The Devil and Preston Black (Murder Ballads and Whiskey)

by Jason Jack Miller

  All around people smiled, texted. It'd been so long since I'd seen a show from the floor. I looked for people I knew, but the people I knew got older, got jobs, had kids, moved away. Some of these students might think I was too old, but they had no idea how old you can get in six years. At the far end of the long bar I saw Dani throwing down a drink.

  She leaned against a skinny rich kid in a nice shirt, tie and vest and a fat gold watch. Pauly always said bitches like Dani never craved Big Macs. She looked at the guy in the vest like a butcher eyeballs a tenderloin.

  I looked down at my shoes, pulled out my phone and pretended to text. It took a long minute to shake my reaction off. The way she laughed and touched his arm didn't make it any easier. When the band ended their set I slipped toward the front door. Just before going outside I waited to catch Mike's eye.

  He held up a finger. I nodded and pointed at the door before heading outside. Despite the house music kicking in, the night suddenly seemed too quiet. The streetlights kept me from seeing any stars. I waited against a lamppost, watching the crowd spill from the club.

  After ten minutes Mikey appeared in the door. He spotted me and came over, smiling like the star of a flipping Dentine commercial. "What'd you think?"

  "You guys sound good. Really good." I put my hands into my coat pockets and made fists.

  "Thanks a lot, Pres. Glad you liked it." He was starting to lose his hair very prematurely but hid it beneath a New York Mets cap.

  "I mean it. I wouldn't just say that."

  "Yeah, I know. I was going to stop in Mick's and tell you, but didn't have a chance—" He got cut off by a pair of students slapping his shoulder. He turned and gave them each a 'what's up?'

  Still beaming, he said, "We got a deal, man. A three disc deal with Blindside..." He paused, like I knew how his sentence ended.

  It took a second for me to respond. "That's amazing, man. Your mom must be happy."

  "She's a little freaked about the tour stuff, but she's happy. She keeps asking me if I'm going to finish school, though." Mikey waved at a group of girls crossing High.

  I looked at him, my jealousy replaced by concern. "Don't stop for anything, man. Once you get momentum you have to keep going. Don't ever pass up an opportunity. Joe Strummer said you have to be slightly stupid to make it anyway."

  Mikey asked, "So, your band..."

  "Yeah, until last night we've been gigging pretty regularly." A smoke would've calmed me. I needed a smoke. "I wish I would've been able to come out and see you guys sooner."

  "I just heard about Stu's unit being reactivated. Sorry about that." His phone buzzed. He glanced at the number.

  "Yeah... Off to fight the bad guys."

  "If I hear anybody's looking for a guitar player I'll let you know. I kind of had an offer for you guys, but it doesn't sound like it's going to work out." He took his sweat-soaked hat off and wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

  "What is it?" I asked.

  "Well, we're playing at The Stink on Valentine's Day. A launch party kind of thing. Our A and R guy's going to be there and maybe somebody else from the label. I think he said they're sending a photographer and an engineer to record some stuff for an EP. I wanted you guys to play."

  "I'll do it," I said with a genuine smile, probably a little too eagerly.

  He laughed. "Who're you going to play with?"

  "I don't know yet, but I'll work it out. Don't ever pass up an opportunity. Who famously said that just now?"

  Mikey laughed. "Okay, but let me know if things don't work out. We'll back you if you can't get anything together."

  "It'll work out. I'm really happy for you, man."

  He gave me a real quick hug. I almost told him about Isaac's and the record, but he said he had to go in and help the guys start breaking down. "Two weeks. Down at The Stink. I'll call you about sound check and all that stuff."

  "Okay, man."

  For a long time I just stood there. Like, I wasn't ready to go home and be alone. Being rejected by Pauly, Stu leaving, the record and the search for my dad, seeing Dani inside—the list of things that sucked got longer by the second. My feelings about Mikey's success started to itch and I wondered how a flaky kid like him could become the rock god I was supposed to be. My feelings embarrassed me, and at the same time I wanted everybody to know I was the one who taught him. The worst part about it was knowing I could've had what Mikey had. I just had to want it bad enough. I started walking up to the apartment. While waiting for the light to change my phone rang. It was Dani. My first reaction was to ignore it.

