by Thomas Cobb
“I guess,” he says. “He’s gone. Him and his mother went back to New Mexico. Things got pretty messed up.”
“I know about that. I know all about it. You see, Bad, I’m an alcoholic. I understand just how messed up things can get. I’d like to help if I can.”
“They’ve gone back to New Mexico. There isn’t anyone around to talk to.”
“You can talk to me. I listen real well.”
She greets him at the door dressed in blouse and pleated skirt, ready for dinner and an evening out. She is older than Jean, taller and thinner, maybe even bony. Her blond hair is carefully arranged and her makeup is skillful. And there is a slight gleam in her eye that he likes a lot. Her apartment is neat and nondescript except for large arrangements of red and yellow paper flowers on the coffee table and in the corners of the room.
“Would you like coffee or a soft drink?” she asks.
“Maybe we just better go.”
“Don’t be in such a rush. How about some tea? I have iced tea.”
They drink iced tea from tall glasses with multicolored bands. The air-conditioning is going hard, and still the glasses sweat so much Bad’s coaster keeps sticking to the glass and then falling into his lap. Between cigarettes, he fingers the paper flowers at the end of the sofa.
“Mexico,” she says. “I got those in Mexico a couple of years ago, when I was still drinking. I was down there for a whole week, and I don’t remember a damned thing about it, except that I got those flowers. I don’t even remember who I was with. Those flowers were the only things I came back with.”
“You’re lucky if flowers are the only things you bring back from Mexico.”
“Nothing else. Not even the ‘turistas.’ Never touched a drop of water the whole time I was there,” she says, laughing.
“Years ago,” he says, “I used to come home from benders with nothing, not even the car I left in. I gave ’em away. I must have had two dozen Cadillacs in my life, and I bet I gave nearly half of them away.”
“I used to pawn my engagement ring, until I lost the pawn ticket and couldn’t remember where I’d pawned it, but I never had a Cadillac to lose.”
“If you’d known me back then, you probably would have had one.”
At the restaurant, she is calming and comforting. He chain-smokes Pall Malls and taps his fork on the table to a tune that keeps going through his head. Halfway through the meal, he realizes that he is playing his own arrangement of “Is This Going to Hurt Again?” over and over.
“Don’t worry,” she tells him. “You don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to do. This is an open meeting. You can just sit and listen. No one is going to pick on you or embarrass you. You do what you want to do. That’s the whole point. This is what you want to do. Nobody can make you do it. You do it yourself. There are some nice people who will help you, but you’ll do it all yourself.”
Early on, he stands and introduces himself—Bad Blake, a guest of Linda’s. “Hi, Bad,” reply twelve people sitting in the living room of a small house in Spring Branch. He is surprised at the casualness of all this, of these people sitting in a living room, drinking coffee and talking.
He is more surprised when he finds himself standing and announcing, “I am an alcoholic. A couple of days ago, I lost a little boy. I was drunk. I’ve been drunk most of my life. I’ve lost a hell of a lot.”
Later, in the kitchen, he and a small, red-haired man named Pat lean against the counter, drinking coffee and smoking. “I’m glad you came tonight, Bad,” Pat says. “It’s a hard step. We all know how hard it is.”
“Linda wanted me to come.”
“I know. Linda’s a gem. Listen, can I ask you something? Is that your real name—Bad?”
“It’s my legal name.”
“But not your Christian name, not the one you were born with?”
“No.”
“It’s your drinking name, right? I mean, from what you said out there, you’ve been drinking ever since you started in the business. What’s your given name?”
Bad laughs. “Otis.”
“Think about this. Think about being Otis again. Let go of the things that are a part of the life you want to get away from.”
“I can’t do that. I’m a musician. I have a career. That’s my name. I’ve worked my whole life for that name. You can’t give up your name. It’s the way the business is.”
“Well, you could work under that name, but learn to think of yourself offstage as Otis. Leave the other up on the stage, don’t keep living with it. Think of it as a microphone or a light or something, something you can leave up there when you’re not working. Let your friends call you Otis, call yourself Otis.”
