by Rick Boling
The conversation degenerated into a heated argument, ending only when I walked out on her. She tried to follow, but I knew the surrounding forest like the fingerboard of my guitar, and I lost her within seconds. The last thing I heard was her voice in the distance. “I’m coming back as soon as I can,” she yelled. “You can’t do this to us, Dad.”
I sat on a fallen log and waited until I heard her car start. Then I gave in to the grief that had been pounding at my psyche. For hours, I wandered aimlessly through the woods, occasionally stopping to bloody my knuckles on a tree and yell curses at the darkening sky.
Back at the cabin, I washed the dried blood off my hands, retrieved the two bottles of real Jack I’d kept hidden in my tool box for emergencies, and proceeded to drink myself into an alcoholic fugue.
I awoke to the sound of cannonballs pounding on the walls. I rolled over and wrapped a pillow around my aching head, hoping it was a nightmare that would go away now that I was awake. I had almost convinced myself of this, when a loud crash reverberated through the cabin, and I turned to see Sam, Jimmy, and a younger version of Heyoka climbing over what remained of my shattered door. They were followed by Ellie and Robin, and a couple of guys wearing green scrubs.
The scrubs, who I thought at first might be nut-house orderlies, pushed past the others and started doing EMT stuff, checking my eyes and pulse, wrapping a blood-pressure cuff around my arm, and pressing a cold stethoscope against my neck and chest. I had no energy to protest or resist, but I wasn’t about to help either, so I let my body go limp and waited until they finished.
“Wouldn’t happen to have any morphine, would you?” I said as they straightened up and turned to Ellie, shaking their heads to indicate that I wasn’t dying. There followed a period of angry recriminations, the volume of which amplified the excruciating pain in my head. While this was going on, Sam, Jimmy, and the young Heyoka slunk out the door, leaving only Ellie and Robin and the two scrubs, who hovered in the background until Ellie dismissed them with a wave of her hand.
“I’m going to make some coffee,” Robin said, stepping into my tiny kitchen.
“There’s aspirin in the cabinet above the sink,” I bleated over the shattered glass in my throat. “Bring me a dozen, will you?” Then, looking up at Ellie’s still-smoldering eyes, I said, “Were you through, or did you want to continue trying to commit verbal homicide?”
She seemed to have run out of gas, and when the tea kettle started to whistle, she slumped into a chair and shook her head. “I don’t know what to do,” she said. “I can’t babysit you. There’s too much going on right now. I wish you’d stop being so selfish and start thinking about the rest of us for a change. We’re all going through the same grief. Only difference is we don’t have time to wallow in it like you.”
Robin returned from the kitchen with a steaming mug of coffee and three aspirin. She set the mug down on the bedside table and handed me the pills. “They told me about Aurélie’s plane crash,” she said. “I’m so, so sorry.”
For a moment I was confused, but then I remembered I had told Ellie about my imaginary girlfriend in Switzerland, in case the subject ever came up while Robin was present. “Thanks,” I said. “What are you doing here anyway?”
“You didn’t show up at the club yesterday, and I got worried. So I called down to Blue Note, and they put me in touch with Ellie. Turns out I wasn’t the only one who was worried.”
“Yesterday?”
“It’s Monday, Dad,” Ellie said.
“Monday, huh? No wonder I feel like road kill. Sorry Robin, I didn’t mean to get you involved in this family stuff. I’m okay. Really. I’m just done with music, and Ellie here can’t seem to get that through her thick skull.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Robin said. “And so will a few hundred of my customers be. What about your album and the big concert? You can’t blow those things off, can you?”
“I’m a big boy. Got my own fortune and everything, so I guess I can do whatever I want.” I put the aspirin on my tongue and looked at the steam rising from the coffee mug. Deciding it was too hot, I closed my mouth and started to chew. The acrid, chalky taste made me grimace, and seeing this, Robin ran back to the kitchen. She returned a moment later and handed me a glass of water.
