Not Fade Away

by Jim Dodge

  ‘Says on the label he’s singing it and playing it and that he wrote it, so I’d say it’s his.’

  ‘You mistaking the flower fo’ the root,’ Double-Gone gently chided. ‘Where you think rock-and-roll come from?’

  I was getting annoyed. ‘Hey, I never claimed to know jackshit about music.’

  ‘That a fact?’ Double-Gone was polite. ‘Well, you remember me playing Elvis doing “Don’t Be Cruel,” right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, wary.

  ‘And Elvis doing “All Shook Up”?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Jerry Lee working out on “Great Balls of Fire”?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Any idea who wrote those numbers?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Black cat name o’ Otis Blackwell.’

  ‘Otis does good work.’ I was getting the point.

  ‘Remember “Hound Dog,” monster hit fo’ Elvis? Black woman named Mama Thornton did that song early on, long ’fore Elvis’s pouty face and cute wiggle came on TV and got so many teenybop panties damp that America’s daddies was scared shitless their daughters was gonna crawl out in the yard and howl at the moon.’

  I smiled at the image, but I wasn’t talking – mainly because this was obviously a time to listen.

  Double-Gone continued, ‘You ever heard of T-Bone Walker? Joe Turner? Sonny Boy Williamson? Big Bill Broonzy? Mississippi John Hurt?’

  ‘Can’t say I have.’

  ‘They were playing the rock-on blues and paying some nasty dues when Elvis was still a gleam in his daddy’s eye.’

  ‘Double-Gone,’ I said, growing tired, ‘I told you out front I don’t know shit about music. I spent my youth turning wheels and chasing truck-stop waitresses. Didn’t even have a fucking radio in any of my rigs.’

  ‘But what you don’t know either,’ Double-Gone said with surprising vehemence, ‘is when the need could arise. Little knowledge maybe give you some angle on the action, help you see yo’ way clear of mean trouble, spare yo’ heart some grief. That’s why I’m hipping you to the straight fact that if you follow rock music back down the tracks, yo’ traveling through rhythm an’ blues, plain ol’ dirt blues, jazz music, back-porch jugband, field-hollers, an’ right on to the heart of ’em all, music born in the simple joy and hurt of living, and thas gospel music. You travel back to them raw human voices lifted up in praise an’ pain, yo’ gonna see a trillion black faces never been on no TV, never heard no big concert crowd go crazy, never rode in no fine cars, didn’t never see fucking penny one fo’ pouring their souls empty, and never broke faith when their music was stole.’

  ‘Double-Gone,’ I said, ‘that’s a righteous claim, delivered with honest passion and high eloquence, but you’re not getting this Cadillac.’

  ‘But man’ – he smiled hugely – ‘I’d look so gooood cruising the street – that’d be after I arranged for some changes in paint and I.D. numbers, new plates and paper.’

  ‘You did it to yourself. If you hadn’t got me so paranoid about Scumball running me down, I wouldn’t feel so responsible.’ That much was true, but the unspoken reason was even simpler, and one I’m sure he both understood and appreciated: it was mine to deliver, not his.

  Double-Gone was all sympathy. ‘Responsibility is a heavy burden, brother. Let me take this load off yo’ hands.’

  ‘It isn’t gonna happen,’ I told him. ‘You know that.’

  ‘George, you jus jumpin’ on my little joke there about copping it fo’ my personal use. Not so. Far too hot fo’ a new cat in town. I was gonna pass it on to Chuck Berry or Otis Blackwell or Mama Thornton or somebody nobody ever heard of singing his heart out in the choir.’

  ‘Nope. That’d just transfer the grief you’re so certain is coming my way. Hate to see Chuck Berry or any of them busted up over this sweet Eldorado.’

  ‘I wasn’t jivin’ on that, George. I think they’ll be looking fo’ you, and if they do some finding, you liable to get messed around.’

  ‘And I know you weren’t jiving about the music,’ I said in an attempt at graciousness. ‘The music belongs to its makers.’

  ‘Yeah, thas true, but the thing is I didn’t take it far enough. See now, gospel music don’t belong to black folks. We just hear it best. Gospel music, rock music, Beethoven music, country music, all that music rightfully belong to the Holy Ghost. That Harriet woman, she feel her love through the music. Jus happened to be the Bopper’s, may his high soul rock on fo’ever, but when you get down to the nitty-gritty, it belong to the Holy Ghost. You want some burnt offering, light a candle fo’ love on the stone altar, thas fine. But if it’s crowded at the Bopper’s grave – you hearing me? – you can always deliver it right to the Holy Ghost. He’ll see the Bopper gets it.’

