Prologue - Part III

A week before, another edgy man wearing mirrored sunglasses drove a rust-bucket Ford Econoline van east on Interstate 40, just a half-a-mile from the Mississippi bridge, the one Chuck Berry sang about. It was a faded Portofino blue with California plates. From time to time, his shaded eyes checked the rear-view mirror as he drove five miles an hour over the speed limit—which everybody did. He didn’t want to stand out. He looked a bit older than thirty, or a well-preserved forty-five, with his dirty blond dreadlocks, splayed out like weeds under a black porkpie hat. On the seat next to him were a cell phone and a Rolling Stone magazine opened to page forty-three, showing an article about the up-and-coming band, Cold Irons Bound. The producer’s name, Paul Flowers, highlighted in yellow. In the glove box was a Smith and Wesson .22-caliber revolver. Some guy Flowers had ripped off in L.A. had given it to him. Money, too. He didn’t need any outside motivation. His reasons were good enough. The cell phone was a fringe benefit.

From that same article, he learned the band was doing a showcase at 12th and Porter on Wednesday, still a few days away. He’d asked a young Southern bartender about the band—where they were rehearsing and so forth. The barkeep revealed the band might be rehearsing at Studio Instrument Rentals near the river downtown, but he wouldn’t swear to it. Worth checking out, but not that night. Instead, he drove back to the forty-dollar-a-night motel on the north side of Music City to relax, watch some TV, hell, maybe even catch a porno. Tomorrow was another day, another day closer to finding Flowers.

Prologue - Part II

He met Bob through Chip Benjamin, the manager of Cold Irons Bound. Chip had hired him to produce the demos, promised him the world but, as of yet, hadn’t paid him a plug nickel. After Bob had painted his house and studio, Chip suggested that he move in with the house painter since the guy had and extra room and lived close to SIR, the rehearsal studio. Since he didn’t have a car anymore, it seemed like a good idea.

That was in July of 2014, eight long months before. He was sure of that. The canceled check taped to the wall served as a reminder he’d even had a bank account when he came to town. That didn’t last long. The phone company had disconnected his cell phone service, his only lifeline to the outside world, two days earlier. Bob took a twelve-pack with him on the job, and when he got home, graduated to bourbon, usually some worthless crap, Early Times or Ten High. He drank until he wound up like he was at that moment, comatose on the couch. In the morning, he’d start the same routine all over again.

“Fuck, I need another drink.” Hoping Bob had some rotgut stashed someplace, he rummaged through the cabinets, the cupboard, and even the place behind the ironing board. Nothing. Collapsing into an oil-stained wooden chair, he grabbed a pen from a cluttered shelf and started writing on the back of an overdue water bill. The pen was dry. He found a pencil. It broke halfway through. “What the—” Picking up the incomplete note, he dropped it into an ashtray on the rickety table, struck a match, and watched it burn until the last orange ember died. Lighting a cigarette, he staggered outside.

Soon he stood at the edge of a marshy bank. Nashville’s Cumberland River was swollen from the extreme amounts of rain, the wettest March in recent history, with ten days left in the month. There had been flood warnings, and even Channel Five’s sexy weather lady had advised everyone to stay clear of all rivers, lakes and streams.

He was of two minds about doing it. In fact, he was always of, or rather in two minds—that was the problem. He scanned the leaden skies for a sign. There was no sound but the angry din of rushing water and the traffic in the distance like some faraway ocean. Maybe God would finally show up and shoot a lightning bolt at his feet as a divine warning, but God was probably busy deciding the outcome of some high school football game. Should have told them all the truth a long time ago. Especially Nick and Eleanor—none of this would have ever happened. Could have called Mom for the money. Begged, borrowed, or stole. All over a lousy hundred bucks. Was it worth it? But this? Kind of extreme. Dontcha think?

He loosened the belt of his black Mackintosh, the one he’d bought second hand at Aardvark’s in Los Angeles, and cupped the inside pocket to make sure it was there. He knew it had seen better days, but it was still there along with all the junk food, cellophane wrappers, and who-knows-what he’d stuffed in his pocket over the last few weeks. But the scroll was a keepsake, a reminder of one of the few truly selfless things he had ever done.

Go back home and have another drink—think it over. Have I ever steered us wrong before? He took a deep breath, tossed his cigarette into the sinuous river, and imagined it scurrying off like a rat up a pipe. Shutting off his mind, he said out loud, “Constantly,” and jumped. Both of him.

He thought, this is it, the end at last.

It wasn’t. Not even close.

Champion of Lost Causes - Prologue part 1

PROLOGUE – DOWN ALONG THE COVE

HE HATED THIS house and everything in it. The shredded sofa in his eight by ten foot room defiled by some feral cat—a former non-paying tenant. At least he could have something to relate to if the cat were still here. It would be better than trying to communicate with his landlord and roommate, Bob Seward, whose face looked like it had been on fire and someone had put it out with a pickax. Now curled up in a fetal position on the disgusting living-room couch, said roomie was down for the count.

“Beautiful.” He shook his head while downing the last drops from a fifth of Early Times. Closing one eye, he peered into the neck of the bottle. Gone. He let ‘er rip like Tom Brady throwing a Hail Mary into the end zone. Well, almost. Shards of clear glass were right at home in the kitchen with the burned-down cigarette butts, dozens of crushed Old Milwaukee beer cans, mounds of empty Stouffer’s lasagna cartons and pizza boxes, all left for the flies and maggots to divide and conquer. He tried to open his eyes but the glaring bare bulb was too much and he reduced them to slits. An ant army paraded up the ingress of the battered wooden door disappearing into a four-inch crack in the peeling plasterboard.

He wished he could get on a plane and go back home, but that jet had already left the tarmac, taxied down the runway, and was plummeting nose-first from the not-so-friendly skies. As for his wife, Eleanor—well, it was too late for that. He felt like calling Nick, but remembered his son hated when he called while drunk. How long had it been? The days had slipped into months, and months into—had it become years?

It came to him. About a year before on the phone, that one time Nick said, “Do the world a favor. Fuck off and die already.” Ungrateful kid. Would Nick even recognize him now? Hell, he could hardly recognize himself. Sometimes, when he washed his face in the sink, which wasn’t that often, he’d wonder who that fat old man was with the scraggly beard, deep lines etched in his forehead and venous nose staring back at him in the mirror.

Wasted half the time, He knew Nick had been too young to realize what was going on. His inebriated father could always hide it well. Not so much anymore. He thought about the season when he coached Nick’s Little League team. That hadn’t ended too well and Nick never really forgave him for what he did. He wished he had a time machine and could go back, begin it all again. How had it gotten so fucked up?