The Song of Eleusis

by Phil Swann

  Had it really been fifteen years? Ben often thought about the ridiculousness of his life when he was drinking hard on nights like tonight, how absurdly random it all was. It seemed like yesterday he'd returned to Nashville boasting a fancy degree he could’ve cared less about. Then he met Paul, two rudderless boats without a captain, neither having a clue what to do with their lives, much less what they were good at. As it turned out, he could write poetry and play the piano, and Paul was looking for a job that didn't involve heavy lifting. It all happened on an ordinary, random night. After some deep introspection—and really good weed—the two decided for shits ’n giggles the music business was their calling. Ben would be the songwriter, Paul the song plugger. Besides, it might improve their chances of getting laid.

  Ben smiled as he looked at his ASCAP award and recalled those first couple of years. He considered calling it quits many times. Nobody would give Paul the time of day, much less a pitch meeting, and Ben's writing was too pop, or too country, or too rock, or not rock enough, or whatever other excuse the powers-that-be could come up with for not cutting his songs. Also, neither was getting laid that much. “Maybe I'm just no good at this,” Ben remembered saying to Paul more than once. But Paul wouldn't give up, saying the cuts would come. He often wondered, especially on nights like tonight, how Paul could have had so much faith in him when he didn't have it in himself. Because the cuts did start coming, then more after that, and then more after that. In a few years, he was a certified hit songwriter, and Paul was heralded as one of the young Turks of Music Row.

  It wasn't public knowledge, but he and Paul had made an oath that no matter what happened, they'd stick together; wherever one went, the other would go too. It seemed silly at the time, but now he couldn't imagine it being any other way. He'd turned down many lucrative offers over the years because they didn't include Paul, and he suspected Paul had done the same. Not that Paul was reliant on him for his financial future, far from it. Truth be known, Paul Welker was better off than he was. Early on, Paul began investing his publisher's share of the royalties by signing other writers and acquiring copyrights. When the hits started stacking up, Paul sold his little publishing enterprise to a major. He took that money, started a new company, and did it all over again. That had happened six times over the last fifteen years, GIM being the latest deal. But each time, the deal was the same: you want Paul Welker, you get Ben Lambros. You want Ben Lambros, you get Paul Welker. That's how it was. And for the last fifteen years they'd never wavered from the silly oath they swore in a crappy little East Nashville apartment. Ben chuckled. It was so completely ridiculous. He and Paul had achieved insane success based on a business model of shits ’n giggles. Life was a funny old dog…and so goddamn random.

  “Congrats, B-boy,” the African-American man said, stepping up to the bar.

  “Hey, D.J., what the hell are you doing here? Writing for the gossip page now?”

  At first glance, Dwayne Jackson, columnist for the Nashville Herald, appeared to be far older than Ben. In reality, the two men were the same age, the misconception largely due to choice of wardrobe. Where Ben spent most of his time in high-top Chuck’s and jeans, Dwayne Jackson was seldom caught out of his uniform of a tweed sport coat and tan khakis.

  “Can't a man show up for a friend's celebration?”

  “You hate country music,” Ben said. “I bet you don't even know who Danny Austin is.”

  “Sure I do…he's that singer…the one who wears the ball cap pulled down over his eyes and cuts the sleeves off his flannel shirts and…”

  Ben smiled and nodded.

  “…yeah, you're right, I have no idea who he is.”

  Ben chuckled as the bartender handed him his drink. “You want a drink?”

  “No, thank you,” Jackson replied, taking the cup from Ben’s hand and throwing it back in one gulp. “Actually, I heard they were serving deep fry, and you know how I love my deep fry.”

  “D.J., try not to live up to every stereotype,” Ben said, gesturing to the bartender for another.

  “So where's that hot little babe of yours?”

  “Why is everyone interested in my girlfriend? I'm starting to think nobody wants to be around me for just me.”

  “Of course we don't. You're an asshole,” Jackson said.

  “Marci thinks I'm awesome.”

