VELOCITY

by Jude Hardin

  “Yes. Your name is Maddog Maddox, and you’re an excellent guitar player.”

  He handed me a pick. To my amazement, my trembling fingers knew exactly where to go. I started strumming chords, and I even knew their names. E…A…B…

  I strummed a twelve-bar blues progression effortlessly, and then started playing lead notes. Before long I was bending and tapping strings and making the instrument cry with the tremolo bar.

  “I can really play,” I said.

  “Yes. You’re even better than I remember.”

  “Than you remember?”

  “I’m going to leave you a CD, and I want you to learn all the songs on it. There are twenty. Once you learn them all, I have a job for you.”

  “What job?”

  “We’ll discuss it after you learn the songs.”

  “Can I have my shot now?”

  “Ah. Of course.”

  He uncapped the port on my PICC line and administered the medication.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  There was a set of headphones by the computer. I carried the CD and the guitar and amp over there and loaded the CD and listened to it through the headphones. It was a compilation of rock and pop songs from the sixties and seventies. I listened to all twenty of them and then started playing along with the guitar. Somehow I instinctively knew the chords and the changes and the lead riffs. It came to me as easily as breathing.

  I went through the songs a few more times until I had them down pat. One of the guys came in and asked if I was hungry and I looked at my watch and saw it was time for dinner. I’d missed lunch completely. I asked if he would bring me a salad and some fried chicken and he said he would. As he was leaving I added iced tea with lemon to the order and he said okay.

  I started working my way through the songs again. I finished “Smoke on the Water” and was waiting for the intro to “Who’ll Stop the Rain” when I turned and noticed Brother John standing behind me with his arms crossed. I took the headphones off.

  “How’s it going?” he said.

  “Great. It’s like I’ve been playing these songs all my life.”

  “Splendid. I’m very proud of you.”

  He patted me on the back. It made me feel good that he was proud of me.

  “Let me see your fingers,” he said.

  I showed him the fingertips of my left hand. They were red and swollen and blistered.

  “They don’t hurt that bad,” I said.

  “I want you to stop for the day. In fact, I want you stop for a couple of days and give your fingers a chance to heal.”

  “You’re the boss,” I said.

  I looked at my watch. I reminded him it was time for another shot, and he went and drew it up and gave it to me and then left the room.

  My fried chicken and salad and iced tea with lemon came. I put everything on the rolling table and rolled the table to my chair and ate dinner by myself. I had eaten every meal by myself for as long as I could remember. It was a lonely way to live. It would have been nice to have someone to talk to, but I couldn’t remember it ever being any other way, so I wondered how I could miss something I never had. Brother John had said that Betty from the movie was my girl. She was a beautiful woman. If she was my girl, I should be with her, I thought. Someday I would be with her, maybe after this job Brother John had for me, whatever it was. I longed for some companionship. I wished I could remember the address Brother John wanted. If she was there, I wanted to be there with her. I tried to think while I ate, but I couldn’t remember anything. All I knew was that my name was Alexander Maddox and my friends called me Maddog and I was an excellent guitar player.

  It was hard to eat with one hand, but the blisters on my left fingertips hurt every time they came in contact with the hot greasy chicken. I managed to finish, and the same guy who had brought the food came and took the trash away. He didn’t say anything. The guys never said much. They were all business.

  The lights went down and the movie came on and I sat back and relaxed and watched it. I paid special attention to Betty this time. Brother John had said that she was my girl. She was certainly a beautiful woman.

  After the show I exercised for a while and then took a shower and shaved. It was almost time for my weekly haircut. I had a crew cut, like all the other guys, and Brother John insisted on a clean-shaven face. There was a tattoo of an angel on my left arm. I had no recollection of how it got there. It was a nice tattoo. The angel’s wings were spread, and every feather had been drawn with painstaking detail. There was a circle on the angel’s chest and the number 88 inside the circle. The angel had a crew cut and a clean-shaven face.

  Saturday the barber came and gave me a haircut. A few minutes after he left, Brother John came and gave me my shot and looked at my fingers.

  “How do they feel?” he said.

  “Great. I’m ready to play some more.”

  “Good. I’m going to take you on a little trip in a few days.”

  “Is this the job you were telling me about?”

  “Yes.”

  “So what is it you want me to do?”

  “I want you to do what I tell you to do. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  He turned and walked out of the room.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The next few days were spent learning more songs, this time from a current rock group. Brother John had sent them a promo package with my picture and a sample of my playing, and they had invited me to come to L.A. and work with them on their new album.

  I was in my room composing the lead guitar solo for a song called “Need to Know” when one of the guys wheeled in two Marshall speaker cabinets and a Marshall amplifier head and a multi-effects pedal. He positioned the gear near the computer and cabled everything together. Shortly after he left, Brother John came in and gave me my shot.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Alexander Maddox, but my friends call me Maddog. Or just Dog.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “I’m working on the lead part to the last song,” I said. “I’ll be ready by the end of the day.”

  “Excellent. How do you like your new equipment?”

