The Dominant Hand

by Charles Martin

  “Let’s take a break, guys,” Chris said to the group while walking to the rhythm guitarist. Chris leaned in close. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” the kid shrugged, not lifting his head enough for Chris to see the eyes hidden behind the hair. “Sorry about that, Mr. Nguyen.”

  “Ugh, don’t call me Mr.,” Chris chuckled, backing away. “You make me sound like an old man.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No problem,” Chris said, softly slugging the kid in the shoulder. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off, we’ll work on your parts tomorrow, okay? We need to let your fingers rest.”

  The kid nodded, then sighed deeply. He lowered the guitar to its stand and shuffled out of the studio. Chris knew the kid was glad for the excuse to leave, but was showing attitude to save face. He was Delicious’s brother and was learning the guitar to replace another guitarist who had quit just before they recorded. Chris wondered if he could convince Delicious to play the rhythm part too or to even agree to a session player.

  Chris lifted the guitar out of the stand and glanced through the window leading to the control room just in time to see the kid push open the front door. Chris sat down on a chair and began plucking the strings. He tightened the low E string slightly and then strummed out the song the kid couldn’t play. He threw in a rootsy hybrid pick just to see how it’d sound.

  “Hey,” Delicious said. “Is it true that you guys are getting together to play again?”

  “Shropshire Plaid?” Chris asked. “No, I’d heard that rumor too, but we haven’t played together in a really long time. I’m not sure who said we’re playing a concert, but they never told me about it.”

  “That’s too bad. I’d love to see you guys play again,” Delicious said, as he walked into the control room and collapsed onto a couch.

  “Sorry to disappoint.”

  Chris’s fingers felt stiff and unpracticed. He sat down the guitar, unplugged it and began rolling up the amp chord. The electronic pinging of a Chainsaw Kittens song brought his attention to a cell phone on the mixing console.

  “Can someone see who that is?” Chris asked.

  Delicious picked up the cell phone to look at the name on the LCD display.

  “It says ‘Keith’!”

  “Okay, I gotta get that,” Chris said, dropping the chord and jogging to the control room. He grabbed the phone and flipped it open.

  “Hello, sweetie,” a young tenor called. “How’re the junior highers doing?”

  “Not bad, we’re getting there.”

  Chris covered the phone and glanced over at Delicious.

  “Why don’t you go in and start working on your solo for ‘Rise,’” Chris said to Delicious. “I’d like to get that done today.”

  “Yes, Mr. Nguyen,” the kid smirked. “Say ‘hi’ to your boyfriend.”

  “Um, okay, I will,” Chris answered.

  Delicious’ eyebrow jumped sharply. Chris then realized the kid had been kidding. He didn’t know Chris was gay. Delicious moved awkwardly to the other room and murmured something to the drummer.

  Chris sighed and shook his head.

  “Yeah,” Chris said into the phone. “We won’t be here much longer.”

  “Hey,” Keith started slowly. “I heard a rumor that Jim has been by the studio.”

  Chris closed his eyes and grit his teeth. He sat down at the mixing console, leaning back in the swiveling chair that squeaked and turned under his weight.

  “Chris?” Keith said, his playful tone dropping from his voice. In its place was the sharp-edged bill collector voice he used at work. Chris jokingly called it Keith’s “big boy voice” and hated being on the other side of it.

  “He’s spent a couple of nights here,” Chris grunted, then glanced up to see Delicious staring through the glass, his nose pressed against the window, his eyes wide open like a peeping tom. Chris leaned forward to the intercom and flicked it on. “Why don’t you get some work done.”

  Delicious smiled, backed off the window and skipped to retrieve his guitar. Chris slumped back down.

  “Okay,” Chris said. “Jim’s been over here a couple nights, but he just needs a place to sleep. I’m not fucking him for God’s sake.”

  “We can still hear you,” Delicious called from the studio.

  Chris glanced at the board and noticed the intercom was still on. Chris’ olive-toned cheeks flushed to a brownish red.

  “Sorry,” Chris called with a wave, and then flicked the intercom off.