  “Yeah, about that, at what point did you become a dirty old man?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Jackson just looked at him.

  “Hey, I love Marci’s spirit. I love Marci’s potential. I—”

  “You love Marci’s nineteen-year-old ass.”

  “Okay, there’s that.” D.J. laughed and Ben continued. “Also she’s great PR with the good ol’ boys down here on The Row. You know they actually call me ‘da man’?”

  “My friend, you don’t need that child to deify you to the Nashville good ol’ boy club. My God, you’ve got a mansion looking out over half of Tennessee. You’ve got number ones in practically every genre of music, not to mention an Academy Award on the shelf. Trust me, they’re already impressed.”

  Ben’s response was a nonchalant cock of the head.

  “What I don’t get is why you stay in this cow town.”

  “I’m in the music business, D.J.”

  “L.A. has a music business. New York has a music business.”

  “True,” Ben replied.

  “So?”

  “I like it here.”

  Jackson scoffed. “Bullshit. You're here because you think you can get away with shit that would otherwise end up on TMZ.”

  “And there’s that,” Ben replied. “But don’t forget, I grew up here. Hell, D.J., I’m a homegrown country boy.”

  “Who happened to go to Stanford and Oxford, which might make you the worst homegrown country boy in the history of country boy-dom.”

  “Another life, another time, my friend. You’re right about one thing—here I’m just another songwriter, people don’t give a crap. Now, if I was on a reality show…”

  “No shit,” Jackson said, sparking a smile from both. He paused and fidgeted with an empty cup on the bar. “But there is that other thing.”

  Ben stiffened. “Yeah, but that’s even calmed down since November. Can you imagine what it’d be like if I lived in L.A.? Jesus.”

  “Actually, B-boy, that’s kind of why I'm here,” Jackson said, not looking at Ben.

  “Yeah? Continue,” Ben said.

  “I’m in a jam, buddy. A real bad jam,” Jackson said, still not looking at Ben.

  “What kind of jam?”

  “I faked a story.”

  “What?” Ben replied, setting his drink on the bar.

  “You heard me. I was under a deadline, and I faked a story. My editor found out.”

  “Christ, D.J., which one?” Ben asked, leaning in closer.

  “That corrupt assemblyman awhile back, you know, where I had the source.”

  “Shit, that was a great piece.”

  “Thank you. Now if I’d only had the source.”

  “Dwayne, why?”

  “You have no idea what it’s like down there. The newspaper business is dying, Ben. They’re knocking off reporters one after another, and I got a byline. You know the competition for a byline these days? Half the staff thinks I got it because I’m black.”

  “That’s crap and you know it. You’re one of the best journalists in the—”

  “I’m a black newspaper man in the South who actually writes about something other than sports. Things haven’t changed nearly as much as you people think.”

  Ben cocked an eyebrow. “By you people you mean me and my cracker brethren.”

  Jackson closed his eyes. “That’s not what I—look, I’m sorry, but I’m in a real tough situation, buddy. My paper wants to fire me. If they dump my ass for this, I won’t be able to get a job as a shit blogger on a shit-ass blog site. I’m a journalist, Ben. It’s all I know how to do.”

  Ben p
ut his hand on Jackson’s shoulder. “Okay, just relax, D.J., relax. That’s not going to happen. What can I do? You need a letter of reference or something?”

  When Jackson spoke, it was to the ground, not to Ben. “He’s coming to town. Tomorrow. He’ll be here.”

  It didn’t register at first what Jackson was asking for. When it did, a knot formed in Ben’s stomach. “No, goddamn it, no way!”

  “Why?”

  “Because I talk to that fascist idiot as little as possible, that’s why. I can’t believe you of all people would ask me—”

  Jackson interrupted, “I told my editor I could get a one-on-one.”

  “What?” Ben yelled, not caring who heard.

  “It’s the only way to save my fucking career,” Jackson shouted and then looking around to make sure no one heard. “Five minutes, that’s all—”

  “Dwayne, you can’t ask me to do—”

  “You owe me, damn it.”

