Mr Hands

by Gary A Braunbeck

  “No.”

  “And is there any chance that you’re ever going to replace my wooden figure of Thalidomide Man that the arms fell off of?”

  “For five bucks, sure.”

  “I meant for free.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think that you’re not connected to this case, then, so you don’t get to peek.” Emerson slipped the Polaroids back into his coat pocket. “Have you ever seen anything like that in your life?”

  Both the Reverend and I shook our heads.

  “Something strange and maybe kind of terrible is going on in this city tonight,” said Emerson, looking out at the rain. “I can…feel it. This is a perfect night for monsters or ghosts and—Jesus, don’t I sound portentous? Sorry.” He took a couple of deep swallows of the coffee, then wordlessly requested a refill, which the Reverend wordlessly gave.

  “I’ve felt like something bad’s been going to happen all day,” I said. “For a couple of days, to tell you the truth.”

  “I hear you,” replied Emerson, then: “Do any of you know any other spots Joe might go to?”

  None of us did.

  “Do you think he might have gone back to the shelter?”

  None of us did.

  “You guys are a damned helpful bunch,” said Emerson. “Is it all right if I go by and see for myself?”

  “You can call. Ted Jackson’s holding down the fort until we get back.”

  “I’ll do that, thanks.” Emerson finished the coffee, handed the cup back to the Reverend, and slid open the side door. “I don’t have to tell you not to repeat anything, do I?”

  “Repeat any of what?” said the Reverend.

  “There you go.” And with that, Emerson closed the door and ran back to his car.

  I stared at the Reverend for a moment before finally saying, “What the hell was that?”

  “That, Samuel, was a deformed human being whose life was probably an unbroken string of lonely miseries that ended on the muddy, freezing banks of this river with no friend near to hold their hand or mark the moment of their passing—that’s who that was.”

  I nodded my head and apologized.

  “Looked like something out of Jason and the Argonauts, you ask me,” said Linus.

  The Reverend shot him a look that could have frozen fire. “Nobody asked you. And I’ll thank you to show a little respect for someone who wasn’t lucky enough to have us find him first!”

  Linus blanched at the Reverend’s sudden anger. “I…I didn’t mean anything by it, I’m sorry.”

  The Reverend glared at him for a moment longer, then exhaled, his shoulders slumping and the anger vanishing from his face. “I’m sorry, too, Linus.” He reached out and grabbed the other man’s hand. “I didn’t mean to raise my voice like that. Forgive me?”

  “I will if I can have another sandwich.”

  “Done.”

  Linus tore into his ham-and-cheese and I pulled out, turned the van around, and headed for the second pickup point.

  None of us mentioned the photographs; not then, not later, not again.

  If you live here, you accept the weird shit—even if it’s with a capital ‘W’—or you try to get out.

  Good luck with that last option.

  4

  We dropped Linus off at the shelter about an hour later. Beth’s kids immediately wanted to ride on his cart, and Linus was all too happy to oblige them.

  We’d picked up another half-dozen folks along the way, and as soon as they were all situated, Sheriff Jackson came up to me and the reverend and said, “Grant McCullers just called from the Hangman. He’s bringing some hot food over for everyone, and it appears that he’s got another guest for you tonight.”

  “Who?” asked the Reverend.

  Jackson shrugged. “He wouldn’t say. I guess he found the guy camping out between a couple of the lumber piles.”

  McCullers owns and operates the Hangman’s Tavern, a place out by Buckeye Lake. It’s called that because the KKK, back in the day, used to hang black folks near the spot. There’s even an old makeshift “T” post with a noose dangling from it to mark the road to the tavern.

  Grant’s a good guy. We hadn’t heard much from him since October, when a nasty storm did some serious damage to the Hangman. I hated to think what the repairs were costing him, but even with all his own financial troubles, Grant somehow always managed to come to the shelter a couple times every month to bring some hot food. He’d even offered to donate whatever lumber was left from the repair work so that we could do something about the wall in the basement.

