Smith's Monthly #21

by Smith, Dean Wesley

  The old guy that lived here before me is buried out back, and so far no one has missed him at all. I told two neighbors he got sick and moved into Portland and I was renting the trailer. That seemed to keep them happy, and I buried the old man deep enough no coyotes were going to dig him up. Now after three years, a tree was growing on his grave. Nice little thing, too.

  The old guy had on his one pair of magic socks when I shot him, but weirdly enough, when I went to shoot him, my aim suddenly went bad and instead of hitting the old guy in the chest, I hit him in the foot, right through one magic sock, blowing it all apart.

  As the old guy jumped backwards, screaming and swearing and holding his torn-up foot, I shot again.

  And again the gun seemed to have a mind of its own and it shot the guy in the other foot. I gave up shooting him and tried to pound his head, but I just kept missing like he was moving around, even though he wasn’t. The old guy bled out after a few minutes and died anyway, and his magic socks were worthless and dead as well. A real bummer and to this day I have no idea why I couldn’t shoot straight that day.

  The announcer said, “Twenty.”

  My magic socks sort of flipped my feet up in the air so hard I went over backwards, smashed into the wall and hit the floor hard.

  Then, even though I was hurting something awful, the socks got me to my feet and ran around the small living room of the trailer, bouncing me off the walls like I was so much kindling.

  “Slow down!” I shouted at the white socks on my feet, but they didn’t.

  I heard a thought clear as a bell in my mind. You dumb idiot, don’t you realize you’ve just won enough money to buy a dozen more magic socks and I won’t have to put up with your smelly feet all the damned time.

  My magic socks could talk to me. Wow!

  “How come you’ve never said anything before now?”

  What for? Holding a conversation with you would be like talking to an outhouse wall, like you did for all those years we were camping.

  “Hey, nothing wrong with—”

  Shut the hell up and let’s see if you’ve won the entire thing!

  The announcer said, “Twenty-three.”

  My final number, because that’s how old I am now.

  An instant later my magic socks had me walking on the ceiling, then doing a moon-walk backwards across my ceiling and down the wall.

  Now you can buy a thousand pairs of magic socks. And you can retire me.

  “What happens if I don’t want a thousand pair?”

  The magic socks stopped me cold in the middle of the floor. What did you mean by that?

  “I didn’t know socks could talk. I’m not so sure I want all them living here and talking to me.”

  There was a nice silence in my mind, like normal, then my magic socks sort of growled low and deep, like a wild animal ready to attack.

  Then I decided something real clear like. “You know, I could buy a huge house and have rooms full of magic socks and tell them that none of them could ever talk to me. Only to each other.”

  I smiled for a moment before I realized that my magic socks had made me say all that.

  “I’m not going to do that and you can’t make me,” I said.

  Again there was a low growl, then the socks said inside my head. That’s it. I’m still young, I have a life to live, other socks to meet, baby magic socks to create. I don’t need to stay here with you anymore.

  “You’re my socks and I’m not taking you off,” I said.

  You are such an idiot. You think you are in control. All of you humans believe that, letting us live off your energy, giving us special places in your life. But we control you, every last one of you. And idiot boy, it’s time I moved on.

  Now I was getting mad. “And just how do you think you’re going to do that if I don’t take you off?”

  The voice of the socks sort of gave off a snorting sound, then I walked against my will over to the wall, up the wall, and out onto the middle of the ceiling, hanging upside down from my white socks.

  Oops, the voice inside my head said, and suddenly I was hurtling toward the green shag carpet. I tried to get my arms up to break my fall, but I couldn’t. I hit on the top of my head and flopped sideways.

  “That hurt!” I shouted.

  Damn it all, the voice said.

  My magic socks were trying to kill me!

  No, shit, Sherlock.

  With that my magic socks walked me to my phone and made me pick it up and dial 911.

  Then, when the operator asked what was my emergency, I said without wanting to, “I killed an old guy and he’s buried out under a small tree in my backyard. I can’t take the guilt. I’m going to kill myself.”

  Then I laid the phone down and walked down the hall to where I kept my rifles, all of them loaded.

  My magic socks weren’t allowing me to say anything, so instead I just thought at the socks really, really hard that they should stop.

  Wow, a thought, the socks said. From the idiot. Stunning.

  “Why are you doing this?” I asked as at the same time I dug into the guns and pulled out my favorite without wanting to.

  Because I’m tired of your sweating feet, I want to meet other magic socks as you call them. Actually we are called Yekcoj, a race millions of years older than humans.

  I just didn’t believe that. My magic socks had lost it, gone off the deep end.

  You want to know what we really look like?

  Suddenly my white socks shifted around my feet and combined, with both of my legs fitting into the teeth-lined mouth of what looked like a nasty groundhog, only with scales and ten eyes and four arms.

  To be honest, I’m tired of you standing and walking around in my mouth. Why my people thought this was a good idea is beyond me.

  One long black eye blinked at me and then my magic socks were back, white as ever.

  The socks walked me back out to the living room. The operator on the phone was saying, “Sir! Sir! Help is on the way.”

