Soothing the Savage Swamp Beast

by Zakary Mcgaha

  Geez. It’s been ages since he’s browsed the small, one-room store. They probably have cooler things now. Nicer banjos. Probably some neat steel guitars (although he’s always preferred the authenticity of an acoustic’s sound). “Tell ya what, ole buddy,” he says to himself, “my treat to you: After we get out of work today, we’re gonna go over there and have us a nice browsin’ session. We’re gonna see what new’s out.”

  And so, when the school bell rings and all his paperwork is done for the day, he’s driving to the store, stomach grumbling for supper although he had lunch not too long ago. But it was lame lunch; school lunch. Chicken fingers with weird textures. Mashed potatoes. Peas. Fried apples. But all of it seemed cheap, stale, almost. But whatever, the kids don’t care. As long as their gullets are stuffed, they’re happy.

  Inside the store, memories of adolescence don’t come back because the place is even lamer than he remembered. The old man behind the counter looks like he’s lost in his own music-lacking world. Is that the same man who used to work here? Mr. Peters? Yeah, that was his name, Mr. Peters.

  Chad nods his howdy, but the oldster (who may or may not be Mr. Peters) isn’t even cognizant of Chad’s presence. Chad pays this obvious rudeness/strangeness no mind, and he’s browsing all the store has to offer: Strings that come in small, dusty boxes; a big, plastic container full of plastic picks; a wall of cases for various types of instruments; a middle display of stringed goodies (ranging from guitars to banjos to basses to mandolins to violins to et cetera; there’s also a lone drum kit and a couple amps). “I like this stuff,” says Chad to himself. “I never shoulda put it on the backseat. Never.”

  Images of the past couple years float in his head. Him, bored as a sloth in college, basically working like a slave, because he sure wasn’t earning the degree for himself (even though no one was pushing him to do it, he did it cause it’s the thing you do); the lone girl who spread her legs for him (her puss had been quite tight, and her personality had been great, but she eventually got bored of ole Chad); him, standing on the stage, holding his degree, wearing a stupid cap and gown and shit. Blah, all of it. Blah. Throw it the fuck away. It doesn’t matter (well, except for when he lost his virginity).

  And now, here he is, facing a life of more blah. Unless . . .

  “I’ve got to make a change,” he says. But how to make a change? Throw it all away and make music that no one outside this town will ever hear? Is there a nationwide demand for banjo bliss?

  Who knows? Chad doesn’t. He never got involved in scenes.

  Scenes, to him, were too scary. He knew beforehand he’d never fit into any of them. Fitting into scenes is something that people with talent do, people with individuality and whatnot. People who aren’t Chad.

  He considers one cool possibility: making his own scene. Can such a thing happen? Can there be a thing called “The Scene of Chad”? Probably not. You wanna know why, Dear Reader? BECAUSE CHAD LOOKS LIKE HOSS FROM GUNSMOKE (or is it Bonanza?).

  Who the fuck ever took that guy seriously? No one, that’s who. Chad’s too nice for his own good, and everyone views him as a big, happy-all-the-time goof. They’re clueless to his inner anxieties. It’s always been that way, ever since preschool.

  Poor Chad.

  But what can one do?

  And then Junior Hicks walks in the music store.

  II

  Junior Hicks looks at the bland-looking man in the music shop and laughs because . . . damn, this bland-looking man is rather funny. Something about him. He looks like a complete do-gooder. He bleeds respect for others. Something about that is . . . sickening to Junior. In this world, one needs a backbone, and when people don’t have a backbone, when they have a do-good bone, it’s wrong. They’ve failed as humans.

  Case in point, humans need backbones. Period. End of story.

  If humans are devoid of backbones, they become victims of the world. That can’t be.

  Humans are meant to take charge. Rush forth. On ye to battle.

  But not this guy. Not this respectable-looking, goofy Southern man who probably plays the banjo, and plays it well, and sings songs of the lord doing what it is he does best.

  “So, you play?” asks Junior in a happy, knowing way.

  “Yeah,” says the bland man, starting to blush. “Banjo.”

