He just sat there. I could've kicked him in the nuts right then, and he wouldn't have budged an inch. For a moment I thought he was thinking about what I'd said, but the look on his face said he wasn't thinking about it at all. He took a long drag, pinched the butt between his finger and thumb, then flicked it into the cold night. "Look, man. I got a job interview tomorrow."
It took me a second to process. "That's fine. I can take care of everything myself then. I'll walk up to the campus and start posting fliers."
"I have an interview. I'm getting a real job." Pauly's head nodded almost imperceptibly, like this was pretty much how he thought the conversation would go.
"Well, we can be flexible with gigs. That's what I'm saying." I made my counter-offer and turned toward him.
"Listen." Pauly stopped at a yellow light at the intersection of Spruce and Walnut. Some asshole in a Jetta laid on his horn as he zipped around us. "There ain't going to be a new drummer or guitar player. My sponsor says there ain't going to be anymore gigs for me. I'm done."
"But the band... Listen, Mike Kovachick called me and says he has a gig for us. We're supposed to go up and meet him tonight. We can't turn down a gig."
"Preston, grow up. Stop daydreaming." He slid another Camel from the pack, offered it to me knowing I wouldn't take it, then put it to his mouth and lit it with a snap of his Zippo. The flame illuminated his face. "There ain't going to be a band anymore."
He took a long drag, coughed and blew the smoke out the window. "At least not one with me in it."
"You don't think you owed me just a little more notice than this?"
He didn't say anything else.
But I hadn't finished. "You talked Stu into reenlisting, didn't you? You probably said something about the money being a hell of a lot better than working at the beer distributor and playing in the band. Is that right? Shame on you, man."
But like I said, he was done talking.
I added, "Then fuck you, too."
Of all the times I'd ever been dumped, this hurt the worst. Pauly stood over by Mick's basses, mostly Fender Ps and a lone Thunderbird knockoff.
Unsure of whose side he was supposed to be on, Mick remained unusually quiet throughout the transaction. But he had worked out a pretty generous deal with Stu for his kit. If I had enough money I would've bought it and kept it for him until he got back. Mick finally asked, "So, what the hell's wrong with you two?" The old cash register flipped open with the clang of a bell.
"Pauly's going to be bringing his rig in, too. But I wouldn't be so generous with him if I were you, Mick." I crossed my arms and looked down at the holes in my Vans. On my list of things I needed to survive new shoes came below guitar strings and Captain Crunch. In a perfect world rent and utilities, all the shit society tricks you into thinking you need, would be even lower.
One by one Mick slid twenties from his drawer to the glass countertop between a jar of Dunlop picks and a few bottles of Martin guitar polish. "Pauly, you throwing in the towel?"
"We can't all be Paul McCartney, right? So I guess I'm going have to bust my hump for a living." Pauly stayed at the other end of the counter.
Mick scratched his scalp, leaving his wiry hair standing at a hundred crazy angles. "Have to keep the lights on, right? Who gets this?"
"Give him half," Pauly said. "Stu said to split it fifty fifty."
I counted out my part of two months' rent and slid it back to Pauly.
"Thanks, Pres. I can buy you dinner now." He tried to act all innocent in front of Mick, like he hadn't been making a big deal about the money all week. He slid a gumband around his cash and put it in his front pocket. "I guess we're rolling." He shook Mick's hand.
"You go ahead. I'm going to hang out. Maybe see who's playing before I head up to see Mikey."
"Don't be an asshole. We can get a bite to eat." Pauly seemed genuinely surprised I wasn't caving.
"No. I'll find my own way."
"You're for real? Christ, Preston, one of these days you're going to have to give it up." Pauly zipped up his coat with a dramatic flourish. He put his hand into his pocket and dug for his keys, adding, "How you getting home?"
"I'll walk."
"Look both ways before you cross the street." With that, Pauly turned and left.
He waited on the curb for traffic to clear. He lit a smoke and stormed over to the Jeep. A bunch of girls eating burritos and strollers in Black Bear watched him. With the squeal of a belt he vanished up Pleasant.
