Balls (14 page)

Ahh, shut up, said the bartender.

You think your wine makes me happy, you bastard. Well, I was looking for misery and I found it. So there.

Henry checked his pocket. There was the demo to Castrated New York. He took his last five dollars and put it on the table for Fleming. He said, It's all I have. I'm sorry. I'm in a rush.

Henry could feel his phone ringing again. Fleming was vehemently scratching at his beard. He said, I don't want your money. Just help me up. Help me out of the bar, please.

All right. Fine. Sure, said Henry.

Walbaum was going to kill him. Yet now Fleming was begging Henry to take him home, over thirty blocks up Amsterdam. Henry said no, however Fleming tripped, falling to the floor of the bar. There was sawdust in his oily hair. Henry picked him up. He could not refuse him. On the avenue, he hailed a taxi. The ride took under five minutes. Fleming lived in a large brick building. He couldn't get out of the car alone, and had to be hoisted onto his feet and supported inside. They rode upstairs in an elevator.

Fleming was saying, You'll come inside with me, won't you? Please, come in. Just let me introduce you to my wife. I'll tell her you're my new employer. You would do that for me? Tell her you've given me a job, with a better salary than the last. Oh, she's going to kill me. I hope she gives me a good sock to the face. I want that. God, let the kids be out. I don't like them to hear their mother get so upset. Just tell her you're my new boss, please, and that you're paying me $25,000-a-year salary. Okay? Please, just tell her that. Please, would you? Tell her you had to take me away these last days, for training. That's why I haven't been home. You'll do that for me, please?

They were standing in a long hallway right outside Fleming's door then. But Henry said, I'm sorry. I can't help you anymore. I have to go.

SEVEN

H
enry filed recklessly down the stairwell. He had to get outside, into the open air. But where did that man come from? Ach, don't think about Fleming. Not him. Not Paula. Not Moss.

He resolved to go straight to Walbaum's apartment. What use was there in calling him on the phone? He'd have to go to his door, get down on his knees and plead. That was it. He had no other choice.

Walbaum lived in the West 80s, off West End Avenue. Henry wasn't far. What could he tell Walbaum that would make him understand? Would the truth be powerful enough to convince him that he'd meant no disrespect by standing him up? Henry wondered, the muscles in his face convulsing. Walbaum's doorman led Henry inside the lobby and asked him to wait while he rung up to the apartment. Over and over in his head Henry was singing:

Unfortunately, the reproducing male,
Observing daily the structural depreciation,
Of his city,
Finds now not even the insistent cries of fuck me,
Can get him to come,
No, the decaying visible world has yielded a body,
That knows better,
Than to release its seed,
To make children who will live in a city,
That is fast falling apart—the body wants to know:
Why consent to this?

Excuse me, sir?

Henry gazed up at the doorman, whose hat, like his pants, was a few sizes too large. On his face was a concerned look. The doorman said, Is Mr. Walbaum expecting you, sir?

We're old friends, Henry answered.

Mr. Walbaum told me you should leave.

Henry didn't move. He could still smell Fleming's foul scent in his nostrils, a mix of wine and sweat and dirt. In a firm voice, he said, That's because we're arguing, and from time to time that's how it goes with
old
friends. Can you buzz him again and let me speak?

The doorman wasn't a day over eighteen. He deliberated a moment. By the heaviness of his expression it was clear he thought an answer of yes would cost him his job. This and the nervous rapping of his fingers on the switchboard was enough to make Henry lose patience. He told the doorman he'd call Walbaum himself, on his own phone. He dialed. The phone rang.

A few seconds passed and the doorman said, Mr. Walbaum isn't answering,
is he?

Henry said, Let me call again. His heart filled with pressure. He was determined to get upstairs. He told himself, You'll play your song for Walbaum. You have to. After two rings, though, it seemed Walbaum wasn't going to answer. Henry saw only one option for himself and without delay he made a run for the stairwell. The doorman called for him to stop, but Henry swiftly climbed the stairs. Walbaum was up on the twelfth floor. By the time he'd mounted every flight, Henry thought he'd drop dead. His face was crimson, his mouth hung open, his legs felt like they'd give out at any moment. The doorman was waiting for him upstairs. Henry held both hands in the air, as if he were going to submit, then began to bang on Walbaum's door. He kicked at it, too.

Zachary! he shouted. Zachary, open the door. Let me in, goddamnit!

Sir, please. Restrain yourself or I'll be forced to call the police. Now, you have to leave.

Henry, exasperated, cried, Call the police. I don't care. I won't go until I've seen Zachary.

