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come in and book some dates.
    â€œIs anybody in the back room?” I ask.
    â€œI don’t think so. You can take a look.” Freddie is cutting up lemons and limes; a cigarette dangles on his lower lip. Smoking laws don’t apply off hours, thank God.
    â€œThanks.” I saunter back through the tables, sipping my beer and humming the first few bars of “Get It While You Can,” remembering the other night at the Angry Squire. I hadn’t listened to Janis in years. Of course humming a Joplin song is useless—you’ve got to sing full throttle stoked on about a quart of Southern Comfort.
    I pull on the door and enter the cabaret, and the smell of stale cigarettes and Lysol dances up my nostrils. I find my pack of Marlboros and light up. A baby grand piano sits quietly on the stage, waiting for the next ten fingers to bring it to life. A light in the control booth spills onto the tiny stage and the ubiquitous cabaret stool stands off to one corner. I place it next to the piano and sit down. I take a pull on the beer.
    The last time I sang with Goodie was in this room. He was still holding his own, but the meds had stopped working and the verdict was in. We did a short show that night. We were the fabulous “soul sisters,” with bumps and grinds and a wonderful medley from
Cats
in which I did a number of athletic tambourine solos. About forty people were in the audience, including a large group of Icelandic tourists staying at the Howard Johnson’s on Eighth Avenue and, of course, Texas Joe and Charles. For the end of the set we sang “Bridge Over Troubled Waters,” which we usually did tongue-in-cheek. Goodie started playing the first few bars. The Icelanders applauded. I decided to skip the patter and just get to it.
    â€œWhen you’re weary, feeling small,” I sang. The man sitting at the front table reached out and took his wife’s hand. I looked over at Goodie. He was in his usual drag: blonde wig, blue eye shadow, his head thrown back, his eyes closed, the music rolling through his body.
    In the last verse our voices locked in a resonant harmony that shimmered in the air. “Sail on silver girl, sail on by.”
    Being onstage in front of an audience can oddly be the most private place in the world, and that night, at that moment, it was just Goodie and me riding that song like a breakaway freight train taking us on one hell of a ride. At the end Goodie was spent, perspiration running his mascara, making him look raccoonish. I almost laughed, but he caught my eye, and I suddenly knew this was the last time we would sing together. I knew it. The Icelanders started to applaud. Goodie got up from the piano and came to take my hand for the bow. He was very thin, and his fishnet stockings hung loose at his ankles. I hadn’t noticed that before. I hadn’t noticed because I hadn’t wanted to. We looked out at the audience and took our bow. Then I stepped aside and gestured to Goodie, and at that moment the audience stood up and they gave Goodie an ovation. They saw right away what had taken me so long to see, a talented man wasting away in the prime of his life. And they stood for that. They stood to bear witness.
    Remembering that last night, I sit down at the piano and rest my hands on the keys, as if on a Ouija board.
    â€œIt’s been a long time, Goodie, but I still miss you,” I whisper. “I hope you are tucked away in some special part of the universe, standing on your hill enjoying the view.”
    A few weeks before Goodie died he dreamed he was traveling on a bus with his childhood friends and they were going on a picnic. The bus took them to the top of a hill where they spent the day. When the sun started to set, everyone got back on the bus to go home, all except Goodie. He stayed behind because the view from the hill was so magnificent.
    I close my eyes and rest my head on the piano. “Hey, Maggiemine,” a voice says,