THE CONCERT

End of the Contamination

The day of the concert, the governor holds a press conference to let the people of Coopersville and the surrounding counties know their water is safe. He stands behind an impromptu podium someone packed out onto the steps of the capitol building, looking slick in a pinstripe three-piece suit, his red politician’s tie woven into a fat knot. Under the camera’s scrutiny, he congratulates the people of West Virginia for their perseverance.

I watch the entire conference. The reporters ask safe questions, supplicate themselves in appreciation for being granted an audience with the man and an event that will push slack ratings a bit higher. I wait to see if the governor will take a big drink from the nearest tap. Better yet, I want to see the man remove his suit jacket, roll up his pant legs and wade deep into the river like he’s being baptized. After that, I’ll be convinced.

Loneliness is making me bitter. Rosita left two days ago. I tried to talk her into staying, but she wanted to go back to the hotel and take some more photos downtown before the concert. I was concerned about Victor, but Rosita seemed certain she’d be safe on her own. Maybe she’s right, or maybe she just didn’t want to stay with me. When the solitude gets the best of me, I’m sure it’s the latter.

Since she departed, I’m agitated by nearly anything. A broken guitar string is apocalyptic, the sound of squirrels cutting acorns in the trees deafening until I can’t enjoy a midday nap. The only solace comes from playing. Even then, I fight the urge to think about Angela and Felix practicing one of my wasteland lullabies.

Sheriff Saunders showed yesterday with some supplies and a letter from Angela. Nothing personal, just a Hallmark thank-you card stuffed with two VIP tickets. She also brought Angela’s signed guitar back from the office. I set it in the bedroom without opening the case. I didn’t want to see the handwriting. The sheriff asked if she and Rosita could come fetch me Sunday evening for the concert. I told her I appreciated the generosity, but that wouldn’t be necessary. After I thanked her for the note, Sheriff Saunders revealed one last surprise. A parcel wrapped in green and red Christmas paper, a few reindeer with glitter encrusted hoofs prancing across the snowy rooftops on the package. The glitter flaked off as I tore the wrapping and found a gray chambray shirt inside. The buttons were white pearl snaps that shone as Sheriff Saunders held it up to my body. She proclaimed it a good fit without forcing me to try it on.

The shirt hangs from my bedroom doorknob. I’ve paired it with some jeans Sheriff Saunders insisted on ironing before she left. All these strangers fussing over me seems like the final reason needed to tear up the tickets, but I’m afraid to even crease the paper. Before our reunion, I would have preferred crucifixion to seeing Angela again. Now, I need to be sitting in that first row, a reminder of whose songs she’s been playing.

I dress in front of the dirty bathroom mirror and slick my hair back with bottled water. The greasy layers are too long. Several unruly strands drape down onto my collar in curls that refuse to be tamed by a comb. Outside, tires roll over the gravel in the driveway. I swallow a pill for fortification. When I step out, Rosita is waiting on the porch. She’s wearing her uniform of dark jeans and a band T-shirt, her tan leather jacket clinging tight around her. A camera bag is slung over her shoulder. The weathered strap dangles down to her thigh.

“Looking sharp,” she says.

Compliments, even if they are honestly intended, only make me feel like a shy child who requires the praise. Rosita slips a hand into her coat pocket.

“I got you a gift,” she says, revealing a bolo tie with a turquoise centerpiece. “I know it’s a tacky sort of thing.” She dangles it from the string, the turquoise swinging back and forth as if trying to hypnotize me. “But I thought it was very cool in an outlaw country way. I can’t help that I’ve got bad taste.”

“It’s lovely,” I say and mean it. I can’t recall the last time I received so many gifts.

“Bend,” she says.

I lean forward while she slides the tie over my head and pulls it tight.

“There,” she says, giving my collar a final smoothing. “You look very dapper.”

“Never been accused of that,” I say.

“It’s okay to be afraid,” Rosita tells me. “That’s only natural.” She takes my hand and helps me into the back of the sheriff’s SUV.


The Coalfield Cinema was the last of the grand Fifties movie palaces. In its prime, gold scrollwork adorned the vaulted ceilings in the two-hundred-seat auditorium, and balconies were positioned around a chandelier dangling like a uvula in the room’s center. Wood carvings of Greek myths flanked the staircases: Poseidon rising from the depths and Zeus standing behind two heavenly ascending columns. The architect decided that all carpeting should be scarlet to match the velvet curtain on the stage and the upholstery on the seats.

After it closed in 1972, the structure fell into disrepair. A small fire in one of the balconies and the destruction of some of the statuary in the lobby prompted a campaign to declare it a historical landmark. Everyone from Chuck Berry to Merle Haggard played it in the Sixties after its stage was converted into a concert hall. So, after years of sitting vacant, a wealthy benefactor had the place refurbished right down to the brass doorknobs. If I had to guess, I’d bet Angela slowly rebuilt it for a return home.