He screamed Walbaum's name again and again. The doorman had a phone, and said he was now dialing 911. Then Walbaum appeared, his face concealed behind a narrow crack in the door. The doorman apologized. He said there was nothing he could do. He'd tried to stop him. Walbaum said, Forget it, and reached for Henry, yanking him violently by the sleeve into his apartment. He shook him by the arm, said,
You.
You waste my fucking time.

Henry, with bowed head and a pounding heart, tried to state the entire events of his morning. Walbaum wasn't listening. He walked away from Henry, leading him into the kitchen. He wore a gray running suit. He was drinking a kind of health drink from a Mets souvenir mug. He thought Henry's story impossible.

I'm telling you that's how it went, Zachary.

You're lying.

Henry looked at the floor, as if he might get on his knees and swear to him that every word he spoke was the truth. He shrank a few inches to Walbaum's height, holding out his hands to him, said, I know you're angry, I understand. It's Sunday. I
have
wasted your time. I swear, though, I haven't lied, not once. I want to play you my song. It's why we're here, isn't it? Come, let me play it for you. Let's go to your piano.

However, Walbaum's pale face shook. He wasn't ready to give in. He said, I was going to go to the ballgame, today, Henry. I had two tickets behind home plate.

I didn't know that.

Oh—
you
didn't know that. No shit.

I'm sorry.

Walbaum jabbed his finger into Henry's chest. He said, And do you realize you're tracking sawdust through my fucking house!

Henry stared at the floor. It was true. Oh god…I'm sorry.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Walbaum mimicked him.

You see, and that's from the bar, said Henry. There's evidence right there. Should I get a broom?

Shut up. No.

Henry stayed quiet for a moment. He felt sick. He was going to collapse. If everything was lost with Walbaum…if he couldn't win him back to his side…

As it were, Walbaum was screaming, Doesn't matter that we know each other our whole lives, when it comes to business, I'm a stubborn bastard. I have to be rigid in my practices. If I make exceptions for anyone it would disrupt the perception that people have of me. It might get out that
Walbaum
can be pushed around, that he caves in if you bitch and moan enough.

I'm sorry. I know, said Henry.

Oh
you
know.

No. No. I don't know.

Walbaum's crumbling nose wrinkled mad. He said, Home plate, Henry!

I'll buy you a new set of tickets.

You can't afford that. They were a lot of dough. And I know you don't have it.

Henry rubbed his temples. He badly needed water. It wasn't the moment to ask.

And today's a beautiful day to be at the ballpark, Walbaum screamed. You can't get
that
back for me. You
cannot
get
this
day back for me.

No. I can't, said Henry.

Walbaum's chest filled with air. What's happened to you. Two years ago, you were a different man. You had all this positive energy coming out of you. Now what do I see, you're sweating, and groveling—and to top it all off you got a real fucking button problem.

Henry snapped from his daze.

He said,
What?

You heard me, Walbaum pointed at Henry's shirt. He said, You're missing all your fucking buttons. What's wrong with you!

Henry touched his chest. He said, Oh, right. They popped off in the bar. I was under a lot of strain. I'm telling you, these are just more facts to corroborate my story.

Walbaum let out a sort of caterwaul. Henry Schiller, he said.

Zachary.

Henry
ef-ing
Schiller.

What?

Walbaum didn't say more. All he did was dump the brown foamy liquid from the bottom of his cup into the sink and lay his hands down heavily on the kitchen counter.

Walbaum said, You owe me for standing me up today?

I know I do, said Henry.

That's good. That's a start.

Henry had a clear view straight back to the living room where there was a piano. Pointing towards the instrument, it was a Steinway & Sons, a grand piano, a beauty, Henry said, Can we get down to business?

Walbaum sighed. From one shoulder to the other he rolled his head. He said, You
owe
me?

I know.

You
do?

Yes.

You
really
do?

Yes, insisted Henry.

All right. Okay. Let's go.

A moment later, Henry was seated at the piano. He could feel Walbaum's presence heavily over his shoulder, a dark figure. It was Paula who'd told him to always take a second during moments like these, those which could potentially make or break you, and think starkly about their importance. For most often the opposite was recommended. You were told to clear the mind. Empty it of thoughts. But Paula believed this was a mistake. She'd advised him to tell himself exactly what was on the line. Be bold. Fearless. You're meant to do
this
, to be right where you are. So lay out the consequences of failure. Be concise, and honest.

To himself, Henry said, Without Walbaum's support come tomorrow you'll be nothing but a lounge player with one testicle. You'll nail this, so help me god.

