by Brian Keene
“Layla, it doesn’t matter what happened. I’ll—”
She lifted a finger and put it against my lips and a tear fell down one cheek. She slid a cool hand around the back of my neck and pulled me to meet her lips.
For the briefest of moments, I wondered if the weather outside had changed and turned to cold rain, as her lips and face were chilled and I could feel moisture on her skin. But then I was lost in the sensation of her lips against mine. She tasted of salt and something earthy. I ran my hands into her hair and felt the wet silkiness of it in my fingers.
“I love you more than I knew I could love.” She whispered. “Thank you for that.”
I leaned my forehead against hers and watched more tears spill down her cheeks.
“Everything will be okay. I love you, too.”
She opened her eyes and they looked filmy, like sea glass. I pulled back and realized the bar crowd had grown quiet. They were watching us, and though I didn’t care, they all appeared somewhat bashful, as if they had been expecting this moment, yet reluctant to see such an intimate thing.
Layla moved away slightly and reached for the bundle of material she held, parting the folds of cloth with her hand so I could see.
The gentle face of a baby was nestled in the bundle. Its skin was pale in the light of the room. Layla brushed a fingertip against the baby’s bottom lip and it pursed them together and opened its eyes, swiveling the milky orbs to focus on me. It gave a light cough and foam bubbled at the corner of its lips. I watched a sand crab pull itself free from the tender, moist mouth before it skittered away among the folds of cloth.
I staggered backward.
“Isn’t he beautiful?”
The bearded man in a suit stepped forward and ran his hand over the baby’s head. He turned and his face had changed in the light. Chunks of flesh were chewed away, and his gray lips were frayed off, exposing his gums. Silver dollar circles of ruined skin pockmarked his face and when he smiled, his teeth shone brightly.
The crowd stood in a semi-circle behind Layla, smiling with approval. They were all so pale. Puddles of sandy water gathered at their feet on the wooden floor and I saw the waitress pull a rope of wet seaweed from around her neck. She let it fall to the floor with a sloppy smack and grinned. An eel glistened and wriggled around her high-heeled feet, splashing in the water as its circular mouth pulsed.
The piss ran down my leg before I registered the warmth, but it was enough to break me from the moment. I bolted toward the exit, ignoring the murmurs of the crowd and Layla’s hurt expression.
“You promised!” The baby sputtered and began to cry.
Layla’s screams were behind me as I slammed the metal release on the door and tripped onto the sidewalk. Pain bloomed like red tulips on my elbows and knees as I skidded on the pavement.
I stumbled to my feet and didn’t stop running until I reached the bridge, then finally slowed enough to kneel and throw up in the weeds. The whiskey and vomit filled my mouth. Both knees of my jeans were bloody and I could feel the cloth sticking to the flesh.
From here, the breeze of the bay flowed over me. The stink of the water. In the darkness, the lights of the Golden Gate shimmered on the dark water below.
The metal railing felt hard and unforgiving beneath my hands and I peered over, seeing a long steel-mesh net bolted to the underside of the bridge. I stepped higher, felt the railing press against my waist, the cold seeping through the damp fabric of my jeans. The water below swirled like black mercury, beckoning. Standing there, I lifted my hands skyward, letting the air wash over me. For a moment, it felt like I was flying.
Jim Morrison once said love cannot save you from your own fate.
Off in the distance, I heard a baby cry.
THE SOUTHERN THING
Adam Cesare
I feel like a phony.
Not because I am one.
No. It’s not like I’m here after hearing one or two songs on Spotify and impulse-bought a ticket for tonight’s show.
I’m a fan. A hardcore fan. Have been for years. Have been for, let’s see now, at least ten years. I found the band right after Decoration Day, which was—what?—2003? Actually, now that I do the math, that’s way more than ten years. God, time flies.
Well. Maybe phony is too strong a word. But I do always feel inauthentic when I see my favorite band play.
You see, the Truckers hail from Athens, Georgia and the co-founders grew up in Alabama.
