The Half-Life of Planets (5 page)

After I answer Mr. Pitkin's question, I lean on the cool counter and put back the beaker I used as a water glass. It's totally not allowed, but I figure the chances of the glass being contaminated with any truly horrific germs is slim. I take a final swig and put it on the drying rack next to the lab's pride and joy. There's an amazing telescope, a LIGO, a Laser Interferometer Gravitational-Wave Observatory, that I get to use sometimes. It can detect all sorts of crazy happenings in the universe: collisions, even collapsed stars. Collapsed Stars.

Now that's the name for a band. I can tell Hank when I see him. Not that I've been planning on it, necessarily, but it's Thursday and Espresso Love is on my way home, especially if I want to do my usual beach walk, which I do. With my dad not only out of the hospital but already back at work (read: on a plane to Memphis or Des Moines or Indianapolis) and my mother treading a solid path from the kitchen to her home office, staying out of the house seems like the best choice. Plus, my best friend, Cat, is accessible in thought only, and all things considered, I liked talking to Hank. It was a relief, kind of, to just talk with him and not wonder if—or when—we might get together.

I check my watch. It's almost three. I don't have set lab hours, but I feel like a solid six is enough to call it a day. I log my hours on my study chart so Mr. Pitkin will have proof I've been here—more proof than my notes, I mean—and clean up the bits of paper, chewed-on pen cap, droppers. You have to leave a lab better than you found it. Immaculate. Pristine. Otherwise the next time you go to do your work, some debris or random bit of fluid could get into your experiment and screw it up.

At Espresso Love, Hank's not anywhere I can see. I check the coveted window seats, where the coolest kids hang out during the school year, and the back section, which is basically my local homework spot, always crammed near exam time, and since I can't find him, I just go to the counter and order myself an iced latte. Then I remember Hank doesn't like iced drinks and switch my order so he can have some if he wants.

“Actually, cancel that,” I tell the server, because this is not a date. And even if it was a date, I shouldn't neg my coffee order because of some guy. Or what some guy wants to drink. That's my problem. I take my wallet out to pay. It's not so much a wallet as it is a case. My dad went to a four-day conference in San Francisco and brought back a bag full of goodies. Hollywood starlets might get gift bags filled with trendy clothes and lotions, but computer geeky dads just get things like mouse pads in the shape of cheese, and magnets with company logos on them. I like the case, though. It's a white plastic rectangle, semi-see-through, and meant to hold business cards, which of course I don't have and don't want. But it holds my one credit card, my folded cash, and my driver's license quite well. I hand the server five dollars and wait for my change. When it comes, I drop the coins into the tip bucket—because I refuse to carry around pennies and dimes only to have them fall out during my beach walks—and put the dollar bill back in my non-wallet. It slides in right next to my license, right next to the folded-up slut note, which for some reason I still have; all my forms of identification.

I take my cold drink and sit by the window, waiting for Hank. I figure I'll give him ten minutes to show, and if he doesn't, I'll leave. I realize that this number of minutes is arbitrary—I mean, we never said when we'd meet. In fact, I never told him I would. He just said he wanted to. Not exactly ideal conditions under which to perform an experiment of new friendship, if that's what this is.

Out the window, a girl from school, Melissa Winkle, walks hand in hand with some boy. They are every bit the essence of summer, with their hands linked, their feet in flip-flops, their limbs already summer brown. I do not tan like that. Even if I spent my days on the beach instead of in a lab, I would not be crispy tan. I'd be burned. I could try tanning with sunblock, but again—it's a risky experiment. I'll pass on the skin cancer, thanks. I wouldn't mind the hand-holding boy, though.

By definition, an experiment is a test with controlled conditions. A test you make to demonstrate something you know or think you know. You examine the validity of a hypothesis, or determine the efficacy of something previously untried. Outside, the summer couple kisses, and I feel the familiar swell of longing in my chest. My fingers go to my lips.

I sip my drink and look at my wallet, its contents hazily visible. The note.