  “Banjo? Is that right? I’m a fiddle player and singer myself. Learned some of the ropes in Johnson City, Tennessee. But I’m not sure you’re familiar with that area.”

  “A’course I am. It’s almost the bluegrass capital.”

  “Sure is. Say, I’ve been lookin’ around for a banjo picker for my act.” Junior extends his hand for shaking and says, “Name’s Hicks. Junior Hicks.”

  Chad does the firm grasp and says, “Chad. Pleased to meetcha.”

  “Good. Good. So, pick up one of these banjos and let me see how well ya play. I gotta warn ya, I can only take the best in my outfit. I’ve been goin’ along pretty well solo, buildin’ up my name and whatnot, but I’ve been wanting to have some other people up there with me. Adds credibility. Shows people I’m a team man. Not just one of them musicians who’s only out for themselves.”

  Chad nods to this, it makes sense. He picks up the nearest banjo, grabs a pick, and says, “Hey, old timer. You don’t mind if I give this baby a test, do ya?”

  The old man says nothing.

  Chad takes a seat on a cheap-looking stool next to Junior Hicks and begins picking away. He goes through scales. He goes through songs he learned as a child. He goes through songs meant specifically for play in churches. He goes through bluegrass versions of popular rock songs (including “Sweet Child O’ Mine,” “Sultans of Swing,” and “We Will Rock You”).

  Junior Hicks watches Chad. Stunned. Happy. Almost frothing at the pie hole. “You’re quite the experienced picker, aincha?”

  “You could say I’ve done my due diligence,” replies Chad.

  “Always makes me happy to see a musician who cares about his work. A musician who goes through the trials to achieve greatness. If you’d like to get together sometime and rehearse, I’d be happier than a fly in an outhouse.”

  “I’d be glad to, Junior. Ya know, I was just thinkin’ about that today.”

  “About what?”

  “How I gave up tryin’ to pursue music as a career. See, I got my college degree in administration. I didn’t play durin’ the dorm days. Well, I mean, I played for myself, but I didn’t worry myself with gettin’ on any stages. It was probably a dumb decision, but hey, at least I can make an honest livin’ doin’ somethin’!”

  “Uh . . . yeah. So, when would ya like to meet? Also, it’s weird to say, but we won’t be able to meet at my place . . . it’s, um, goin’ through some repairs.”

  “No problem. I have a house near here. And a buildin’ in the back where I keep my tools, but it’d do as a good rehearsal room.”

  Junior Hicks does his nod and then heads away after saying, “Good. All good. Meet me here tomorrow at the same time, if ya can, and we’ll go over some things.”

  III

  Chad drives home that evening happy. Things are starting to look up. His life is going downhill (in the good sense of the connotation). Maybe . . . just MAYBE . . . he’ll be able to pick his instrument alongside someone who’s recognized and respected in the field of bluegrass. He’ll be able to show the world that he’s good enough to hang with the professionals.

  But will that mean he’s a professional, or just a professional’s sidekick?

  Oh, questions. That one burns in his mind for several hours. He weighs things. First off, singing (for him) isn’t a possibility. He’s not a vocalist, period. Banjo sounds and foot taps are all he’s got. Secondly, he’s not a showman. He takes time making sure he produces the best sound possible. Therefore, he has not the energy for theatrics. He’ll show up, sit down, play, then leave. If that means people won’t pay him as much attention as they will Junior Hicks, then so be it.

  In one way or ano
ther, he’ll get there, he knows it. He only wonders if this thing with Junior will be a distraction or a stepping stone. “Either way, it can’t hurt,” he tries telling himself, but he’s not sure.

  When he goes to bed that night, he stares at the ceramic chicken on his nightstand. It’s a country-looking chicken. Belongs on a peaceful farm somewhere. Not a farm where they kill chickens, but a farm where they use them for eggs.

  “Will you tell me the answers,” he asks in as innocent a voice as he can muster.

  The ceramic chicken’s reply is nothing.

  ***

  Dreams that night are fitful for Chad. They involve fucking the only girl he ever fucked over and over and over and over again, until she says, “Quit thinking about me, and start thinking about your career.”

