Everything Changes by Jonathan Tropper Page A

mess up.”
    Norm takes an unhurried sip from his drink. “The hell I will,” he says. “The boy’s a pro. Did you see the way he handles that guitar?”
    “I thought you didn’t drink anymore.”
    He raises the glass. “Club soda,” he says. I resist the urge to grab the glass from his hand and verify the absence of gin. While our relationship may be a huge question mark, I don’t like the intimacy that would be implied by random drink testing. “Although, while we’re on the subject,” Norm continues, looking me over. “You look like you’ve had a few too many yourself.”
    “Fuck off.”
    He raises his hands defensively. “You’re right. Too soon. Sorry.”
    “Norm.”
    “Norm?” he says. “My friends call me Norm. You can call me Dad.”
    “Dad.”
    “Yes?”
    “I will have you bounced.”
    Norm winces at my tone, his shoulders sag, and for the brief second that his expression wavers, I can see the pain and fear etched into his face, the tenuous resolve that’s keeping him here. “Zack,” he says just loud enough to be heard over the house music. “I know you boys have a lot to be angry about, and I’m sorrier than you’ll ever know, than I can ever begin to express to you. But I have to start somewhere. If nothing else, when I’m dead, you’ll remember that there was a point at which I came to understand the nature of my offenses, and I tried, maybe unsuccessfully, but tried nonetheless, to make amends. You’re young yet, and you’ve got decades to waste on your anger. I’m older than I ever imagined I could get, and I am suggesting to you, the one thing I’m sure about, the one thing I can hang my hat on, is that there’s no more time to wait it out, to come up with a plan. So I understand your attitude, but you need to understand mine.” He takes a deep breath and I can see that his hands are actually shaking. “I came here to hear my son play. And that’s what I’m going to do. If he doesn’t play, that’s too bad. But I will not go to sleep tonight knowing that I retreated at the first sign of resistance. So if you want to have Maurice throw me out, bring it on. I wasn’t expecting this to be a cakewalk.”
    I stare at him, momentarily shocked by his little soliloquy. “How did you know the bouncer’s name is Maurice?”
    “I make friends easily.”
    “Are you dying?”
    He sighs and studies his hands on the table. “We’re all dying, Zack.”
    Oh, Jesus. I’m about to lash out at the obviousness of his platitude when the houselights come down and the band takes the stage to raucous screams and applause. “Well,” Norm says, clapping enthusiastically and letting go with a shrill whistle. “I guess Matt’s decided he’s going to play after all.”
    Matt lashes on his guitar and steps up to the microphone. Behind him, Otto begins tapping out a slow, rolling beat on the snare, and my heart sinks as I recognize the introduction to “Saint Mom.” Matt’s apparently decided that having Norm in the audience is too good an opportunity to pass up. What’s the point in writing a song excoriating your father if you never get to see the look on his face when he hears it? The audience, recognizing the slower beat of a ballad, takes their seats. As Matt strums the opening chords of the song, he looks over to my father’s table, eyes on fire, a wicked smile playing across his face. “This is a song I wrote about my family,” he says into the mike. There are some scattered cheers in the audience, maybe because some die-hard fans know which song he’s about to play, or maybe just because people listening to rock bands will cheer just about anything the singer says. Either way, the place falls silent as Matt begins to sing.
    Saint Mom remembers when her life was more than just laying down
    Before Daddy broke his promises and Daddy fucked around
    And all her children’s broken dreams were scattered to the winds
    And Mom climbed up upon her cross to die for