When I asked for the finest restaurant in the city, a sax player pointed me towards the streetcar, told me not to get off until I reached Commander’s Palace, smack dab in the middle of the Garden District. So I did. Stumbled past an ancient cemetery until I found the front door of an elegant turquoise house, the name of the restaurant hanging above me. The captain asked if I had a reservation. I pulled a wad of hundred-dollar bills from my pocket and said, “What I don’t spend on food will get passed around as tips, comprende?”
Seven courses. My first creole dishes—oh Jesus the sauces, the crawfish, the shrimp, the rich spicy aroma. Three bottles of wine. Bananas Foster for dessert. I had never been happier at the dinner table. I wanted to puke.
After doing just that in the men’s room, I asked the captain to point me towards a great hotel. He told me to climb back on the streetcar and get off at The Columns. So I did, finding an antebellum mansion between fast food joints, a porch full of the most relaxed drinkers I’d seen in ages. At the front desk, I flashed the cash again. They weren’t as impressed, but they happened to have an open room, a very rare thing indeed.
They wanted my name. I thought of how I felt. Thought of Merle Haggard, my face probably just as lined and hard by that point. Tacked on Johnson, and there I was, created anew.
I slept away a cloudy head and identity confusion. Slept away nearly a decade of running, always thinking I heard footsteps over my shoulder. In that room in the Garden District, lying in a four-post bed surrounded by antique furniture that looked and felt like each piece had a story to tell—so many rooms, so many situations—that’s when I finally looked back and saw no one behind me.
It made me sad. My best friends and ex-lovers getting on with things while I lived in a way that kept them in the forefront of my mind. Not that it was the worst existence. Bittersweet memories tempered by new faces, landscapes, and sounds. If you scratched the surface, the local music all across the country expressed the same feelings a thousand different ways. Northeastern club jazz more contemplative and harsh than New Orleans’ melodrama. Western music so much more spare and lonely than Country in the foothills of the Appalachians, the Pine Belt of Tennessee and Alabama. Gospel-hope down South, whereas the Western singers sounded like forsaken prophets. Hip-hop in Detroit more thoughtful and naturalistic than West Coast bling-bling ego puffing.
Through it all, I wanted to collect the pieces like a loner Alan Lomax, skulking in the shadows of the juke joints, rock clubs, piano bars, raves, honky tonks, throwdowns, stadiums, arenas, churches, and symphony halls, taking mental notes for the music I needed to make but couldn’t express. It was maddening.
Like I said, it took New Orleans to provide the recipe for the ingredients: “Whatever ya got, throw it in da pot.”
In the moments before I fell asleep my first night in the Big Easy, when my subconscious mind was brave enough to say what it really thought of me, I thought, Stupid weak man. You think it’s over? You can finally start a new life with a new name and put the past behind you? Are you delusional?
I answered: “Yes, yes, and yes.”
28
New Orleans, 2004
Justin was waiting on the curb, leaning against the back of his car. He glanced at his watch as I walked up. Maybe ten minutes late. His bar was full of friends eating their Thanksgiving lunches, and Justin’s face was a mix of sadness and anger. But I was feeling no pain.
“You want to grab a bite? We’ve got time,” I said.
“Not enough to explain why I can’t stay. Let’s go.”
We climbed into the car and drove, the radio off, the AC off, air in the car muggy from the sun. I cracked my window. The air on my face was like sex. I started mumbling a bit, then picked up steam and told Justin what the mugger had said. He was stone quiet. I said more—the guy telling me to leave town, telling me about Doug, about using my tapes as bait.
“You’re going?” he said.
I turned my face, enjoyed the airflow on my temple. “Stupid if I do, crazy if I don’t. I was thinking of taking back-up.”
“Shit, not me.”
“Did I say you?”
He laughed, not because it was funny. “Implied it. You imply things. You hate to ask.”
“I meant the cop. Maybe I can work it out with him.”
“The cop you left in the casket?” More non-funny laughing.
