Justin Tussing - Vexation Lullaby

“I think so. We’re drinking bourbon.” He’d wandered into an arched hallway. The walls were made of white bricks that felt cool to the touch.

“The setlists the last couple nights have been out of this world.”

“Remember, I’m not a fan.”

As his eyes started to adjust, Peter realized that he’d stumbled into the wine cellar. He was surrounded by bottles. He turned around and saw the door he’d come through. There was a sign — it couldn’t have been clearer — Staff Only.

“Listen, tell me where you’re at. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Peter felt a jolt of anger. “Did you fly out?” This was his thing. He didn’t want to share it with Martin.

“Believe me, I looked into it, but I couldn’t pull the trigger. Nobody’s willing to cover my shift tomorrow. Besides, I’m not a neurosurgeon.”

“We’re at a delicate balance.”

“You sound wasted.”

Peter reached out and grabbed a curtain to steady himself. “Promise me I’m not in trouble.”

“You’re the goose that laid the golden egg. But tell me where you are. I’ve got a friend there who you need to talk to.”

Peter found Cyril’s text and forwarded it to Martin.

•••

BY THE TIME he got back to the dining room, the table had been invaded by an armada of endive boats. Some transported dirty rice, some smoked trout, others featured little balls of blue cheese that had been rolled in candied walnuts.

Maya asked the table to excuse her.

When she was out of earshot, Alistair said, “I hope you plan on sleeping with her.”

“Be decent,” said Peter — there’d been women Peter had wanted to sleep with whom he ended up sleeping with, but in his whole life nothing ever reached the level of a plan.

Cross, who had been staring into a tumbler of bourbon and stretching his lower lip with his tongue, said, “I need to talk to the doctor.”

Cyril stood up. “Bluto, how about you and I take Allie out for some fresh air?”

Bluto scooted out from behind the table. “Sounds like a plan.”

Alistair shook a napkin in front of his face, said, “Abracadabra,” then he slid under the table. A moment later he crawled out from beneath the tablecloth. “A great magician never reveals his tricks.”

Watching Alistair and Cyril walk toward the front of the restaurant, Peter wished he’d gone with them.

“You didn’t have to save my life,” Cross said.

“You’re not saved yet.”

“The treatment’s the easy part.”

Peter hoped so, though what Cross called “the easy part” was more commonly referred to as brain surgery.

Cross reached a finger out and poked Peter in his chest. “You’re still magic, you know.”

“Bluto’s right. You need to eat something.”

“I’m going to help you be successful.”

Peter threw his hands in the air. “What makes you think I’m not successful?”

Cross shot a finger up toward the ceiling, then had it do a swan dive into the table.

“I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean?”

The singer tapped his finger on the table. “If your life was where you wanted it to be, there’s no way you’d have wound up here with me.”

“For your information, I have a colleague who’d kill for the chance to switch places with me.”

“You’re talking about his dream. It’s not yours. Besides, you didn’t make this happen. Right? I did.”

Sure, he could be happier. But what was he supposed to do? Did a person become the changes he wanted? The voice in his head sounded a lot like Tony Ogata.

“Remember what I said earlier? I owe you a lot. I owed you before you found a time bomb in my head.”

“Everybody’s drunk,” Peter said.

“Promise you’ll let me help you.”

Deep inside, Peter could feel himself resisting. Why? Wasn’t it possible that his resistance was the thing holding him back all along? If ever there was an offer one couldn’t refuse, this had to be it.

Cross bent over and fussed with something under the table. In the next moment he reached his cowboy boots out to Peter. “I saw you looking at these earlier. Take them as a token of my feelings.”

“You can’t sit in a restaurant with bare feet.”

“Correction. You can’t sit in a restaurant with bare feet.”

When Rosalyn wakes from her nap, I’m sitting at the edge of her bed.

“Did you get any rest at all?”

I shake my head.

“Have you been here the whole time?”

“Almost. I needed to run out to do an errand.”

“Mission accomplished?”

“Notice any changes?”

“Did you get your hair cut?”

“No, but thanks for reminding me.”

She scrunches up her face. “You’re being mysterious.”

“I’ve got a secret.”

“I know.”

•••

ROSALYN FEELS THAT she needs to conserve her energy, so we order room service. She has a Cobb salad and a skinless chicken breast, while I eat half a rack of ribs. We sip sweet ice tea with mint and lemon wedges; we watch the currents of syrup folding in the liquid. Rosalyn tells me she enjoys watching me eat. She can’t help but see my thinness as evidence of neglect. She cares and cares.

I tell her Cross’s entourage has been drinking all day, and that if she needs to miss a show, tonight wouldn’t be the worst one to miss. The odds of another Pittsburgh aren’t very good. My voice echoes in my head, The odds of another Pittsburgh aren’t very good.

Rosalyn says she doesn’t want me going alone, so we trade my front-row ticket for a pair of seats near the back of the room. The opening act plays and plays. Either they’re trying to milk the opportunity for all it’s worth, or someone has asked them to stall. The lead guitarist and singer make banter between each number. It goes on too long, but nobody boos, the crowd stays civil. After an hour and a half they quit the stage. The lights drop.

I check out the soundboard. Instead of the steady calm of Milton Fletcher, Brucie Tzizek sits at the table. At first I wonder if he’s the source of the delay, but then I see him cover the mouthpiece of his headset and yawn. He’s not even looking at the board. The holdup isn’t on his end.

Rosalyn prods me with her elbow.

In the twilight darkness, a knot of bodies stumbles among the instruments. It’s like watching security footage of clumsy thieves. Only, the thieves aren’t taking anything. When they retreat, they leave a dark form in front of Albert’s drum kit.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please help me welcome. .”

The band takes their places as the stage lights pop on. Cross sits, marooned on a white folding chair, his charcoal cowboy hat pulled down to his brow, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses. Instead of his honey-colored Gibson, he’s behind his Nord electric organ — he rests his hands on the keyboard. It’s unfortunate that the instrument’s stand so closely resembles those aluminum walkers you find clogging the halls of every convalescent home.

The band plays the melody to “Long Gone” but Jimmy never moves his hands, never leans toward the microphone. I know the audience will applaud when the song finishes, yet I’m still disheartened when they do. Cross rouses himself enough to play keyboard on “Wayward Satellite,” yet Dom (!) handles the vocals. 43The band waltzes through “St. Sebastian,” while Cross, looking crumpled, does his best imitation of a martyred saint.

Rosalyn turns to me. “And I thought I had a rough day.”

Cross grabs the microphone and bends it to him. “Got a special guest.” The singer stirs his hand in the air, as though he’s corralling a soap bubble or a feather. “Get out here. Come on. I’m big proud.” The other guys look to Dom. “My inspiration. Okay. . big hand.”