“I’m impressed,” he said, nodding slowly. The absence of any sort of accent was almost an accent in itself. “You’ve got a good touch.”
I nodded, trying to play it cool. “Thanks.”
“And a passable singing voice.”
“I wasn’t singing,” I said. Fuck, the balls I must have had.
His smile got wider and I set my guitar in the case, started to my feet.
“Not then, no.”
“Then how can you—”
“Oh please, Charles,” he said, waving his hand. A cigarette appeared in it, and then he was lighting it with a Zippo in his other hand. “Let’s not play games, shall we? You know who I am.”
“I suppose you know everything about me,” I said, still ballsy.
He let smoke drift out from between his lips. “Of course I do.”
“Of course.”
“For starters,” and he pointed at my guitar with his cigarette. “I know just how badly you want to make something of that.”
“What, you don’t figure a guy dreams of sitting on the sidewalk outside a fucking 7-Eleven store, playing for change?”
“Or not playing for change, as the case might be.”
“And I suppose you can help me out with that.”
“Maybe,” he said, flicking the cigarette away.
“I’ve heard the stories,” I said. And you know, to this day I’m not sure how I mustered up the nuts. I mean, we’re talking about the devil, for fuck’s sake. But I was twenty—I thought I knew shit. “How you met Robert Johnson at the crossroads—”
“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear,” he said. “My reputation’s taken a bit of a beating.”
I bit back the snotty response I was going to make.
“So,” he said, taking a step forward. “Do you want to be a rock and roll star?” He smiled so widely I could have counted his teeth.
And I said “Sure” like it was a foregone conclusion, like we were finally getting around to the heart of the matter after all the bullshit pleasantries had passed. Like when you’re scoring at someone’s house and you have to make fucking small talk before he pulls out the fucking scales.
He shook his head a little dismissively like, then he crouched down in front of my guitar case. “Nice guitar,” he said, looking down into it. “Was it worth all those bullshit hours you had to put in to buy it?”
It took me a second, but I twigged: if he knew everything about me then he sure as shit knew about that summer I worked at the restaurant, hoarding my tips, watching every penny until I could afford the guitar in the music store window.
“Yeah. Definitely worth it.”
He nodded, not taking his eyes off it. And then he reached out and he just touched it, ran his finger up the neck.
Nothing more than that.
Then he stood up, straightened his coat.
“Well,” he said, and I felt like I might burst from anticipation.
And he started to turn away. “Good luck with it,” he said.
“Wait,” I said, taking a step toward him. “That’s it?”
He stopped and turned back. “That’s what?”
That stopped me for a moment. I thought we were both talking about the same thing. “That’s all it takes? You touch my guitar and walk away?”
“All what takes?” he asked, like I was speaking a foreign language.
“That stuff . . .” I didn’t know how to put it. “All that stuff about me being a star. How does that work?”
He grinned, this big shit-eating grin. “Practice. Practice. Practice,” he said slowly, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. I wanted to punch him in the smug, fucking face. “I’ll be seeing you, Charlie Webber.”
And that time, he turned and walked away.
I looked down at my guitar, but I knew I wasn’t going to be busking any more that day. Not after that. Hell, I figured my busking days were behind me. I’d made my deal; it was time to start collecting.
I snapped the case shut and headed for home. I got there just as Desiree was waking up, and I crawled back into bed with her. She was late for her shift at the restaurant but her boss was trying so hard to get into her pants she could have taken a shit in the soup and she’d have been fine.
I didn’t touch my guitar that night. I left the case standing in the corner, and I smoked a couple of joints and listened to some records: Clapton and the Allmans and the Dead. I wasn’t scared or anything. I wasn’t trying to psych myself up. I just wanted to be ready, you know?
The next morning, though?
Jesus.
The next day, everything changed. I picked up my guitar and it just felt different, you know? I can’t really describe it, but it was like my whole relationship with it had changed. After I’d been playing for a while, after I was nice and loose, I decided to stretch a bit, test myself, see what I had gotten myself into. And that guitar sang. I was playing, really pushing myself, and it felt like I couldn’t hit a bum note.
So I just played for a while, seeing what I could do, and I hit this riff and I knew: it was gold. I mean, it was fucking “Satisfaction” gold, you know? You hear it and you’re like “Fuck, this is something else.”
Well, this was something else.
And then just as easy the words started to come. I had to run around like a headless fucking chicken to find paper and a pen and I kept repeating the verses in my head until I found them.
My first song.
I could have kissed that old devil.
I kept it up for who knows how long. I got lost in it. And when I came out it was after dark. I vaguely recalled Desiree leaving for work, but it hadn’t really registered with me.
I threw on a different shirt, grabbed my guitar, and headed down to the Marquee. Phil Astley and his boys were playing—it was a Monday night and they always played Monday nights—and he had told me that if I ever wanted to sit in I was more than welcome.
I had never done it—fuck, Phil and the boys were pros and I had no interest in stinking up the stage, but I knew I couldn’t lose now.
And I didn’t.
