Streetlights Like Fireworks

by Pandolfe, David

  ~~~

  Too soon, though, we’re walking back. The sun is directly above us now, beating down. It has to be well into the nineties and the shade offered by the trees planted next to the sidewalk is definitely losing the fight to all the concrete and glass around us. My shirt is starting to soak through, not exactly the best feeling after eating a burger. Lauren, on the other hand, seems fine. She keeps looking around at people and buildings just as interested as when we’d walked up the same street before. I guess she’s not bothered by the fact that we’ll soon be getting back into the van with nowhere to go but I’m not feeling that way at all.

  Despite the heat, the same old guy remains sitting on his milk crate where we saw him an hour ago. As we approach, I almost recognize the song but can’t quite place it. Again, he’s putting his own spin on it, making the song his own. He’s an interesting old guy, that’s for sure. He has to be at least sixty and before he was playing a Pixies song. But, okay, sure—the Pixies have been around since the late eighties. So, I guess he would have been in his thirties back then.

  We’re just a few feet away and the song keeps nagging at me. I know this melody. The chord progression sounds really familiar. I stop walking and Lauren does too. I listen as he sings, trying to place the lyrics.

  Looking at the sky, something for the eye.

  Trying to forget, what hasn’t happened yet.

  I think I’m going to be a long time…

  I think I’m going to be a long time coming down.

  Suddenly, I recognize the song and it feels like the world stops. I no longer hear the cars and busses or remain aware of the other people walking by. There’s just the song and, inside my mind, the image of the woman who once fronted a band that broke up almost twenty years ago. A woman no one has heard from since.

  This time I don’t think to leave any money in his case. I start walking fast back toward where we left the bus. All the same, he calls out, “Keep the faith, my man.”

  A moment later, Lauren catches up to me. She grabs my elbow and I stop. I turn to face her.

  Lauren looks into my eyes. “What just happened?”

  “I know who she is,” I say. “Remember Purge?”

  “The band?”

  I nod. “Right, the band. Purge”

  “Holy shit,” she says. “This just keeps getting more cool.”

  11

  Facebook Friends in Music City

  We sit in the van, engine running and windows down while we wait for something resembling AC to kick in. The VW bus is old and even though it’s been nicely restored it’s still not up for a summer afternoon in Charlotte, North Carolina. My shirt sticks to my back. Lauren’s face is sheened from the walk back, especially after sprinting to catch up with me.

  Now, I’m not sure why I started rushing back to the van. I guess I just wanted to get somewhere to sort things out. But the VW bus only offers a place to sit while the sun beats down on its roof. It’s not like I know where to go.

  “Do you really think it’s her?” Lauren says.

  I can see her more clearly than ever now. Wild red hair and intense green eyes I’ve seen so many times from old photos.

  I nod. “Jessica Malcom,” I say. “I’m sure.”

  Why I hadn’t realized before amazes me on one level but makes perfect sense on another. I just haven’t thought about Purge in a long time. I used to listen to them when I was first learning to play, trying to get that same raw, honest sound to come out of my guitar. They were a very cool band and Jessica Malcom’s voice had cut like a knife. But a million other bands have come along since. Over time, I almost forgot this band that broke up before I was even born.

  Lauren takes out her phone and starts tapping at the screen. I know what she’s doing but I also know she won’t find anything. I have no doubt about it. It wasn’t so much that Purge had been forgotten. They had their place in history, definitely. They’d kicked ass, even though they’d just been an indie band out of Boston. They’d also been influential. In fact, Frank Black from the Pixies mentioned a few times how Purge had helped shape their sound. The two bands had even toured together. Who knows, maybe Purge would have been bigger than the Pixies, or even Nirvana, if they’d kept going. Word was they’d been about to sign with a major label when something derailed them.

  No one really knew what happened. Sure, there was speculation about band members not getting along, drugs, all kinds of stuff. But the only thing known for sure is that one of the coolest indie bands from that era suddenly called it quits. What was weird, though, was that the lead singer and songwriter, Jessica Malcom, totally vanished. No one seemed to know where she’d ended up.

  Now, here she was seemingly calling out to me from wherever she’d gone—which made no sense at all. Could I really have somehow ended up with her guitar? Freaking cool beyond belief, but still. How could that have happened?

  “Tohru says maybe she can help,” Lauren says.

  Only then, it occurs to me that Lauren was texting rather than randomly researching. “Who’s Tohru?”

  “Just a friend. Well, not just friend. She’s like us.”

  I crack a smile, thinking back to the old TV commercials on YouTube. “Hang on, do you mean she’s a psychic friend?”

  Lauren smiles too. “Well, I was trying to avoid that phrase. But, yes, she’s a psychic friend. Her roommate’s psychic too.”

  I search my memory but I definitely would have remembered that name. “How do you know them?”

  “Facebook.”

  “Seriously, they’re Facebook psychic friends?”

  Lauren laughs. “Yep. But here’s the thing—Tohru is really into music and she’s mentioned Purge a bunch of times. They’re one of her favorite bands.”

  “Wow, weird coincidence,” I say.

  Lauren raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to since just that much tells me what she’s thinking.

  “You don’t think it’s a coincidence.”

  Thankfully, Lauren doesn’t say there’s no such thing as a coincidence. Obviously, sometimes that’s all it is. But she does say, “You just never know. Anyway, maybe she can help us think of something. I didn’t go into the whole thing. I just figured we could talk to them when we get there.”

  Which brings to mind the obvious question. And something tells me I’m probably not going to love the answer. “Where do they live?”

  Still, Lauren doesn’t even hesitate. “Nashville,” she says, like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world. Then she adds, “I know what you’re thinking but it’s only like six hours from here. We could be there by tonight easy.”

  While yesterday I definitely would have freaked out at the idea, today not so much. I only think for a few seconds, then say, “Sure, why not? After all, my parents told me to take my time and do what I have to do.”

  “Something like that, right?”

  “Exactly.”

  Lauren puts on her sunglasses and starts the engine. “Cool, let’s do this.” Then she thinks for a moment and rummages in her bag. “Here. Totally forgot I had these.”

  She hands me a pair of wrap-around sunglasses, thick black frames with giant tear-drop shaped lenses.

  “You just happened to have these with you? Did you like mug Bono or something?” All the same, I put on the sunglasses.

  “You look good in those,” Lauren says. “More mysterious. Like a man in charge of his own destiny.”

  I’m not exactly sure what she means by that but a moment later she pulls away from the curb and merges into traffic on Tryon Street. Neither of us even glance in the direction of the Trolleyman Brewery.

