When we step outside, the protest is winding down. Signs sag forgotten as most of the college kids stand quietly conversing with one another. Most look bored yet prepared for a few more hours of tepid resistance. The cadence from their singsong chants is gone, replaced by a light breeze that billows through the dirty streets. They’ll drift home soon, proud that they took a stand against corporate greed. Only, the toxic chemicals will still be dumped in vacant mine shafts on the blasted mountains, the groundwater still contaminated by years of sludge pond seepage and other pollutants. This anger was only a gesture to make them feel like they’d done something against the inevitable. That sounds like harsh condemnation, but really, what more could they have done? When you’re as powerless as we are, even a gesture is something to be admired.
One figure moves through the mass of wilting kids. A long-legged man wearing a dark denim jacket, a brown felt western hat pulled low over his face. His boot heels clack on the asphalt as he hands out flyers. Though he is likely among allies, there is nothing friendly in his demeanor as he hands over the pamphlets. It seems an obligation, the sort of unpalatable task that makes a man commune with those he despises. The college kids don’t seem to notice. Most take the papers with a nod. They read with furrowed brows, eyes lingering on the ground as the man moves on to the next cluster of bodies. The cowboy moves fast through the young ones but slows to chat with an elderly couple. He nods in agreement to something said by an old man wearing reflective orange mining stripes on his workshirt. It’s during this conversation that I notice the gun belt slung low on the cowboy’s hip. The wooden handle of a revolver juts from underneath his denim jacket. Plenty of men in Coopersville County wear guns. Even more own at least one rifle for hunting or a shotgun to kill varmints. Still, the fact that he displays it, out for all to see, it reminds me of the sort of men who walk the aisles of grocery stores with assault rifles on their backs. Carrying a gun for self-defense in a dangerous town is one thing. Walking around with one on display seems to be waiting for the opportunity to use it.
As I’m climbing into the truck, I notice a piece of paper stuck under the windshield wiper. Caroline plucks it up and is in the process of crinkling it into a ball before I stop her.
“Let me see that,” I say.
She hands it over. There’s not much text, except a bold typeface on the header that reads STOP THE MARCHES AND MAKE A REAL DIFFERENCE. Below is the URL for a website. I look out the dirty window to check if the cowboy is handing out any more pamphlets, but he’s gone. I shove the paper into my pocket while Caroline secures the guitar behind her seat.
It takes us an eternity to reach home. Caroline accelerates into the curves and is late applying the brake, but the pills have me too high to mind being tossed around the cab. Out the window, trees with trunks white as false teeth pass by. Crows pick a few bites from roadkill splattered across the margins before flying away from our approaching grille. Steve Earle’s “Copperhead Road” plays on the radio, but I turn it down. Music only makes the memories of Angela stronger. Better to listen to tires on the busted blacktop, the wind rushing in through the cracked windows. I know she will be in my dreams tonight.
There is no bridge across the creek that separates my house from the lone dirt road leading back toward civilization. It has one shallow bend that can be forded by a vehicle if it rides high enough. The county would build something if I kicked up a fuss, but I view it as a useful deterrent. If anyone wants to find me, they’ll have to risk being washed away by a high swell.
My father baptized me in this creek. Broke ice from idle December waters and plunged me under. After my back began to curve, he took me to the creek again. This time a witch woman named Lady Crawford anointed me in oil. She covered every inch of me until I was slick and said that the Lord might provide his salvation. That night I learned two things: I’d never see a doctor and my father would never be sane.
Caroline parks the truck in the driveway and hops out. “Need help?” she asks. She offers a hand, but I just shake my head. Caroline walks toward the house. I watch her go, those long legs cutting through high grass perfect for snakes. Once inside, I check out the website on the flyer, which turns out to be the page for an environmental whistle-blower group called The Watchmen. The site is full of videos of oil spills where animals lie beached and covered in the combustible liquid. Clips where methane gas, only visible through the filter of a special lens, boils from the earth. Fracking operations where Midwesterners can light their tap water on fire. The more I see, the more I begin to wonder just how much the poisoned creek I was baptized in affected my body. Did the pollution change me while I formed in my mother’s womb, or was the damage done when my father dunked me? Is there an answer here, or is the reason nothing more than the random shit luck of genetic mutation?
