"You invited her up to a frat house basement? She must be special."
"Yeah. She's amazing. Too amazing for me. We kind of started talking when I found the record. And I had to get to my lesson, so my mind was all over the place."
"You know, you fall in love way too easy then end up all jacked up. Remember Giana? She only wanted to be around you when nobody else would see you. Wonder why? She made you park behind the fire hall and only called when it was convenient for her. And she always cheated on you with the biggest douchebags. Remember—"
"I get it," I cut him off. I took the album out of the paper bag and rested it against the dashboard. "Looky here."
"You collecting vinyl now?" Pauly said. He had the attention span of a cat.
"No, just look at Track Eleven."
"No shit. You and Eleanor Rigby should hook up."
"C'mon, man. You don't think that means anything at all?"
"Here's how I'll tell you what I think—if you see white smoke then you know I picked a new pope. And if I'm drinking a Snapple then you know I don't give a shit." He picked up his tea, snapped the cap off and chugged a few times.
"You're a dick. You know that?" I tapped the album cover, tried to think of something else to say, then figured Joe Strummer never wasted time worrying about shit like this. Besides, I had bigger things on my mind than what Pauly thought. "I wonder if the songwriter's related to me. Like, maybe my dad wrote it?"
"Just keep that shit down around mom." Pauly got defensive, like he had more of a right than me to get defensive about family matters.
"I know. But if I have a chance to find out about my real parents..."
Pauly had another smartass remark in the chamber, so he cut me off. "Didn't I tell you? I saw your dad at an AA meeting last night with his parole officer. Looked just like you, I mean exactly like you. No shit. Except his teeth were all fucked up. Worst case of meth mouth I ever saw. If you ever came to meetings with me maybe he could sponsor you."
"Fuck you, Pauly. Even Mick gave more of a shit than you. I've been looking for my dad for ten years... Hoping he'd show when we were playing or whatever. I went to hospitals to look for my birth certificate. Tried to find my baptism record. You guys always wanted me to give up, and I did, and now that I'm this close I'm going to find him." I slid the album back into the sleeve, let it drop onto the floor. "Fuck you, Pauly. You know what? Sometimes I fucking hate you."
Pauly took a long drag and coughed. "C'mon, Pres'. Just relax. You're overreacting a little, don't you think?"
I picked up the record and laid it on my lap. "I don't even know my own fucking birthday. God damn it if I can't try to get a clue to who I am.
"You're mean, Pauly, you know that. Fucking mean. You've gotten worse since you started back to meetings. I bet you don't treat any of your AA buddies like this. I may not be educated but I'm smart enough to know what your fucking problem is."
At the top of High Street girls in short skirts made their way down to the clubs on Walnut for two dollar well drinks and Jello shots. Parents in imported SUVs waited in front of apartments that were nicer than me and Pauly's for their sons to gather up two weeks' worth of dirty laundry, unaware or unwilling to believe that the stains came from binge drinking and bong water. A group of professors walked to their cars, picking up their pace as they passed a pair of football players, not because they were afraid, but because they knew no matter how hard they worked they'd never mean as much to the university as those special teams nobodies. No matter what all those people on campus had or didn't have, educated or not, they knew who they were and where they came from.
My phone buzzed and I dug into my pocket to get it.
"Sorry, Pres." Pauly held out his hand.
I ignored Pauly and read the text again. When I decided I didn't know who'd sent it I put my phone away. "Whatever, Pauly. Why do you have to be a dick on tonight of all nights? Why do you always got to take the spotlight?"
"I don't want Stu to go either. Maybe that's why I'm edgy. This is going to suck." My comment stung him a little, snapped him back to reality. He put out his hand and went back into funny guy mode, "Happy Birthday, huh?" Pauly watched the red light and offered me a Camel.
"I quit. Besides, my throat's already scratchy. And you know it's not my fucking birthday. Asshole." I let his hand hang like trailer court Christmas lights in July. Pauly knew the birthday was a touchy subject, especially since I didn't know the exact day. All I knew was that it came the week before Valentine's. Next week. And I was pretty sure I'd die sometime in the next year, so I sure as hell didn't feel like blowing out any candles. People like me didn't turn twenty-eight.
