Crazy Heart

by Thomas Cobb

  “Yeah. I guess that’s part of it. It’s all about freedom, I guess, only don’t ask me what that means. I don’t know. It’s a lot better and more complicated than ‘nothing left to lose.’ I know that much.”

  “Freedom doesn’t last, though. It’s not supposed to last. I was free when I left my ex, and that was good. But then I had Buddy, and that was even better. The best thing about freedom is that it doesn’t last.”

  “On the road you got it both ways. You’re free while you’re out, and then you go back home. When that starts to chafe, you’re back out again. It’s the best of both.”

  “Or neither. You lost your home, your wife, your son. Maybe there is no best of both. Maybe you always have to choose.”

  “You never have to choose. Choices get made for you. What the hell started all this, anyway?”

  “I was just thinking. I was thinking it must be nice just to climb into a car and take off and see new things and new people. But then I thought being here with Buddy is better. I guess I don’t have what it takes.”

  “You’re a good mom. I was a rotten dad.”

  “Come here to Momma.”

  The van looks better than it did before the accident. The fender and grille and headlight are new and the entire van has been repainted. “Looks real good,” Bad says as he signs the ticket.

  “Yeah,” the guy agrees. “It looks real good. It left about a half a quart of oil on my floor, though.”

  “What do you think?” he asks.

  “Don’t really know. My cousin’s a mechanic, though. He could tell you. I can call him if you like.”

  “Come visit me,” he says. “I’m booked in Houston for the next four months, Wednesday through Saturday, but you could come, and I could show you around. I’m off all day. I don’t go to work until eight-thirty. That and rehearsals on Thursday afternoons. Otherwise, I have lots of time.”

  “That would be nice,” she says, “but I have my work here, and there’s Buddy.”

  “You could bring him along. He’s no problem. I could take him down to NASA. He’d like that. He’d like all those rockets and things. Hell, I want to see it.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “That means no.”

  “No. It means I’m not sure. Maybe. I’ll try.”

  “There are newspapers and magazines in Houston. A bunch of them.”

  “That’s more than a visit. We are talking about a visit. If I can get the time. If things work out.”

  “Well, you can visit the newspapers and magazines, too.”

  “Maybe we’d just better be Alan Ladd and Jean Arthur for a while here. You ride off, and I’ll watch longingly and cry a little.”

  “She was in love with him.”

  “She was hot for his body.”

  “I don’t think that’s the way it was.”

  “You write country and western songs. You’re a professional romantic.”

  “Women like those songs, too.”

  “Sure. But I’m a professional nonromantic.”

  ‘I’m going to miss you.”

  “I hope so.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Nearing Houston, the landscape flattens and the humidity builds. His ankle throbs. He has tried to take it easy, stopping often, but at rest stops he has to swing clumsily along on the crutches. He goes a few yards, then has to sit down at one of the concrete picnic benches. Sitting there, he realizes that he might as well be back in the van, moving forward instead of sitting still. Worse yet are the rest rooms, which are treacherous, the floors slick with piss and spilled water. He has to test the crutch tip for purchase before he can take another step or rest his weight.

  When he reaches the western outskirts of Houston on I-10, the traffic begins to crowd. It is eight o’clock at night, and still it is overcrowded and backed up with construction. For hours he has driven a nearly straight line, changing lanes only occasionally to pass a poky car. Now he is moving constantly from lane to lane to maintain something like a steady speed.

  At the interchange to 45 North, downtown Houston is directly in front of him, vertical light. At night, the city is stunning. In the years he has been here, it has completely changed, gone straight up. There is a song he has heard of the city: “The buildings aren’t constructed, / They erupt from the ground.”