  ~~~

  In the dream, Jessica Malcom is with a man this time and the two of them are arguing. I can’t hear what they’re saying. It’s like a silent movie with just their mouths moving and them gesturing wildly at each other. Maybe it’s because he’s moving his hands all over the place but I notice the rings on his fingers. He must have a thing
about rings because he’s wearing a lot of them. Then he turns his back on her and walks off. Just like that, he’s gone and she’s standing alone crying. But then I’m on a plane and the ride keeps getting more bumpy. Suddenly, the plane is rocking back and forth and stuff is spilling out of overhead compartments. My heart hammers in my chest and now oxygen masks are dropping from the ceiling. I’m white-knuckling the armrests and I look down at my clenched hands, all those rings pressing into my fingers. We’re spinning like crazy and I’m screaming my head off when everything suddenly goes black.

  I sit bolt upright, thinking I’m still on the plane, that I’m still him. Then I see the road stretching out ahead and realize I’m in the van.

  Lauren looks over at me. “Another dream?”

  My heart continues thumping away. I push my hair back and wipe sweat onto my jeans. “Yeah, I really need to stop falling asleep while we’re driving. Maybe it’s this old bus that’s haunted.”

  Lauren laughs. “You never know. And I guess it would make for better company.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. What was it this time—did you see her again?”