  "Hello," I said, not sure what to expect from her. My pulse picked up a few extra beats.

  Without giving the slightest hint that she'd just been inside, Dani said, "Preston, tonight I finished a little later than I expected. You can meet me out on High. In front of the gelato place, if you'd like."

  I walked back up the hill, past where Backstreet Records and Utt's Music used to be. After all the insanity today, maybe Dani's call felt like a win. A tie, at least. Her silver Mercedes sat against the curb, its diesel engine tapping Morse Code into the quiet night. I peered inside, but it was too dark to see anything.

  I heard the click of the lock and pulled on the handle. A tiny light from the dash cast dim light onto Dani's high cheekbones. She had a dark gray wrap covering her neck, her hair fell over her ears. She had her glasses on. Classical music, heavy with shrill violins, spilled through the open door and splashed onto the curb.

  She offered no apology or further explanation. And once we got up to her apartment, and had a few drinks, we barely talked about anything at all.

  Jimi Hendrix coughs. Everything's dark except for a sliver of light from the streetlamp below, but there's enough light for me to know it's him twisted in the sheets. I stand in the corner of the old hotel room, afraid to move for fear of being caught. He's talking in his sleep, but I can't understand the words. It sounds like he's saying, "The author of all evils." He doesn't seem to be referring to anybody in particular.

  As my eyes adjust to the dusty blue light I see details appear like images on a Polaroid: a green wine bottle smashed on the septic white tile of the bathroom floor, plastic hair rollers scattered beneath the bed like cookie crumbs, a guitar case, latched and silent, standing in the corner opposite me. His white Strat's inside. Suddenly I know this is the night he dies. Jimi says, "The author of all evils," and coughs again. I wonder if it's from one of his songs. The scent of sour red wine makes me lift a hand to my nose. He's vomiting.

  He needed help, but I couldn't move. I was like a camera on a tripod. If I could get to him I could roll him onto his side. He says, "She is the author of all evils."

  Jimi is awake now, drowning in his bed sheets, clutching at the headboard. I think he's crying for help, but the long gurgle he expels doesn't sound very human. His tongue clicks against his palate as he tries to form words. He puts his hand into his mouth. He's trying to clear his airway.

  Now the camera is at the foot of the bed. When he touches me his hand is warm and moist and stinks like vomit. Instinctively I try to pull myself away, but can't move. He heaves silent heaves then snorts. Vomit trickles from his nose. I've only ever seen Jimi with half-closed eyes and a cat smile. Like from the Monterrey video. Now his eyes are white, rolling up like window shades while he tries to form words. He pulls at my shirt.

  Jimi's eyes can't find me. They just make wide circles that take in the whole room. His lazy eyelids flutter like moths around a streetlight. Gurgles and clicks are the last song he'll ever sing.

  After the dream, I went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face, but couldn't get Jimi out of my mind. The smell of his vomit wouldn't wash away. All night long Dani's bed had felt like a prison. I'd watch the clock, fall asleep only to wake up and watch the clock again. The dream had been the last straw. I lay on the couch until indirect sunlight finally filtered through the bathroom window. Danicka was still asleep when I went into the bedroom. I gave her a
little nudge. She rolled over.

  "Hey," I whispered. "I have to meet somebody at nine."

  "Let me drive you," she said, pushing herself up on her elbows.

  "I'm fine. Maybe I can call you if I get back early?" I kissed her on the cheek.

  "How do I know you'll call?" she said, her sleepy eyes trying to stay closed.

  I said, "I always call."

  "Okay. Zavolej mi. Don't forget."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  In tenth grade I skidded into a real rough patch. That was around the time I figured out me and my mom weren't related any more than me and John Lennon were. I made sure everybody who crossed my path knew the world owed me something.

  Growing up I always played the good kid. I got out of bed on Sunday to go to mass with grandma while Pauly slept in. I took out the trash without being asked. But in tenth grade I learned the Golden Rule was a bunch of shit. Doing good to others hadn't done good for me. Soon enough failing class and getting suspended got to be like falling off a bike. Teachers I used to like got on my nerves. Skipping class and starting fights became a lot more fun than going to mass ever was. Only problem was getting kicked out of school didn't kill the loneliness and sadness I felt. I lost a lot of old friends that year.