Concertgoers trail through the venue’s main doors. Wives hold the arms of husbands who’ve donned their only suit. Groups of single women huddle in tight clusters, looking at the couples with either relief or envy depending on their current tolerance for loneliness. As the crowd slips inside, ushers in red blazers rip tickets and guide patrons to their seats. Sheriff Saunders’s work-release boys have polished every fixture inside until it glows, shampooed and spot-cleaned the plush carpet until it looks dyed with their own blood. Even new wallpaper, a similar golden shade as before, has been hung.

Rosita squeezes my hand. She offers a tight-lipped smile that keeps the hot taste of bile from creeping farther up my throat. I’m just about to thank her again when a man in a black suit steps toward us through the crowd. His hair is reminiscent of a samurai topknot, his goatee trimmed down to neat stubble. The man extends a hand, and I can’t help but notice the ostentatious gold watch around his wrist.

“Mr. Bragg,” he says. “Ms. Carver has asked me to take your party to your seats.”

The man leads us through the sea of people. If all the eyes weren’t on me before, they are now. I’m afraid we’ll become separated in this swarm, but our escort is patient with my slow stride. He makes his long legs take baby steps while I follow. Our seats are in the front row. I sit down expecting questions about the premium accommodations, but Rosita just gives my arm a pat. She folds her leather jacket in her lap.

The Troubadours come onstage to deafening applause. I hardly listen to Angela’s introduction, a soliloquy about how much Coopersville means to her and what incredible people are hidden in the hills. It’s genuine, but I can’t focus. I’m imagining the younger version I loved swelling in the early months of pregnancy, the motel fight resolved with the slow admission that our van life must be traded for another shithole apartment with broken appliances. Maybe in this alternative reality we crawl back home to live in a trailer, occasionally travel to town where I must suffer the stares and whispers every time we need supplies. At least in that version of the story, I wouldn’t be alone. Would life have been better that way? If so, why did I do so much to resist it?

Onstage, the band transitions from solo-filled blues to a soft ballad. Angela straps on a twelve-string guitar. The notes rise in harmony as a second guitarist enters to accompany her. The A-minor chord he plays reverberates through the audience.

“This song was written by my good friend, Hollis Bragg,” Angela says.

The first track of the wasteland lullabies begins. The song moves like an electric current, surging from man to woman until every foot taps the solemn rhythm. The words cut deep as a scythe. Even with such undeniable power, the arrangement feels wrong. The twelve-string too full, the music too complete and lacking the fractured quality of the song’s reality. The man in my story wouldn’t have all the precision instruments to fill in the silences. In that world, there isn’t a scrap of metal left as perfectly formed as a cymbal. The man would only have the pad of his thumb striking the strings and the wind outside smacking the thin fabric of his makeshift shelter. A bitter breeze might seep in through the holes, the desert night so cold his guitar struggles to stay in tune as the wood warps. The landscape outside would be his orchestra. Something he couldn’t control that would bleed overtop him, create its own violent harmony whenever his instrument faltered. Angela has replaced this anarchy with violin strings.

This isn’t personal tragedy distilled into song. This is a false attempt at completion, a refusal to admit that nothing is ever whole and that the best we can hope for are moments of grace in the great spans of dissonance. I should be angry at how she’s butchered it, but my mind breaks the notes apart, rearranges them until I hear the places where the guitar should alter tone. I erase the other instruments until it is only a parched voice, raw and without the beauty of Angela’s dulcet vocals. The straining guitar in my mind is absent a required string and attempting the melody regardless. I need a pen. I need to transcribe this before it leaves.


“I’ll be right back,” I say. Rosita snatches at my shirttail, mutters something about it being my masterpiece, but I climb the stairs, desperate to hit the ticket booth, where they must have some writing materials.

Upstairs, the ushers stand with their faces pressed to the glass doors, whispering to one another. The manager of the group, a tall mustached man in shirtsleeves and a red vest, gestures them away from the door in exasperation. I start to ask him for a pen, but the blue-and-red flash of police lights scan across the front of the venue. The walls are cast in the glow of these primary colors for a moment. Outside, I see the cause of it all.

Victor stands with one arm handcuffed to a parking meter and several jugs of water arranged near his feet. Another gallon jug swings from his free hand. I can’t hear his voice over the crowd gathering, but the force of his words makes him tremble until the water splashes into a pool between his shoes. Police keep their distance, lurking with guns drawn outside the zone of a potential soaking. Only the news cameras seem anxious to move closer. Were they not hindered by the officers’ perimeter, some reporter would stick a microphone in Victor’s face.

I step outside, where I can hear Victor shouting against the wind. His voice cracks as he tries to raise it above the sirens. Across the street, the rubberneckers shiver and breathe into cupped hands. The night is cold for spring, but none will risk missing the climax to go fetch a coat.

