by Dean Mayes
He fought until he could stand it no longer - until he could feel it consuming him.
And then there was nothing. The torment gave way to serenity. He drew breath ... as did the presence.
He knew Andy had prevailed.
Waking to a new day, Andy rose early and did something he had not done in years. He went for a run. After putting on a couple of layers of clothing, Andy stepped out into the frigid morning air and jogged through the suburban streets of the city. His thoughts ran with him.
He felt numb. Empty. He could no longer reconcile himself to the life he had led, the depths to which he had sunk. In the pursuit of gaining approval from those who had sucked him into it and promised him so much, he had allowed himself to be used by them. He had been weak. He had so wanted to be like them that he would have done anything they had asked of him. In fact, he had done pretty much everything they had asked. And he had lost himself because of it.
Andy crossed over the street near The Pub and continued along the sidewalk under the elevated railway track. Once more, the incessant itching sensation rippled maddeningly through his right arm and he was forced to stop in order to scratch it.
“What the hell is that?” Andy cursed angrily as he forced back the sleeve of his jacket and woolen top.
He blinked in surprise at what he saw there.
It was a tattoo. An inscription had been inked into his skin in a cursive font that was beginning to blister as though it was brand new.
Ancora Imparo.
Andy studied the tattoo. He had no idea what it meant, nor could he remember, for the life of him, having gotten it.
Yet it was there, as new and as fresh as if he had gotten it yesterday.
The memory of the stoned girl at the Warehouse, being propped up by her friends, haunted him. He remembered her lifeless eyes. She had been so consumed by the drug, it had hollowed her out and poisoned her soul. She was empty. And, like her, Andy had become empty.
He had cared once. He had cared about his life, about himself and about his family. He had wanted more than an easy path to empty adoration. He had wanted the respect of others by earning it through hard work and effort. He had wanted to contribute to the lives of others. Through his own destructive selfishness, Andy had strayed from an honorable path and had lost himself.
It was time to find his way back.
Returning home from his run, Andy showered, packed his backpack and ate breakfast. He had a full day of classes at The Conservatory, then a shift at The Pub. He was solely focused on those two things.
As he sat at the table, he checked his phone. His message inbox was filled with voice mails and texts from Cassie and Vasq. He was less concerned about Cassie’s messages than he was about Vasq’s but, after considering them for a moment, Andy deleted them all without reading or listening to them.
On the train ride into the Conservatory, Andy watched the urban landscape pass by his window. As he drifted, he became aware of that presence again. Instinctively, he looked behind him. No one was sitting there. But someone was definitely here.
A hesitant idea formed in his mind. Andy closed his eyes, closed out all other sounds and distraction and listened to it.
He was aware now. Aware that he had not gone from this world ... that, indeed, it was not over. He didn’t recognize this place or these people, but felt an affinity with this troubled individual to whom he had been given.
He knew every facet of Andy’s life, had experienced every moment of it, in the short time he had been here. He sensed the ramifications Andy faced, if he were allowed to continue on his path of self-destruction. He had acted.
It was a second chance. A chance to effect change to help this man called Andy. And in the process, to help himself.
Andy’s eyes opened, and he sat there as the echo of the presence began to dissipate. A curious smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
The presence was not around him. It was in him.
***
Andy noticed Samantha’s troubled expression as she swung in behind the bar. He finished pouring a beer for Beck - who had dropped by a little while ago - and set it down on the counter top.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked.
“Ahhrghh,” Samantha grumbled. She poured herself a beer and took an uncharacteristic swig. “Gideon is having a shit fit upstairs because the band for tonight pulled out at the last moment. He’s letting everyone know about it.”
Andy wiped down a section of the bar, then tossed his rag into the laundry basket behind Samantha as Beck took a long drink from his beer.
“Well, what happened, exactly?”
“Somebody’s sick. Someone couldn’t go through with it. I dunno. Gideon is ranting because he’s been promoting this live music thing for weeks. He’s barking at everyone and behaving like an asshole.”
“Guess we better lie low, then,” Andy said quietly, tossing a glance at Beck.
From the central bistro and entertainment area they could hear loud voices above the general chatter - voices engaged in an animated argument. Evidently, Gideon had descended from his upstairs office.
A few of the denizens of the front bar turned their heads in the direction of the din, though none of them broke ranks to go and butt in.
Andy, Samantha and Beck looked at one another. Andy quickly circled out of the bar. Samantha followed him, and together they stood off to one side of the entrance into the main dining area watching as Gideon stomped about - in front of guests - waving one arm as he bellowed down a cordless phone. The bistro manager and one of the bar staff trailed behind him, bickering at each other and at Gideon as he switched his rage between them and whoever it was at the other end of the phone.
A growing crowd of people was filling The Pub with the expectation that they were to see some traditional Irish music performed by a local trio whom Gideon had been negotiating with for several weeks. Though it was understandable that he should be upset at the last minute, venting his frustrations so publicly was ill-conceived.
