by P G Loiselle
Running out of options, from there, I decided to go see Don at The Corner. He was usually on duty from open to close, so I thought it was a sure bet. Much to my dismay, when I entered, Don’s stand-in was behind the bar polishing glasses and preparing for the lunch crowd. Don would be back next week, the guy told me, and offered no more information than that.
I dragged myself out of The Corner doors with my head sunk low, gazing at my own feet as I walked. I barely made it out before my sneakers were confronted by a pair of opposing black wingtips. I looked up, and Rodney, that dirty dog, overwhelmed me with a cheap punch to the gut. I hunched over in pain while his fist drove further into my abdomen. The lunatic bellowed out a series of primitive grunts in the aftermath as I groaned. He slammed me against the wall and held me there, an inch above the ground, by my shirt. Herbie approached from behind him.
“Enough,” the boss said. “Let him down.” I sunk to my feet. “Listen up, Skywalker. If you think we’re done with you, you’re wrong.”
“Yeah, you’re wrong,” Rodney said and pushed his chest against me, squishing me into the wall.
“I happen to have a little brown envelope addressed to you. You recognize these, don’t you?” The black-hearted ogre snickered, and Rodney joined in the chorus. “Poor old Carney seems to be indisposed at the present moment, so I took the liberty of being courier for some friends of ours.” He shoved it in my face. “Take it. Open it.” I held out my hand and accepted the letter. “Go on. Open it.” I did what he said and read the short note. “What’s it say?”
“You know what it says.” A rush of cortisol whooshed through my arteries; my heartbeat exploded into hyperdrive.
“Remind me, smartass. What’s it say?” His voice roared with hostility.
“That the loan’s due by the end of the month. It’s $25,341.17, you guys want.” I crumpled the paper. “The loan should only be eighteen now.”
“You can do math, can’t you? Sort of. You’re high risk now,” he said, “of skipping town. Add interest and premature close-out fees, that’s what you get. Due by month-end, no extensions, no negotiations.”
“Where am I supposed to get that kind of money so quick?”
“That’s your problem, Elvis. Come on, Rodney. Let’s give this man space to think.” Rod thrust me against the building, smashing my upper back. After finishing with me, he accompanied his boss into their vehicle, and they crept away with the window half-down, leering at me.
Twenty-five Gs? They should have just shot me on the spot. Shit, Mike was the only person I imagined who could help me, and he was hobnobbing with pockets of snobs in Newport. With those stakes, I couldn’t wait until he decided to return to pauper life. I needed to track him down in whatever harbor he’s docked at.
Newport, the gazillion-carat gem of Rhode Island has been a junction of privilege for centuries. After the slave trade kicked off the money-machine, the gilded age brought cool-breeze seeking Southerners and Yankees alike who dotted the shoreline with exaggerated mansions. Statesmen like JFK and Eisenhower ruled the land from their coastal summer compounds, and travelers of all monetary circles burn mega-holes in their vacation pockets during high-season.
It took me less than an hour to get there, and I parked off Thames Street near the marinas. The streets were flooded with tourists, and once I had bashed my way through the slow-moving crowds, I scurried like a fruit-loop through every row of boats that was open to the public. There were fleets of gorgeous yachts and marine vessels of all types and sizes yet no Mike. Perhaps they were entertaining in town or showing off the Vanderbilt or Astors summer cottages? I scoured the restaurants, shops and bars and still nothing. I made my way across the island to the Cliff Walk, where many of the mansions were located and snaked along the shore, kicking my feet in the dust. It was hopeless, and I’d all but given up. A gull swooped by and pooped on my head. I followed that bird with my eyes and wanted to scream. That’s when I saw them again, Herbie and Rodney, tailing me.
“Leave me,” I cried, and ran…so fast, so far, they couldn’t have kept up.
I abandoned the Cliff Walk at The Breakers mansion and hoofed over the grounds and onto the street. Although I didn’t see them behind me anymore, I continued on the main road, joined up with the coastal path again a quarter mile away and headed straight towards the first beach, Easton’s Beach, to camouflage myself amongst the masses.
It was school vacation and the beach was packed. Families and large gangs of teens were scattered everywhere; they were playing, swimming, horsing around and generally having fun. Occasionally, you could spot a single individual, like a glistening college girl tanning herself on a blanket or an older gentleman walking the length of the shore, though, most people weren’t alone.
I had eluded my pursuers alright, but sitting in the sand in my jeans with my socks, shoes and shirt off, I felt like a loner, a social outcast, a real bum. I tried to nap, but there was too much activity going on around me, and I couldn’t relax. After a long spell of roasting in the sun and on the verge of a burn, I returned to the car. It was covered with dead fish and fish guts. There was a note underneath a pile of severed cod heads that read, ‘don’t flounder on us, Skywalker’.
The ride home was a sorry occasion. The sad part is, I wasn’t sure what to do next and frittered away the remaining daylight hours being a passive blob, staring at the TV, not really watching or listening, only waiting for the time to pass and a brilliant idea to hit me. And pass it did…very, very slowly, and I was only hit with more panic.
