An Augmented Fourth

by Tony McMillen

  The slight burn of the gin felt damn fine going down the pipe. I was already feeling a bit more myself after the two shots. So maybe that’s why I let the devil in me do the talking. “I’m still curious if he’s still looking for a drinking partner?”

  Marcus poured us our round and put the glass in my hand this time. My hand became a fist around the glass. “So these friends of yours, the ones who never made it back to the world with yo—”

  “Back to the world? You’re saying that like you know what that even means.” He shook his head and snorted. “I use to think like you, you know that? When I first got to ’Nam, heard guys talk like that about getting back to the world. What they were going to do when they got back to the world. The things they had planned. The jobs waiting for them. The women. The family. The future.”

  “But they never made it back,” I said.

  “No. You don’t get it. There ain’t no going back to the world. Not for anyone. Not for me. Because once you leave the world behind, even if you get back to it, it’s already moved on and now it’s you who’s left behind. It takes a while to figure out but soon enough it hits you. There ain’t no going back.” He went to knock back his shot but then stopped himself at the last second. “Oh excuse me, almost forgot, what’s your question?”

  I didn’t want to play anymore but the look on his face told me not to upset the game. “…was it your fault that they died?”

  He hesitated, something behind his eyes shifted. “Yes. Yes it was. I was their sergeant. And I made a very stupid mistake.” He took the shot, slammed his glass down. “And those men, those boys, they died on account of it. Each and every one. Yes, they did.” He looked back at the kid. The kid just put his head down and pretended to read the label on his tequila bottle. Marcus looked at me, then his eyes fell to my full glass. I knocked it back, welcoming the burn to my throat.

  “Okay, that’s the last one then,” Rikki said and she reached for the bottle of gin.

  Marcus slid it away from her slowly. “Last call, I’ll give you one more, Codger. What do you want to know?”

  Rikki looked to me like I had any idea what to do. So I said, “Sorry, I’m not feeling thirsty anymore.”

  And Marcus laughed. He poured two more shots. I backed away from the glass and Marcus laughed some more. “Ask me if I remember their names?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me, now ask.”

  “Fine, what were their names?” Rikki asked.

  “No,” Marcus snapped. “This is between me and the drunk. Ask me, Codger.”

  “Do you remember their names?” I asked him reluctantly.

  “Yes I do. Garrett Cook.” He took his shot, slamming his glass down and then pouring another. “Daniel Cleri.” He raised his glass, seemed to wait for me to do the same and when I didn’t he took the shot without me and filled his glass again. “Aaron McGrath.” He took his shot. “David Keaton.” He took his shot. “Nick Fimbers.” He took his shot. “Chris Irvin.” He took his shot. “Glenn…Glenn Lawrence. I never even liked Glenn.” Marcus looked down at the shot, the corners of his mouth curled in a blissful grin. Then he brought his head up and looked at me and I saw the tears spilling from his eyes. And as they ran down his face I didn’t know what to say. Because there was a moment when maybe I could have said something. Something to tell him that I saw him in pain, that I was sorry. That even if I could never understand what he’d been through that right now he wasn’t alone. Anything. But it passed. Marcus had taken his shot. And then I took the only one that I had remaining.

  Year Without A Summer

  Marcus became tremendously drunk and pissed himself. In fact he was rendered so utterly useless from the ten (or was it eleven?) shots that he imbibed that we used his passed out, piss-soaked body as a decoy and pushed him out the door of the kitchen and made a run for it while the monsters came and ate up his body and probably became quite shithammered themselves from consuming such a pickled and combustible piece of meat. That is what absolutely should have happened. But no, Marcus was as his reputation stated, a drinker of such uncanny talent and unimaginable threshold that he didn’t even appear to have as much as a buzz. Though admittedly it was hard to tell, seeing as no one in that room was saying a goddamn thing to each other anymore. Though on the brighter side thanks to being forced back on the medicine I was feeling positively bostin’. Well, not quite but my headache had left me.