I remind myself that not all the material online has equal merit. The problem with the unlimited information of the Internet is so many fraudulent claims. The ravings of liars, bots and misinformed reactionaries can be easier to find than legitimate journalism. Still, the videos are hard to ignore. What I can’t reconcile is the messages of warning on the site versus the man who left the flyer. This seems like the work of a benign progressive group, the sort to push for legislation guaranteeing lower emission rates and recycling programs. The cowboy seemed weary past words.
I should be writing for Angela instead of reading all this, but more and more, all I want is to escape into my secret project. It’s a concept album that’s been formulating since I began watching the environmental protests happening in my backyard. All the songs are performed by a sick minstrel I’ve created who travels a wasteland version of America with only his guitar, playing concerts for the beasts along the road or the starving strangers he meets. No narrative existed early on. Just daydreams of the man lost, singing among bleached bones until eventually he found a boy hiding in the graveyard of some city.
As soon as the boy entered the fantasy, I knew I had to finish. I didn’t want my own project, but when I picked up the guitar it was like playing old classics instead of writing new material. That’s never happened before. I also knew The Troubadours couldn’t have these songs. Of course, now that I’ve made that decision, I’m not sure what to do about it. After I provide Angela with the last few songs I owe her, I’ve only got enough money squirreled away to sustain a few years of isolation. What I don’t have is money for a proper studio to record and master these new tracks, and I can’t keep writing for Angela if I want to make my own music again. I’m not that productive.
A bigger issue is whether people will accept the music from me. I decided a long time ago that the world needed my magic but didn’t want to hear it coming from such a ruined man. It wasn’t just my insecurity. I’ve watched enough audience reactions to know it’s an unpleasant truth. While the grotesque can create, they aren’t a welcome vessel for presentation. At least, I used to think this. The moment in the pawnshop has me questioning that belief.
I close my eyes and try to tap into where I left off in the narrative of my last song. The man walking tired and hungry. The boy beginning to lag. The child is ignorant of the old world, so the man instructs his younger companion with history lessons set to music. The lyrics chronicle a world our hubris destroyed, referencing blue skies and lush vegetation the boy will never see. When they rest during the day, the man sings the kid to sleep with songs about places more than ash. The boy hums them when they travel by moonlight. Some nights, I hear these wasteland lullabies when I lie down to rest. Clear and bright, accompanied by the lonesome sound of a harmonica with a busted reed the man has scavenged.
I’m outside on the porch, picking out a verse for Angela when I smell something on the wind. A scent that reminds me of fires from my youth. My father often preached at revival bonfires, the night lit up as if God’s power radiated through him. Sometimes the congregation threw books and records they found sinful on the blaze. Those flames always burned the highest. The scent of melting vinyl and old leather bindings lingered in my hair for days afterward.
I see the plume of dust first, then a black hearse materializes in the distance, bouncing hard over potholes in the dirt road. Its windows are tinted a presidential black. Even with mourners at the door, no funeral home ever risked its Cadillac on these trails. When the chicken farmer’s wife passed years ago, her coffin was strapped down in the bed of a pickup and brought home to be interred beneath some apple trees. The same with my father. I lean on my cane as the vehicle stops in the middle of the road. The death wagon is an old Lincoln with a grille like a lunatic’s smile. Creekwater beads on the polished hood, and I wonder how they ever made it across.
Two men climb out. The passenger is a lanky scarecrow of a man that I recognize immediately. The cowboy from the protest. Closer, I see he’s wearing a different western-cut gingham shirt, straight-leg jeans and a rodeo belt buckle that glints in the sun. The brown felt hat sits low on his head as he saunters forward in ostrich-skin boots. The sandalwood grip of a six-shooter juts from the holster on his antiquated gun belt.
The driver resembles no mortician I could’ve imagined. A young man in dark denim and a sleeveless T-shirt, feet covered in two-tone black-and-white oxfords. Barely an inch of his exposed skin is free of ink. Arms illustrated with arch-backed Halloween cats yowling at zombie lovers who rot in each other’s arms. Green-skinned witches drawn like pinups fly across the ham of his bicep, their gartered thighs wrapped around broomsticks as if in copulation. Even the man’s neck is tattooed with tiny leaking punctures meant to resemble vampire bites. The only clean patch left is a handsome face. Not the chiseled jaw of an All-American quarterback, but attractive despite chubby cheeks. He fingers the grease-laden pompadour atop his head while the cowboy waits against the car.