I said, "With this 'curse of twenty-seven' thing hanging over me you think you'd be a little more sensitive. All the signs are there, man."
"What signs?"
"Hendrix and Cobain, Pigpen—all grew up in really unstable homes and used drugs or alcohol. I just have a feeling, man. A really, really, bad feeling."
"Those are some pretty non-specific signs. Besides, how do you know it's not your birthday, you bastard? You might already be twenty-seven. Mom said you were about three or four months old when your mom died, so it's right around this time of year. Let me sing to you tonight." He placed the offertory Camel next to his Snickers Bar and tea.
I didn't say anything. If Pauly was good for anything it was squirming his way out of situations before he ever had to feel bad about anything. Even the judge gave him a slap on the wrist for his most recent moving violation. I had to spend a month in rehab and do community service for a year. For his road rage Pauly got AA, anger management and a job.
He said, "I'm sorry, Preston. Okay? I just don't want to lose you to an asshole nobody who vanished before you were born. So, maybe this guy is your dad. But why didn't he take custody after your mom died?"
"You know I don't know."
We hung a right on College Avenue and headed up toward the shitty frats by Price Street. Zeppelin came on the radio. "Trampled Under Foot."
"C'mon, man." Pauly fidgeted, his seat squeaking like a pair of mice going at it in a box spring.
Being mad about shit like this wore me out. But I knew my biggest problem was forgiving Pauly too easily. I loved him too much. "Say it then."
Pauly took a drag, stalling for words. "I thought we had, like, an unspoken thing between us." He cleared his throat and spit out the window. "People notice that... We're like—" Pauly tapped the steering wheel while he tried to think of words that meant something to me. "John and Paul. They were like brothers. Or Johnny and Joey Ramone."
"Jesus, Pauly. Johnny and Joey weren't even fucking related and they hated each other. Did you forget that or just never know? I can't figure out which is more disappointing."
"Whatever, man. You're my brother and I love you. Without you and the band, I would have been just another loser failing gym."
"And what else?"
"Dude, I'm Pipeline's Ringo." He laughed.
"Bullshit, Ringo wrote "Octopus's Garden." If anything you're our Steven Adler." I grabbed his Snickers Bar from the center console and ripped open the wrapper. With a mouthful of caramel and nougat I said, "And don't you ever fucking forget it."
For a second I forgot where we were playing. Just before reminding the crowd of Jackson's non-smoking Wednesdays I realized it was Thursday, and the Delts smoked as much as they wanted. They were a bunch of pussies—Pauly called them the Felts—but they liked us and paid us all right. And they always had a lot of girls there.
My throat wasn't cooperating tonight anyway. I knew the words and how they should've sounded, but they came out of my mouth like black smoke from a tailpipe. Besides, our farewell show was supposed to be twenty years from now. In a stadium.
After rushing through "Wild Horses," I retreated from the apathetic crowd to the open window behind my Marshall. By now we'd amas
sed quite a collection of beverages on the windowsill. Pauly drank cranberry juice and sweet tea and Stu drank the Bud Lite and Jack and Cokes. I sipped a vodka and Coke. I started the night with MGD that tasted like it'd been poured from a keg that kicked before the Sugar Bowl. The fresh air tasted better to me anyway.
"Can we get a few more drinks for my boys up here? And a pop for me?" Pauly yelled into the mic like he didn't really understand the mic's sole purpose in life was to amplify noise, specifically voices. "It's Preston's special day today."
"Don't do it," I spun in a rush, knocking some of the drinks into the driveway below. Flat beer and cranberry juice splattered across the hood of somebody's Toyota Camry. A spindrift of cups disappeared into the night.
"Happy birthday to you..." Pauly sang with all his might, as if volume alone would make me happier. He raised a palm to the ceiling, and the crowd sang along.
I wiped my face with an old bandana as I returned to my mic. Tonight belonged to Stu. And maybe Pauly tried his best to hold it together. Maybe this was just his way of releasing frustration, so I let him have it. One of the pledges brought a few shots right at '...dear Preston...' I passed Stu's over his toms. As the basement decayed into a drunken roar, I found Stu's eyes and raised my cup. "Here's to you, man. Be safe."
