by Brian Keene
“Hey, I may just check out the Corral, Taj,” Ellie finally says, smiling at her friend. “Catch you later.”
She takes off for A-I Check Cashing, which is open late, a couple blocks over on Geary Street. Her social worker, Caitlin O’Shea, has helped her finally get her first small General Assistance check from the City today. And with another one coming on the fifteenth, along with her SSI, she just might get by each month without having to panhandle, if she cools it.
One of the reasons she likes The Greeks is because she doesn’t have to buy all of her own drinks, when the young guys are flush, like they will be tonight. Of course, they all have their sly intentions for getting into her Harley Davidson shorts, even though she is at least twenty-five-years-older than most of them. Thankfully, the majority of these working class guys don’t put on a total full-court press; so she usually has some breathing room, and can return home alone, despite what Taj thinks. But the O.K. Corral is unknown turf. And if it is indeed rockabilly it will attract an urban cowboy crowd. She remembers that the Canadian cowboys she knew at one time were usually pretty tight, expecting some immediate gratitude for any money spent. They buy a girl two drinks, and automatically figure the first one entitles them to a blowjob and the second to some pussy. She smiles again wryly, actually feeling really upbeat with her two checks in hand. She can buy her own fucking drinks tonight at the O.K. Corral.
5.
Ellie steps out onto the crowded street in front of the Hotel Reo, immediately assailed by a mix of sounds: horns honking, people laughing, music blaring from open windows and bar-fronts, people shouting loudly in English, Spanish, Vietnamese, and some other indecipherable language. She grins, because even Ole Reverend Louie-Louie is out late tonight, ranting his usual daytime religious screed, and trying to proselytize another parking meter.
6.
Earlier, just after the first checks were cashed, it was steak burritos around; and, yes please, both French fries and onion rings with that double burger; and, oh yeah, make that first one a Jameson’s with ginger; and, hey, hey, pal, no, this one is on me; and, yo, darlin, get youself somepin nice; and, yep, give ‘em bof a double scoop; and, yeah, thas right, da dawg do luv a lil taste of a cold brewski.
By late afternoon, the sidewalks were swarming, a tingling sense of excitement palpable in the foggy air, like smoky ringside at a big fight in Vegas. The Vietnamese kids coming home from the playgrounds and parks were picking up on the vibe, skipping along, dodging joyfully in and out of the crowd. Some johns were juiced up early, the electric vibe an invisible finger stirring their collective libidos. A pair sporting a painted lady on each arm, both guys anticipating a basic sweaty afternoon all-skate. Even the drug dealers with tombstones in their eyes were up and outside by four o’clock, wearing wolfish grins. Ole Daisy Mae, on the corner of Post and Geary, was completely sold out of her flower bundles by six, many of her younger customers hoping to score some spiced huggings with their dates. Sweet Jane-the-Fiddler’s hat was full of bills, no skimpy coin tosses this afternoon. The homeless, the winos, the junkies were all doing pretty well, shaking their stuffed paper cups, smiling nice and thanking their donors kindly.
Oh, it was a joyful and exciting evening, and the high spirits carried over later into the night, when the serious buying, selling, and trading started, the night people eventually taking over the street.
7.
After cashing her checks, Ellie decides to definitely forego a visit to The Greeks and hike up O’Farrell and around the corner on Van Ness to check out the O.K. Corral …
The place is jammed. But she manages to find a recently vacated empty stool at the far end of the bar, near the jukebox. She has to wait to be served though because all three bartenders are busier than a hot craps shooter on a twenty-roll winning streak.
Gives Ellie time to look into the bar mirror and do a self-assessment.
Not too bad, she decides. The invisible scars were still holding the etched wrinkles tightly together, her face fairly attractive in this dim, partially revealing light. Yep, not too bad for a forty-nine year-old babe, who has definitely been around the park. But looking at her experienced face in the mirror reminds Ellie of the recurring nightmare she’s been experiencing. In the dream she is staring into a big mirror when suddenly there is an almost melodious plinking-cracking sound, like a large sheet of plate glass developing cracks and shattering apart in slow motion. But as she stares closer, she realizes it isn’t the mirror breaking into pieces … No, the sound comes from her face, which is cracking apart, as if she were undergoing some kind of a sudden face-quake—
She always awakens at that point in a clammy sweat, panting for breath and thinking: I’m breaking up!
