by Richard Cox
What did Runciter mean when he said their hands are all over my life? My bank accounts, my credit cards? You see that shit all the time in the movies, but how easy it is to do, really?
The thing is, I don’t know what Runciter is capable of. One minute he says his only goal in life is to follow me around, but in another he claims to have friends on the police force. He was able to insert himself into my jail cell, so I must assume that story is true. But what else is?
There’s no way to know. I can only assume the worst, that he has various means by which to follow me. And above all, no matter what else, I can’t let him get in touch with Gloria. I don’t want her to learn the truth, at least not from them. But I also can’t risk seeing her, because how will I know if I’m being followed?
Wait.
They can’t trace my phone calls, right? If what the FBI agents said is true, there’s no reason I couldn’t call Gloria. In fact, that’s really the only way I should contact her.
But first I have to decide if I should. She probably wouldn’t believe anything I said. The only way to convince her would be to show her the truth, but, I’m not sure it’s fair to give someone that knowledge. If Gloria has lived this long believing her world is real, why should she have to know anything different?
This shouldn’t be my decision. It should be hers. But there’s no way to know what she would want without telling her too much. I think as humans we automatically assume more knowledge is always better, but is it? And would her answer change if she knew she could never see me again? Obviously there’s no way I could spend the rest of my life with Gloria and not tell her the truth.
This may be the most important decision of my life.
If I decide to call her, I’ll have to get away from Runciter first and find a pay phone. I don’t even know where to find one. Maybe at the mall, which is only a couple of miles away.
I look over at the windows on my left. I could sneak out through one of them if I wanted. Since I’m parked in the driveway, and not the garage, I could climb out a window walk around the house to my car.
But right now, Runciter is almost certainly listening for me to do exactly that. The only way escape will work is with an element of surprise, which means he needs to believe I’ve fallen asleep.
So I lie there on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and almost immediately I feel sleep pulling on me. I force my eyes open wide. I probably look like a bug. In a way I feel like a bug, a monstrous vermin, trapped on my back, unable to turn over, waiting for some giant to come along and crush me.
Outside the room I hear the hardwood floor creak. I look underneath the bottom of the door, and maybe I see a shadow there. I turn carefully to the left, away from the door, so it will look like I’m sleeping. The doorknob makes a tiny sound, the latch sliding out of the strike plate ever so slowly. One of the hinges creaks. I can sense the hulking shape of Runciter peering into the room. Or I think I can. I try to make out his reflection in the windows across the room, but the shutters make it impossible to see anything.
In this position I am defenseless, I realize that, but I don’t think Runciter wants to hurt me. I’m betting my life on it.
A moment later the door seems to close. He could be testing me, so I don’t move. My eyes close involuntarily, and I force them back open. I can’t fall asleep now. I can’t.
Far away, I hear the primal thud of a bass drum. Thudding like a beating heart. A guitar, vaguely, fat with reverb, lost deep in the mix. The whole band echoing up at me as if from a chamber deep underground.
My eyelids flutter open. I almost fell asleep again. I stare out the windows. I look at the television. Is Runciter still there?
Music swirls up around me. Not strings this time, no haunting, dissonant chords, not like the Ant Farm soundtrack. These are basic guitar chords, something you could conceivably learn in a few lessons, especially if you’ve mastered the CAGED system. Like a live band playing in a college bar.
I was telling you earlier about my plan. How I was going to finally win Gloria’s heart through music. I had been steadily working my way through basic guitar lessons before I drove to get her that Sunday, and after I dropped her off I had a brilliant idea. No woman, not even Gloria, could possibly resist it. To put this plan in motion I needed to find a local band who would agree to help me, and I needed to find a banjo. You remember her dad and the bluegrass, right? The only problem I could see was learning to play the banjo, but now that I was coming along on the guitar, it couldn’t be that difficult, could it?
Yes, it totally could.
I found the banjo on the second day I looked, and fortunately it came with an instructional book. However I quickly discovered my guitar lessons didn’t translate very well to the banjo. I had mainly been strumming chords, and the banjo required me to learn fingerpicking. In theory, picking is fairly simple, but in practice it can take years to master.
Luckily the song I wanted to play was fairly easy to learn because the guy who wrote it came from a folk background and stuck to simple patterns. Patterns that I practiced and practiced and practiced again.
The summer session of classes ended, bringing our shared computer lab to a close, and I didn’t see Gloria very much after that. Every once in a while she would call me, and after some effort I convinced her to load ICQ on her personal computer so we could chat over the Internet. Back then you had to dial up with a modem, which was slow and a pain in the ass, so we didn’t do it very much. But she would show up from time to time, often unexpectedly, to talk about her fall classes and ask how I was doing. Also, gradually, her mother’s health began to improve.
And all the while, every night, every free chance I had, I practiced the banjo and the guitar. My fingers wept. They bled. They betrayed me. My neighbors complained. But I had never been so determined to learn something in my life. In fact I’d never undertaken any project with such singular effort and motivation, not even one of my own screenplays. I was certain, if there was a way to win Gloria’s heart, this was how to do it.
