CHAPTER ONE

2006

They were forcing Richard out of the band. It had come to that, a power struggle over whose band it really was. At stake were the millions in royalties from their first CD.

He thought,How could this happen? I put together the best ever old guy rock n roll band and that’s the thanks I get.

Things weren’t always this way.

***

Time had been kind to Richard, or perhaps Richard had been kind enough to himself that the aging process had not claimed him a victim, not yet, not at his sixtieth birthday. The man looked to be somewhere in his early forties, with few wrinkles on his face and just a tiny bald spot at the back of his head. Richard’s face had a wondrous symmetry; his eyes were a warm light blue, and his perfect nose and sturdy jaw had made women give him a second look every time. Richard’s younger brother had always been a little pissed at him for making off with all of the good looks in the family.

Life had landed Richard in La Grange Park, Illinois, population 13,300, a suburb of Chicago, eight convenient miles from O’Hare International Airport, close enough to the big city yet suburban in that curiously bland Midwestern way. There was the standard Starbuck’s near the train station, and a block further was a Trader Joe’s to buy your foreign cheese, and next to that was the all-important Pier One Imports for all of those last-minute gifts. The village police blotter told a boring story: one breaking and entering this week in which the DVD recorder was stolen but not the TV, probably because the 48-inch screen was too large for one man to carry; and there was an arrest for disturbing the peace when a loud guy violated a restraining order and stood under his ex-wife’s window plaintively sobbing,“Why, Romaine? Oh, why?”

Folks were throwing a little party for Richard at work. The large office had been a prototype of cubicle maze that had been developed some twenty years before, but now the place spoke of obsolescence, of poorly-defined spaces, of tired office chairs and ill-placed desktop computers with cables floating toward the ceiling as though they were wired to God. In the center of the maze was a small folding table, and on it was a sheet cake inscribed‘Happy Retirement Rich.’ Whoever made up the cake didn’t know Richard, because nobody ever called him Rich, or Rick, or Dick, or any variation thereof. He’d been a formal Richard for a lifetime.

Uncomfortable in his only suit, Richard stood next to the cake and in front of everybody. They all listened to his supervisor, a slick young hack bound for better things, droning on about Richard’s accomplishments.“...Served on the Betterment in Business Committee for seventeen years straight. Was rated‘Outstanding’ for ten years in a row. Perfect attendance several times. Thirty-five years’ service.” The younger man turned to Richard and tried to sound sincere.“We always knew that we could count on you. Congratulations on your retirement.” The manager stuck out a meaty hand and the new retiree shook it.

Richard wanted to tell him,Screw you for all of the petty things you’ve made me do, for the countless times you made me work late, for your constant interruptions, your manufactured deadlines that have nothing to do with the real world. For these things I say for all mankind, fuck you. Thank you very much. But he didn’t say any of it.

The company photographer shot a quick picture of them both, and then with the retirement citation in between them, and then one more in case the first two were screwed up. Then the office folks passed by Richard on their way to the cake.

Tubby Greta, a sly look on her face:“You don’t look old enough to retire. When j