After several minutes, Ellie, still shaken by the memory of the surreal dream, finally gets her first double Black Jack, and with a trembling hand, she drains the glass, immediately signaling for another. While waiting for the whiskey to take effect and begin relaxing her, she thinks back to when her run of bad times first began.
8.
One night when Ellie was ten and living in Oakland, her dad came home early from work, but really drunk. This time he stumbled into the kitchen and glared at them hatefully, scaring both badly. He shouted: “I’ve been fucking fired! It’s all your fault. You two bitches are smothering me to death. Leaching every ounce of my energy and spirit.” Then, he spun on his heel and went out, slamming the front door.
They hid in Ellie’s tiny bedroom under the stairs, thinking they’d ride out the storm there if he came back later that night. But the next morning he wasn’t back. And, in fact, they never heard from John David Nightwind again.
Ellie and her mom did okay by themselves for the next year, Angie working as a waitress at a local bar, Julio’s, even singing the blues live on Friday and Saturday nights. The mostly male customers appreciated the music and always tipped her well. Then, early one morning, just after her eleventh birthday, Ellie found her mother unconscious in the bathtub, a trickle of blood running from her nose, her breathing ragged. Ellie called 911. But Angie Nightwind died that same night at Highlands Hospital. Brain aneurism. A congenital problem, apparently, undiagnosed until too late.
With no relatives in Oakland to take her in, Ellie bounced around ten different foster home placements in Alameda County over the next seven years. At eighteen she was released from Foster Care and out on her own—no education, no skills. On the street she did whatever she could to keep a studio apartment together with two other teenage girls. Including hustling tricks on The Track on International Boulevard—the major hazard there was avoiding the aggressive pimps. By that point, she had chosen her drug of choice, using booze to dull her sensibilities.
But then, like out of some kind of fairy tale, Gabriel, her shining knight, showed up at the Silver Spur, a popular East Oakland C&W club Ellie could get into even underage. She fell under the spell of the charismatic drummer on the spot. And she took him home that first night. She returned to the club every night during the next week that the Radar Angels—a Canadian rockabilly band that sounded a little like Creedence Clearwater Revival—played at the Spur.
The night before the second week of the band’s gig, Israfel, their female lead Angel was in an auto wreck, breaking a leg and two ribs. So, Gabe convinced Ellie to fill in the rest of that week. She’d sang to him, including a Janis Joplin number during the week days they were living together, and he truly thought she had a terrific voice—a natural. She filled in that week nicely for Israfel. But the Spur was packed that last Saturday night and the crowd went nuts when Gabe convinced Ellie to eventually do “A Piece of My Heart.” She followed it up with her personal favorite: “A Woman Left Lonely.” But the crowd demanded even more Janis from Ellie, shouting out a dozen numbers. She only sang one more Joplin song she knew well enough and that the Angels could back up: “Me and Bobby McGee.”
Later that night Gabe kissed her on the lips, hugged her tightly, and announced: “Everyone in the band agre
es, you’re going north with us, girl, as our new lead singer!”
And she was saved from the misery of East Oakland … for a while.
9.
A huge cowboy decked out in a black Stetson, black and white checkered shirt, jeans, and polished black boots has sent a drink over to Ellie. He’s young, but kinda cute, so she smiles and toasts him, just before he gets up and comes over to the nearby jukebox. The music here isn’t strictly C&W or even Rockabilly, but mostly bluesy rock and roll numbers. The big guy takes his time, looking over everything, carefully selecting five more songs. The second one begins playing—
Ellie is stunned!
She hears herself … herself, at least thirty years ago, singing her own song, “Broken Lady.” She hasn’t heard it played publicly for … at least twenty-five years.
