The hospital's dusk-to-dawn lights called me to Pauly. I crossed the big, lonely parking lot as a helicopter landed on the roof. For a long time I could only sit there in the empty lobby. I went to the bathroom, washed up, then returned to the big soft couch. I may have even slept for a while. When I got up I went to look for Pauly's floor. I just wanted to see him and talk to him. Locked door after locked door drove me back to the waiting room. So I sat, pencil poised and ready to go. The moment my pencil hit the paper it took off, skipping through metaphors and rhymes, verses and bridges. I reread it a few times. The words seemed a little stiffer in bright light and warm air, like the cold breeze and open sky had kept me honest. In some ways it was just another song. That was probably why it mattered.
I went to the information desk and asked how I could get it to him. The nurse gave me an envelope. I dropped the song in, licked the envelope shut and said goodnight.
When I left the hospital I went toward the Towers to look for Katy. I had one more song to write.
Down at the intersection the Coliseum glowed, prettier than any church I'd ever been in. I went the other way, toward the Book Exchange then cut across to University. All the houses started to look like faces in a crowd. At Riverview I kept on toward town instead of searching the same area over again. Shivering and sweating both, I went up into apartment complex parking lots and down alleys looking for Katy's car. I could see the big tower by Seneca Center down by the river. I turned around and went back up the hill, made a right on North and cut up Jones to go back toward Ruby through an apartment complex parking lot. The first car I saw upon entering was Katy's. I could tell by the stickers. My scarf still sat on the back seat.
I sat on the parking block, leaning against her back bumper and keeping my hands under my armpits until I was actually ready to put words on the paper. But they weren't coming so easy. Humming didn't work. Singing other people's songs distracted me. I put my head on my knees.
The only thing that came to me was Hey, hey little bluebird, why don't you stay? I thought I heard you singing, I thought I heard you say , that you loved me...
I wrote it and signed it with my first name, folded it and put it under her windshield wiper.
I needed time to crawl to a stop. I needed morning to stay away like it had for so many weeks. I needed a way out, a way to not have to go to Mick's, but waiting only made the inevitable that much more difficult.
My Preston Black Fucks Up Again World Tour had one last stop. Mick's key burned a hole in my pocket like it was uranium. I kept telling myself all I had to do was let myself in and lock up on my way out. I believed if I played it right I could have my Tele back in the office before Mick ever noticed.
But when have you ever played anything right? I asked myself. Then I thought, Mick's going to notice. He's going to fucking notice.
I hung my head and shuffled my feet hoping morning would beat me to Mick's. I shuffled past The Mountainlair, past the library. High Street slept. I shuffled past the apartment. Past the pawn shop and Cool Ridge. When I made the right onto Pleasant I checked the time again. When I got to Mick's I stared at the shop's back door. The heavy steel wouldn't keep me out. I was a schemer. A liar. A mother fucking bonfire.
I swore every car that rolled up Pleasant was a cop and I wished one would just pull up and ask what I was doing. I wouldn't run or lie, just hold my hands out and let them cuff me.
I held the key over the lock. My heartbeat thumped in my ears. I slid the key in thinking about what Mick always said. "...one 'oh, shit' can wipe out a whole stack of 'at a boys'."
I twisted the key. The door swung right open, but it didn't feel like I was walking into any place I ever knew. It felt like walking into a trap. I pulled the door shut behind me and left the light off.
The old backroom smelled like cardboard. I weaved past Mick's back stock, past my lesson room and out to the office. The door didn't even squeak when I twisted the knob. Before I knew it, I was toe to toe with my guitar. I ran my finger along the frayed tweed on the edge of the case. I closed the door behind me and flipped the light on. I didn't worry about fingerprints anymore. I put Dani's cash on Mick's desk. I pulled a Post-it off of the pad and wrote, For the car. I pulled my keys out of my pocket, threaded Mick's through the ring and laid it on the cash. Before putting the pen down, I scrawled, I'll take care of the rest, too. You were like a father to me, and I'm sorry I ruined that. Preston.
