by Brian Keene
A framed and signed Bile Lords t-shirt he’d received from the band caught his eye and the memory of the show lifted his lips into a grin. That had been a night of true rock n’ roll.
Paul noticed his line of sight. “That’d been a real one, eh? True music, man. Heals the heart.”
“If only it could heal my damn body.”
Paul snorted a laugh. Then Justine’s yelling made him cringe. “Shit, man. I gotta get back. Look, enjoy the show tonight, all right? I’ll give you a ride home after you talk with the Bossman. Drinks on me. Shame your last show is an open mic, but what can you do.”
“What?” Fred squinted to the chalked sign above the bar. Tuesday Night: Open Mic. “Oh, goddamn it.”
Open mics at the Shantyman carried about the same merit as a fart joke. Half-baked acts—typically formed just weeks before—came onstage and tried their damnedest to rouse a laugh in what’d become Shantyman tradition. Occasionally a try-hard band attempted an acoustic set in the hopes of appearing “high class,” but lately the San Francisco music scene plopped out nothing but overweight Bon Jovi wannabes bashing out ballads to their front-row girlfriends. To Fred, a lobotomy held more appeal.
With a swivel of his stool, he caught a glimpse of the sound console through the sea of drunks. The equipment had become an extension of his very being over the past five years, each fader and knob as familiar as a curve or limb of a lover. The idea of a new sound man getting his grubby fucking fingers all over the controls boiled his blood. Past the sound desk, the stage sat in darkness. The reputation of the open mic dictated no PA and no lighting. The less the patrons heard the blasted cat-wailing of bedroom rehearsed and tone-deaf Twisted Sisters, the better. 1992 had so far promised a bright future from the glitzy MTV butt-rock era, but Fred only hoped the direction maintained course and didn’t nose-dive into dry cement.
Someone tapped his shoulder. He turned and came face to face with a ghoul.
The man stood over six feet tall, a long black coat cloaking his anemic frame. Greasy, grey-peppered hair strung across his face alongside a thick beard. The scent of tobacco smoke drifted from his body, but his eyes, nestled into dark pockets, burned with intent.
“Can I help you?”
The man nodded once, slowly. “Open mic?”
Fred now noticed the battered case alongside the stranger’s leg. Worn leather like that spoke of many traveled highways and cities. Perhaps even continents.
“I used to run the desk,” Fred said, “But tonight’s a free-for-all. Go up now, if you like.”
Shit, he wanted to add, by the looks of things, you’re the only one who showed, anyway.
The stranger didn’t blink, and his eyes burned a hole through Fred. “A man who throws caution to rules.”
Fred expected a question but the statement hung in the air and an awkward silence descended.
“You’re not a glam act, clearly,” Fred observed, breaking the tension. He eyed the stranger up and down. “And I’m interested in what you’ve got. Come on, I’ll listen to you play.”
The stranger nodded with eyes closed, his jaw clasped. His alabaster skin hinted at an illness, and by his slow, calculated movements, Fred needed to ask, “Are you okay?”
“I will be,” the stranger said. “Come and listen to me play.”
With a wince, Fred hopped from the stool as a lick of pain ignited in his knees and ankles. He rubbed his legs before reaching for his drink and swigging the last of it. He saluted Paul before leading the stranger through the boozy maze of the Shantyman’s open floor. The half-drunk crowd remained stationary and Fred elbowed his way through, each stumble and collision setting his teeth on edge with agony. The stranger followed his path like Moses through the parted sea.
Fred peeled from the audience and made his way to the dim stage, catching his breath by the coolers. Cold air breathed down from an overhead vent, installed to keep musical acts comfortable. Fred usually complained about the waste of energy that the constantly running coolers consumed but right now he was grateful. A second later, the stranger exited the crowd and crossed to his side.
“There’s another act,” the stranger said. He cocked his head to the right, where by the sound desk, a Lycra-wearing duo basked in the attention of a gaggle of awe-struck rockers. The chicks were undeniably beautiful, their hair-sprayed styles sexy yet dangerous, with leather jackets leaving a sliver of toned stomach visible above hip-cinched pants. Stiletto heels put them both at an inch or two taller than the lust numbed gatherers. None of them paid Fred or the stranger any attention.
