Don't Start Me Talkin' by Tom Williams

Author:Tom Williams
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC019000, FIC000000
Publisher: Curbside Splendor Publishing
Published: 2014-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

8.

Your Funeral & My Trial

MOST MORNINGS, I WAKE AS SOON AS BEN RETURNS from a jog or finishes a shower, and today I hear him pouring cereal in a bowl while humming “Take the A-Train.” Only I’m pretending to be asleep, uncertain if I want to spend much time in his presence until the awards ceremony tonight. A sheet close to my face, I sneak a quick look. He’s in his green track suit, looking out the window, returning to his bowl of bran in front of the silent TV. His routine’s been interrupted—two whole days without a jog or workout—and he fidgets and leaves his seat before he’s taken a spoonful of cereal. I feign a snort, roll over and flatten my face against a pillow, trying to get back to sleep when I know I won’t. When I got in last night, I thought Ben was doing what I’m doing now but he never woke. I needed to remove myself from the stage because I damn near flew all the way back to the hotel replaying the applause and admiration. The people there may have walked in ignorant of Silent Sam, but they left knowing who he was. I hadn’t even played that well. Sounded more echoey than I like and bent some wrong notes right. Hunt begged me to jam some more in his Midtown apartment, but I said no. In the room at three, I took out my gummy contacts, shed my clothes quietly—they smelled like I’d rolled on the floor at the J.O.B.—then stuffed them in my garment bag, away from Ben’s fussy nose. Though my body was fatigued, my mind stayed busy, seeing my hands clutched around my harp, my bent elbows rising past my chin, as if I might generate enough energy to lift my whole body off the stage.

Recalling these moments while Ben washes out his cereal bowl feels wrong, especially after the compliments he gave me back in Detroit. Especially since he took us out of our way to attend the awards. I haven’t thanked him enough. Now I roll back over, try the other side, but my mind’s alert and my body is too, though I couldn’t have slept more than—what time is it? Five hours. Damn.

That’s when Ben goes into the bathroom and the shower comes on. I’ll wait for his next move before I let myself out from under the Holiday Inn’s smooth sheets. He’ll know exactly what I did, I’m afraid, as soon as we’re up and about in the same space. Time passing isn’t going to remedy anything, but it’s the best solution I can summon. I close my eyes tight, pull a pillow over my head, hearing Michael Hunt shouting, as he did when we finished “I Can’t Be Alone”: “This is the real deal, y’all. Silent. Sam. Stamps!”

•••

Around eleven, I’m showered, shaved and still not relinquishing my hold on last night. Ben’s just back from some errands, but I’m not sharing any news.

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