  I shake my head, trying to clear the dream. Damn, that last part on the plane felt totally real. “Yes. But other stuff too. Totally random.” I tell her about Jessica and the man arguing, about the rings on his fingers and then being on the plane that was going to crash.

  Lauren keeps her eyes on the road. “Yeah, that is pretty weird.”

  “There’s something else,” I say. “The guy in the dream…” I’m not entirely sure, but I feel fairly sure. I’ve just never seen him alive before.

  “What about him?”

  “I think he’s the ghost.”

  Lauren doesn’t say anything for a few minutes and I guess she must be thinking. Finally, she says, “Why do you think you experienced that just now?”

  It’s kind of a strange question since you could ask the same about any of the flashes or dreams I’ve had so far. “I don’t know. It was scary as hell, that’s for sure.” After a moment, I add, “What about you?”

  “I think he wanted you to know,” Lauren says. “For some reason, he wanted you to know how he died.”

  I give that some thought. “Because maybe it was sudden?”

  Lauren nods. “That’s what I think too. Like maybe there was something he still wanted to do but never got the chance.”

  ~~~

  By the time the sun starts getting low on the horizon, the GPS shows we’re still a couple hours away from Nashville. It’s funny how six hours can sound like a short time but not seem that way when you’re trying to get somewhere. I start thinking about Tennessee again. I’ve never been there either and it’s always sounded so far away. Strange to think that it actually borders North Carolina and Virginia way down south. Still, just thinking the word “Tennessee” brings to mind all the deep south stereotypes you see in movies. Hillbillies sitting on front porch rocking chairs holding shotguns. Bluesy harmonicas, bayous and burping bullfrogs. At the same time, I know many people think the same about Virginia. People I talk to online sometimes freak when I mention living there, like they imagine my family living on a cotton plantation. How is it down there? Is it okay? They never exactly say it, but I know what they mean since the media always portrays the south like it’s still 1956. But the fact is, the south is a mixed bag. Most of us have all our teeth, don’t plan on marrying cousins and banjo playing is not required.

  As for Nashville, I’m not sure what to expect. For one thing, I’ve never been much of a country music fan. While I’ve heard things have changed in Nashville over the years, I still kind of think of it that way. As if to underscore that feeling, our luck with the radio is pretty much zero now that we’re in the middle of nowhere. By the time the sun sets and we’re barreling along in the dark, we’re stuck with classic rock or country again. So, we turn the music down and try silence for a while.

  Still, after a few miles it feels like I should probably say something.

  “July fourth is just a couple of days from now.” The thought doesn’t come completely from nowhere. I was thinking about my family and the stuff we used to do before things started unraveling. I glance over at Lauren.

  “Yeah,” she says. “Almost forgot.”

  “Any plans?”

  Lauren stares out at the road. “Not such a big fan of that particular holiday.”

  “Why’s that?”

  For a minute, she doesn’t say anything and I wonder if she isn’t going to answer. Then she says, “All those families. Outside. Where everyone can see them.”

  Lauren reaches for the radio and turns up the volume just in time to catch the intro to an old Guns N’ Roses song. I don’t exactly get the feeling she really wants to hear the song. All the same, she turns it up some more.

  ~~~

  It’s pushing ten o’clock when we cross the bridge into Nashville. Spires of light rise into the sky and the city casts a shimmering rainbow reflection on the river. Before long we’re downtown driving along Broadway. Music spills out of bars with open doors and I notice right off that it’s not just country. I hear blues and rock mixing in too. Street musicians play wherever they can find room on sidewalks packed with people striding along talking and laughing. The street is an open air party and the focus of that party is music.

  “I guess this is what Saturday night looks like in Music City,” Lauren says. “Seems cool.”

  “Very cool,” I say, not taking my eyes off the scene around us.

  But we’re just passing through and twenty minutes later we pull up in front of a brick apartment building. Lauren sends a text and within seconds one of the sliding glass doors opens on a balcony above. Two women appear and stare down at us. It’s hard to be sure from a distance but they’re probably in their early twenties. They both hold beer bottles.