Mick watched, too. When I laid Stu's drumsticks on the counter, he shrugged. "I know."
Mick slid the sticks back to me and waved his hand like a cat waves a paw at its own puke. He backed over to his stool, took his glasses off and dropped them into his shirt pocket.
I gave Mick forty back.
Mick said, "Preston, keep your money. Maybe those boys need to find a way to pay for their own lessons?"
"I can't, Mick. I want to keep it straight with you."
"Do those boys even realize you take care of them like this? They know you don't work for free, right?"
"Yeah, they're very appreciative. I told them they can pay me back when they get famous. In the mean time I'll keep paying for the lessons." I peeled off another pair of twenties for tonight and put it into my right pocket, then slid the rest into my left. In bars and in bottles were the only places I knew I could get away from Pauly. I put my palms onto the countertop. "I don't know what the point is. Maybe I'm stupid?"
"Don't lean on the counter," Mick said, then without missing a beat added, "Stupid for wanting to make music?"
"I guess. I don't know how to do anything else. It's not like I can just go be a teacher or accountant. I wouldn't even make a decent bartender. When I drop into a groove with Pauly and Stu, no bullet in the world can stop me. I truly believe I'd been born to make music."
My phone vibrated in my hand. Without thinking I flipped it open. The text came from another unknown number. It said,
I clenched my jaw. Joe Strummer said something like that in an article I read in SPIN after he died. I replied,
Mick watched from his stool, arms crossed. After a moment to let me calm down he replied with sudden earnestness, "I suppose you have to ask yourself if it's worth it. You think I saw the Beatles on Ed Sullivan and went to bed that night dreaming about running a music shop? My band gigged five or six nights a week anywhere we could—roller rinks, amusement parks. But you know what? I met a girl and had some kids. Now I have grandkids. I figure my life's okay. Not what I'd hoped, but okay." Mick stiffened as a pair of high school students came in. They headed straight back to Stu's drum kit.
"And at least once a day I ask myself, what if I'd have kept at it for another year more?" Mick waved me aside. Once his line of sight cleared he relaxed. "What if I'd have given it another year?"
I watched traffic rumble up Pleasant Street. Part of me secretly wished I'd see Pauly back out there. "So you think I should keep going?" I checked my phone. Dani said she'd call.
"You're going to fail a lot before you ever get it right, son. Your skin's thick enough and your head's hard enough that in a few years you'll know if it's time to give it up. Giving up too early leaves a pretty sour feeling, but it might be the only thing worse than hanging on too long." Mick tapped each word of his last sentence out on the counter.
I waited for what seemed like an appropriate amount of time before asking, "Can I bring some of my old stuff down here and put it on consignment?" Asking him wasn't easy, especially after he'd just shelled out all that money for Stu's gear.
"I'm not a bank."
"I know, and that's why I said consignment." I pictured the most humble person I could think of and tried to say it like they would.
"This ain't a pawn shop either." Switching gears, he said, "Before you go running off I got something for you."
He rang t
he register open. He lifted out the cash drawer with a clang of nickels and pulled out a scrap of paper. He set it onto the countertop. "It's about that record of yours. A friend of mine from the university says the songwriter's from up in Davis. There's an old-timey music thing this weekend. My friend says you should start nebbing there for Earl Black."
"Earl Black?" I said, just as stunned by the name as I was by the news.
"Jamie says the E's for Earl."
"I don't know what to say."
"Then don't open your mouth and ruin the moment like a brand new puppy shitting all over the carpet. Be here tomorrow morning by nine. Jamie says bring your guitar."
"Thanks, Mick. I mean it." I shook his hand, then tucked the scrap of paper into my wallet.
As I buttoned up my coat to leave, Mick said, "I'm trying to look out for you, son. The devil haunts a hungry man."
When I left Mick's the air went into my lungs a little stiffer. The city, and my life, felt a lot smaller than I thought it would without Pauly in it, like this really was the first day of the rest of my life.
