Not Fade Away

by Jim Dodge

Donna sniffed the envelope. ‘Ooo-laa-laa.’ She giggled. ‘Miss Harriet was serious.’

  She read the letter slowly, nodding, shaking her head, smiling. When she finished she folded it neatly, returned it to the envelope, and began to weep. So much for my deep intuitions, I said to myself, but then she reached for me across the front seat and we held each other.

  As it turned out, however, my intuition was better than it seemed at first. It wasn’t the letter that got to her, she said, as it was remembering that Ritchie Valens had died in the same plane crash. Ritchie Valens, it turned out, was one of the reasons she’d slept with Warren that first night, the night she got pregnant with Allard. Not Ritchie Valens personally, but a song of his called ‘Donna,’ Donna the heartbreaker, a lament for his lost love. The school she went to in Oklahoma was too small to afford a band for the senior prom, so they’d used records. And when Ritchie Valens sang her name that night in the dimly lit gym – Donna in her gown with her hair done up and an orchid on her wrist, her stockinged feet sliding on the waxed floor as she danced slow and close with Warren – she wanted to grow up into the woman she felt in herself.

  When I admitted I didn’t recall the song, Donna looked at me with deep suspicion, like a border guard confronted with dubious credentials, but then she shook her head, smiling, and said, ‘Well, it doesn’t make much sense without the song.’ And in a high, clear voice with just a touch of a whiskey edge and a power and clarity that left me breathless, she sang:

  I had a girl

  Dooonnaa was her name

  And though I loved her

  She left me just the same

  Oohhhhh Donnnaaa

  Ooohhhhh Doonnnaaaaa …

  And I was thinking she’d break my heart when she abruptly stopped and said, ‘That’s why I’m crying about the letter. And because it’s sad that they never had the chance to meet. And because it’s really a sweet thing you’re doing – a little crazy, but sweet.’

  ‘Then allow me to deliver this gift in your name, too – as a tribute to Ritchie Valens, music, and the possibilities of friendship, communion, and love.’

  She cocked her head and gave me a smile that was in odd but happy contrast to the tears on her cheeks. ‘That would be nice,’ she said.

  ‘Well I’m a nice, sweet guy and it’s a very romantic journey – some might even call it foolish, or pointless. You wouldn’t happen to know where the Big Bopper’s buried, would you?’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘but I just thought of a good gift for you.’ She sounded excited. ‘It’s in a big box under the bed, lugged all the way from Oklahoma: a battery-powered record player and a young girl’s collection of forty-fives to play on it.’

  ‘You’re kidding. Old forty-fives? Are they mainly from the Fifties?’

  ‘I was seventeen in ’59. Your record player was all there was in Braxton, Oklahoma.’

  ‘Mainly rock-and-roll?’

  ‘What else was there?’

  ‘Well, listen, that’s what I’m supposed to do on my way back from delivering the Caddy – look around for Fifties record collections. I’ve got this friend in ’Frisco named Scumball Johnson, a used car salesman, and he collects Fifties rock the way some people collect baseball cards. Kind of a hobby, but he’s real passionate about it. When he heard I was making this trip, he gave me a thousand bucks to buy with, and out of that I can cover my travel expenses home. I told him I didn’t know diddley about the music but he said that was no big problem – if in doubt, buy everything. He buys ’em, sells ’em, trades ’em, reads these obscure little collectors’ magazines with circulations of half a dozen – you know, just a nut. So, since you’ve got the records and I’ve got the money and we’re both in the same place, I could buy some now.’

  ‘No, I want it to be a gift,’ Donna said firmly.

  I was ready for this. ‘If you insist, I’d be honored to accept the record player as a gift. Scumball doesn’t collect record players. The records, those I have to pay for. That’s business. Of course they’ve got to be in good shape. Not scratched or warped, labels intact, things like that.’

  She eyed me with open doubt, and I wasn’t sure whether she was considering the offer’s intrinsic value or its clumsiness. Frankly, I thought I was pretty slick. Finally she said, ‘Okay, but the record player’s a gift – as long as that’s understood.’