  “It’s big.”

  “World-class gear for a world-class player.”

  “Thank you. It’s very nice.”

  “I want you to practice with it, fiddle around with the effects and so forth. We’re going to pack up and leave for California day after tomorrow.”

  “We’re flying out there?”

  “No, we’ll be going in a van. A couple of my men will be driving us.”

  “Is it a long drive?”

  “It is, but I assure you the van is very comfortable. Think of it as an adventure.”

  “Okay.”

  He left and I resumed my practice session, using the new amplifier and the effects pedal. Everything sounded superb, much better than the small practice amp I’d been using.

  I kept trying to remember how I became such a good musician. Occasionally, a little snippet would come to me in a flash, like a quick edit on a movie screen. In one of these jittery images I saw myself as a very young man, twenty-four or twenty-five, with hair to my shoulders and a full beard. I wore jeans and a denim jacket with the sleeves cut off. I was holding a red hollow-body electric guitar, and there was a white bandana tied around my head. I saw it clear as day and I knew it was me, but then it dissolved and disappeared as quickly as it had come.

  Apparently, I had been playing the guitar for a long time. I wanted to know about my past. I decided I wasn’t going to practice anymore or go to Los Angeles or cooperate in any way until Brother John told me some things. I sat in my chair and waited. One of the guys came and asked what I wanted for dinner. I told him I wanted to speak with Brother John and he said okay.

  Brother John came in a few minutes later.

  “What’s your name?” he said.

  “Alexander Maddox, but my friends call me Maddog.”

  “Why did you stop playing?”


  “I want to know who I am.”

  “You just told me who you are. Your name is Alexander—”

  “I want to know about my history. Where was I born? Who are my parents? Why am I here? Why do I have a tattoo of an angel on my arm? How did I learn how to play the guitar? I can’t remember any of that stuff.”

  “I’ll tell you everything you want to know,” he said. “After our trip to California. There’s going to be a big event on Friday, and we’ll be heading back home early that morning. I’ll tell you everything then. It’s going to be great, Maddog. You’ll see.”

  “I want to know now.”

  “Not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “Haven’t I been good to you? Haven’t I given you everything you want?”

  “That’s beside the point,” I said. “Everyone has a right to know where they came from. I want to know, and I want to know now.”

  He got up and left the room without saying another word. The lights dimmed and the screen came down and the movie came on. I had seen it a thousand times. I picked up the Fender Stratocaster by the neck and started swinging it like an axe at the projection screen. Before I was able to completely destroy the guitar and the screen, two guys came in and strapped me into my chair. Brother John came in and gave me a shot, but it wasn’t my usual shot. Everything went black and when I woke up we were in the van heading for L.A.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Brother John and I sat in a pair of fancy reclining seats bolted to the floor behind the driver and the guy riding shotgun. The headliner had been fitted with faux wood paneling and recessed lights and drop-down DVD monitors. There weren’t any side windows. A steel lattice partition divided the passenger section from the cargo section, and through it I could see some suitcases and the Marshall speaker cabinets.

  I looked at my watch. It was Monday, May 9, 10:50 a.m. It had been over thirty-six hours since my last shot. The insects were dancing under my skin again.

  “Where are we?” I said.

  Brother John looked up from the book he was reading.

  “What’s your name?” he said.

  “Alexander Maddox. My friends call me Maddog. Where are we?”

  “Oklahoma. We got an early start. We’ll stop for lunch in Oklahoma City.”

  “I need my shot. And I need to go to the bathroom.”

  Brother John reached under his seat and grabbed a leather satchel. He unwrapped a fresh syringe, drew the medication from a vial, wiped the port on my PICC line with an alcohol swab, screwed the syringe onto the port. He pushed the plunger slowly and the sub-dermal cockroaches that had become the bane of my existence stopped doing the watusi and once again everything was right with the world. Everything except my bladder.

  We veered off at the next exit, stopped and took a bathroom break at the Shell station. The guy who had been driving filled the gas tank. There was a diner across the street and Brother John said we might as well eat lunch now instead of having to stop again.

  The drivers sat at one booth and Brother John and I at another. Brother John suggested we all choose the buffet. Everything looked fresh and there were a lot of choices. I had a salad and some meatloaf and mashed potatoes. The waitress brought me an iced tea and Brother John a soda.

  “Will there be anything else?” she asked.

  “That should do it,” Brother John said.

  She set the check on the table.

  “Just pay up front whenever you’re ready,” she said.

  She smiled and walked away.

  “How’s the meatloaf?” Brother John said.

  “A little greasy, but good.”

  “We should be settled in L.A. by this time tomorrow.”

  “You never did tell me why we’re going there,” I said.

  “You’re going to record some songs. I thought I made that clear.”

  “Sure, but you also said there’s going to be some big event Friday. Today’s Monday. That doesn’t give us much time to record an album.”

  “Very astute of you, Maddog. You’re right. We won’t be sticking around for the whole album.”

  I took a bite of meatloaf and washed it down with some tea.

