicious of people in general and you in particular.” Cross pressed his hands up against the ceiling of the plane, stretched. “Of all my kids, Allie’s the only one I worry about. His sisters call him ‘Baby Allie,’ even though he’s the oldest. And he’s the only one who calls me Dad; everyone else calls me Gramps.”

Peter said, “He’s made it this far.”

“That’s what I tell myself. At some point the numbers start to mean something. Maybe he’ll read a book, or get his heart broken by a dog, and everything will start to click.” Cross scratched the loose skin under his neck.

“I heard he’s been away for a while.”

Cross turned his head snake-fast. “Who told you that?”

Peter had been under the impression that it was something of an open secret. Ogata had said something the first time they’d spoken. “Is that not the case?”

“I see all my kids. We talk on the phone, do the video thing, get together for holidays. I guess Allie hasn’t been on the tour for a little while, but he’s been holed up overseas. He’s got his own life to lead.”

“That must be it.”

“That must be what?”

“I guess I’d heard he’d been overseas.”

“Well, he’s here now.”

Peter had waited for a plane to get clearance and he’d waited while a plane got de-iced, but he’d never waited like this. All Cross needed to do was snap his fingers and they could be off for Toronto or Rome. It wasn’t the freedom that appealed to Peter as much as the sense of exclusivity, being inside this little bubble. Judith had raised her son to be suspicious of privilege. She believed in waiting in line, in being part of the multitude. Just beyond the jet’s wing a town car waited to take Cross wherever he wanted to go. That idling car would have sent Judith around the bend — something like that would be enough to trigger one of her spontaneous migraines.

Cross opened a bulkhead and retrieved a coat. “Allie wanted to see you for himself.”

“He wanted to see your doctor?”

“Do you feel like you’re my doctor?” The singer still had his back to Peter.

Their conversation had reached a level place. They could leave things as they were and trust that they wouldn’t shift. Cross turned around. He’d wrapped a scarf around his throat.