The Gutbucket Quest

by Piers Anthony

  “I had to do somethin’ to keep it safe, to preserve the heart of the blues if it was gonna be that almighty powerful. I had to have it someplace it’d be appreciated and cared for. So I took it to Charlie’s, where we headed now. Friend of mine, name of Orville Wilbur, works there. He’s a genius with guitars; makin’ ‘em, fixin’ ‘em, settin’ ‘em up. I knowed he’d take good care of it, keep it clean and intonated and all, so’s it’d be in good shape. So’s the heart of the blues would stay healthy and strong. He’s been keepin’ it for me all these years. Now it’s done been stolen.”

  “These—Vipers?” Slim asked. He’d listened to the story, but it seemed hard to believe. All this was about a guitar? A week ago he’d have said he didn’t believe in magic, that it wasn’t something that could exist. But that was in his world. That was before he’d been blasted into Progress’ world. Now, he couldn’t be sure what to believe.

  “Yep,” Progress said, answering his question. “I s’pect it was the Vipers, all right. No one else hardhearted enough to want to do it, not when everyone knows it’s the heart.”

  Slim didn’t ask any more questions, though he was curious. Who were the Vipers? He had, though, enough to digest for the moment, so he remained silent, staring out the windows of the truck. But he also wondered exactly what it was that he, Slim, was supposed to have to do with all this. Because surely he did, as Progress said, and even if he meant no harm, he could be part of some larger thing that did mean harm. He didn’t like that feeling at all.

  They were coming to the outskirts of town proper. The transition was abrupt like that of so many cities wrested out of the desolation of the high plains. One moment they were passing through green and gold open range, and the next they were in the middle of buildings and houses. Stores and businesses passed by, carrying names like Sierra Hotel, Karloff’s General Store, Donut Center, “It’s a Real Hole,” Knuckles Bros. Salvage, Killus’ Party Supplies and Novelties, Stop-N-Shoot-’Em, Onan’s Gas. The town wasn’t that different from what Slim had known, except nothing was the same. There were grocery stores, Laundromats, real-estate offices, all the endeavors that small-town entrepreneurs were prone to attempt. There was, though, no single thing that he recognized from his own world, and, all in all, the streets and buildings were cleaner and brighter than any he’d been used to.

  Progress turned down a street that Slim felt he should recognize but didn’t, and they quickly pulled up in front of a small yellow building with nothing but a sign that read CHARLIE’S.

  Progress shot out of the pickup and Slim quickly followed. Once they were inside the building it was obvious what the business was. Hundreds of guitars, of all shapes and sizes, stood belly to back, body to body on racks on the walls and hanging from hooks on the ceiling. Amplifiers crowded the floor and a young, skinny blond boy sat on one in a corner, noodling with a black Danelectro. A flash of guilt crossed his face when he looked up from his playing and saw Slim and Progress walk into the store, but it was quickly replaced by a smile as he put the guitar down and crossed to stand behind the counter.

  “Howdy, Progress,” he said. “How’s it going?”

  “Hey, Wanger. It’s still goin’. Heard there was some trouble I need to know about.”

  The kid’s face darkened and his eyes turned down. “Yeah, guy,” he said softly. “Sorry, You know?”

  Progress sighed. “I know,” he said. “Orville in back?”

  “Yeah. Go head on, he’s been waiting for you.”

  Progress and Slim walked behind the counter and went through a small door in the back wall. They entered another room filled with tables and amplifiers and parts of guitars, both whole and mutilated. A small, sad-looking black man sat on a stool before a felt-covered table, working over an acoustic guitar. His hands were laid on the strings and he was humming to it, vibrating the body.

  “Orville?” Progress said.

  It had been almost a whisper, but the man looked up slowly. He stood, just as slowly, and seemingly in pain, then walked over to Progress and Slim.

  “Howdy, Progress,” he said, shaking the old man’ hand. “Who’s your friend?”