  As he exits 45, he is nearly home, and the neighborhood is close and familiar, full of signs in Spanish: Bodega, Taquería, Dos Hermanos. This, at least, hasn’t changed much. The streets are narrow and tree-lined. He has lived here for twelve years. After Judah, Indiana, he has lived here longer than anywhere else. The neighborhood feels close, intimate, but threatened. Old houses are being restored, painted, added to, decorated with gingerbread, glass and brass. The Mexicans and blacks are being slowly pushed out by young whites with suits, briefcases and BMWs. Front yards full of corn and chilis are being replaced by mowed lawns and brick driveways. The Mexicans next door sold out a couple of weeks before he left.

  When he pulls into the driveway, Terry’s Plymouth station wagon is parked there, and in the house the lights are on. He cuts the engine, gathers up his Dopp Kit and crutches, slams the door loudly, and thumps his way up the wooden porch. He unlocks the door and pushes, but it is stopped by the chain. “Terry,” he yells, “it’s me. I’m home.” He hears thumping and rattling from the back of the house. He moves back down the steps and sits on the bottom one, lights a cigarette and waits.

  The porch light comes on, the door opens and Terry sticks his head out. “Bad—hey, Bad. Welcome home. I’m glad to see you.”

  Bad struggles back to his feet. “I’m interrupting something?”

  “Jeez, Bad.” Terry steps out on the porch. He is wearing only jeans. “Let me help you. I heard about the accident from Jack. I’m really sorry.”

  “It’s O.K. Do I need to smoke another cigarette?”

  “I’m sorry, Bad. I really am. I thought you were coming back tomorrow night.”

  Bad reaches out and touches Terry’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, son. What you do is your own business. You take care of my house for me, you’re welcome to use it, but I been driving all day, and I haven’t slept in my own bed for over a month.”

  “Bad, we were going to be leaving in just a bit anyway. Let me help you get your stuff out of the truck.”

  “I’d appreciate it. I can’t carry stuff very well. It’s O.K. if I go in?”

  “Sure. Sure. You might want to stay in the front part of the house for a little bit, though.”

  On the coffee table in the living room, there are stacks of mail. Most are advertising fliers, with a few letters, a couple of bills. There is one brown envelope he recognizes without looking at the return address: IRS. Around the room, the plants look healthy. The furniture is dusty, and there are beer cans on the end tables by the sofa. It is just as he left it. The television is quietly pulsing light in the corner.

  “Hi, Bad.” A small young woman in a T-shirt and jeans walks shyly into the room. She brushes long dirty-blond hair away from her face.

  “Kim. What the hell?”

  “Oh, your leg. It’s awful, Bad. Does it hurt a lot? Can I help you?”

  He rejects her with a shake of his hand.

  “Bad. It’s not like it looks. I mean, Terry and me, we were just…”

  “Yeah, I know what you were just.”

  “It’s just that there’s this other guy. He’s real scary. Terry was protecting me. He brought me over here…”

  “Where you know the mattress.”

  “Oh, Bad. I feel just awful.”

  Terry comes in the door carrying a suitcase and the guitar. He sets them down quietly in the corner. “Look, Bad…”

  “Just get the rest of my stuff, will you?”

  “Sure. Sure.”

  “Kim, get me a glass of ice. Get enough for all of us.”

  When Terry comes back in with another suitcase, the Roland Cube, and a case full of sheet music, Bad finds the bottle of Jack Daniel’s
and pours three glasses. “So,” he asks, “how are we coming on finding a new bass player?”

  “I got three for you to listen to. They’re all O.K. None of them are as good as Dave, but they’re all right. Jim Mitchell from Autumn is one of them. He’s having trouble with Marty and wants out. He’s probably the best of the bunch. He’s a great jazz player, real innovative but very knowledgeable, too. He could really be good for us, even better than David was. Then there’s a kid who’s played in a lot of rock bands around town. He’s rough, but he’s got some talent, too. Then there’s an older guy who’s just down from Michigan. He’s traditional, steady. You can listen to them as soon as you’re ready.”

  “And how about Wayne? How’s he handling this?”

  “Wayne’s kind of on the rag.”

  “Wayne’s always on the rag,” Kim says.

