How in hell did you fuck up Jingle Bells? Across the street a man in a cowboy hat sat on a wheeled throne hammering an electric guitar and in an amplified bellow murdering one of the most popular songs in God’s universe. Instead of hitting the high note, Dashing through the snow, he sang a third below it, flattening the melodic curve. Over and over again.
Zac considered crossing the street and singing it for the guy—DashING through the snow! One HORSE open sleigh! Fuck it, can’t police the whole damn world. And he had other concerns, among them how to dislodge I Can’t Smile Without You, stuck in his brain since morning. Maybe Jingle Bells would do it, or something—anything. It was Friday. Magical, mystical, musical Friday. He slurped the last foam and headed into the stream.
The late afternoon sun slashed down Pine Street, lighting a golden path for shoppers and office workers and derelicts. Would he see someone he knew, a familiar pair of eyes, a bone structure from ancient days, when all Seattle met at 5th and Pine, the Magic Corner? No. A guy in a cowboy hat murdering Jingle Bells, and a city of strangers. The busker moved into Free Falling, belting out the chorus as if delivering the Sermon on the Mount. Zac whipped up his boots and blasted out of earshot.
Outside Macy’s the erhu man’s Chinese fiddle wailed. Once, it had been Salvation Army bell-ringers and the blind accordion player with his curled-up German shepherd. Zac would drop a quarter into the can and the man would lift his milky egg whites and say Thank you. He had a kind face, the blind man. The erhu man had a kind face, too. Where had he been during the Cultural Revolution? Probably not born yet—hard to tell. Hell, more than half the world had not been born yet. But Zac liked him. Where else could you hear sounds of the Ming dynasty on a downtown street?
Zac put a crumpled dollar in the erhu man’s case and turned toward Macy’s entrance. His throat tingled and Mister Coughie came out barking. He leaned against the building while his old friend did his thing. Decades of doctors had tapped and listened and could only offer vague reassurances. Zac could feel it all the same: something, waiting. You cough all the time, his ex said. What’s wrong with you? He gave a final rasp and walked into the big store, anticipating Yuletide cheer and smiling cosmetics girls. But no young women stood at the makeup counters and depressingly few shoppers prowled the aisles. Goddamn Amazon. Zac felt a pang of guilt. He was a lousy consumer. Still, whenever he needed socks or underwear, he was a loyal Macy’s guy. He picked out a box of Frango mints and found a clerk, a fifty-something black woman. How’s your Holiday season going? he asked.
Meh! She laughed, a hearty, chesty, non-white laugh.
Yeah—sorry.
Oh, you got nothin’ to be sorry about, dear. You’re here!
They both laughed. Thanks, Zac said. I shop at Macy’s as much as I can. I love you guys.
And we love you too! She gave him his mints and a dazzling smile. You have a wonderful Holiday, dear.
And you do the same. He put the mints in his backpack, his eyes met hers, and he felt a shiver. We were giving up this for shopping by computer? God help us.
Outside, the temperature had dropped and the air stank of desperation and, because the sun had been out, a small sliver of hope. Good old hope, don’t leave home without it. A young Asian couple walked by in camel coats and black face masks. An interesting look, the masks, maybe he’d start wearing one, too. Might as well. Zac smiled and nodded at them, but they ignored him. If you only knew-ah what I’m goin’ through-ah. Stuff it, Barry. At the end of the block he paused at the corner display window where electric trains careened around a mountain landscape. The sight made Zac happy; he had always liked trains, hearing the faraway horns as a kid. But no one stopped at the window. Who bought electric trains for their kids anymore?
Zac crossed Stewart Street and sloped west to a bistro he’d been wanting to try. He opened the door and plunged into a maelstrom of youngish professional-looking people. The room was small and blood-red, like the inside of a heart, and it palpitated with youthful energy amped with Holiday merriment. He was glad to find a stool at the bar—standing alone in a crowded bar was an act of quiet desperation; sitting alone at a bar was an act of serious drinking, the positioning of a loner with time to kill. He was not necessarily a loner and he was not a serious drinker. Tonight he would have to pace himself. He ordered a Riesling from the young bar woman, who looked him in the eye and smiled. Amazing, the power of a smile.
