Justin Tussing - Vexation Lullaby

“Do you think I have to be told not to irritate it?”

Peter suggested he try alternating warm and cold compresses.

Alistair rolled his eyes. “I assume that’s if I want to feel more uncomfortable.”

It seemed that Alistair had sent for Peter because he’d wanted to be entertained. This suspicion was strengthened when Alistair suggested that the three of them find a restaurant.

“That’s exactly what I want to do,” said Maya.

“Perfect,” Alistair said. “I saw a pierogi place nearby. We’ll drink vodka and have donuts for dessert. It’ll be an all-potato meal.”

Peter couldn’t sneak out. He wasn’t merely on call — he’d agreed to be embedded and he needed to stay embedded. “I can’t leave the building.”

“My father won’t fire his new pet for insubordination.”

Peter decided to take the high road — he’d seen what happened when Dom had tried to quarrel with Alistair. He didn’t want to be humiliated in front of Maya.

“We can bring something back for you,” she said, which he found encouraging.

And he really was hungry. Since lunch, all he’d had was an oatmeal cookie. “It’s up to you,” he said, “I guess I’ll be backstage.”

“We’ll bring you something,” Alistair said, “but wait here. If you head upstairs, I’ll have to deal with people and I’m not in the mood for that sort of hassle. The place is only a block away.” With the pipe staked in the corner of his mouth, Cross’s son looked like the love child of General MacArthur and Genghis Khan.

“What can we get you?” asked Maya.

“Surprise me.”

Maya said, “We’ll be quick.”

“He literally said, ‘Surprise me,’” Alistair was talking to the girl.

WHEN PETER LEANED his head against the wall he could hear something, but he was no longer sure if he was listening to the band or the audience or the building itself.

He hoped Alistair had given up on the pierogi place and brought him back a cheeseburger. If he was getting into shape, then his muscles needed protein. Not if he was getting into shape — it was happening. He’d never been able to stick with an exercise program; he’d always found it a little vain, like tanning. He suspected Lucy had slipped that notion into his head. Or, who knows, maybe Judith had made some offhand remark that stuck with him. How much of who he was had he cribbed from other people?

Up on the ceiling a red light flashed intermittently; Peter kept losing it and finding it again. He couldn’t be sure if it belonged to a smoke detector or a camera.

Maya had practically begged him to come along, and he’d let her walk off with Alistair because of some sense of responsibility. Going forward, he would give a little more thought to the consequences of his principles.

Ten minutes passed, or an hour. Now he was sick with hunger. When Alistair returned, he’d say something about being considerate to others. Or, maybe, they’d bring him two hamburgers.

The Blister poked his head into the dressing room. He had an open can of beer in one hand, and bundled electrical cords hung on his shoulders like bandoliers. “You hot-boxing motherfucker.”

“Alistair went out to get some food.”

“We thought you were AWOL.”

Peter took his phone out — a message blinked across his screen: Searching for signal .

“They’re already at the airport.” The Blister shook his head, reached a phone toward Peter’s face. “Bluto wants to speak with you.”

He’d gotten a contact high, Peter realized. He was stoned. He held the phone to his ear.

“Marco?”

“This is Peter.”

“The response I’m looking for is ‘Polo.’ You want to try again?”

“There was a miscommunication.”

“Wayne says he texted you, but you didn’t get back to him. He feels bad, but not seppuku bad.”

“Alistair knew where I was.”

“Well, that’s all milk under the bridge. We’re already on the bird, which means you’re humping the dog tonight. That’s the situation. Pretend you’re Dian Fossey or something and we’ll see you in Columbus.”

The Blister finished his beer and dropped the empty can on the floor. Putting a hand on the wall, he bent over and retrieved another beer from a pocket near his knee. He cracked the top, sipping the foam from the mouth. “You enjoy medicine?”

“I do, Mr. Blister.”

“Mr. Blister was my father.” The man laughed at the ceiling; then he dropped his eyes to Peter’s. “Let me give you a little background: I was a guidance counselor with a mortgage and a Volks-wagen. However, due to social anxiety, I now carry a walkie-talkie and sleep in a berth. A few dozen Valium left in a paper sack would be a godsend, or we could forgo the whole cloak-and-dagger business and you could lay the stuff on me.”

“That’s a nice speech, but I’m not a pharmacy.”

The Blister rubbed his bristly head with a dirty hand, smiling, “You need me to walk you to the bus?”

Peter said he could find his way.

The driver, a walnut-skinned woman with a high forehead and a stud in her nose as big as a cuff link, introduced herself as Aisha Moon. She wore steel-toed engineer boots and denim overalls on top of a thermal undershirt, a style that the doctor thought of as rural butch.

He had spent some time on buses. As a boy, he and his mother used to take Greyhounds to see his grandparents on the gulf coast of Florida. Judith insisted they leave their car at home, because a woman traveling alone with a child made an easy mark.

Inside the crew’s bus, Peter was aware of scents on top of scents, lemon on sage on Lysol on bleach; it reminded him of the carnival game where you had to cover a larger yellow circle with five red disks. Beneath all of the clean smells lurked something fetid, something swampy, like a dead turtle.

Peter was getting settled in a seat at the front of the bus when a bearded dude in a kilt climbed aboard.

Aisha said, “Heads up, Lumpy, Bluto asked the doctor to grab a urine sample from you.”

The man stopped in his tracks. “If Bluto wants my pee, he can shake it out himself.”

“She’s joking,” Peter said.

Lumpy scraped a toe on the carpet. “Sorry if I escalated that.”

“Get some rest, sugar,” said Aisha.

“I need to take the edge off with some RollerCoaster Tycoon,” Lumpy said, pushing through the curtain.

Peter’s phone buzzed as the missed texts finally caught up with him.

Head 2 stage door when encore starts.

Paging Dr. Silver. STAT.

Enjoy Pittsburgh.

“Someone checking up on you?” Aisha asked.

“Sort of.”

“Wife or girlfriend?”

Peter turned his phone toward her. “Wayne.”

Fletcher boarded, followed by a guy dressed head to toe in brown tree-bark camouflage.

Cross’s soundman looked at Peter. “Shouldn’t you be on the plane?”

“I’m collecting urine samples.” Peter meant to be playful, but the way the guy flinched told him his aim was off. Then he remembered Bluto telling him Fletcher was in recovery.

“He’s messing with you,” said Aisha.

“An attempt at humor,” said Peter.

“I get it.” Fletcher turned to his companion. “Brucie, have you met the doctor yet?”

The man stuck a hand out. “Charmed.”

“Brucie’s got webbed toes,” Fletcher said. “You ever see that before?”

“It’s called syndactyly.”

Aisha spoke up. “So, while I’m driving, am I to assume you guys are giving each other pedicures?”

Brucie stooped and pulled a plastic pint of orange juice from a refrigerator mounted in a cabinet beneath the television. “It helps pass time between the handjobs.”