by Jan Miller
He woke from his nap in the recliner in his usual post sleep state of self-loathing. He didn't own a gun. Pills, car crashes, hanging, and jumping off a height: those methods of suicide all involved too great a risk of failure…and failure at suicide entailed even more ridicule…not to mention huge medical bills for his family. The sad irony was that his large life insurance policy would pay in the event of his suicide since it was well beyond its two-year contestability period. His health insurance, on the other hand, excluded benefits for "self-inflicted wounds, or injuries sustained during the commission of a crime". Suicide was a felony in his state. For him, there was no room for failure if he did attempt it.
As his mind cleared, he realized that his wife would be coming home soon from work and that damned mirror was still sitting in the garage. He accepted the reality that at the moment, he had no ideas of other uses for it. "Besides; who would want the old piece of crap?" he mused. The idea came to him that he could store it in the attic over the garage. There it would be out of the way but still accessible in case someone in the future asked if he happen to have that old mirror available.
Shoving a flashlight in his pocket for use in the dark attic, he tugged on the string that opened the pull-down ladder into the garage attic. Carefully, cautiously he wrestled the four foot by four foot, fifty pound mirror up the rickety wooden steps of the ladder, huffing and sweating every inch of the way. Once reaching the opening to the attic, he twisted and turned the mirror in every combination of directions until he found a way to push it up into the attic. Using his last ounce of arm strength, he gave it one last shove and the mirror cleared the attic entrance at the top of the stairs. It then would not budge.
He pulled, he pushed, he twisted, and he tugged, but the mirror would not move. It had become wedged on something in the attic hidden from his view by the darkness. Reaching for his flashlight, he dropped it and the flashlight landed at the bottom of the steps, rolling in circles.
"Fuck it!" he exclaimed. "(Mirror), you'll be the death of me yet, you piece of shit!" With one hand upraised trying to remain in contact with the mirror, he eased himself slowly down…reaching with his foot for the next step. His foot missed it and he slid down the stairs on his butt, coming to rest on the concrete garage floor. With his hand still outstretched above his head, he burst into laughter at his fall. It could have been so much worse. He could have landed on his head. He could have broken his back by landing flat on the concrete floor.
Glancing up he, added "Or that fucking mirror could have…"
Then it did.
"Fire Dance"
Derived from "Mephisto Waltz" written by Fred Mustard Stewart-1969
A ping pong ball landed in the cup of coffee sitting on the cheap plastic coffee table splashing coffee onto the clear glass table top.. It rapidly streamed towards the edge of the glass and underneath it to the white plastic frame. "Christ, kids!" Craig blurted out, quickly laying down his laptop onto the coach beside, then dashing into the small kitchen to grab a towel.
"When your mother gets home, there's gonna be Hell to pay!" Craig grumbled as he mopped up the spilled coffee; then realizing his legal pad too had been soaked in coffee, he added a disgusted "Jesus Christ, guys! I'm trying to find some work here. Give me a break. Go play in Abbey's room, OK?"
Craig Carpenter was a struggling free-lance writer. Writing was his second love, but after one too many failed rock bands and an ill-fated solo act playing guitar and singing in beef & booze lounges, Craig decided to put away his dream of making a living as a singer/guitarist. Times had changed, and along with them so had the youthful public's taste in music. These days the bar-going kids wanted to hear either country rock played by people who had never set foot in a cow patty to rappers cursing about their "bitches, champagne, and bling". After Libby, their only child, came along; Craig required little coaxing from his wife Terri to hang up his guitar.
At age thirty-five, he looked somewhat younger. His hair was still light brown without the tale-tell touch of gray his friends wore. When he put is guitar away, he put away his bad habits: the pot, the drinking, the Marlboro cigarettes, and his penchant for loose ladies. This new domesticated Craig worked-out daily to help keep his sanity from depression that haunted him. He avoided bars and the old gang. A big night out for Craig and Terri involved taking Libby to see a children's movie, going for a pizza, and then being home in bed by ten pm.
Terri had gone right back to work when Libby reached five years of age. Although an office worker, she had worked hard to get her prenatal figure back and she maintained it well. Her reddish blonde hair was cut short. Craig longingly recalled the early days with her when she wore it shoulder length, but he admitted that the short style made her look all the more saucy and seductive. Yes, she was still a damn good looking woman and turned men's eyes when she passed.
