Not Fade Away

by Jim Dodge

  I took Harriet’s letter from the glovebox and kicked out the smashed door. As I slid through the twisted frame I instinctively reached up to protect my hat, deeply pleased to find it still in place.

  The cold night air was luxurious. I breathed deeply and looked around me. Not a thing for as far as I could see, just the totaled Eldorado against the salt, gleaming white-on-white. I thought about what I wanted to say as I struck a match to the box of candles you can’t blow out, using their steady flame to ignite Harriet’s letter, which burned with the scent of Shalimar.

  I had run out of grand statements. I kept it so simple I didn’t even say it aloud: To the Big Bopper, Ritchie Valens, Buddy Holly, and the possibilities of love and music. And to the Holy Spirit. I tossed Harriet’s letter through a shattered window. The spilled gas detonated, flames billowing through the twisted metal, white paint bubbling as it charred, then the gas tank blew and it all roared upward. I stood there and watched it burn.

  I had no idea where the highway was, so I started walking with the wind. I hadn’t gone a mile when I saw a bloodstain spreading across the salt. Eddie’s mother appeared before me, pointing at the bloodstain, her voice trembling like her finger: ‘It’s just not right,’ she said. ‘It is not right.’

  ‘Yes it is,’ I told her. I kept walking.

  The spreading bloodstain began to contract, rushing back to its center, spiraling downward into itself. As it vanished, a great whirlwind rose in its place. Blinded by flying salt, I knelt into a tight ball and covered my eyes. I awaited my judgment. But there were no words in the wind, no sound but it’s own wild howl, nothing but itself. Within minutes it died away.

  I’d walked another mile before realizing my hat was gone. I hoped it had blown all the way to Houston and landed on Double-Gone’s head in a gospel stroke of glory.

  In the distance I saw headlights on I-80 and took the shortest angle to the freeway. I was still a long ways out when I saw Kacy waiting in a cloud of light. I ran up, close enough to touch her, before I understood she was a ghost.

  ‘Oh, George,’ she said, her voice breaking, ‘we were on a dirt road in the mountains out of La Paz. It was pouring rain. A huge slide came down and swept the van away. I was in the back. I hardly had time to scream. Nobody knows, George. It happened in late September and nobody even knows we’re dead.’

  ‘Kacy,’ I cried, reaching for her. And I held her a moment real in my arms before she disappeared.

  EPILOGUE

  ‘The significant problems we face

  cannot be solved at the same

  level of thinking we were at when

  we created them.’

  —Albert Einstein

  THAT WAS THE END of George Gastin’s story. If there was more, I heard it in my dreams, because I was asleep – or, more accurately, given the combination of doom flu, car wreck, codeine, the root soup (which I don’t think was an entirely innocent brew), and George himself, I lost consciousness at that point in the narrative. But I was there, and heard a sense of conclusion in his voice that left little doubt I was free to go.

  When I awoke the next morning, I felt much better. Not hale and hearty, but human. The first thing I noticed was that George was gone. I checked out the window for his tow truck, but the lot was empty. I got dressed and walked over to the motel office. A note from Dorie and Bill, tacked on the door, explained they’d gone bird watching and would be back by nightfall; I was welcome to stay as long as I needed, pay when I was able. I decided I might as well take care of business while I could, in case I suffered a relapse.

  I walked the four blocks to Itchman’s to check on my truck. I caught Gus on his way to lunch.

  ‘Well,’ he said in greeting, ‘I heard you’ve got so goddamned lazy you been trying to breed your truck to a redwood stump, hoping to produce some firewood. Seems to me it might be easier on the equipment to just go out and cut it regular.’

  ‘Gus, there’s no need to run your lunch hour short just to abuse me. Give me the damages and the date I can pick it up.’

  ‘Six bills should cover it and four days ought to get it done. We got to order the steering knuckle out of Oxnard; they’ll greydog it up tomorrow. There’s terms if you need ’em.’