  I started to reply when Double-Gone suddenly held up a palm for silence. His hand was trembling. ‘Got it!’ he rejoiced. ‘The Lord – bless Him! – just spoke it aloud smack-dab in the center of my brain. Now get a good grip on the wheel there, George, ’cause here it is: THE ROCK SOLID GOSPEL LIGHT CHURCH OF THE HOLY RELEASE!’

  ‘I love it,’ I said, glad to share his joy, and no sooner had I spoken than a voice – though it sounded like my own – spoke in my addled brain, saying, If not to his grave, to the place he died, and a whole new possibility opened: the enlargement of the gesture to include Ritchie Valens for Donna and Buddy Holly for the millions who loved him and, yes, for the Holy Ghost, too. Considering Double-Gone’s warning that Scumball might have some rotten friends waiting for me at the Bopper’s grave, it made better sense to deliver the Caddy to the site of the plane crash itself, let the gift honor them all and at the same time cut the risk.

  I told Double-Gone. ‘Yes!’ he shouted. ‘Thas fox-solid smart. Didn’t I tell yo’ disbelieving ass the Lord got us covered? Didn’t I jus finish preaching the Book o’ Job to open yo’ ears to His whirlwind voice? O mercy, mercy, and hallelujah to the Holy Ghost, you jus got the Lord’s Word plain as fucking day, jammed up and jelly-tight, jus like He spoke the name of my church in my ear.’

  ‘Hold on,’ I cautioned. ‘I don’t mean to doubt, but I’d have to say I didn’t hear the voice real clear. Might’ve been me babbling to myself.’

  ‘George,’ Double-Gone warned, ‘take His blessings as they flow.’

  ‘I’m just not sure it was the Lord.’

  ‘Had to be. I know,’ cause he jus got done talkin’ to me, whippin’ that fine name on my brain. Figured long as He was on the scene, help you out too – Lord don’t waste a move, dig, and the way we haulin’ ass He didn’t want to run us down twice.’ I must’ve looked as dubious as I felt, because Double-Gone kept on. ‘You making a mistake here, George my man. Don’t mess yo’self around heaping doubt on what comes down. You hear what I’m saying? Do you?’

  ‘Count your blessings.’ It seemed clear enough.

  ‘Not count ’em like nickels, no. Take ’em in deep. Dig ’em. Use ’em. Ride ’em over the mountain. And most of all, the very most of all, give something back. Keep that juice movin’ down the wire. Keep that voice raised in prayer and praise. Reflect the Holy Spirit’s bounteous generosity, make His abundance yo’ own. Reach down in yo’ soul’s bankroll and peel off what you think’s right.’

  ‘When I heard that sweet name of your church, Reverend, I knew nothing was going to make me happier than offering a small donation toward making it real … call it an investment in the faith.’

  ‘Now what’s this? I didn’t see no collection plate passing by.’

  ‘Only because you can’t afford one yet. You’ll need a collection plate and rough-hewn wood for a cross and maybe a month’s rent on a storefront where you can gather your flock.’

  ‘You don’t mind me prying,’ Double-Gone asked, ‘what was yo’ piece of this car wreck action?’

  ‘Four grand, half up front, which is the only half I’ll ever see.’

  ‘If my math’matics ain’t failing me, thas two thousand.’

  ‘Minus expenses,�
�� I reminded him. ‘The paper was free from a friend, but bennies, gas, food, and motel rooms add up, plus I bought this record collection from a woman in Arizona for four hundred.’

  Double-Gone jackknifed like he’d been kicked in the guts. ‘Ooooo, it hurts to hear that sum went down fo’ this pile o’ vinyl. Got its moments fo’ sure, but I damn near come to gagging seen it all cluttered up with this Pat Boone and Fabian and Frankie Avalon.’ He chuckled. ‘That woman musta done you right… right up one side and down the other.’

  ‘She needed it. Tap City, with two kids.’

  ‘Uh-huh. So you down to twelve bills or thereabouts?’

  ‘Thereabouts.’

  ‘Well, half would seem about right. Spirit ain’t cheap, you dig that, I know.’

  ‘Is it tax deductible?’

  ‘Now what’s this shit? Spirit don’t charge no taxes, man – just dues.’

  I had an impulse. ‘Way I understand it, standard tithe is ten percent, but since you’re double-full of the spirit, I’ll double it up. So let’s say two and a half. But, you got to throw in your hat.’