“Besides that, I hate that name.” He is staring at the Mr. Coffee. The base of it is thick with dried coffee.
“I think you could learn to love it, Otis. We all have to learn to change the way we think about ourselves. That’s a big step to getting free. We’re all actors, Otis. But sometimes we have to rethink our roles. If you have a role you have to play when you’re up on stage, it doesn’t mean you have to play it all the time. Those roles keep us from ever finding out who we really are, and that’s no good. You’ve got to know yourself before you can learn to like yourself.”
“I really feel good,” he tells her, back at her apartment. “Damn, I really feel good.”
She smiles. “I know. But it doesn’t last. Pretty soon you’re going to feel real bad. It’s going to get rough. I can help you with that. I want to help you.”
“You have, darlin’. You have.”
“We help each other. That’s how it works. The whole group of us together. The strength of the group gives each of us strength. You took a big step tonight, but it’s only a step. You keep taking steps, and we’ll be with you. I’ll be with you.”
He pulls her to him. “Thank you, darlin’, thank you.”
Her hand pushes hard against his chest. “No,” she says. “Wait, you have to understand something here.” She settles back, straightening her blouse and patting at her hair. “When I was drinking, sex was a big part of it. When I got started I could always find a man. And it was a way of always having a bottle and someone to drink it with. That’s why I keep those flowers. One day after I sobered up, I took the flowers to the kitchen sink, and I was all ready to put the match to them when I stopped myself. ‘Linda,’ I said, ‘you can’t ever let yourself forget.’”
Bad leans back heavily on the sofa and lights another Pall Mall. He lets the smoke out with a long sigh.
“What you have to understand is that sex isn’t a means to anything. It can’t ever be selfish or insignificant. It’s a gift from God. It’s a great and wonderful gift.” She leans forward and kisses him on the forehead. “I’m here to talk, I’m here to help. I’m here to be your friend. And I’m going to be here for you all the way, Otis.”
The phone wakes him. He has no idea how long it has been ringing or, for a minute, where he is.
“Mr. Blake,” Brenda says, “Mr. Greene would like to talk to you.”
There is a long pause. “Bad,” Jack says, “how are you this morning?”
“I’m not dead. Other than that, it ain’t too bad, I guess.”
“Well, you’re going to feel a lot better in just a minute. I just got off the phone with Tommy’s people. You got yourself a deal. Both songs, the first two singles off the album.”
“That’s fine, Jack.”
“You bet that’s fine. To tell you the truth, I didn’t think he’d go for it, but he took the whole damned package.”
“Yeah, great. Listen, there’s something else I want to talk to you about.”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“Does my insurance cover sobering up?”
“What?”
“I want to sober up, Jack. Does the insurance cover that?”
“Probably. I’ll have Brenda check. No, hell, go ahead; we’ll get it covered.”
He is two days out of de
tox. He is sober and they have cut the cast off his ankle. He has the feeling that he is floating free, that he might float away. He takes slow, careful walks. He takes Antabuse and cleans the house. Linda has come over while he was in the hospital, and there is no booze in the house. There isn’t even a shot glass, though he never used the ones he had. He is trying to get organized, trying to change as much as he can. He has signed himself out of the hospital, Otis Blake, Jr.
He makes lists. Change of name. Laundry on Mondays, housecleaning on Tuesdays. Tuesday afternoons, rehearsal, followed by AA. Wednesdays, work on songs until time for work. Remember the Antabuse. Exercise. Get oil change and lube for van. Call Jean. And under that, he writes, sorry, sober, money from new songs, sorry (underlined twice). Call Steven.
Linda comes over a couple of times a week. “Take it easy,” she tells him. This is hard enough, don’t try to take on too much at once. “Remember,” she says, “one step at a time, one day at a time.” He still has two days before he has to go to work. He is doing great, he tells himself. One day at a time.
