55. Run Rudolph Run #3
I nod. “That was a test to gauge the temperature in the room. Good news, ‘fuck’ is funny here.”
I point at Raymond.
“Except for this guy.”
They cackle again,
some with hands over their mouths.
My shoulders relax. “There’s a story behind this duet a lot of you here probably never heard. One that started back in December of ‘87.” I grin into the mic. “My father, Corey Taylor—”
Applause breaks out immediately,
roaring,
loving,
warranted,
and I fall away from the mic,
looking down to fight that warmth creeping in. “Yeah. That’s right.” I point toward the crowd. “C’mon, a little louder so he can hear.”
The cheering explodes, and I have to bite down to keep from throwing up emotion.
“Yeah. Best man I ever knew,” I say as the applause dies away. “He worked as a bartender at this shitty dive off Ludlow, right around the time my mother came to New York from Havana for the holidays. First time in the Big Apple. Biggest dream of her life.”
My gaze drifts to Andrew.
He’s watching from behind the bar,
a small grin stealing his face.
“And during the last week…
“she walked into a bar.
“Sounds like the beginning of a joke, right? Woman walks into a bar…”
I shrug.
“Guess if that’s true,
“you’re lookin’ at the punchline.”
The room breaks into laughter.
“Anyway, she orders a whatever-New-Yorkers-drink, he shows off and makes her a real daiquiri, and they had, what—six days together? Seven? Enough to fall stupidly in love.” I shake my head. “Stupid ‘cause she had a one-way flight back to Cuba early Christmas morning.”
I pause, scanning the crowd,
then grab the mic.
“But Corey fuckin’ Taylor wasn’t about to let her get on that plane.”
Cheers break out, hoots and hollers.
“My mother,” I go on, glancing down, “listen, now you’ve probably been wonderin’ where I get all this drama? I’ll tell you—my stubborn, spitfire mother. And she tells him—” I lean on the crowd, waving them on. “Well, c’mon people, if you know the song, Allison’s Version, let’s hear it.”
“I’ll be waiting at the Rockefeller Tree,”
they sing.
I nod, smile burning my cheeks. “Christmas Eve night, she told him she’d meet him at that Rockefeller Tree, and if he’s not there when the clock strikes twelve? She’s gone.”
Another round of applause ripples.
I imagine Mom, smiling to myself.
“Yeah. Nah. What she probably said was
“Carino, I crossed water to get here.
“You can cross Manhattan.”
Laughter erupts.
“And, yeah,
“well,
“you can guess what happens next.”
I step back for a moment,
adjusting my grip on the mic.
“Every year growing up, they karaoked “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.”” I groan dramatically. “Every. Damn. Christmas. Didn’t matter if they loved or hated each other. They did it.” I surrender a palm. “Not for me. That song drove me insane.
“But when Mom died,
“I couldn’t let Dad sing it alone.
“So I sang it with him every Christmas after that.” I bite into my lip. “Which only lasted three more Christmases.”
Silence bleeds through the room,
and suddenly,
I can feel my own heart beating.
“Feels like forever ago, doesn’t it?
“Then on the other hand, only yesterday.
“A feeling you can’t make sense of…
“Until you do…”
I pause.
“Like right now.”
I gaze off, white-knuckling the mic.
“‘Cause you can’t see their face,
“Hear their voice,
“Feel their arms around you…
“The absence is why it feels like a lifetime’s gone by. But the pain hits fresh with the weight of yesterday.
“An eternity and a heartbeat.
“That’s the cruelty of missing someone.”
I breathe out,
trying to keep my emotions at bay.
Lift the mic back to my mouth.
“And before you start—
“I’m allowed to get all deep and shit.
“I’m not crazy, I swear. I’m a writer.”
I laugh, trying to lighten the mood.
They laugh, too.
“But when he passed…” I glance toward Raymond. “This guy stepped in where Dad couldn’t.” I don’t give the room enough pause for applause and keep going, “But the lyrics? Nah. Those had to change. I wasn’t about to spend the rest of my Christmases singin’ about a guy who can’t take a hint.”
A few wet laughs scatter.
“So, Soundwave, thank you for helping me keep their love alive another year. Happy Holidays, everybody.”
Soundwave stands,
clapping loud, cheering.
And as uncomfortable as it was, I had to remind them. I had to make sure they’d never forget the man who pulled all these people together.
I pop the mic back into the stand,
and Raymond relaxes at the piano,
relieved I didn’t humiliate him.
Behind the bar,
Andrew watches from the shadows,
giving me a proud smile.
When the piano hits the opening chord,
and the melody a tap dance,
I raise the mic to my lips, and sing,
“I’ll be waitin’ at the—Rockefeller Tree—”
But when it’s Raymond’s turn,
he doesn’t lean into the mic,
he doesn’t sing—
Instead, a soulful,
beautiful
baritone voice, drifting into the room
from somewhere else:
“On my way, baby—
“don’t you leeeave…”
And my heart just tore herself in half,
right down the middle,
my spine steeling,
my eyes darting for the voice,
searching for it,
going from a grinning Raymond,
across the sea of heads.
I bring the mic to my lips again,
sing the next line, “Feel like a fool...”
Then, “This city’s cruel.”
“—standin’ out in the snow…”
“—hailin’ down cabs off Ludlow…”
I spin to look behind me,
my breath hitching into a half-cry.
From the shadows of the cigar lounge,
Teddy Vale steps out,
singing the next line I couldn’t.
“I’ll fight the cold…”
All the guests shoot to their feet,
breaking into applause.
But I’m standing electrocuted,