Terri's job as a secretary provided the Craig the staying power required to make it as a writer since the work was nearly as unsteady as his solo lounge act had been. When Craig did find assignments, the pay was much than anything he made with a guitar. They lived in a rented two bedroom tract-style house crammed between to larger houses that had been upgraded from their similar original tract design. Craig and Terri shared a single car which she drove to and from work. Craig was a "stay at home dad", getting Libby ready and walking her to kindergarten a few blocks down their street.
On this day, Craig was trying to line up a new assignment while Libby was enjoying a "play date" visit from the little boy across the street that was in her kindergarten class. The little boy had brought along a toy cannon that fired Ping-Pong balls, and the two urchins had decided to ambush Craig while he was deep in thought.
The living room door swung open and in dashed Terri; large women's purse in hand along with a cloth tote bag she used to carry her lunch, bottle of water, and various other necessities of the office. "I'm dead! One of these days, I'll be the one sitting on the sofa in a robe at four o'clock and you'll be the one saying that." Terri admonished Craig. "Damn, I didn't realize what time it got to be" he offered apologetically, running his hand across his chin to confirm that he also forgot to bathe and shave.
"Looks like we also have a guest?" Terri quizzed hearing the kids playing around the corner in Libby's room. The small paneled house had such thin walls that it was hard to miss any sounds. "Yeah, Timmy's mom went shopping and dropped him off for their play date." Terri frowned "And she saw you looking like that?" Craig smirked "Well, it's better than when she sneaks over to peak at me working out in the garage. At least today I had a robe on." Terri retorted "Who knows, maybe someday she'll actually catch you dressed and going to real job." Craig, slightly stung, gently protested "Hey!" Terri stopped him mid-sentence, saying "Look, I know we have a deal on your writing. It's just that some days it seems so damned unfair."
Craig stood, took her in his arms and looked her in the eyes "Someday, this will all change. I swear to you. You'll be able to tell that broom jockey*adios for good. Now, who's up for scrambled eggs for dinner?" Craig announced as Libby and Timmy dashed into the room to greet Terri.
The phone rang. With both kids hanging on her legs, Terri struggled like a quarterback fighting off a sack from defenders as she made her way to the phone. "Oh Larry… it's you. I'll get Craig" she unexcitedly said, holding the phone as far out from its wall holder as she could. Craig quickly grabbed the phone from her. He nodded in response and then explained "No, Larry. It's not you. She's that enthusiastic with all of my friends." Terri stuck her tongue out and with kids still clinging, made her way into the kitchen. She assumed that the phone call would put an end to the hope of her not having to fix dinner.
With several mutterings of "No shit?" and a final, "Dude…I owe you big time!" Craig concluded the conversation and hung up the phone back into its holder on the wall. Excitedly, he grabbed Terri's arm and blurted out "You are not going to believe this. Larry has a commitment out of town and needs me to fill in interview and write up at the
lake this weekend. And you'll never believe who the interview is with!" Nonplussed, Terri replied "Right on both counts. I don't believe it's an interview at the lake. The last time Larry got you an assignment there it was to judge a bikini contest."
Taking her by the hand and guiding her to sit down at the kitchen table (a slightly larger version of the cheap white plastic coffee table), Craig knelt beside her and explained: "You know those new multi-million dollar mansions they built in that exclusive addition on the south side of the lake. He bought one. He's actually coming here to the lake to live. I get to meet him and interview him. Me! "
"Who, dammit?" Terri nearly shouted as Craig' excitement finally infected her. Besides, she hated surprises and guessing games. Craig stood up and outstretched both arms and proclaimed "Phoenix Fucking Gressil! 'Mr. God of the Lead Guitar'. 'Mr. Black Raven' himself! Greatest rock guitarist of all time. He's coming to the lake! Can you believe it?"
Terri shrugged it off, if only slightly. "I thought he died two years ago?" she mused. "No, that was Ian Logsden, the lead singer. Gressil can't die!" She chuckled "Oh yes, he's the one who made the deal with the Devil". Craig quickly added "So the rumor goes. Larry is emailing me the directions and details. There is a house-warming party being thrown for Gressil, and that's when I'm supposed to do the interview. I'll be in and out in an hour and then back home."