  “This is my new apprentice,” Progress replied. “Name’s Slim. Slim Chance. Slim, this is Orville Wilbur. Best guitar man in Tejas. A wizard of the string and plank and pickup.”

  Orville shook Slim’s hand. “Good to meet you,” he said. He turned back to Progress. “Don’t feel much like a wizard today,” he said. “Not with the Gutbucket gone and all.”

  “What happened?” Progress asked.

  “Damned if I know,” Orville replied. “I came in this morning like always. Opened up and came back here to get started working. The back door was all busted up, the alarm was unhooked and the Gutbucket was gone. Just gone. See.”

  He pointed to an open guitar case. Slim looked. The blue velvet interior was empty. No, Slim thought. It was more than that. It wasn’t just empty, it was as if its condition expressed the very meaning of emptiness, of loneliness and loss, it felt wrong, very wrong, and Slim was surprised when he felt an urge to cry or yell or hit something in reaction to the desolate emptiness that now existed where the Gutbucket had been.

  “Vipers?” Progress asked.

  Orville shrugged his shoulders. “I guess. I can’t say. Don’t know anyone else around here that would do it. No one in the business would touch it. No one would take the chance of screwing everything up.”

  Progress patted Orville on the back; and the man straightened up. A half smile crossed his face. “It’s not your fault,” Progress told him. “I s’pect it would have happened sooner or later. Listen, you want to go over to Mitchell’s and get some chili? I want to stay around for Nadine’s gig tonight. Why don’t you come on along and have a bowl or two?”

  Orville shook his head. “Nah, got work to do. You know me, always got work needs doing. You go on and take care of business. I’ll be here if you need me.”

  “Okay,” Progress said. “You call me if you needs anything, too, you hear?” Progress turned to leave.

  “Yeah,” Orville said, turning to Slim. “Nice to meet you, Slim. You hang in there with Progress and you’ll go someplace. Come on back in here and see me, too. I do good work setting up and all.”

  Slim shook the man’s hand once more, then nodded and followed Progress back out to the pickup. The old man wasn’t smiling.

  Slim cleared his throat, then asked, “What do we do now?”

  Progress looked at him and let a tiny gold smile interrupt the seriousness. “Now,” he said, “we go to Mitchell’s Domino Lounge and have us five or six bowls of the best chili you ever ate. Mitchell’s, it’s kind of a player’s hang. All the folks collects there after their gigs, talkin’ and jammin’ and eatin’ that chili. It’ll be slow now, during the day. Mitchell don’t come in till dark. He stays open all night, you know. You play a gig and then you say, “We go to Mitchell’s. We know Mitchell’s be open.’ Then you have you a bowl of that chili and you knows you straight. People’s be eatin’ five or six bowls of that chili, one behind the other.”

  “But what about the Gutbucket?” Slim asked.

  “Oh, I ain’t forgot about that.” He frowned for a moment, and Slim realized that indeed, the matter had not left his mind for a moment; whatever faint cheer there was was despite the gravity of the situation. “But Nadine’s got a gig tonight, so we gonna hang at Mitchell’s, then we go along to Nadine’s gig. After that’s over, we’ll go back to Mitchell’s and talk it all over.” Progress sighed deeply as he drove. “It ain’t no easy problem, son, and right at the moment, I don’t feel like explainin’ it to you no more. You just gonna have to be patient with it. Besides,” he said, a small twinkle in his eye, “you want to see Nadine, don’t you?”

  Slim recalled the picture in Progress’ living room. Yes, indeed yes, he did want to see Nadine. But it was strange. In a way, it was this which convinced him that magic did exist in this world. Because, in some way, he’d almost swear he was
in love with this woman he’d never met, whose photograph was the only thing he’d seen or touched. It shouldn’t be, it couldn’t be, but he’d been in love too many times not to recognize the feelings inside him. Yes, he wanted to see Nadine! More than anything else he could think of. And if there was magic in this world, maybe for once in his life, it would work for him.

