Balls by Julian Tepper, Julian Page A

he wore dark prescription sunglasses which took up half his face. His black hair was a tangled bird’s nest on his head. He was discussing the slow state of business. For some reason Henry’s thoughts shifted to his appointment at the sperm bank tomorrow. A kind of electricity moved through his spine. He rolled his shoulders backwards and forwards, releasing tension. He brought air into his lungs. At the moment of exhalation he saw Orion’s middle-aged face, shadowy and thin-lipped, become excited. He was about to say something. Henry was so eager to play, however, he couldn’t listen to another word.
    He said, Hey , if it’s all right, I’d like to use the piano.
    The piano? Oh, yeah, sure, sorry, Henry. An injured look shot through his face, disrupting the balance of his sunglasses. Holding his hand out towards the instrument, he told Henry, Be my guest.
    Henry went to the back of the room. The only light shone from a single brown bulb hanging above the piano. Henry could see Orion and the three men watching him. The long room had a sloping floor, and with fifteen feet between them, they appeared to Henry at a tilt.
    So what are you going to play? asked Orion
    It’s a tune I started work on tonight.
    Does it have a title?
    He was about to tell him no, but the words Castrated New York were spoken. Around the bar all did silently nod their heads. The first notes of the song rang out. Hesitant in his playing, Henry missed notes in the opening verse. He was feeling better by the second. Reading from a sheet of paper, he sang:
    I remember a time,
When New York City’s newest structures,
Decayed gradually,
Now one site is hardly ever finished,
Before its parts are coming undone,
Unfortunately, the reproducing male,
Observing daily the structural depreciation,
Of his city,
Finds these days not even the insistent cries of fuck me,
Can get him to come,
No, the decaying visible world has yielded a body,
That knows better,
Than to release its seed,
To make children who will live in a city,
That is fast falling apart—the body wants to know:
Why consent to this?
We are all of us down to one ball. (x3)
Boom-bop-bop-bop-bop-bop-boom.
    After finishing the song, Henry realized his rests between phrases had been inconsistent, and unintentionally so. He’d played the outro exactly like the intro, but he knew he didn’t want to come in and out the same way. And the song needed a bridge. Tomorrow, in the afternoon, when he was through banking sperm, he would spend more time working on these things.
    As it were, the problems which concerned Henry went unnoticed by those listening. Their reactions were overwhelmingly positive. The two men from the neighboring villages in Italy cheered. And to congratulate him on a fine achievement the man with the bourbon-wet mustache bought Henry a bourbon. It was Orion, standing at the end of the bar with his palms facing up and a look of wonderment on his face, who said:
    You’ve been trying to write a song about New York for twenty years, right?
    Two years, Henry corrected him.
    Isn’t this the one? Having heard many attempts at his song about New York, Orion had a sense of Henry’s struggle. I think you’ve done it, he said.
    Not for reasons of modesty but with the belief that he was assessing his own work honestly, Henry told him, Thanks, really. The song is just decent.
    No! shouted the man with the bourbon-wet mustache. His shirt was buttoned low so that his stomach showed. His eyes were full of anger. He said, You’re wrong. It’s got something special, Henry. From the first notes, I heard it.
    Well, thank you.
    Don’t well thank you me. I mean it, he said.
    Orion sternly told him, You have a gem, Henry. A gem.
    I appreciate your support, replied Henry. But it needs more work. Couple of days, maybe weeks, I don’t know.
    It’s what you always say, went Orion. He’d come out from behind the bar. He stood within a foot