52 THENEWYORKER,SEPTEMBER23, 2019
“I have no idea what you’re talking
about.”
I smiled amiably at this disclaimer. “I
have another reason for visiting Prairie
dale. I once had a band, the Daft—”
“The what? A band? Here?”
What gave me the urge to paint a
romantic picture of the old days in Wide
Spot? I suppose I hoped he’d change
his tune once he understood that I had
local memories and a politician’s knack
for filling the air with pleasant natter
ing. I told him how we’d toured around
the state, knocking off Grand Funk
Railroad, the Doobie Brothers, and for
gotten hair bands, and how this had
been our last stop. “We disbanded right
here, Cornel. It wasn’t a great band, but
we had a great singer, Micah Clardy, a
great voice.” Cornel leaned forward at
this. “And we knew that he deserved to
be famous. Micah, he’s, like, ‘I’m going
to L.A.,’ and he was perfect for that
kind of crossovercountry thing. Any
way, handsome guy, unbelievable pipes.”
“He’s still here.”
“Who’s still here?”
“Micah Clardy. I thought he was al
ways here. Old Mr. Fixit.”
I wanted another town and accurate
information. Bowen told me dismis
sively where to find Micah—in the house
with the Tibetan prayer flags and the
old chopper—and returned his dead
stare to his papers. I didn’t need him
anymore and left without a word. I
looked forward to telling my old band
mate how our days on the road had
helped launch my career. I was never
important to the band—I could hardly
play my fucking keyboards—and the
ironic contrast could be fun, because
now I was really going places.
Still, as I walked toward Micah’s
apartment I felt fearful of seeing him
again. He’d been a strict bandleader and
had often hurt my feelings by singling
out my incompetence. I considered skip
ping it and leaving town, heading to a
more reliable stop on my campaign trail,
but it would only be another prairie
town, where the future of the post office
was under review and the landowners
lived elsewhere.T
he rear tire of the chopper was flat.
The Gazette was stuck between the
screen and the door. I knocked and the
door opened partially. I saw lips poking
out of a goatee and heard a shout: “We
don’t sell sewing machines anymore!” I
said that I was there to see Micah Clardy.“Side entrance!” Slam. I made my way
around the building into the alley and
found the stairs to the second floor and
the brightblue paint of Micah’s door.
He was standing there, probably no
more aged than me but exceptionally
weathered. I told him who I was, but in
question form, as though I weren’t sure.
He squinted and said in the most mea
sured way, “Holy shit,” then stepped
away from the door and swung his arm
back for me to enter.
I said, “Was I supposed to call?”
“Now or then?”
“That’s a great question! Hahaha!”
Micah laughed, too, and joined me
inside. He hadn’t lost his lean, broad
shouldered look, though he now had a
laborer’s hands. As before, he gave the
impression of being well dressed, despite
the stains on his painter’s pants and a
worn snapbutton shirt with the tails out.
He got us ice water and motioned me
to a seat before making a practiced fall
into an armchair. It was a cheerful room,
bright clouds in the windows. After a
long stretch to clink glasses, I looked up
at a large blackandwhite photograph
of a beautiful woman, high cheekbones,
dreamy smile, like Gene Tierney.
“Girlfriend?”
“Daughter.”
With effort, I took my eyes off the
picture.
This was an allpurpose room: re
frigerator, television, fourplace dining
table, a bookcase, yellow walls, a dog
sleeping under the table, curtains tied
back with bungee cord, and a humming
bird feeder. A peculiar row of stuffed
animals lined the wall below the win
dow: a duck, a badger, a raccoon, a heron.
Micah noticed me looking at them.
“Friend of mine closed up his taxidermy
shop and went to work as a twelvehour
derrick hand on an oil rig. He gave those
critters to me. There was also a vulture.
I put it in front of the savings and loan.”
“They think Cornel Bowen put it
there.”
“Oh, good. He’s a crook, but so is ev
eryone else there.”
It struck me that a refrigerator and a
television were rarely in a room together.
“So you’re still here,” I said.
“What did you do with the van?”
“It was up on blocks for years, then
I gave it to my kid and it got, uh, for
feited.” I skipped all the hell I’d had with