  This is odd to Chad, but he takes what she says as gospel, because he basically worshipped her when they dated.

  When he wakes up the next morning, he looks to the chicken again. Somehow it looks happier than it did (despite it not being organic).

  He knows what this means. It means something about his career. Something good. Something great.

  When he dresses after showering, he watches himself in the mirror, and counts his plusses. He’s not necessarily ugly. Sure, he’s big, but he’s solid. His fat is of the harder variety. Again, he’s like Hoss from Gunsmoke (or is it Bonanza?). With just a little bit of confident ummph, he could look like someone admirable. The kind of guy people call “Boss” or “Big Boy.”

  He does school on autopilot. All he can think of is Junior Hicks.

  ***

  When he pulls up to the music store, it’s blazing hot, so he sits in his car, window rolled down, arm hanging over. He checks his face in the mirror. “That’s the face of a winner,” he says, oh so quietly to himself.

  IV

  Junior Hicks pulls up in his van. He’s already been watching Chad’s car, sizing it up, gathering feelings that only he’s capable of getting. Magical intuitions. Every now and then, things come to him. Out of nowhere. And they’re beautiful. You can use this individual. This individual is very good at the music he makes. But don’t, under any circumstances, let him know about the snake.

  “How ya been doin’, Boss?” says Junior Hicks through his rolled-down window, looking into Chad’s.

  “Good,” says Chad, happy because the subtle, confident ummph has worked.

  ***

  Back at Chad’s place, the two musicians are starting it all up. Chad’s going through bluegrass stuff he knows, and Junior is singing along.

  The world is on fire. The chemistry is there. The awesomeness will last forever.

  V

  When Junior is gone, Chad sits and drinks warm drink after warm drink. He sits on his back porch with his feet propped up and his head tilted back. This is the life. The life to live, the life to love, the life to be invested in.

  “If I woulda known, all those years ago, that a band was just gonna show up outta the blue and grant me success, I wouldn’t have believed it. But now I know, and I’m happy as fuck this is gonna happen. Happy as fuck.”

  Normally, Chad doesn’t cuss.

  But now is the time for cussing.

  ***

  In bed, he’s thinking mean thoughts. Nasty thoughts. He’s thinking of doing things he shouldn’t do. Bashing old peoples’ feeble heads in with rockers from another century. There’s his old girlfriend. “Get on the bed, you fucking pig-licking dick-bitch!” He then jumps on top of her, flips her over (because he’s strong in his dreams), and begins fucking her in the ass. He pushes the back of her head as strong as he can; her face is now part of the mattress.

  “Ah, shucks,” he says, looking down under his pajama pants. “Wet again. And I didn’t even pull on the gosh-darned thing.”

  ***

  The next day, he does something he’s never done before. He writes a sweet, old-timey song about his sexual fantasies. But he hides the meaning (mainly for his own benefit). The lyrics have nothing to do with fucking asses and making women perish. The lyrics are about being nice and country and god-fearing and Baptist and in the south (this version of the south is a really swell place full of nice old people who own general stores and stuff, and they all sit out front chewing hay like horses).

  When the song is done, he decides to spend the rest of his Saturday doing what it is he does best: being a nice, likable, goofy fellow who doesn’t have a dark side to speak of. He goes down to the store and speaks to the nice old people who’ve been selling produce for as long as he can remember. They looked exactly the same when he was a kid. They’re doomed to be forever old, apparently.

  He walks through Cadesville, thinking how lucky he is. He also scouts for places he could potentially play with Junior Hicks. For the most part, he does this by car. The best places are the country churches away from the main town, but there are a couple little cafes at the center of Cadesville. Some of them old, some of them new and hipster-ish.

  It’s strange: Cadesville is a small place, but it’s apparently big enough for a lame, super-tiny hipster scene. Maybe there are hipsters everywhere?