10.
After a couple of years, the Radar Angels were landing gigs at top C&W and Rockabilly clubs and venues on their tours, playing all the big cities across Canada from Vancouver to Toronto. And then finally setting up new digs and headquarters, south of Toronto.
The group recorded their first real album, Heavenly Blues, featuring several songs Ellie had written, including “Broken Lady.” And on that one she indeed sounded a lot like Janis Joplin, belting out in her raspy, bluesy voice.
The album and “Broken Lady ” rose rapidly and eventually crossed over onto the pop charts in Canada, reaching as high as number five.
Two months after release of the album and its climb in sales, Ellie walked into their bedroom one afternoon and stopped short. There in plain sight, on the end table by the bed, sat a book of matches, several tiny balloons, and a wrinkled-up piece of aluminum foil with one side stained a dirty nicotine brown.
When Gabe finally came home late that night, she confronted him with the aluminum foil and balloons. “What’s all this, Gabe? What’s going on here?”
He frowned, not able to avoid looking guilty and more than a little sheepish. “Well you know, Sweetie … Ah, like it’s been getting a little harder to come down at night after some of these gigs.
Everything so crazy now. Too jacked up to sleep, eh.”
“I know, but why this? Dope? And the fucking dangerous stuff?”
He shrugged dismissively. “Ah, I’m just chasing the dragon … nothing too serious, you know. I’m not shooting up any dope.” He shook his head. “Wouldn’t do that, babe.”
Ellie knew exactly what he was doing. Mixing a drop of water with a dab of black tar from one of the penny balloons on the aluminum foil, heating it with three matches from underneath, and then inhaling the smoky heroin fumes. This produced an almost instant nerve-deadening high; not quite as intense as mainlining the stuff with a spike, but, nevertheless, dangerous and highly addictive. And she’d noticed lately that their sex life had tapered off to almost nothing. She had attributed everything to the grueling bouts of overwork. They’d just done another two weeks of back-to-back nights at local gigs followed by long daytime hours of studio time, honing themselves for another album and road tour at the best venues across Canada. Intense, demanding, and exhausting. Of course, she also felt the constant pressure.
“Gabe, you’re going to get your ass hooked and take the whole fucking band down with you—”
He scowled, his defensive expression turning slowly to anger, and after a moment he countered in an accusatorial voice: “Okay. But what about you, babe? Uh-huh. You’ve been doing a nearly perfect imitation of Janis Joplin, except you’ve been downing a quart of Jack Daniels every day instead of Southern Comfort.”
He was right about the drinking, and the guilty impact of his stated observation immediately choked her up. Wiping her eyes on her wrist, she cleared her throat, and replied: “Okay, okay. We both need to clean up our acts, Gabe. Get ourselves straight … for the sake of us, the band, and the music.”
He looked into her eyes for a long moment and then said the words that sent an icicle stabbing into her heart: “I think I can do it, babe, but I don’t think you can. You’ve been hitting the sauce heavy even before we first met in Oakland. And now you need at least a quart a day to just maintain. Forget my bullshit excuses about the added pressure of the increasing fame. You needed the booze long before any of that. You can’t quit, Ellie, or escape your shitty background. You’re living in your own song.”
She wasn’t about to admit what he was suggesting. “No, you’re dead wrong, I can easily quit drinking … any time I want.”
And she did quit, for exactly one day. Then, she snuck out for a drink after finishing at the recording studio two days later.
Ellie came home slammed late that next morning, her lipstick smeared, her hair and clothes disheveled. Of course, she knew Gabe instantly realized what was going on. She could hide the booze, but she couldn’t hide its effect on her.
It went on like that for weeks, their agent delaying their next tour, until she discovered his full rig—the balloons, the spike, the surgical hose, the spoon—wrapped neatly in a towel. She couldn’t help noticing the bruises on the inside of both his arms. Unable to help herself, much less Gabe, Ellie drank even more to compensate for everything.
“I can quit anytime, babe,” Gabe had insisted, when finally confronted again. But his voice and his eyes lacked confidence.