I
should be the experiment. Is she a slut or isn't she? Who can know except for me, right? If I disregard whatever's happened in the past. If I forget the littered kisses or hookups or whatever you want to call them, and just start now, where does that leave me? Or rather, who does that make me? Summer stretches out before me—iced coffees, beach walks, sound sessions, and all. The conditions are variable, but the experiment is on. Is Liana Planet what the note says she is? No. Or yes. We will find out. I'm about to document in my mind the ways in which we might test this hypothesis, but the door swings open with a whistle, and in walks Hank, looking maybe better than I remembered.

In the early evening of the same day
he had surgery, Chase leaves the hospital with a pair of crutches and Nurse Patti's phone number. At home, Chase pops a prescription painkiller and falls asleep, and Mother gives me a hug, cries, calls me her sweet boy, and apologizes for yelling at me in the bathroom.

Chase is able to switch from the heavy stuff to ibuprofen after a day. He hands the prescription bottle to Mother and says, “Mom, could you flush these please?”

Mother takes the bottle from Chase's hand, examines it, and says, “I thought you'd take all these whether you needed them or not.”

“Yeah well,” Chase says, “I got tired of hearing about Jeff Tweedy and Elvis all the time.” He jerks his head toward me.

Mother looks at me, her brows knitted. “Hank. Can't you give your brother a break?”

“I just think it's interesting that both Jeff Tweedy and Elvis were addicted to prescription medicine. And of course there's a great deal of speculation that my namesake—”

“Okay, Rollins wasn't exactly straight edge, but I don't think he—”

“Died of a combination of painkillers and alcohol,” I interject. “He suffered tremendous back pain, you know.”

Mother closes her eyes, takes two deep breaths, and speaks to me in a very quiet voice. Chase hops out of the room, grinning.

“Henry. You are not named after Hank Williams. And he may well have suffered from back pain, but Chase was prescribed this medicine by a real doctor—not some Doctor Nick pill pusher—while he recovers from surgery. It's just—do you understand, does any part of you understand that when someone is in pain and taking medication that they might not enjoy hearing about people who died from taking medication? Does that make sense to you?” Mother's hands are on her hips, and her face is turning red.

“But, Mother, given the quantities of alcohol that Chase normally ingests, I just felt that he should be aware of the consequences of mixing prescription pain medicine with booze.”

“You know what?” Mother barks. She doesn't finish her sentence. She closes her eyes and breathes, and finally speaks again, but quietly this time. “I guess you're right about that. I've talked to Chase about his drinking, but maybe your method will be more effective than my nagging.”

After this, life returns pretty much to normal around our house. When Chase is not out with a girl, he is either working his upper body with weights in the basement or talking to or texting a girl.

Chase doesn't have to work. His lacrosse scholarship covers his tuition, and the fund Dad's parents established for his education expenses supplies what he refers to as “the other essentials” of college life. I understand that this means beer.

Mother works a great deal, picking up overtime whenever she can, which is often.

I go to work and sell guitars. I cannot touch my college money until I am actually in college, and even with my employee discount, the things I need are expensive.

Like, for example, the beautiful surf-green vintage Fender Jazzmaster that recently came into the shop. I could buy a very nice used car for the price of this guitar, but it's impossible to play a note-perfect version of The Ventures' “Walk Don't Run,” or any surf instrumental at all, for that matter, on a car, especially the '94 Golf that is for sale down the street and which costs only slightly more than the Jazzmaster.

The Jazzmaster is out of reach.

Also out of reach, perhaps, is Liana. And yet she essentially agreed to meet me at Espresso Love on Thursday. I burn nine different mixes, flummoxed. Liana said things about the music controlling the atmosphere, things I didn't really understand.

I use '80s alternative as a jumping-off point, but I keep being afraid that one of the songs I've chosen will send Liana running away from me like…well, like pretty much every other girl in the world.