“Thanks,” I said, and drank it in one long gulp. “Look, I’m not feeling too swell right now, so don’t pay any attention to my smart mouth, okay?”
“I understand,” she looked at Ellie. “If you don’t need me for anything else, I’ve got to get back to the club.”
“Go. Go,” Ellie said. “I can handle things now that we know my dipshit father is probably going to live.”
Robin looked at me and flashed a pained smile, then turned to leave. “Well,” she said, as she stumbled over the remnants of my ruined door, “have a good life, I guess. Maybe I’ll see you around sometime.”
Ellie waited until we heard Robin’s Jeep start, then reached into her purse. “Here,” she said, holding out a folded sheet of paper. “It’s from Aurélie.”
“Yeah, right,” I said, snatching it from her hand. “If you think I’m going to fall for that crap, you’d better think again.” I crumpled it into a ball and threw it across the room.
She stood and walked over to retrieve it. “Believe what you want, Dad,” she said, tossing it on the bed beside me. “But at least read the damned thing. I’ve got to hit the head.” She spun on her heels and left the room.
I looked at the wadded sheet, then picked it up. I knew what was going on: Ellie had decided the only way get to me was to fake a message from Aurélie; it would probably be a tear-jerking farewell, with a plea for me to continue with the plan for her sake. Holding it cupped in one hand, I picked at a protruding corner with the other until it came loose. A little more picking, and I saw part of a word, then another and another. Finally, I spread it out on the bed, smoothed the wrinkles with my palm, and started to read.
Rix,
I’m hoping this gets through before we have to shut down completely. You’ve been so caught up in your writing for the last few weeks, I didn’t want to bother you with what was happening here. I don’t have time to go into detail, but our situation has become dire, and if this message makes it through, it might be the last you hear from me.
I wanted you to know how proud I am of the way you immersed yourself in the project and tell you that the lyrics you showed me were incredible. I really hadn’t expected so much so quick, nor had I expected your ideas to be quite so masterfully attuned to the specific themes and phases we talked about. As you know, the plan’s success depends in large part on its flexibility, and if we are unable to stabilize things here, it will be up to Sam and Ellie and H2 to make future adjustments. The foundation now has the tools to keep things moving in the right direction, and I hope you will add your input to the plan’s ongoing evolution. Until you shed your skepticism and committed to the program, there was an emotional element missing, something the rest of us couldn’t tap into because of our objective attitudes and analytical way of looking at things. It’s that element that you can bring to the table.
Speaking of emotional deficits, I wanted to apologize for my own shortcomings in that department and say how much I regret not being able to properly express my feelings for you. Though I might never have been able to say it in the right way, you should know that our relationship has meant the world to me. Even as I write these words, I can hear the coldness coming through, and it infuriates me that I can’t seem to do anything to change that. I guess we could call it my own personal pons asinorum, because it severely tests my emotional inexperience to solve. So please, please try to read beyond the stiff prose and know that underneath it all is a simple girl who loves you with all her heart, and has since the day we met.
There’s a lot more on my mind, but I’m going to have to cut this short. I did want to say, though, that if things continue to deteriorate here and I am unable to contact you again, I don’t want you to think
of me as being gone, because no matter where I am or what form I take I will always be with you (I know that sounds a little too spiritual for me, but I do believe it to be true). That said, I want you to start thinking of yourself for a change. Try to stay away from the alcohol; let loose of the anger you are sure to be feeling right now; and as a special favor to me, please give some thought to deepening your relationship with Robin. She’s a wonderful person, Rix, and you would be an idiot to let that opportunity pass you by.
One last thing: I’ve been meaning to talk to you about my counterpart in your dimension, but so much has been going on lately I haven’t had the chance. My initial feeling was that we should not try to intervene in her life, but I’ve been having second thoughts about that lately, especially since we’ve been working with H2 and things seem to be going so well. She’s going to have a miserable childhood, and she won’t be meeting Heyoka in her teens as I did, because he’ll be down there in Georgia working with the foundation. You don’t have to worry about her for a while because she’s only two years old, but her life is going to be turned upside down a year from now when her parents divorce and she is sent to live with her alcoholic aunt. I’m not sure what you could do about that, but I’d appreciate it if you would at least keep an eye on her, perhaps until she meets my old high-school physics teacher. Then maybe you could offer her some sort of internship at Millennium Park, where you and the others can encourage her development as a physicist.
