1. And so we found ourselves at the 12 Galaxies. Field Agent Tovah Bernstein, née Officer Bar Davis, had given each of us a pager. When trouble comes, she said, press the red button. She promised her team would provide a swift response.
Who was this team? The bar was overrun with its usual crowd of dudes in their mid-thirties, each one aging catastrophically—spare tires tucked into tight V-neck shirts, horn-rimmed glasses, lenses greased up by the usual straggle of thin, long hair, a feigned earnestness, referential fucking humor—a cabal of high school girls forever updating and reupdating the parlor scenes from Little Women.
Also, I admit it: Carrying a gun is nice. Each time the holster banged against my chest, it felt like a bionic heartbeat. Ellen had stowed her gun in her handbag, reasoning that if there was a need to shoot, I should be the one to pull the trigger. How grateful I was to hear that! Till then, I had simply assumed that she, athlete supreme, feminist by bodily example, and recipient of better alumni magazines, would have taken the lead.
2. The lights dimmed. The crowd shuffled up toward the stage. I looked over at Ellen. She just shook her head.
A thin man trudged onto the stage. From our spot back at the bar, all I could make out was the flash of a large pink birthmark on his cheek. I can’t remember if it was the left or right cheek. When his somber march to the microphone stand came to its end, he about-faced and said, “Thank you guys for coming out to the party. We have two wonderful performers tonight, including the man, the legend, Frank Chu. Afterward, myself and Alan, my co-owner over the years, will be saying some words for the closing of the club. But before all that tearful sadness, let’s celebrate what made the 12 Galaxies a Mission staple since 2002. Our great performers. So, first let’s welcome Mr. Brownstone to the stage.”
The black curtain behind the stage ruffled and split. Out came James, naked, save a codpiece and Ellen’s teal shoes. Pigeon-toed, ankles collapsing from the effort, he strutted up to the mike.
“Hello, everybody. Thank you so much for coming out tonight. You could’ve been anywhere, but you’re here with me, and I thank you. We have a great show for you tonight. Frank Chu is here. Thank you so much. I am Mr. Brownstone, your host for the festivities, and I’d like to get you warmed up with a little of what I call … po-eh-tree!”
From speakers hanging over the stage, a trio of voices sang out an unmistakable gospel harmony: “Well Mary, Mary don’t you weep … Tell Martha not to moan … Martha don’t you moan. Pharaoh’s army … Pharaoh’s army … know they’ve been drowned in the Red Sea … Singing, Mary … oh Mary don’t you weep … Tell Martha not to moan … Moh-whoawhoawhoa-an …”
The familiarity of the hymn, the gospel chords unmistakable from Mahalia Jackson YouTube searches, Ray, and all those civil rights videos watched to kill time in elementary school Februaries, sent a charge through the crowd. Cell phones and flipcams were glowing.
I’m proud to say, I knew better. Because when the gospel trio got to the second “Martha don’t you moan,” the alto collapsed down into a flat, souring the harmony into something else, a chord I had heard hundreds of times before in Seth’s orange Volvo.
James, thank God, complied.
“Bonebonebonebone … bone … bone, bone, bone. Bonebonebonebonebone … bone … bone, bone, bone, bone! Now tell me what ya gonna do, where there ain’t nowhere to run.… When judgment comes for you, when judgment comes for you! What you gonna do, when there ain’t nowhere to hide, when judgment comes for you, ’cause it’s gonna come.…”
I heard Ellen gasp, and sweet relief washed over me again. She knew. Swelling in a pause, James threw up his hands in a maestro’s pose and waited as the crowd took in a deep breath, ready to sing along.
“Ehhhson, liggimowahlay, easyseemichar-LAY, lilboogodogogotay, and I’m gonna miss everybody, ImaohnahrohwiBomagawhatheyloay … wheplaywidestinadee fometosay … duhdoomackasaylillazykaymay, todlmayseewellBury MemyGan-Ganandhwenyoucaaaayn.…”
DURING ONE OF those mornings in the orange Volvo, when we were feeling wild enough to skip precalculus, Seth and I tried to transcribe every word in E. 1999 Eternal. How could we have known, back then, how much damage we were doing to our future selves? Because every time “Tha Crossroads” comes on, everyone, well, everyone I know, at least, starts singing along incoherently, but smiling, and I, who know the actual words, feel cheated, at least a bit, because there are only so many songs a bunch of kids who grew up together can sing together without feeling territorial, nasty, or horny, and when these moments come unforced, it’s nice to be thinking the same things as everyone else.
I understand. I am being insufferable. It has occurred to me several times over the years to just go ahead and fake it. Mumble along with the crowd and hit the only distinguishable parts that everyone knows—“can anyone anybody tell me why? We die, we die, we die …”—and the unmistakable, feet-splitting “And I miss my uncle George.”
And yet, Ellen’s radiant face, a swimming pool at night, the kids stomping around, incoherently babbling along to this song, which could have been about anything, really (how would anyone know?), but, by dint of the music video, which featured some overly lit, dry-ice-choked stage on which the five Bone Thugs, solemn angels, clasped their hands, and pleaded for the Angel of Death to not take away their friends, that we all knew was about death, and not our deaths, but a scattershot brand whose quickness we would never quite comprehend, and, of course, the understanding that my days on earth might end tonight, all of it, dare I say, the synthesis of these melancholy, conditional thoughts, opened up a battered vault of nostalgia.
I staggered a bit. I thought of Ronizm, Bone Thugs, quesadillas in plastic bags. For some reason, I felt very sad about my sister. Once all this was over, I was going to give her a call.
JAMES HOBBLED OFFSTAGE to riotous applause. A woman sidled up next to me at the bar. Her breasts were bundled up in a T-shirt that read ZENGATRONIC.
This Zengatronic smiled. She said, “James told me to tell you that he apologizes for stealing your girlfriend’s shoes, and if you come backstage, he will both return the shoes and reimburse the cost. Please follow me.”
I reached into my pocket and hit the button of my pager. I saw Ellen do the same. Then, up near the stage, at the end of the front row of folding chairs, a head, hair grease shining in the floodlight, popped to attention.