Free Elimination Night by Anonymous Page A

and get in their goddamn
cars
and drive to an office? No way. They’re always calling me up, wanting to know how it’s going on the road. They want me to tell ’em how
hard
it is, that I’ve grown out of it. But I haven’t, Sash. I still love this life.
It’s who I am.
I made my choice, and I’ve never regretted it.”
    “Jesus, Dad,” I said. “Enough with the obituary already. You’re only forty-three.”
    “I just wanna prepare you, Sash. You’ve got some big choices ahead. You finish college this year. And I know you wanna write that novel of yours, whatever it ends up being about. But that’s not gonna be easy. There’ll be bills to pay. Mom’s gonna want you to get a
real
job. You might even want to take a real job yourself, when you see your friendsbuying apartments and cars and clothes and all that bullshit they think they need. But write your book, Sash. Find a way—’cause if you don’t, you’ll never forgive yourself. Trust me.
Do what you love.
”
    Back then, of course, I hadn’t written a word. The knobbled, weary old man of my imagination had yet to set off on his unwise journey across the Black Lake of Sorrow on a night when the shutters of the Old House were closed.
    Next time I saw Dad, it was in Mom’s living room. They’d put him in his favorite tux, trumpet by his side. Open casket. The cancer had been genetic, apparently—no avoiding it. Everyone got drunk, then the band played him out:
A Taste of Honey,
of all things. The Herb Alpert version. I was a mess. Angry, too: why hadn’t he gone to a doctor earlier?
Why hadn’t he told any of us?
Stevie, Jimbo, and Fitz were there, all in shirts and ties, all still very much alive. My God, the stories they told.
    Of course, if I’d known that Dad was giving me his last words in the diner, I would have stayed for dessert. Or at least some coffee. I would also have taken the opportunity to ask for some clarification: Like, how can you do what you love if the thing you love isn’t a job that anyone will pay you to do? What then, Dad?
What then?
    I tried calling Len a second time.
    Stabbing at the digits on the screen, I noticed three unplayed voicemails from a number with a Honolulu area code. Brock. What with the chaos of the press conference, I still hadn’t gotten around to calling him back. I hadn’t spoken to him since… wow, last week. But he’d understand. He always did. I liked that about Brock: His laid-back personality. The fact that he let me do my own thing.
    Now Len’s phone was ringing again in long, ragged tones.
    Ringing.
    Ringing.
    Hang on a minute… it was actually
ringing.
As in: Ringing here in the room, somewhere behind—
    I turned, and there was Len, walking toward me, his face so paralyzed by preshow Botox injections, he might as well have spent thenight in a cryogenic chamber. Behind him: Bibi, Joey, JD, and Wayne—four across, like a slo-mo credits sequence. Teddy and Mitch lingered behind, each trying not to acknowledge the other’s presence, but failing conspicuously. I felt light-headed with relief.
    Oh, thank you, God.
Thank you.
    Joey had out-crazied himself this time: He was barefoot, with a feathered scarf around his neck and what appeared to be a shark’s tooth lodged in his hair. Still, he had nothing on Bibi. For this important occasion, Teddy had selected for her a golden chain mail dress, crotch-high plastic boots, and detachable cape. She looked like a visiting extraterrestrial queen from the forty-second century. As for JD and Wayne, they’d both chosen dark gray business suits, in two very different sizes.
    “You ready now?” asked Len, pointing in my direction.
    I was aware of some kind of movement in my jaw, but no sound was coming out.
    Sensing my confusion, Len said, “Oh, these guys all had a little breakfast together at Wayne’s place—a camaraderie-building exercise. Then we decided to do some prerecorded press stuff outside before we got going. New start time is 11:30 a.m.