  “I know you’re not having sex with him,” Keith replied, his tone softer. “It’s just, I’m worried about you, he’s never been a good influence on you. He’s put you through so much.”

  “I owe it to him,” Chris replied. “Without him, there would have been no Plaid.”

  “No, baby,” Keith said. “Without you, there would have been no Plaid. You were the musical genius. You played almost every instrument in that band on every album they made. He was just a lead singer with weird lyrics no one but him and his druggie friends really understood.”

  Chris smiled and rubbed his temple.

  “I’m not a musical genius.”

  “Whatever, Mr. I’m the Biggest Producer in the Midwest.”

  “I’m not that either.”

  Keith laughed, and Chris was relieved to hear it. He took a deep breath, glancing into the studio. Delicious was bent over his guitar and the drummer was playing a handheld video game.

  “I can’t just turn my back on Jim,” Chris said.

  “Why not?” Keith asked. “He did that when he left Plaid to form that fucking cult in Norman.”

  “He’s still my best friend.”

  “And I’m your husband.”

  Chris glanced back into the recording space. Now Delicious was playing the video game and the drummer was looking at a porn magazine.

  “Where’d that come from?” Chris thought, vaguely offended.

  “Chris?” Keith growled in his big boy voice.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll talk to him.”

  “I just don’t want his groupies stealing all the equipment in your studio.”

  “They won’t,” Chris sighed.

  “They’ve done it before,” Keith said.

  “They won’t. I’ve got to get back to recording.”

  “We’re not done talking about this.”

  “I know,” Chris replied. “I love you and you are more important to me than Jim; I assure you I’ll be more careful.”

  Keith relented and they exchanged soft goodbyes. Chris said he’d talk to Jim, but in reality, he hadn’t talked to Jim in years. He only knew Jim had been sleeping there on and off for the past six months because of the empty bags of Cornnuts and Diet Coke cans he found in the mornings. Chris chose not to tell Keith that Jim still had a key to the studio.

  Before disappearing five years ago, Jim would go through stretches where all he’d consume was Cornnuts and Diet Coke. He would sleep at whoever’s house, studio or garage was close by, and then leave like a vagrant.

  Chris slid the phone into his pocket. Delicious’s guitar was singing with a wavering ring. Chris sat back and listened and pulled back out the pendant.

  ******

  Chris glanced at his cell phone, and then back at Delicious. The kid was lying back against the chair in the studio with his head tilted back like a corpse as he thoughtlessly plucked at his guitar.

  “Let’s go home,” Chris said through the intercom.

  Two hours had passed. Delicious hit a groove and Chris didn’t want to interrupt it. He also didn’t want to deal with Keith.

  Chris dropped his phone into his pocket and stood up from the chair. His knees ached and a headache was emerging. He went to the front door and was surprised that it was dark already. A crisp wind blew into the studio, a faint bass beat could be heard from a club a block away.

  The studio sat on a steep hill, with the streets of the business park winding around the small building. It was a remote location, wh
ich kept it hidden from would-be thieves.

  There was still the random drifter to deal with, and as Chris looked out across the business park, he saw a drifter emerge from the shadows. The figure was walking over from an apartment complex. The person wore a faded sweatshirt with a hood and was approaching the studio.

  “Hey,” the figure called in a twangy, girl’s voice.

  Chris considered closing the door on her.

  “Hey,” Chris called back instead.

  She smiled and continued to approach. She was just a girl, barely over eighteen with stringy brown hair. The clothes draped over her thin body, many sizes too large. The pants were tied around her waist with a rope.

  “Umm, can I help you?” Chris asked.

  “I hope so,” she smiled. She had a round, baby face despite her stick-skinny body. Her eyes were wide and bloodshot. She ground her teeth when she wasn’t talking. “Is this Nguyen Chime Studios?”

  “Yeah,” Chris answered wearily.

  “Do you remember me, Chris?”

  “No.”

  “My name’s Misty,” the girl cooed. “I guess it’s been a few years, but I used to be one of Plaid’s biggest fans.”