“Can I help you?” I ask. I’m a little fearful that they’ve followed me here. I keep trying not to stare at the gun. The cowboy keeps the same quiet intensity from the march.
“Holy shit,” the tattooed one says. His voice is high-pitched like some brat that’s never fully matured. Considering his looks, I bet most women must find it a real shame.
Strangers often approach me as if I exist only for their amusement, but this man doesn’t have the sideshow glee of someone ready to jeer. No, his face reminds me of the trance my father slipped into when the spirit ran hot and the faithful convulsed with Bibles clutched against their chests. This is the mania of worship. Even before he reaches me, I know this man desires communion.
“I mean, holy shit,” the tattooed man says. Closer now, I smell the mint chewing gum smacking between his jaws. The cowboy keeps his distance. He hasn’t even acknowledged his partner’s excitement.
The illustrated man extends a hand. DEAD tattooed on his left knuckles. LOVE on his right. “My name’s Russell Watson. Mr. Bragg, I’m your biggest fan.”
“Watson” is a common enough name, but I think of the protests, of the college girls with their picket signs.
“One of the Watsons?” I ask.
Russell’s face goes red at the mention of his surname. “Don’t judge me the same as my daddy,” he says. “I despise everything that son of a bitch stands for.”
“It’s true,” the cowboy says. “If he wasn’t an ally, I wouldn’t ride with him.”
The blurted confession explains the tattoos and the odd friendship. Rich kid rebellion, guilt because the silver spoon was acquired at the expense of others. Still, I understand the sentiment. It’s the same way I felt about my father.
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” I say. It’s been years since I’ve felt the grip of a man’s handshake. My first reaction is to pull away, but I resist that impulse. Russell jerks my arm hard. He’s grinning again, so I start to wonder what he meant by “fan.”
“This is surreal,” he says. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
“How can I help you, gentlemen?” I ask.
“I told you, man. I’m a huge fan. When Victor here saw you down at the protest, I knew we had to come introduce ourselves.”
“Big fans,” the cowboy says with little enthusiasm. It’s clear he’s only here because his friend wishes to meet me. He’s bored with this errand.
“I think you’re mistaken,” I say. “I’m not whoever you think I am.”
“Come on, man. You grew up playing with Angela Carver. You’re an original Troubadour.”
I try to control my face and hide the shock. Panic floods in as I construct a million different lies at once. What I need is to remain calm and keep my composure. A lot of people remember I played with Angela as a child. It doesn’t mean he’s sussed out our current arrangement or knows everything about our history. Still, it’s a dangerous precedent. If the truth is ever revealed, it will ruin Angela and steal my anonymity. After all this time, some part of me still wants to protect her.
“You’re mistaken,” I say.
“No, I’m not,” Russell says. “I’ve seen a bootleg tape of you and Angela Carver playing ‘The Poison Flood’ from the first Troubadours record. You’re in Bowling Green, Kentucky, two years before the album dropped. You guys were called The Ramblers back then, but it’s you.”
I remember that night. We were onstage in some biker bar, surrounded by hollow-eyed drunks and big-haired women wearing their lover’s leather jacket. The microphone smelled of bourbon and my ears rang from the amplifiers until all that remained was feedback. Even then, I knew my hearing would never fully recover, just listened to the swan song of that certain decibel and welcomed it. With the gain cranked loud enough, there was no silence between songs to hear the audience whispering. I could just avoid looking at their lips and pretend all the wide eyes were from the sounds coming out of my guitar.
“I had to meet you,” Russell says. “It’s amazing that someone from here could make music like that.”
We were just dumb hicks killing time, but I recognize the myth building, can see Russell turning a lucky bar band into a bunch of poor kids expressing their resilience through art. Nothing so serious ever crossed my mind. I kept playing because it made Angela need me.
