Free Eyes Wide Open by Andrew Gross Page B

years ago, he downed his usual two Rob Roys at a local watering hole in the Hamptons, where he still had a small house near the beach. The bartender remembered him going on about some new idea. A couple of women were at the bar, but they didn’t want to be bothered by him. He threw a twenty on the table and waved good-bye.
    The next morning they found his car at the bottom of Shinnecock Bay.
    A fter dinner, we sat around the living room, Charlie strumming on the guitar. “Evan was getting pretty good himself,” he said with pride. “Even better than me!” He picked through versions of “Get Back” by the Beatles, the Byrds’ “Mr. Tambourine Man,” “White Room” by Cream, Rod Stewart’s “Maggie Mae.”
    â€œJay . . .” His eyes lit up. “You remember this?” He sang, “ Just when you say your last good-bye / Just when you calm my worried fears . . .”
    I did recognize it. It was the song he had recorded back in L.A. More than thirty years ago. “One Last Thing.”
    â€œJust when the dawn is breaking / There’s always one last thing . . .”
    He always played the same two verses. Only them. To this day, I wasn’t sure I’d ever heard the whole thing through.
    Charlie cooed, happily. “ Ooooh, girl, it’s always one last thing . . .”
    He put down his guitar. “You know it got to number twenty-nine on the charts,” he said with his ground-down grin. “In 1973. Of course I was crazy as a loon back then. Not to mention I was popping LSD like vitamins. I got to thinking my record company was trying to screw me. Hell, I thought everybody was trying to screw me then . . .” He cackled, a glimmer in his eye.
    â€œHey, check this out, Jay!” He went over to the chest against the wall and came back with a bulging photo album. It was stuffed with artifacts from his past: pictures of him, of him and Dad in happier days at his beach house. Charlie growing up in Miami in the sixties, before his crazy hair and wild eyes.
    He laughed, “I was so deluded on acid I told them I would burn down their fucking building if they didn’t send me out on tour. And you know what they did? They pulled the record! Right off the airwaves.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that! And you know what? I could hardly blame them. Who would put a nut job like me out on the road?
    â€œBut you know what, Jay? Maybe if I hadn’t been off my rocker back then, you might be sitting here with Rod Stewart. You wear it well . . . In a mansion in Brentwood, not this shit hole here, right? Look . . .”
    He opened the album and pushed it over to me, a soft smile lighting his eyes.
    It was a clipping from an old Billboard magazine. Yellowed, dog-eared, protected in a plastic liner. Top Singles for the week.
    I noticed the date: October 1973.
    At number one was “Angie” by the Rolling Stones. Midway down, I saw a red, drawn-in arrow marking number twenty-nine:
    â€œOne Last Thing.” Charlie Earl.
    â€œHey! ” I grinned. I’d never seen this before. I never even knew if I truly believed him, all the times he talked about it.
    Charlie winked. “Not bad from your loony older brother, huh?” Then his grin seemed to wane. “Hell, who’s kidding who, right? Biggest moment of my life, and I fucked up the whole damn thing. Guess that’s where all our similarities end, right, Jay?”
    He picked up his guitar again.
    â€œCharlie, what do you want me to do?” I asked him. I came over and sat across from him. “About Evan. You want me to find you a lawyer? You want to try and make a case against the hospital? You know I’m going to have to go back in a couple of days.”
    My brother nodded, scratching his scruffy beard, pushing his graying hair from his eyes. “We don’t want a lawyer, Jay. People