One day, I am in the basement playing my Gibson ES-335. This was Alex Lifeson's guitar when he recorded “The Spirit of Radio,” and while I've studied the tabs and can play the song, the exact sound keeps eluding me. I've written to Rush, care of their management, to ask about exactly what guitar effects Lifeson used in the recording of the song, and what effects were applied to the guitar track by the producer. Certainly a wah-wah pedal, but which one? Almost certainly a flanger, but every one is different.

Still, I am giving it a try in the basement while Chase tugs on the Bowflex. He enjoys it when I play Rush, or pretty much any hard rock or metal, while he works out. I am midway through the solo—one thing I love about Rush is the way the solos usually aren't overdubbed—when I stop because my heart's not in it.

“Come on, dude!” Chase, shirtless and sweating and sitting on the bench with his bandaged leg propped up, yells at me. “Two more reps!”

Reluctantly, I resume the solo, and when Chase has grunted his remaining reps out, I say, “I need your help.”

Chase flashes me a smile. “Happy to help, bro. What do you need?”

“Well,” I say as Chase wipes the sweat from his torso with a small towel and then begins wiping down the machine, “I am supposed to meet Liana, the girl from the hospital, on Thursday when I do my DJ thing at Espresso Love, and I can't quite decide on the right mix to play.”

“Uh-huh,” Chase says. He shakes out his mane and puts on the gray, sleeveless Property of Carville Athletic Dept. XL shirt.

“We talked about '80s music, so I've been leaning heavily on that. I have a great mix focusing on Kirsty MacColl, but I'm worried that might send the wrong message, you know, since she and Steve Lillywhite got divorced and then she died tragically. Did you know the guy who killed her wasn't prosecuted, even though he was driving his boat in an area clearly designated as—”

“No, and I don't care, and neither will any normal girl, which is what your girlfriend seems to be, maybe. Well, if she likes you, I guess she's not normal by definition, but let's start by assuming that she's more normal than you are.”

I laugh. “I think that's a safe assumption.”

“Okay,” he says. “So what message do you want the music to send?”

I don't want to send a message. I just want her to hear some music that she likes, and hopefully like me. “I don't know. I was thinking maybe I'd bring my guitar, you know, play a few—”

Chase holds up a hand. “No. Did you invite her to listen to you perform?”

“Well, no, but I thought, you know, my playing always goes over pretty well at the family reunions, and I like—”

“No. Freak alert. If you haven't scheduled a gig, you absolutely can't just show up and sing to her. She'll run from you like she thinks your freakishness is contagious.”

I put the guitar down and sit on the floor, leaning against my amp.

“And try to stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Look at your hands,” Chase says, and I look down and see that I was strumming the chords to The Smiths' “Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want.” I did not put this on any of the nine mixes I made, though it is on my mind somewhat. Even I recognize that inclusion of that song might sound desperate.

I stop strumming. “So which of my nine '80s alternative mixes should I use?”

“It doesn't freaking matter. Just…Okay, you talked about this music?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Do not put on any songs that you talked about.”

This eliminates six of my nine mixes, thus making my choice much easier, so I don't ask what Chase's rationale is. He is the expert here. “Uh, okay.”

“What you want is music that can fade into the background if you need it to, you know, if the conversation gets interesting. But nothing that's obvious make-out music or anything. You should be able to listen to it if, by some miracle, the conversation lags.”

He's smiling and starting to head up the stairs.

“But wait! You have to help me!”

“Music is your thing, Hank. You can do this. And I am not listening to a hundred and fifty songs so you can pick the best twenty-five.”

He disappears up the stairs, leaving me alone in the basement.

I eventually decide on the Kirsty MacColl mix after all, because it might be kind of fun to play “What do these songs have in common” with songs by Talking Heads, The Smiths, Billy Bragg, The Pogues, The Rolling Stones, and Tom Tom Club, all of which feature Kirsty MacColl's backing vocals.

When I told Chase, he rolled his eyes at my suggestion that this might be fun, but didn't give me any helpful suggestions on how to talk to Liana. “Just figure out what she's interested in and pretend you're interested in it too,” he said.

Mother was no more help. She told me “Just be yourself.” I did not point out that this has proven spectacularly unsuccessful at getting girls within a five-foot radius of me in the past, except in elevators and at concerts, so it probably wouldn't work in this case either.

