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"I 'm yours. Shall I play for you?"

"Yes," they all screamed. No surprise there; they'd say that for anybody. Still it was gratifying. He was safe; no need for cold fear; they liked him. So Tone did a standing backflip. He used to do it while holding the guitar. Now he wasn't sure how many more years he could do it at all. Probably ought to give it up. Marie, his ex, had claimed it was all clowning.

But just then, jumping around in the heat of the stage lights felt good. He'd been waiting in the alley behind the bar - the green room was small and smoky - and it was cold out, even for December. Tone, christened Anthony Pantieri, Tony to his friends, but Tone now he was on stage, had been waiting for his old drummer Jimmy Daulys to arrive. Outside there was that fine, flaky snow that marks really cold weather, and he'd let it blow, around him, down his jacket, into his gloves. He knew he'd get hot later inside.

Jimmy drove up in his minivan, still in his pinstriped monkey suit, straight from his office Christmas party. Time to get to work, Tone's work, that is. Jimmy's wife Cheryl had come along; she was in a scoop-back green satin formal. Not exactly bar-wear. They'd preferred it, though, because this way they were away from the kids only the one night. Anthony thought that was fine.

Hansen, the bar's sound guy, snaked them up to the stage, did the introductions. Tony carried his Strat; Jimmy had his single snare,, and Hansen brought an Igloo full of ice and towels. Tone insisted on it. It was a small perk, his only one, but necessary. He needed it to keep cool. Though by now you'd think his coolness would be a given. Stupid jokes. Another thing Marie'd tried to get him to give up. "Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls, it's a rare reunion of half those Canadian favorites: Antsy Pantsy. Let me introduce to you Jimmy Daulys and Tone Pantieri."

The audience was chanting: the left half called, "Antsy," and the right half responded, "Pantsy." They were so young. They couldn't know stuff like that from the beginnings of the band, could they? Too much classic radio.

He surveyed the audience. The miracle of contacts. He'd never seen anybody back then, too vain to wear glasses on stage. Half the time he'd worn sunglasses. How'd he ever met Marie? Her takenness with him in that cramped L.A. bar must have been pretty obvious. She'd tried to be noticeable, and he'd noticed her alright, her straight raven hair down to her waist, her makeup, the fringe leather jacket, those tight, tight jeans.

But now. Tone caught a flash of yellow at the top of something tall, willowy, feminine at the back. If only back then he'd realized how vast the pickings were.

Tony looked at Jimmy, and Jimmy smiled back. It'd be good to play with a drummer again, and not just any drummer, but Jimmy. It was part of the reason why Tony had decided to come here, though the local college station liked him, too. It'd been a long time since '77, the final end of Antsy Pantsy, and Jimmy was an accountant, but when they'd gotten together the night before in Jimmy's rec room to practice, some of the magic was still there, if that's what it was, and even Jimmy's chops were still pretty good. Jimmy did have those quick hands, and steady sense of rhythm, even if he kept it up now playing ping-pong against his older child. Or so he said. They had a second one, too. Enviable alien beings, they seemed to like their Uncle Tony.

"Well, then, let's play!"

Jimmy set the beat, and Tone came in with the guitar. They'd decided to do a few old Antsy Pantsy numbers first, to warm the audience up, and themselves as well, and what could have been better than the old theme song? Especially now, since they were calling for it. "This ain't no new dance/I've just got ants in my pants." O'Rourke's words. That silliness of his. He'd been the real clown. All drug-fueled, but it worked.

The kids were loving it. This was the fun part. Anthony had this theory the key to pleasing an audience was enjoying yourself, and that used to come easy. Singing songs everybody knew and jumping around and why not? Was that so bad? Somebody (named Marie) might not have thought much of it, but nowadays the winds of critical favor were blowing his way. Too bad there was no Antsy Pantsy anymore, but just him, Tone Pantieri, with his sail still out. Jimmy was an accountant. The Good King had stayed on in Chicago, no more sax, but social work, and O'Rourke was dead.

Tony looked back at Jimmy and Jimmy was with him. His eyebrows raised the question: Jimmy gave him a half-shrug that said, why not? So they launched into a new song Anthony'd written. It was safe: about dancing at home to oldies and the dog yaps, the phone rings, nobody answers, no kids, fire blazes. Comical. It'd been for Marie, she'd prodded him to write it, but she'd dropped from his scene before he'd finished it, and he'd dropped her, in name at least, from the song. Divorce. An easy word, and it was easy enough, too, no children, no assets - no product, she'd said.

The ghost of her had a way of hanging around, though.

The audience seemed to know the words, or were good at faking it; maybe they did, because it had gotten some airplay. It was a dance thing, so he started doing a little twist, and then segued into The Twist, as he often did when playing a gig by himself, before he realized he and Jimmy hadn't done this at practice. But Jimmy was still pounding away. He twisted around to grin at Jimmy, and Jimmy grinned back. Everybody twisted, even as he segued back into his own song. Even Cheryl was doing a modest shimmy, swishing the green satin of her scoop-back.