  “He was going to do a big promotion, you know. Newspaper ads, radio spots to let everyone know you’re back. And the band he had covering for us had booked another date, so he had to scrounge a little for a one-week fill-in. But he understands about the leg and all. Are you going to be able to play?”

  “I don’t pick with my foot, and I tap with my right. I’ll be O.K. We’ll get a stool or something. We’ll work it out. Maybe I better call Wayne and get his feathers smoothed. Hell, I’ll do it in the morning. I’m really beat.”

  “We better get out of here,” Terry says, “unless there is something you need.”

  “Unless you got a spare ankle, I guess there ain’t much to do until tomorrow.”

  When Kim is out the door, Terry stops and tries to apologize again. “She’s been going out with this heavy Harley kind of guy, and he’s got her spooked. I was just trying to help out. I wasn’t cutting in on you or anything.”

  “No,” Bad says, “Kim is Kim. I know that. We aren’t married, for God’s sake. But,” he adds, “you are, buddy. You be careful what you do. Don’t mess that up. It ain’t worth it. Take it from me. And Kim sure as hell ain’t worth it. Think on that a bit.”

  The sheets haven’t been changed, but he is too tired to care. He locks the doors, turns out the lights and undresses, and crawls into bed. As he settles into the pillow, he smells a familiar, homey smell. He gets up and goes to the closet for fresh sheets.

  He has to hold for Jack. Sometimes he suspects Jack needs the time to pull a file and remember who he is.

  “Welcome home,” Jack says. “How’s the leg?”

  “Son-of-a-bitch itches like a widow.”

  “You going to be ready to work again Tuesday?”

  “I’ll do it. I was just fixing to call Wayne. I thought I better hear it from you first.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t call. Let me handle this. You just get the band ready.”

  “Wayne’s my friend.”

  “That’s what I mean. You let me handle it. Keep friendship and business separate. You know that.”

  “He’s still my friend. I’ve got to call him.”

  “Don’t discuss figures with him. Don’t even apologize for being a week late.”

  “Why the hell should I apologize? I broke my damn ankle.”

  “Exactly. Keep that attitude.”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “Here’s the deal. We renegotiated the contract, up twelve and a half on the guarantee, but down on the base, allowing for inflation and general growth of business, without consideration of the entertainment. Basically, you should see a net increase of about five percent if things go the way they have been.”

  “That doesn’t seem to be any problem.”

  “That’s all fine. It gets sticky when we start talking about promotion. Wayne wants to increase his promotion allowance, including a splash for your return, which is now delayed by a week. We agreed to hold at the old figures for thirty days as our part of the promotion costs. But now he is out kill fees on the radio spots, and the expense of another band for a week, which is actually costing him less than you would, since he’s paying a flat fee.”

  “Wait. Are you telling me the son-of-a-bitch is holding me up for money because I broke my ankle?”

  “He’s not holding anyone up. He wants an additional thirty days at the old figures as compensation.”

  “For what?”

  “For rescheduling everything. Frankly, it doesn’t amount to squat, and he knows it.”

  “That fucker is trying to screw me because I broke my ankle?”

  “Bad, this is what I was talking about. This is business. He’s looking out for himself, I look out for you. He does his job, I do yours; everything works just fine.”

  “Hell, I’ll talk to him. That fucker will back off.”

  “Bad, damn it. You talk to him about the weather, about music, fishing or football, but don’t you talk to him about business. Don’t talk to him at all. Take the rest of the week off and just relax.”

  “Jack, that son-of-a-bitch is my friend.”

  At the club, the front door is still locked, and Bad has to swing his way to the back door to get in. Wayne is in the back, checking stock. Bad makes his way past trash cans waiting to be emptied, and boxes of empty beer bottles.

  “Jesus, Bad. You look like shit.”

  “I know. It’s all on account of the toilets I have to play in.”

  “I heard about the wreck. It’s a damn shame. Hurt much?”

  “Not much. Makes it hell when you got to get your britches on in a hurry, though.”

  “Damn, it’s good to see you. Come on into the office.”

