By Sarah Layden

Michael went straight from work to the Japanese restaurant on Midland. He needed a beer and especially craved a Sapporo, mainly because of the way he felt while drinking it: imperial, worldly, affluent. He wasn’t any of these things, but sometimes the beer could convince him otherwise.

The place had this vegetable tempura that was so crispy, it was almost like eating one of the fried delicacies at the New York State Fair. But the restaurant was ten times classier: red leather booths and black velvet drapes, with mostly suits filling the bar seats and small tables. He’d been to this restaurant with Angie before. They’d gone two, maybe three times in the year-and-a-half they were together. Sat at the bar, where Michael was now, and another time at a table by the window with the view of 18th Street.

He’d been thinking of her again. They had not spoken in the two years since she dumped him. People often described out-of-the-blue breakups as unceremonious, but Angie brought ceremony to all she did. She was a drama queen. Star of her high school productions of A Streetcar Named Desire (Blanche Dubois) and The Sound of Music (Leisl), an elaborate funeral arranger for the dead goldfish he’d won her at the fair. (A game he’d only played, sheepishly, shamefully, as a consolation after he refused to be goaded by the carnival barker – or Angie – to hit the sledgehammer target to win a prize.

“You never want to do anything that scares you. You never want to do anything fun. Chicken.” Even as she bared her slightly crooked teeth in a smile, Michael could feel the edge and the truth of her words.)

The bartender brought Michael his beer, placing it carefully on a square cardboard coaster. His gold bracelet clinked against his watch as he moved. He was the only white employee in the restaurant, and around Michael’s age – early thirties, though he was tanned and his blond hair was spiked into surfer swells. Michael’s own brown hair was shiny and fine and fell against his pasty forehead and into his eyes when he went too long between haircuts, as he usually did.

“This is the stuff,” the bartender said. “A good beer after a hard day’s work.”

Michael nodded mutely. Work was a mess, but the beer went down smoothly all the same.

He was behind on his drafting for the Humboldt project, a series of proposed downtown buildings he was supposed to be sketching. He was behind because he’d spent several hours of each recent day searching for Angie on the Internet. It was nearly spring, and she had dumped him in the spring. He always thought of her when the ground began to thaw.

Then, this morning on the drive to work, the radio spat out “Angie,” the Rolling Stones song that had plagued him for the last three years. He did not change the channel.

At work he performed his usual routine: fight for parking (keep temper in check), hang coat and settle in at desk (turn on computer, lamp, glance at calendar), pour break room coffee in chipped Denver Broncos mug (black, one sugar).

Before beginning any actual work, he checked his e-mail and launched the same unsuccessful Internet search he did every couple weeks: “Angie Cabriola.” Sometimes he’d add a few keywords to the search: Utica (where he’d heard she’d moved), or the names of various department stores – Kaufmann’s, Filene’s, Lord and Taylor – where he imagined she’d gotten a job behind the cosmetics counter.

Today his boss had come up behind him as he typed Angie’s name into yet another search engine. Arnold Ritter was a good supervisor, more or less: agreeable, fair, usually upbeat. But one thing he hated more than anything at his architecture firm was employees who slacked.

“How’s the Humboldt project?” Arnold asked quietly. He wouldn’t outright embarrass you for not doing your job, at least not at first. He’d be quiet about it, disappointed, which in some ways felt worse than being reamed.

Michael had quickly clicked on the screen intending to minimize the window. Instead he launched the search.

“No results found. Did you mean Angie and Cabriolet?” the computer asked. It offered a link to the Volkswagen website. Fan sites for Angie Dickinson and Angelina Jolie. Buy the music of the goddamn Rolling Stones. Finally Michael succeeded in closing the window, revealing a blank white screen where his project drafts should have been. He blushed hotly.

“I’ve got some hand-drawn sketches at home,” Michael lied. “I’m still getting a feel for the buildings.”

Arnold looked at him for a long time. Months ago, he had asked Michael to apply for a senior drafting position that had opened up. More responsibility such as supervisory duties, plus higher pay. Probably, Michael surmised, longer hours. Changes. When Michael shrugged and said, ‘No thanks,’ Arnold’s face clearly showed that he hadn’t understood.

Now he wore the same perplexed expression. Finally he sighed and ran a hand through his silver hair.

“OK,” he said. “Just remember the deadline’s next week. Maybe you should get over to the site again. Today. Take off a little early.”

“Great idea,” Michael said. “I’ll do that.”