“Tell me what Beth said,” I asked.
Justin tightened his lips, then said, “She was the one, you know. I could tell by talking to her that you two were inches away from a long happy life together, all passionate and trusting and psychic, even. But you had to be a rock star.”
“I’m not a rock star, though.”
He shook my shoulder, demanded my full attention. “You’re so desperate to get my help, keep my friendship, but it’s only so you can turn around and end that friendship, right? If you escape whatever it is you’re walking into tonight, cops or feds or whatever, you’ll disappear and forget all about us, start over like it’s Monopoly.”
“The Game of Life.”
“Life’s not a game.” He sounded like a preacher.
“Yes it is. That board game, remember, with the little cars? Pick college or career, have little stick kids. It’s like that, really. At least for me.”
We crossed beneath the overpass on Canal and kept going, the tall buildings and excitement of the Quarter receding as the tough, dull, wrecked part of town took over. Too many bad roads, ancient bars, car lots, other abandoned small businesses. Seemed there was a drug store on every corner. Justin pointed out a little restaurant.
“That’s a great place.”
“A hole in the wall?”
“Looks are deceiving.”
I sighed. “Wish I could take Beth there.”
“Don’t make me kick you out of the car.”
“I would, really. You don’t get it,” I said. “Until Todd showed up, I was loving the normality. A woman who doesn’t want to fuck me? I’m in love! Friends who are really friends and don’t feed my ego with bullshit? Bring ‘em on. More of it. I was a month away from proposing, I swear.”
“I can’t believe that.”
“Why not? I’ve been here longer than anywhere else. This is the only city besides L.A. where I ever owned a house.”
“Creepy house.”
“Yeah, still. Every night was making me more sure I was going to figure it out. Hell, I would’ve paid taxes again to stay with Beth, bought a home in the Garden District, turned the antique thing into a legitimate shop, all that. Then I got ratted out. I don’t know who, I don’t know how, but they got me.”
The car behind us honked a few times. Justin snapped out of his daze, took off through a yellow light.
I said, “I’m taking it seriously. That’s the point. Stop thinking it doesn’t mean anything to me. You have no idea what I’m all about, and all I can tell you is I would’ve been happy to let you learn.”
The way he concentrated on traffic told me he believed what I said, and it really hit him hard.
I kept going. “I’ll make a deal, then. If I don’t get caught, I promise to stay in touch. It’ll be on the down low, but you will know where I am. Kinda like Shawshank Redemption, at the end. I’ll mail a postcard.”
He shook his head, another What’s wrong with this guy? look on his face. “Doesn’t that make the whole thing moot?”
“Not really. Not if you keep quiet.”
“It’s not like I’m in the clear. There’s still that cop in the coffin.” Justin turned to me, wanted full-on eye contact. “You are letting him go, right?”
“He’ll be fine, and he won’t bother you. Feel better?”
“There is no ‘better’ right now.” He pointed over the steering wheel. “We’re almost there. Another favor for me, okay?”
I nodded.
“Tell her the truth. Don’t leave anything out, don’t justify it. The only way to keep her from praying for God to make you suffer like Job i
s to come clean.”
I’m already suffering, I thought. But in this case, it was my own damn fault. Maybe God heaping on some more might have been a blessing in disguise, enough weight to make me swallow the rest of my pills in one handful and chase it with a bottle of tequila. But Justin’s idea won out. If anything, I couldn’t imagine a future without knowing how Beth really felt.
“Clean and shiny,” I said.
*
We pulled into an empty spot alongside the lakeshore, concrete steps leading down to the choppy waters that slapped against the sea wall and sprayed Beth, standing barefoot on the bottom step, inches from being swept into the waters of Pontchartrain. A sad and beautiful image. The woman I loved and betrayed. My instinct was to save her, carry her away from the waves, the city, the world. Problem was that I was just another untrustworthy person in that world not worth the weight of his own shit.
Justin said, “Here we are.”