  ‘Six hundred.’ I sighed. ‘That’s just what George said. Guy seems to know his shit. He bring you a lot of business?’

  Gus shrugged. ‘When he’s around and if he’s in the mood. George sort of dances to his own music, know what I mean?’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ I said in full agreement.

  Gus smiled. ‘He bend your ear, did he?’

  ‘Some.’

  ‘Yup, George can sling the shit. Did he tell you how he and some congressman’s sixteen-year-old nympho daughter aced the CIA out a million-and-a-half in gold down in one of them South American countries, Peru or Bolivia or one of them? How he set it up so the CIA couldn’t touch ’em?’

  ‘No, but he said he had some money. He didn’t charge me, did he tell you that?’

  ‘Hell, he never charges anybody. But for all I know he lives on Welfare. Different music, like I said.’

  ‘Still music.’

  ‘Did he tell you about his rose garden? He’s trying to produce a black rose.’

  ‘No, but that’d make sense. What he told me about was his pilgrimage in the Big Bopper’s Cadillac.’

  ‘That’s one I haven’t heard,’ Gus said.

  ‘He sure did right by me.’

  ‘I’m not saying George ain’t a good one. I’m just saying he’s something else.’

  ‘He sure is,’ I agreed.

  And as I walked up the street a few minutes later, passing jack-o-lanterns and paper skeletons in the store windows, I thought to myself, Yeah, he’s something else all right: He’s a ghost.

  And two years later I still think he’s a ghost. His own, maybe mine, yours in disguise, a random shade. But a ghost for real and in fact, holy or otherwise. The ghost spun from the silver thread the white lines thin to when you’re running on the edge. A ghost loosed with the bands of Orion and squeezed from the sweet influences of Pleiades bound. A ghost risen on the river mist or released in the coil of flames. A rogue ghost. Spirit. A white rose. Rain for the flower in the spiraling root of the dream.

  I don’t know, and make no claims. But he was at least the ghost of what his journey honored: the love and music already made; the love and music yet possible for making. A ghost of a chance. A ghost of the honest gospel light and wild joy shaking our bones. The ghost in all of us who would dance at the wedding of the sun and moon.

  Wop-bop-a-loop-bop-a-wham-bam-boom.

  Also available from Canongate

  STONE JUNCTION

  By Jim Dodge

  Stone Junction is a modern odyssey of one man’s quest for knowledge and understanding in a world where revenge, betrayal, revolution, mind-bending chemicals, magic and murder are the norm.

  With a genuinely awesome scope, a stiletto-sharp wit and an array of bizarre characters, Jim Dodge has woven a mesmerising and age-defining tale. Stone Junction is both hilarious and heart-rendingly sad but always utterly compelling.

  “A book I put my life on hold for. It is an extraordinary, magical odyssey describing one man’s quest for self-understanding in a world filled with bizarre characters, believable impossibilities and spiritual terrorism.” Sunday Herald

  “Reading Stone Junction is like being at a non-stop party in celebration of everything that matters.” Thomas Pynchon

  Praise for Jim Dodge

  NOT FADE AWAY

  ‘the best road novel never to be adapted for the big screen … Vanishing Point with a point, Easy Rider with no hippies and a sense of historical depth’ Guardian

  ‘the writing pulses with heavy abandon’ Sunday Times

  ‘a book which screams off the starting blocks and just keeps accelerating’ Uncut

  ‘a potent mix of bawdy folk-tale, philosophy and principled techno-awareness. Strong threads of
humanism work within a fabric of vibrant characters, hillbilly landscapes and cathartic wit’ Dazed and Confused

  ‘snappier dialogue than anyone this side of Elmore Leonard’ Scotland on Sunday

  ‘expect your brain cells to be frazzled by the funk and fervour of his prose’ Herald

  FUP

  ‘an extraordinary little book … a piece of American grotesque that ends with an epiphany as unexpected as it is beautiful. The writing is often as good as writing gets … I expect anyone glancing at this review to make a respectable effort to read this book’ Literary Review

