christinamguerrero.com ~ the official site ~
Letting In The Light
Part three of the Alley Cat series
Copyright 2016 Christina M. Guerrero
DEDICATION
This is for Baker, Cheyenne and Kirby, who have been on my mind for many years.
STORY BEHIND THE STORY
Friendship. Music.
ABOUT THE DRAFTS
* * * * * DRAFT NUMBER ONE: * * * * *
Continuity, consistency and factual errors.
Hoping the development and final few sentences of this part are both somewhat pleasing.
Like Baker, I have very little experience with recreational drugs, so that part was challenging to write.
One of my favorite writing exercises is describing objectionable things in as G-rated a way as possible.
Hoping this was done well with the expletive section.
Kirby stood outside the warehouse, looking over the city of Los Angeles.
If he smoked anything he’d be smoking it now. He might, if the opportunity arose. It did, from time to time.
He smiled, remembering a conversation with Baker.
“You want to take a turn?” He had asked Baker many years ago. They were in their tour bus, between gigs, on a traveling day. Kirby had been taking a couple of deep inhalations off a spectacular specimen of a particularly relaxing narcotic substance, eager to relax. The last set only two hours before had been difficult, with their most strenuous songs. He was pleased with his performance, and now wanted a reward.
Baker’s face had gone still; his eyebrows raised a bit. “Uh. Sure.”
Kirby had let loose a few weak smoke rings. “You don’t know jack about using this stuff.”
“Yeah, I do.” Baker had shifted on his butt; something he did when he was fibbing.
“Liar, liar, pants on fire.”
“I’ll show you.”
Kirby had handed over the joint.
Baker stared, then said, “I better not.”
Tompkins, their drummer, said, “What are you? A Catholic saint?”
“No. I don’t do that stuff. I don’t do anything, really. Except for a nice glass of beer now and then.”
Tompkins took the joint and indulged.
Baker looked like he might puke. “Man. Why don’t you get high off of life?”
Tompkins said in a strained voice, “Some of us have brains that don’t work that way.”
Kirby said in in as patient a tone as possible, as much for his increasingly random state of mind as for Baker, “Some of us have low dopamine levels. Thus the narcotic substances.” His words were emerging from his mouth in a pretty pink palette, and he had an intense urge to laugh loudly but controlled himself.
Baker said, “Dopamine. Dopamine. That’s the stuff that makes you feel good.”
“Yep,” Tompkins said as he smiled at the ceiling.
Baker shifted on his butt again. “I used to do a few drugs. Just didn’t work for me.”
Kirby laughed. “That’s a bunch of--”
Tompkins farted
.
They all laughed; Baker said, “Y’all’s manners are despicable.” But he was smiling.
A tall, swift figure entered the living room area, grabbed the joint from Tompkins, inhaled, gave the joint back, and raced to Harrison, their bus driver and second guitar player. The two mumbled for a while.
Baker observed and said, “The elusive swift Gerber. As rare as an endangered species.”
Gerber returned, winked, grabbed the joint again, and inhaled deeply. He waved and raced toward the bunk beds area. A few seconds later, a door slammed.
Baker said, “That dude needs to slow down.”
Kirby said very slowly, “As our keyboard player ... and the leader of the band ... he needs to keep things under control ... so we don’t have to.”
“He works too much.”
Kirby said, “We all work too much. Sure you don’t want to try this?”
Baker’s eyebrows raised again. “No, sir.” He took off his headband and fluffed out his afro. “This my way of relaxing.”
Kirby snorted.
“My hair is funny to you?”
“No, sir.” Kirby laughed for a long time.
Baker flipped him off.
Up on the hill, Kirby smiled again. “Miss you, man.” Just as he was about to go back inside, he saw a billboard down on Sunset Boulevard, with a middle finger sticking up. He considered that, then went inside.
The others were still alive: Tompkins on drums, Gerber on keyboards, Harrison on bass now; all in startlingly good health in their late sixties and early seventies. A new member, Kraft, filled in now and then as second guitar, but he was also a session musician in great demand in the city, and was making noises about moving on, but never giving a time frame.