Freed from his desk by 5 p.m., a rarity these days, energy gurgled in Michael’s blood for the first time in many months. Even though it was still chilly enough for a jacket, the weather signaled a coming out of hibernation. The ice was melting and beginning to drip in a way that was almost musical. On his way to the Humboldt site, he passed the Japanese restaurant on Midland and had decided to go inside.

“Another beer?” The bartender now pointed at the empty bottle on the bar. Michael hadn’t realized he was drinking so quickly.

“Sure,” he replied. “Why not? And the tempura, too.”

The sudden sound of an amplifier screech spilt his ears, and the room winced. The young executive type a few seats down the bar did not react. He raised his half-empty glass an inch or two off the bar to signal for another. Michael recognized him from his building; they didn’t work in the same office.

“Sorry, sorry,” said the man on the small stage at the end of the dining room. Although the room itself was dressed in red velvet, from carpet to upholstery, the stage was a small black riser against a black curtain.

The man was Japanese and dressed in the immaculate white uniform of the other restaurant employees. He fiddled with the microphone.

“And now,” he boomed in an Ed McMahon baritone, “presenting Mr. Steve!” Mr. Steve bounded onto the stage, wearing black pants and a black jacket with red velvet lapels. He blended into the wall, save for those lapels. Those blended into the carpet and banquettes.

“Do you know what time it is?” Mr. Steve asked, drawing out the suspense. He flipped a switch on the machine next to the stage, and an instrumental version of “Coward of the County” began. It seemed every patron besides Michael began clapping rhythmically. The only thing Mr. Steve appeared to have in common with Kenny Rogers was that they were both white men. Mr. Steve was younger, slight, and clean-shaven, with mussed black hair. But somehow, as he swaggered around the mike stand, he seemed believable.

“It’s karaoke time!” Mr. Steve said. He launched into the country hit. The crowd responded with cheers.

“God,” Michael muttered. He turned away from the stage and back to the bar, where his tempura, hot and crispy, had been placed in front of him. He wanted the sauce that usually came with it. He tried to catch the eye of the bartender, who was clapping and cheering. He dug in because he was hungry. Burnt his tongue, but it was worth it. He chugged his beer.

Mr. Steve was still singing at Michael’s back. Michael had forgotten the song had so many verses, filled with promises to a son who wasn’t really a son, who ought to walk away from trouble if he could. Mr. Steve sang an extra two choruses to bolster interest. Several people flipped through the black book of song lists and signed up for a turn. Mr. Steve launched into an up-tempo version of “Piano Man,” and the crowd believed he was Billy Joel. If he did have a piano, it probably would have sounded like a carnival. The microphone surely smelled like a beer. Michael had finished his tempura and Sapporo and was ready to go, but he stayed, swiveling around on his barstool. He couldn’t help but watch. People were so serious about it, from selecting the songs to belting them out. He’d never sung in public, not even for grade school Christmas pageants – he’d been one of the silent shepherds. He would never want to be on stage like that, exposed. He’d rather fill his own cavities. Yet he continued to watch, pushed his empty plate away, ordered up another round of beer.

“This one’s on the gentlemen to your left,” the bartender said. Michael looked down the bar. Two thirty-something women sat, chatting, oblivious.

“Dammit, my left. Your right. I always screw that up.”

The young executive gave a somber salute. Michael waved, gulped his beer and glued his eyes to Mr. Steve. He pulled out his cell phone and called Jerry, leaving a voicemail. He wanted company, even though he was a little irritated with Jerry. At lunch earlier that day, when he told him he got busted searching for Angie on the Internet, Jerry gave him a look. When Jerry asked, Michael admitted it had been three months since his last date.

“Three months, man,” Jerry had said. “That’s a long time.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Why are you still thinking about Angie? She treated you like dirt.”

Michael did not respond. They chewed their Big Melt Classics with more concentration than was necessary. Across the food court, a woman with a short-short skirt bent over her table, and the fabric rose up an extra inch in the back. It was March, still brisk, and she wore no stockings. The skirt’s color and fabric was like the skin of a plum, and her legs were ruddy underneath. They both watched and chewed. Finally Jerry broke the silence.

“Not that I’ve been dating much, either. You know that girl I work with, the paralegal with the red hair? The one who said I looked like a young Jack Nicholson?”

Jerry leered in a Jack Nicholson way. He looked more like a young Jack Benny, but Michael nodded.

“I’ve been thinking of asking her out,” Jerry said. “I bet she’s got a friend or two I could set you up with.”