They are a southern band. A southern American rock band.
And I am a Yankee.
I can’t change that and wouldn’t want to learn how to talk in the accent even if I could.
I grew up outside of New York City and went to school in Boston. I am not a good old boy. A Good Ol’ Boy.
But neither are the musicians, really. They write and sing about the South with pride, but not that kind of pride. The Lynyrd Skynyrd tailgate crowd kind. No, the Truckers are progressive, like me. They voice their frustrations with backwards thinking, push against stereotypes of what southern men and women are like.
But, still, the Truckers are authentic in a way that I will never be able to claim.
And even with my insecurities, I make it worse. Because what’s less authentic than my current situation?
I’m standing in a near empty San Francisco bar, sipping at the cheapest beer they sell, and trying to look busy on my phone. I’ve arrived way too early. I often do this when I’m seeing the Truckers. I can’t seem to help it. I get excited early in the day and then show up at the venue at doors, even though I know the warm-up band won’t be on for another hour after that.
I’ve never been to this place before, never even heard of it. The Shantyman?
Well, I guess that’s not that odd. I’ve only been in town for six months now. I barely have the hang of public transit. I use Lyft to get everywhere even though it’s twice as expensive as any city I’ve ever lived.
But that’s to be expected, I guess. Everything here is expensive. Even the “cheapest” beer I’m nursing turned out to be six bucks.
At least I’m paid commensurate with the raise in prices. But don’t tell that to my neighbors. They hate that I’m here. Well, I shouldn’t take it so personally: they hate that the tech industry is here. Twitter, Facebook, my employer. Doesn’t matter that I write ad copy for a living, couldn’t produce a single line of code and don’t understand much of the conversation I overhear in our sweet cafeteria. No, the hippies of San Francisco would like to see me dead.
I don’t think of myself as yuppie scum, but I guess I’m not the salt of the earth blue collar guy I’m trying to project with my band t-shirt and dirt flecked jeans, either.
I take a big swig of overpriced PBR to calm my nerves against what could become a spin back down to You’re a Phony territory.
Hmmm. I shake the can. Getting low. If I don’t switch to liquor, I’m going to have to pee several times during this show. But if I do switch to liquor and have to be in early tomorrow . . .
I shake my head. This is supposed to be fun, an escape. Don’t think of work with its open-office layout and its free on-site laundromat.
It’s hard to get a read on the Shantyman’s clientele. Are they hipsters or authentic residue of the Haight-Ashbury days? It’s still early, but the warmup is onstage tuning his guitar, so there’s been some fill-in since I first got here.
I work my way back to the bar. If this were Philly I’d be able to get a citywide special, a shot and a beer, for five bucks, but there’s no use pining for the East Coast. This is where I am now. This is where I’m successful and don’t have to hack it out with freelance tutoring jobs and writing fiction that earned me even less money than it did readers. This job is respectable, even if the people of San Fran don’t respect it or me.
The bartender is definitely my type, tattoos and midriff, but I’m guessing I’m not hers. I arch my eyebrows and lay my wallet against the rail, but it’s hard to get her attention even when I’m one
of only three people at the bar.
“It’s supposed to be fun, fella.”
“Huh?” I say. Some asshole has sidled up next to me.
“I said it’s supposed to be fun. You look like your dog died.” He says, smiling broadly to show he meant no offense. I must have that apprehensive New Yorker look I put on whenever a stranger tries to talk to me.
His voice is . . . is that a put on or does he really talk like that?
“Oh, I love the Truckers, just looking to get a drink and I’ll cheer up.” I put some warmth into my response, but also some finality. I don’t need a buddy. Or a date. I just need a drink.
“I’m just messing with you. I know how it is, on a work night. This fuckin’ job, right?”
“This fuckin’ job,” I say. He’s a fan too, I guess.
The bartender comes over and asks me what I want. Maybe talking to another patron makes it seem less likely I’ll hit on her, if that’s what she was worried about. I can’t blame her, must happen all the time.