Phil seemed a bit surprised to see me, but he was cool about it. He took one look at my guitar and shook his head and gave me an electric. And Jesus, that was the night, man. That was the first night of the rest of my life.
I don’t remember what we played—it was all covers back then—but I remember how it felt, bending those notes, hearing my voice in the monitors. I got a blowjob from this chick in the men’s room, but the best part of the night, the best part, was when Phil looked over at me while I was playing with this look on his face, and I was all like “Yeah, motherfucker, this is what a star looks like.”
After that, I was in the band. We started doing things differently. Phil and I were both writing songs and we took turns at the mic. People started coming out to see us because we were something new, something different. We weren’t just some fucking bar band, we had some depth. Our own songs. Two singers. Two guitar players.
We started opening shows on big tours. Theatres and arenas all through the west. Phil had this fucking manager—Bill? Was that his name? He didn’t last long once I was in the band, once we started getting real gigs. Man, he’d have had us playing the Marquee every Monday night until we got old and dried up if he’d had his way. Andy, our new manager? He knew we were headed straight to the fucking top.
Phil didn’t last long either. The record company guy told me—just between us—that the band would be better off if there was just one focal point, just one set of pipes. Phil was holding us back, and me and the guys, we didn’t want to be held back. We were on tour, opening for—fuck, I can’t even remember—and we had a band meeting one night before Phil got there, and we let him know that he could play out the last few shows with us, he was . . .
Well, you kn
ow. The rest is history.
Me and the band made that first record, but it wasn’t the same, so I had to get rid of the rest of the band too. We had to scramble, because Andy had us a tour booked, but it all worked out. Charlie Webber. My name up in lights.
That first record was huge. Well, I guess you know that. And I was completely overwhelmed. I mean, my dreams were coming true, right? I got lost in it. Deer in fucking headlights.
And then I got home and it was like running into a brick fucking wall. I went from Charlie fucking Webber to would you mind doing the laundry while I’m at work? I mean, are you fucking kidding me? I had songs to write, for fuck’s sake.
I couldn’t hack it, man. I told Desiree I was leaving, headed to L.A. to work on the next record and I wasn’t coming back. I told her she could stay in the apartment for the rest of the month while she found somewhere else, but I’d given notice.
I was going to L.A.
I was already gone.
L.A.
L.A was a fucking dream come true. The record company put me up in a bungalow at the Chateau Marmont to write and it was a fucking party every night. You wouldn’t believe it if I told you. I mean, the first time I did blow it was with—well, I probably shouldn’t say. His estate isn’t exactly too fond of these kinds of stories.
And the women. Man. Chicks will do anything for a singer. Especially if he plays a little guitar, too. Anything. Hell, if I didn’t get my dick sucked before lunch, I was having a bad day. Those nights—man, I got into some fucked up shit, I gotta tell you.
But I was working hard, too. Work hard. Play hard. Fuck hard. Repeat. The second record, that was the one that broke us wide. Arenas all the way, headlining. Drugs. Chicks. Living the dream.
And it didn’t stop. There was no fucking re-entry, man. I’d finish out a tour and figure out where I wanted to record next. Who I wanted to record with. It was amazing.
I’d like to say that I never thought about him, you know? I’d like to say that, after that afternoon out front of the 7-Eleven I’d never given him a second thought, but that’d be a lie. Truth is, not a day went by I didn’t think about him, not a show that I didn’t think, at least once, well, this one’s for Old Nick. They were all for Old Nick.
So there were the records. And the shows. And the chicks. And the drugs.
Over time, I kind of built up a world around myself. It happens. You’re in a different city every night or two, you can’t really be expected to keep track of shit, you know? That’s why I had Derek.
Andy had hired him—he’d worked with him before. His formal title was Road Manager, but his job was to take care of me.
Worth his weight in gold, Derek. And that’s major—Derek was no tiny motherfucker. Huge. Built like a brick fucking shithouse.
He got me out of a lot of scrapes.
There was this one night—Buffalo? Toronto? Montreal? Boston? Fucked if I know. All I remember is it was cold. This must have been after the third or fourth record, I guess. God, it was a fucking gong show every night. After the concerts we’d have these parties, back at the hotel. Lots of chicks. Lots of drugs. Up all night. Falling into whoever you wanted, in whatever way you wanted.
Anyway.
This one night in Toronto or Buffalo or fucking wherever, there was this chick. Why can’t I remember her name? Anyway, she was in one of the bedrooms, and after everyone cleared out, she was still there.
She wasn’t going anywhere.
I don’t know if it was bad coke or too much coke or smack or what, but she’d taken her last hit, if you know what I mean. I mean, I wasn’t there when it happened, all right? I just found her, okay? I wasn’t there when she died. But I freaked the fuck out. I mean, there was a dead seventeen-year-old in my bed, and drugs all over the fucking place—what was I supposed to do?
So I called Derek, and he showed up in like two minutes, and he took one look and he says to me, “Why don’t you have a shower while I deal with our little situation here?”