Day turned into evening, evening turned into night, and night turned into early morning, and I was still sitting, drained yet wound up, unnerved and shaky. It must have been about 7:00 a.m. this morning when I crashed.
By nine, I was up for good and a total mess. I felt exiled in my own abode and needed someone to help me out of this dilemma. Mike and Don wouldn’t be around, but Dale was scheduled to be back in time for Friday’s Happy Hour at The Corner. I thought he could join me for a drink or two, and we could talk, maybe even figure out what next. I called him at the lot in the afternoon.
“Magic Cars, this is Dale.”
“Hey, it’s Luke.” Contrary to the enthusiastic greeting I yearned for, there was only silence. “Dale, you there?”
“I’m here,” he said. “Busy though. Can’t really talk.”
“Oh. Got time later? We can meet at The Corner for some beers.”
“I’m busy tonight, and to tell you the truth, for the rest of the weekend, and next week too. I’m just busy, period.”
“Oh, I get it,” I said.
He let a few agonizing seconds go by before resuming the conversation. “Listen, and I won’t beat around the bush. I sacrificed a lot over the past couple years and put my own personal interests behind the band’s. I really thought it’d pay off and we’d be stars someday. And I believed in you, and all those bullshit speeches of yours. You believed them yourself for Christ’s sake. Everyone could see that.
“When those douche bags started harassing us, I figured that would be the end, but we stuck it out together and kicked their asses every frickin’ time. What did you do to ruin all that, Luke? You put yourself first, before me, before Stevie, before Mike and before Tommy. It was all about you, you, you when you stayed back for that chick. We were all against it but too stupid to drag you home with us by your balls. And that love of yours set you up. After that, everything disintegrated. Four-n-Moore’s history. It’s all history, Luke, and I need some time to digest it all and get the shit taste out of my mouth.”
“I’ll make it up to you,” I said. “I swear. Just give me a chance. Will you? We can put the pieces back together again.”
“See you around, buddy,” Dale said and hung up.
It was like another arrow shot straight through my heart, first from Amy and Stevie and now from Dale. He was always someone I could count on, there to
help with whatever jam I was in, and now it seems he’s not only given up on the band, but also our friendship. What’s everyone going to do with the time they say they need? How is this supposed to solve our problems? Amy and Stevie need time. Dale needs time. Mike told me that I should take time to clear my head. Time’s killing me right now. This can’t be how it ends.
I went to Happy Hour at The Corner by myself and hoped that I might meet up with an occasional acquaintance, a friend for the day. And even if I didn’t see anyone I knew, at least I wouldn’t be alone. The joint was full, and my favorite spot was taken. There were no stools whatsoever at the bar, and I settled for one of the last open tables against the wall, at the far end of the room. The bartender, Don’s stand-in, showed up with a bottle of Bud without me needing to order.
“This is what you’re drinking, right?”
“Uh…yeah, thanks.”
“Your name Luke?”
“Why’re you asking?”
“Only that some girl showed up looking for you.”
Amy, I thought and got excited. “She say when she’d be back? Or have a message?”
“Nope,” he said. “Seemed upset, you ask me”
“Was she alone, or with a guy?”
“Alone, I guess.”
“What’d she look like?”
“Young, pretty, wicked thick brown hair, dark eyes, dressed kind of snazzy. Oh, and a brown blotch on her chin. Listen, it’s a full house; I got to get to work. That’s two dollars for the beer.”
I thanked him and chucked him a five, telling him to keep the change.
Which girl would be looking for me? Based on the description, a brown blotch, I doubt it was Amy. The girl he described sounded like Ashley White. But why would she dare come in here like that after what she’d done? I guzzled my beer and went up to the counter to grab a second.
“Another Bud please. And can I ask you one more question? Did that girl happen to have a British accent?”
“Nope. More like from Massachusetts.”
I was stumped. Not a Brit, so Ashley’s out of the question. If it were a friend, they could call or stop by my house. A Mass fan maybe? Another reporter desperate for a story? Whoever it was, if they want to find me, they will. I finished my drink and went home to try to sleep.
The only saving grace about an all-nighter is that the next night, I’m so damn tired, Mr. Sandman usually rips me away hard and fast. I thought I could eat supper, lay down in my bed and drift off without much ado. How wrong I was.
All of it, everything, from my parents’ death all the way up to Dale’s rejection to meet kept regurgitating through my thoughts, churning over and over in my mind until I was at the edge of my sanity, about to fall off. All the setbacks in my life returned like a horde of taunting spooks and left me trembling and wondering how and why I could have fallen so far. I concentrated on my breathing: in/out, in/out... It helped temper some unruly thoughts, but my body still shivered in cold terror about how to slay this beast that’s feasting on me. The sole elixir remaining, in a last-ditch effort to free myself from my own self, was my journal, the only trusted outlet through which I can bear my soul. It was a mere couple of pages that I wrote, a few days in my short life, and it helped me see things more objectively. And it’s very simple. The only thing I need is another miracle. And it better come soon.