  Silence.

  Jackson continued, “I’m sorry, Ben. I don’t like saying it, but you do owe me.”

  “Fuck you, pal,” Ben said, clenching his jaw. “I left before any of the shit went down. You know that.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Jackson replied. “But here's something else I know—you were in trouble, I’m your friend, I had your back. Now I’m in trouble. I need this, Ben.”

  Ben ran his hand through his hair and sighed. “If I do this, we’re even.”

  Dwayne Jackson put his hand on Ben’s shoulder, “B-boy, do this, I’ll owe you.”

  »»•««

  Ben rolled out of the cab Paul made him take home. He tossed the driver a fifty and saluted as the car drove away. He was staggering to the front door, trying to retrieve keys, when all sense of balance vanished. Next thing Ben knew he was on the ground staring up at a cloudless night sky. “Hello,” he yelled into the darkness. “Can someone pick me up?” He started laughing, and then after a moment sat up. He considered trying to stand but thought better of it when the ground beneath him started spinning. Instead, he patted himself down until he found the cell phone in his back pocket. He squinted as he scrolled through the directory, smiling when he came upon a number labeled Asshole 2. He pushed Call. The phone rang only once.

  “What?” the man's voice answered, leaving no question he knew who was calling.

  “So here's the deal,” Ben slurred. “Lord Buttface called and wants to see me. That's fine, but he needs to do me a solid.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing much. Just give a little face time to a local reporter friend of mine.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  “Fine. Tell Captain Ballsack to have a nice life.” Ben ended the call. He sat expressionless until seconds later his cell rang. “Yes?” he said with a long affected tone.

  “Name?” the man asked with nothing but venom in his voice.

  “Dwayne Jackson, local newspaper guy, you'll like him.”

  “I doubt it. Be at the Hyatt at one sharp. He gets five minutes.”

  “Oh, thank you, Grand Vizier. You're too kind.”

  “And Ben…”

  “Yes, darling?”

  “Don't be drunk.”

  The line went dead.

  Ben chuckled and then pushed another button on the phone. This time the call went right to voice mail. “D.J., tomorrow, one o'clock, Hyatt downtown. You have an audience with the pope. Don't be drunk.”

  Ben ended the call and tried to stand again but promptly fell back on his butt. He glanced at the carport and was thankful Marci's car was not there. He reckoned she was still out with Danny Austin and crew doing whatever it is nineteen-year-olds and crew do in the wee hours of the morning in Nashville. He honestly had no clue and no interest in finding out. Those days were long behind him, not that they were ever there to start with. He never fell into the typical music biz party life and was certainly never enamored with celebrity. If anything, he veered to the other extreme and derided people who sought the spotlight, which made things awkward given his livelihood depended upon famous people singing his songs. It didn't take a shrink for Ben to draw a straight line between that personality quirk and his relationship with his brother. Ben knew he was a lot of things, but being in denial was not one of them.

  He went back to his cell phone and twirled his index finger above the call button. Once satisfied with his strategy, he dropped his finger. He breathed a sigh of relief when on the third ring he was sent to voice mail. “So, it's me,” he said, doing his best to sound sober, in all sense of the word. “I'm just wondering where the hell you are. You know, this is pretty crappy of you, Marci. I'm really hurt. I invite you and your friends to my party, you ignore me all night, and now I'm here at the house alone wondering what's going on…or if you're even okay. Well, I guess that's all I have to say. Hope you're having fun. I'm sure you are. I'm sure I know who you're with. Not sure how I'm supposed to feel about that. How would you feel? I'm just saying it's not cool, Marci. I'm really hurt. Bye.” Ben smiled and turned off his cell. If Marci called back, he wanted to make sure it went directly to voice mail. She'd suffer for a bit, feel the pang of guilt, and then—if he knew young girls the way he knew he knew young girls—she would get sufficiently pissed and decide she deserves better than some rich, jealous old guy treating her like a possession. With any luck, she'd be out by the end of the week and he would continue his impressive streak of having never had to actually breakup with a girlfriend. They all dumped him. Ben smiled and reclined onto the ground. He stretched his arms over his head and yawned. “Somebody should really help me up,” he said before falling fast asleep.

