Free Thank You, Goodnight by Andy Abramowitz Page A

every band was awarded some little time-warp town that remained forever loyal, perennially committed to the notion that the group for which it pined would one day rise from the ashes. Perhaps there was a village in Tibet where everyone wore a Men Without Hats shirt and sang “The Safety Dance” all day. Maybe a town in Cameroon woke up every morning breathless with sunny hope that Katrina would round up the rest of the Waves and launch a tour.
    “You seem like a nice group of mountain people, but being cut off from the rest of humanity has messed with your minds,” I said.
    Tereza’s eyes bore into me, her face beset by a disturbed crinkle crawling its way across her nose. “Is this how all Americans say thank you, or just you?”
    I watched her plate a sausage for a hungry guest. She delivered the food with a warm, hospitable smile and a gentle pat on his shoulder. It struck me as a nurturing gesture, maternal even, and I found myself asking where her mother was.
    “She died.”
    “Oh.”
    “Two years ago.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that.”
    “We were boating on the river.” She jerked her chin to the side, signaling that the river in question was a neighbor, a familiar friend. “We flipped over in the rapids and she hit her head on a rock. Drowned before my father and I could pull her to shore.” I watched the light from the burning coals flickering across her face as she kept her distance from the memory. “It’s amazing how quickly things happen, you know? One minute we were a family in a boat, the next minute we were in the water, and then we were on the riverbank and she was gone forever. She still had her life vest on.”
    “I’m sorry I brought that up.”
    “It’s fine.”
    “That must’ve been really hard on you and your dad.”
    She gazed out at the lawn crackling with life, friends and relations fading into the falling night. “We’ve never been alone.” She said it as though it were a mixed blessing.
    The back door of the house suddenly flew open and Heinz-Peter came lurching out. “Teddy!” he called merrily. He was carrying a long wooden object—an oar? an ax?—and slinging it in the air as he giant-stepped his way across the dark yard.
    I squinted at the implement that this madman was waving over his head. The remaining pockets of light finally revealed its identity.
    “Oh Jesus,” I groaned. “Is he fucking kidding me?”
    *       *       *
    “You don’t get it,” I yelled at the crowd. “You people have all lost your minds.” They didn’t seem to care that they’d lost their minds. Maybe that’s the beauty of losing your mind. “It’s out of the question. Go hassle Wang Chung.”
    At the sight of the guitar being wielded by their host, everyone untangled themselves from their conversations and joined Heinz-Peter in beseeching me to do an impromptu gig right there on the lawn. And no matter how forcefully I rejected their ludicrous invitation, no matter how much disdain and hostility I showered upon these hill-town hicks, still they egged me on. An intimate backyard concert,they argued, would be an ideal coda to an evening they would cherish for the remainder of their lives. I told them to get a grip. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d picked up a guitar, and I’d long forgotten the chords and the words to all the Tremble songs. And anyway my mouth hurt like hell.
    “I’d rather lick a train station toilet than play for you people,” I declared.
    “You are with friends, yes? Play for us!” H-P cried out, holding the instrument out to me with the rallying charisma of a medieval ogre.
    “You are not my friends,” I insisted.
    “Play for us, Teddy Tremble!” he boomed.
    “Listen to me carefully. You all need therapy. You’re embarrassing yourselves.”
    The fucked-up chanting and screaming was growing louder and more fanatical. A real musician would’ve soaked up all this ego stroking, riled the crowd up louder like a shirtless stadium