What do you think? he asks Terry after the last set. It has felt like something other than working, but it has felt like music. He has done a whole show sober.
“It was O.K., Bad. You did it. You did a good job.”
“It was stiff.”
“A little. But that’ll work itself out. That will come. It was a good show. The way I figure, it’s like breaking in a new guitar. It just feels strange for a little while. Pretty soon, it’s better than it ever was. Pretty soon, you’ll be able to stand for a full set, too. That’ll help.”
As they are packing up, Terry tells Bad that they need to talk. Bad lights a cigarette, takes a deep drag and says, “Right. Let me get a drink.”
He comes back from behind the bar with a glass of club soda.
“I talked to Ronnie today,” Terry says.
Bad holds up his hand to silence him, and lights a cigarette off the butt of the old one. “I figured.”
“Bad, I just can’t pass this up. I don’t want you to get mad or feel like I’m cutting out on you. This is something I’ve just got to do.”
“When you going?”
“I go to Nashville at the end of next month for rehearsals, two weeks later the tour starts in New York. I got to learn a whole show of new material in two weeks.”
“You’ll do it. It’s full-time work. You won’t have any problem.”
“It won’t actually be that long. It’s only for three months unless this Europe thing comes through. Then I’ll be back.”
“No. Then it’s studio work while you wait for someone else to go out with. Trying to hustle a record here and there.”
“I got a wife and family here, Bad. I’ll be back for them.”
“When do you want out of here?”
“Not until you find somebody else. I’ll play here the night before I leave if that’s what it takes. I won’t leave you stranded.”
“Damn, you’re going to do it, buddy. You’re going to make it,” Wayne says, coming up to the table and resting his hands on Bad’s shoulders.
“Yeah,” Bad says, “I’m going to make it.”
“Well, you know you can call me. Day or night. You just call me. I’ll be right with you. And you sounded real good up there.”
Bad shakes his head. “Wayne, sometimes I think you’d say a fart sounded good.”
“I guess that depends on who’s doing it, now, don’t it?”
“Road work,” Bad says to Terry, “you’re either going to love it or hate it. Either way, you’re fucked.”
“Billy Paulsen’s band just broke up. He’d probably fill in for me while I’m gone. He’s good. Real nice voice.”
“The road,” Bad says. “That’s when you find out. That’s what it’s all about. There’s nothing in the world like the road. Everything changes out there.”
“I can call him if you want.”
“I found you. I’ll find someone else. Say hey to Sandra for me.”
He walks three blocks, still careful, watching for holes and sticks that could throw his weight and snap the ankle again, but three good blocks without much of a limp. He is tired and a little sore when he gets in, but he is determined. He has worked it out in his head while he walked.
He has planned it all out, but he is still stunned by Jean’s voice when she picks up the phone.
“Just listen to me,” he says. “Just listen. I’m sorry about what happened. It was all my fault.”
There is only silence on the other end.
“The thing is, it hit me finally. I figured it out. I’m sober. I did it. Detox, Antabuse, AA—the whole bit. It woke me up, Jean.”
There is another pause, then, “That’s good, Bad. That’s good. I’m glad.”
“No, not Bad. Otis. I’m going back to Otis. I’m changing things. I really am. But that’s only half of it. I heard from Tommy. He’s going to do my songs. It means some pretty good money for me.”
“That’s good, too.”
Then he doesn’t know what to say. “Yeah, things are all right. How about Buddy, is he O.K.?”
“Yeah, Buddy’s O.K.”
“That’s great. That’s what I wanted to hear. I’m really happy about that. Listen, can you ever forgive me?”
She sighs. “Yeah, I guess. I guess I can. But that’s not really the point, is it?”
“Sure it is. What do you mean, ‘that’s not the point’?”
“I mean it was all a mistake, my coming there. I knew it before I came. And I’m sorry about all of it.”
“No, no. I made the mistake, but I figured that out. It’s O.K. now, I’m sober. I’ve been in the hospital. I’m O.K. now.”
“That’s good. That’s real good.”