The bistro had a sixties vibe, with bottles and a mirror and soft jazz. Zac liked these handsome people, smiling and gabbling earnestly about their lives and their jobs, so full of hope and anticipation. Did anyone still call them yuppies? They seemed possessed of a new version of that intuitive thing that was once called class. Not snooty: new class, humble, altruistic. In the sixties the place would have been full of smoke and chauvinism. He sipped his wine and let the energy warm his bones.
The sixties: No one here knew that Zac had seen Thunderball down the street at the old Orpheum…heard The Doors at the Eagles Auditorium…and on rainy autumn evenings waited for the bus in the alcove right next door after his weekly appointments with good old Dr. Homer Harris, zit-buster to generations of Seattle teens.His savior.No one here knew that for three successive autumns he had attended the Saltmarsh dance class and barely learned the boxstep. Society’s last gasp before being overrun by the juggernaut of counterculture and sexual revolution. How depressing it must have been for his mother’s and father’s generation, watching their culture fade into irrelevance—dance music, cocktails, coats and ties, manners. A fleeting pang of guilt; in the arrogance of youth he hadn’t always been very kind. But then, neither had they. No, Vietnam was not kind. Not even.
He looked doubtfully at his reflection in the back mirror. Jawbone, check…hair, check. Not bad. Thank god for barroom light. Maybe the Macy’s lady would come in and plop down next to him and shoot him that gorgeous smile, and they could drink wine and talk about the sixties. He turned and faced the crowd and saw a young woman smiling his way. Or perhaps it was a smirk. No, she was smiling at another young woman. Fellow office workers or maybe partners in some start-up. Women with drive, ambition, endless possibilities. He felt a sudden surge of connection, of being at one with these driving striving young people focused on their careers and bursting with efflorescent progressiveness. Onward and upward!
Pity his bosses didn’t get the memo. Twenty years at the print shop and it was sinking. The owners didn’t get the whole digital thing, refused to upgrade, and customers expecting current technology were bailing. Today he tried to tell them, again, We need to go digital. But no. We’re good, Zac, they said. Don’t worry about it, Zac.
His heart jumped—he could do a start-up! He had the experience, the knowledge, the customer skills. A sip of wine convinced him: He could damn well do it! Another sip of wine and a glance in the mirror bamished that foolishness. Where would the dough come from? And at his age? Fuck it, tonight was music night. He took another sip, flipped a tight-lipped grin at the bartender, and slipped into the dusk.
The blue hour. Wraiths heading home, to dinner, to romance, to furtive folds to create new gods and monsters. North on First, past the haunted funeral parlor, aiming for sip number two at Le Pichet, a bit snooty, but Zac liked the zinc bar and the racks of wine bottles and the pale-yellow walls that struck him as a peculiarly French shade redolent of inter-war intrigue and clandestine assignations. Le cinq a sept.
The Bordeaux placed before him by the unsmiling bartender sharpened his mood for adventure, and he wormed his gaze into that of a dark-haired woman two places down, chatting vigorously with an older man. She wore a short black skirt and her alabastrine legs were crossed, an almost-obscene expanse of naked flesh on a public barstool. She leaned into the man and laughed heartily. Zac imagined her breath, smelling of Chardonnay and mussels. What did women see in men, to summon such intensity? The woman’s body language made it plain: the man satisfied her. There was magic, naked. Zac pried his eyes away and studied the wine bottles stacked above the bar. Wine: why couldn’t it save humanity? Lord knows, it tried. Wine and music.
The chatter racketed off the zinc bar and mirrors, reflections danced with the spectral figures on the sidewalk, the Friday night kaleidoscope, everyone as eager as he. Desperate? Such an ugly word. Zac preferred to think he was past desperation, that he took life as it came. Still, he needed to talk, to listen, to laugh. Why was this so hard? With so many people everywhere. He peered around the room, his lips parted, his heart moved, words struggled within, died. So near yet so far, this cruel humanity, Oh, the insanity! He drained his glass and wormed into his coat. The dark-haired woman shot him a grin. Fuck.
A vindictive wind blew off the harbor and slapped Zac’s face as he crossed Virginia, making his hair look looney. He put on his stocking cap and peered down into the inky black void of Elliott Bay. The abyss. Deep, dark, infinite, a world close yet impossibly remote. A century and change before his birth, the Duwamish people would have been hunkered down in their cedar houses. They had sense. Stupid white men, wandering around snot-nosed in the cold.One hundred years later, one more seed of destruction. Accomplice, no amends for genocide.Well after all, they weren’t using the land…There, guilt assuaged.