That was good. Anthony wanted her to like him. She'd seemed safe and easy-going when he'd shown up at the Daulys house two days ago, but he was a little insecure about being the just-divorced, bachelor-days' friend from hell.

Just divorced? After six years? Ouch. Not.

Girls. Tone watched three of them twisting in front of the stage; so young. Their hips tried to twist, but their eyes were fixed on him. What to do with that sort of devotion? Marie would have been disappointed he'd taken so little advantage since the divorce; disappointed, though perhaps not entirely surprised. She'd probably even respected him if he'd done it during the marriage: she'd always wanted someone hotter-blooded than he ever was. A cold Canadian, despite his Italian name. But these three weren't that good-looking, all of them short and two of them dumpy. The third one was somewhat prettier, with a rounded face, but such short hair. She did have breasts, though, under that shapeless sweatshirt. University of Toronto, it read. The hometown. And right in front: suggestive. Of course, sitting almost at his feet was this awful girl, heavy with frayed hair in a yellow blouse. At her side, her boyfriend was twisting, trying to look soulful, trying to hide the fact that he was staring at Ms. Toronto's breasts. A little drama. Maybe Toronto wasn't so bad looking.

A couple of fast ones, Twist and Shout, Good Golly Ms. Molly, and the audience was breathless. The old songs are good songs. He closed the fast sequence with a big crescendo, and then did the three-chord intro to Boys' Dance. Hansen lowered the lights on cue. Jimmy slid a plain white towel over his snare to mute the sound, and they took the tempo down. Girls like to fast dance, but the boys like to grope, and maybe the girls don't mind. Anyway such was O'Rourke's theory. There were a few dancers who knew what they were doing, some football player in the back with his diminutive dark-haired date doing a pretty good waltz. Ms. Toronto danced dreamily, a swaying motion, with her head and arms and not her hips, pity, her eyes gently closed, nose tipped up, chin pointed at Tone. A Fresnel from behind him caught her full in the face. Nice. A girl can wear her hair short if she's got a good face, and this one can. Catching up with Jimmy was supposed to claim the weekend. He'd understand.

Boy's Dance. It had been Marie's favorite song, probably still was. She certainly wouldn't like the song about dancing at home to oldies,. Funny thing: she'd actually met O'Rourke, though Marie didn't realize. They'd run into him once, back in Chicago. O'Rourke was trying to charm something out of the bouncer at Wise Fools. Marie'd given the nice bum a few bucks. Tony hadn't said a word, and O'Rourke had been too out of it to recognize him.

Boy's Dance. Back to it. Thinking half-enviously about the dead O'Rourke wasn't good for anybody. Concentrate. Nobody seemed to notice his abstraction, maybe he hadn't let the solo run on too long. People were dancing, groping, as the song advised, and that was alright: that was what was supposed to happen.

In the dark left over from the ballad, there was the smell of marijuana. Tone had a thing he said in such cases, "Breathe deep the gathering gloom/Watch lights fade in Anthony's room." But Anthony preferred if they wouldn't. Even back then he'd been pretty straight. O'Rourke thought marijuana just an appetizer, especially before a show. Tony liked to be a professional, an entertainer, straight. Turned out Marie sided with O'Rourke. Give in, go with the flow, she'd said. Get those creative juices flowing. In 1988, Marie was all for the sixties. Tony had been there. He didn't miss it.

The D-string sounded a little flat, so Tone paused a moment to tighten it up. One of her friends whispered something in Toronto's ear, and she looked down and then back up at him with a bright red face. The suddenness of her motions drew his attention, and he realized there was a patch of white displayed between a disengaged zipper. Such a pureheart he was. Too busy with the face to look elsewhere. Eh, he had looked at her breasts. And Tony tried to continue not to look, not very successfully. She turned completely around, away from the stage, to fix her zipper. Nice: directed modesty. Naturally Tone watched even closer. She didn't look bad from this side either. When she faced forward, Tone grinned at her. Wickedly, he hoped.

He introduced his other new song, one they had no chance of knowing, and it nearly lost them. But it had Toronto landmarks in it, Bloor Street and Ride the Rocket, girl, and the striking face of Toronto turned right up to him. When he finished, there was some scattered clapping, but Toronto broke into wild applause which she only stopped fitfully when it wasn't joined. Anthony was glad she liked it. He hoped it wasn't just homesickness.

Give her something she'll like in return. With his right hand he gently slapped the pickguard of his guitar. Jimmy had the sense to give up and let him go where he wanted. Tony's voice usually let him croon one or two old soul ballads a set, even unaccompanied. "Cupid, draw back your bow." Jimmy barked out a good-natured laugh. "And let your arrow go, straight to my lover's heart, for me, for nobody but me." Sing this one for Toronto, and she seemed to know it, though typically a few other girls get the same the idea. But fixing on one girl, Tone knew, could give the whole thing a sense of intimacy. Go ahead, use her. Do it.