“How do you expect me to explain to my patrons - some of whom expressly booked tickets - that the act they were expecting to see this evening has been canceled?!” he shouted.
Gideon listened to the response from the person at the other end of the phone with a stony face. For a moment his eyes met both Andy’s and Samantha’s. They cringed and retreated back to the bar.
“He’s an idiot, that’s for sure,” Samantha remarked bitterly as she poured another beer for one of the regular barflies.
“Well, it’s his Pub, I guess, so it’s for him to deal with and no one else if everyone chooses to walk out,” Andy said.
Samantha flashed him an icy stare.
“Although, you are right. He is making an ass of himself.”
Samantha turned around to the doorway and noticed the familiar bulk of Andy’s leather guitar bag. She stared at it momentarily as a light bulb clicked on in her head.
“Andy...?”
He glanced across at her, and saw immediately what she was looking at.
“Oh no...” he exclaimed, before she had a chance to respond. “No, no, no. I am not going to bail the old bastard out of this one.”
He backed away from her suddenly looking for something, anything to do.
“But Andy, you play and I’ve heard you play really well,” she looked across at Beck, holding out an open hand. “Isn’t that right, Beck? You live with him. Andy, you could offer to play in place of the others.”
Andy shook his head, clearly spooked by the suggestion.
“I am not going to play for a Pub crowd who are expecting to hear Irish music. Besides, I don’t play that style. No way!”
“But you wouldn’t have to play that style,” Samantha persisted. “They would appreciate any form of music, so long as it was played well. C’mon! It would be perfect. What are you afraid of?”
Andy looked to Beck, pleading wordlessly for him to jump to his defense. Beck merely tilted his head to one side and sw
irled the beer in his glass.
“She’s got a point, man,” he said, winking at Andy.
Andy was cornered.
A few of the other bar denizens had started taking an interest in the conversation and were now looking at Andy expectantly.
“Jesus,” he hissed. “I don’t know how to play for that kind of audience. They’ll laugh me out of the bar.”
“How do you know that until you give it a try?” one of the old men sitting further down the bar from Beck piped up.
Andy glared at the old man incredulously.
“How would you know? You don’t even know me.”
The old man smiled behind his beer glass and nodded towards the guitar case he could see in the doorway behind the bar.
“Because, smart ass, if I’m not mistaken that’s a Taylor guitar you’ve got hiding back there. Anybody who carries around that type of hardware has got to be a better than average guitarist.”
The old man reached into his pocket and slapped a fifty-dollar bill down on the bar.
“So why don’t you stop bein’ a goddamned pussy and try it out?”
Beck and Samantha looked at each other wide-eyed while Andy stared at the cash on the bar.
Then Beck reached into his own pocket and fished out a twenty, placing it beside the other bill.
“C’mon, guys,” Andy whined, scratching his head nervously. “This is not fair.”
Another couple of patrons added to the pair of bills on the bar, taking the amount up to $150.
Andy was shocked.
With a confident grin, Samantha stepped out from behind the bar, gesturing for him to follow.
“C'mon ... pussy.”
Andy shook his head dejectedly and followed.
“Of course,” the old man said as Andy shuffled past, “You get none of this if you don’t go through with it.”
Gideon had hung up on the caller and was trying to come up with an explanation he could deliver to the full bistro and central bar of The Pub.
Samantha approached, with Andy trailing a few feet behind her.
“Boss,” she said, tugging at his elbow.
Gideon Allan spun around to face her. He was clearly irritated.
“What do you want? I thought I told you to get back to work.”
Samantha bit the inside of her lip to keep herself from slapping the sanctimonious prick.
“We have a proposition for you,” she replied through clenched teeth. “If you’re prepared to listen.”
Gideon eyed her quizzically, letting his shoulders relax.
Samantha turned to Andy, grabbed his arm and pulled him next to her. “Andy can play the guitar. He could replace the band.”
Gideon coughed and blew a raspberry through his lips, chuckling sarcastically.
“Don’t make me laugh. You’re suggesting he could entertain this crowd? Bugger me.”
Gideon’s colleagues shared in his snickering laughter, regarding Andy with thinly veiled ridicule.
“You may have gotten your act together, Dev, but I don’t think your death metal music is what this Pub needs right now,” Gideon chuckled, dismissing them both with a wave of his hand. “Go back to the bar where you belong.”
A knot of anger twisted in Andy’s stomach as Gideon turned his back on them.
“I can play, Gideon,” he said firmly.
Gideon Allan glanced back over his shoulder, then turned slowly back to face Andy. He sized him up and down, grabbing at Andy’s work shirt.
“Are you serious? You’re barely capable of pouring beers, let alone entertaining a crowd.”
“Gideon,” Samantha shot back, flashing him an angry glare. “Andy is a good guitarist. He can salvage you from this mess you’ve gotten yourself into.”
