phone rang. I picked it up.
âHello?â
âHello? Is this Jim Boylan?â
âYes, this is me,â I said. I didnât recognize the voice. âWhoâs this?â
âIt is?â the voice said. There were other voices in the background, laughing. âItâs Boylan?â
âYeah,â I said.
âYouâre a fag, man.â
He hung up.
I stood there holding the phone. Somebody somewhere was having a big old time.
I put the phone back in the cradle, picked up my orange Hi-C and bourbon. It wasnât the kind of phone call you wanted to get, actually.
Grampa looked at me from the wall.
That kid on the phone
, Grampa said.
Heâs right.
I walked across the room and sat at the piano. I put the glass on the windowsill behind me.
âGood evening, everyone,â I said. âItâs great to be back here in Philadelphia.â
I blew into a microphone that wasnât there. âCheck, check,â I said. âOne two. One two. Check.â
I looked out into the audience. âWell, all right,â I said. âI said, yeah.â
The audience said,
Yeah.
Then I started playing âMrs. Robinsonâ in the key of G. I did a long crazy jam before I went into the main riff. When the audience recognized what tune I was playing, they went nuts. People in the front row were standing on their chairs.
Weâd like to know a little bit about you for our files. . . .
Thank you. Thank you very much.
There was a screeching of tires in the front driveway, a car engine revving, then falling silent. Footsteps came up the stone stairs. The doorbell rang. A moment after that, the knocker that no one used was swinging.
I got up and opened the door. A girl with nine fingers was standing there.
âYouâre Boylan?â she said. âThe piano player?â
âOnion,â I said.
âYou got it,â she said. She fell forward across the threshold. Onion was very drunk. I could see that her car was parked half off the driveway. One of my motherâs azaleas lay crushed beneath the tires of her Camaro. Snow had dusted the front porch.
âIâm glad youâre here,â I said. My heart was pounding in my shirt. âI didnât know if you were going to make it.â
âSure Iâm going to make it,â Onion said, annoyed. âWhy wouldnât I make it?â She took off her orange down coat and dropped it onto a chair in the living room. She sized things up. âJeez what a place you got here. Gives me the fuckinâ creeps.â
âItâs creepy all right,â I said. I was still looking at her. She had long blond hair. Onion was wearing blue jeans and a tight black top. It was definitely something Iâd have looked good in.
âWas that you playing?â she said. She was looking at the piano.
âYeah,â I said. The fruit juice and bourbon was sitting on the windowsill.
âSounded good,â she said. âItâs good to play something.â
Onion walked over to the piano and let her hands fall on the keys with a tremendous clang. The noise was startling, and I was annoyed at her careless disregard for the instrument.
âHa ha ha,â said Onion. âWhat a hoot.â
She banged the keys again, letting her fingers skitter randomly up and down the keyboard.
âCan I get you something?â I said, trying to move her away from the piano. âAre you thirsty?â
âYeah, sure,â Onion said. She got up again. âWhat do you got?â
We walked into my parentsâ kitchen. âIâm drinking bourbon,â I said.
âWhoa,â said Onion. âHard-core.â She looked at me as if for the first time. There was more light in the kitchen. âHey, youâre cute,â she said. âYou look like my sister.â
I thought about this for a while. âThank you,â I said.
âYou know how to make a daiquiri?â Onion