  The Reverend checked his watch, then the weather outside. “I wouldn’t want to drive from Buckeye Lake in this weather.”

  “Yeah, well, Grant’s funny that way,” said Jackson. “He’ll go out of his way for someone without a second thought. Hell, during the divorce, he and you were about the only people I had to talk to.”

  The Reverend nodded his head, then gave the place a quick once-over to make sure everyone was doing all right. “Sam and I are going to make another Popsicle run. Can I impose on you to hang around for another hour?”

  “Everybody knows I’m here,” said Jackson. “But if there’s an emergency, I’ll have to leave.”

  “You got my cell number, right?”

  “I’ll call and let you know.”

  The Reverend squeezed Jackson’s shoulder. “You’re a really good friend, Ted.”

  “Don’t spread that around. I have a non-reputation to protect.”

  The Reverend turned to me. “You get all the sandwiches and coffee refilled?”

  “All packed up.”

  “Let’s go, then.”

  Back in the van, the Reverend turned on the radio as we pulled out. Someone was playing Bob Dylan’s “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.”

  “Oddly enough,” said the Reverend, “not my favorite Dylan tune.” He punched a button and switched to a different station.

  This next station was also playing “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.”

  “That’s an odd coincidence,” I said.

  The Reverend said nothing, only looked at the radio, then back out at the night.

  “I want you to do me a favor, Sam.”

  “Sure thing.”

  He looked at me. “Pay attention to where the song is when I change the station, okay?”

  “Okay…?”

  He punched another button, going to a third, different station.

  Not only was this one also playing the same song, but we’d come in to it at the exact spot where it had been when the Reverend changed stations.

  This time, I punched a button. Different station, same song, same spot where it had been before.

  “Maybe something’s wrong with the radio,” I said, switching it over to AM.

  Same song, same place.

  The Reverend and I looked at each other.

  “I told you something was going on tonight,” he said to me.

  For the next ten minutes, we changed stations, changed bands, reset selected stations manually, and it didn’t matter a damn; AM or FM, pre-set station or random scroll, every station we found was playing “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door,” and each time the song was at the same spot where it had been before we switched. Over and over for ten minutes, same thing each time.

  “Maybe something happened to Dylan and everyone’s playing this,” I said.

  The Reverend looked at me and shook his head. “First of all, if anything had happened to Bob Dylan, it would have been all over the news, which it wasn’t. Secondly, even if that were the case and I somehow missed out on hearing it, I sincerely doubt that—” he checked the current station setting “—the Power Wad 106 would be playing this song. The Wad specializes in thrash metal. If this were the Guns ‘n’ Roses cover, I might buy your explanation, but we’ve got…” His words cut off as he looked up and saw someone standing in the light fog at the pickup point.

  “We’ve got weird scenes inside the go
ld mine, is what we’ve got.” He turned off the radio and we pulled over so that a too-skinny young man—maybe late 20’s, early 30’s—could get in. This guy didn’t so much stroll as slink toward the van, moving with the easy grace of a cat across the top of a wall; head tilted slightly to the left, long dark hair caught in the wind, hips swaying from side to side.

  I leaned toward the Reverend. “Is it just me, or does that guy look like—”

  “There’s no ‘look like’ about it, Sam. That’s him.”

  Okay, there’s no way to say this without sounding like a basket case, so I’m just going to say it and be done: we’d just picked up Jim Morrison, lead singer of The Doors, a man who supposedly died in Paris almost 30 years ago.

  Morrison climbed into the back of the van, closed the door, and sat staring down at the floor.

  “Mr. Mojo Risin,” said the Reverend.

  Morrison looked up at him with heavy-lidded eyes and gave a short nod.

  “I’m a big fan.” The Reverend offered him a cup of coffee. Morrison took it with a half-grin, then sipped at it.

  The Reverend watched him for a moment, and then asked, “How is it you wound up here?”