  I was used to waiting around in tense rooms thanks to being in Friv for all those years, so what came next felt natural. Four people who didn’t really trust one another, sick to death of the dumb looks on each other’s faces, but stuck together in order to survive. And at least one of them (me) was a dredged up addict who was no use to anyone. That used to be Sully’s position in the cosmic scheme of things but now it was mine.

  I was never much on Tarot, but I had a girl at one time who was and she used to give me my future. It always seemed to revolve around the “Fool” card. She’d tell me this was a good thing, the fool symbolized the beginnings of a great journey or some such nonsense. This was around the time we’d just released our last record with Sully, Friv Today, Die Tomorrow—no I’m not going to apologize for the album title—and I was in no mood to hear anything about the beginnings of something great. In my mind, starting with the last two records before Friv Today, each album we made was worse than the one that preceded it. Which made this new one the worst thing we’d ever made. We had reached an all-time low in communication with each other, especially Sully. He could barely keep the lyrics straight I’d give him when we recorded. On stage he was a fucking slob; he had always been a nutter, hell, that’s why we hired him, that’s why we loved him, but now it wasn’t a good time. Now it wasn’t fun. It was obvious he was in pain, that he was out of control, and like any other group of equally damaged young men we promptly turned our backs on him when he could no longer keep up. But before we did, even though it was already practically a fucking certainty that he was out of the band, we made that last god-awful album and tried to drag ourselves through one more tour to support it. To give the marriage one last shot. If the old cliché has any teeth and bands are like marriages and the stage is the bedroom and playing live is sex. Well, we used to always be good in the bedroom no matter what. But now things were humiliatingly bad. The chemistry was gone, no one was getting off anymore, and our then-private lack of connection and intimacy reenacted itself in front of thousands nightly. I suppose if the live show was our sex life, that made our albums and our songs our children, and the last few had all come out half-formed, stillborn, or just shrieking masses of too many limbs and not enough eyes. Monsters. All of them should have never been carried to term. I didn’t blame them, of course, like all children it wasn’t their fault, it was the parents’. But like many a failing marriage before us, Frivolous Black thought a couple more kids might save our relationship.

  The new group I was in now, barricaded or trapped in that kitchen, was just as doomed. And I trusted them just as little. Sure, Marcus—who was keeping to himself at the edge of one of the tables after his one-man endurance contest—had confessed knowing something about this Earworm business. So what? He had told us about having a knowledge of these creatures and whatnot, but I still wasn’t sure about his intentions. He had lied to Frankie and all the rest of his clients over all these years which meant he was practiced at it. What was his objective besides simply monitoring these visited musicians? What would he do to me if we survived this? Would he hand me over to some clandestine government agency? Would I end up in some underground bunker that’d make the Japanese Unit 731 and the Nazi medical experiments look like a holiday camp by comparison? I couldn’t trust Marcus. Besides, he was a Yank. Then there was the kid. Another Yank—albeit a Mexican one… I think—who didn’t appear as if he knew anything, even about this shitty hotel he worked in. The only thing he did seem to know any amount about was me and my music. Young people and trivial fucking knowledge. And he seemed pretty al
l right on giving me up to that thing out in the lobby, the Earworm. Maybe it was just the Lennon shooting still murking up my mind, or the shit weed the kid had me smoke earlier, or, you know, the layer cake looking monster that had become of Frankie Gideon, but I was well into getting serious paranoid vibes from this whole situation. The kid looked like he was going to fish-gut me with that knife of his earlier. Of course now he just looked down mostly, leaning against the freezer door, probably traumatized, the poor sod.

  And there was Rikki. Spectre I trusted the most, or I suppose I distrusted the least. First off, she was British, which helped if I’m being honest. She was half Somali, father’s side I think, but she was born and grew up in England and that made all the difference to me. Even if she was a London girl. One who called me fucking Brummie, I might add. Second off, she was sort of famous. Which I knew sounded really superficial and callow, but when you’re sort of famous you learn it’s hard to trust anyone who isn’t famous too because everybody else wanted something from you. Your lover. Your friends you had before. Even your father. Everyone. At least most of the other lucky fuckers who get to be in Hit Parader or Rolling Stone aren’t trying to wring some more money out of your neck. At least not usually. But still, even with Rikki, something seemed off about her. About her story. I couldn’t put my finger on it quite yet but something didn’t add up. “You never told me why you didn’t evacuate with everyone else, Rikki.”

