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than he had last year. And if this year is a replication of last then I suggest we take a long hard look at your mission. At your objectives.”

      Henry hears a rushing sound in his ears, like the ocean in a sea-shell. He feels his face burning.

      “My mission? What do you mean my mission? He doesn’t want me to push my ankle, is all. He said the next game I’m starting and staying in.”

      “Watch your tone, young man,” Edgar Powell says. “And I do not appreciate that look on your face.”

      “Yes, sir,” Henry says. “But he said I’d start.” His jaw is clenched through this last bit.

      He starts to repeat himself but stops when his voice cracks and his tear ducts tingle. “He said …”

      Every family has its own sign language. Every family has its own complicated set of signals, unintelligible to outsiders but loud as a shout in a tunnel to its members. In the Powell family it is Edgar Powell’s habit to clean his eyeglasses with the end of his tie when he wants to be finished with a conversation.

      “I simply don’t want to see a scholarship evaporate because of some fool’s errand on the football field. Or because of an after-school job.”

      “It’s senior year—they’re not going to take my scholarship away senior year,” Henry says, now composed.

      “Attitude, young man.”

      Henry notes the glass cleaning and decides not to challenge his father any further because the end of their talk is in sight. Which is, of course, his father’s original intention in rubbing the tie on either side of the tiny square of prescription glasses. No more words from you, the subtitles say.

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Good,” he says. “I’m glad we had this talk.”

      Edgar Powell turns back to his work. He holds the glasses up to what little light is coming in through the small window and inspects his cleaning. That is the signal that Henry is dismissed.

      The old headphones are huge, the springs have remained factory tight so that if he wears them too long they give him a headache. But at least they seal the sound of music into his head so none of it leaks out. Henry sees himself in the mirror that hangs over his dresser and thinks he looks like a fighter pilot.

      But this image is in contrast with the one he has cultivated in his mind so he is careful not to look in the mirror once he clamps them on.

      He tilts open the Plexiglas top of the record player with one hand, places the record on the turntable with the other. Henry has always liked this part. This is the part—the pops and nicks of the dust hitting the needle—when his room transforms itself into a recording studio. He closes the plastic top and readies himself for today’s session. The window that overlooks the backyard becomes the soundproof window that separates the studio from the room full of producers, a record company executive and, in many cases, a Rolling Stone reporter leaning eagerly forward in his seat, ready to be dazzled by the notorious Henry Powell Band.

      It started with “Rock On.” That echoey, bass-driven song sounded so cool to him back in ‘74. He bought the David Essex album and played the song over and over and over after he was sure Brad was out of the house. Brad hated the song and called him a fag whenever he played it—Brad liked Three Dog Night and the Allman Brothers. Once Henry had saved enough allowance he bought the earphones.

      Standing on the far side of the room (as long as the headphone cord would allow) he mouthed the words to the song piped into his ears. Soon it wasn’t enough to be the lead singer so he began playing the bass guitar.

      “Not many bass-playing lead singers,” the Rolling Stone reporter would lean over and say to the producer at the sound board. “He’s incredible, this guy.” His producer would nod and say things like “Man, that was a great take” and “Right on,” and then “Let’s lay down some more just in case” which ultimately justified his playing the song over. And over. The record company executive was fetched by the assistant producer, who thought this Henry Powell so talented, “So revolutionary, man.”

      Rolling Stone came on board after Henry recorded “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.” A reporter was dispatched to absorb all things Powell. He tagged along with Henry and scribbled notes in between takes and tracks, recording Henry’s wonderful wit and self-deprecation (“Seriously, I know it can be better. Let’s do it one more time,” Henry would say, apologizing to his band and crew for keeping everyone late.) Words like workaholic and perfectionist would litter the Rolling Stone guy’s notes.

      Over the years the Henry Powell Band branched out and recorded all kinds of songs, defying all sorts of genres. “Dreamweaver” was followed by “Lay Down Sally,”

      “All By Myself,” and then, of course, the seminal “We Are the Champions.” Rolling Stone had already put him on the cover but after “Champions” they did another cover that involved Henry standing, hands on hips, with a menacing look on his face. “Just the Way You Are” gave his public a glimpse of the private Henry. The one who never discussed his personal life. “They’re eating it up, man,” the reporter would tell him. “Men want to be you, women just want you,” he said. “I just love the chance to play music,” Henry would reply.

      This particular session was interrupted by his brother early on in “Band on the Run.” Henry hadn’t really given it his all.

      “What the fuck are you doing?” Brad says. He stands in the doorway. Henry frantically pulls his headphones off and throws them onto the bed, running a hand through his hair to try to be cool.

      “What?”

      “What the fuck were you just doing?” Brad asks.

      “Nothing,” Henry says. “What do you want?”

      “I’m going out,” Brad says, shaking his head. “Dad said to come get you and tell you to keep an eye on Mom. He’s at a meeting.”

      “Yeah, okay.”

      “You freak.”

      Henry rushes across the room to close the door on his brother, who is already several steps away so the door slamming does not have the effect Henry had hoped. He calls out “knock next time.”

      “Freak,” his brother calls back from the bottom of the staircase.

      Henry cancels the rest of the session, his heart is beating so fast from this interruption.

      Later that night he takes a ball of string from the messy miscellaneous kitchen drawer and ties one end to the inside doorknob in his room. He unwinds the ball across his bed to the far side where the mike stand (with its spit guard) stands. Before cutting the string he makes sure it is fairly taut in his hand. He cuts it and ties it to his finger. This way if it goes slack he will know the door has opened, his privacy compromised. It is too late in the game to change vantage points so he can be facing the door. He has to be facing the window in order that the team of admirers and producers working the boards better see him in action.

      Rolling Stone (RS): I know you’re really busy—like, insane busy I know—but there’s this kid I know. Actually he’s the son of a guy I work with. Anyway, this kid is a huge fan. Is there any way I could …

      Henry Powell (HP): Bring him in! Sure, sure. Bring him with you tomorrow.

      RS: Are you kidding? I was just going to ask you to sign a picture or an album cover or something.

      HP: Yeah, fine. But if you want to bring him into the studio it’s no problem. We’ll put his name on the list at the security desk.

      The Rolling Stone reporter shakes Henry’s hand and runs off to make a call. Incredible, he’d say into the phone. Just like I told you, man.

      By the time “Handy Man” comes on, the kid-who’s-the-huge-fan has cancer and Henry’s generosity grows accordingly (backstage

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