  5

  There is a music which underlies all things. We dance to the tunes all our lives, though our living ears never hear the music which guides and moves us. Happiness can kill people as softly as shadows seen in dreams. We must he people first and happy later, lest we live and die in vain.

  —Dr. P. M. A. Linebarger

  House Blues (A-flat)

  Woke up this mornin’, blues came walkin’ in my room,

  Woke up this mornin’, blues came walkin’ in my room,

  I said, blues please tell me, what you doin’ here so soon ?

  They looked at me and smiled, but they refused to say,

  Said they looked at me and smiled, but they refused to say,

  I came again, but they turned and walked away.

  Blues, oh blues, you know you been down here before,

  Said blues, oh blues, you been on down here before,

  The last time you was here, made me cry and walk the floor.

  Blues on my brain, my tongue refused to talk,

  Blues on my brain, my tongue refused to talk,

  I would follow ‘em down, but my feet refused to walk.

  Blues, oh blues, why did you bring trouble to me,

  Say blues, oh blues, why did you bring trouble to me,

  Oh, death please sting me, take away this misery.

  If I could break these chains, and let my soul go free,

  Yes if I could break these chains, and let my soul go free,

  Well, it’s too late now, the blues have made a slave of me.

  Later on that evening, after hanging at Mitchell’s and talking blues, they drove to the club where Nadine was scheduled to appear. Slim was knocked back, again, to see that they were on Sixth Street, and it was much as he remembered; antique stores, used-book stores, collectible and consignment places. Different names, of course, but still much the same. Cleaner, but the same.

  They pulled into the parking lot of a club called Dillard’s. In Slim’s world it had been a popular spot, called Banger’s. He’d even played there a few times, filling in for various musicians who had gotten sick or tired and given it up. It had been a hard-rock and heavy-metal place, and while Slim didn’t much enjoy playing the speed riffs, he did enjoy the playing and the crowds.

  But in this world, it had turned into a righteous club. They walked up to it, and Slim smiled to see a sign painted on the entryway that said, PLEASE DON’T KICK THE DOOR IN. They walked in, and he was instantly comfortable, at home. It was the smells, the familiar smells of alcohol, smoke, sweat and electricity. The sound of blues rose from the air like steam from raw flesh, and the club was dark and smoke-filled like a good one should be.

  Slim looked around at the people. He saw a mixture of black and white faces across all the tables. It was strange for him to witness the easy mixing, though it was exactly what he had always hoped it could be like in his world. But, there, clubs stayed one or the other pretty much, particularly blues clubs. It made him feel good to have come to a world where race, at least, seemed to be a forgotten subject.

  It seemed as if everyone in the crowd recognized Progress and had a few words each to say to him, but they soon found a table. Progress slapped Slim on the shoulder and said, “Have a seat, son. I’ll go get us a couple beers.”

  He walked to the bar, leaving Slim to look around the club. The band on stage was playing a slow blues. There was nothing outstanding or exceptional about them. Just a hardworking house band.

  Every bar that put on live music supported at least one house band that played when no one else was scheduled. Usually, the bands had a small but loyal local following that brought good enough business to pay the bills, and they were talented enough at comping to be able to back up solo performers the bar managers brought in. Blues was a complex musical form, even though it sounded simple to people who didn’t know the inside. But it was built on basic foundations, so that if a performer told a band a song was in I-IV-V in B-flat, a decent player would know it was a twelve-bar in B-flat, E-flat and F. The only thing to do after that was figuring out how to play through the changes, and a good workmanlike player could always find those.

  Slim’s fingers itched to play, which to him meant the band wasn’t coming up to his standards. Progress came back to the table and set two bottles of beer down just as the band kicked into a good version of “You Can Have My Husband but Don’t You Mess with My Man.” They both listened for a while. Progress tapped his foot on the table leg, and Slim was relieved to hear that, even if the world he was in was different, much of the music had stayed the same. Standards were standards anywhere, he guessed. Still, the music here, in this world, seemed to have more life, more vitality.

  “What you think of the band?” Progress asked.

  “They’re okay,” Slim said. “Nothing special. House band?”