  “So what’s the big event?” I said.

  “It’s going to be great. That’s all you need to know for now.”

  We finished our meal and the drivers grabbed a mint and a toothpick and walked outside while Brother John and I waited for someone to come to the register. A guy with a bad haircut and a nametag that said Barry finally came and rang us up.

  “Was everything all right?” he said.

  “Fine,” Brother John said.

  I thought about saying something about the meatloaf being a little greasy, but I didn’t.

  We walked out to the van. The drivers had switched places. The one who had been driving before was now in the front passenger’s seat. We had a full tank of gas and I knew it would be a long time before we stopped again, so I did a few stretches before climbing into my seat.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  As promised, we were in L.A. by lunchtime on Tuesday. From the interstate we took the San Bernardino Freeway and got off on Hollywood Boulevard. Brother John told the driver to take a right on Vine, and a few minutes later we parked at a meter in front of a tall building.

  “Come with me, Maddog,” Brother John said.

  There were stars on the sidewalk, but I didn’t recognize any of the names. We walked through the front door and into the lobby of the building. At the reception desk there was an attractive young lady with long blond hair wearing a navy blue business suit and a telephone headset. Her nametag said Alana.

  “May I help you?” she said.

  “I need to speak with Bob Watson,” Brother John said.

  Alana thumbed through some papers on a clipboard.

  “Bob’s in a session right now,” she said. “I could leave him a message if you—”

  “I know he’s in a session. That’s why we’re here. Just tell him Brother John is waiting in the lobby.”

  She punched some numbers into her phone base, but nobody answered.

  “I’ll send him a text,” she said.

  She sent Bob Watson a text, and his message back said he would be down in a few minutes. Brother John and I sat in a pair of leather armchairs and waited.

  “Who’s Bob Watson?” I said.

  “The producer. Talented guy. Look at any trade magazine from the last twenty years and you’re going to see his name somewhere between the covers.”

  The lobby was decorated with potted plants and gold records and photographs of famous musicians. I was looking at one of the pictures when the elevator dinged and out stepped a man wearing white pants and a blue polo and tinted glasses. Mid-fifties, tall and slim, tanned and toned. His sandy blond hairpiece was barely detectable.

  Brother John stood and shook the man’s hand. “Great to see you, Bob.”

  “You too, my friend. Is this your guitar player?”

  “Yes. Bob Watson, meet Alexander ‘Maddog’ Maddox.”

  I stood and shook Bob Watson’s hand.

  “Pleased to meet you,” I said.

  Bob smiled, revealing a mouthful of porcelain veneers.

  “Same here,” he said. “I’ve heard nothing but good things about you. We’re just laying some drum tracks right now, but I’d like to get started on some rhythm guitar this evening. How’s that sound?”

  “Sounds great,” I said.

  “We’ll go grab some lunch and get settled in at the hotel,” Brother John said. “Can we go ahead and unload Maddog’s amp and stuff while we’re here?”

  “Absolutely,” Bob said. “We’re on the eighth floor, Studio B. Need someone to wheel it up for you?”

  “I have a couple of roadies with me, but thanks.”

  “Bitchin. See you guys around six.”

  “We’ll be here.”

  We said goodbye and headed back outside. As we strolled past the reception desk, Ala
na smiled and winked at me. I couldn’t help but grin.

  We drove a few blocks and checked in at the hotel. It was a fancy place, everything plush and expensive. My room had a king-size bed and a desk and a leather couch. There was a flat screen television and a Jacuzzi and a large balcony with chairs and a table and a big umbrella.

  “This is nice,” I said.

  “I’ll be next door,” Brother John said. “The rooms open to a suite if you want to visit.”

  “Okay.”

  I didn’t want to visit. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had any privacy, and I wanted to relish every minute of it.

  “You ready to go get some lunch?” he said.

  “I was thinking about just calling room service and hanging out here.”

  “Suit yourself. I’ll see you later this afternoon, then.”

  “I need my shot,” I said.

  He left for a few minutes and came back with the syringe and pushed the medicine into my PICC.

  “We’ll leave about five-thirty to go back to the studio,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  I called room service and ordered a turkey bacon club and French fries and a bottle of Perrier. I watched TV while I ate. After lunch I climbed into the bathtub and ran the jets for a while and then just soaked and relaxed. The bars of soap were larger than you get at most places. They smelled like cinnamon. The wrapper said they were made from goat’s milk and olive oil. It was good soap. It made my skin feel silky smooth.

  I watched some more television after my bath and fell asleep on the couch, woke up to an infomercial. I picked my Rolex up off the coffee table. 5:15. Almost time to go. As I went to put the watch on my wrist, something caught my eye. There was an inscription engraved on the back plate. It was barely visible. I had to squint to make it out.

  It said To Pete. All my love, Denise.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  At 5:30 someone knocked on my door. I answered. It was Brother John.

  “Why aren’t you ready?” he said.

  I was still wearing the terrycloth bathrobe I’d found in the closet.

  “Who’s Pete?” I said.