Jäger.
Like a drop-kick to my woozy gut. I should've eaten something, although I wasn't entirely convinced that wings and nachos were the cure-all I required. I took another look at Stu. My face got hot, my throat got full, like I was trying to swallow a ravioli without chewing.
I returned to my mic. "Thank you all for having Pipeline back one last time. We love playing here, you know that, right?"
Drunken woo-hoos echoed off the cinderblock walls. We couldn't even fill the places we used to fill.
I couldn't make eye contact with the crowd, not while I was lying. I ran my finger along the chipped edge by my Tele's strap knob, the only blemish on the thing. "We have a lot of requests to get through, and we're going to keep playing until you hear everything you want to hear. Tonight's a real special night for us. And a little sad. Pauly and me are saying goodbye to Stu, you know."
I extended my hand to Stu without looking back at him. "He's taking a year to see the world with a really long stop in Afghanistan. Is that a government-issue haircut or what?"
Everyone applauded quietly giving me their first genuine response of the night. "Count us off, Stu."
I let the feedback grow before catching Stu's beat a half-step late. With my eyes closed, I threw myself into the riff. Our take on Weezer. But "Tired of Sex" wasn't really the way I thought I'd say goodbye to one of my oldest friends.
Stu kicked his bass drum so hard my ribs tingled. Each beat helped me to forget who I was and where we were playing. In my head, this band was for real. And a good band. I stepped up to the mic, eyes still closed, and sang. Sweat crawled down my forehead, onto the bridge of my nose, into my eyes where it stung like the ocean. An ocean of sadness.
"I'm tired. So tired..." I pounded the strings. The pick squirmed between my sweaty fingers. It was easy to get lost in the music. My body rocked to the wall of rhythm Pauly and Stu built. Squinting into the room, I didn't see anybody even really watching us.
Ever since I picked up a guitar I counted down the days until I'd be playing my own stuff in front of a room full of people who paid to hear me. But my timer would never reach zero. Fayette County, Pennsylvania, was the closest we ever got to making it out of West Virginia. Pauly nodded for me to take my solo, but it didn't feel right. Nobody out there gave a shit anyway. They were too busy dry-humping. Pauly looked at me. "What the hell?"
I skipped the last verse too. Pauly and Stu followed me straight to the outro. They were pretty good that way. Finding a good drummer until Stu got back would be tough. "Thank you," I said. "Thank you very much. We're going to take a ten minute break."
"What's that about?" Pauly pulled his squares from his jacket and tapped the setlist with his toe. He lit a smoke before he even had his bass in its stand. "We got requests to get through."
"Grab me a cranberry juice?" I asked, and began wiping the sweat off of my strings. "I don't feel good."
Stu patted me on the back as he came between his high hat and my cabinet. "Good call, Pres. I have to piss like a motherfucker."
"Anything for you, brother." I gave his shoulder a gentle slap.
They pushed through the crowd, the two of them, not afraid of anything or anybody. And the Felts stepped aside even though they owned the joint. Because nobody ever challenged Pauly Pallini or Stu Croe. Not because they were the toughest. But because they weren't afraid to give every last drop. Whatever it took to win.
Except for when it came to our music. I plugged back into the Twin and turned the volume up to 8.
Alone, on the stage, I strummed, playing to hear myself play. Soft, slow chords. Just my Tele's neck pickup through the old Twin's bright channel. It wasn't even a song, just some harmonic minor thing. I noodled with a few chord changes. Pauly waited by the bathroom door and watched. Since it seemed like the only thing left to do, I stepped up to the mic.
"Here's a quiet one for you all. But mostly, this one's for Stu."
I had notebooks full of songs and hadn't memorized a single lyric, title, or chord. Even though I'd be singing a lie, I leaned into the mic, closed my eyes and drew in all the breath I'd ever need. I whispered the first line to "Strawberry Fields Forever."
A few people clapped.