Zac threw a secret smile at the old Vogue building and the shadow of himself 30 years gone, fetish Sunday and Hungry Crocodiles, young gods in sweaty screaming glory. Why did it have to end? No one knows, no one cares. Warren and Dubin—genius, forgotten. Music: chewed you up and spat you out.A bass line settled, one of his old regulars, good to hear you again, um-um-um, down the slope of First Avenue into the pit of Belltown, tilting toward a dimension unseen but felt, faint laughter, wayward whispers, the spirits old Chief Sealth foretold, floating out of the mist and hovering in front of the shades of the Vogue and Tugs Belltown and Frontier Room. I hear you, Sealth. This town is coming like a ghost town.
Up to Second, the lime-green Crocodile sign same as it ever was. Young guys milled around a big touring coach. Load-in. Never called him back, the Croc, and he’d tried, Lord he’d tried. His band was as good as many that played Wednesday or even Thursday night. But no. Penny-ante band, just didn’t fit, that’s all there was to it. Nothing personal. Shit, it was intensely personal! What had he been, then—forty? Gasp! Maybe that buggered it. A young-man’s game. Fuck you, Croc.
He stood in the lime light watching the action. Muscular guys with short hair, fleshy faces. No drum cases, no guitars. Hip-hop, probably. It bored him, the hectoring words and canned music, the lawn-sprinkler drums, the whole mechanical formula. No glamor in it, not from where he stood. But you had to keep an open mind, music was always a revelation. He walked past the glowering doorman and turned into the alley. Oh, here’s Mr. Coughie again. Rasp, rasp—hey, my time is your time. The alley stretched away into a milky haze, islands of light, oceans of shadow, wisps of ectoplasm. Zac coughed once more, then sucked cool air into his eager lungs. Far to the north a figure crossed, far to the south a train blared, E-flat minor, sing me to sleep, yeah yeah, maybe later. Right now, I’m dashing through the night and feelin’ fine.
Hey. Zac spun around, crouched. Nobody. He was sure someone—but no, that was the thing about alleys: sound did funny things. Probably someone out on the sidewalk. But this voice—it sounded familiar. Ian? Scott? Both long dead. His first band, 1984. God—top 40, really? Go ahead and jump…Hell, had to start somewhere. The Croc bar’s stained glass back window glowed dully. What was the Crocodile then? Some seedy warehouse or other. No justice. Something stank—a corpse? He felt a sudden slump, like the world tilting toward the abyss, and he heard the voice again. Heyyy. The old ones, 1850…1770…1323… I know you’re out there, I can hear you breathing.
No, not yet. Thanks, I guess.
Wayward whispers,
Not what we’re looking for.
How old are you?
Sorry, we’re gonna pass.
Dagger in the heart.
Change of worlds. Thanks, Sealth, I can do that. What’s left, anymore?
More, really? Okay, I can do that too.
Down the trench of Second Avenue, yeah, it’s me, anybody remember—anybody? Shorty’s pinball clack, Lava Lounge smoking crew, no familiar bone structures, a new generation—hell, generations. How could it be? Oh, it very well could be. Lava Lounge, same old tiki-tacky, good for a beer from another smiling bar girl, but too few nondescripts, babble-babble, bitch tried to fuck me. Do tell. Half a beer, wasted. Back on the street, couples and panhandlers, a young long-hair, soul-brother nod, where you been, friend? Mama’s Mexican tempting but keep going keep flowing, eat when I’m dead, these legs have climbed the Alhambra, these lips have sung of stardust and will-o-the-wisps, shadow and substance, mine, all mine, could be yours too, I’m not in this for myself alone, do you hear? Do you hear?
Heads lining a bar beckoned Zac into the Rendezvous. Scene of past glories. He took an end stool, warm with wine and blooming exultation at the sudden sense of belonging. My people, doing the barstool hunch, nothing to prove. Maybe the bartender would remember. Yeah, sure—he wasn’t born then, not even hardly. Ectoplasm might. All kinds of ectoplasm around here.
Hey, fuck you, growled one of the heads, Wild Turkey is a man’s drink.
What’s your definition of man?
A dude who likes it comin’ and goin’.
Ha-ha-ha-ha.