I picked up the amp, checking to make sure I still had a guitar cord tucked away. I rolled it into the showroom.
My Martin rested against the Tele. Somebody must've rescued it from the dumpster. I set it on Mick's chair and flipped the latches up. The smashed guitar rested in the cushioned case like a corpse. Seeing it made me angry, then sad. I dropped the lid and leaned it back against the wall.
I grabbed my Tele, then pulled the door shut behind me. Blood pumped in my eardrums as I left. Adrenaline tingled down my legs then right up through my core like a weak electrical jolt. As soon as the door shut behind me the reality of my deed hit me.
I tried pulling it open. I kicked it and pounded it with my fists. I threw my shoulder into it. But I'd burned my boat, so I directed resentment toward the guitar and amp sitting on the wet concrete at my feet like they were a pair of wet puppies that'd followed me home. "They're yours now, sport," I said to myself. "Pick them up and get the hell out."
I didn't know where to go. Down at Beechurst I crossed over to The Stink, stopping for a second to look at the posters in the window. Since shit flows downhill, I went around back, beneath the PRT rail and down to the river.
I sang the words to my song over and over again, like praying the Rosary.
If it was your song you probably would've been singing it too.
"...none of it mattered in the end, after his body went floating 'round the river bend..."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The sun came up, but the air got colder. Fits of shivering made me smaller, hands tucked into my sleeves, arms inside my coat, collar up. The sun came up and the red and green navigation lights on the Westover Bridge faded into morning. A gray sky and a stiff wind made me wonder where I'd hide next. I had a few hours before the cops came looking for me. I couldn't go home. Couldn't go to the café.
Rain came at about eight. A fog settled over the river, preventing me from seeing across. I moved up to the bike trail and sat beneath the Westover Bridge, now living and breathing with commuters and students.
If I ever get another shot at life I'm going to be one of them. I'm going to be like everybody else. I didn't want the spotlight anymore. I wanted to be anonymous. I wanted to be scenery. Like the fog that settled over the river. The fog that prevented me from seeing the other side.
At ten I went up the hill. A produce truck unloading at the Stink blocked Walnut. Ted, the Stink's owner, startled me when he came from behind the truck and said, "You're up early, sunshine. Getting up or just getting in?"
"Both?" I joked, but he really didn't hear me. When he looked up from his lettuce and potatoes I said, "I didn't sound check last night. Maybe I can hang out, rehearse a little?"
"The furnace guy will be in there banging and running in and out. There's no heat right now."
"No problem. I don't care, if he doesn't mind the noise." I stepped back to get out of the truck's exhaust.
After Ted agreed I spent a few minutes helping him stack produce crates onto a dolly and followed him through the back. Then I spent a few more minutes helping him unload it. When we finished he said, "There's coffee behind the bar. I can make you a few eggs?"
"Thanks, Ted." I made myself a cup and passed on the eggs.
The big room watched me walk to the front all by myself. I felt judged by all the empty chairs, like I was living my own Tom Sawyer funeral fantasy. I set my guitar and amp up on the waist-high stage along with a wooden chair I'd grabbed from a table.
Mikey had a sweet pair of white Les Pauls in stands next to a pair of Marshall Plexi stack
s. A beautiful black Gibson archtop rested in a rack with a white Explorer like James Hetfield's. Pedal boards were splayed across the floor near his mic. Mikey ran it all through a giant rack of digital processors and compressors.
I found a little space in the center and pulled the cord from the back of the Twin. I plugged the amp in beneath the drum riser and took a pick off Mikey's mic stand. When I flipped open the guitar case's lid a sweet smell rushed out and I felt guilty for savoring it. I put my strap back on the Tele, plugged it in and strummed a little. Clicks came from the old amps as the tubes warmed up. The strings and neck felt tiny compared to the Martin. My hands flew from fret to fret, jumping octaves, skipped through arpeggios and runs like a hummingbird through a flower garden. I didn't know whether to face the empty room or the empty stage.