  ‘[a] witty and sprightly modern allegory … you’ll love it’ Independent on Sunday

  ‘this novel is fupped uck’ The Times

  ‘there is a moment of real horror and loss, and then a quite beautiful resolution. The story twists and turns between Twain and Steinbeck but has a fairytale ending worthy of Oscar Wilde. By the way, Fup is the name of the duck, and apart from anything else, this book is very funny’ Sunday Telegraph

  STONE JUNCTION

  ‘an irresistible kaleidoscope of manic, tragic and exquisitely funny Americana’ Time Out

  ‘an often glorious narrative, peopled by characters of genuine imaginative force’ Herald

  ‘the kind of book that should make the John Grishams of this world weep into their overstuffed pillows’ Evening Standard

  Acknowledgments

  I wish to thank the following people for their gracious assistance in the preparation of this manuscript:

  Charles Walk, now publisher of the Helena Independent Record, who was the first reporter at the scene of the February 3, 1959, plane crash, and whose story was picked up by the major wire services;

  Jean Wallace of the Beaumont Library for her unstinting professional aid and encouragement in the course of my laggardly research;

  Eric Gerber of the Houston Post for little details that were a big help;

  Dr Alfonso Rodriguez Lopez for medical care and understanding;

  Gary Snyder, for background and foreground and a lot of ground in between;

  a number of friends whose early readings of the manuscript were uniformly marked by acumen and uncommon tact – Leonard Charles, Richard Cortez Day, Morgan Entrekin, Bob Funt, Jeremiah Gorsline, Michael Helm, Jack Hitt, Freeman House and Nina, Jerry Martien, Lynn Milliman, and Victoria Stockley;

  Anne Rumsey, for coordinating permissions and envelopes within envelopes;

  Gary Fisketjon, for his sweet heart and sharp pencil;

  and Melanie Jackson, for keeping together what tends to fly apart.

  My gratitude.

  About the Author

  Not Fade Away

  JIM DODGE is the author of four books: Fup, Not Fade Away, Stone Junction and Rain on the River: Selected Poetry and Short Prose. He lives on an isolated ranch in California’s Western Sonoma County.

  Copyright

  DISCLAIMER

  This is a work of fiction. Some of the animating facts have been altered to protect the privacy of individuals and communities.

  Copyright © 1987 by Jim Dodge

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 841 Broadway, New York, NY 10003 or permissions@groveatlantic.com.

  “Great Balls of Fire” by Otis Blackwell & Jack Hammer. Copyright © 1957 by BRS Music Corp., Unichappell Music, Inc., & Chappell & Co. Inc. (Rightsong Music., Inc., & Intersong-USA, Inc., Publishers) International copyright secured. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

  “The Bristol Stomp” by Kal Mann and Dave Appell. Copyright © Kalmann Music, Inc. All rights reserved.

  “Like a Rolling Stone” by Bob Dylan. Copyright © 1965 Warner Brothers Inc. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

  “Not Fade Away” by Charles Hardin & Norman Petty. Copyright © 1957 by MPL Communications, Inc. and Wren Music Co. Copyright renewed © 1985 MPL Communications, Inc. and Wren Music Co. International copyright secured. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

  “Donna” by Ritchie Valens. Copyright © 1960 Picture Our Music. All rights administered by Warner-Tamerlane Publishing Corp. All rights reserved. Used by permission. Copyright © 1958 by Kemo Music Co. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

  “Chantilly Lace” by JP Richardson. Copyright © 1979 by Glad Music Co. All rights reserved.

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  Printed in the United States of America

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Dodge, Jim.

  Not fade away.

  I. Title.

  PS3554.0335N6 1987 813’.54 87-1859

  ISBN: 978-0-8021-9764-1 (e-book)

  Design by Laura Hammond Hough

  Grove Press

  An imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.

  841 Broadway

  New York, NY 10003

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  www.groveatlantic.com