I sat too long watching. Maybe she knew we were there. Hard to tell. She stood rock still, never turning to face us.
“Well?” Justin turned off the key. “On your own now. I’m staying put.”
“Go tell her I’m here.”
“Fuck off. Be a man and do this.”
I stepped out of the car and made my way down the steps, legs like rubber. I was a step above Beth when she turned. We were the same height, eye to eye. She was holding a bag of Doritos, ranch-flavored, half-empty. She held the bag out to me. I shook my head. Her face was blank, ready to counter any pleading or begging I might try to pull.
I started to speak, but she beat me to it. “Did you kill your singer?”
Direct like that. Maybe she was wired up by Fox News or Inside Edition, or by the FBI, NOPD, IRS, and, for good measure, PETA. But none of that mattered. I trusted one person more than myself, Justin, or the whores at the pool halls who were upfront about wanting twenty bucks for a ride, all interest dying after they got it.
Beth was asking me if I murdered another human being.
I said, “Yeah, I did.”
She took it well. “Why?”
Not “How?” or “What happened?”
I opened my lips. Nothing came. Beth waited patiently. Another wave impacted the steps, surprising me, drawing me down one more step so that I had to look up to keep eye contact.
“Because I like living this lie, and Todd was going to tell everyone the truth.”
Beth reached into the bag for another chip, stared off at the lake as she bit it in two. The waves sent spray into the air. It was cold like snow. Dizziness rocked me. I had no idea how I held my balance.
“I never expected things to happen like this. Really, I was ready to ask you—”
“Don’t even try to defend this, whoever you are. I was almost convinced, you know? Almost. I had found the one guy I’ve been waiting for. Thanks for killing my dream.” It hit me as a growl. She wiped her hand on her skirt, the grease darkening the fabric. The blank face was turning hard, fire in her blush, blood in her lips. “You lied from the moment you met me until five minutes ago.”
“I know, I know.”
“Do you? Did you mean it when you said you loved me? Was I part of the disguise? And I can’t stand that music, by the way. Of all the bands, it had to be a hair metal group. Why not at least the Oasis or something?”
I laid a hand over my heart. “Please.”
She stepped closer, sniffed the air. I thought she was going to kiss me. Her hair was slick with lake spray, the droplets on her face like tears.
“I can’t trust you,” she said.
“Sure you can.”
“How can you say that? Even as a joke?”
“It’s not a joke.”
Lips parted a little. When she spoke again, it was flat. “Explain.”
“Do you think it’s even possible for me to lie any more than I already have? I’ve got nothing but truth left. No games because I can’t win anymore.”
“You came here thinking you could win me.”
“I came here because I know that after tonight, whatever happens, there’s a good chance I won’t see you again. I’ll be gone, and I need to clear the air. You deserve that. You even deserve to know…” I didn’t want to say it. Had to. The whole truth. “I wasn’t always faithful.”
She went pale. “No.”
“I swear, I stopped once I knew, but they didn’t mean anything to me. Honestly—”
Beth slapped me harder than I ever remembered being slapped. Sobered me the hell right up. Instinct caused me to grab her, a hard hand to the back of her neck. Her mouth told the story, fear spreading fast. I let go. She was not Sylvia. This was not my past.
“How many times did you kiss me after sleeping with whores, Merle?” She was boiling, going purple.
“Beth, baby—”
She hit me again, her fist clutching the bag of chips. That time, my hands stayed at my sides.
“You got anything else? You’re doing so well. Keep it coming,” she said.
“I really do love you. I wanted you to know before, you know, that’s it.”
She nodded, her jaw set hard and tight. “Yeah. That’s it.”
Failing with Beth was the knockout punch. Alison had staggered me, Sylvia got a standing eight count, but Beth’s was the blow that ended the match. I know how she did it, too. Occurred to me right there in the mist and waves and this angry, sexy, statuesque woman washing her hands of me. Simple really.
She fought fair.