Zac (late of the Saltmarsh dance class and points up and down) smiled and ordered a Wild Turkey. Coke back. Good old Coke, the drink that freed the world. Haven’t had Turkey in ages, he said to the indifferent bartender. Cheers! The bartender turned away but the bourbon bloomed and warmed. Wild night is calling. Soft voices plotting destinies, assignations, destructions, the low soft hustle of eventide, present at the creation, ain’t no different from nobody else ever got fired off a band or work gonna dump their ass or stood on an abyss or walked naked down the alley, dreaming. Hey! I played here, more’n once, too! Played and lived to tell about it. So, here we are again, 1992, 1995, 2001, 2007. Hey, remember me?
Static.
The Turkey trotted down easy. Zac let it ramble, thought again of the man on the throne. Poor fucking Jingle Bells. Maybe the guy thought that hitting the high note was girly or something. He did wear a cowboy hat. Next time, he would say something—give him a curbside music lesson, free! He knew his shit, he’d studied theory, harmony, all that shit, heard the fucking notes in his head before he played and sang them. DashING through the fucking snow—couldn’t he hear what everybody else in the whole goddamn world heard every goddamn Christmas? And if the bastard gave him shit, maybe he’d tip him ass-over-teakettle into Pine Street. Don’t fuck with Jingle Bells, man!
Maybe the Macy’s lady would decide to go out after work, maybe come in here, check it out, see him and, Hey, you in here? Yeah, baby. What’re you drinking? Wiggle her beautiful butt down and set her rock-of-ages eyes into his, hey it’s Friday night. A black girlfriend, sounded good, felt good in his mouth with the herky bird all warm and tingly. Yeah, he would for sure be looking back in on her.
God, was he so actually motherfucking horny right now?
Guess must be.
Even now.
Weird thing, horniness. Hardly knew it was there, then—chomp.
Macy lady probably knew how to do it right, no kicking her man in the crotch. You sing nice, baby. Was it so hard to really fucking love? He hoped she’d have a job a while longer. Show’s not near over. He looked toward the rear, where bands loaded in. His bands. He saw only a closed door.
No, show’s not near over, not for him, not for his songs, poor little things, thrown out into the cold fucking world. It was up to him and him alone, he would not let them down. The open mics were fun, still, people seemed to like him, but then it was all nicey-nice at those things, no negativity allowed, Hey, sounded good! (Liar.)
Who wanted to see some old dude onstage?
He never did, why should anyone else?
Springsteen came on the sound system. Cover Me. They were everywhere now, the eighties, couldn’t go anywhere without hearing something from Ian’s band.
Hah! I played that! His voice startled him, thin from lack of use. All those missing conversations. He had not meant to say it aloud, but there it was. Desperate?
No shit, the bartender said, blank-faced.
Yep, covered Cover Me when it came out, fresh outa the box. In black and white striped spandex.
A snort from two stool down. No shit?
Yeah shit. Yep.
No way! shrieked the man’s companion. I bet you looked hot!
Zac shrugged. Just doin’ muh job, ma’am.
Ha-ha-ha-ha!
Zac wished his old bandmates were sitting beside him, nursing hot toddies and high hopes. Too damn many ghosts.
A waft of patchouli, a jangle of bracelets, a thatch of raven-black hair. From the next stool, a smile. So, you sang Bruce.
Cool guy slow nod, whiskey sip. Yup. Cover Me and Fire and what the hell else? Don’t remember, thank God.
She laughed, deep down in a chest that…well. So, what brings you out tonight?
Checkin’ out the scene.
Anything interesting?
Not so far, but the night is young.
She ordered a whiskey sour and asked the bartender, Is there music tonight?
Dunno. Maybe.
She looked at Zac. Doesn’t seem right, not having music here on a Friday.
Zac shrugged. Sure don’t. Was Seattle finally running out of bands? Was rock and roll really dying?
He asked her, Have you played here?
Nope. You?
A few times. Nice little room.
Do you have a band?
Nah, strictly solo these days.
What do you do?
My stuff.
Any particular style?
Odds and ends.
Cool. She grinned and twirled a strand of hair around her finger.
Zac felt himself grow pleasantly stiff. Well, he drawled, you got your blues, your jazz…your Americana. Whatever that is. And I avoid the Y-word.
A raised eyebrow.
You. Songs that are nothing but you, you, you. Ugh. Like, read a book, already.
Hah! That’s a perspective I haven’t heard. She brushed her hair back, Zac wished he was ten years younger.