Jerry had not cared for Angie. He would barely look at her whenever she was in the room. She’s too flirtatious, he’d said. With you? Michael had asked. With everybody, Jerry said.
Michael sipped his iced tea through the plastic straw. He reached the bottom, the waxy plastic of the cup and the solid glacier of ice, and made slurping noises longer than necessary. “Are these friends hot?”

“Dude. I haven’t met her friends. I’m just saying. And she’s hot. They usually travel in packs, you know?”

Michael said sure, he knew. He told Jerry he’d think about it. Now, at the Japanese restaurant bar with a strange guy buying him a beer for no apparent reason, he didn’t need to think. He told Jerry’s voicemail, Come check the place out. Bring the girls.

Mr. Steve gave up the mike to patrons after “Piano Man.” A young black couple in jeans sang the duet “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart,” and a pale, older man with business traveler all but stamped on his rumpled suit crooned “Danny Boy” with a professional sincerity that left Michael almost misty.

“That was real good,” the young executive said to Michael, who had avoided eye contact with him. “Wasn’t it? You should sign up. I bet you have a voice, alright.”

Michael shook his head, smiled a half-smile, and said no. There was no way he would publicly humiliate himself that way. He couldn’t sing, but that was beside the point. Even if he could sing, standing on a stage in front of strangers seemed show-offy, a mark of desperation, foolish. A small part of him wished he had the guts to perform, but the feeling was like a painful splinter under a thumbnail: in need of removal.

“Come on,” the young executive said. “If you want, I’ll sing with you. We can do a duet.”

Michael did not reply. Mr. Steve announced that Tammy and Philomena were up next, as soon as they settled on a song. The taller one, probably Philomena, fidgeted with her top and eyed the crowd. Tammy examined the song list with one hand clamped on Philomena’s shoulder, as if to keep her from running away.

“I should do it, you know. I’ve got a couple songs in mind.”

“Go ahead, then,” Michael said.

“Really. I’ve done it before. I’m actually pretty good.”

“I believe you.”

Tammy and Philomena began a tentative version of “Elvira.” It was a song that called for more twang and oomph than they could give it. The young executive moved down a couple bar stools toward Michael. He held out his hand. It was large and meaty. He introduced himself as Ralph. Michael shook the paw and introduced himself. He felt very small. He wished he were at home watching television on the couch. Reruns of “Matlock” played at 9:30 each weeknight, and if nothing else was on, that’s what he watched.

“You are in for a treat,” Ralph said. He stalked off towards the stage.

Mr. Steve smiled at Ralph and held up three fingers. Ralph shook his head and held up two. Mr. Steve nodded and programmed the machine.

“Let’s give it up for Ralph, back by popular demand,” Mr. Steve said.

People applauded. They knew him. Ralph took the stage and held the microphone in one hand and the cord in the other. His bear claws dwarfed the equipment.

“This is for the love of my life,” he said.

Then he sang “Angie.”

When Michael and Angie first started dating, they often ate at a Middle Eastern restaurant. Michael had never had Middle Eastern food, but Angie assured him it was delicious. He did not acquire a taste for grape leaves or hummus or falafel or even the skewered meat, but he always said yes when she suggested the restaurant. They went maybe a half-dozen times. Michael couldn’t remember the name of the place. Hana something. Or something Hana. It was over near the strip.

“There’s more where this came from,” she’d say, feeding him pita bread dipped in baba ganoush. He tried hard not to make a face. The pleasure of her outstretched hand to his mouth, and the bitter taste of the pureed eggplant.

That’s how he felt listening to Ralph sing.

Michael and Angie had been together for a little over a year when the sex stopped. Dinner had become either silent or a screaming match. Perhaps they had been stalled all along. It was hard to remember. Michael was of the mind that their problems could be worked out – the type that would be solved by the simple desire to fix them. Angie did not want to.

“You’re dumping me?” he’d asked, incredulous.

“Duh,” she said. “How many ways can I say it? I’m bored. We’re not working. We have no chemistry. Blah, blah, blah. You’re too quiet. You live like a mouse, in one of those maze things? And that’s not me. I’m no mouse. And I hate that thing you do when you breathe.”

“What thing? What do I do when I breathe?”

“That!” she shrieked. “That right there! Oh my God, just stop it.”

She could be a mean woman. He tried to remember this fact. After they’d broken up, his friends continually reminded him she was unlikable.

In the middle of making love, she would say, “Your armpits stink. When was the last time you took a shower?”