The warmup has started. Singer-songwriter stuff sounds good. I’ll buy his CD if he’s selling them. Some artists don’t anymore. I work in tech but I swear to fuck if he’s just got a postcard with a QR code on it, I’ll never listen to his music.
A few songs go by as I nurse my drink, then turn to grab the bartender for another.
“I like this guy,” my new drinking buddy says. He hikes a thumb back toward the stage. He said ‘like’ as ‘lie-ka’ and I have to ask.
“Where you from, dude?”
“Muscle Shoals.”
“No shit?”
“Yeah, it’s in Alabama.”
Oh, I’m aware. I take a step back from the bar, they’ve brought down the houselights in here but it’s still not as crowded or dark as it’ll be in a few minutes.
I take it back, this guy’s not an asshole: he’s fucking cool.
His clothes are similar to mine but there’s a layer of—what?—grit to them that mine don’t have. Even with wearing these jeans through the weekend, I haven’t accrued the worn crust on them that he has. His t-shirt’s paper thin, carbon dating would probably place it alongside vintage-era Allman Brothers.
But what really impresses, beyond the outfit and the city of origin, is his skin. It’s worn, sun-beaten and wrinkled, though I’m betting he’s not too much older than I am. Is it too much sunlight or does he smoke? I should pick up smoking.
He’s wearing boots.
“Name’s Chuck,” he says, using cowboy cool to break my stare-down with his work boots.
I shake his hand and, like the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, his palm feels like worked leather, not rough but tough.
I tell him mine and then turn the conversation back to him. “What are you doing out here, if you don’t mind me asking? Are you with the band?”
“Ha! I wish. No, I’ve got business outside of town and heard they were playing. Wasn’t going to miss an opportunity.”
“Business outside of town” is probably a regional marketing conference for plumbing equipment, but the way he says it sounds so cool that I don’t ask him to elaborate. Better to print the legend. Besides, there’s no time to ask.
The band is taking the stage.
Usually, I would push up front so I can be right by Cooley’s feet and watch his fret work, but why move? I’ve got access to the bar, a clear line of sight to the men’s room so I can head over to pee when it’s not crowded, and a new buddy who’s increasing my southern rock social capital by his proximity.
They open with one from the new album. The Shantyman has filled in substantially and the crowd is a mix. Old and young, hip and un-, loosened ties and snatches of henna tattoos: there was an even spread. Not that I was paying too much attention. I watched the show.
The crowd is polite for the new stuff, clap and hoot and chant “D!B!T!” in small pockets, but of course it’s the third song that gets them really revved.
“One of my favorites,” Chuck says, clinking the bottom of his beer to the top of mine. We smile at each other and drink.
I find myself mouthing the words, pointing out the chorus with a crooked finger, but then stop when I see that Chuck is more sedate in his reaction, a head nod and a toe tap. I mirror him.
The Truckers play long shows. They’re good like that.
Usually I’ve visited the bathroom at least once by this point in their set. I’ve got a pea-sized bladder and take in a lot of liquids. I don’t want to lose my prime positioning, but better to go during a song I’ve heard them do recently than possibly miss one they don’t play much.
At the risk of losing my spot, I turn and put my can in my place, nod to Chuck, then cut through the bobbing and vibing crowd to the bathroom.
Hopefully Chuck will be my southern-fried guardian angel and protect my spot. But maybe we’re not there in our relationship.
The bathroom is clean and shakes with the reverb of the band. Even still, there’s the familiar whoosh in my ears that comes from giving your eardrums a break from a rock show.
I take the urinal in the corner, hoping against hope that no other patron needs to go and use the one next to me. I get pee shy. Not proud of it, but it’s par for the course on my neuroses.
“Great show,” a familiar voice says.
Chuck has followed me into the bathroom.
“They’re always good,” I say, but fuck I’m not going to be able to go if I have to carry on a conversation.
He takes the urinal next to me. He probably thinks nothing of it. I hear the tinkle start.
“How many times you seen’em?” he asks. There’s no competition in the statement. If he wanted to turn it into a pissing contest, he’d win. Quite literally.