“Listen,” Russell says. “Our band, we’ve been together for a few years. We’re all giant Troubadours fans. Murphy down at the pawnshop said you had a lot of music memorabilia. I was wondering if you have anything from Angela Carver or The Troubadours you’d be willing to let us see. Maybe share some of the old war stories?”
I suppose I deserve this for not being more careful. Secrets stay kept by convincing yourself the past never really happened. I should’ve destroyed all those relics years ago, but I’d just been too nostalgic about past glories. The night I showed Caroline the guitar Angela signed, I’d been drunk with gratitude, looking to impress the beautiful woman who occasionally shared my bed. I needed her to see I’d accomplished something once.
“I played with Angela, but I was never really a member,” I say. “I don’t really have anything worth showing.”
Behind us, Victor rests on the car hood. I’m beginning to discern this relationship. The master and the servant, but I still can’t figure how the two hooked up. Even if Russell is in some sort of rebellion against his father, it feels extreme that he’d befriend someone like Victor. It’s one thing to resent your family’s privilege, it’s another thing entirely to actively try to dismantle it.
“Come on,” Russell says. “Too big-time to thrill some locals?” Something in his voice sounds truly slighted. I’m not surprised he isn’t convinced. My lies never hold water. “I just want to see the stash.”
“All right,” I say.
Russell smiles, but Victor doesn’t budge from his place on the car. “Do you mind if I walk down to the creek while you’re visiting?” Victor asks Russell. “I wanna take some water samples.”
Russell is visibly deflated. “You’ll be missing out on some cool shit.”
“You can fill me in,” Victor says. “This is important.”
“I checked out the website on your flier,” I say. “Some pretty awful stuff.”
I’m not sure the reaction I was expecting. I blurted it out without really weighing the consequences, so I’m unprepared when Russell offers a solemn nod while Victor perks up for the first time. He pushes off the side of the car, loops his fingers through his gun belt like some kind of matinee cowboy and looks me directly in the eye for the first time.
“What do you think ought to be done about it?” he asks.
I’m not prepared for the question. One minute I’m trying to deal with the fresh intrusions of fandom and now I’m being asked what kind of justice is proper. I think about the words on the flyer again, the call against more useless marches.
“I think people should be more motivated than just complaining. Bring about some civil action.”
Russell nods again, but it looks like he just wants the conversation to move forward. Victor is disappointed. Head lowered, shoulders weak under the checkered cloth of his shirt.
“The rich are poisoning the rest of us and you think the best course of action is a lawsuit?”
I look to the gun again. The back of Victor’s fingers almost brush against the weapon.
“What would you prefer?” I ask. “Guillotines and heads on spikes? I don’t think most are ready for armed rebellion.”
“You mean self-defense?” Victor says. We let the silence hang between us until Russell clears his throat. He offers me an apologetic smile, something that quietly implies we can all be friends again. Only Victor isn’t convinced. His eyes have never left mine, staring as if trying to bore a hole straight through the center of me.
“You’re just as useless as the rest of them,” Victor says. He doesn’t wait for my rebuttal. He turns and walks away, moving down the hillside toward the creek.
“Don’t worry about him,” Russell says. “Victor’s just passionate about the troubles around here.”
“Is he that hard on you?” I ask. “You know, being a Watson?”
“No,” Russell says. “But he would be if I wasn’t proving myself.”
I watch Victor go until he fades into the thicket that surrounds the creek on this side of the property.
“How’d you two meet up?” I ask.
“He answered the ad I put out for a bass player. We got to talking about music and bonded quick.” Russell smiles at me. “I make a lot of friends that way. All I need is one or two common interests.”
“Seems like he must stay busy with the band and the protests. Especially with that Watchmen site.”
Russell’s eyes go wide at the mention of The Watchmen. “Look, it’s better not to mention that stuff anymore around Victor. They booted him out. I guess it’s for the best. They weren’t getting much done.”
“But I saw him passing out their flyers?”
Russell shrugs. “Gotta get people started somewhere, and those guys are a good source of information. Just not willing to do what’s necessary.”
I see that Russell’s grown impatient, so I invite him up on the porch and hold the door as he steps inside. His anticipation is palpable. He nearly vibrates following me down the hall. Caroline is lurking somewhere, but I don’t hear her as Russell’s footsteps reverberate on the hardwood floor.