Reunion Tour
Saturday, August 22, 1987
I awoke at midday shrouded in a cocoon of sweat. One person, Mr. Jameson, floated around my head as I crossed over from dream purgatory. If I needed money, don’t hesitate to ask, he once said. Yes, I did need it…more than ever. He came to my aid so often and was the last person I wanted to ask. What other real options did I have? Mike bought my car for two thousand but twenty-five? He can’t have that kind of dough lying in his sock drawer. Mr. Jameson might, or at least knew how to get it.
After ingesting my coffee and peanut butter toast, I drove over to his neighborhood, a block of solid homes for white-collar families, within a mile radius from me. As a precaution, I went a roundabout way to test whether I was being followed; I was pretty sure I wasn’t. The closer I got to his house, the more jittery I became. Feeling nervous at the thought of a guy who’s like my second dad was a first for me.
He was out in his driveway, with Noodle, waxing his car, so I parked on the street. Noodle barked and ran over. I crouched down to his level to pet him. He jumped all over me and licked my face like crazy, sneaking his tongue between my lips a few times. I lollygagged over to the driveway feeling even more skittish than before. Mr. Jameson waited for me with his buffing pad in hand.
“Happy Saturday, Luke,” he said. I went to shake his hand and instead, he grabbed me and held tight before stepping back to give me a good once-over. “Looking for Stevie?”
“Actually, I came to talk to you, Mr. Jameson.”
“Please, call me Fred. You’re old enough. Besides, I’m tired of all this mister crap. From now on, I want everyone to call me Fred.”
I stood there, knocked off-keel. “Fred,” I said out loud, as if his name was a new word for me.
“How’re you doing?” he asked. “Heard what happened with the tour. I was going to swing by to see you at some point.”
“Honestly, Mr. Jameson, I mean, Fred, I’ve been better. Not sure if Stevie told you, but we had a little falling out. Over a girl, kind of.”
“Haven’t seen the boy in a while. And he certainly doesn’t talk about his feelings. I guess he’s preoccupied. So, you want to talk about Stevie then?”
“No, Mr.…Fred. I want to talk about an offer you once made. You see, I did something I shouldn’t have. I borrowed a lot of money from the wrong people. Not for gambling or drugs or something bad like that but to finance our last album.” I fought back a wave of sorrow that fell over me. “The worst part is that I lied about it.”
“Luke, come here.” He took me in his arms again, and I allowed myself to cry. “We all do stupid stuff, especially when we’re young. Christ, if you knew what I had done when I was your age, I’m not sure you’d even talk to me.” We separated. “How much money do you need?”
“About twenty-five thousand. You said, a little while ago not to hesitate to ask.”
“Twenty-five thousand? That’s a lot of… Well, I…I don’t have that kind of money lying around. Tell you what. Let’s go down to the Central Falls Credit Union on Monday and have a talk with the manager. He’s a good friend of mine. I’m sure he’ll come up with something.”
“Actions matter. Don’t they, Fred?”
“Actions, words, deeds. It all matters. Sure you don’t want to talk about something else?”
“It’ll have to wait for another day, once I sort things out.”
“Sounds serious,” he said. “If you need me, Luke…”
“You’ve already done so much,” I said. “Without you, and Stevie, I would’ve ended up a delinquent at some rundown orphanage. And my house…” My eyes watered up again. “I can’t even begin to thank you. I promise. If I need you, Fred, I’ll come running.” I gripped him for a quick hug and escaped home before my emotions got the better of me.
Fred was a godsend today, and he treats me as his own. I do miss my mother and my father. If they were still around, they’d be here for me, as well. As for my friends, I miss them too. They should be here for me, especially you, Amy. I was there for you in your many hours of need. You left me to fend for myself…days ago.
“Long Daze”
Hollow halls are echoing sounds like yesterday
Broken strings are begging but I, don’t want to play
I linger on the shadows, and build a barricade
Stuck between my own lies and the choices she made
Chorus:
But I, can’t pull out and I, can’t push through / I doubt I’ll ever make my way back to you
Cuz i
ts four long days since you’ve been gone / Four days since I’m on my own
You’ve been busy, and I’ve been dizzy / Running round this town with an ache in my heart
Put on my best CD, take in a ten-star movie
Drown out the hectic quiet of my, apparent normalcy
Cigarette smoking and, a friend was joking saying I’d
Be better off with a laugh or two
[Repeat Chorus]
Wonder what it’s going to take to get you back / Wonder what I got to do to get you back
Wonder what I have to do to get you back / Wonder what I need to do to get you back
[Repeat Chorus]
Sunday, August 23, 1987
The phone rang while I was eating breakfast. It was the first call I’d gotten in a while and I ran to it, at first hesitating and then frantic, hoping for a caller who gives a shit.
“You’re home,” said the caller.
“Mike,” I said, delighted and out of breath. “So great to uh…great to hear from you.”
“Sorry I didn’t catch you sooner. Been on the go, trying to keep up with my father. I asked Susanne to tell you where I was and tried calling a bunch of times. Answering machine never picked up.”
“Oh yeah, the answering machine…long story,” I said. “Anyway, I went to the beach on Thursday, and Friday, I was at The Corner.”