She’s blunt, he had explained to his family, aghast at Angie’s comments over dinner – the steak is really chewy, how long did you cook it? I’m about to break my jaw over here.

“We’re direct in my family,” she once told him. “None of this pussyfooting, passive-aggressive bullshit.” To him, whose family apparently was of the pussyfooting, passive-aggressive variety, it was foreign and thrilling.

Other times, she was surprisingly gentle. She would brush a stray hair from his forehead as they walked down the sidewalk. She would get up early to make heart-shaped pancakes, and deliver them to his bed on a wooden tray.

“Pancakes,” she’d once said, chewing with her mouth open and eyes closed, “have been brought to us directly from God.”

These were the conversations, inane and stupefying, that he worked and reworked in his head. Sometimes, recalling their breakup, he changed the inflection of his words, deepened his voice, omitted the crying jag he was sorry she witnessed as she walked out of his apartment with two brown paper grocery sacks of her random belongings: toothbrush, magazines, the odd pieces of clothing, a stuffed animal. It was a ratty orange-and-black striped tiger.

“But it’s not fair,” he’d said. Not knowing what else to say, only filled with the injustice of a world where you’re enraptured with someone who could give two shits about you. It wasn’t that he was some prize. He was average height, neither thin nor fat, with brown eyes the same color of his hair. Certainly not a face anyone would describe as handsome; it was watery, indistinct. But he thought of himself as a good boyfriend. Solid, hardworking, willing to watch movies and television programs geared at the female demographic. He thought he was dependable. He thought that was what girls wanted.

He remembered Angie had grinned a little grin, tried to conceal it. An actor excited to deliver a long-rehearsed line.

“Hey,” she said. “Hey. Life’s not fair.”

He stuck out his lower lip and exhaled in frustration, blowing his thin bangs upward. “There has to be something else,” he said. His eyes were unexpectedly wet, and he didn’t try to hide it. “It can’t just be that you’re bored. It can’t just be the way I breathe.”

She paused, looking at him as if he were a specimen under a microscope, almost as if he fascinated her. She stood at the door holding one of the grocery bags at her hip, and the stuffed tiger inside peeked out at him. Its name was Timmy. It was smirking.

“You really want to know?” she asked, and he nodded. (Why had he nodded? Why had he even asked? Why do we ever claim a right to know what others hate in us?)

She sighed. No longer did she seem to be reveling in her dramatic moment; her eyes seemed pained. “All right.” Her voice was quiet. “You don’t finish what you start, and I’ve never known you to even try something the least bit difficult. You barely show emotion. Until now, that is.” She brightened a bit, cocking her head to one side like a curious dog. “You know, Michael, I never thought I’d see you cry.”

She kissed him on the cheek. When she turned and walked out, she still had the usual bounce in her step.

Sometimes, thinking about that conversation, he switched the lines around. He spoke her parts, and she whined his. He sucked his tears back inside like a movie on rewind, and she wept. It was somewhat satisfying. Had things been the other way around, he was sure he wouldn’t be thinking about her now. Considering her habits and traits and poor manners, he wondered why she still took up space in his brain. It wasn’t that he wanted to get back together. All the makeup couldn’t conceal the crooked bottom teeth and wan colored hair, nor her bluntness. She’d called him a chicken at the State Fair. She’d practically mocked his tears.

And his Internet searches had been fruitless – none of the department stores listed the names and numbers of cosmetics counter clerks. The ones who wore the white lab coats, as if they were actually involved in the preparation of scientific goo, not just reaching for a tube of lipstick or using cotton balls to smear products on the hopeful faces of women (the ones who tried for stony expressions and failed.) He thought Angie might be featured on a store website, which used pictures of actual employees. Some looked like models. Angie didn’t.

He didn’t really know what he’d do if he did find her. Contacting her seemed ridiculous, pathetic. Maybe he wanted to locate her, to place her somewhere, to have a more accurate picture for his daydreams. Maybe to keep track of her. Maybe it was about having the last word. He imagined what he would say to her if she were to call, or if he ran into her on the street. Sometimes he caught himself speaking parts of the conversation aloud while in the car. Every once in a great while, when he had time to kill in between projects or while he waited to hear back from the senior architects who looked over his drafting work, he’d do small sketches of her in a notebook: wide eyes, a rather thin upper lip and full lower one (closed around those crooked teeth), straight nose. Even in his drawings she was kind of plain, which he realized when he saw her face in random people on the street or in the grocery store.