  The office is a cell, filled with boxes and stacks of paper. There is a desk and two chairs. On the desk there is a telephone, adding machine, pictures of Wayne’s wife, two kids, and at the other corner a framed picture of Bad. On the wall are beer signs, a pinup of a redhead holding up a towel that just misses covering her right breast, and a poster from 1977, “The Sundown Lounge, Bad Blake and Bad’s Boys, appearing nightly.”

  “How’s business?”

  “Crap. I just figured out, I’m down about ten cases a night from July.”

  “You ever cleaned this office, you might figure out how to run this damn business.”

  “I clean this office, and I might find out we’re both broke. So how was the road this time?”

  “They don’t get any shorter. It makes coming back to work look good.”

  Wayne takes a bottle from a drawer and sets it on the desk. He goes out the door and comes back with one glass of ice. He hands it to Bad, who pours his own drink. “Cheers.” He drinks it off and pours another.

  “Well, come on. Something interesting must have happened.”

  “Yeah. I broke my ankle. I signed for another album with Tommy, opened a show for him in Phoenix. Met a woman in Santa Fe.”

  “That doesn’t come as a real surprise.”

  “I met a good one this time. Better than my usual. Speaking of that, how long has this thing with Kim and Terry been going on?”

  “Who knows? He’s been hanging around the last week or so. I try not to pay too much attention to Kim. I wouldn’t worry about her if I were you.”

  “I’m not. I’m worried about Terry. He’s a good kid. Sandra’s a good kid. I worry about them.”

  “You talked to Jack yet?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t. If I did, I wouldn’t have to pay Jack to do it for me.”

  “Right. So how long until we can play some golf?”

  “Cast comes off in four more weeks. Soon after that, I suspect. We’ll have to use carts, though.”

  “We always use carts.”

  “Yeah, but that’s because we want to. Now we have to.”

  “Why the hell Santa Fe?”

  “It’s a nice town. A little artsy-fartsy, but it’s pretty nice. Cooler than here.”

  “I think you need to talk to Kim about what she calls ‘geographic desirability.’ Santa Fe’s a hell of a way from here.”

  “Eight hundre
d and seventy-nine miles.”

  “Tough trip for a man who has to work Saturday nights.”

  “Which reminds me. I have to audition some bass players this week. I’ll need to come in a couple of afternoons and put them through the routine.”

  “No problem.”

  Bad gets up and sets his drink down. He bends over heavily to pick up his crutches.

  “You put on a few pounds out there on the road?”

  “Road food and long hours. I’ll take it off when I can get back into a regular schedule.”

  “You really should. You don’t need to be carrying any extra with you. Not good for the ticker, you know.”

  He is trying to straighten up a little, gathering and dumping ashtrays, picking up beer cans. He has unpacked. A pile of dirty clothes sits in the hallway, waiting to be taken to the laundry. Cleaning in the bedroom, he finds a ball of light-blue cloth in the corner, next to the bed. A pair of Kim’s underpants.

  When he answers the doorbell, a man in a lightweight tan suit smiles and opens the screen, extending his hand with an easy familiarity. “Mr. Blake, Marty Wilks, how are you today?”

  “I don’t want any.”

  Wilks grins and shakes his head. “I’m not selling anything. I’ve come to discuss a business matter. Can I come in?”

  “Who are you?”

  Wilks pulls a small leather case from the inside pocket of his jacket, takes out a business card. Martin Wilks, Personal Management.

  “I’ve got a manager.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. I’m not here to try to sell my services. Actually, I’m not involved in entertainment at all. My field is political, really. Please, may I come in? I won’t take much of your time.”

  “I was cleaning up,” Bad says, pulling a stack of sheet music off the sofa for Wilks.

  “I’m really sorry to barge in like this, Mr. Blake. I’ve been trying to call you for a couple of weeks, and I was in town, and I thought it might be easier just to stop by.”

  “I was just cleaning up.”

  “I won’t keep you. I just want to talk to you about something I think you’ll be interested in. Are you familiar with Larry Rounds?”