Music is all about perspective. A million-faceted diamond. Like, this afternoon, here’s this guy busking uptown, playing electric guitar and singing. Little portable stage, mini-PA system, nice rig. He’s playing Jingle Bells. Okay, fine, it’s Christmas. Give the people what they want, right? But instead of DashING through the snow, he sings dash-ung through the snow. A third down. Every damn time. It drove me nuts. I mean, all that rig and he can’t handle fucking Jingle Bells?
Mmm, pretty funny, huh? I guess people really do hear things differently. She smiled into Zac’s eyes. Like parallel universes.
Like yours and mine, Zac thought. And never the twain…So, in his universe, the guy probably thought he was playing it right. He shrugged, made a rueful face. But still—I mean, Jingle Bells was written a certain exact way, right? There’s probably a piece of paper in the Library of Congress with the composer’s name on it, and the exact notes of how he wanted it to go. Not this guy’s way, not duh-duhhh-duh-duh-duh. Zac leaned closer. So am I being a stick-ass?
No, she laughed, I don’t think so.
Well, what can you do? At least he’s out there, playing. I’m in here, drinking.
Well, hey, drinking’s part of music, innit? She raised her glass to him, they clinked. Ten years? Fuck.
Damn straight! yelped the Wild Turkey guy, suddenly animated.
Shit, said his companion, most music sounds better with a couple belts, anyways.
That’s ‘cause music is a drug! sang a young man down the line.
Music is parallel universes, said Zac, grinning.
Music is whatever you say it is, said Wild Turkey.
Music is emotional masturbation, said his companion.
Music is Satan! cried the young man.
Music is salvation! yelled the young woman next to Zac.
Music is SEX! replied Zac.
Free Bird!
Stairway to Heaven!
NOOOO!!
Zac grinned at his barmates. He had generated a wave. He turned to the young woman beside him, who was smiling and sending out every vibe of putting the make on him. Do you have a band?
Mmm. We’re called Zephyr.
That’s pretty.
My dog’s name.
Love it! Can I hear you someplace?
Nothing on the books. We need a bass player
I play bass.
Silence. Sip, jangle. Maybe you should check us out.
I’m old, in case you hadn’t noticed.
You’re not old. That tone of voice: nice try.
Well.
I don’t see that as an issue. You look like a cool guy. You should seriously come to a practice.
Like I said…Not to be condescending or ungracious, but how would your bandmates feel?
I think they’d be cool with it. I mean, our drummer is, like, thirty-five.
Mmm. Bow out gracefully, Zac thought. She’s nice, awful damn nice. Ahh, he said, probably best stay with what I’m doing.
Okay, I understand.
Thanks, though. Young man’s game.
The bracelets jangled, the leather jacket crinkled
I’m Hope, by the way.
Zac.
Nice meeting you, Zac. A crooked handshake and a crooked smile. She stood abruptly and walked out.
Zac sighed and gazed off into space.
The bartender threw a bored glance. You want another?
Not just yet. So, no music tonight?
Dunno.
And the slack-jawed shall rule the earth.
Near eight. Zac looked again toward the rear door onto the back alley. No young dudes with guitar cases and drums, only the cook staring forlornly from his window, two occupied booths. The life was slowly draining from the old stand, the regulars fading into home, hearth, and oblivion, following their parents who drank screwdrivers here in the sixties. The next wave of development would probably finish it.
Zac studied the partition with the onion finials that separated the lounge from the dining room, a relic of the old Opera House. The glory days of world’s fair, Milton Katims and the symphony, Wagner’s Ring, little Henry Holt, conductor nobody’d ever heard of, hanging on for dear life and making Seattle “world-class.” Don’t know if we should thank you all for that or not. Still: good job! Zac slid off his stool and sat on the red plush settee on the other side of the partition. Yep, he thought, stroking the worn fabric he had sat on as a young man: here we are again, growing old together.
Old. Hell, old was a cane, a stoop, blurred vision, brittle bones. Not him, not even, not with his body, his legs, his nimble fingers, his…delusions. Fuck it. He stood and walked to the restroom.Stickers brown with age, posters from the ages, tattered flags of ghost bands, Flying Dutchmen swallowed by a dark and uncaring sea. Where were they tonight? Hey! It’s Friday! Come on down!
Silence.
Hola-hey!
Only silence from the ghost ship.
An eerie hum. Ectoplasm, closing in. Okay, guys, I hear you.