  She was leaning over a prep table, smoking and staring at her axe blade. “Yeah I did, sleeping. Nothing special, I was sleeping when they knocked on my door, that’s all.” She looked up from the blade. “You never told me what you were doing here that was so important that you missed the bus either.” She sniffed her nose and ran a finger under it then gave me a look.

  Smartass. What pissed me off the most was that she was right, I was a cokehead, and a drunk, but she was also probably not much better. She was just younger, putting shit up your nose and drinking ’til you blackout every night was still a total gas to her. For me it was just medicine, insulation from reality. I was old, my band had turned to shit, and now I was going to die with some punker who thought they were better than me. “Similar story, only I was asleep in the bleeding closet because I was all fucked up trying to kick booze and coke for the last few days. As I said before.” I might as well have stuck my tongue out and pulled on my ears. Rikki didn’t flinch.

  “Fuck, I could use a little blow right now.”

  “What a tulip you are, dear.”

  “Fucking baby, I’m not your bleeding mother so don’t expect me to coddle you, Codger.” She delivered it without even a hint of anger. An even, toneless voice. Like getting admonished by a robot, you couldn’t even enjoy that you had gotten a rise out of someone else.

  I laughed. I wanted it to be mean at first but it wasn’t. So I kept on laughing. And then she laughed. The kid smiled along. And then even Marcus from his corner of darkness chuckled. Funerals, everything’s funny at a funeral. Best comedy club there is. You’ll never get better laughs than at a funeral. And if anybody doesn’t laugh, well, fuck ’em, the stiffs. “You remind me of my mom, actually. Way you’re holding that axe and looking at me.”

  “Sounds like a sensible woman,” she said. She took out her pack of smokes. I eyed that there were only two left in the pack, she popped one in her mouth then passed the pack over along with her lighter. Class act, that one. I showed her my own pack but gave her an appreciative smile. She lit up then asked, “Anyone else hungry, ’cause I’m fucking starving.”

  “They have some stuff in the fridge, I could totally get you whatever you want,” the kid said. Little fucking idiot, god bless and keep him. I remember turning into a jelly every time a pretty girl ever talked to me too. It was kind of adorable and definitely sad. Like a puppy with one of those wheelie things attached where its hind legs used to be.

  “Yeah? If you really don’t mind, I’d eat anything that doesn’t have meat in it.”

  “Uh…” The kid looked like someone had asked him to recite Pi.

  “Not for nothing but this might be the last thing you ever eat,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if you’re a vegetarian because you find the taste of meat repulsive that’s one thing,” I said. “But if you don’t eat meat because of moral reasons, well, you might be dead very soon, so you might as well do whatever the hell you really want because you’re not going to be around long after to feel guilty about any of it.”

  “Hmm,” she said. “I applaud your dodgy reasoning skills.” She turned towards the kid. “Okay, fuck it, I’d like a steak, no wait, you’d have to cook that wouldn’t you…”

  “The cold fried chicken is lovely here,” I offered.

  “Okay, one of those then please.” The kid seemed relieved and opened the fridge door.

  “I’ll get in on that too if there’s enough,” Marcus told him.

  “Codger?” the kid asked.

  “Naw, I’m good for now, thanks… John.” I just wanted him to know I actually did know his real name. Just so I could tell myself I wasn’t such a prick. He disappeared into the fridge. I liked the kid. Even if I didn’t trust him, I liked him.

  Even though the bird was cold you could still smell the spices on it. It was heavenly. “Fucking Christ I’m excited, it’s been years since I had anything that actually tasted good,” Rikki said.

  “You think the smell will attract the Earworm?” I asked Marcus.

  “I don’t know what will or won’t attract that thing, except for you.”

  I thought I heard a slight slur in Marcus’ voice. Then I said, “Why me, I’m the bass player?”