  “Psychic Potato, is that you?”

  “Twitter name,” Lauren explains, before rolling down her window. She calls up to the balcony. “Woo-Woo Girl?”

  “That’s me, right here next to Vibezilla! You made it! Just park right on over there in the visitor space and come up!”

  “You’re really going to like Tohru and Shakeesha,” Lauren says. “I just know it.”

  We park, they buzz us in to enter and we go upstairs to an apartment unlike anything I’ve seen before. Artwork is displayed everywhere—paintings, photos, posters and sculptures—in all kinds of styles ranging from classic to totally bizarre. A six-foot statue of a woman with a rabbit head kneels in a corner reading a book. Papier-mache bats circle above, attached by string to a ceiling fan. Detailed pencil drawings of hands and faces line the walls alongside both color and black and white photos. A pink Christmas tree stands decorated with Day of the Dead skull lights. There are easels with canvases showing works in progress. As for sound, jazz—a mix of horns, drums and bass coming from speakers somewhere. Within less than an hour, Music City has taken on a whole new meaning.

  I watch as Tohru and Shakeesha continue to hug, laugh and talk. It’s cool to see how excited they are to be meeting each other in person. After all, what were the odds of Lauren ever dropping in out of the sky like this? It’s like I’m not even there and I’m totally fine with that but I guess I blow it by continuing to watch them.

  Lauren suddenly breaks it off and says, “Oh, sorry! This is Jack.”

  “Hi,” I say, giving a little wave.

  “Jack has an issue,” Lauren says. “We’re trying to figure it out.”

  Really? Thanks so much, Lauren. But she’s totally in the moment, not even realizing how weird that sounded.

  “I can totally help Jack,” Shakeesha says. “Tohru, can we help Jack?”

  “You betcha! What you need first is a beer, my man!” Tohru is maybe five feet tall but has a deep voice that doesn’t match up. It’s like hearing a fog horn when you expect a whistle. “You too, Potato!”

  Tohru goes into the kitchen and Shakeesha motions f
or us to follow her toward the living room. A few seconds later, we’re clinking beer bottles, standing in a group. It’s not like I’ve never scored a beer before, but it does feel strange not to be trying to hide it somehow.

  “To the arrival of Psychic Spud!” Shakeesha says.

  “To Jack’s issue!” Tohru says.

  We drink to the toast, me blushing, then Shakeesha says, “It’s so cool you’re here! Come on, grab a seat!”

  Shakeesha gestures toward the collection of furniture, which includes a futon sofa, two bean bags, one rocking chair, a stand-alone hammock and a leather lounger with more scars and creases than a ninety year old man. Shakeesha and Tohru take the sofa, Lauren settles into the rocking chair and I stand there deciding between one of the bean bags, the hammock and the geezer lounger. I choose the battered lounger and, naturally, can’t resist the lever which raises my feet to face level and leaves me staring at the ceiling. I check to see if anyone noticed me spill beer on my shirt but Shakeesha, Tohru and Lauren are filling each other in on what’s going on in their lives. I listen and learn.

  “My friend, Antonio, was hanging out with us last week,” Shakeesha tells Lauren. “And I totally knew something was eating at him. Baby, I know Antonio and it’s not like he’s real good at hiding his emotions. Am I right, Toe?”

  “Totally!” Tohru barks.

  “So, like, after a while Antonio says he’s been worried about his mother. She just doesn’t sound right lately, he says. Well, Antonio’s mother lives all the way out in Arizona so he hasn’t seen her in a while. So, I do a reading. Sure enough, I get that she’s been light-headed and even getting some… what do you call it again?”

  “Vertigo,” Tohru says.

  “Yeah, vertigo. So, I tell Antonio he needs to call his mother and ask. Turns out she didn’t want him to worry. But Antonio gets his mom to see a cardiologist and two days later they’re putting a stint in her heart. Poor thing could have had a stroke!”

  Shakeesha can tune into someone she doesn’t know like that? I really want to know how that’s possible for her.