Fred nodded. “You know, even if they didn’t play music, if they simply went venue to a venue with guitar cases, they’d gather a better following than most starving bands these days. And fuck it, more power to ‘em, they know how to catch attention.”
The stranger didn’t respond and instead lay his guitar case on the floor. He popped the locks to reveal a time beaten Gibson. Grabbing its neck, he lifted the instrument to his side and kicked the empty case to the stage. “Pay them no mind. I want you to hear me play.”
That was all. A shiver crawled along Fred’s skin. Something about the stranger—his demeanor, his words, his look—just felt . . . odd. Yet, like before, Fred did want to hear him play. A musician who attracted attention with presence alone, no frills, glitz or peacocking, was a musician Fred itched to hear. He’d grown weary of the recycled synth-fused 80’s soundtrack and craved something raw. Something new. Something the stranger might offer.
Another wave of pain bloomed in his wrists and Fred fought the urge to groan. He motioned to the stage with a shaking finger as the agony bit, then hobbled to a nearby stool. His bones felt like brittle glass and he silently cursed an impartial god before gathering his nerves. “Stage is all yours, man. Knock ‘em dead.”
The stranger climbed aboard the plywood floor, clenched his jaw, and sat. Two chest-high stools sat to the side of the stage for acoustic acts, but the stranger paid them no notice, opting instead for his own rump. In the darkness and the coolers, his hair blew around his shadowed face. With one creeping hand, he formed a chord, waited a beat, and then closed his eyes. From where Fred sat, he saw the stranger’s lids flutter like a man hitting REM sleep, and for a moment, he pondered the stranger’s age. The man could be forty or sixty, and both seemed likely. But before Fred could come to a conclusion, the stranger began to play.
The atmospheric white noise of the Shantyman faded as if sucked through a vacuum, the silence settling like a teacher shushing a giddy classroom. Surroundings melted, the low light dimming, and within seconds, only Fred and the stranger remained. Fred craned his neck this way and that, but beyond a foot in each direction and the stage ahead, only darkness lay. A thick curtain of black concealed the world beyond the music and attention the stranger did demanded.
The man stroked his first chord, a jangling D, and Fred’s skin sizzled in response. The light hair on his forearm tickled and rose. The next chord came, followed by a quick diminished lick, and brought with it the numbness of a dentist’s anesthetic. Fred’s breathing hitched.
The stranger swayed in place, legs folded beneath him, and then parted his lips. His head fell back. A voice like aged whiskey and boiling nails spilled forth—the voice of a road worn warrior. The sound injected the air with a tangible, soothing warmth not unlike a hot bath, and Fred gasped.
As the stranger formed words, their sound lost to the offline thump of his brain, Fred understood their message all the same. Spoken in a language only known to music, the feeling promised the kiss of a lover on a lonely night and warmth in a storm. More than that, it promised no pain, and hot tears blurred Fred’s vision as, suddenly, his agony dissolved. His fingers tingled and trembled, followed by his legs, and then it all faded to nothingness like a hit of H. A sound caught Fred’s ear, other than the music, and he realized he was moaning, all along. He shivered involuntarily, and the stranger looked up, caught his eye—and the music fell silent.
The so
unds of the Shantyman swelled from another dimension, people populated the darkness, forming all around, and the light increased until it reached its former state. The steady thump-thump of the juke slipped into being, giving life to the scene. A youthful heartbeat. All around, the chaotic noise and scent of cigarettes and hops returned.
Fred breathed heavily, sweat tickling his forehead. He ran a palm past his face before blinking his vision clear. The song—could it even be called a song?—still worked through his system like an opiate, but fainter now, and fizzling.
Only one thought occupied his brain. Just one.
Fred Williams was pain-free. And he cried.
One of the long-legged ladies crossed the room with a case in her hand and stood before him, her hip slanted in a conscious pose. She teased a cocktail stick between her cherry lips before giving him a once over.
“You runnin’ this show?”
Fred looked up, sniffled. “Lady, I don’t know who’s running this show anymore.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “So, we can play now?”