  “But you’re the lyricist too,” the kid said. “And you’re a fucking great bass player. You’re Codger Burton, dude. The ‘Beast of Bass’ the ‘Lord of Low End.’ On ‘Tetrahex’ alone you prove you are not to be fucked with. I’m not trying to kiss ass or nothing but you’re easily almost as good as Entwistle or John Paul Jones and both of their bands can’t hold a candle to Friv.”

  What could I do but take the compliment? “Thank you, I suppose. But I still don’t think if Friv’s music is anything special it’s on account of me and my contributions. All our songs start with a riff from Vinnie, he’s the real architect of our sound. We build off of that, everything we do is in support of the riff. Sully’s melody, my bass playing, Burt’s drums, and then my lyrics, they’re all there to support that riff from Vinnie. Why isn’t this thing after him?”

  “Why heavy metal at all anyways?” Rikki said as she bit into a crunchy breast and started making obscene sounds as she set to chobbling the fried bits. “Ohsweemothroffuckgawthasgood.”

  “It seems to be moving the music towards a certain direction,” Marcus said. “Blues, rock and roll, hard rock, psychedelic, heavy metal… it’s shaping things towards harder and harder sounds. You know what I mean? Things keep getting progressively louder, harsher. It wants the artists who steer towards that aesthetic.” So, he was that sort of drunk.

  “I actually prefer mellower music,” I told them. “If it was up to me we’d record an entire album like the songs ‘Hidden Forest’ or ‘Year Without a Summer.’”

  “Ugh.” The kid sighed. “The acoustic songs?”

  “That’s some of their best work, twat.” Rikki jumped to my defense. She looked as surprised as me after she said it. “If you go for any of that old doomy, heavy bollocks.”

  “Yeah, ‘Year Without a Summer’ was actually slated to be the title track off my solo album until I lost my balls and scrapped the entire idea.”

  “You were going to do a solo album? Were you going to sing?” Rikki asked.

  “No, god no. I wouldn’t subject anyone to that. It was going to be real arty, instrumentals, maybe some spoken word on the top. Trippy, mellow stuff, maybe even sitar on some tracks. I had even booked two weeks in a studio to see what I could accomplish but luckily Vinnie talked me out of it.”

  “Luckily?�
�� Rikki said.

  “Yeah, can you imagine what Frivolous fans would have thought?” I pointed at the kid. “They barely tolerated that type of shit on our proper records, imagine what they’d do when presented with a whole album of like-minded tunes?”

  “I hate that… people’s expectations.” The smoke spilled up from her nose in a crooked arc. “I mean, sure, it’s a nice problem to have, to have people who think enough of what you do to have an expectation at all… but then you get stuck, like you, afraid to do anything besides what you know and what they know you can already do. There’s no way not to disappoint. I hate that.”

  “I’m not trying to be a dick or anything,” the kid said. “It’s just ‘Hidden Forest’ really drags down side one of Schizoid. Especially sandwiched right after the title track and ‘Tetrahex’ which are both so fucking rockin’ and heavy.”

  “It’s called diversity and dynamics,” Rikki explained. “You wouldn’t want every song to sound the same, would you?”

  “No, I don’t. All the heavy ones are heavy but they’re still all different. It’s just like… I don’t go to Frivolous Black for chilled out jams, I want them to rock my fucking balls off, you know? And sound all evil and sinister… and shit.” He added the last almost meekly. I had never heard “and shit” uttered this way before.

  “I’m sure there’s many who agree with you, kid,” I said.

  “I always thought the title of ‘Year Without a Summer’ was lovely.” Rikki tore out a large portion of white meat like a cat playing with a dead mouse.

  “Yeah, me too,” I said. “The title of the song comes from 1816 when Mary Shelley and Lord Byron and the rest of that mess were stuck up in that house telling each scary stories, doing opium, and probably shagging each senseless while it rained all summer long.”

  “Wait, who’s Mary Shelley?” the kid asked.

  “What’s this? Finally something the kid doesn’t know about one of my songs.”