Tompkins said, “Ready?”
Kirby said, “Yep.”
The others returned to their instruments.
Kirby discretely observed the forty-year-old Kraft, assessing the kid’s effort. Not bad, as always. He was a great musician, but preferred short term jobs rather than long-term.
When rehearsal was over, they conferred briefly.
“See you all again in a few days?” Kirby asked. He was the leader of the band this year.
Everyone except Kraft agreed.
“I have that gig with the girl band for a week,” Kraft said.
“Indeed you do,” Kirby said. “You ok with me having someone else fill in?”
Kraft smiled. “Sounds good to me.”
“Cool. See you all then.”
Tompkins farted.
Gerber said, “Despicable.”
Harrison said, “I miss Baker.”
Kirby nodded.
Kraft said, “I wish I could have met him.”
“He was a good guy,” Gerber said. He wiped swiftly under his left eye.
Gradually, they made their way to the door, went outside and went to their respective homes.
At his place, Kirby looked out his window at the pool, looking for Cheyenne. He did not see her.
After taking care of some business and having a small snack, he went to the community room, looked around, went outside and took a walk. He kind of sort of went to a local dollar store, remembering Cheyenne saying she needed a cheap pair of reading glasses.
She was in there, viewing the glasses. She looked up, nodded at him without smiling, and went back to browsing.
He went in, doing his best not to look like a creepy old man, and said, “Would you like to practice with us in a few days?”
She smiled, but it was a sad smile. “Practice? As in with your band?”
“Yes.”
“Uh. I don’t think I can play THAT well.”
“I’ve observed you a few times. I think you can.”
“And play what? I don’t know your songs. What I do know sounds way too complicated.”
“Just play second guitar. Improvise between chords. I’ll play the complicated stuff. And we do have some stuff that’s easy to learn.”
“You’re serious, man.”
“Yeah, man. Do it.”
She shook her head and went to pay for the glasses.
He followed.
The cashier -- a young woman surely no older than twenty -- said, “Oh my gosh! Kirbster! I have all your records.”
“Thanks.” Kirby made yet another mental note to mention this younger fan base to his band mates. He kept forgetting.
“No prob.”
Outside, Cheyenne said, “Kirbster, I don’t think I could keep up.”
“Don’t call me that. You have great rhythm and play well and have good stamina.”
“You’re a bunch of men. It’ll get tough.”
“We’re a bunch of OLD men. We need breaks now.”
“This is silly.”
“Just go. Our second guitar will be gone for about a week.”
A few days later, she walked into the warehouse with her guitar and amp, nodding at everyone.
Kirby watched; everyone appeared to be relaxed, and even extremely well-mannered: no odd jokes or flirting or whistling. Then again, she was wearing a bulky sweater, and oversized jeans on her tall lean frame, and no make-up.
They set up and adjusted and tuned, and then Kirby said, “Cheyenne knows ‘Play That Funky Music.’”
Harrison started playing the bass-line; Tompkins joined in on drums; Gerber played strings on his keyboards. They all bounced their heads and looked meaningfully at Cheyenne.
She joined in, beautifully, Kirby thought. He stepped to a microphone and gave it his best.
The others joined in on the chorus; Kirby could hear Cheyenne’s voice both strongly and separately.
He smiled at her reflection; she just nodded and kept up; her playing was not just acceptable; it was sassy and swingy; and her technical ability was spot-on.
They ended with a flourish and there were finally whistles and cat-calls.
Kirby said teasingly, “She plays an almost-perfect version of Michael Jackson’s ‘Beat It.’”
“Almost perfect.” It was a statement. Cheyenne gave him a faint smile.
“The Eddie Van Halen part needs a lot of work.”
“Won’t argue with that.”
Tompkins frowned and studied Cheyenne, then glanced at Kirby, who met his glance for a moment. Baker would have said that.