I stopped at Monongahela Brewing, an old roller-rink just down the block from Mick's. Sometimes people called it 'The Stink' because of the yeast smell, but really it was the smell of the river in the summer. Big silver vats sat where the skate rental used to be. The stage sat at the other end. It was a big place, and if nobody showed up you sure noticed it. When a band went on, Ted lit up Lady's Choice or Shoot the Duck depending on how much he liked them. I'm pretty sure Pipeline was the only band to play the joint as a roller rink and as a brewery.
Onstage, Billy Club ripped through a set of generic southern rock. The song they played sounded like an obscure Allman Brothers' tune but they passed it off as an original. On the floor, business casual women in crisp white sneakers boogied to slide guitar and lyrics about what happens at the end of dirt roads on starry July nights. Or whatever. They played to a pretty empty floor.
Les Popovich used to sing for Pauly and me until the strain on his poor voice got to be too much. It wasn't like we were asking him to be Freddy Mercury or anything. After he quit I took a Sharpie to a Sex Pistols shirt he left at our house and wrote 'I HATE' in big letters right above the band's name. I got the idea from Sid Vicious, but apparently I'm the only person in the whole wide world who ever saw that episode of BEHIND THE MUSIC. In the end Les's split benefitted me because I never would've started singing otherwise.
I ordered a bourbon from a bartender who tried to get with me one night after a gig at Squares in Sabreton. She ended up with Pauly instead, poor girl. She had great blue eyes and a nice body, so when she smiled, I smiled back and wondered why I hadn't taken the bait. After I made a few jokes she loosened up and started setting me up with doubles. I told her about Isaac's and my dad and the record and put my phone on the counter in case Dani called.
I had two drinks right quick while I spun my phone around and around on the counter. When Les left the stage for set break I gulped the rest of my last drink down and followed him out. Out on University brake lights set the cold evening aglow with electric warmth. On the track above, a PRT car rumbled with all the ferocity that an electric tram could muster. Les and his drummer each lit up a Marlboro Light.
"Pres, hey man. How's it been?" Lester's gaze drifted to his drummer for a second and they shared a look.
"You guys sound good." I lied and stuck my hand out. "Preston Black."
The drummer put his cigarette into his mouth then shook my hand. "Denny Meyers."
"Hey Les, you looking for somebody to play a little rhythm? I could do the whole Keith Richards thing for you. Maybe sing some two-part harmony?" I felt like a fucking encyclopedia salesman or Latter-day Saint. Begging for sales or souls.
"What happened to Pipeline?" Les laughed. Still a douchebag.
"Stu's unit got redeployed," I said. That shut him down fast. "And Pauly got a job."
"You still got Mick, right? Maybe you and him can start something." Les laughed.
I studied his smirk for a moment. "Whatever, man. Go fuck yourself."
I pushed between them and walked toward the intersection.
"C'mon, man," Les said. "Here's my number... Three. Zero. Four."
I turned around and walked backwards for a few steps. "You're still an asshole. And your band sucks. Way to pack The Stink. Maybe pass out free t-shirts next time."
Les flicked his butt into the street. He put his hand onto Denny's shoulder and pushed him toward the door. "Maybe we need a roadie? That interest you?"
Adrenaline rippled through me and I had to keep shaking out my fists. My face burned. If Pauly had been with me we would've rolled him into the river. Instead I waited for the light to change. High above, another PRT tram rolled toward the University Avenue station. Behind me, Walnut ran beneath an old rail trestle down to the river's edge. Cold waves lapped the gravelly shore as a tug pushed ten coal barges up the river. When all was said and done, everybody was going somewhere except me.
The cold had a sobering effect on me, and I didn't like it. With my phone in my hand I went up to High, crossed against the light and went a little further up the block. Back in the day there were a bunch of good clubs that had live bands through here—the Shining Star, The Oasis, Rosewood and The Wooden Nickel. Johnny Cash supposedly played at the Nickel one time while running from state troopers trying to serve him with a warrant in Wheeling. Now dance clubs with loud music and cheap well drinks bookended The Nickel. They made playing there sound like playing in a blender. I paid my cover to a bouncer who didn't realize I always came in through the back door instead of the front.