I ignored them. This song was too beautiful for this crowd, for this room. And as I sang, the true meaning of the song began to unfold like a map of the universe. I used to think Lennon meant that the people with their eyes closed just had to expand their consciousness or whatever, a metaphorical eye-opening. Start seeing with their hearts. But while I stood there, strumming somebody else's chords and thinking that Stu's departure meant the end to my time making music, I realized that my eyes had been closed.
And it wasn't that I couldn't understand the things I saw. The truth was I was only capable of seeing misunderstanding. I'll be doing covers forever.
Stu came out of the bathroom and stopped. I found his face and shut out everybody else's. I knew it was a dream, and he knew that I knew. But the words I sang were words I needed to hear. Maybe more than Stu needed to hear them. But if Stu and everybody else thought I sang to Stu I figured it was okay to go on letting them think that.
Nothing is real I kept telling myself. Because we never built anything real. Like maybe I should've been trying to make something of myself instead of worrying about what Pauly wanted. People clapped though. For the first time tonight somebody did something on this stage worth acknowledging. Stu pointed at me then saluted. If only he knew that I'd have done anything to keep him from putting that uniform back on.
Into the mic I said, "I love you man. I don't want you to go," and I yanked the cable from the Tele's jack and let it drop.
Stu blew me a kiss and laughed.
His gesture snapped me out of my mood. "Who's going to take care of my boy?" I reached into Pauly's jacket for a smoke. Pauly waved me over to the bar, holding up my juice.
"Give me a second." I pointed upstairs.
He gestured at a group of DZs who were coming in through a side door. They were all blond, they were all wearing short skirts and they all had on jackets or hoodies with their chapter letters on the sleeve. But they were too young. I shook my head, snuck up the steps and made my way to the front. In my haste to split I forgot my coat, and could already feel the night chilling the sweat on my face and back. "This is how I end up with pneumonia."
The front door stood wide open to the street noise. The piggies making out on the couch didn't even notice. I picked up a Bic from the end table and pocketed it. As I stepped onto the porch I put the cigarette to my lips. "Fuck." Until Pauly quit smoking I didn't stand a chance.
The lighter sparked on the third try. My hand shook as I raised it up to my face. I knew the
last cigarette didn't kill you. I coughed on the cold and the smoke. But the rush of nicotine cleared my head. I shivered as my blood soaked up the drug.
I sat down on a couch that should've been torched back in November. Except Pitt won. More than anything I wanted to flick the butt into the street and finally quit again. I told myself this was the last one forever.
"Preston." A woman's voice came from the house. Probably a DZ Pauly sent up. Probably told her I needed cheering up.
But I didn't answer. I wasn't in the mood for Pauly's shenanigans. I took a long pull from the Camel. "If Pauly sent you up..."
Her heels clacked as she stepped onto the porch. "I thought I had an invitation."
I flipped the butt into the yard. Two drags too many. I looked over my shoulder. "Holy shit." I jumped to my feet and rubbed my palms on my jeans. In the few moments I'd spent talking to her I memorized every square inch of her face, but still couldn't believe she'd come up to see me. Now nervous, I hid my hands in my back pockets. "I'm glad you came. I really am."
She slid onto the porch like a bead of mercury across a glass plate. Knee-high black boots and a short gray skirt. All of it shivering beneath a gray wool trench. Her hair sat up on her head, like a librarian's. She wore eyeglasses with small, round lenses. "Are you hiding from somebody?"
She slid a Lucky Strike out of a crisp pack tucked in her purse. I offered my new lighter.
"White? You should know better." She dug through her purse and produced an old Zippo.
When she moved real close to me, I smelled herbs, like anise and citrus and mint. Mostly I smelled cigarette smoke and was pissed that the smoke killed my sense of smell. "Just a little distracted tonight. That's all," I said. In my head I kept referring to tonight as our 'last gig' and it made my mouth dry.
She leaned against me, shivering. Her skin was fair like a dogwood flower, soft like Van Morrison. I'd been accused of falling in love way too easy, but this time it was real. And I barely knew her. All I had were ideas about how things could be. Ideas about who she was and what we could be together. Her dark eyes pulled me in.
The Devil and Preston Black (Murder Ballads and Whiskey) Page 2