“Nice place,” he says, but it’s an empty pleasantry. My home is impressive compared to most in Coopersville, but Russell is a Watson. This place is a hovel next to where he was raised.
I take the keys from my pocket and unlock the door to the music room. Russell pauses at the threshold to look at my guitars. Eventually, he claps me on the back and lets out a loud wolf whistle.
“Jesus Christ,” Russell chuckles. “And you said you didn’t have anything.” He covers his mouth with his hand, but I’m still feeling the pain from that good-natured slap. Most treat my body like something too fragile to exist. I’m a little pleased Russell could give me a familiar whack before pacing around the room to admire the framed playbills that cover my opposite wall. He’s the only person I’ve met in years who didn’t have questions about my appearance.
Russell stops when he spots the safe. “What’s in there?” he asks.
“A few guitars. Some autographs.”
He plops down in an office chair next to my recording console and crosses his legs. “Can I see?”
We’re flirting with danger now. The smart answer would be no, but something about the kid makes me want to share. I punch the code into the safe’s keypad and let the door swing open. My scrapbook and recordings are stowed in the bottom compartment, so I remove the guitar without fear of exposing the tapes. I hand the instrument over and watch as Russell orbits his thumb across the tobacco sunburst erupting from the sound hole. He flips it over to read the inscription on its back.
“‘To Hollis, my friend and the man the music speaks to, Angela Carver.’” Russell strums a few chords. “So, you were there when those first songs were written?” He begins to pick out the solemn intro of “The Poison Flood.” The sound is haunting coming from Angela’s old guitar. Even though she always played a bit sloppy, this rendition is the same as the first morning in her father’s basement.
“Some,” I say. “Not many.”
“Did you help write them?”
“No,” I lie. “That was all Angela.” I can’t understand how, but he knows. As sure as people in Hell want water, he sees right through my falseness. I’ve been careful over the years. Never told anyone about my arrangement with Angela. It’s stupid to be found out this way. I let the silence hang to see if he’ll push the point.
“But you’re ‘the man the music speaks to.’” He smiles, releasing me from the need to answer. “You know, what I’m really looking for is something like that bootleg I saw. You have any old recordings?”
I keep my eyes from drifting toward the bottom compartment of the safe. “Nothing like that.”
Russell’s fingers spiderwalk down the guitar neck. “Well, if you did, I’d pay top dollar. Money wouldn’t be a concern.”
My first instinct is to tell him to go fuck himself, but I’d be lying if I pretended there wasn’t some temptation simmering below the anger. This is an endless supply of cash staring me in the face. A few minutes of tape could be enough to support my own music for years. I could sell him some harmless grainy tracks we threw out. No one would ever have to know I wrote most of the first album. This selfishness evaporates as I remember passing a joint with Angela in her father’s basement. If our secret is exposed, all the fallout will land firmly on her. I agreed to our arrangement, so I owe her more protection than just my personal comfort. It might be best to just send Russell on his way.
“I’d even buy this guitar,” Russell says.
“I don’t think I could part with it,” I say and take it from him. I clip the neck on the side of the safe as I’m placing it inside. The hollow ring echoes until I close the door against the sound. I usher Russell out of the room. Any awkwardness disappears once our shoes hit the tall grass outside. He smiles again, the insinuations from earlier now absent. The sudden change is a little unnerving.
“It’s just a real honor meeting you,” Russell says. “Can I give you something?”
“Okay,” I say.
“I’ll be right back.” Russell runs to the hearse. He opens the tailgate and digs through a mess of cardboard boxes stacked where a casket should lie. “Victor, where’s it at?” he calls. The cowboy comes around the car to help.
After a minute of rummaging, Russell returns with an album. The cover is homemade. A black-and-white picture of four men in front of a brick wall. Guitars hang from straps on their shoulders and the drummer sits on a bass drum with THE EXCITABLE BOYS inscribed across it in gothic calligraphy.
“Some name,” I say.
“Zevon, man,” Russell says. “Give it a listen and come to the show if you like.”
“I’ll check it out.”
We both fall silent, listen to the birds warbling in the trees. The cowboy, Victor, is the first to move. He clears his throat and stands from the hood.