A cheer erupted from behind her, followed by stomping feet, clapping hands and wolf whistles. Fred watched it all through the lens of a dream, a dream which was still fading as he struggled to keep a hold. He never wanted to lose the aura of the stranger’s song. With a pain-free hand, he motioned to the dark stage. “It’s all yours.”
Then his stomach sank. The stage stood empty. The battered guitar case on the floor had vanished. And so, too, had the stranger.
Fred pushed himself from the stool and frantically scanned the room, spotting the tail of a long black cloak slip into the audience. The woman went to ask another question, but Fred shook his head and jogged after the stranger, barging into the wall of people whose eyes were glued to the glitzy duo about to perform. A large man elbowed him aside and Fred, surprisingly, laughed. No pain. He continued to squeeze his way through the organic sea and popped free near the bar. Looking to the left, he spotted the black-coated man stalk toward the exit. Fred ran.
“Hey!”
He placed a hand on the stranger’s shoulder and spun him. He gasped.
A fresh-faced young man grinned at him, his skin plump and youthful. Jet black hair reached to his shoulders, which he flicked out of his face. Those eyes, brilliant blue and full of life, were all too familiar.
“How?” He asked.
The stranger only nodded. “Places to be, my friend. People to meet. I hope you enjoyed the show.”
Then he turned and left. Fred stood in shock as the exit doors swung on their hinges, his heart thumping and his mind reeling. The faint sound of the glamorous duo drifting from the stage—a bad Guns N’ Roses knock-off—hardly registered. Someone tapped his shoulder.
Thomas Whitman, the Shantyman manager, smiled. Then his eyebrows came together in a sharp V. “Everything all right, Fred?”
Fred shivered, struggling to keep his brain on track. The walls of the building suddenly felt too close, too confining. He needed space.
“Come, Fred. Come.” Thomas led him to a free stool by the bar and Fred sat like an obedient dog. Nothing seemed possible, solid or real. Once more, he couldn’t get over the rosy-cheeked man before him, who’d, up until recently, looked as gaunt as the stranger after a long battle with cancer.
Thomas Whitman looked him in the eye. “Can I get you water? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Fred licked his lips, dry and cracked. “Yes, please. Water.”
Thomas motioned to Paul and an ice-choked glass slid across the counter. Fred drank greedily.
Thomas’s narrowed eyes followed the glass as Fred placed it back to the bar.
“Now, then. Better?”
Fred nodded. “Better.”
A banshee scream erupted from the audience as the duo onstage finished their first number, something about sex and sports cars. Then their next song began, sounding the very same, and Thomas clicked his fingers. “Earth to Fred, you there?”
“Huh? Yeah, sorry, Tom. I’m just . . . ”
Just what? Still processing a song that cured your pain? Getting over the fact you just came into contact with someone who was most definitelynot human?
Thomas grinned, his chubby cheeks lifting. “We’re not here to talk about your retirement from the world of music, are we, Fred?”
A ball of ice hit Fred’s stomach. “You know?”
“Of course, I know. I only hoped he’d come. Strange fellow, huh? Curious . . . ” Thomas laced his fingers together. “Caught him in Seattle two months back at another open mic. Again in Portland a week later. Always traveling, always alone. Always with a song to sing. No one paid him any attention apart from those who knew . . . Knew he had that certain something. The open mic here was a . . . a bowl of milk for the cat. Get me? I gave him my card and told him about our venue. Prayed he’d show for you. This place has a long history of odd happenings, you know.” He looked about the room, royalty surveying his kingdom. “These walls have seen more cures and curses than any place. And I wouldn’t miss a day for the world. Your hands, pain free?”
“As good as in my twenties, Tom. I can’t . . . I can’t believe it. I can’t believe any of this.”
Thomas chuckled, his beach ball stomach jiggling. He gave Fred’s shoulder a squeeze. “You’re here for the long haul, boy. As are most of us. Like it or not.”
Fred decided he did like it, even if he didn’t understand it. He flexed his fingers and felt no pain whatsoever. The absurdity still failed to register. With a nervous chuckle, he reached for his water and took the glass to his lips. Then he paused.
