Part 6 (1/2)
I believed him. I loved him. He thought that if I put the music down, I could love him more. As if it were another man diluting my attention. I didn't know what to think. Toward the end, I was just trying to prove something.
”When you did play, what kind of music was it?” he asks.
”All kinds. Mostly bluegra.s.s.”
”So you're not kidding about that.”
”No.”
”Do you like it?” he asks. ”Playing in a group?”
”When it's going well, there's nothing like it.”
”And when it's not going well?”
”There's something in that, too. But come on. You know all this.”
”I have a Kryptonite,” he says.
I nod. Most musicians are comic-book nerds.
”I hate messing up,” he says.
”Everybody hates that.”
”You ever mess up?”
”Of course.”
”What did you do?”
”Come on,” I say, feeling a little impatient. ”You know the rule. People listen with their eyes. When you mess up, you just keep smiling and they never know.”
”But you know,” he says.
”Sure, I know.”
”How do you live with it?”
I laugh.
”Isn't it humiliating?” he asks.
”I don't let humiliation in. Anymore.”
”How did you get past it?”
”I just figure I'm trying something. I'm making an effort. It's easy to scoff when you aren't trying. The way I see it, the world is divided into two parts. People who do stuff, and people who mock the people who do stuff. I'd rather be a doer.”
”I've never gotten past it,” he says.
I nod, smoking my cigarette and inspecting him as I squint. He stares at me, waiting.
I say, ”Music is like Communion or something. You don't do it because you're perfect. You do it because you glimpse perfection. You realize it can take you a step closer. You move toward it because you're hoping it can make you better.”
Franklin nods and stares into the foam of his beer.
”Do you ever regret it? Regret the first time you heard a song you loved and wanted to make that sound? Be a part of it?”
”No.”
”You don't? You don't wish you had been good at something else, like science or math?”
”Oh, that isn't scary? Calling Albert Einstein. Calling J. Robert Oppenheimer.”
”Or cooking,” he says, as if expecting that retort. ”Or having babies.”
”Botulism,” I say. ”Placental abruption. Being alive is scary, Franklin.”
He takes a long, satisfied sip from his beer, as if this is exactly the conversation he wanted to have. I can see that I haven't disappointed him, and that makes me nervous, as if I have something to lose.
”I want to start a band,” he says, coming full circle. ”I want you to be in it.”
”Okay,” I answer.
”Just like that?”
”What else am I doing?”
He smiles. ”A bluegra.s.s band, I'm thinking. Well, more like a duo,”
”Okay, a bluegra.s.s duo. You on guitar, me on fiddle. Who sings?”
”Me, probably,” he says.
”Sure, why not.”
”That's a real thing, a bluegra.s.s duo, right?”
”Real as anything.”
He laughs and says, ”What will we call ourselves?”
”The Rogues,” I suggest.
He shakes his head. ”Too simple.”