  When Chad gets back home, the erection in his pants is too big to ignore. First he removes his clothes, then it’s straight to the bed. Then up to the bathroom because he forgot to grab lotion. Then it’s back to the bed, lathering his hand up, then his dick, then slathering some on the index finger of his left hand—lefty goes into his anus while righty works the shaft—and he’s thinking, again, of banging his ex in the ass while suffocating her under his palm weight.

  “I love you,” he says to her fantasy corpse, then he sniffs lefty and pretends it’s his dick.

  ***

  Sunday is reserved for church. No music that day, save for the gospels.

  VI

  Junior Hicks is back over now.

  Chad is playing his new number, and Junior is shaking his head, saying, “NO. That ain’t gonna win over anyone on us. It’s too . . . typical. It doesn’t make me feel anything. You’ve got to push it better. Push it further. Here, let me show you.” Junior begins playing an entirely different tune with his fiddle. The tune is technically complex, catchy, everything. “There. Now, let me see you do that.”

  “Why, you sure know best! I never woulda thought to do it like that!”

  Chad tries doing a version of what Junior did, but it ends up sounding worse than what he was doing to begin with. It sounds . . . lacking. Boring. Typical.

  “I . . . can you run me through that again? I don’t know if I can do it.”

  Junior Smiles. “I’d be glad to, son. Don’t worry. You’ll get there. I’ll help ya along.” And so, Junior runs through it again. And again. And again.

  Until Chad finally gets it just right.

  Then Chad is feeling like a god. He’s more than human. He’s an artist. A bluegrass god.

  Chad knows one thing: his god would approve of him, he’d let him in a special kingdom, a beautiful, Italian vista in Heaven where all the important, special people exist peacefully. That’s where Chad would live out eternity.

  A hand on Chad’s shoulder. Junior’s soothing voice saying: “I’ve gotten really good at seeking out special people in my time. And let me tell ya, you’re special. You’re like me. And together, we’re gonna be unstoppable. Completely unstoppable.”

  Chad nods. His face is blushed.

  VII

  “Give me some love,” Chad yells into his pillow. He grabs it, imagining it’s a feminine skull covered in silky brown hair. He shoves it into the bed. “Give me love, bitch!” He keeps on shoving. And shoving. And shoving.

  He’s using his other hand as a simulation-vagina. He thrusts his hip into his palm, makes sex noises, and soon it’s over. The pillow is dead.

  ***

  Chad goes on like this for a while. Getting high off his meetings with Junior Hicks.

  Junior tells him things. Tells him he’s special, tells him that together (and only together, because Junior is Cha
d’s key to the high life) they can achieve fame and whatnot.

  Chad has already started buying houses in his mind. Big, country mansions. But maybe it’s good to say, “No,” to the country life all the time. Maybe he should get some kind of Midcentury Modern thing near a golf course. Or a glass building at the beach.

  So many different types of houses . . . SO MANY . . .

  “But you gotta focus on the music first and foremost, boy,” is what Chad will tell himself when he realizes he’s drifting too far into his fantasy land of nice houses. Duh, nice houses are only meant for people who go to college and get STEM degrees. That, and the people who go to Hollywood and actually make it in something (be it music, movies, etc.).

  Nice houses aren’t made for people like Chad. Good ole boys who live in the south and work in schools and play banjos on the side. Nope, Chad already picked his lot in life. He’s going to do something unspectacular from eight to three on weekdays, and on the weekend he’s going to play music that people outside his general locale will never hear.

  No nice houses. No expensive escorts to pretend-choke. No anything.

  Thinking like this for a while, Chad will eventually stop feeling sorry for himself, and will, in fact, start looking up. Sure, you won’t be at the top of the world or anything, but maybe there is money to be made off this. Maybe there is a small amount of fame. Surely the people around this area would be willing to shell out bucks for some music that speaks to their culture. Our culture is more like it . . .

  Local celebrities always seem to do well for themselves. Maybe he’ll eventually reach a point where he can afford a house that has an upstairs. Not a big house. Just one with a little more room. That’s not too far out of the picture, is it?

  Sure it is. He came from a paycheck-to-paycheck family, and that’s how he’ll die.

  And in a small house, to boot.

  VIII

  Chad has dreams.