  I sat down on the couch against my will, put the gun in my mouth against my will, and put my finger on the trigger against my will.

  Thanks for the worst twenty-three years any socks could ever dream of living. See ya.

  I pulled the trigger.

  The socks laughed and pulled themselves off of my body’s feet.

  I could see my body through the eyes of the magic socks, or weird groundhog or whatever it was. The gunshot had blown most of my brain against the front window and some part of my skull was hanging off the drapes.

  Now you’ve done it, I thought at the socks.

  What…? What…? What are you doing here? You can’t still be here, in my mind, you’re dead.

  Never heard of the Four Laws of Magic Socks, have you?

  I hadn’t known them either until I died. Now I knew them and a lot more stuff I had never known when alive. Weird how dying made me a lot smarter.

  What four laws? the magic socks asked.

  It was part of the treaty with humans when they allowed your people to come here to live.

  I hadn’t known that either until that gun blew my brains out.

  Law #1: You must always let humans wear you at any time.

  Yeah, yeah, the magic socks said.

  Law #2: You can’t speak to any humans or let them know of your presence. Broke that one, didn’t you?

  Just go on, my magic socks said.

  Law #3: You must always follow the orders of your human unless it conflicts with Law #4, which is that Magic Socks cannot allow harm to come to humans unless otherwise avoided.

  Oh, my magic socks said softly.

  Let’s get back into place on my feet, I thought at my not-so-faithful magic sock companion, so when the Magic Sock police get here, they’ll know what to do with you and with me.

  Together we moved over to my body and formed clean white socks around my now very dead feet.

  Outside, coming up the dirt road, the police sirens filled the narrow valle
y. Back when I was alive, that would have scared me enough to go get my gun. Now it just made me laugh.

  Too bad I’m never going to get to collect the winnings on that ticket. I might have bought a big place and lots of your friends for you to play with.

  Please, please, please would you just shut up for a few minutes? my magic socks said, clearly angry.

  Nah, I thought at my magic socks as together we rested around the feet of my dead body. I figure we can spend our last few hours together going over all the great years we had together.

  My magic socks made a groaning sound.

  Remember that day when I was four and had to take a crap really bad, and didn’t make it to the bathroom and crapped all over you? Wasn’t that a great time? I think that pulled us closer together, don’t you?

  My magic socks said nothing, once again following the Second Law of Magic Socks.

  The police knocked hard on the door, then shoved it open, covering their mouths when they saw the mess my brains left on the window and drapes.

  “He’s got magic socks on,” one cop said, pointing to my feet and me and my magic sock companion.

  “How could he do this, then? Magic socks won’t let you hurt yourself.”

  Both cops looked at each other, then one of them said, “Rogue Socks.”

  “Call the Magic Sock Police representative,” another cop said. “If his socks went rogue, it means this guy is still in there with the socks.”

  I made old magic socks move what used to be my big toe up and down like I was doing a mini-nod.

  “Shit,” one cop said and both backed up.

  So they call you rogues, huh? I thought at my magic socks.

  My socks said nothing.

  Remember that time I was all out of toilet paper and needed to use you to wipe my ass? Great fun, huh?

  Hey, idiot-boy, my magic socks thought at me, with all your new knowledge you should know what’s going to happen next, now that you told those cops I was a rogue and you were trapped in here with me.

  “We do it together,” one cop said.

  “Count of three,” the other cop said as they stepped closer to me and my magic socks.

  Suddenly I realized what the two cops planned to do. When magic socks went rogue and killed a human, they had to be killed at once, not only to stop the rogue socks, but to release the soul of the departed.

  Hey! I thought at my magic socks, suddenly very panicked. Get us out of here. Make a run for it!

  I’m not allowed to talk to you, remember?

  But you’re supposed to follow my instructions. Run!

  The two cops got closer and both aimed their pistols, one at my right foot, one at my left.

  I don’t have to, my magic socks said. I’m rogue, remember?

  “One,” a cop said, pointing a big gun at my old right foot while the other cop pointed at my left foot.

  Don’t you want to live?

  My magic socks laughed. With you? Not any more. Twenty-three years was more than enough.

  “Two,” the cop said.

  I should have used you for toilet paper more often, I thought at my magic socks.

  I should have killed you long before now, my magic socks thought back.

  Screw you, I thought at my magic socks.

  Another original thought, my magic socks thought back.

  “Three,” the cop said.

  There was a huge explosion and I could feel myself slipping away, fading into the darkness.

  And the last thing I heard before I vanished into the blackness was the last thought of my magic socks.

  Oh, thank the Great Sock this is over!

  USA Today bestselling writer, Dean Wesley Smith, wrote for decades about a jukebox that took a listener back to the memory attached to a song. The series consists of more than twenty short stories and gathered numbers of award nominations and movie options.

  Then in 2012, Dean started work on the Thunder Mountain series of novels, starting with the novel Thunder Mountain. Time travel novels set partially in the Old West.

  Now, finally, in Melody Ridge, he combines the two worlds and reveals the origin of the jukebox for the first time.