After a couple of months I was ready to practice with the band. It didn’t go well at first, as you can imagine. But gradually we found a rhythm with each other, and they helped me along, making up for my shortcomings as a fledgling guitarist and banjo player.
They were a four piece. Fred on lead guitar, Don on bass, Joe on rhythm guitar, and Tippy on drums. Tippy also sang. I shared many long nights and drank many beers with these four dudes, and though we fell out of touch a long time ago, I will never forget them.
Once we were comfortable with the plan, with the songs I had chosen, all that remained was the perfect weekend. In order for it to work, Jack couldn’t be in town…or at the very least he had to be busy doing something else. And that’s when fate stepped in, one of the many fantastic coincidences that have shaped my life.
Jack left town to go quail hunting, and on the same weekend, Gloria’s parents came to visit.
It sounds almost impossible to believe, but it happened. Her mother had improved enough that she felt healthy enough to travel, and she wanted to see her daughter. Gloria told me this on a Tuesday. I called the band, they called their favorite bar, Goose’s, and the plan quickly fell into place. After months of preparation, the moment was almost upon me. On a Saturday evening, four days hence, I would make a public declaration of love to Gloria, and it would either work or it wouldn’t work.
Then something went wrong with my hands. It happened when I started thinking more and more about what it would be like to stand in front of all those people, playing instruments I had only recently picked up. I imagined how Gloria might react to being put on the spot. I feared her parents would hate me, since their daughter was already in love and I was there to steal her away. Gloria might never speak to me again. My hands shook and they wouldn’t stop. In fact, on Thursday I called Fred, distraught, because I didn’t think I would be able to go through with it.
“My hands, man. They won’t stop shaking.”
“It’s normal,” he said. “It happens to all of us, especially the first time you ever play in front of a crowd. It’ll be okay. You’ll be fine.”
“But what if I’m not fine, man? What if I can’t play?”
“You love her, right?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then trust me. You’ll be able to play.”
I thought it would be difficult to lure Gloria and her family to the bar, but that turned out to be the smoothest part of the plan. Her parents wanted to thank me for picking up Gloria after her mother’s initial diagnosis. I suggested Goose’s. It was a laid back place with a patio, not a lot of smoke. I told Gloria the resident band sometimes played bluegrass. She agreed easily.
But still, every day, all day long, my hands shook. The only way I could make them stop was to pick up the banjo or the guitar and play. Playing was no problem. But when my hands were idle they never stopped shaking.
I have never been and will never again be that nervous in my life. I could be staring in the face of my own death and I don’t think I would feel the sort of anxiety I felt that week.
Finally the night was upon us. Gloria and her parents planned to meet me there around eight. I showed up much earlier, of course, and helped the band set up the stage. Fred and I went through a few last minute practice sessions and jams, but there wasn’t much time to prepare. The whole idea was that no one could see me ahead of time. No one but the band and me could be in on it. The whole thing was going to be a complete surprise.
I was already at a table when Gloria and her parents arrived. I’d picked the table specifically for its vantage point in relation to the stage. Gloria introduced her parents—her father was Eric; her mother, Linda—and we sat down to order dinner. Bar food: burgers and chicken fingers and fries. Her mother didn’t drink, but Gloria and her father and I had a few beers. I kept my hands under the table as much as I could so no one would see them. They were shaking and sweating and I kept wiping them on my shorts.
The band finally came on. Their name was The Scanners. They played a few covers at first. “Freebird.” “Revolution.” “Light My Fire.” We’d planned all this ahead of time, of course. I knew what kind of music Gloria’s father liked.
“These guys play bluegrass?” she asked me at one point.
“Sometimes,” I said. My dinner sat uneasily in my stomach. “Are your parents having fun?”
“They are. Thank you again for meeting us here. I’m sure this isn’t exactly what you had in mind for a Saturday night, hanging with my parents.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, smiling, even though I was so tense and nervous that my eyeballs were ready to pop out of their sockets. “I wasn’t doing anything else.”
Then it was time. The band announced a five minute break, and I got up to use the bathroom. I tried to make myself pee, but I couldn’t go. My stomach groaned. I shouldn’t have eaten that burger, but fuck, it was too late for that now.
On the way back from the bathroom, I stopped by the stage. The band was preparing to play again. Gloria and her parents were sitting close by, in full view of this, but the bar was loud and they couldn’t hear what Fred said to me.
“You ready, man?”
“No. My hands feel like they belong to someone else.”
“Well, they don’t. Now let’s get this show on the road.”
The plan was that I would pretend to be interested in the banjo. I “spontaneously” picked it up and pointed to Gloria’s table. All three of them were looking at me, and Gloria was smiling and shaking her head. What are you doing? she mouthed. I put my hand up to indicate everything was okay.
This is what I’m most proud of: The song I chose, “Dueling Banjos,” starts out tentatively. You’ve probably heard it. A banjo player and a guitarist take turns playing similar notes and chords. The beginning of the song makes it seem as if the banjo player isn’t sure how to play, like he is just learning to pick, or maybe tuning his instrument. Then the song progresses a little faster, to more complex parts, and by the end the banjo player has revealed his true brilliance. To someone unfamiliar with bluegrass music, the fingerpicking at the end is so fast and apparently complicated that it seems nearly impossible to play. Fortunately it only appears that way.