I put my notebook on the amp and folded it open. I wrote out the chords for "Twickenham." But it would be a new song by the time I finished. I jotted down what I remembered from the song I wrote for Stu. I wrote in big bold letters that I could see while standing. When it seemed more like a song than just a bunch of lines, I stood up and gave it a try.
And I didn't know if it was because the song was about Stu, or if it was because I'd never played a note of anything I'd ever written myself on stage, but I started to choke up. I stopped, refocused and played it again, stomping my foot like a platoon walking into battle. My own drummer. The tempo changed, becoming more than the bluesy punk riff I'd conceived when I wrote it down. The riff got angrier—made me want to kick something. I ran through it two more times, each time tweaking a few lines or words. When I finished, I nodded. That's one in the bag.
At the top of the next page I wrote "Twenty-Seven" real big. I pieced together the rest from memory, rearranging any snippets I could remember from the song me and Katy played. I kept the chords simple. C, F and G7. Even though the lyrics suggested a metamorphosis, I was no butterfly. Maybe a frog. I ran through it a few times and even though it needed work, it sounded like my opener.
And I went through the next four or five like that. Writing down the lyrics I remembered. Piecing together what rhymed, what flowed or what imagery told the best story. I put down chords or riffs for a few different songs simultaneously.
When I got to "Preston Black" I picked out the melody with just a few, simple notes and a lot of spring reverb trying to sound like T-Bone Burnett. I played it through, accenting the heavier parts by moving up the neck and playing minor sevenths. I didn't sing it, though. Those weren't words I wanted hanging around my head all day. I played it a few times then went and got more coffee. I wanted to ask Ted what he thought, but he was on the phone. By now I had seven songs. Lucky seven.
I plugged backed in, eased the volume up and went through my set again. The songs changed the more I played them. I worked on arrangements, phrasing lyrical sections. And if I had another hand to take notes I could've written seven more songs.
In the short time I had the Martin I learned about subtlety and volume control. I learned how to make individual notes count, so I wasn't just hammering everything as hard as I could. I didn't just strum through these like I'd strum through "All Along the Watchtower." These songs represented my life and I knew how they were meant to be played.
My hands cramped and my eyes hurt. I went to get another coffee, but we'd emptied the pot and Ted was still with the furnace guy. I put another pot on and waited, watching traffic out on Beechurst. Just up the street Mick was probably doing the same thing. Maybe wondering how he could've been so wrong about me. I owed him more than a song. I went back to the window while I drank a cup, then refilled and went up onto the stage.
This time through I eased the old Twin's volume up a bit. The crackle of hot tubes breathed new life into the room. I took my jacket off. I should've told Ted to send the repair guy away because I was going to burn the place down tonight. Laughing, I turned away from all the empty chairs and closed my eyes.
I barely remembered the last time music made my heart race and breathing accelerate like this. Maybe it was up in the mountains. Either at the fire hall or Jamie's studio or the Currence's kitchen.
Halfway through my setlist I realized "Twenty-Seven" and "My Own Drummer" were in the same key and tried to build a segue. I changed my setlist on the fly, playing around with a few bars of an extended outro, tweaking the chord progression to add in an A minor and an E. I hit the chords a little harder and doubled the tempo each time through. By the time I got to the verse the new song was running hot. The speakers crackled. I sang so my voice crackled, too.
I broke into a sudden, unexpected bridge, stomping my foot so hard my knee hurt. When I finished my ears rang. I'd always figured I'd be deaf by thirty if I wasn't dead anyway. As the ringing subsided I heard somebody clapping. I spun around.
Mikey was standing in the back. Mick always told the kid he could be my little brother, which Mikey loved. Tonight he filled up the room like a giant—I glowed in his white light tonight. I flipped the amp off and leaned the Tele against it then jumped off the stage to meet him. I said, "This is it, man. You did it."
Mikey took his jacket off and laid it over a chair. His white shirt and skinny black tie made him look like a waiter. He said, "Not yet. The tunnel keeps getting longer and longer. I heard there's a light at the end somewhere."
He said, "So this is what you been working on?" The rest of the band and a few girlfriends trickled in one-by-one behind him.
I asked, "One amp, one mic... I guess that's okay?"