“It’s only water, boys,” Victor says in full provocateur mode. His voice sounds like a carnival barker’s braying. “If anyone of you will take a drink, I’ll go to jail no questions asked. I got it from the tap this morning. Don’t you trust your governor?”

The fuse is burning. In a few moments, Victor will douse the closest cop. It could all be an elaborate hoax. Just bottled water or piss or something from the tap this morning that truly is safe. It could also have been collected days ago for this occasion. I smell licorice, but it might be fear playing on my imagination.

As I wade through the crowd, I notice most of them holding up cell phones. A thousand little replicas of the moment play on their screens.

“What’s going on?” I ask the nearest cop.

“Sir, I need you to step back,” the officer says. He barely glances at me, too concerned to offer a double take.

“Let me talk to him,” I say. “He’s a friend of mine.”

The cop finally gets a good look at me and the wind goes out of him. It’s too bizarre to absorb so much in one night. The officer opens his mouth to argue, but Victor spots me.

“Hollis Bragg,” he screams and gestures with the overflowing jug.

“Hello, Victor,” I call. “What’s this then?”

“Like I told you, Hollis. Gotta make an impression to get people’s attention.” He jabs the bottle toward the cameras. The jug spits a small fountain that splashes near my feet.

“I’m not sure this is the way.”

Victor shakes his head. “Only way when nobody gives a shit. They want a scene, so someone needs to get thirsty.” He goes back to addressing the crowd. “Come on, you hicks. Just a sip!”

Behind us, more patrons have slipped out of the concert. They stand along the sidewalk, watching while the police herd others out of the street. Rosita is among the new batch of onlookers. Her camera is out, the lens focused on Victor.

“You could take a drink,” Victor tells me. “That would show them, wouldn’t it? The freak they all took advantage of was the only one with any balls.”

“Will that satisfy you?” I ask.

“I’d rather your old girlfriend came out to have a taste. Is she playing your songs in there?”

“Yeah, she is, but I don’t care anymore.” I don’t bother to tell him she’s given me credit this time. I’m not sure it matters.

“You should. You trusted it would be different this time, but it’s never going to be. I wish there was some way I could teach all of you that.”

Victor holds his arm high until the streetlights overhead cast their shine through the jug. The shadow of a small wave appears on the sidewalk.

“You trust this water?” Victor asks.

“I don’t guess I do.”

“Then take a drink. Die with some purpose instead of wasting away on the mountain.”

Rosita shouts something from the sidelines, but I let my ears go deaf. Her voice sinks into the crowd’s white noise.

“The cameramen must be pitching tents in their pants,” I say. “If a terrorist rock star wasn’t enough to draw some coverage, the local recluse playing martyr should have the video on constant rotation.”

“Exactly,” Victor says.

I could just walk away. Victor doesn’t have any leverage, no real threats or ability to bargain. Eventually, the cops will just incapacitate him with some nonlethal means or a deputy will find an excuse to put a hollow point through his cranium. Either outcome sounds fine to me. Only, then no one will know about the water. The cycle will continue. Angela will keep playing my music. She might give me the credit as the writer, but I’ll return to being alone on the mountain, too afraid to perform the work I create.

“Give me the jug,” I say.

Victor hands it over. The officers move forward to stop me. If I’m going to drink, it’ll have to be fast, but I’ve enough time to consider whether this is the end. So many nights I’ve pulled the jigsaw pieces of my father’s final hours out and turned them every which way trying to decide what made him choose the rope. Was it the woman? Something as familiar as lost love, or something harder like acknowledging he’d spent his life as a counterfeit prophet, taking from those who already had next to nothing? In the end, it doesn’t matter much. Same result. This moment probably should have come for me earlier, so if Victor wants to murder me in front of these cameras, maybe at least it brings about some change. Besides, does anybody care about songs anymore?

The jug is surprisingly light. I’m certain about smelling licorice now. This sets my hands shaking, but I steady, close my eyes and try to fill my mind with a glorious final image. All I can see is Angela, young and wrapped in the sheets from our bed. I tip the jug back.

The water tastes clear. The night air has left it cold. I open my eyes and see Victor smiling. I’m still waiting for the burn. Waiting for my throat to swell and tongue to bloat, for air to be sealed off until I drown on land. Victor bends at the knees to retrieve another jug. I swat at him but slip on the wet asphalt and collapse to a knee. As soon as Victor uncaps this new gallon, I know it’s the real thing.

“Don’t want any of this on you,” he tells me.

Victor drinks deep, starts to raise the receptacle again for another sip and gags. He drops to his knees, clawing his neck as if some invisible hand strangles him. The water spills out as the police move in. One officer fumbles with a handcuff key, trying to get Victor unchained from the parking meter as he shakes. Vomit splatters between Victor’s shoes. His face turns red, lips swelling until the membrane of skin looks ready to split. The cop finally unshackles him as Victor collapses on the sidewalk.

Just outside the orbit of this chaos, Rosita steps forward, raises her camera and snaps some quick photos.