“Chase says I should pretend to like what she likes. I've done some research on recent developments in astronomy—”

Mother looked up from the sink, where she was washing her makeup off. “Do you have a concept of privacy? I just worked a twelve-hour day, and—forget it. Listen, sweetie, you know and I know that you have a lot of wonderful qualities, and you're going to make some lucky girl very happy.”

I don't know this. I think this is one of those things people say as a kind of place marker in the conversation. This was a difficult concept for me to get, but Allie stressed a great deal that such place markers exist, and that “How are you doing?” is really just an extended hello and not a genuine inquiry. And so it is with these maternal assurances that her son is in some way attractive to the opposite sex.

“But,” Mother continues, getting to the meaningful part of the conversation, “being a smooth conversationalist is not one of those qualities. Leave the insincerity and the game-playing to Chase—he's good at it. What's charming about you is your sincerity; don't try to overcome that.”

Chase is male but does not face the same social challenges as I do. Mother is female but may be the only one who sees certain good qualities in me. Neither one of them is a reliable source. It occurs to me to call Allie, but her social skills lessons are a school-year-only service that is part of my 504 plan and not available during the summer. I am on my own.

Thursday arrives. I realize that I did not set a time with Liana, and that I therefore should spend the entire day in the coffee shop, from opening at six thirty a.m. to closing at eleven p.m. Chase tells me I am an idiot, and that Liana wouldn't be in the coffee shop in the morning because normal teenagers sleep late.

I have to work from eleven to three, so I will just head over to Espresso Love after work and hope she shows up between the hours of four and eleven. I don't know what I'll have for dinner, but I don't feel much like eating anyway.

I sell a Fender Stratocaster to a twelve-year-old boy holding a gift card he got for his birthday. I promise the guitarist from BloodFeaste that I can have his distortion pedal fixed before his gig on Saturday night. And when business slows down at one thirty (lunchtime, when weekend rockers wearing suits come in to look at guitars, is our busiest time), I ask the permission of Stan, the manager, and gingerly remove the Jazzmaster from the wall.

“It's kind of ironic,” I tell Stan, who told me I'd be working for free until I died if anything happened to the Jazzmaster, and who is now watching me very closely, “that the Jazzmaster became the choice of musicians like Elvis Costello because it hadn't sold well and was therefore cheap. And now the popularity that came as a result of its low price has driven the price up.”

Stan pushes his palms over the bald top of his head and runs them through the Ben Franklin–long hair that rings his baldness. “There's no way you're getting an additional discount on that guitar,” he says, “so just stop trying.”

I wasn't trying anything. I plug the guitar into a Marshall amp, tune it, and begin playing The Ventures' “Walk Don't Run.”

Of course I've played this song before, but without the Jazzmaster's gigantic whammy bar, it's hard to make it sound right. As right as it sounds right now. Which is perfect. I finish “Walk Don't Run” and reluctantly place the Jazzmaster back on the wall.

“Don't sabotage any sales on that,” Stan says, smiling. “If somebody wants it, you have to sell it to them.”

“I know, Stan,” I say. My fingers work chords even though my hands are without an instrument. Then I remember Chase telling me how weird this looks, so I stop. I stare at the guitar, mesmerized by its beauty. You can stare at inanimate objects, because it doesn't make them uncomfortable.

After work ends, I walk to Espresso Love. I do not drive because I can walk pretty much everywhere I need to go. Also I don't have a license or a car.

I walk into Espresso Love, Kirsty MacColl–themed CD in hand. It occurs to me that I don't know what I'll do if I have to wait a long time for Liana. I didn't bring a book or a guitar catalog or anything to read until she arrives. If she arrives. I suppose I can always talk to Gary. He always has interesting anecdotes about musicians he met while tending bar at a dingy rock club in New York. I have heard most of them in the time I've been coming here, but listening to Gary's celebrity-vomit tales beats sitting by myself and thinking about all the various ways I can screw this up.