  ‘Man,’ Double-Gone grimaced, ‘you hard. From six bills to two-fifty, plus my lid. And what you want it fo’? Just pale you out worse than you already are.’

  ‘I like it,’ I said.

  ‘Me too, man – thas why I bought it.’

  ‘Two hundred, then. I’ll use the fifty bucks to buy my own. Should be able to get one easy for fifty.’

  ‘George my man, why you want to do me like this? I put my best preachin’ on ya. Practical salvation. You be headed right to Goon City if I hadn’t put you straight. And do you deep down think the Lord be talkin’ to you if he wasn’t already on His way down to lay The Rock Solid Gospel Light Church of Holy Release on his faithful servant here?’

  ‘That’s why it’s two-fifty and the hat.’

  Double-Gone glared down the road, muttering, making a show of it – then, with a big double groan, took off his hat and handed it over. I put it on. He watched me, shaking his head as I admired it in the rearview mirror. ‘Don’t make it, George. Not an inch.’

  ‘What I really dig is the color,’ I said. ‘Looks like a flamingo getting hit with a million volts.’

  ‘Ruint my color coordination,’ Double-Gone grumbled. ‘Feel defrocked. I jus’ don’t think I can abide this, George; takes away from the man I am, dig? Man’s got to feel good about himself. Now it might make me feel better – fact, I know it would – if you throw in some of them go-fast pills.’

  ‘Leave me a hundred. And Double-Gone? No more sniveling.’

  ‘You right. You did me. It’s down, done, gone, and forgotten.’ He gave a forlorn little wave in the direction of my head. ‘Bye, you boss top. Wear him well. And now, ’bout that charitable contribution…’

  We jammed on down the line as Double-Gone counted out 100 hits of speed for me and the rest for him, which he stashed with the money in a secret pocket in his cape. Then he leaned back, smiling. ‘You a strange cat, George; good, but strange. Just can’t figure where the fuck you at.’

  ‘Twenty miles out of Houston, closing fast.’

  ‘You know that ol’ truth, you can run but you can’t hide? I’d pay some mind to that.’

  ‘Get thee behind me, Satan.’ I smiled when I said it.

  ‘George,’ Double-Gone said tenderly, ‘I’m behind you all the way. Thas why I’d like to see you make it.’

  ‘Faith, Reverend.’

  ‘There it is.’ Double-Gone grinned.

  We parted company a half-hour later at the steps of the Houston Public Library where, taking Double-Gone’s advice to heart, I intended to do my research. In farewell I told him, ‘You preach that solid rock gospel light, Reverend Double-Gone. I hope you and your flock flourish till you’re all so fat with blessings you curl up and die of happiness, old and full of days.’

  Double-Gone graced me with a stylish benediction, though it was difficult to tell if it was the sign of the cross or a Z hacked in the air by some bebop, speed-gobbling Zorro. ‘George, I want you to get it done, my man. Now you get on the beat and stay on it, hear?’

  I waved and started up the steps when his baritone, calling my name, turned me around. He pointed his right index finger straight at my head. ‘And George: hang onto yo’ hat.’

  I wasn’t sure whether to take his words as a stern injunction to guard his recent and rightful property or as a graceful acknowledgment that he was letting it go. Either way, I decided, was fine. Later I realized both readings were wrong. The Good Reverend was neither admonishing nor releasing; it was pure, rock-solid gospel-light prophecy.

  A heavy-tongued church bell began to toll, its resonance muffled in the rev and honk of downtown morning traffic. I hit the library right on the beat – a short, lean black man in work khakis was just unlocking the door. He held it open for me as I entered, his sharp brown eyes flicking upward to check out my stingy-brim.

  I stopped and turned around. ‘Good morning, sir,’ I said. ‘I’m a wondering scholar just wandering through and have found myself with an urgent need for some reliable information about a plane crash that sadly claimed the lives of some notable musicians on the third day of February, 1959.’

  ‘Reference Desk be to yo’ right, sir.’ He pointed mechanically.

  I leaned in close and lowered my voice: ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Beg yo’ pardon, sir?’ he asked nervously.

  ‘I noticed you checking out my new hat.’ I tugged the brim down a notch. ‘What do you think?’

  He shrugged his bony shoulders, his eyes looking steadily past me. ‘Don’t think nothin’ in particular. Brightly colorful, fo’ sure. But that’s jus looking, not thinking.’

  ‘Do you think it possesses that elusive quality known as soul?’

  ‘None that jumps right on me … but then that’s rightfully something fo’ you to be thinking on.’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ I said. ‘I bought it because it was beyond thought. And also for the practical reason that I need something to reinforce my skull in case my brain blows.’

