Chapter Twenty

As bad as things were inside the studio at night, they were just as weird if not more during the day at the store. Bobby had taken to hanging around daily. At first he thought he'd be besieged by legions of fans, and was merely making appearances in case his autograph was required. It wasn't. He was something of a spectacle for the curious for the first couple of days, people asking my dad "who is that?", or people saying "Isn't that him? The nutjob who went on a rampage?". My dad kept shooing him out of the store. He even tried to get me to do the 'security guard' thing about Bobby, but I reminded him about how I was supposed to "avoid confrontations" (his term). Finally my dad put his foot down and told Bobby he was not allowed in.

Bobby took it with his usual good cheer, and instead set up shop on the sidewalk next door. He brought down the folding card table and chair from his room, and put up a sign announcing his name, and declaring he was available for interviews. Every day he was asked, politely, to leave, so he made his way down the strip mall, from the Pet Food Stop on Monday, to Joy's Nail Salon Tuesday, Mary's Donut Hole Wednesday and so on. By the end of the week he'd been expelled by Murray's Cigars and Liquors so as a final resort he established himself at the curb by Venezia Boulvard. There he sat, all day long, bothered only by occasional children who skateboarded by and made fun of him with a selective vocabulary. Bobby was as impervious in his own way as Mario Flambeau. He was only more active and vocal, yet as little of reality seemed to break through.

I was getting my own share of unwelcome attention as well. You know me, and you know I don't even like being noticed, let alone noticed by people I don't even know. There weren't that many, I have to admit, but still, even the few that there were were more than enough as far as I was concerned. People I'd known once kept popping by to give me a friendly punch on the shoulder, just wanting to shake the hands of "the next big thing", they would joke. Former bandmates appeared, even some who were also going to be playing the Waterfront Festival. That was all well and good. I do like to keep in touch with old friends. I tried to stay positive, to keep in mind Joey Anthony's attitude. It was a bit of a chore but I think I was enjoying myself just a little.

The sessions, though, became more contentious. He did not seem to realize the effect he was having on Joey Anthony Francesco. I was the only outlet the poor drummer had. He took to confiding in me, inviting me out for a smoke every hour or so. There on the sidewalk I got to know a lot more about him. For instance, I found out that between the ages of six and eleven, he dreamed of becoming a ninja. This is why, he told me, he has always had a weakness for the Japanese. I suppose he meant to congratulate me on my father's-side heritage. It wasn't anything I had anything to do with. I also discovered he had made the switch from menthols to lights only a few years earlier. He made a point of letting me know that the only two women he had ever loved were African-American. The first one turned out to be a lesbian. The second one he married, but he still thought about the first one, Ruby, from time to time. His own daughter reminded him of her more than of his wife, which he always thought was weird. I didn't ask him if his daughter was a lesbian. These were details I could live happily without.

He had been "in the service". Perhaps this is where he achieved his preference for being in uniform. I noted that he practiced in his UPS outfit, and he told me that he wore it pretty much all the time, even though he was officially not supposed to. He planned to wear it at the show, to "show the colors", as he put it. I had the feeling he would defend the company as if it were a country if need be. He had many harsh things to say about competitors such as Federal Express and DHL. There were certain words used to describe "those people", he hinted. I didn't detect any malice in Joey Anthony, He was a proud man, an idiosyncratic man, who had his definite likes and dislikes, and spent a great deal of effort preserving those lists. He also had lists of resentments from previous injuries both real and perceived. He reserved a special place in his own fantasy hell for dogs he had encountered (he was more of a "cat person", or so he said), double-parkers (who parked at their own risk on HIS route), and a list of receptionists who were not, as he put it, very receptive to his charms. Failed flirtations affected him personally, although no actual consequences were ever intended. It was part of the ritual, the performance, the routine. A UPS driver has standards to maintain.

I never got to the bottom of his Irish thing, but it was there on the surface every night. Bobby O'Bannon had joined Carrie Burns on his ledger of "Irish-ish" enemies. He "had no use" for such people. They were "drivel", "minutiae", and "pond scum". They had descended, he claimed, from the possum. He said all these things as a matter of fact, quite calmly as he puffed on his lights. Bad things would happen to those who deserved them. This was something he knew from experience, and there was no evading their fate. What others called "karma" he called "re-tribute". I think he meant "retribution", but that was the word that he used. Re-tribute. The man loved his family and talked of them often. He liked to keep his conversation balanced between love and hate. For every insult he poured on his foes, he added a blessing to those on his good side. I often felt like I should keep score, just to see how close it came out to being even.

After a five minute session of blithe random remarks, we would go back inside and continue rehearsal. Bobby would be pacing impatiently and start shouting at us as soon as we came in.

"We've only got an hour and ten minutes", he'd cry, or "We're going to do 'Bicycle Graveyard' instead!"

Joey Anthony and I would go back to our places, refreshed and calmed down, but it didn't last long. Bobby had gotten on Joey Anthony's last nerve, and it wouldn't be half of a song until his face would turn red, and he'd give me those looks, the ones that he had when he mentioned re-tribute. Most of the time he kept it all in, used the anger he felt to pound out on the kit. I could count to five inappropriate comments form Bobby for every one from the drummer, but when he lashed out, he lashed out in rage.

"Get out of my face, motherfucker", he'd bark, or "next time, one more time, I'm warning you, man".

Thankfully, Bobby would always back down. From my point of view, he was only getting carried away. He didn't mean anything by it. He certainly didn't mean the things he was saying, because Bobby knew nothing of drumming and would gladly admit it to anyone. He was caught up in the excitement. He was a man who couldn't contain. He virtually exploded with his relentless enthusiasms. I had tried to explain this to Joey Anthony more than once. He would nod vigorously each time, as if he agreed, but I don't think he ever quite got what I meant. Bobby has high on his list, and Joey Anthony was keeping a tally of his own.