  Chapter Three

  Downtown Nashville was chaos. Secret Service had coordinated with local law enforcement to block off all vehicular access to both Commerce and Broadway between Third and Seventh, but the sidewalks across from the hotel were still overrun with pedestrians. Some were there to welcome home their native son, some to voice their opposition to the man and his policies, but most were there to catch a glimpse and, if lucky, a picture of the leader of the free world.

  “Just so you know, I’m against this,” the man said, dodging bodies through the lobby of the Hyatt Hotel.

  “Of course you are,” Ben replied, barely keeping up.

  “The president has enough problems right now without—”

  “Me making more for him?”

  “Your words.” They stopped at the elevator. “Okay, where’s your friend?”

  “He’ll be here,” Ben replied. “You just don’t like me, do you, Stevie?”

  Chief of Staff Stephen Donnellson’s cell phone chirped. “What?” Donnellson barked into the phone. “I told them the president wouldn’t be taking any questions today. Also, tell Sid he’s got fifteen minutes to round up senior staff before the president comes down. I want to go over that section on the new SEC appointments one more time.” Donnellson closed the phone. “You’re the president’s brother. It’s not for me—”

  “Cut the protocol crap, Stevie. We’ve known each other too long.”

  The elevator doors opened, and the two men stepped in. Ben and Donnellson stared straight ahead as the elevator started to rise.

  Ben finally broke the silence. “So?”

  “So what?” Donnellson replied.

  “You going to tell me what you're so pissed about?”

  Donnellson clenched his jaw like a man doing everything in his power to hold it together. Finally, he let it out. “You didn’t even let him use your song.”

  “You’re kidding!” Ben responded in a high voice. “You’re still mad about—”

  “It was the most important night in the man’s life,” Donnellson said. “Do you have any idea what that would have meant to him?”

  The doors opened, and they stepped into a deserted hallway. “Stevie, ‘I’ll Light Your Way’ is a love song, not a political victory anthem.”

  Donnellson stopped and turned to Ben. “He’d do anything in the world for you, and y
ou treat him like crap. And don’t tell me it’s because he’s a Republican and you’re a Democrat, you’re not that interested in politics. Hell, Ben, he’s got a better relationship with the Democratic leadership than he has with you.”

  Ben said nothing.

  “What the hell happened to you two?”

  “Drop it, Stevie.”

  “He’s your brother, Ben.”

  “It’s none of your goddamn business, Stevie. You’re not our family counselor. Your job is to hold his hand and keep his ass pearly white for the electorate. Now where is Your Highness so we can get this the hell over with? My head is fucking killing me.”

  For a moment Ben thought he was going to get slugged in the face by the president of the United States’ chief of staff. Instead, Donnellson looked away and let out a breath. “He’s in here. Yeah, let’s get this the hell over with.”

  Donnellson tapped lightly before partially opening the door. “Mr. President?”

  “Yeah, Steve, come on in.”

  President Thomas Lambros was seated behind a desk with his tie undone and his jacket draped over the back of the chair. Though considerably grayer, and obviously older, there was little doubt that Ben and the president of the United States were brothers. They shared the same deep-set eyes, the same square jaw, and the same perpetual half smile. Ben was smaller framed than his older brother, but both were tall, just over six feet. Also, they both possessed the Lambros family trait of slightly tilting the head when listening to someone speak, a mere quirk for Ben, political gold for Tom.

  President Lambros looked up and started to say something but stopped himself. Instead, he rose from the chair and walked across the room with his hands in his pockets. The three men stood in silence for several seconds until Donnellson cleared his throat. The president glanced at his chief of staff and then to Ben and smiled. “Well, look at us. The terrible trio together again.”