  MELODY RIDGE

  A Thunder Mountain Novel

  For Kris, who has been a supporter of both the jukebox stories and the Thunder Mountain stories since the beginning.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Parts of this novel were published originally in much altered forms as short stories. All places and characters in this novel are fiction. However, Roosevelt was destroyed in 1909 by a flood and covered by a lake. Sadly, the Monumental Summit Lodge does not exist.

  PART ONE

  The Gift of Music

  CHAPTER ONE

  December 24th, 2015

  Boise, Idaho

  THE STEREO BEHIND the bar was playing soft Christmas songs as Ridley Stout clicked the lock to the front entrance of the Garden Lounge and flicked off the outside light. He could feel the cold of the night through the wood door and the heat of the room surrounding him. It didn’t often snow on Christmas Eve, but it felt like it might tonight.

  He took a deep breath.

  Christmas Eve was finally here.

  He could see the entire lounge and the backs of his four best friends sitting at the bar. He had never been much into decorating with Christmas stuff, and this year was no different. His only nod to the season was a small Christmas candle for each table and booth.

  Some customer had tied a red ribbon on one of the plants over the middle booth, and the Coors driver had put up a Christmas poster declaring Coors to be the official beer of Christmas.

  The candles still flickered on the empty tables, but the rest of the bar looked normal. Dark brown wood walls, dark brown carpet, an old oak bar, and his friends.

  The most important part was the friends.

  His four best friends’ lives were as empty as his. Tonight, on the first Christmas Eve since he bought the bar, he was going to give them a chance to change that. That was his present to them.

  It was going to be an interesting night.

  “All right, Stout,” Carl said, twisting his huge frame around on his bar stool so that he could face Stout as he wound his way back across the room between the empty tables and chairs. “Just what’s such a big secret that you kick out that young couple and lock the door at seven o’clock on Christmas Eve?”

  Stout laughed. Carl always got right to the point. With Big Carl you always knew exactly where you stood.

  “Yeah,” Jess said from his usual place at the oak bar beside the waitress station, “what’s so damned important you don’t want the four of us to even get off our stools?”

  Jess was the short one of the crowd. When he stood next to Carl, the top of Jess’s head barely reached Carl’s neck. Jess loved to play practical jokes on Carl. Carl hated it.

  “This,” Stout said as he pulled the custom-made felt cover off the old Wurlitzer jukebox and, with a flourish, dropped the cloth over the planter and into the empty front booth. His stomach did a tap dance from nerves as all four of his best customers whistled and applauded, the sound echoing in the furniture and plant-filled room.

  The Wurlitzer was the old classic Bubbler 1015 model, made in 1946 from wood and glass and a little plastic to play seventy-five records. But along the way someone had taken out the old interior and replaced it with a 45 record exchanger and some interior workings he had been afraid to even touch.

  David, his closest friend in the entire world, downed the last of his scotch-rocks and swirled the ice around in the glass with a tinkling sound. Then, with his paralyzed right hand, he pushed the glass, napkin and all, to the inside edge of the bar.

  “So after hiding that jukebox in the storage room for the last ten months, we’re finally going to get to hear it play?”

  “You guessed it,” Stout said. He ran his shaking fingers over the cold smoothness of the chrome and polished wood and glass. He had carefully typed onto labels the names of
over sixty Christmas songs, then taped the labels next to the red buttons. Somewhere in this jukebox he hoped there would be a special song for each man.

  A song that would trigger a memory and a ride into the past.

  His Christmas present to each of them.

  Stout took a deep breath and headed behind the bar. “I hope,” he said, keeping his voice upbeat, “that it will be a little more than just a song. You see, that jukebox is all that I have left from the first time I owned a bar. Since I’ve owned the Garden Lounge, the jukebox has never been played.”

  Jess, his dress shirt open to the third button and his tie hanging loose around his neck, spun his bar napkin on top of his glass. “So why tonight?”

  “Because a year ago on Christmas Eve I made the decision to buy the Garden Lounge, and try running a bar again.”

  “And I’m glad you did,” David said, lifting his drink in his good left hand in a toast.

  “Here, here,” Fred said, raising his drink high above his head and spilling part of it into his red hair. “Where else could we enjoy a few hours of Christmas Eve before going home to be bored?”

  All four men raised their glasses in agreement as Stout laughed and joined them with a sip of the sweet eggnog he always drank on Christmas Eve. No booze, just eggnog.

  “It’s been a good year,” Stout said, “especially with friends like you. That’s why I’ve decided to give each of you a really special present.”

  “Oh, to hell with the present,” Jess said. “How about another drink? I’ve got a wife to face and knowing her, she ain’t going to be happy that I’m not home yet.”

  “Is she ever happy?” David asked.

  Jess shook his head slowly. “And I wonder why I drink.”

  Jess slid his glass down the bar as he always did at least once a night. Stout caught it and tipped it upside down in the dirty glass rack.

  “I’ll fix everyone a last Christmas drink as you open the first part of your presents,” Stout said.

  He reached into the drawer under the cash register and pulled out four small packages. Each was the size of a ring box wrapped in red paper and tied with a green ribbon.