The ice, half-melted, misted on the glass and trickled across his fingers. And Fred felt . . . nothing.
“Tom, I can’t feel the cold . . . ”
Thomas gave a knowing nod. “It’s wonderful isn’t it? The stranger took away my pain, too. No chemo for me, no needles or heartache. It’s wonderful.”
“It’s not wonderful.” Fred squeezed his thigh, digging his fingers deep into the flesh past his jeans. “Nothing. I feel nothing.”
“No pain, kid. No more.”
“No pain?” Fred laughed without humor. “No pain, no heat, no cold, no nothing, Tom! I feel nothing!”
“And you owe it all to this place.” Thomas stood and looked to his audience, his people, his building. Then he nodded to the door by the stage where stairs led to his second-floor office. “I’ve got much to do,” he said. “But I’m glad you’re not going anywhere. Happy to have this all ironed out. If I could feel happy . . . ” He laughed then, the action never touching his eyes. “Sit a spell and then get some sleep. I’ll see you back in work tomorrow. And the day after that, and the day after that. Hell, have a drink on me. Relax . . . Enjoy the show.”
OPEN MIC NIGHT
Kelli Owen
“The first time I saw Marla, she had just gotten off the bus from Missouri—the empty bottle of whiskey in her hand still coated in strychnine.” Harry’s eyes glazed over. He was remembering as he spoke, the details clear in his otherwise cataract vision.
“I didn’t connect the dots for years, but I never forgot the image of this woman with an empty bottle and a bus ticket stub. She put the bottle on the bar and asked for a Gin Rickey. I hollered for the bartender and took the bottle away, throwing it in the trashcan out back—six states away from where it needed to be found. Where it would have answered questions. Where it could have stopped countless deaths. Maybe.” He paused for a breath before exhaling his verdict. “Probably not.”
I watched him swim in his memories, composing whatever it was he needed to tell me into something that would make sense to both of us. I waited for his focus to come back to the present. He blinked several times, his dry eyes making the tiniest little clicking sounds.
“And you don’t want me to write this down?”
He shook his head, age and frailty making it look more like a tremor than an answer. “This doesn’t need to be reported, just repeated. And stopped if you’re up
to it.” His eyes cleared and he stared at me.
“It was 1938. The new labor law had passed in June, but we were still ignoring it at The Shantyman. Barely twelve years old, I was cheap child labor—and my momma depended on my pitiful under-the-table pay—so I wasn’t looking to get anyone reported or fined. I did the dishes, scrubbed the bathrooms, and dealt with the vomit and piss when the drinks flowed into mouths that should have long before closed and gone home. I was young when she came in that first time. When she left the bus ticket stub with the coins for her drink, I stuck it in my pocket and kept it for years. I don’t have any idea why. I guess I was fascinated with this woman who came across the whole country with nothing but an empty bottle of whiskey.
“I don’t remember if she sang or just watched the open mic acts that first night. I didn’t know yet to pay attention. But you can bet I remembered her clear as day when she came back thirty years later—looking exactly like she did in ‘38. I was bartending then, and between that and going off to Korea and back, I had seen a lotof people in my time. And I’d forgotten just about as many as I’d seen. But I remembered Marla. ‘Course, I didn’t know her name yet.”
He turned and looked out at the gardens he paid someone else to keep up, his gaze wandering like a floating leaf, not settling on anything in particular, just lazily drifting along. His voice changed, becoming smoother somehow.
“You swim, Harry? She asked me that, as she sat on the stool and looked at the stage. I nodded and pulled up an empty glass, waiting for her to tell me what to put in it. Her knowing my name didn’t even faze me, everyone in there knew my name. She wasn’t looking my direction to see me nod, so I don’t know if it was a peripheral response or assumption when she declared: Everyone should know how to swim, Harry. Especially if they own a house with a pool. She spun back toward me and looked me in the eyes. There was no expression on her face, but the swirl of mischief and madness in those eyes was familiar and I knew the drink—suddenly remembering her, remembering it, a moment before she ordered it. You want to be a dear and drop a Gin Rickey in that glass? She winked and pointed to the tumbler I held.”