  He looked in my eyes and said in a forceful whisper, ‘You either messed up on drugs or natch’ly crazy – not sure which, don’t care – but you fo’ sure looking trashed and sour, so you might think about wandering on,’ cause you don’t be cool, you gonna lose. This library don’t tol’rate no misbehaving. You be covered with police yo’ first wrong move. Got that?’

  ‘Got it. I want information, not trouble,’ I assured him, disconcerted that my playfulness had obviously hit him wrong.

  He slipped the key from the door lock and, as he turned to face me, snapped it back on his belt. ‘’Nother thing: fuck yo’ hat.’

  ‘Hold on. I apologize for crowding you. I only meant to be friendly, but I guess I’m just a little too giddy and excited and exhausted. Been a wild ride.’

  ‘I jus bet it has. Now if you’ll ’scuse me, I got work to do.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here, too.’ I smiled. ‘So let’s get on with it.’

  ‘Mind yo’self,’ he called over his shoulder.

  I did, being absolutely sweet and professional with the reference librarian, a middle-aged brunette who went out of her way to be helpful. I went through everything she dug up, mostly newspaper clips with the same wire-service stories, plus a couple of record industry journals and a few paragraphs in music histories. Subtracting the duplications, there wasn’t much, but the one thing I had to know – the location of the crash – I found right away. However, I stayed with it like a serious pilgrim, and my diligence was rewarded: the Big Bopper was buried in Beaumont. I’d been on the track all the way.

  When I left the library two hours later, I was a bunch less dumb but also twice as depressed, sorely pissed, more determined, strangely fearful, and – still in seeming accord with the Lord’s will – completely confused, especially about what my next move should be. I slid behind the Caddy’s wheel and turned the key. Then I decided Nope, no more wa
sted motion, and shut it down. I leaned back in the seat and shut my eyes, took seven deep breaths, slid my stingy-brim down to cover my face, and considered the general mess.

  For openers, I was better informed, and that was to my favor. I knew within a few square miles where I was going – certainly an improvement – and I had a fairly solid idea of the events surrounding the crash.

  The chartered plane had left the Mason City airport at 1:00 A.M. headed for Fargo, North Dakota. It was snowing and cold, but nowhere near a blizzard. The plane evidently crashed shortly after take-off, for when the flight was overdue in Fargo the owner of the charter service took another plane up to search and spotted the wreckage northwest of the Mason City airport in a snow-crusted field of corn stubble. Around 11:30 that morning the coroner arrived to confirm what the extent of the wreckage made obvious, that the four people aboard were dead: Buddy Holly, 22; Ritchie Valens, 17; J. P. Richardson (aka the Big Bopper), 27; and the pilot, Roger Petersen, 21. According to the wire service reporter, the plane was no longer recognizable as such, and the victims’ identities were impossible to determine without extensive lab work.

  I was depressed as much by my morbid imagination as by the bare sadness of their deaths. Sitting there in the bright, warm library, everything neatly organized, I’d felt for a horrible moment the gut-wrenching fear as the plane plunged, heard the begging, blurted prayers as the earth whirled up to meet them, all possible future of their music lost in the instant of impact, from life to death in the span of a heartbeat, just like Eddie.

  They shouldn’t have been flying to Fargo, in a plane they’d chartered themselves, but they didn’t have much choice. For six days they’d been living on piece-of-shit buses without adequate heaters during a mean Midwestern winter. The tour, in fact, was billed as the Winter Dance Party. Six days on a cold, slow bus. Six days, six gigs, and drive away whipped. Trying to sleep sitting up half-frozen in the seats; kidneys punished by shocks that had turned to jello 30,000 miles before; sick from exhaust leaks; wearing clothes that hadn’t been laundered since who could remember when. The Big Bopper, nursing a bad cold, broke down and bought a sleeping bag to keep warm. Finally Buddy Holly decided to charter a plane along with two of his band members, Waylon Jennings and Tommy Allsup, and fly ahead to Fargo, get everyone’s stage clothes laundered, and log a night of true sleep in a hotel room with the heater turned up high. The Big Bopper, whose frame matched his name, found the cramped seats particularly unbearable and persauded his buddy Waylon to give up his seat on the flight. At the last moment, Ritchie Valens wanted to go, and pestered Tommy Allsup into flipping a coin to decide who would get the last seat. Allsup reluctantly agreed, but only if he got to use the Bopper’s sleeping bag if he lost. Ritchie called heads, and heads it was.