  Her eyes arched and she stepped closer to Chris. There was a tattoo of Jim Jacobs’s face on her neck, just to the right of her windpipe. Chris remembered her now; she was one of the crazy fans that he hated. They followed the band obsessively and Chris looked at her and her kind with pity and revulsion. They were part of the reason he stopped touring.

  Misty inched closer to Chris. Her right hand emerged from under the long sleeves of the coat. It touched Chris’s chest, but he recoiled.

  “I can’t help you with that,” he said.

  The girl frowned, looking back at the studio.

  “I just want to see inside,” she purred. “Just for a minute, I’ve always wanted to look inside, to see where he worked.”

  Chris sighed. He had junkies showing up at the studio a lot, but never let them inside, except for Jim.

  “I’ve got to get home,” Chris said, looking around to make sure he wasn’t about to be jumped by other junkies.

  Delicious and the drummer emerged and smiled when they saw the girl.

  “I’ll be good,” the girl whined, her eyes passing to Delicious. “I promise, just one minute. I walked all the way from the Dogbowl to see it.”

  “I’ll show her around,” Delicious said.

  “You guys go home before your parents come looking for you,” Chris answered.

  Misty stared up at him pitifully. Chris glanced around the hill again and then walked back to the studio. She skipped along behind him.

  “One minute,” Chris said.

  She pranced in, stopping at the mixing console. Chris closed and locked the door. A smile beamed from the girl, she was walking on holy ground. She slipped off her oversized sweatshirt. Underneath she wore a white undershirt with a ratty dress shirt that looked like it came from a Dumpster or was stolen from a john.

  She raised her arms above her head and stretched. Chris went pale. Her left hand was cut off and the stump was wrapped in bandages that had turned yellow. The girl saw him staring, and she looked down at her arm.

  “Pretty awesome, huh?” she chuckled, running her hand over the stump. “It’s nearly healed. Wanna see the stitches?”

  “Not really, are you okay?”

  “Hell, yeah!” she grinned, and then walked farther into the control room. She saw the blankets.

  “Someone been sleepin’ here?” she asked with an arched eyebrow.

  “I bring my dogs with me sometimes and then leave them inside the studio,” Chris lied.

  “Yeah, sure you do,” she cooed.

  “Okay, minute’s over,” Chris said, grabbing her sweatshirt and handing it to her.

  “Are you sure?” she asked, striding toward him and putting her arm around his waist.

  “Yes,” Chris said, grabbing her good arm and leading her to the door.

  “Okay, okay,” she said. “Jim said you wouldn’t go for it.”

  Chris stopped her and turned her around. She winked with a cocky smile.

  “Bullshit,” Chris said, opening the door and leading her outside. “You don’t know Jim.”

  She jerked her hand free and put on her sweatshirt. She pulled up the sleeve hiding the stump.

  “I know him a lot better than you,” she said, and then kissed the stump. She winked at him and skipped down a hill leading toward the business park. A thick, muscular man in a kilt met her at the bottom.

  Chris turned back to the studio and set the alarm. He closed and locked the door, and briskly made his way to his car.

  “Chris,” a voice called.

  Chris froze. He took a breath and turned toward the voice.

  “Jim?”

  ******

  Chris’s BMW roadster wound down the streets of his neighborhood toward his house. Keith emerged from a side street, his shirt soaked through with sweat from a long run. Keith’s boyish face was flushed through his soft, tanned skin. He always looked younger when he ran. He was thirty-two, appeared to be twenty-five, but sometimes when he dealt with Chris and all his little issues, he felt like an old, bitter woman.

  Outwardly, they were the ideal Middle America gay couple: committed, quiet, political but not obnoxiously so. They were even married, though it wasn’t recognized in Oklahoma.

  Jim always loomed over Chris, like a drug addiction. Every time Jim resurfaced, it would throw Chris’s life into disarray. Phone calls late at night, Chris taking off at a moment’s notice to go track down Jim at a hospital, police department or stuck somewhere in the middle of the woods. The drugs, the alcohol, the women.