Henry began to play. He went easy into the intro, feeling loose. His shoulders were surprisingly relaxed. There was a slight tension in his neck, nothing more. His heart was open to the sound of the notes. It would be the song, he thought, that would define him. Listening to the first verse, he felt proud. What a relief.
Castrated New York
was a great song.

Unfortunately, like Paula, Walbaum seemed to think otherwise. Henry could sense him moving impatiently from one corner of the room to another. There was a bit of laughter from him, too. At the start of the last verse, he interrupted Henry.

Henry. Henry, he said. What are you playing for me here? Is this a joke?

Henry let up off the keys. He could feel beads of sweat rolling down his ribs. He said nothing.

Wasn't the first word of the song
impotent?
You can't start a song with that word. And all this mishmash of notes and dark, dark, dark everything. You're joking right? Play me the real song, for Christ's sake. The one for Bobby Jacques, yeah?

In his thumbs Henry could feel a strong pulse beating. He was going to lose his mind this minute. It was over.
This
was over. Walbaum didn't understand him, his art. Why did he ever think he would? Coming here in the first place proved he was a fool. He rested his hands in his lap, concealing his face. His stomach was wet with perspiration. What would happen to him? He'd end up
where?
In Riverside Park, maybe. Oh, he hated himself. He was an idiot, a moron. But it was obvious to Henry what he must do. He turned to Walbaum and placidly said, No. You're right, Zachary. That song wasn't for Bobby.

You had me worried there a minute, Walbaum chuckled. He patted Henry's back. That's good, though. Throw me a decoy. I like that. You're shrewd. So what's the song? You said the title was an acronym, some
C.N.Y.?

No, Henry wagged his finger, utterly calm, as if there was nothing left to care for in the world. You misheard. I told you
M.S….S.

Well, whatever the fuck you said. Walbaum brought his sallow cheek next to Henry's. He said, What's it stand for?

Henry scratched his neck. He said, You're going to like this. It's called,
Miss Scandinavia
.

Walbaum scoffed. Real Cute. But Bobby's French. And she's a goddamn patriot!

Henry wasn't the least bit phased by this. He said, We'll call it
Ms. France
, if you like.

Ms. France
? Walbaum fiercely shook his head. That has no ring to it, Henry. Do you hear a ring to
Ms. France
? Hmm?

Let me just play you the song, said Henry, his tone even, controlled. You're going to love it. I promise.

Fine. Play the fucking song.

Henry sat up straight, looked with earnestness at the keys and began.
Ms. Scandinavia
came in under three minutes. Lyrically, the verses repeated. After the second chorus came the bridge. A third chorus followed. During the outro, Henry sang again and again as the song would have it:

White nights,
White thighs,
Me and you,
Tonight.
White nights,
White thighs,
Me and You,
Tonight.
White nights,
White thighs,
Me and You,
Tonight.

When the song finished, Henry, pleased, even experiencing a kind of inner peace, turned to see Walbaum slowly walking up and down the room. Walbaum's eyes were closed. His lips were set firmly together. He stopped before a large window, and looked out through it, cracking his neck.

Well…well…well, he said.

Henry began to play Monk's
I Surrender, Dear
. He was gliding through it. He saw the end. Walbaum remained at the window, his back to Henry. He rose up onto his toes, his hands suspended on his waist. He turned to Henry. His expression was nasty. Henry quit playing.

I'll tell you what, said Walbaum…I will tell you
what.
Bobby Jacques, yeah, she's going to sing a song about Scandinavia whether she likes it or not.

Henry hadn't understood Walbaum. He asked him to repeat himself. But Walbaum screamed, Bottom line, she didn't sell two thousand copies of her last fucking record in Denmark and Sweden combined, and that's not going to cut it. Nope.
Uh-uh.
Play it again.

What?

I told you to play it again!

Henry, confused, started from the beginning. Between verses, he looked over his shoulder. There was Walbaum, listening from a crouched position. His fingers were splayed over his head. His lips were moving. When Henry finished, Walbaum told him to play it again. And again. Once Henry had gone through
Ms. Scandinavia
a fourth time, Walbaum began to explain how he already saw the video. It had many heaving breasts. Blondes were flowing from all directions. With the song itself, which Walbaum called, A real hit, he said he might just sell a lot of records. He kissed Henry's brow. It was just what Bobby needed. Walbaum, becoming paler, and more frenzied, started going into detail about her last month in the recording studio. She was blowing twenty grand a week. But she hadn't produced a single song. She'd fired three engineers and four producers. The assistant to the original engineer, a quiet, Japanese boy whose name was lost on Walbaum, in addition to the musicians, who were an assemblage of her own personal entourage, all of them mediocre players at best, were the only persons she'd let in the door. She was wasting too many Brass Music dollars.