The joke was to make it look like I was learning how to play by watching Fred. I wanted to surprise Gloria, impress her parents, and then sing what I came here to sing. Say what I came here to say.
My hands were shaking so badly I thought I would drop the banjo, but I didn’t.
Fred looked at me and played the first chord. I played it back to him. It wasn’t perfect, but that was by design.
He played another and I repeated it.
I looked up at Gloria and her smile was like magic. She threw her hands into the air. What are you doing? she mouthed again. Everyone was looking at me. My stomach was hot and liquid and I smiled like everything in the world was perfect.
Fred picked some individual notes and I followed along. The crowd as a whole was beginning to watch now. At first it looked like some drunk jackass had wandered by and picked up a banjo, but now we were progressing further into the song and people were becoming interested. There were a few claps and a whistles as I picked faster. I looked at Gloria’s father, who was smiling broadly, and her mother, whose eyes were on her daughter. I could hardly look at Gloria herself because I was afraid I might forget how to play. But when I did glance at her, quickly, the surprise on her face couldn’t have been more obvious.
As we approached the meat of the song, where the real picking would start, I wondered if my fingers might fail me. But Fred had been right. Now that I was playing, my hands seemed to have forgotten they were nervous.
We picked faster, faster, faster. At first I couldn’t take my eyes off my fingers, watching to make sure I hit every note, but eventually I realized I could do it by feel. All the practice had paid off. People were clapping, keeping time with us. Gloria and her parents were clapping. I will never forget the look on her face.
The song ends with a banjo solo, and I didn’t miss a note. When it was over, every single person in the bar stood up and cheered.
Fred pushed a microphone in my direction. The plan was for me to play three other songs. I’m not much of a singer, but I’d practiced staying within a comfortable range and projecting from the diaphragm. Besides, I didn’t much care if I sounded like shit, as long as I got the point across.
“So I’ve been practicing a bit,” I said into the microphone. The crowd laughed. Gloria looked delighted. “And I appreciate The Scanners for allowing me to join them tonight. I wonder if you guys would mind if a played a couple more songs?”
More cheers from the crowd, and now my nervousness was completely gone. I could understand why musicians derived such a high from performing…it would be easy, I thought, to become addicted to the adulation of drunk people.
I wanted to play something fun next, so we chose Springsteen’s “Glory Days.” The message is kind of depressing, but the music is a crowd pleaser and easy enough to play. It was also a good way to warm up to the second act of my plan.
“Two more songs,” I said after we were done with Springsteen. “But I need a little help with the next one. I’m hoping I can convince Mr. Eric Knudson to join me onstage.”
Gloria’s mouth opened then, and her eyes grew wide. Up to that point she might have believed I was just having fun, or maybe trying to impress her in a general way. But now it was clear I had put some thought into this.
I watched her father think for a moment. It wouldn’t ruin my plan if he declined, but it would help tremendously if he agreed. I like to think that he and I shared something there, some unspoken communication, because I’ve always suspected he really didn’t want to play that night. But eventually he stood up and walked toward the stage. The bar erupted in cheers. They chanted his name.
“What do you have in mind, son?” Mr. Knudson asked me.
I told him and he smiled.
Maybe he thought I would ask him to play something unfamiliar, but he’d played this song hundreds of times. I knew this because Gloria had told me so. And what bar crowd doesn’t want to hear “Sweet Home Alabama”?
I wish you could have been there to hear him play the opening notes. The reaction of the crowd, the look on Gloria’s face…these are memories that can make a man smile all the years of his life.
When the song ended, the bar erupted again. Mr. Knudson’s smile was so permanent it could have been chiseled from concrete. He shook my hand as he left the stage and thanked me for asking him to play.
“You’re a helluva young man,” he said. “Helluva young man.”
“Thank you, sir. And thank you for agreeing to play.”
Mr. Knudson leaned in close then and spoke directly into my ear.
“I feel bad for Jack. He’s a good kid. But a man who would go to this trouble for my daughter is a keeper in my book. You go get her, son.”
And I thought surely, when you’ve won over a girl’s father, her own heart can’t be far behind.
THIRTY-NINE
After Gloria’s father shook my hand and returned to the table, I—
I—
What the hell? Where am I?
Shit. I’m lying in bed. I was dreaming. I look over at the alarm clock, still confused, expecting it to say 8:00 or 9:00 at the very latest. Surely it’s only been a few minutes. I couldn’t have been asleep that long, could I?
The alarm clock reads 3:14.
Wasn’t it just seven-thirty in the morning? Did I just sleep for almost eight hours?
Eight hours?
I start to climb out of bed and then remember I’m not supposed to make any noise. Instead I lie there for a minute and collect myself. My arms and shoulders and legs burn with thirst that surpasses anything I’ve endured in my entire life. Ever. My throat is a patch of desert suffering from a thousand-year drought, craving water in a way I would not have thought possible. My first and only instinct is to get up and run to the bathroom and suck water out of the faucet until there is nothing left, anywhere, until I have consumed every drop of fresh water on Earth.