  Keith didn’t know what he could do to finally push Jim out of Chris’s life. So instead, he’d just go jog the jealousy out of his system. Jim occupied a place in Chris’s heart that Keith didn’t understand. They were never lovers, or at least Keith didn’t think so. Chris’s devotion to Jim was more paternal.

  Keith turned around and began jogging toward their house. Chris waved as he passed by and pulled into their driveway.

  The car slipped through the stone archway leading to the “McMansion.” Chris had given it the name when they bought it. It was just large enough to be borderline indecent, was rife with garish neo-gothic architecture and had separate rooms for each of their dogs. Keith thought it looked elegant and refined. He loved the oversized doors, the archways, the ridiculously high ceilings and the connected guest house they never used. Keith suspected Chris loved it too, but didn’t want to admit it.

  Their two large Weimaraners ran up to the car and cut it off from actually entering the garage. The dogs were chosen because of their strength, beauty and silver fur that was harmonious with the home’s décor. The car’s window fogged as the dogs panted on the glass of Chris’s low-riding roadster. Chris waited until they cleared from the car before he pulled all the way into the garage. Chris usually played with the dogs when he got home, but today, he barely petted them as he rose out of the roadster and walked to the house.

  Keith met him at the door. He wiped the sweat from his brow, smiled weakly. Chris’s eyes were red and watery, his breaths heavy and labored. Keith could tell when Chris was about to have a meltdown.

  “Baby?” Keith whispered, putting his hand up to Chris’s face.

  “Jim came by the studio just before I left,” Chris said. “I hadn’t seen him before today.”

  “Okay,” Keith said, staring directly at Chris, who in turn stared at the ground.

  “I don’t know what’s happened to him,” Chris murmured.

  “What do you mean?” Keith said, reaching his arms around Chris’s waist and meeting Chris’ eyes.

  Chris opened his mouth, but no words came. He shook his head slowly and blinked tears out of his eyes. Instead of words, there was only a soft whimper as Keith pulled Chris into his arms.

  Oscar

  Well, might as well get this bullshit o
ver with. I thought I was done with this journal crap a long time ago, but the doc wants me to start writing my thoughts again. My name is Oscar. I’m a Vietnam vet, Marine Corps, and I got two kids. I own a music pawn shop, we carry mostly memorabilia and instruments, sometimes we’ll buy tools, DVDs and games too. Guitars, drum kits, keyboards, amps and pedals are our bread and butter, mostly ’cause musicians are some dumb sonofabitches with no business sense.

  We got a lot of Jim Jacobs crap, I’m not really sure how that happened, but I’ve made a pretty good living off that kid.

  Junior just got back from Iraq, he’s army, missing three toes in his right foot doing that stupid Army Ranger bullshit. I used to kid him a lot about Marines being better than Rangers, but when my son left parts of his body in a foreign country, that made me think that he might be tougher than me after all, even though he is army.

  He’s got that long look in his eyes. I can tell there’s a lot of stuff still rattling around in that skull, and there ain’t no one around to pull it out like my wife did mine. It’s too bad she ain’t around anymore. She died of cancer a while back. She got the cancer from smoking since she was nine. She grew up in a small town in eastern Oklahoma. She was a good woman and I miss her sometimes, especially when I get to thinking about how much the kids still need her.

  I got two dogs, one’s a pit bull that I keep at my house where I’ve got all the real pricey stuff, like the last guitar Jim played before he went crazy. There’s the Grammy statue he sold me. I got the knife that he said he stabbed one of those ogre bastards with. It’s got this dried green stuff on it that smells like that slime my boy used to play with when he was little. Probably is the slime stuff, but whatever. I ain’t in the business of sayin’ what’s real and what’s not.

  Oh, and my other kid, she got this whole thing started because she’s just as hardheaded as I am, but she ain’t got her momma’s guidance to help her make some sense of this world. Her name’s Victoria, but we just call her Baby Girl.

  All right, you know what you need to know about me. Let’s talk about the shit that matters.