He turned toward the alley door, put his hand on the knob, and felt the summer of 1992.
It was a time of smoking weed in orange twilights outside the rehearsal room, plotting world conquest, arguing over chord changes, granitas at Paradiso and Jagers in the Croc lounge, Tad and Girl Trouble and Paisley Sin onstage. Hair and leather and sweat, seas of faces aglow with sex and promise. Also hours, days, weeks of grinding practice, fights, hurts and sulks, and screaming bloody ecstasy when it all came together.
That August night, it came together. Zac and his three mates bubbled in through the alley door heaving and hefting and shrieking insults, and two hours later stood as artists before a Jewel Box aswarm with happy faces, bobbing heads, three bands climbing the rungs of immortality. Forty-feeling-twenty, white T-shirt, black bandana-head, running on all six that night, god it was good, six months rehearsal and orange-colored skies and hanging out. Gone in sixty minutes.
Zac opened the door and stepped into the night. Same alley, same gnarly pavement, probably the same faint hissing sound, a distant laugh, silence. Shit! Zac’s heart skipped—a skeleton on a skateboard, hanging ten off the side of the building flailing a drum mallet. Somebody’s art project, beating out a silent tattoo, bang the drum slowly and play the fife lowly.
The place where dreams were born.
And died.
A few more years, a few more glory nights, then the band days were quietly, simply, over. The equanimity with which he accepted it surprised him. But then, bands were butts. Easier playing solo, that and fifty cents, waiting for slots at open mics and sometimes not getting even that.
Music was a butt.
The effigy grinned down. What’s up, matey?
I like the cut of your gibbet, Skeletor, Zac muttered. Can you swing that for me? I’d be every so much obligated for your kindness to a stranger, see ‘cause right now I don’t feel like going back in to that pan-faced bartender and I don’t feel like drinking alone. How ‘bout rustling me up a band to play with? Can you do that, pally?
He summoned up the bass line and turned slow Thelonious Monk circles, vagabond spirit of a lost past, alone with a skateboarding skeleton. You mock me, Sir, with your way of all flesh. Hah! Not much flesh left on you, is there? Or anywhere else. Just you and me on the abyss. Say, do you know Jingle Bells?
Mr. Coughie blasted into the fetid air.
Sounds serious. A dim figure sat hunched against the wall. A young man in jeans, t-shirt, do-rag.
Zac peered at him. Oh, just an old friend.
The man stood and stepped into the light. Thin, angular, creased face, stringy hair sticking out from the bandanna. Maybe not so young after all. You gonna be loadin’ in? A cigarette-and-whiskey voice.
Nah, said Zac, afraid my load-in days are behind me. Loaded in here once or twice, though…
When was that?
’92…’95…
A jack-o-lantern grin. Shit, back in the grunge time.
Yeah, the grunge time. I miss it. But hell, I’m old.
Aw, you don’t look that old. Now me, I gigged here must be ten years ago, and damn if it don’t feel a hundred. Say, you don’t have a cigarette, do you?
No.
Shit. Well, ten years, most bands don’t last half that. Kicked me out, said I drank too much, fucked with my playing. Funny, isn’t it—bein’ kicked out’n a rock ‘an roll band for drinkin’ too much.
Zac chuckled. That is kinda funny.
Downright tragic, if you ask me. Shit, drinkin’s an’ getting’ high’s part of rock an’ roll. I still miss ‘em. They were good musicians, damn good musicians.
Zac nodded. I miss playing with my guys, too. I play solo now. It’s fine, but it’s not the same.
Nothin’ like playin’ in a band. Truth to tell, it would be damn nice to be loadin’ in right now. Loadin’ in and settin’ up, gettin’ ready, hangin’ out all nervous and wound up, smokin’ a joint and feelin’ the music right about to explode right out’n you. Damn, I miss it!
So, what brings you back here?
Brings me back? Shit, never hardly left.
You never left?
I’m still waitin’…
Waiting—for what?
He stroked the scraggly wisp of a goatee on his chin. Well, not quite sure. Maybe you.”
Me.
Seems like you’re waitin’ too.
Zac got a funny feeling. Aren’t you cold? he asked.
I don’t get cold.
First time for everything.
Guess so. That snaggly grin again. How many hearts had it wormed its way into once upon a day? So anyways, I’m s’posed to meet my guys here for load-in, right? Only they kicked me out, so they said, but I figured they didn’t mean it. I figured I’d show up anyways. Guess they’re late.
