Best to Laugh: A Novel by Lorna Landvik Page B

don’t know—to the traffic. To your conscience. To my tape.”
    “Oh, yeah,” I said, sitting down next to him. “That one.” I started unlacing a skate; while I could climb stairs with them on, I’d learned it made better sense not to.
    “And . . .”
    My mind shouted out two options, Lie! Tell the truth! but I decided the latter would ultimately save me time and energy.
    “I . . . I liked the energy—wow, it was manic—but I really couldn’t understand a lot of the words and the songs all sort of sounded the same.”
    Chewing his lip, the punk rocker nodded.
    “Yeah, we’re sorta beginners at song writing,” he said agreeably. “And our bass player is just learning how to play. But it’s cool that you listened to it. Thanks.”
    “Not at all,” I said, and, surprised by the easy way he took my criticism, I decided to brave the next question. “You mind telling me how you get your hair to stand up like that?”
    “Sure. Glue and blow drying. You can touch it if you like.”
    He bowed his head and I touched a blue spike and then gently bounced my palm against the whole jagged range.
    “Thanks,” I said, after participating in the weird show-and-tell. “And about your music, even if I had loved it, I’m just a temp. I doubt that anyone would listen to me if I said, ‘There’s this great band you’ve got to hear.’”
    “You never know. Hey, you should come and hear us live sometime.”
    “Hey, maybe I will.”
    “Cool,” said Blank Frank, rising. “How about Friday night? Nine o’clock at the Masque.” He jumped up and holding his arms out, he zigzagged across the lawn the way a kid pretends to be an airplane, in the direction of his dad’s apartment.

14
    N OBODY WAS INTERESTED IN JOINING ME at the Masque. Ed had his usual Friday night first date that never seemed to lead to a second; Maeve was going to a movie screening with her mother, and Solange had told me she’d rather lean out her bedroom window and listen to her neighbor’s cat, who was in heat and was hellbent on letting both the feline and human worlds know.
    “Come on,” I said. “It’ll be fun.”
    The look on Solange’s face could have recurdled buttermilk. “No, it won’t be.”
    On the way to the pool after work, rehearsing the excuse I’d give to Blank Frank for missing his performance, I saw his father emerge from the laundry room next to the garages, holding a basket.
    “Mr. Slyke’s,” he said, indicating the precisely folded clothing stacked inside. “He’s feeling a little peckish, so I offered to act as his manservant—well, at least his launderer. Say, Frank mentioned you might be going to his show this evening. Would I be imposing too much if I asked to join you? I know it’s rather late notice and you probably already—”
    “—no, no, that’d be great. Let’s go together!”
    W HEN M R. F LOVER PICKED ME UP, he handed me a cellophane-wrapped bouquet of red and white carnations.
    “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll . . . I’ll put them in water.”
    “And while you do, I’ll just say hello to Melvin.”
    I returned to find my neighbor, dressed in a paisley bathrobe, standing on the landing with Mr. Flover.
    “Candy,” said Melvin Slyke, wagging his finger. “You keep your eye on this one. Make sure he doesn’t do any of that slam-dunk dancing.”
    “Okay, Melvin,” I said as both men laughed.
    “And cut him off after two drinks. After three he’s a wild man.”
    “I can see you’re getting better,” said Mr. Flover. “If only your jokes were.”
    The two men laughed again and good-byes were said, and minutes later I was cruising down Hollywood Boulevard in a sporty little silver convertible with a dapper gentleman who wore a red carnation in his lapel.
    Mr. Flover was telling a funny story about Frank’s first guitar lesson when at the stoplight at Highland Avenue, he whispered, “There but for the grace of God . . .”
    I followed his gaze to the tall, gaunt figure making his