  ‘Understood and gratefully accepted.’ I bowed as much as I could in the front seat. ‘I’d like to take a look at the records, but I’m not sure what your situation is. I’d be glad to drive you to your trailer if you think your neighbors wouldn’t take it wrong. And I wouldn’t mind at all if you’d rather have me call you a cab and meet you somewhere else with the records – and the record player. What do you think?’

  She fixed me with those lustrous brown eyes and a smile. ‘I think you’re a very thoughtful man. And for all your supposed craziness, very, very careful. We can go to the trailer. None of the neighbors thinks anything about me as far as I know. About the only person I ever talk to is Warren’s uncle when he comes around the first of the month to collect the rent and try to feel my ass.’ Her nose wrinkled with disgust. ‘The kids’ll be home in a couple of hours. I can move the mess around while you check out the records.’

  The trailer, closed all day in the heat, reeked of burned oatmeal, curdled milk, and dirty socks, just as Donna had said. She stopped in the doorway, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly in a murmuring sigh. ‘Ah, home sweet home. You’re welcome to it. See if you can find a place to sit down.’ She left the outside door open and went into a tiny room at the back of the trailer. She didn’t have far to go: the trailer seemed about seven feet long. I hadn’t spent that much time around kids, but even if they sat stone-still that place would’ve been cramped.

  Donna was back in a couple of minutes with two large plastic cases, each half again as big as a portable typewriter case. One was turquoise with yellow flecks, the other light green. The latter contained the record player. It was a bit dusty and the batteries were long dead, but the turntable spun smoothly and the needle looked sharp. Sounding upset, Donna said it worked fine the last time she’d played it. I assured her of my utter confidence that new batteries would do the trick and, if not, that I was an ace mechanic, but she insisted on searching for the four-cell flashlight so we could use its batteries to test the machine. She couldn’t find the flashlight and grew increasingly distracted. ‘The boys were using it last night to play flashlight tag. How can they lose everything they touch? I mean,’ she spread her arms, ‘how can you lose anything in a place this size? Damn flashlight’s bigger than the table.’

  She was still looking for the flashlight when I opened a small compartment on the side of the case and found a cord for a 12-volt connection; you could plug it right into the cigarette lighter. I held it up. ‘Forget the flashlight. Lookee here at the miracles of modern technology – I can run it straight off the car’s system.’

  The turquoise case was full of records. There were three tightly slotted rows, all but a dozen in paper slip jackets. Most looked like they might’ve been pressed the day before. ‘You sure kept your record collection immaculate. Hardly a speck of dust. No reason you shouldn’t get top dollar.’

  ‘You’d never know to look at this place that I used to be a tidy young lady, would you?’

  ‘I bet two rambunctious young boys really sharpen your personal sense of order.’

  ‘Ain’t that a fact,’ she said ruefully. ‘Listen, I’m going to attack the dishes. Take your time going through the records. And take anything you want; they’re all for sale.’

  I went through the records quickly. A fairly comprehensive collection, to my limited knowledge. I found the Big Bopper’s ‘Chantilly Lace’ right off, a bunch of Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis, Fats Domino, Bill Haley & the Comets, Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly galore, five or six of Little Richard’s wailings, the Everly Brothers, some folk and calypso, and a whole bunch of groups and people I’d never heard of. Ritchie Va
lens’s ‘La Bamba’ and ‘Donna’ were near the end of the last row. I set ‘Donna’ aside.

  She was behind me at the sink, scrubbing dishes. I told her I’d set ‘Donna’ aside and asked if she had any other favorites.

  She damn near wheeled on me. ‘Take “Donna,”’ she said flatly, ‘that’s the one I really want gone.’

  ‘No sentimental favorites?’

  ‘Not anymore.’ She turned back to the sink.

  I counted the records and then my money. I was short out-of-pocket and had to go out to the Caddy for the roll in the duffle bag. When I came back in, I counted out the cash on top of the turquoise case. ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘let’s get down to business. I get two hundred and seven records at two bucks a pop, makes it four-fourteen, so I’ll call it an even four-fifteen if you’ll throw in the carrying case.’

  Donna was shocked. ‘You’re buying all the records for two dollars each?’

  ‘I know that seems low, but Scumball says it’s standard price for good-to-excellent condition. I don’t know what the market’s like here, but even in ’Frisco he can’t get more than three dollars a pop. And I am buying them all, remember, not high-grading it for the good stuff.’