But her plain face, her plain way of speaking, pressed and pressed on his brain. History of the world: she’d dumped him, and he didn’t understand why.

Ralph had finished singing “Angie.” The applause thundered, and he returned to his seat at the bar. A few people whistled. The bartender gave him a high-five.
“Beautiful, Ralph,” the bartender said. “The best yet.”

Michael nodded. He felt a sudden kinship with Ralph. “It really was good,” he told him, and Ralph smiled modestly.

Michael signaled the bartender. “I owe you a beer.” He paused. “You know, I have an ex-girlfriend named Angie.”

Ralph raised his eyebrows. “Really? Small world.”

“Yours is an ex, too?”

“Oh, yes,” Ralph said. “God, yes. As ‘ex’ as they get. Still love her, though. Can’t help it.”

Michael suddenly wondered: was that it? Do I still love Angie? It didn’t seem so, earlier in the day when he was listening to the Rolling Stones in the car, or searching aimlessly online, or in several years of compiling comebacks to Angie’s break-up speech. But now, after several beers and Ralph’s rendition of “Angie,” anything was possible.

“I can relate,” Michael said.

He had forgotten he’d called Jerry until he appeared behind him, smacking his back with a flat palm. Michael had been in the middle of telling Ralph about his relationship. It was all just spilling out, even the smirking stuffed tiger, and the time at the fair when she’d called him a chicken. He was lost in the past. Jerry, his college fraternity brother, appeared like a stranger out of the fog.

“Where’d you come from?” Michael asked. His tongue was thick around his words. His hand gripped his fourth or fifth bottle of Sapporo.

“You called me,” Jerry pointed out. With a jerk of his head he indicated the two women standing behind him, waiting.

“Right. Right-O. I did indeed. Well, let’s get a table. Come on, Ralph.”

Jerry led the redhead from work and her friend to a table for four.

“We need another chair for Ralph,” Michael said, ignoring the women. He pulled a chair from a nearby table.

“Everybody, this is Michael,” Jerry said. “And apparently, Ralph.”

Ralph waved. The girls waved back. The redhead said her name was Andrea. The friend just smiled and looked away, toward the stage. Mr. Steve performed a magic trick with multicolored scarves and announced a fifteen minute intermission. Music played, and it was a real song with driving guitar and fast drums, not a karaoke instrumental.

“We’ve been talking,” Michael said, motioning to Ralph. “We’ve got quite a bit in common.”
Jerry gave a look that said, What are you doing? And, Shut up. Out loud he said, “Did you know these lovely women work for my firm?”

Michael nodded. He had come alive with Sapporo and Ralph’s twin pining for a woman named Angie. “Great. Great. You all might be interested in what Ralph was telling me about.”
They all turned to Ralph, who blushed. He’d loosened his necktie, and his big rubbery face was still shiny from singing.

“Does anyone know what song this is, or who sings it?” Jerry asked.

“I sure as heck don’t,” Andrea said.

“It’s whatshisname,” Jerry mused. “Don’t tell me, don’t tell me.”

Michael signaled to Ralph, with a little flutter of the fingers, to continue. Ralph lowered his head a fraction, bashful. “He was just asking me about my karaoke singing,” Ralph said. “It’s part of my healing arc. My therapist says it helps get the angst out if I can express myself. Creatively, you know? I feel like somewhere, Angie – that’s my ex-girlfriend – can hear me.”

Jerry gave Michael a look that said, Angie, huh? Out loud, he asked Ralph, “So what’s after that? I mean after she somehow hears you singing karaoke? Because she’s not here, if I understand you.”

“Right.” Ralph pointed at Jerry and snapped his fingers twice. “Well, then I write her a letter. That’s the next notch on the healing arc.”

“I’ve done that before,” Michael said. The women looked baffled by the conversation. Jerry just looked aggrieved. “The letter you never send. You say all the things you wished you could say. Didn’t work. Sounds like a good idea, but it doesn’t do anything.”

“Who’d you write a letter to?” Andrea’s friend asked. She had a soft, round face, blue eyes, brown hair that had been curled and looked like it would be nice to touch. A mole on her chin, dainty, like a dot from a black ball point pen. Maybe it was a dot from a black ball point pen. She still hadn’t given her name. No one answered her question.

“Oh, no,” Ralph said. “It’s not an unsent letter. You send the letter. You write it and then you send it. It’s not just a letter, either. The healing arc ought to include an invitation. Invite her back into your life, in a completely platonic way. Invite her to know the You you’ve wanted to become, here in the now.”