For a show tonight?
He shrugged. Think so. What’s tonight?
Friday.
Friday. Ah, shit, maybe it was Saturday. The man scratched his stubble. Could be they ain’t showin’. But maybe another band will need help.
So, you work here.
Not exactly.
You hang out and sort of help.
Yep.
How long you been doing this?
Dunno. Years, I guess. Here and there. Sometimes I work the Croc, sometimes the Off Ramp—or whatever they call it now.
Corazon. Off Ramp—that’s been awhile.
Guess I kinda lose track. You know how it is. Yeah, Corazon. I like to help out, you know, ‘cause being a musician just ain’t about playin’, it’s hard work, man. Bustin’ your butt just to get one lousy show somewhere.
For sure. Damn Croc’d never book us.
Shit, Croc never booked a lot of bands. Good ones, too. Damn music business, mother-fucking ball-breaker’s what it is.
Zac felt a sudden tingle. Yeah, he said, fucking music business. But it has its moments. Our ’92 show, that was a good one.
I coulda been here in ’92. Just started hangin’ out, then. You sure you ain’t got a cigarette?
Zac looked at the man again, tried to summon his face. Maybe. Who could remember? The guy was no kid, that was for sure. So, you say you’re still waiting.
Got nothin’ better to do. Music’s my life, man, and when music’s your life, you follow it, however it goes.
So, you hang out around the edges waiting on whatever shows up.
That’s one way of puttin’ it. I just like bein’ around it.
I hear that. Played lots of different things—jazz, country, even classical. Now, I’m pretty much solo, open mics, odd shows. Like to play here again, sometime, if I can put a show together. I have to play. I need that good energy.
Good energy, for sure. ‘Till it goes bad.
Zac laughed ruefully. Oh, it’ll go bad on you, real easy!
The stranger squinted away down the alley. Don’t seem right, no music here on a Friday night.
Early yet, Zac replied. Bartender said he wasn’t sure if there was a band here tonight or not. I’d buy you a drink but I’m kind of drunk-out for the moment. You know, it’s nice being back here again, with all the memories. And this dude here. He nodded at the skeleton on the wall.
Shit, another starving musician! The man shot Zac an odd squint. Funny—you remind me of somebody I used to see around, back when.
Zac nodded. Could be. May have seen you, myself. A lot of us still hangin’ around.
A wry smile. One way or the other. Yeah, you remind me a somebody—maybe a lot of somebodies from back then.
Zac nodded. One way or the other.
Well hey, nice talkin’ to ya.
You headin’?
Gettin’ tired of waiting. Guess my job here is done. He held out his hand.
Zac took it. That weird tingle again, stronger this time.
One last crooked grin. Guess you’re it, now. The man turned and walked away into the shadows.
Zac rubbed his hand. Some strange dude. He gazed toward the street. No van pulled in, no lithe young bodies roared out of the night, no hair, no leather, no flying pheromones.
Only an abyss.
And music. Music that emanated energy and warmth and life.
Music that saved. And destroyed.
Right, mister bone man? Zac stared at the apparition rattling its bones over an alley untouched by time. There was bone structure for you, whether or not he was here then or not, might as well have been. I hear you, rattling bones, I hear you, tittering laughers, you faint but persistent revelers. Ah, shit, never mind. Say, kid, do you know Jingle Bells? Zac raised his head and sang—Dashing through the snow…in a one-horse open sleigh…o’er the fields we go…laughing all the way, HEY! His poor thin little voice—sounded good! Sure, now, with no one to hear. Hey, you heard, didn’t ya, bony? Hah! Zac whirled again, arms stretched wide. Mom, Dad—you hear? Guys? HEYYY! His voice echoed down the alley and away, into infinity.
Headlights hit him, tires crunched, a motor gunned, died. Figures moved. A guitar case.
Dude, I’m not shittin’ you.
Fuckin’ van.
Fuck you.
And the horse who rode in on you!
‘Least it started.
After a fucking hour.
Guys, a women, a speaker cabinet, absurdly huge.
Hey, who gives a shit? We got all night.
A face turned to Zac, dewy and glowing with anticipation. Dude, can you do me a favor and grab this end?
Zac smiled, a jack-o-lantern grin. Sure, man. Glad to help.