"I know you will. Libby and I will be coming with you. I'm just dying to see that mansion…couldn't give a damn about that old rock fossil."
"Okay…just try for once to be respectful. The man is a legend, for Christ's sake." Craig pleaded.
******
"You'll never know we're there. You know…just like the way you normally are when you're around your fellow musicians." Terri chided.
That Saturday on the long drive through the country, Libby became fidgety. "Are we going to get a puppy? Timmy says his daddy took them to the country when they got a puppy."
"No puppy. We talked about that. Our house is just too small for a puppy. Maybe when we get a bigger place, but no puppy today. Daddy has to see some people, ok?" Craig told the little girl.
"You and Mommy will go feed the ducks while Daddy hangs out with his old rocker richies, dear" Terri quipped.
According to Larry's email instructions, the sheriff had shut down the drive approaching the Gressil mansion in order to keep the paparazzi and stoned fans away from the house-warming. The only way to the house was by chartered boat. Craig had arrived just in time to catch the last boat going to the island. Terri protested, hating boats, but Libby was thrilled and hopped up into her daddy's arms so she could see the lake as they crossed. She called out birds, fish, boaters and water-skiers. Terri hid her own eyes in her hand so she didn't get sea sick.
At the mansion's private boat landing, people mingled all the way up to the enormous deck that overhung the lake. Although it was May and the summer sun was shining brilliantly, the party goers were nearly all dressed in black. In her bright sun dress, Terri felt embarrassingly out of place. "I didn't get the memo about this being a "Goth" party, she muttered to Craig as they made their way up to the deck. There seemed to be a hundred or so people comprised of rock-type crowd. Black leather and black silk seemed to be the garb of the day. While there were a few younger rockers, most appeared to be in the late fifties to late sixties. All appeared to be amazingly pale, which Craig assumed to be due to their preference to getting up late and staying out until dawn. The closer to the large patio door leading to the deck Craig got, the more cautious and suspicious the guests seemed to be, as if they were on guard for any interloping gate-crasher. It went without saying that the Carpenters did not fit in.
In no time at all, a very large, menacing black man all dressed in black laid his hand on Craig's shoulder and whispered strongly to be heard of the loud rock music blasting the deck "I believe we have not had the pleasure of your acquaintance. Your credentials, please." Slightly frightened by the imposing figure, Craig fished out his driver's license and stated "Craig Carpenter, writer. Larry Davis should have explained that I was filling in for him on the "Columbus Today" article. The man disappeared through the patio door and into the house. He soon reappeared and gestured towards Craig.
Pushing ahead of her husband, Terri pulled Libby gently but firmly and whispered "I thought we'd never get away from these Goths. Craig, get Libby a drink…first thing". Reaching the door, the man held up his hand and barked "Just him, Madame." Craig shrugged and offered "Meet you at the boat dock in an hour", to which Terri added "Not if we can get back to sanity first".
The large man led Craig through the sun room that adjoined the porch, then deeper into the mansion. Crossing a large hall which contained a massive oaken stairway leading to the upper level, they walked to the closed doors of the study. Glancing around, to Craig it appeared as if the entire mansion had been built centuries earlier on a Scottish moor and had been somehow transported to the lake. The massive wooden panels alone would cost a fortune to replicate. The floor was marble with rugs that undoubtedly came from Iran adorning it at every turn. Despite the bright sunshine outside, the mansion seemed deliberately dark and amazingly silent.
The large man knocked two singular times, then opened the door. Craig stepped into the study to be blasted by a loud burst of electric guitar; yet, there was no one playing…just a gold guitar sitting in a stand next to a large Marshall amplifier. "It's a tape…'Fire Dance'…isn't that what you want? Isn't that what you always want?" The voice came from the other side of a large dark red leather chair that had its back facing Craig. The chair swiveled and there he sat: Phoenix Gressil in the flesh, holding a remote control. "That's the very same guitar…that's the very same amp…and yes, I am saddened by the loss of Ian". Phoenix said it like he had a thousand times…tired, weary, and bored…not only of interviews, but of life in general. His hoarse voice still rang with his London accent, even though his years in America had toned it down somewhat.