I found a stool near the door, but far from the band. The smoke hung so thick I couldn't even really make faces out. Maybe I didn't want to. I set my phone on the bar and waited for the bartender. He flowed to a girl wearing fishnets and a Dead Kennedys t-shirt. The kind of girl who didn't know Henry Rollins from Harry Potter. An eight, but no Dani.
"Hey." I tried to get the bartender's attention. Then I recognized him. "Hey, Little Stevie Croe."
I stood up and shook his hand. "What's all this?" I reached across the bar and tried to grab his goatee.
"Hey, Preston. What the hell're you doing here?" Steve held onto my hand.
"Trying to get a job interview." I looked back at the band.
Stevie pulled me in for a quick hug, then pulled three shot glasses from the counter. He grabbed a bottle of Jameson and filled the glasses. "Good seeing you, brother."
Stevie raised the glass, closed his eyes and we drank. It didn't burn enough, and that's how I knew I was making a mistake.
"This one," Stevie said. "This is for Stu. Doing his duty so we don't have to." He refilled us.
"Fuck duty," I said, throwing it down. My throat glowed. My chest glowed. My head felt like Christmas lights. And before I could get sad, Stevie refilled the glasses again. I said, "He'll be fine."
"I know. But every time he goes back his chances get worse. Statistics, right? Like playing the lottery?" His thoughts tripped him up.
"He's fucking bulletproof, Stevie. I'm not worried," I lied like Madonna at confession. The seed Stevie planted in my head grew like skunk weed.
"I miss him already, Pres. And he's on the base for the rest of the month."
"Me too. But we'll be doing this with him in a year." We drank again. For a second I felt like I was drowning and got a little freaked out.
"I know." He put the bottle away and asked, "Where's Pauly? I ain't seen him in a while."
"Pauly's busy. I'm flying solo from now on."
"Tell him I said 'what's up', okay? Want anything else?" Stevie wiped his hands on a towel.
"Maybe a little more." I pointed at the Jameson. "Maybe a Coke to wash it down? Who are these guys?" I pointed at the band. They tried really hard to sound like The Ramones, except instead of singing about sniffing glue they stole their lyrics right out of The Misfits' playbook. "...The devil knows what's in your brain." I tried to ignore them.
>
He said, "They're from Uniontown," like I'd know what that meant. Stevie went back to the chica in fishnets. I drank and watched myself getting drunker in the mirror. More drunk?
The band made me jealous, the roadies made me jealous, Little Stevie Croe, who'd no doubt get a hand up that short black skirt as soon as he made last call made me jealous. I checked my phone again.
That Dani hadn't called me today only made it worse, so I put my phone away and had another Coke. When I finally stood up everything got real slippy, like I had ice on the soles of my Vans. I stumbled, and Stevie and the girl and the guys in between suddenly all looked a lot more sober than me. Stevie stepped to the end of the bar and I sat back down.
"Easy, Pres."
"Sorry, man. I'm okay." Every bartender probably knew that nobody was ever really okay, especially when they said they were. I tried to give him a ten.
"You're not driving, are you?" The way he said it made me realize how pathetic I must've looked. Like without a band or a girl I crumpled. Like I was never meant to be a solo act.
"Pauly got the kids and the car in the divorce. I'm hoofing it tonight. The walk'll do me good. But we should get together and talk, man." I never said shit like that sober. For a second I almost told him about the record and the song. But that all seemed kind of silly now, so we shook hands, then Stevie returned to his project. The goth girl dropped the coy act and smiled at Stevie like he was passing out free Gummi Bears.
I took my time getting up and went back outside. I shuffled through the semi-frozen sludge toward the Met, simultaneously nodding at and hiding from people I thought I might know. But my people left town a long time ago.
The Met was the kind of place I'd hang out at if I ever had time to hang out. We loved playing there. Lots of memorabilia on the walls—pictures of old local bands, vintage beer ads, old LPs. When I got there I sat down and ordered a Coke. Mikey caught me between songs and waved. He had reason to smile. His band had the place packed. People bounced at the edge of the stage. I sat for a few more songs then drifted toward the back of the crowd.
The Devil and Preston Black (Murder Ballads and Whiskey) Page 5