My long-fotten history peeked out from behind the curtains. The questions Mes posed during hypnosis had dredged up memories that had been repressed for more than a tury, and fragments of those subscious recolles began intruding into my life. We would be perf our sed-rate imitation of Simon and Garfunkel when an ued Germanism would leap out of my mouth. The boys in the band thought I was tripping, and wed have to start over after a brief apology to the audience. Or Id be sedug a young woman and find that her face had morphed into the visage of a geling. A baby would cry and Id wonder if it was human or a bundle of holy terror that had bee on the doorstep. A photograph of six-year-old Henry Days first day of school would remind me of all I was not. Id see myself superimposed over the image, my face reflected in the glass, layered over his face, and wonder what had bee of him, what had bee of me. No longer a monster, but not Henry Day either. I suffered trying to remember my own name, but that German boy stole away every time I drew near.
The only remedy for this obsession was to substitute another. Whenever my mind dwelled on the distant past, I would force myself to think of music, running alternative fingerings and the cycle of fifths in my mind, humming to myself, pushing dark thoughts away with a song. I flirted with the notion of being a pain even as college aspirations faded while awo years slipped by. In the seemingly random sounds of everyday life, I began to abstract patterns, which grew to measures, which became movements. Often I would go back to Oscars after a few hours sleep, put on a pot of coffee, and scribble the notations resonating in my head. With solely a piano available, I had to imagine an orchestra in that empty barroom, and those early scores ey chaotifusion over who I am. The unfinished positioentative steps back to the past, to my true nature. I spent ages looking for the sound, reshaping it, and tossing it away, for position was as elusive at the time as my own name.
The bar was my studio most ms. Oscar arrived around lunchtime, and Gee and Jimmy usually showed up midafternoon for rehearsal and a few beers—barely enough time for me to cover up my work. Halfheartedly, I plunked away at the piano before our practice was to begin on an early summer afternoon in 67. Gee, Jimmy, and Oscar experimented with a few chord ges and rhythms, but they were mostly smoking and drinking. The area kids had been out of school for two weeks and were already bored, riding their bicycles up and down Main Street. Their heads and shoulders slid across the view through the windowpanes. Lewis Loves green pickup truck pulled up outside, and a moment later the bar door swung open, sending in a crush of humid air. His shoulders slumped with exhaustion, Lewis stopped ihreshold, numb and dumb. Setting down his horn, Oscar walked over to talk with his brother. Their versation was too soft to be overheard, but the body gives away its sorrows. Lewis hung his head and brought his hand to the bridge of his nose as if to hold back tears, and Gee and Jimmy and I watched from our chairs, not knowing quite what to say or do. Oscar led his brother to the bar and poured him a tall shot, which Lewis downed in a single swig. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve a over like a question mark, his forehead resting on the rail, so we crowded around our friends.
"His son is missing," Oscar said. "Since last night. The polid fire and rescue ar