  And if I’d had any doubts as to who this really was sitting in the back seat, they were erased when he looked back up and said, “I am the Lizard King, I can do anything.”

  It was that voice. “The killer awoke before dawn…”, “Break on through…”, “When the still sea conspires in armor…” The same timbre, the same inflections. Not a good imitation of the singer from a tribute band. The real thing.

  I started shaking. Morrison saw this, then reached over and squeezed my shoulder. “Easy there, Sam. You got no reason to be afraid of me.”

  All I could do was nod.

  “Why are you here tonight?” asked the Reverend.

  Morrison shook his head. “Sorry, man. I’m not allowed to say.”

  “Understood. Can you tell us where we need to go next?”

  “Second Popsicle pickup point.” Morrison grinned. “Man, alliteration. I’d forgotten what that feels like on the tongue. Not that I ever used it much—alliteration, not my tongue.”

  We drove off into the sleeting night.

  5

  When I was a kid, I wanted so much to be a rock star. The music, the adulation, the fame and riches, all of it.

  But mostly the music.

  I tried my hand at half a dozen different instruments; the harmonica, the guitar, bass, drums, the piano, and even—hand to God—the flute (hey, if Ian Anderson could use it to make Jethro Tull one of the greatest groups of all time, why the hell not?). I was a failure at all of them, except for the guitar, and even then I had the sense to realize that if I dedicated myself to the instrument, if I practiced for ten hours a day every day for the rest of my life, I would be an at-best average guitar player…and the world has too many of those already.

  So I contented myself with the fantasy of rock stardom, and my love of music. Classical, country, prog, blues, rock, metal—I loved it all. And my admiration for anyone who can pull a tune out of the ether and make it real has never lessened. Even if it’s a crap song, it’s still a song, something that didn’t exist until someone heard it in the back of their head and put it out into the world.

  But I never understood why so many rock stars went down in flames. I could never dredge up much sympathy for someone who made millions doing what they loved, creating something that gave so much pleasure to the rest of the world, and then pissed it all away on drugs and booze or whatever the poison of choice was at the time. But then, that’s an easy judgment call to make when you’re not the one who has to live with the pressure of always having to be on for the world, of not being able to go anywhere without people following you, wanting your autograph, your picture, a lock of your hair, or whatever else is required so that they can prove to themselves that they once touched greatness…even if that greatness was fleeting, or only in their minds, or even manufactured.

  I guess any culture needs its popular icons, something for the rest of its populace to aspire to, knowing they’ll never make it. Hell, there was probably some prima donna cave-wall painter back in the Neolithic days who started to believe it when his fans told him that his shit didn’t stink.

  I don’t know how many times during the next hour or so I wanted to turn around and ask Morrison or any of the others why they’d allowed themselves to fall victim to their self-indulgences when they’d died still having so much more to give to the world…then just as quickly realized how goddamned selfish that was. Maybe that Neil Young song hit it on the head about it being better to burn out than fade away.

  People like you and me will never know, so how can we be made to understand?

  Over the next hour, we picked up Keith Moon and John Entwistle (both from The Who), Gary Thain and David Byron (of Uriah Heep), Tommy Bolin (The James Gang and Deep Purple), Paul Kossoff (Free), the great blues guitarist Roy Buchanan, as well as Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain, and Billie Holiday—to whom everyone paid the greatest respect and courtesy.

  The Reverend gave them each welcome and coffee, and asked each of them the same questions: How did you get here? Why are you here? Where are we taking you?

  “Honey,” said Billie Holiday, laying a thin and elegant hand against the Reverend’s cheek, “what we got to do, we got to do. ‘Taint nobody’s business but ours, and that’s just how it’s gotta be. You got that look in your eyes, you know that?”

  “What look is that?”

  “Like you already know whatever it is you’re tryin’ to get one of us to say.”

  “Can we get out of this fuckin’ cold already?” said Cobain.

  I put the van in gear and drove back to the shelter.