  “Yep. They don’t have much power on their own. It’s there, but they don’t get to it. Probably wouldn’t know what to do with it if they did.”

  “Progress,” Slim said. “I don’t really understand what you mean by power. I can hear that the music here is more—more something than it is in my world. But I don’t get what this power is.”

  “Well, son, the power of the blues ain’t somethin’ I can rightly explain. You wait till Nadine comes on for her gig, then I think you’ll see what I mean.”

  The band on stage stopped for a break, slowly moving off to the bar for the free beers and towels the management provided as perks. Progress waved at them, inviting them to the table. They waved back, and one of them, a skinny, dirty-blond, intense-looking man came over.

  “Hey, Zarb,” Progress said. “Soundin’ all right tonight.”

  The man shook his head. “Nah,” he said. “Sound just the same as we always do. Straight stuff, nothin’ big. Pays the bills, you know.” He seemed to notice Slim for the first time. “Who’s this?” he asked Progress.

  “Name’s Slim Chance,” the old man said. “My new apprentice.”

  “You took him on?”

  “Yep. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing I guess. Not with him anyway. I’m just surprised.” He turned to Slim. “My sympathies,” he said. “I’m Zarble Marz.”

  “Glad to meet you,” Slim said, shaking the man’s bony hand. “What do you mean, your sympathies?”

  “Hah! Progress here, he’s had a hard time with apprentices. Or they’ve had a hard time with him. Hasn’t he started teaching you yet?”

  “Yeah, but there’s nothing hard about it, except maybe my own ignorance.”

  Marz looked at him in surprise. Then he smiled and turned back to Progress. “Sounds like you caught hold of the right sucker this time, old man.”

  “He’s a good boy,” Progress said. “You watch out for him. He’ll be comin’ along right quick.”

  The man laughed. “We’ll see, we’ll see. Look here, I gotta get goin’. Nadine should be about ready to get started.” He took a drink of his beer, smiled at Slim, waved and said, “See you.” Then he walked away.

  Slim was left with a slightly sour feeling. “He always talk to you like that?” he asked.

  “Sure,” Progress said. “Nothin” to it. He got an attitude, but way down deep he’s solid. He just ain’t found his groove yet.”

  “What’s he got to do with Nadine?”

  Progress raised one eyebrow and studied Slim for a moment. Then the gold smile reappeared. “No worries, son. He plays in Nadine’s band, too. And to answer the question you’re too scairt to ask, no, Nadine don’t have any men in her life at the moment.”

  Slim blushed, but he was relieved. Was he really that easy to see th
rough. And if so, how had it happened? Was it truly possible to be so deeply involved from just seeing a face in a photograph, from just an idea?

  “What would you say,” he asked, “if I told you I think I’m in love with your daughter?”

  Progress laughed loudly, slapping his knee and choking, wiping tears from his eyes. When he’d recovered, he said, “Well, son, I’d say you got yourself mighty good taste but a hunger for danger.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  The old man’s laughter kept resurfacing. “You’ll find out,” he said. “The three of us, you and me and Nadine, we’re gonna be spendin’ a lot of time together till we get the Gutbucket back.”

  “You have a plan?”

  “Plan? No, no plan. An idea, though.”

  “What is it? Can I help?”

  “Don’t want to talk about it yet. Just wait till Nadine’s with us, so I don’t have to repeat myself. As to whether or not you can help with it, that’s somethin’ we’ll have to find out along the way. I got me a feelin’ you’re a real deep part of it, though.” He waved his hand at Slim. “You hush, now. I s’pect it’s about time for Nadine. Let’s have us a couple more beers.”

  Progress went once more to the bar for the beers. Slim suspected it was because Progress knew he didn’t have any money and didn’t want him to be embarrassed. Slim watched him, saw that Progress apparently got the beer on the house. On the way back, the old man stopped to talk with a couple of smiling people, exchanging handshakes and backslaps. Then, he set the beers on the table and sat down. He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a tightly rolled joint.