Finally, although I know you will suffer some pain and bitterness over what’s happened, you mustn’t grieve for me. I’ve had a good life all in all, and I have few complaints. Other than not being able to join you there, my only regret is that I won’t be around to hear the music.
Anyway, take care of yourself and tr …
I looked up from the page to see Ellie standing there with her hands on her hips. “Well?” she said. “Believe me now?”
I wiped my eyes on the sleeve of my t-shirt, and held up the sheet. “Is that all?” I said. “It ends in the middle of a word.”
“It ended without any warning, and that was the last transmission. What’s does her reference to pons asinorum mean?”
“You read it?”
“Somebody had to transcribe it, Dad. And I thought you’d rather it be me than Sam. So, pons asinorum?”
“It’s some obscure geometry thing—”
“I know what pons asinorum is. I was just wondering why she would use it when talking to someone who couldn’t possibly understand what it means. She actually sort of misused the term, but you wouldn’t know that.”
I thought for a moment, then smiled. “She mentioned it once during one of our private conversations, so maybe it was code, something she knew only I would get.”
“Okay,” she said, “what’s the verdict? Am I going to have to Baker Act you or are you going to come to your senses.”
“The Baker Act is only good in Florida,” I said. “But to answer your question, no, I don’t think you need to have me committed. Give me a couple of days to get the alcohol out of my system, and I’ll try to pick up where I left off.”
She looked at me skeptically. “You sure about the booze? I don’t want to have to scrape you off the wall next time I stop by.”
“I’m sure,” I said. “I’ve got some apologizing to do, and I’m going to need a couple of backstage passes for the concert to help me with that. So see what you can do. And I guess I’d better put the writing project on hold and get down to the studio. Call Geffen and tell him I’m going to book the session for two weeks from now, and see if Jackson can make it. If he’s not available, we’ll have to change things to fit his schedule, because I am not cutting this album without him. Meanwhile, I’m going to have a good cry, take a twenty-four-hour nap, and see if I can salvage what’s left of my brain.”
The Second Time Around
Back in the familiar confines of Blue Note Studios, Jimmy, Geffen, Jackson, and I worked on the arrangements for my first album. The sessions were long and often confrontational, but we were all so familiar with each other’s nitpics and idiosyncrasies, the conflicts tended to work themselves out, if not amiably, then as a result of grudging compromise. In the end, we produced what everybody but me thought was some pretty fantastic stuff (my opinions on the final product were summarily dismissed as an overly paranoid quest for unachievable perfection).
We had all the tracks ready for mastering a month before the concert, and with nothing left to do, I drove back to Georgia in time to fulfill my promise to Robin. I’d made amends with the help of a couple of backstage passes to the concert, and I’d worked the two Sundays before I had to leave for the recording session. She wanted to book me as the featured act for the full month after I returned, but I told her I needed a couple of free weeks to prepare psychologically for the most important performance of my life. To assuage her disappointment, I said I would have Geffen ship her a few dozen free copies of my album as soon as it was pressed, and that if there was time, I would sign them all so she could pass them out to our most loyal regulars.
“They’ll be the first people on the planet to own signed copies of Rix Vaughn’s debut album,” I said. “It will probably turn out to be a flop, but those copies should still become collector’s items, if for no other reason than there will be so few of them ever sold.”
“Yeah, right,” she said. “By the way, I never thanked you properly for the backstage tickets, so maybe you’ll let me cook you dinner again sometime. It’s the least I could do for the opportunity to witness the birth of a superstar.”