Marie had been one of those used girls, not one of the mistaken others, one he'd intended to sing for. He'd picked Suzanne for her, it seemed right even before he knew her, and touched her perfect body with his song. Now he couldn't bear to sing it any more. The funny thing was, she'd never heard it before, she was young herself then. She'd thought he'd written it. He didn't tell her no, but of course she figured it out. It ended up just another item of his betrayal. He hadn't written any songs, had he? What kind of an artist was he? There was no production in him. A copycat. A clown. In eleven years of marriage, just the two of them, there'd been plenty of time for insults.

Somehow that one night in L.A. it hadn't mattered. He really was an artist, then. She'd liked his performance, then. She'd come back for more. For a while.

Maybe it was true he didn't have that creative thing going. But did she really mean create? Or procreate? Would it really have been enough to have written her a song?

Fuck off, Marie, idea of Marie, ghost of Marie. Do what I really want to do. Sing songs everybody knows. "Ho, ho, ho. Merry Christmas." The deep, false voice just right for such sentiments. 'Tis the season. Tone hit the first chords of Jingle Bells, medium fast, and Jimmy walked right in behind him. He got the Mrs. Jimmy to join him for choruses, she had a nice voice, she looked good next to him, she was safe, it was one big happy sing-along.

A couple of other carols also went over well. Winter Wonderland. Did he remember all the words? Didn't matter, the audience did. But when he started 'Let It Snow,' the Toronto girl openly smiled: he'd found her favorite. Tone sat down on the edge of the stage, and invited her to sit next to him. "The weather outside is frightful" - that much was true - "And the fire is so delightful" - true in its way, isn't it? - "So as long as we've no place to go, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow." Another girl had sat down on stage at his other side. Maybe there was a few more, yes, yes, the whole front of the stage was occupied, and Tone noticed they were mostly girls. Good. He started this swaying thing that traveled the length of the stage, swaying first in the direction of Ms. Toronto. Anthony glanced over at the clock; something else he could see now. Twelve-fifty? Subtract fifteen minutes for bar time, but still. Now's about time you start promising them you'll sing all night, remind them they do want to go home. Time himself to go, well, not home, there is no home anymore, but somewhere. Pa Jimmy had promised his baby-sitter he'd be back by one. In fact, this was as good a song as any to end on. "The fire is slowly dyin', and my dear we're soon goodbyin', … Thanks, thanks a lot, you've been a great audience." Anthony was glad he'd remembered to say that, because it was true. "Thanks, and good night." He leapt up, and Ms. Toronto stood right below him, applauding wildly.

A lot of others were, too. That was nice. He'd kept them entertained.

Jimmy shook his head, and laughed, and knocked his sticks together as the beat for applause. Tone realized, wriggling out of his guitar strap, he'd have to do one encore, at least, before he went.

Anthony took an icy towel out of the red Igloo, and rubbed it all over his head. It felt good. A sliver of ice slipped inside his shirt and down his back, and he shivered to run it out his shirt. That felt good, too. There she was, standing right at his feet. Her hair was dank with sweat. Of course, his was, too. In fact, probably he stank. He scowled, and riffed out a I-IV-V blues cycle. Lightning Hopkins' Bald-Headed Woman Blues. Probably haven't done that since leaving Chicago, '79 or so. "They say hair's a woman's glory, why'd you cut yours off?"

That song went over OK, but she didn't get the message. There's still that damn beam of sex coming out those half-open eyes. Cool it. He had another new song, half-finished, all the words weren't there and he had to hum parts, his ode to being an early seventies flack, imagining - it was a good dream for him, but he knew enough to know others would find it funny - opening a reunion tour for some combination of Temptations, Grand Funk, Canned Heat, Guess Who. People broke out into laughter, including her. Make sure she still wants it, even if this is just some funny old can't get the job done, can't produce kind of guy up here. A follower.

"Good night, good night, and thanks a bunch!" Hansen turned up the lights and snaked them back out through the crowd. In the green room, Anthony put on his street clothes, looking forward to the cold, wondering, waiting for the outside.

She wanted it. In the alley, in the snow, she was already there, looking a little blue, bundled into a blue parka. There were some others. She took two steps toward Tone. Anthony hesitated - could he do this? - but then, as Tone, he waved grandly, as if to everyone standing around, and ducked into the Daulys minivan. Anthony looked at her; she stood, unsure; thankfully Jimmy whisked him away. She tightened the collar of her parka, turned to her friends, and then he couldn't see her anymore. Back in the rec room, he lost eight straight games of ping pong, drank way too many Yuenglings, and finally Jimmy fell asleep mid-reminiscence on the couch made up for Tony. Anthony just lay down on the floor.

That was just about the hour when the ghost of her haunted Anthony the most, screaming about sex and how he never produced, he never produced. He got four interminable hours of un-sleep on the poured concrete floor, and then he awoke, hung over and empty, when somebody else's screaming eight-year-old jumped on "Uncle" Tony's stomach.