The women exchanged a look. They excused themselves to go to the ladies room. Jerry made a clicking noise with his tongue. He cocked his head, still listening to the song he couldn’t place. His small eyes bored into Ralph, then Michael, then back to Ralph.

“How is this different from revenge?” Jerry asked.

Ralph was peeved. “I told you. It’s part of the healing arc.”

Michael thought for a moment. “What if you don’t know where to send the letter?”

Jerry rolled his eyes, preparing a lecture, then pre-empted himself by smacking the table with the flat of his palm. Michael could practically see the light bulb over Jerry’s head as he grinned and pointed up towards the ceiling, where the music filtered down from dusty speakers.

“‘Jailbreak!’” he yelled, as if he’d just won at bingo. “Thin Lizzy. Drink, suckers!”

The old college drinking game: the fastest person to come up with the song title and artist demanded the others at the table drink. Ralph bunched up his face, confused, like one of those pug dogs. Michael raised his beer bottle to his mouth out of habit, then placed it back on the table without taking a sip.

Jerry skeptically watched two karaoke performances before leading the women to a martini bar three blocks over. “Join us when you get a clue,” he whispered in Michael’s ear. “Ditch Ralphie boy. Sooner rather than later.”

But Michael and Ralph stayed for one more beer, and when Michael tried to count how many he’d drunk, he lost track at nine. Soon Mr. Steve was crooning “King of the Road,” then packing up his machine and speakers and microphone.

“I know what we need to do,” Ralph said, and his face shone. “You feel like writing a letter?”

They walked the ten blocks to his apartment, heading away from downtown. These buildings were untouched by the urban revitalization elsewhere in the city, which took the form of new red brick facades, geraniums in baskets hanging from light poles, ungainly but attractive cobblestone streets swept twice weekly by the round, thick brushes of road Zambonis. Outside downtown, these buildings were made of cement that crumbled if you looked at it too hard. Garbage littered the gutters and stoops. At any given moment, a cat voiced its displeasure from some dark corner.

“Home again, home again, jiggity jig,” Ralph said, fitting his key into the bulletproof glass door of what looked like the DMV. Flat-roofed and nondescript.

“Huh?” Michael asked.

“Never mind. Just something my mom used to say.”

Michael asked Ralph where his parents lived.

“Heaven,” Ralph said, biting down on the word decisively. Michael stuck his hands in his pockets and stared at the floor.

Ralph’s apartment was one of twelve units in the oblong two-story building. Boxy rooms for holding people, with identical floor plans, beige carpet, white walls. When he flipped a switch, hidden track lighting illuminated two framed posters behind a couch likely in use since the Nixon administration. One poster advertised the U.S. Army, a male soldier from the “Be All You Can Be” era. The other showed a man in silhouette atop a mountain peak. “Perseverance,” it read. “No mountain is too tall for the man who desires height.” At the bottom, a tagline for Fleers Shoe Lifts, “Taking You Higher!”

“Were you in the Army?” Michael asked.

“Nah,” Ralph said. “That brainwashing crap isn’t for me. I used to model.”

Michael looked closer and saw that the man in both posters was a younger version of Ralph. The current version of Ralph didn’t look much different; neither one had a model’s body or face. Ralph appeared to read Michael’s thoughts. He shrugged. “Guess I’m just an everyman.”

At the computer, Ralph found Angie on his first try – he worked for a collections agency and had access to databases. He had a way with tracking people down. The kind of people, he said, who didn’t want to be found. Angie Cabriola lived in Sangerfield, a town outside of Utica.
They opened two more beers and sat side-by-side at the kitchen table, which doubled as a computer desk. Ralph created the invitations on his computer, using fancy scroll lettering. Bookshelves were crammed in each corner of the small eating nook, titles like Make the Magic Happen and Smart Men, Foolish Sales Choices. Old spiral notebooks took up several shelves. When Ralph excused himself, Michael opened one of the fatter notebooks. Ball-point scrawl filled each page. “Be it to beleive it! You can do what you aim to acheive, you can strive beyond nine-to-five!” Diaries full of misspelled affirmations. Childish, yet somewhat touching, Michael thought. Hopeful. Ralph was just a simple guy who aimed to help him through a rough patch. When Michael heard the toilet flush, he shoved the notebook back on the shelf.

Ralph finished the invitations. He printed two: one for Michael’s Angie, one for his Angie. He hummed a few bars of “Coward of the County” as he watched the paper feed through the old dot-matrix printer.