  By the time summer rolled around the depression got out of control and I thought about killing myself a lot. Like, I'd imagine schemes that'd cause the least trouble for Pauly and my mom. And of course, it had to be painless. So jumping off of the Westover Bridge in January always seemed like the way I thought I'd do it, figuring if the fall didn't kill me the cold would. But Pauly always told me anytime anybody stopped on the bridge for too long the cops were called, so I never did anything more than think about it. Back then, I drifted off to sleep every night thinking about shit like that.

  It was either July or August. One of those nights when an open window and a box fan only made things worse. I sat on my roof, crying or something. Probably crying. I had Pink Floyd Animals playing over and over. A full moon crept up over the mountains, shining a dense blue light bright enough to make nighttime shadows appear. Without wind I could hear every cricket for a thousand miles. A couple of hound dogs had a raccoon treed down by Deckers Creek. And, for a moment, I felt like the only person on earth. Like all the loneliness manifested itself in the sudden disappearance of everything I'd ever known. The world, with just me in it, suddenly had felt like a very cold place.

  At some point the tape had flipped back to side one. "Dogs" came on, even if I didn't really notice it. And the humid air, an amplifier for all those non-human sounds, brought the crickets and the hound dogs right up to my roof. The moon came over the treetops, washing out the city lights below me. And the dogs—either the ones from the tape or real ones—got closer. The dogs were like a bridge between the tape and real life, and it became hard to tell which was which. Suddenly being alone really scared me. I don't really remember what happened after that.

  Even though that phase of my life ended that night, the details will always stick with me. The way the moon and the city looked. Individual trees, and the leaves just scattering the moonlight like a chrome bumper scatters brake lights. The feel of the shingles and the slope of the roof on my bare feet. I didn't know if it was the most dream-like experience I'd ever had, or the most life-like dream, but last night, up in Dani's apartment, felt just like that night on my roof.

  If last night had left me feeling the way I hoped, I'd still have been in bed instead of hoofing it back to town. But the choice wasn't mine. The Hendrix dream made me feel like I did when my mom finally told me she wouldn't help me find my dad, except sicker. I woke up feeling like I was responsible for Jimi's death. Had the dreams been about Dani, I would've kept my eyes closed for hours instead of wondering if finding my father wasn't something I'd regret later, wondering if I was better off never knowing.

  I got another text. This game had lost a lot of its intrigue. I just wanted to know who'd been fucking with me. The message sounded like something John Lennon would say.

  I deleted it.

  An empty bridge was the only thing that separated the gray sky from the gray river. I let handfuls of snow melt in my mouth to moisten my hangover. Tugs idled above the locks, just like they had last night. Light snow fell from the milky sky. Every so often I looked back up the hill, taking note of my footprints falling away behind me. Memorizing the twists and turns that'd get me back to her. My cold feet produced cold footprints that disappeared like breadcrumbs beneath a cloud of sparrows.

  Wind snapped through my scarf, the cold bit my fingers and toes. Lucky for me my ride waited for me on Pleasant Street. An older guy with a bristly gray mustache gave a tentative wave, then put his Subaru into drive to meet me by the stoplight.

  "Preston?" He asked through a gap in the window.

  "Preston Black. That's me." I said as I blew into my cupped hands. "It's extra nice to meet you this morning. Jamie, right?"

  Jamie laughed as he took his wool outback hat from the passenger's seat and flipped the door lock. "Jamie Collins. It's a pleasure."

  He shook my hand, a perfect handshake. A secret handshake. His hand had the same grip as mine. I recognized a fellow musician.

  "Mick told you to bring a guitar?" He released my hand and turned up the heat.

  "Uh, I didn't go home last night. But my apartment is real close. If you don't mind?" I was suddenly afraid of smelling like booze. But the shame warmed my cheeks, so I let it sit a little longer.

  I lead him up to Fayette to a space right behind Pauly's van. Sneaking into the apartment felt like sneaking into a movie. I knew to let sleeping Paulys lie. I crept up the steps and slowly twisted the old knob. A pizza box sat on the counter. I flipped it open. Pauly had saved me half. Sausage and peppers and onions. I left it and continued down the hall. In my room I sat on the edge of the bed.