Gideon was taken aback by Samantha’s sudden boldness. He appraised Andy again for a moment. Something was definitely different about him - something he couldn’t put his finger on.
His eyes narrowed.
“OK.” Gideon said, finally. “Go get out of that work shirt. And wash yourself up.”
Samantha’s eyes widened and she looked to Andy with excitement. They stood back from Gideon and went back to the bar.
“This should be a laugh,” Gideon said to his bar manager.
“This is going to be a fucking disaster,” Andy hissed as he quickly stripped off his polo and replaced it with a wool sweater. He splashed water on his face and checked himself in the men’s room mirror, then fetched his guitar from behind the bar.
“I’m gonna need a beer,” he said as he sat down on a stool beside Beck and hurriedly began checking the strings, making sure they were tuned.
Sensing his anxiety, Samantha placed a pint glass down on the counter top. He gulped down a couple of mouthfuls.
“You’ll do fine, man,” Beck encouraged him with a gentle nudge on his arm. “You play like no one I’ve ever heard. Seriously.”
“Yeah - well, strumming a guitar in the privacy of my own bedroom is a little different than performing for a pub crowd. Expectations are going to be way different.”
He fiddled with the guitar for a minute longer then, satisfied with its sound, he finished off his beer. Feeling the pleasant warmth of the alcohol coursing through him, Andy stood up and ventured into the central bar.
It was a mixed crowd that had packed in here on this chilly Friday evening, an all-too-different demographic to the type Andy had become accustomed to, in his other life. Different again from the regular barflies and miscreants that populated the smaller front bar. These were normal working people, urbane city people, honest people.
A fire crackled in the old fireplace and a few people stood near it, warming their backs against the generous flames, laughing and chatting and drinking. A stool had been set up on a raised stage with a microphone stand adjacent to the fireplace. Gideon stood there waiting for Andy to appear. When he did, Gideon cleared his throat, adjusted the buttons of his blazer and thumbed the switch of the microphone. His lack of enthusiasm stood out like a sore thumb.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he announced, adding a layer of thickness to his already thick Irish brogue. The level of tumult in the room died away. “Thank you for coming out to The Pub this evening as we present our first foray into live music.”
He paused for a polite round of applause before continuing.
“I have to apologize to you all in advance, but the musical act we had intended to present to you tonight were unable to be here due to unforeseen circumstances.”
A ripple of mock groans passed through the audience, followed by laughter.
“However, all is not lost, apparently, as we have instead, for your listening pleasure, a local lad who I’m told is fairly handy with a guitar. Would you please welcome to our stage, Andrew DeVries!”
Andy approached the stage and stepped up as Gideon stood aside for him. He squinted in the spotlight.
“Now, I’m warning you, Dev, I don’t want any of that death metal shit. Do you understand?” he grumbled in Andy’s ear above the applause.
Andy ignored him, settling down on the stool and adjusting the microphone stand downwards towards the guitar. As he looked out into the room, he felt himself becoming increasingly nervous and he had to take a few deep breaths to calm himself. The lights went down while the single spotlight softened just a little.
He rubbed his fingers to ensure that he would not fumble on the strings.
What the hell am I going to play?
The room was silent, waiting in anticipation. Andy looked across the room towards the doorway, seeing Samantha and Beck standing there. He glanced over at the fireplace, saw the dancing flames, saw the people there, warming themselves on this cold Chicago night.
He bowed his head.
Andy launched into a piece called “The Sounds of Rain Part 3,” a composition he had picked up when he’d first begun playing the guitar. It was a piece that had first drawn Andy to the instrument. He recalled hearing it on an album by one of his fa
vorite artists, a Kazakhstan-born virtuoso named Slava Grigoryan. It instantly drew everyone’s attention to the stage, as if there was no one else in the room. The soft notes characterized the gentle beginnings of rainfall, capturing his audience. His fingers danced effortlessly across the fret board negotiating the lyrical melody, delving into it with graceful ease and confidence. It transported everyone from the chill Chicago winter to a place of warmth, where a summer rain might fall, pattering on a tin roof in a tropical locale by an ocean. They were transported to a verdant countryside, where cows might graze in a meadow on a hillside; where morning fog rolls down from a mountain range to settle just above the tree tops; where rain falls through the leaves onto the pasture or into a meandering brook swelling its banks.
The presence was with him, beside him. It didn’t manipulate him at all, rather it influenced his emotions, helping him to visualize the soft imagery of the rain and deliver that into his performance. Andy closed his eyes and felt himself transported. He was floating with the music, leaving behind the city.
Across an ocean, towards a late afternoon sun, to a place on the other side of the world. To that little house overlooking the sea. To her.
It was captivating.
Gideon, who was standing at the bar, lowered his glass, revealing a slackened jaw that was opened in stunned surprise. He could not believe what he was hearing. Samantha almost squealed with delight and had to stop herself from jumping up and down, while Beck wore a knowing smile.