“Maybe I’m moving this thing too quickly,” Michael said. “You know, on the healing arc.”
Ralph fixed him with a fatherly gaze. He reached to the bookshelf next to his desk and handed Michael a book: Then Again, Maybe I Should. On the back, a curly-haired guru in a polo shirt smiled serenely. Ralph reassured Michael that based on his personal healing arc, he didn’t have to go through every single step. Michael nodded. Things were making sense. “Yeah. Thanks. I mean, I have to be it to believe it, right?”

Ralph appeared stunned, pleased.

The next day, Michael’s stamped and addressed letter to Angie sat folded inside his jacket pocket. It was more than a letter, it was an invitation. To Mr. Steve’s karaoke night, at Imperial Japanese restaurant on Midland, in one week.

They’d stayed up until 2 a.m., drinking beers from Ralph’s refrigerator and planning. Be all you can be. Be it to believe it. It made perfect sense earlier this morning, doused with many beers.

Now Michael’s mouth was dry. He touched the letter inside his pocket. It was sunny today, and he’d parked farther away, negotiating hardly any downtown traffic and enjoying a pleasant walk to work, save for the hangover. He’d avoided thinking about the work he had yet to do. He still hadn’t visited the Humboldt site. Maybe he’d go later this afternoon.

When he reached a mailbox, he paused. He stooped to tie one shoe, then the other. He stood up and was lightheaded for a moment. In one fluid motion, he took the letter from his pocket and dropped it in the box.

“Is this guy making you join a cult?” Jerry took a tray and moved it down the cafeteria line. “He sounded a little culty. All that ‘here in the now’ crap. Plus, you took off without talking to Karen.”

“Was that her name? She never said.”

“For fuck’s sake, Mike.” He picked up a dish of rice pudding with raisins and placed it on his tray. “What’s wrong with you? Did you even ask? Her name was almost definitely Karen.”

“She seemed nice. Maybe we can all go out another time. I’ve got a lot going on right now.”

“Since when? Since yesterday? When you called me in the middle of my date with Andrea? And requested for us plus one hot friend to come to goddamn karaoke night, because some guy whose cult you’re now joining bought you a beer?”

Michael eyed a dish of rubbery pasta, but selected a ham and cheese sandwich instead.

“Maybe I overreacted by calling you,” he said. “Ralph and I hung out for awhile. Guy’s got a lot of good ideas.”

The cashier, a pretty, young woman with wavy red hair and freckles, rang them up. She had a small gold stud in her nose and she touched it out of habit. Jerry gave her his Jack Nicholson as he accepted his change, and she vacantly scanned the line behind them. They carried their trays to a table.

“Here’s my advice, and you can stick this on your healing arc wherever it fits: if the man hands you a Dixie cup of Kool-Aid, I’d think twice before drinking it.”

That afternoon Michael started a drafting sketch three times, and even then it was merely mediocre. His hands shook as he typed. Arnold Ritter rushed by en route to his two o’clock meeting and glanced at Michael’s computer screen. “Nice work!” he said, not looking closely.

Michael emailed Ralph: “Sent the invite this a.m. The plan’s in motion.”

Ralph replied instantly with one word: “Great!”

Michael wrote again. “Have you sent yours yet?”

It took Ralph over an hour to respond. Michael sketched, checking his email every few minutes, looking over his shoulder for Arnold.

“Haven’t had a chance. Will do it this afternoon. Busy- gotta go. ”

Michael wanted to dive into the mailbox and take the invitation back.

As Mr. Steve would say in a few hours, it was karaoke time. Michael had heard from Ralph once since the email exchange, when he called to confirm their plans.

“This will be great,” he said. “I think it really will help both of us immensely.”

Michael had spent the last several days worried that he’d skipped too far ahead in the healing arc. He didn’t really know what a healing arc was. This didn’t seem to be about Angie anymore, though he’d gotten a haircut and worn his blue shirt and tie to work. Shaved extra close. And for what? He wouldn’t know until he got there. As Ralph suggested, he visualized how the evening would go. Somehow it didn’t include the catalog of comebacks he’d collected in the last three years (many of which began with “I’ll tell you what’s fair.”) He was pretty sure all of this was ridiculous, but not so sure that he wouldn’t go. She might show up.

At the restaurant, Michael sat alone at the bar waiting for Ralph. It was just after work, still early, and some weak sunlight filtered in the front windows. The bartender, the same one as last week, greeted him like a long lost friend. He held up his hand for a high-five, his gold link bracelet jangling. Michael had no choice but to high-five him.