  It didn't feel like my bed anymore.

  I threw on an old Clash t-shirt, faded and thin like shirts from when you were a kid, worn to translucence because they had Darth Vader or Snake Eyes on them. Thinking about the cold made me add a layer. As I buttoned up the old flannel I looked for a hoodie and scrounged around my closet floor. In the pocket of an old gray sweatshirt I found a thin navy toboggan which I pulled over my ears. I threw the hoodie onto my guitar case and looked for gloves. But I couldn't remember owning any. I grabbed the record to show Jamie. As I tied my scarf I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. An ex-con if I ever saw one.

  On my way to the door I grabbed something heavier, an old pea coat from the Army/Navy store and draped it over my arm with the hoodie.

  "Asshole, is that you?"

  I held my breath.

  "Pres..." Pauly shuffled in his bed. The box spring squeaked as he got to his feet. I made for the door.

  When I shut it behind me, it hurt. Last night didn't feel like the fights we had growing up, usually a few punches followed by a quick apology and a smoke. Maybe I'd let Pauly simmer a little longer.

  Outside, Jamie had the hatch ajar and directed me to slide my guitar into a space he'd made for it. He had a few other instruments back there.

  We stopped off for gas at the Dairy Mart along University Avenue. In middle school we'd score pepperoni rolls and Mountain Dew there. In high school it was forties of St. Ides. But no matter when I went in there it felt like fourth grade all over again and I got cravings for goofy shit like Big League Chew and Atomic Fireballs and Lik-A-Stix.

  I offered to pay for half of his gas. Jamie said, "I'd be heading up with or without you. I have to make a real quick stop along the way anyway." I offered to buy him a pop or tea, which he readily accepted.

  The bright lights in the Dairy Mart hurt my eyes. I stomped my feet on the mat. Ice and black slush fell off my shoes. I made myself two cups of Earl Grey and made a cup for Jamie. While they brewed I picked up a package of Hostess Ding Dongs. Then, by the register I spotted J
ulia's Pepperoni Rolls and grabbed a pair. A breakfast that'd make Johnny Ramone proud.

  Back outside I handed Jamie his tea while juggling my own. "I just put a little sugar in. I didn't know how you took it."

  "Much obliged. Your old guitar case piqued my interest. I wanted to take a look, with your permission?"

  "Sure thing," I said, perhaps with a little too much exuberance. Before I set my teas on the roof I offered him a pepperoni roll and he shook his head. So I slid the Tele out from between the other cases. The spring-loaded latches flipped open with a metallic rattle.

  "Wow," Jamie said. "She's beautiful. What year?"

  I liked the way he held it. One hand, beneath the neck. The way a mom would hold a newborn. "It's a seventy-one. Had a refret done a few years back. Everything else is original."

  "Beautiful," Jamie said again as he slid it back into the case. "Bet it sounds real pretty through a nice old tube amp."

  "I have an old Fender Twin. Sixty-seven. I had to choose between that or college." It was a joke for me alone.

  "Can't wait to hear it." He paused, kind of biting his lip, waiting for me to say something different. "Mick didn't specify when he said bring a guitar, huh?"

  "Specify?"

  "It'll be all acoustic music today." Jamie let out a restrained little laugh as I pushed the Tele back in with the others. "I got you covered." He patted a big, battered old guitar case.

  We got back into the car, the heat made me sleepy. After Jamie buckled his seatbelt and set his hat on the backseat, he said, "Maybe I will have one of those pepperoni rolls? The heartburn'll be worth it."

  "Here, take them both." While he ate I showed him the record. He wiped his hands on his jeans and ran his fingers through the tracks. Then he slid the vinyl out and looked at both sides carefully before stopping on my song. He traced the track with his fingers, nodded, and gave it back to me.

  He said, "Hmm. E. Black." And that was it. Like, after we exhausted all the small talk there wasn't much left to say. Or maybe he was waiting for me to ask the inevitable question. All morning I'd rehearsed how I'd say it over and over in my head. After leaving town and twisting and turning up old Route Seven, and waiting for the right moment, and hoping another subject would come up I finally spit it out. "You friends with Earl Black?"