But then the thought comes, unbidden. Unbidden and—let me assure you—unprecedented.
This guy wants me.
I tuck myself back in. No use even trying at this point, even though I really need to go, am almost swimming in it
I flush the urinal, even though there’s no need. I can hear Chuck slowing down.
And he doesn’t struggle as I grab him by the back of the neck and pull him into the stall.
“Hey man I’m not.”
Just stop talking, I will him. I know an invitation when I hear one. But the protestation fits with his whole aesthetic. Who ever heard of a southern boy who’s going to invite you inside?
But that’s what I’m looking for, what I crave.
Authenticity.
It takes me three songs to remove all of Chuck’s skin and slip inside.
Like I said, his hide is tough. But damn is it fine.
Nobody bats an eye as I work my way back to my spot through the crowd.
Chuck’s shirt sticks to the part of my lower back that Chuck’s lower back doesn’t cover.
The bartender mouths a scream as I introduce myself. “I’m Chuck, what’s your name?” The drip between my eyebrows is cooling.
She screams again as I get a leg up over the bar.
Nobody stops me.
Nobody seems to hear her over the noise.
Their attention is on the rock show.
I feel real.
RUNNING FREE
Brian Keene
There was this news story I remember from about twenty years ago. This guy in Pennsylvania was dying of cancer. He had no health insurance. No life insurance either. Hell, he didn’t have much of anything, except a wife and a kid and a mountain of debt. And cancer. This guy, dying and desperate, decides to rob a bank to provide for his family. What happens if the cops arrest him and he goes to trial? Life in prison? What does he care? He’s terminal. So, he did it, and he got caught. Never even made it out of the bank. His family were left with shit, other than that mountain of debt, and he died in prison not long after his trial.
Normally, a bank robbery in Pennsylvania doesn’t make the news all the way out here in California, but this one did because some people got killed during that botched heist, and because many s
uspected the robbery was a real-life inspiration for the Breaking Bad television series—except instead of robbing a bank, the dying guy become a meth cook.
Both of those cases—the real-life and the fictional—dealt with regular guys . . . good guys . . . forced to go bad because of cancer. I always found that fascinating, the idea that all it takes is one bad day for your average upstanding citizen to become a guy like me.
Me? I was always bad. So, when the doctors told me I was dying of cancer, I didn’t turn to robbing a bank or becoming a methamphetamine kingpin. I didn’t do any of that shit.
I took up long-distance running.
See, unlike that schmuck in Pennsylvania, I had health insurance. Had life insurance, too. I know that in the movies, they depict guys like me as living off the radar—not having Social Security numbers so we don’t have to pay taxes, and shit like that. Don’t believe it. Not paying your taxes is some world class stupidity. That’s how they got Capone, you know? No, what you do is you live your normal life—wife, kids, mortgage payment, credit cards. Get yourself a W-2 or a 1099. Definitely get yourself a 401K. Make everything legit, and then, the money you make from your real job? You can launder that shit yourself on stuff like groceries, gas for the cars, and toys for your kids. You can pay for stuff like that in cash without setting off any alarm bells. And Christ, have you seen the cost of living in San Francisco lately? You can spend a lot of cash here just on daily expenses.
When I got sick, I went for three opinions. The first doctor gave me six months. Said if they had caught it earlier, they might have been able to cure me. The second doctor agreed and said six months to a year. The third doctor concurred with them. So, six months minimum. A year maximum. I didn’t tell my wife or kids. Didn’t tell anyone. I sat on that shit, mulling it over. They say there’s stages to dying and grief, but I don’t think I went through those. I didn’t get angry. Didn’t get sad, at least, not sad for me. I grieved for my family and felt guilty about the pain they’d have to go through when I was gone. The sadness they’d feel. My youngest is only ten and on the spectrum. He dotes on his father. Losing me will crush him. So, yeah, I felt terrible about that. Worrying about my family was what kept me awake at night. But the cancer? The dying?