“All right! We going to do some tempura tonight? And Sapporo? I’ve got a memory for orders, don’t ask me why.”

“Just beer,” Michael said. “Thanks.”

The bartender set the bottle and a glass in front of Michael.

“I noticed you were talking to Ralph last week,” he said. “Good guy. One of our regulars. He brings down the house when he sings the name songs.”

Michael nodded with authority.

“‘Angie’s’ alright,” the bartender continued. “I like how he does ‘Sherry,’ personally. Or ‘Beth,’ ‘Stacy,’ ‘Lola’ – you name it. He’s even done ‘Bernadette.’ The women love it. The men, too.”

The bartender stacked glasses. The back of Michael’s neck felt prickly. He removed his cell phone from his shirt pocket. He didn’t have Ralph’s number with him – his business card remained on Michael’s desk at work.

“Now how about that tempura?” the bartender asked.

Michael nodded and wiped his palms on his pants.

The restaurant was slowly filling up. Mr. Steve came in wearing jeans and a sweatshirt and stepped up to the bar and ordered a Jack and Coke.

“A double,” he added, and the bartender gave a thumbs-up. Mr. Steve turned toward Michael and smiled. “Anything to get through the show,” he said, his tone confiding. “This isn’t, like, my real gig. I play Jimmy Page in a Zeppelin cover band. Whatever pays the bills, right?”
Michael had the same sensation as when he emailed Ralph last week. He wished he could take back the invitation, take back the plan that was in motion. He wished he’d sent the invite anonymously, instead of signing his name like an idiot. It would be terrible if Angie showed up. It would be worse if she didn’t.

He threw a crumpled five dollar bill on the bar and left. Outside on the sidewalk, Ralph was walking toward him. He had a big smile on his face.

“Hey there,” he said.

When he got close enough, Michael shoved Ralph in the shoulder with his fingertips. Surprise and hurt filled Ralph’s face.

“So what sort of scam are you running, exactly?”

“What?”

“Bartender in there says you’re an old hand with the love-of-your-life songs.”

Ralph studied the ground, then the glass and concrete buildings around them. “Did he,” he said, a statement. He paused. The sky, with its fading oranges and incoming blues, fascinated him. “Well. I have been hurt many, many times.”

“Bullshit.”

“No, it’s true. And you seemed to understand where I was coming from, about Angie, I mean. I thought we had a good talk about that.”

They stood there, frozen. It was getting dark, and the false spring the sun created had returned to winter. The air was thick with the smell of cooked meat from the restaurant’s exhaust fans. Beef, pork. Chicken. You never want to do anything that scares you. Inside, Mr. Steve was setting up his equipment on stage. Michael felt a tiny shiver run through him, from the weather or apprehension, he did not know. What he finally knew, as clear as cut crystal, was it mattered very little whether Ralph had told the truth or not. This wasn’t about Ralph. It was barely about Angie.

“Did you send your letter?” Michael asked finally. It was something to say.

“Sure,” Ralph said. “Now why don’t we go inside.”

She wasn’t there. Ralph’s Angie hadn’t shown up, either. They sat at the bar, drinking and listening glumly to rounds of torch songs. The energy of last week’s singing was all used up; tonight the room was depressed. After they’d had three drinks and two shots apiece, Ralph excused himself to go to the men’s room. Michael burped.

“You remembered the sauce this time,” he said to the bartender. He’d finished the tempura two hours ago.

“That’s right, chief,” the bartender said.

After two more songs, Ralph still had not returned from the bathroom. Michael guessed he had left. On stage, Mr. Steve was clapping along to “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head.” Michael pictured him playing in his Zeppelin cover band. He’d need a curly wig to be Jimmy Page.

“I’m gonna do it,” Michael told the surfer bartender. “You think I should do it?”

“Sure, why not?” the bartender said. “Might as well. Since you’re here and all.”

“Exactly,” Michael said. “Exactly.”

He walked up to the stage and briefly thumbed through the books. He didn’t need the song lists, it was just to pass the time. Mr. Steve said he was next. Michael patiently waited his turn, swaying a little on his feet. When he stepped on stage, the spotlight blinded him temporarily. He blinked to clear his vision. Ralph stood in the doorway. Someone was behind him, or maybe not, but he appeared to be talking. The spotlight and the shadows made it hard to tell.

Mr. Steve flipped the switch.

“You’re on,” he said.

Michael picked up the microphone and opened his mouth.