So I went and had a shower and when I came out the girl was gone and the drugs were gone and he’d cleaned up all the puke. Motherfucker even made the bed.
I never asked him about it. I figured it was just one of those things, you know? And he never brought it up. Not even when he could have. When it could have saved him.
I feel like a total prick for what happened to him. But I wasn’t in any shape. . . .
I mean, that’s the thing, right?
You smoke a joint and you want to listen to records and have sex.
You do a little blow, you want to play a show and get your dick sucked and do some more blow.
You start doing smack, though? It’s not too long before you don’t give a shit about doing shows or about getting your dick sucked. It’s better than that. So much better. You just want to do more smack. You need to. It’s not even about getting high. It’s just about . . . I don’t even know how to describe it. It’s just . . . doing smack.
You don’t give a shit about anything else. You don’t give a fuck about who used the works, or what they might have. And you sure don’t give a fuck what happens when your road manager is arrested for possession and trafficking because he was mailing packages of heroin to himself from hotel to hotel so that you’d never have to go without, or figure out how to score in a strange city.
So yeah. I testified against him. I didn’t have any choice. It was all Andy’s idea anyway. He told me we’d get me clean so I could testify, and we’d make sure that Derek was taken care of once he got out of prison. So that’s what I did. I got clean. I testified. And you know, he could have rolled on me. He could have told the story about me and that chick in Buffalo or wherever. He could have told the jury what really happened, and how I asked him to mail the heroin ahead to every city we were going to be playing in, but he didn’t. He just fucking sat there and took it for the team. Didn’t even flinch when the judge sentenced him to three years. He was a good friend. He didn’t deserve to go like that, shivved and bleeding out in a fucking prison shower. He wouldn’t have even been there if it wasn’t for me.
But I guess nobody gets away with it forever, you know? Karma catches up. And it’s a bitch.
I’ve been in rehab three times, but I’ve quit quitting each time. It just didn’t stick. This time it did, though. It’s hard to argue with a morphine drip, and let’s face it, my chances of scoring in here are pretty fucking remote.
Hep C. The doctors tell me it’s either from a dirty needle or somewhere I was putting my dick. Not like it fucking matters—I’m laying here waiting for a liver, but I know my chances are slim. I’m not a good candidate—I’ve done way too much damage to myself, so any liver that comes in they’ll give it to some fucking soccer mom, two-and-a-half kids and a fucking mini-van.
And you know, they should. They totally fucking should. I’m the last person who deserves a second chance.
That’s what I’ve come up with, laying here. I don’t deserve a second chance. No, that’s not it. I’ve had nothing but second chances, and I’ve fucked each and every one of them. So this is it. End of the line.
I got that message loud and clear, when Old Nick himself swanned into my room, coat billowing even though there’s not the slightest fucking trace of a breeze.
“Hello, Charlie Webber,” he said. “I heard you were feeling poorly.” His smile reminded me of having the clap—just looking at him made me feel like I was pissing blood.
He hadn’t changed a bit. Hadn’t aged a day. Here I was, in a bed I was never going to leave, old before my time, ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag, and this cocksucker waltzes in, wearing that pretty-boy mask.
“You couldn’t even wait, could you?” I said, still ballsy, to the end.
He came right up to the head of the bed. “Wait for what?”
“To collect on your end of the deal.”
His smile bared his teeth. “What deal?”
I shook my head. “You fucker.” All bravado, right? I mean, what did it matter now?
He shook his head right back. “Charlie, Charlie, Charlie,” he said. “You really should have listened. You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
He leaned against the edge of the bed. “Her name was Amber,” he said. “The girl in Toronto. The girl you killed with the speedball. Remember her?”
I closed my eyes for a moment, finally nodding slowly, the bravado oozing out of me, leaving me flat.
“Yeah. Of course you do. Derek wrapped her body in the hotel sheets, and he dumped her in an alley near one of those cool hotels, you know the ones. Everybody figured that she scored in the club, went out into the alley to take her hit. They didn’t look at it too closely. Why would they? She wasn’t anyone. She didn’t matter. Not to you. Not to anyone.”
I thought of Amber, and of Derek. Of that night, and every night since.
“You cocksucker,” I muttered weakly, trying to find some way to argue with him. “You did this.”
“No, Charlie.” He leaned in close, his face just inches from mine, and for a moment I thought he was going to kiss me. “You did this. This is what you wanted. This is where you were headed all along.”
“But my guitar. You touched my guitar.”
This time, he did laugh, and I’ve gotta tell you, that’s a sound you never want to hear: the devil laughing at you. “And what? You thought I put a spell on it? You thought I’d given you some kind of gift?”
I was too embarrassed to respond—of course that’s what I had thought.
“It was a beautiful guitar, Charlie. You’d worked very hard for it. I was just admiring it.” He stood up and stepped away from the bed. “I wonder whatever happened to it.”
It took a second, but then the full weight of everything crushed in on me. That guitar—it had meant so much to me. It had been my world, and I hadn’t even thought of it in, fuck, decades. It was just gone. Just like so much else.
Seven Crow Stories Page 5