Balls by Julian Tepper, Julian

Henry to sit beside him, asking his wife to make room in the booth. Denise staggered into an adjacent chair.
    Powell was onto I’ve Got Rhythm . Henry couldn’t bear to listen. Christ, he could play it ten times better. He tried tuning out the instrument.
    Marcel said, So Henry, how are you?
    I’m great. Thank you. Really very well.
    Paula’s father was a chemist. Usually his time with Henry was spent encouraging him to think beyond his small world, to make sure not a single day passed without his considering the lifespan of a star, for instance, or the earth’s boiling inner-core. It was tiresome. During their last dinner roughly three month ago, the extinction of bees had formed the basis of Marcel’s speech. Dead bees, dead plants, dead people, he kept saying this over and over again. He’d spoken for an hour about the need for humans to regard bees with the same deference that they would their own gods, because without them there was no life, no us, no single human consciousness. Henry had left the dinner table that night with a crippling headache. The next day he’d written a song called, Dead Bees. Dead Plants. Dead people . Those were its only lyrics. It was another throw-away. Nothing for Zachary Walbaum.
    However now, and for the first time, Marcel wanted to discuss Henry’s songwriting. He even admitted to a kind of shame. His face a drunken red, he said he always talked about his own ideas with Henry.
    Dating my daughter so long without my knowing what you really do, it’s not right, is it? Tell me, Henry.
    Tell you what?
    Tell me how you write a song? How do you begin?
    How do I begin?
    Please, tell me what that entails?
    Henry’s cheeks went slack. He didn’t want to talk about this. It wasn’t the time. He said, Marcel, you just do it. The more thinking, the more discussion, the worse off you are.
    A look of confusion formed on Marcel’s face, and he said, So, you just begin? That’s it? How do you know if something’s done if you don’t know where it’s supposed to go in the first place?
    Henry told him, It’s just a feeling, Marcel. That’s all.
    Just a feeling?
    Correct.
    I see. I see. His brow furrowed. Paula told me you almost sold a jingle to a Swedish clothing company.
    Well, ye-es , he said. But really that was nothing.
    Not nothing, insisted Marcel. I would love to hear what this jingle sounds like. Perhaps you’d sing it for me.
    Sing it?
    Sure. Is that uncomfortable for you? Because if you’d just sing a part of it…that would be…just grand, Henry, grand.
    Powell had gone on break. Henry’s voice wouldn’t have to compete with the piano. But this was ludicrous. He wasn’t going to sing this dead jingle for Marcel. And to do it a cappella. No. Marcel was practically begging him, though. He said how much it upset him that he’d never heard Henry sing, not once.
    I should be more supportive of you. I’m sorry I haven’t been.
    Henry, breaking up inside, looked at his martini. Taking a long sip, he said, Fine. You want to hear Miss…Scan…dinavia —he marked each syllable in the air with his hand—I’ll sing it for you.
    Marcel, using a cocktail napkin to wipe sweat off his neck, said, Please. Sing away.
    You’re ready?
    I’m ready.
    So here it goes:
    Sexier than a California girl,
More luster than a Japanese Pearl,
With ooh-la-la above the Parisenne,
And any gal in the West End.
She’s a six foot two, blond and busty,
Scandinavian.
But watch out.
She put the low,
In Oslo.
She crashed the stocks,
In Stockholm.
She killed all hope,
In Copenhagen.
She is the hell,
In Helsinki.
    Henry stopped. His head lifted and he saw Paula and Denise were staring at him, amused. Then to Marcel, he said, That’s it. What do you think?
    Oh, well, yeah, Henry. I love it.
    You do?
    Marcel’s head fell back, joyfully. He said, Good for you, son, and he smiled so that