“Well, I’ll let you get back to it.” Russell shakes my hand again. “Think about what we talked about. The offer stands if you change your mind.”
Russell climbs in and the hearse’s engine growls to life. The radio blasts a punk track with a screaming, spitfire chorus I can’t decipher as the vehicle turns around in my yard. This music seems to linger long after they’ve disappeared. I look at the record in my hand. Such an effort to avoid attention, then this rock ’n’ roll disciple arrives in a car meant to taxi the dead. I suppose you can’t send creations out into the world and expect to remain anonymous. I curse Angela for igniting the initial spark so many years ago.
Inside, I make a sandwich before going to lie down in the bedroom. I brush crumbs from the sheets and try to figure out the strange meeting that just transpired. Was Russell threatening me with his knowledge? If I don’t sell him what he wants, will he expose me? I consider the angles until Caroline enters the room.
“Where’ve you been?” I ask.
“In the bathroom,” she says. “Who was that jackass?”
“A fan, if you can believe it.”
“A fan. That sounds bad.”
My clothes stick against my skin with sweat. I’m worried the reek will permeate the bedsheets, but I’m too lazy to undress. At the foot of the bed, Caroline begins to peel her clothes off. There’s a profound beauty to her body that anyone would notice, but I’m envious of the glory present in the mundanely normal. When your spine bends, any straight back contains grace. I consider it now, watching her stretch as the T-shirt comes over her head, raises her hair aloft and lets it fall against even shoulders. Their perfect symmetry is only broken by a small raspberry birthmark.
I grow hard watching her, but my mind is racing with other thoughts, wondering why a woman like her could possibly desire a broken man like me. Just like the few other times a woman has touched me, I’m mired in a state of disbelief. Every coupling of my life has been consummated in a fever dream of confusion. An awareness that my brittle body is too malformed for the task. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to just enjoy the act, or will I always be scared, programmed with society’s disgust at the idea I could ever be an adequate lover.
“We shouldn’t do this anymore,” I say. “I’m too old. I’m your teacher.”
“So, teach me,” she says.
The other fear is that I’ll be unable to keep this in perspective. Caroline is interested in the pleasure of the moment. I know I’ll want more. A woman to wake beside each morning. A partner instead of this temporary respite from my loneliness. Caroline climbs under the sheets. I pull her close, spoon my body around her as best I can, but my poor posture keeps our wet skins from sealing together.
“Don’t quite fit, do we?” I say.
“Of course we do.” She begins to work on my belt buckle. “Let me show you.”
I wait until Caroline is snoring and try to go about my day, but eventually put the album on my turntable. Guitars drowning in distortion, feedback that threatens to burst the speakers. The drummer beats a jack-off rhythm on the snare and high hat. Not much skill to it. Fast four-chord verses followed by a faster three-chord chorus. The soul is right. Seething anger and all the attitude amputated from radio rock.
Two more songs play before I turn it off. If they have a real flaw, it’s in repetition of subject matter. Lyrics about werewolves, vampires and other B-movie drive-in horrors. I understand the hearse now. Another part of their brand identity, like Russell’s tattoos. Bastard punk children of Alice Cooper and The Misfits, full of Roky Erickson copied madness. Nothing original but dedicated in their ethos. If there is one positive, the kid can write a solid song. One of the best tracks is a piece of Fifties-style prom rock. The song sounds a little like “Earth Angel” if it were written by the monster hiding under your bed.
I’m still trying to process how it feels knowing I’m someone’s idol, wondering why he jumped straight to questions about the old recordings. It reminds me of my father’s sermons. The night after the old man was buried, I set fire to the church. Stood outside in the pale moonlight and watched the flames climb across the rooftop. The living element grew, devouring the holy planks as the past perished, but the flames hadn’t fixed anything. Destruction, I learned, was as impotent as anything else. That feeling has stayed for years.
Maybe I should go and watch these kids, see if listening to their music makes me feel anything. I’m afraid that whatever organ allowed my investment years ago has fallen as ill as the rest of me. I’m afraid that these new songs may simply rot on the vine before I complete them.
Caroline would ask what I was going to do about that fear. I do the same thing she does to silence whatever hounds her and swallow another pill.