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.