  “Sam doesn’t say much,” Morrison announced to the others.

  “Ah, a quiet one,” said Entwistle, grinning.

  Keith Moon shook his head. “Bloody birds of a feather.” And began to beat a tattoo against his legs.

  Morrison leaned forward, resting his elbows, respectively, on the back of the Reverend’s seat and my own. “I gotta hand it to you two, you’re not freaking out like I expected. I—whoa, pull over.”

  We did, and Jerry Garcia climbed in.

  “Come see Uncle John’s band,” I muttered under my breath.

  “I always hated that fuckin’ song,” said Garcia.

  “Really?” asked Cobain. “That’s, like, one of my guilty-favorite tunes of all time.”

  Garcia shrugged. “What’s it hurt to admit it now?”

  Cobain thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “I see what you mean.”

  “Hey, Nevermind was a great record,” said Garcia. “You were a great songwriter, my friend. Sloppy guitarist, but a great songwriter.”

  “Thanks,” said Cobain. “I think.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Garcia. “Maybe.”

  I looked over at the Reverend. “If Ms. Holiday was right, Reverend, if you got some idea what’s going on, I’d sure appreciate being let in on the secret.”

  It was Morrison who answered. “Hasn’t it crossed your mind to wonder how it is a van that’s designed to hold only eight people is holding almost twice that many right now?”

  I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw an empty van reflected back at me. “I guess it’s because you’re all ghosts, right?”

  Morrison laughed, as did everyone else. “Shit, no, Sam! Ghosts are, like, the spirits of real people who’re hanging around because they’ve got unfinished business.”

  “Like that girl up there,” said Hendrix, pointing to a young woman crossing the street.

  “Do we need to pick her up?” asked the Reverend.

  Morrison shook his head. “No. She’s got nothing to do with this.”

  I stared at her. “Who is she?”

  “Roberta Martin,” said Garcia, Hendrix, and Buchanan simultaneously.

  I put the van in park and turned to face them. “Who?”


  “The greatest guitar player who ever lived,” said Morrison.

  I shrugged. “I’ve never heard of her.”

  “No reason you should have,” said Buchanan in his soft, soft voice. “She was killed by a drunk driver on her way to a gig in Noblesville, Indiana in 1982.”

  “Girl was so good it was scary,” said Hendrix.

  Garcia nodded. “You got that right.”

  “Never recorded a demo for anyone,” said Buchanan. “She was only 22 when she died.”

  “I was only 25,” said Tommy Bolin.

  “Yeah,” replied Hendrix, “but it was your own fucking fault. By the way, I want my ring back.”

  “This one?” said Bolin, holding up his hand. “My girlfriend gave it to me.”

  “That was the same ring I was wearing when I died,” said Hendrix. “How the fuck she wound up with it, I don’t know.”

  Bolin removed the ring and tossed it to Hendrix. “It was kinda tight, anyway.”

  “Says you.” Hendrix slipped it back on his finger, and the two men smiled at each other.

  “She’s a ghost,” said Cobain, pointing toward Roberta Martin. “We’re…shit, I guess you’d call us…what?”

  “Ulcerations of the idealized,” replied Entwistle.

  “Good going,” said Morrison. “We’re more than a memory but less than something alive.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “Who says that we do, hon?” asked Billie Holiday.

  In the street, Roberta Martin stopped and turned toward the van. Everyone inside became quiet. She smiled at us, lifted her hand, waved, and then disappeared into the sleet.

  “Girl had the fire,” said Hendrix, his voice suddenly sad.

  “She sure did,” replied Buchanan.

  Cobain nodded. “A fuckin’ shame.”

  Jerry Garcia leaned forward, passing halfway through Janis Joplin, who shared his seat. “You know anything about physics, Sam?”

  “A little, I guess.”

  “So you know how black holes are formed by stars that collapse inward on themselves, right?”

  “Okay…?”

  “And how matter can be reformed into anything as it passes through…I mean, at least theoretically?”