  Donna pointed at the turquoise case. ‘You’re gonna give me over four hundred dollars for those records, is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘Four-fifteen,’ I corrected her. ‘I’m sorry, but I really can’t go higher.’ I tried to look sorry.

  Donna was shaking her head. ‘You know those records aren’t worth nothing much. You’re just looking for a way to give me charity. I appreciate it, George, but that ain’t right.’

  The truth was, I didn’t have the vaguest idea what used records were going for, but two dollars seemed fair to me and that allowed me to put some honest righteousness in my bluff. ‘Donna, I’ll write down Scumball’s number. Call him at work and he’ll tell you whether I’m bullshitting or not.’

  She decided to believe me. ‘No, there’s no need for that. God, I guess not. You’ll have to excuse me, but I was figuring a dime at the most, and you’re telling me two dollars. Four hundred! Hell, if I knew I was sitting on a gold mine, I’d of sold ’em a long time ago.’

  ‘Glad you didn’t.’ I grinned. ‘And I know Scumball will be.’

  Donna insisted on coming out to the Caddy to say goodbye – plus she wanted to make sure the record player worked. I plugged the adapter into the cigarette lighter and hit the switch; the turntable began revolving. I was tempted to play ‘Donna’ and ask the real one to dance a slow one right there in her scuffed yard in front of God and the neighbors, holding her close before I aimed it back down the Interstate. But seeing as how she didn’t need the pain, I picked a Buddy Holly at random. It dropped smoothly onto the turntable and the tone arm lifted over and laid the needle in the groove:

  I’m gonna tell you how it’s gonna be:

  You’re gonna give-a your love to me.

  I wanna love you night and day,

  You know my love not fade away.

  Doo-wop: doo-wop: doo-wop-bop.

  My love is bigger than a Cadillac,

  I try to show it and you drive me back.

  Your love for me has got to be real

  For you to know just how I feel.

  A love for real not fade away!

  I hit the freeway full-bore and feeling good, a farewell kiss from Donna still warm on my cheek. Since I had the record player all set up, I figured I might as well listen to ‘Chantilly Lace,’ seeing as how I was riding its ripple of consequence into my present madness. I dropped it on the box. There was the sound of a phone jingling, then a low lecherous purr:

  Hellooooo, bay-bee.

  Yeah, this is the Big Bopper speaking.

  [a prurient laugh]

  Oh, you sweet thang!

  Do I what?

  Will I what?

  Oh bay-beeee, you know what I like:

  And then he starts singing.

  Chantilly lace and a pretty face

  and a ponytail hangin’ down,

  a wiggle in her walk

  and a giggle in her talk

  Lawd, makes the world go ’round ’round ’round …

  Listening, I agreed with the Bopper that we all need a little human connection, some critter warmth. It was sad, but in the music was an invincible joy that proved sadness could be balanced, if not beat, and for a while there, rocking toward Phoenix with Donna’s record player turned up full blast, so exhausted I could barely blink, I was serene. Mostly it was the music, the captivating power of the beat; I didn’t have to think. No wonder the young loved it. Adolescence is excruciating enough without thinking about it; better to fill your head with cleansing energy. I kept filling mine, hoping this feeling of serenity could last forever, but when I started to nod at the wheel it clearly was time for either speed or sleep. Acting upon the sanity serenity inspires, I pulled into the Fat Cactus Motel on the outskirts of Phoenix, signed in semiconscious, and raced the Sandman to Room 17. It was a dead heat.

  I woke around noon the next day, reborn. I showered for about forty-five minutes, washing off the road grit and speed grease, then put on clean clothes. I felt fresh, fit, and ready to take on Texas. After filling the Caddy with high-test, I stopped down the street and stretched my shrunken gut with a tall stack at the House of Pancakes.

  I said I felt good, and that’s a fact, but you can always feel better. My nervous system, after the cleansing flush of sleep, was beginning to twitter for its amphetamine, asserting a need that was undoubtedly sharpened by the knowledge that the means of satisfaction was near at hand. I invoked my recently refreshed sense of purpose and limited myself to three. A man buffeted by general weakness and a tendency toward utter indulgence needs to bolster his resolve with such acts of self-control. Of course, it’s not a tremendous consolation to tell yourself you only took three when you could have taken thirty, but Fortune favors those who at least try.

