Justin Tussing - Vexation Lullaby

See the man on stage. Hes been called a genius, a lovable misanthrope, a national treasure, a fraud. The backlights make a halo of his famously unruly hair a well-known poet, his former lover, called it a pubic pompadour. For five decades he played the enfant terrible; now, at seventy, he is suddenly ancient. While the final note of Last Second Coming snakes through the crowd, he steps forward. The upturned toe of a cowboy boot juts over the black edge. Hes a statue begging to be toppled.

The audience members he calls them his bloodthirsty attendantstry to steady him with their piercing concentration. They owe him everything. After all, hes the one who urged them to leave the dead-end towns where their parents raised them. When they drove from here to there, he rode shotgun, through the purple night, beneath the magnesium sun. When they were careful, when they were conventional, he sang to the reckless selves inside them. If not for him, would they have believed in the righteous joy of heartache? Never. His lyrics and his likeness are inked beneath their skin. Clever allusions serve as the basis for their childrens names and the passwords on their Roth IRAs. Their wills instruct that Wayward Satellite1 play as their bodies are lowered into the raw earth.

Look, hes not even playing. Hes staring into the audience, or through them. Can he perceive anything beyond the spotlights white amnesia? Another inch forward and hell fall. No one has ever looked so alone as he does when hes surrounded by people who love him.

Curls of steam rise from his head. Hes a candlewick. Hes a fuse.

A woman in the front row stretches out her hand and (no!) touches the slim ankle of his boot. His lip curls as he yanks the plug from his battered blue guitar. And then hes gone.

Even after the houselights come up, the audience keeps chanting his name. They can beg all they want, but hes not coming back.

Peter Silver sat in his living room watching Swim, Bike, Die, a movie about a female serial killer who targeted triathletes. The lead actress had a rather large and angular nose, not unlike Peters ex-girlfriends. He might share his observation with Lucy, if only they were still speaking. Like the killer, Lucy excelled at compartmentalization. She had broken up with him in May, despite a tacit understanding that they were nearly engaged. All summer hed anticipated their reconciliation. More recently, he felt a kinship with the solemn folks who stood in front of the Unitarian church holding signs no one bothered to read. What Peter needed now was an exit strategy, a way to stop waiting that wouldnt feel like hed given up on waiting.

His phone rang. Peter felt a twinge of shame. The caller ID showed a blocked number, which meant he couldnt rule out that it was Lucy. He willed himself to answer, lest she assume he was depressed. If she wanted to talk, he could tell her he had company. He wasnt exceptionally depressed.

An older male voice said, Im trying to reach Judith Silvers son.

Peter was Judiths only child; all his most effective nightmares began with an unexpected phone call. It served him right for thinking about Lucy Judith would probably call it karma.

Judith cohabited (her word) with Rolf Stieger. The two of them shared an old prospectors cabin in an arid canyon twenty minutes above Boulder, Colorado. Theyd been together for a decade. Judith didnt believe in marriage; she believed in coconut oil and probiotics. Rolf was Austrian he believed in himself.

Perhaps something happened to both of them? Driving those narrow roads, a house-sized chunk of rock might flatten their car. Or they could miss a turn and wind up in that icy cataract someone named Catastrophe Creek. During Peters last visit, Judiths smoke detector emitted those cricket chirps that signaled the batteries needed changing; how long had that been going? Rolf spent his days around table saws and nail guns he couldnt discern anything quieter than an explosion. What was Judiths excuse? Shed always been able to shut things out. Why hadnt Peter replaced the batteries? If his mother died in a house fire, his cheap heart would be to blame.

Is my mother okay? Peter had already concluded that Judith was not okay people didnt call about your mother when she was okay. The airport was closed for the night, but as soon as it opened he would beg the booking agent to show him mercy and put him on a plane. On the television, the killer prepared to transition onto her bike.

The caller coughed. When he spoke again, his voice sounded smaller, tentative. Is this Peter?

Speaking.

Youre the one Im looking for, the man said.

Peter walked to his sink. Earlier, hed poured a whiskey and Coke, but the drink wasnt sitting right. He felt jittery. Are you with a collection agency? This wouldnt have been the first time someone called asking him to square his mothers debt.

Im a friend of Judiths. She told me youre a doctor.

Peter looked back to where hed been sitting. His wallet and his drink kept each other company on the coffee table the caller would make him reach for one or the other.

Who am I talking to?

This is Jimmy.

The name meant nothing, but Judith subscribed to an inclusive definition of frienda friend could be an intimate confidant or a person shed spoken with at the grocery.

Is there something I can do for you, Jimmy? Practicing medicine conditioned a person to ask lots of obvious, almost imbecilic questions. If Peter didnt ask the most basic questions, his patients assumed he could read their minds.

Im in Rochester, said Judiths friend Jimmy. I was wondering if, maybe, you could set me up with a house call.

Did you say a house call? Peter had never done anything of the sort, but he didnt want to embarrass Judiths friend.

Whats your time worth?

Five thousand dollars. In the movie, a forensic expert had just told the lead detective that the killer rode a five-thousand-dollar bike. The nightcap had been quite strong.

Tony Ogata doesnt charge that much.

Tony Ogata did health segments for one of the morning shows, plus he had a call-in program on cable. His books30 Second Cure and the one about sex, Passionate Lifingwere perennial best sellers.

Before hed noticed the actresss nose, hed barely thought about Lucy all day. It was hard for a woman to pull off an angular nose, but when it worked. . Peter said, I dont think Tony Ogata makes house calls either.

I met him in Berkeley, back when he was dosing Red Rose with amphetamines and packaging it as Focus Tea.

I thought you meant Tony Ogata the doctor.

Enough about him. Youre the guy Im speaking to.

If this is because you dont have insurance, you should know the hospital wont turn you away.

Ive got too much insurance. Jimmy cleared his throat. What do you say? Can we do this face-to-face? This feels a bit too Catholic for me.

The green LED on his microwave told Peter it was nearly midnight. Im just trying to save us both some time.

Me, too. Heres my offer: come see me and Ill pay you Ogatas rate. Id consider it a personal favor.

If Jimmy was willing to pay him, what was the purpose of the favor? And if he wanted a favor, why had he offered to pay? How do you know my mother?