No dirty tricks. No lies. No cheating. No manipulation. I didn’t think it was possible for a woman—for anyone—to do that and come out a winner. The world would stomp them and chew them up and spit them out and stomp their chewed, broken corpses a little more. Straight shooters didn’t have survival skills. No poker face.
But fuck the poker face. When a woman like Beth kept getting four of a kind, she didn’t need one. I’d been outplayed by a truly good woman, one I shouldn’t have played with at all. Instead, I should have loved her the way men loved women in songs: pathetically.
“If I survive tonight,” I said. “Would you answer the phone if I called you?”
“You keep talking about tonight. What’s so big about it?”
I’d been a truth machine so far. Why stop?
“I’m meeting the people who’ve been after me. They’ll either kill me or arrest me.”
“Sure,” Beth said.
“Really.”
“Like a movie. Your whole life sounds like a movie.”
I grinned, hated what I was about to do and say. Another three steps backwards, watching Beth’s slow burn eyes for maybe the last time, and I said, “Except that I fucked up our happy ending.”
*
In the car, Justin bitched at me for getting his seats wet. I ignored him.
“You should pay for me to get them cleaned,” he said.
“That’s all you’ve got to say?” Gave him the evil eye, too.
A quiet minute. Then he said, “She didn’t take it too well?”
“No,” I said. “That’s not it. Actually, I’m proud of the girl. I’d dump me, too.” Hard to say that last part because it choked me up. I cleared my throat.
Justin said softly, “Please, no macho stuff. Cry if you need to cry.”
So I did. Hated every goddamn cathartic gut-churning moment of it, but I cried and barked it out as we drove back to the Quarter. When it was over, I said, “Thanks.”
My friend nodded. It was all he had to do.
29
I told Justin to drop me off at the funeral home and go see his family.
“I don’t have to, you know. I was just kidding earlier. If you need me to help out—” he said.
“Your family is expecting you, and I wish I had someone waiting for me like that.”
“Come with me. Forget the showdown and have some turkey.”
I shrugged, thinking about it probably the way Jesus must’ve thought in the Garden before the Crucifixion, praying �
��Let this cup pass from me.” Not wanting to go through with it. He was scared. But I shook the thought from my head, whispered, “Stupid.” Only a rock star would compare his own legal troubles to Christ’s Passion.
“What?” Justin said.
“Not you. Me.” I smiled, stuck out my hand. “I’m glad for the offer. Tempting, more than you know. Have to turn it down, though.”
He took my hand. It was a tender hold, all his feelings in his touch. Before I could pull away he leaned towards me, landed a light kiss on my lips.
“Hey now,” I said.
“Don’t worry about it. You’re like a brother.” He was an inch from my face. I felt his breath. “I couldn’t let you get away without one, you know. Buddy, you’re the most infamous celebrity in the world right now.”
I opened the car door, not quite ready to leave. I was tired of leaving.
“I’ll send that postcard,” I said.
“You’d better.”
I thought maybe I’d go with I love you, to show him I cared. He started laughing, knew what I was thinking. He shoved my shoulder.
“Get out of my car,” he said.
I left him with “See you later.”
“Yeah, love you too, jackass.”
I watched him drive away. Then I took in the deepest breath I could, thick New Orleans oxygen for my drug-soaked brain. I’d probably only succeed in making myself drunk that way. The power station next door behind a cheap fence, the road past that bending left and leading into the French Market bordering the Mississippi River, my little neighborhood of shotgun houses, parking lots, a nursery two blocks down, a park across the street. It wasn’t fair that I had to leave, but the way I got here wasn’t fair in the first place.
I stepped inside my home, closed the door, and listened hard. No intruders this time. The only other living soul on the property was locked in a casket and either dead from fright or really pissed off. Before dealing with him, I took a seat in the front downstairs parlor. French doors led to the side lot, draped by curtains heavier than Jacob Marley’s chains, barely any light filtering through. I stretched my neck and legs, my knee throbbing along with my temples. A brass crucifix stood at the end of the room.
The Drummer Page 17