Looking up to behold and take countenance of his visitor, Phoenix nodded and added "But you are the local reporter…not a music critic. You want to know why me…why this house…why the fuck did I choose this god-forsaken-shit pond in the middle of a corn field?"
Craig laughed. "Now that's the Phoenix Gressil we've all come to know and disdain. So yeah: tell me why; you grouchy old bastard." Phoenix slapped his knee, coughed until he nearly gagged, then laughed until he turned purplish red.
"Fuck me, there is intelligent life in this shit hole. Botis, fetch us some brandy." Phoenix bellowed, calling his man servant. The big man returned with a brandy bottle and two snifters.
Botis filled the glasses halfway, and then passed one to Craig and one to Phoenix. "Craig, you've brightened an already tedious goddamn day. Like you rednecks say: I take it you ain't from around hyah." Carefully sloshing his brandy around the snifter until he had covered the insides of the glass with it, Craig replied "Actually I am… I just never drank the water." Again Phoenix almost busted his gut laughing.
The two bantered and drank for nearly a half hour. Phoenix then shocked Craig with this invitation: "You said you play. Go ahead. Give it a go." Craig stuttered in shock "What, that?" gesturing towards Phoenix's trade mark 1959 Gibson Les Paul "Gold Top". It was the guitar so well known that when Rolling Stone magazine did a cover story on Black Raven, the cover photo was of just that guitar. The world knew to whom it belonged.
"Play it, for Christ's sake, Craig. It won't bite you…but he might" Phoenix snickered as from behind the Marshall amp emerged a black Rottweiler that must have weighed one hundred twenty pounds of solid black muscle and teeth. "Sykes, it's okay. He's a friend" Phoenix said and the dog lay back down on the floor. "Over the years, he's had to gnaw a leg or two of some bastard who thought he could make off with Goldie (the guitar's nickname). Haven't ya, Sykes?" The dog whined lightly.
Craig picked up the guitar, took it back to his seat, and unconsciously began to let his fingers run up and down the neck playing licks
that his mind may have forgotten but his finger muscles remembered from countless hours of playing. Phoenix slid his chair closer, sitting as far out on the edge of it as he could, smiling enthusiastically. Phoenix then stopped Craig. "Let me see your hand." Craig held up his hand, palm down to Phoenix, who studied the fingers carefully. Turning Craig' hand over palm up, Phoenix laid his own left hand directly on top of it. Phoenix drew silent for a moment, and then sat back in his chair as if he had a revelation. "Our hands match, mate. The finger lengths are identical. Here now, let me show you something. "With that, Phoenix fired off an arpeggio high up the neck. He then played it again slowly so that Craig could follow his finger movement across the neck and up the strings.
Phoenix handed the guitar back to Craig, and Craig reproduced the arpeggio flawlessly, laughing aloud when he was finished. "I always wondered how you did that one. I tried it a zillion times but never got it right." Phoenix grinned and replied "You had the tools. You just applied them improperly." Phoenix then paused and looked deeper into Craig's eyes. "You have the makings of a great guitarist in you, Craig. I can make you that guitarist."
Dumbstruck…speechless…grasping for words to come out of his mouth; Craig put the guitar back into its stand. "My God, my wife and daughter…they've been waiting for over an hour!" Craig looked back apologetically at Phoenix who smiled and said "Then get them. I should like very much to meet them." Dashing out of the room, Craig ran to the patio door, oblivious to Sykes who trailed right behind him.
A few moments before; Terri, clearly annoyed and bored, made her way from the boat dock back up to the patio with Libby in tow. She grabbed a bottle of soda from a beverage cart, dropped it, and then proceeded to open it as a young woman came brushing past her. The soda gushed from the bottle, spraying the onion skin cover up garment the young woman was wearing. The woman in the onion skin flashed Terri a look that could kill. Terri composed herself quickly and stated "I'm very sorry. My daughter was very thirsty and I didn't realize it was going to explode like that." The woman in the onion skin also composed herself and replied haughtily "Yes, children. Aren't they just divine?" An onlooker interjected "Relax dearie, she won't eat your little girl. You're more to her liking, though." The onion skin woman tossed the onlooker a naughty smile, then gave one to Terri…who cringed and turned towards the patio door to look for Craig.