I laughed at that. Even though the dual clout of Blue Note Studios’ reputation and Geffen’s dominance in the broadcast industry would ensure an initial sales surge, that early bounce would only serve as a first step. All the hype and connections in the world could not guarantee stardom. Long-term success would depend entirely on the public’s acceptance of me as a performer, and I was about to test that acceptance in front of more than half a million die-hard rock fans—knowledgeable aficionados who’d paid good money to see established stars, not unknown wannabes.
“Maybe I’ll take you up on that,” I said. “Who are you bringing to the concert?”
“Oh, I didn’t tell you. Phillip got out of jail last week, so I’m going to bring him, if that’s alright.”
“If course it’s alright,” I said. And I meant it. Despite Aurie’s admonitions, I had no intention of getting emotionally involved with Robin. “You guys can fly up with me if you want, but you’d better lower your expectations. I’ve been in this business a long time, and as I’m sure you know, for every success story there are a thousand talented musicians out there still playing for union scale and tips stuffed in a Mason jar.”
I worried myself sick during the two weeks before the concert, fighting through bouts of intense sadness and remorse while entertaining my woodland friends with hours of rehearsal. Even with all that preparation, when I finally hit the stage, I damned near froze up. The largest audience I’d ever faced was something like ten thousand, back when I was touring with Danny O'Donnell in my first life, and as I peered out from behind the curtain at that sea of humanity, my first instinct was to run for the exit.
Jackson handled my introduction, flanked by Sarah and Patsy. He said I was an old friend of theirs who rarely appeared in public. Then he told the audience they were in for a surprise.
“Many of the songs you are about to hear will be familiar to you,” he said, his voice echoing over the huge crowd. “But Rix here will not be simply offering his interpretations of those classic hits. On the contrary, the versions you’ve already heard were the interpretations, because the fact is, he wrote every one of the songs he’s going to sing tonight.”
As I walked out on stage and took my place on the spot-lit stool, a curious murmur rolled through the crowd, accompanied by tentative, scattered applause. I remembered attending one of those famous concerts where James Taylor had introduced Carole King in the same way, and h
ow the audience had been similarly reticent until they heard the first strains of Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow. But my solo arrangements bore little resemblance to the heavily produced gold and platinum records this audience was familiar with, and it wasn’t until I finished the first verse of Sunday Morning Sentinel that the crowd began to stir.
Jackson had suggested we duplicate the all-star band that had played at the Orchid, in order to add some star power to my performance. But I wanted to live or die on my own merits, so I’d told them to let me have the stage to myself for the first song. As I started the second verse, the seething mass of humanity grew increasingly quiet, and I realized the solo idea had been a mistake.
I played the closing guitar solo with fingers shaking so badly I could barely control them, and as the final notes drifted into the surrounding hills, it seemed my performance had bored the audience into catatonia. Except for a few coughs and whispers, the crowd remained silent for what seemed like an eternity, until finally, like the sound of approaching summer rain, a soft ripple of applause began to swell. It was as if they were having a hard time accepting the fact that this nobody—someone they’d never seen or heard of—had actually written the megahit that dominated the charts a few years before. And only as that realization began to sink in, were they able to appreciate what they’d just heard.
I’d never before experienced first-hand such a massive acknowledgement of my talents. I’d watched my songs climb the charts, seen them performed by others, listened to the applause they generated; but I’d shunned the limelight myself, refusing to personally accept the Grammys or publically receive the gold and platinum records. Those awards, along with all the civic citations and certificates of thanks for charity work, resided in the trophy room at Blue Note Enterprises, and that’s where they would stay. I’d always felt that I didn’t deserve the recognition; that I’d been given an unfair advantage by being allowed to cheat death and enjoy the benefits of having a second chance. Aurélie had berated me about this, as had Ellie and Doris, but I’d stuck to my guns. Until, that is, I’d let them convince me that my success could have far-reaching repercussions. I still wasn’t convinced of that, but one thing I had to admit was that being admired and appreciated by hundreds of thousands of fans felt damned good.