Gerber started the song; Tompkins joined in; they all played a blistering rendition of ‘Beat It.’
Kirby waited for the Van Halen part. Cheyenne kept up, hit most of the notes, never stopped, kept the beat, all with a calm demeanor and no sweating.
They let this song go on for a while until Cheyenne stopped playing.
“That was the best so far,” Kirby said.
“Thanks, man,” Cheyenne said. She fluffed her hair out, then put it back with a hairband.
Tompkins looked at Kirby again.
Kirby nodded once, then started playing his own guitar. “This one’s for Baker. ‘Eye Of The Tiger.’ He would have loved it.”
The others joined in, and they played an extended instrumental introduction. Kirby moved to his microphone and began singing. Cheyenne played well; he had observed her playing both lead and then second guitar on this “in the comfort of her living room,” he had teased her once again a few days ago.
When they finished, Kirby said, “Cheyenne, remember when I asked you to play all of these songs the other day and you asked what was the connection between them?”
“Yep.”
“Do you see, or rather hear, a resemblance between these songs and the three songs I told you we’ve been practicing the most?”
She stared solemnly at the mirror facing the group. “You shamelessly stole the ideas from these unsuspecting bands.”
“Way ahead of their publication in the future? Our three songs are from the sixties.”
“Huh.”
“Let’s go.” Kirby started playing their most requested song: a funk-infused, lengthy composition entitled “Downtown Gig.”
Cheyenne improvised fairly well with all three of the band’s songs. After the third one, Kirby called a break.
“I have to make a phone call,” she said, and went outside.
Tompkins frowned at Kirby then approached him and said, “Reminds me of Baker.”
“Yep.” Kirby had kept silent about Baker’s last words and thoughts about the afterlife. As far as Kirby knew, he was Baker’s only confidante on those subjects.
Tompkins said, “Where’d you find her?”
“In my apartment building.”
“She’s played before?”
“No. Just as a hobby. But originally wanted to be a musician.”
“She’s not too bad.”
“I think so, too.”
They continued to rehearse, then sat at a table and had lunch. Tompkins pulled out a joint and offered it to everyone, but Kirby and Cheyenne turned it down. Kirby snorted his way into a polite cough when he watched her eyebrows raise exactly like Baker’s.
“He’s turned into such a square,” Tompkins said. “Just like Baker.”
Cheyenne said, “What was he like? Baker.”
Harrison said, “The most proper among us. He had a college degree. Worked for a little while at a magazine. Then went into music. One of the best bass and guitar players I ever met. He could play a concert on his own, and did once. It sold out.”
Kirby abruptly felt dreadful. He could still feel Baker’s warm arms in his hands, and Baker’s weight pulling him down. He suddenly felt terribly anxious and as if he were being murdered himself.
Gerber said, “Kirby. Here. This will relax you. Come on.”
“No.”
“Take some. I know your PTSD episodes. You need this.”
He folded his arms. “Just let me be for a moment.”
“That won’t work. When you’re ready, just have some.”
Kirby stood up and walked quickly to the door of the warehouse and outside, and around the parking area, randomly searching for some way to get the thoughts out of his head.
He started ranting, as he had at his stupid idiot ex-wife the day she had asked him what he was doing when she found him sitting on the floor, rocking, and shaking his head, trying to get the images of Baker’s death to go away. “It’s grief and it’s PTSD, you dumb fat bimbo. Learn the difference.” She had actually laughed at him and said, “I’m not fat,” then shook her head and left for the day, and had gone shopping with a girlfriend.
“Just feel it,” he said. “Just feel it. You have to feel it. Everything. He died in front of you, and you held on to him. And people die. And we all die. And it’s sad and it’s terrible. Oh, Baker. Why.”
Kirby sat on a low stone wall, looking at the billboard on Sunset, feeling his heart racing, remembering the doctor’s calm voice and recommendations: “You will have to work your way through it and it will be painful at times. The thoughts and feelings need to be integrated. Until then, they may return at random times, or in tandem with reminders.”