“Jean, listen. I want to come out there for a couple of days. I want to see you, talk to you, show you how it’s changed.”
“No, Bad. No, please no.”
“It’s O.K., you’ll see. It’s all different now. I’m different. I need to make some things up to you and Buddy. I got a whole lot to make up for, to a whole lot of people. But especially to you and to Steven.”
“No. You aren’t coming here. I’m not coming there. And I don’t want you to call anymore.”
“Jean, you’ve got to understand….”
“Goodbye, Bad.”
He listens to the steady tone in D flat until the recorded voice comes on. “If you would like to make a call,” it says, “hang up and dial the number. If you need help, hang up and dial the operator.” Later, it begins to beep until he finally hangs it up.
He works the childproof cap of the Antabuse bottle, takes out a pill and lays it on the kitchen counter. He stares at it for a while. The problem, he figures, is that the little fucker doesn’t give you any choice. He pours a cup of coffee and tries not to look at the Antabuse. He wants a drink, he reasons, but he doesn’t need one. He can live without one. He picks up the phone and dials Linda’s number. After it rings three times, he hangs up. He puts the pill back in the bottle and starts gathering up his laundry.
“You have to turn to God,” Linda says when he finally gets hold of her. “He didn’t make you an alcoholic, you did that yourself. But He can get you free.”
Bad has the Antabuse out again, pushing it across the kitchen counter with his finger while he talks. He has gone over thirty-six hours without it.
“It’s when we think we can control everything. That’s when the trouble starts. We pride ourselves and blame ourselves. We’ve got to stop and understand, there’s Someone more powerful than we are. You ask Him for help, and He will.”
“I’ve done what I’ve done. I guess I can keep on.”
“It doesn’t work that way, Otis. It’s time to turn to Someone stronger.”
He pushes the white tablet into the corner of the counter and crushes it with his fingertip.
Chapter Sixteen
As long as you’re not a truck driver, I don’t care what you do,” she say
s.
Bad lights another Pall Mall and studies her. Her age is a tough one. Her skin is a little loose around the eyes and jaw, but her face is thin. Her makeup is pretty thick and a little sloppy around the edges of her mouth. She holds her cigarette at the side of her face, wrist cocked. He tries to place the gesture—Bette Davis, maybe. Her tongue works the edges of her front teeth.
“My last old man, he was a truck driver, the worthless son-of-a-bitch. They’re worse than sailors—the whole miserable lot of them. Think they’re cowboys. God’s gift to women.”
“Really,” Bad says, “I’m a singer. Bad Blake. ‘Slow Boat.’”
“The hell. He’s dead.”
“Not yet I ain’t, darlin’.”
“Donna. That’s O.K., honey. Buy me another?”
Bad signals toward the bar, holding up two fingers. The bartender brings two more and sets them on the table. Bad hands him a twenty. “Just hold on to that. Start a tab.”
She picks up her glass and raises it to him. “Bad Blake, no damned truck driver.”
“No damned truck driver.”
“So, Mr. Bad Blake, you rich?”
“Used to be. Now I’m poor as a damned nigger again.”
“Money doesn’t mean anything. This world is full of rich bastards who aren’t worth the water it’d take to flush them down. I never met anyone rich I liked.”
“Me, either. That includes me when I was.”
“I’ll drink to that. Money brings out the worst in people. Take the money away from those bastards, they might find out they’re like the rest of us. Do them a world of good. They could give it to me. I’d be doing them a damn favor.”
“What would you do with it?”
She lights a cigarette. Bad reaches out and holds her wrist to steady it. “I’d buy me another drink.”
Bad signals and leans back, lighting a cigarette of his own. “‘Smoke, smoke, smoke that cigarette’—you remember that one?”
“You do that?”
“I used to sing it, but I didn’t record it. Tex Williams did, Merle Travis, too. They wrote it. It was a little before my time. That must have been nineteen forty-six, forty-seven, somewhere in there. Old Travis—God, could he play.”