"Yeah. It's good. It'll be easy enough to mic the amp." He changed his tone, like he knew he couldn't go on without getting some business out of the way first. "Hey, man... Stevie told me about Stu. I didn't know him, but I heard him play with you guys all the time. Guess you had a rough week."
I shrugged. I guess I did.
"Well, what I heard sounded phenomenal, man. Really good. Not really sure who you been channeling, but it sure as hell sounds like you're channeling somebody." Mikey leaned against the stage, surveying the chairs, the bar and the big floor.
"I think it's all me, for once."
We made small talk until the rest of his guys came to the stage and Mikey introduced me. While they soundchecked I went out back and sat on the deck, just watching the river for a while. The rain came back, bringing heavy fog with it. My hands had taken to shaking really badly and I wanted whiskey. I folded my arms, tucking my hands away.
Around seven I forced myself to go back in. The bar was filling up and people spilled onto the floor. I did a lap, looking for people I knew, but nobody offered me a drink, nobody slapped my shoulder. When Mikey went to the front door to meet a pair of guys wearing sport coats and jeans I bolted to the bathroom and hid. I assumed they were from the label.
"This is stupid, man." I mumbled it over and over. My hands wouldn't stop shaking. I cursed myself for not shaving. I washed my face and fixed my hair in the mirror, patting it down with wet palms, and ended up splashing water all over my shirt. Blotting it with a wad of paper towels didn't make it any drier. I curled my toes and paced, but I couldn't shake my jitters. I gave myself a pep talk in the mirror, then went back out. "This is stupid, man."
Mikey waved me over to the table. I must've said 'excuse me' a hundred times. I don't know if this many people ever came to see us play when ribs or chili weren't being cooked competitively. I smiled and shook the suits' hands and downplayed my excitement. I laughed at their jokes and smiled my best smile. But I never for a second believed shiny industry-types like them would be able to do anything to make my life better.
One of the suits said Mikey told him I could play. He said he wanted to hear me sing. I smiled and promised him a good show and shook out my hands. I wouldn't have been more freaked out if the Grant Town Goon had been standing in front of me.
"What do you think?" Mikey cracked open a Red Bull. "Half hour?"
Thinking about it made me stutter. I said, "Sounds good, man. I need a little air," and bolted for the front door.<
br />
Rain came down at a pretty good clip. University was clogged with cars heading out toward 79—kids heading back home to the mountains for the weekend. Their brake lights reflected off of the wet road. The sidewalks sizzled with the hiss of water running off of the old building's eaves. I pressed myself against the posters for tonight's show as people filed in. The PRT rolled by on the tracks above. I shivered.
People walked down Walnut from the clubs above High. The college girls looked young. I didn't have the confidence to make eye contact with any of them. They all giggled and shared jokes. I knew I'd disappoint them. People came from the garage up University. People came from Black Bear on Pleasant Street. A man and a girl came down the sidewalk and crossed with the light. She wanted to walk faster, but he was holding the umbrella. She swung a small instrument case. I thought it was Katy for a second. When I saw they were coming in I held the door, figuring it was about time to get myself ready. When I realized it was Katy and Jamie it was too late to hide. And I knew that if they were coming past Mick's they knew about last night.
Jamie shook my hand and looked me over. He gave my arm a squeeze. He said, "I knew the minute I saw you that you'd been dealing with the devil."
I closed my eyes and let my head fall back against the window. "I haven't, man. I swear. Of all people—"
He cut me off with a raised hand. "'Dealing' isn't the word I meant. Cavorting? Associating? I knew that you didn't know. That's why I tried to keep you out of town as much as I did. All the signs were there."
I looked at Katy to see her reaction, but she wore a stern poker face.
Jamie said, "You went two or three whole days without touching a scrap of food the weekend I met you. The way your skin was always cold to the touch. And I don't know if anybody ever told you this, but you talk in your sleep. Said some pretty crazy things. In the end, the phone call that night at the Currences' kind of gave it away."
The Devil and Preston Black (Murder Ballads and Whiskey) Page 27