She shook her head, tearing up, and saying: “I don’t think so, man.”
He frowned and shrugged. “And you, Ellie? What about you? The apartment is filthy, empty bottles stashed all over the place. We are both going down. It’s all unraveling, coming apart: us, reality, the music.”
“What do you mean, coming apart?”
“You’re slurring your vocals, babe, and it’s showing in practice. Michael and the other Angels have noticed. They’ve been asking me for months to help tone down your drinking. I told them I’ve tried—”
“But it isn’t only my drinking, Gabe,” she said defensively. “It’s also you, the dope is fucking you up, too. Yesterday at the studio in the middle of a piece, you dropped one of your sticks.”
“Uh-huh …” After a moment, Gabe held up his hands in a surrendering gesture. “We both need to try and quit.” He dug a wrinkled scrap of paper with some writing from his pocket. “Our agent gave me this. The name and address of a good 28-day program right here in Toronto.”
“Okay! We can do it, starting tomorrow morning,” Ellie cried out, nodding her head with enthusiasm
Of course, they never made it to the program, tomorrow never really coming for either of them. A month or so later, Michael told her the band had made a reluctant decision: they would both have to go. They’d already auditioned a new drummer, who they called, Raziel. And, Israfel, their old lead singer, was ready to come back.
Two nights after being booted from the band, Gabe told Ellie he couldn’t let her drag him down lower. He was leaving, returning to Montreal where he grew up, and getting his act cleaned up …
Ellie found Gabe the next morning, when she woke up with a ferocious hangover around noon. He was slumped on the couch in their Toronto apartment. He hadn’t left, he’d OD’d, sometime during the night, the spike still dangling in his tied-off arm.
Grief-stricken, Ellie fled to her hometown, Oakland … only to discover she had an additional problem.
She was pregnant.
She tried going to AA meetings every night, and pull herself together, hold the booze at arm’s length, but she fell off the wagon repeatedly, going on blackout binges. She always climbed back onboard the next day—shaky, but committed to never drinking again until after the baby is born.
Gabriel, Jr. finally came, after a very tough delivery … but he was delivered a stillbirth. Devastated, Ellie scraped together enough money to bury him right there in the upscale Oakland crematorium, Chapel of the Chimes. Then, she hit the booze with a big-time vengeance, creating an alcoholic buffer between her and reality.
After years of steady boozing, she decided to wander across the Bay Bridge to the Tenderloin, joining the others
there—the forgotten and the never-known. She managed to eventually get onto SSI, rent a room at the Reo, and somehow survive, which often required panhandling during the last days of each month … Fortunately, she met Taj, who encouraged and inspired her to cut back on the drinking and recapture part of her musical past. Miraculously, she’d been making some good progress on both the boozing and the song writing.
11.
The ignored cowboy, now sitting next to her, finally bumps Ellie’s shoulder, and offers to light her cigarette, which has apparently been dangling while she’s been tripping out in her dark past.
“You liked some of the rockabilly blues I played, right?”
She nods, taking a deep drag on her Marlboro, not bothering to tell him who sang “Broken Lady.” He probably wouldn’t believe her anyhow.
“Name’s Jake. Visiting a sick friend tonight here at San Francisco General Hospital. Work on a cattle ranch up north in Pope Valley. Staying at the Holiday Inn on Van Ness. Stopped in here for a drink, and you sure caught my eye, pretty lady.”
Man, she thinks, he’s a real cowboy. Kinda cute. And he has a nice smile, a child-like facial expression, even in his eyes … although he’s big enough to play tight end for the 49ers.
“Hi Jake, I’m Ellie,” she says, smiling.
The cowboy keeps the drinks coming, so they get along just
fine, Ellie not saying much, just enough to be polite. He finally gets up again to play some more music on the jukebox. “What do you want to hear, little girl?”
She almost laughs at that last, little girl, but says, “Oh, how about some more Janis Joplin if they got it on there. Maybe some Joe Cocker, too, if you can find him.”