  Eight miles out of Phoenix, Fortune, quick to pay off, rewarded me with Joshua Springfield, make of him what I might. At first it was difficult to make anything of him, just the shadow of a shape in a blaze of light, but as the angle of vision changed with my approach I saw what was what – apparently, anyway – and pulled over in response to his upraised thumb.

  This man is proof of the impossibility of description. He was large and round, easily over two hundred pounds, with short legs, large torso, and a massive head, yet altogether there was a sense of spare grace in the proportions. He was moon faced, so smooth as to seem featureless, or maybe the features were blurred by the power of his dark blue eyes, a color at odds with the short, tightly curled reddish hair that covered his crown like a fungus attacking a pink balloon. He was wearing a lime-green gabardine suit apparently made by a tailor suffering severe impairment of his sensory and motor faculties. The color of his suit clashed with his red shirt, though it matched the body feathers of the parrots printed on it. Joshua was standing on a large rectangular silver box the size of a footlocker, and it was the dazzle of sunlight off the silver box that made him appear, despite his considerable substance, apparitional.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he greeted me in a mellow bass. ‘It is kind of you to stop. I hope you won’t mind being burdened with this heavy and rather unwieldy box.’

  He wasn’t lying about that: we both were panting by the time we got it secured on the back seat. Back on the road, still mopping sweat, I said, ‘Must be the family gold in there to haul it around hitching.’

  ‘Ah, if it was gold I assure you I wouldn’t be hitching. I would rent a helicopter. But since it isn’t gold, and since I’ve never learned to drive an automobile, I must accept the luck of the road and the kindness of fellow travelers like yourself.’

  ‘My pleasure. Do you mind my asking what is in the box? I’m always curious about what I’ve been wrestling.’

  ‘Not at all. It’s not very spectacular, I assure you. Merely equipment I use in my work
– amplifiers, speakers, that sort of thing.’

  ‘You an electrician?’

  ‘I dabble. By vocation I’m a chemist, so I suppose it’s accurate to say that the electrical is within my field.’

  ‘A chemist,’ I repeated. Visions of sugarplums danced in my head. ‘What exactly do you do?’

  ‘Oh, the usual. Dissolve and coagulate; join and sunder; generally stir the elemental soup.’

  ‘Well, yes … but what sort of substances do you make?’

  ‘For the last twenty years I’ve primarily been interested in medicines, but I’ve made all sorts of things – metal polish, soap, plastics, paper, cosmetics, dyes, and the rest.’

  ‘Have you ever heard of lysergic acid? LSD?’

  I listened carefully for a note of caution in his tone, a trace of reserve, but he was direct: ‘Yes. I ran across it in Hoffman’s work on grain molds.’

  ‘Have you ever made any?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Taken any?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You weren’t curious?’

  ‘I’m curious both by nature and aesthetic disposition, but I’ve found that psychotropic drugs are like funhouse mirrors – they reveal by distortion.’

  ‘And you want a funhouse with honest mirrors?’

  Joshua thought for a moment. ‘Actually, I guess I’m more interested in a funhouse without mirrors.’

  ‘You think it would still be fun?’ I’ll admit to a snotty note of the disingenuous in my tone.

  ‘Why else would it interest me?’ he replied sharply, lifting his arms in exasperation. One sleeve came to midforearm, the other to his knuckles. When I didn’t reply he continued in a softer, but still testy, tone, ‘There’s no need to poke at me like a crab in a hole. If you have a point, come to it; if you have a question, ask.’

  I lacked a point but had far too many questions, and the three hits of speed were kicking into high, so instead I told him my tale much like I’m telling you, the road and story rolling together, Phoenix to Tucson and on down the hard-rock highway. Joshua listened with complete attention and without comment, which unnerved me at first and made me hurry for fear of boring him. But when I realized he was absorbed, not bored, I relaxed, and that inspired my honesty. I told him the car was stolen, that I’d been taking drugs and might be crazy. This information didn’t seem to alarm him; his hands were folded on his lap and he briefly turned them palms up, as if to indicate it was an insignificant matter of fact.