I dreamed about the band, my old band, Point Blank. I saw Diana sitting in a theater lit to be taped for TV. She was dressed in a shimmering silver gown, her hair arranged in a complicated twist, earrings dangling. I was sitting beside her wearing a tux. “And the winner is Tom Good!” said a voice, Diana screamed with happiness and threw her arms around me. I had tears in my eyes as I held her tight, kissed her, then let her go and walked to the stage.
OK, I didn’t dream it. I thought it. I daydreamed it. I wanted that, not the TV part, necessarily, but the part where I was a winner at something and she loved me for it. I used to have a chance at that. I hadn’t always been a bartender who had once, accidentally, had something to do with some hit songs a long time ago.
I remembered the band’s disbelieving stares when I told them I was quitting. What had done it for me was the interviews, people asking about my life. I couldn’t say, “My brother died. My teacher died. Everyone was looking at me, so I had to act busy. My brother was the talented one, not me. I have nothing. It’s not a real band; it’s just something I made up to get me out of a bad situation!” I couldn’t tell them that, because it would just lead to more questions. Besides, all I wanted to do was hide. So I quit.
I couldn’t know then that once you started something like this, once you made a band and wrote some songs, it could go on forever without you, whether you wanted it to or not. Nobody told me that. How would I know?
Looking back on it, I could see why everybody was so shocked when I left the band. From here at the other end of a couple of decades, I supposed that band might have seemed to people as real as any other band. At the time, however, this idea had not occurred to me.
Now I got out a cassette of some songs I’d been working on. I put the tape in the machine and pressed play. The songs seemed to have melodies, singable lyrics, and even, well, meaning. People might accept these as the real thing. If I could Just get in touch with the guys in Point Blank and let them know I was available again, they could use some of these. I pictured Diana singing along with one of my songs as it played on the radio, my son bragging to his friends. It was my band, after all. I started it. I picked those guys out of everyone who auditioned. I’d listened to their last CD. Some fresh energy couldn’t hurt. They needed me. And once I got going writing songs for the band again, well, anything could happen.
I made a new tape of fifteen songs. It took me a whole day. I’d pick a song, put it on the tape, listen to it, think about the ones that led up to it, choose one to come after it. Twice I had to change the order completely, starting over at the beginning. It had to be right. I thought fifteen was the right number to start with. I didn’t want to overwhelm them with too many, but still I had to let them know I had plenty. I looked at my tapes shelved by date. Lots and lots of songs. There were certainly plenty to choose from.
I thought about the life I could have been having. I pictured Diana and Jack in a house with a pool. I heard one of my songs floating through the air. “This is my house,” I sang. “And this is my family…” There was a whole song there, I could tell, but I didn’t have time to write it down now. I was focused on another project; I was creating my real life. I looked in the phone book for the number of Point Blanks management company. I dialed, and a receptionist answered. I said, “Bill Gladstone, please.”
“Mr. Gladstone is no longer with the company. Is there someone else who could help you?”
“Oh, well, who represents Point Blank these days?”
“Point Blank, the band? Oh, I don’t know. I love Point Blank! Do you work with them?”
“What? They don’t—no,” I said. “Never mind. Well, thanks anyway,” I said. I hung up.
I must have one of their CDs around here somewhere, I thought. I dug around for a long time until I came up with one. Luckily, they thanked their manager and everyone at their management company, which was in New York, of all places. Well, fine, whatever. I called information and got the phone number.
I got another receptionist. “Hi, my name is Tom Good, and I need to get in touch with the band Point Blank.”
“Could you hold, please?”
“Sure.”
“Thank you.”
Very polite, I thought. They ask you if you can hold, they don’t just force it on you. I waited a long time. A song played in my ear. It was new, thank goodness, a girl singer whose name I couldn’t remember. It started with a P. It was a seemingly simple melody that stuck in your head and lyrics that also seemed straightforward but had resonant meaning that twisted back on itself a couple of times.
“Hello?” It was the receptionist again. “May I help you?”
“Oh, I’m waiting for you to connect me with Point Blank’s manager.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t do that. You can contact him by e-mail or by traditional mail through this office. The address is—”
“No, you don’t understand. This is Tom Good. I wrote ‘I’m Losing My Mind,’ ‘Self-Destructive Tendencies,’ and ‘Worse Than Ever.’ ”
She didn’t say anything for a second. Then she said, “So did you want the address or not?”
“No,” I said. “I want to speak to—”
“Sir, I can’t—hold on,” she said, because another line was ringing. Now I was listening to another song, a hip-hop song about sex.
She was back. “Sir, let me put you through to one of the secretaries.”
“Good idea, you know, I’m not just some—”
“Mr. Franks office?” said a different voice.
“Oh. Hi. This is Tom Good. I wrote Point Blank’s early songs, on the first album, I actually started the band, and I was wondering if I could get a message to them. To the band.”
“Sure.”
“Sure? Oh, great, because I was expecting you to put up a fight! The woman who answered first—”
“What’s the message?”
“I mean, look, I know it’s part of your job to protect these guys from weirdos and obsessive fans and so on, but isn’t another part of it getting people through when they need to get through?”
“Absolutely,” she said, “What’s the message?”
“OK, um. OK, it’s for Adam Blackburn. This is Tom Good. Tell Adam that I would like him to call me.” I gave her my number.
“I’ll give him the message.”
“When?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Like, today?”
“As soon as possible. They’re recording right now, so I’m not sure they’re going to be available.”
“They’re recording? Perfect. If you could try to get that to them right away then, I would really appreciate it.” Of course, I realized that she had no incentive to do this. “They will too,” I added. “The band will. Appreciate it. They will.” I was becoming less convincing with each word I uttered.
“I’ll do my best.”
“I know you will. You sound really—”
I was going to say “reliable,” “sincere,” something to inspire her to rise to that level, but she interrupted me.
“I’m sorry. I’ve got another call.”
“Well, thank you for doing this for me. Really. I appreciate it. So much.”
“Sure thing.”
She hung up. I hung up. I tried to calculate how long it would take to hear back from them. The trouble was, I had no idea where they would be recording, so I couldn’t figure out the time zone. I pictured Adam waking up to the blinking red light of a hotel phone. I saw him get the message, smile, and call the other guys in the band. I smiled myself.