Kirby rocked back and forth, shaking his head. “Jesus, my lord and savior, have mercy upon me a sinner. My friend Baker never hurt a soul; he had the heart of an angel. He was not perfect but he was a good man. Why did you take him? He was my best friend. Why can’t they find the perpetrator? I want justice.”
“Hey, Kirbster!”
He turned. Cheyenne nodded at him.
“Don’t call me that,” he said weakly.
“Kirbster, Kirbsteroni, Kerbinator, Kerbi Berbi Bo Berbi.”
He turned away. He wanted to find the perpetrator and just ask, Why? Why did you take his life? He was a good man.
He could imagine the perp’s answer, the same thing the dude said in the alley, backlit by some streetlight: “Because y’all suck. That’s all.”
The perp had ever been found. Nobody knew anything or saw anything. Kirby had not even seen a face, just a figure briefly outlined by light. The case was cold.
Cheyenne sat in front of him and said, “PTSD, huh.”
“Yeah.”
They sat in silence for a long time.
Kirby said, “Somebody thought we sucked. He could have written us a letter. What a dumb bimbo.”
“That’s the worst you can do?”
“I could call him a bunch of other names, but not in front of you.”
Cheyenne let loose with all the swear words Kirby had ever heard, plus an even longer list of creative combinations thereof.
“What?” he said in amazement.
Cheyenne repeated her last phrase.
Kirby stared. “I have never heard that particular word used as a gerund.”
“Try it some time.”
“No. The noun is filthy enough. I can not believe you are a woman and are actually saying it.”
“Don’t define me by how my body is shaped. Now say it with me.” She said the word distinctly and clearly. “Four succinct letters plus i-n-g. Say it.” She repeated it.
Kirby said, “That sounds like a weapon. Like something one might use to slice things.”
Somehow she produced the joint and a lighter.
He stared. Then took it, took his time, inhaled, and considered Baker dying, “Y’all suck” and the weapon-like swear word.
He shook his head and swore as if presenting a poem.
“That’s better,” Cheyenne said.
Kirby suggested what the perpetrator could do with himself, and any of his living relatives, and perhaps animals. Especially barn animals and a few sea creatures, preferably sharks. Then he could not stop saying his favorite swear word, and turned it into a verb, an adverb, a noun, a gerund, and the subjunctive in one long rant.
Cheyenne squinted. “You could use it as a number, too.”
“No you can’t.”
She tried, and ended up laughing.
He watched without humor.
She said, “You watched him die.”
“I did.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.”
He inhaled again from the joint.
“Is it working?” Cheyenne asked.
“Somewhat.”
Kirby said, “He was a good man. Funny. Weird. Really out there sometimes. But good.”
“Have some more.”
“What do you know of this drug?”
“Nothing. But I understand it will relax you and maybe make you laugh.”
“It might.” He took some more. “I’ll go in and play now. I’m sorry. This may happen sometimes.”
“It’s okay.”
He got up and went to the warehouse. Cheyenne walked beside him.
They went inside and joined the others with few words, then agreed without words on the next song, playing solemnly. Tompkins glanced at Kirby, then sang fairly well; he never did take any singing lessons like the rest of them.
A few hours later, they were happier and ready to break for the day. Kirby asked Cheyenne what she was up to the rest of the day. She said, “Food shopping. Some exercise. You?”
“Taking care of myself. I still feel upset.”
“Relax. Do something soothing.”
“I might.”
Kirby said good evening to everyone and went to his car.
Later, he just rested near a bay window in his apartment, looking out at the hills. Not the best view in the apartment complex, but it was pretty at night.
His phone flashed. “Baker” was sending him a note.
He smiled for what felt like the first time in days. “Better not tell her what her name is on your phone.”
Baker, aka Cheyenne, had sent, “Hey, man.”
Kirby sent back, “Yo.”
“Keep your chin up, boy.”
Kirby smiled again and sent, “Yep.”
He was about to put the phone aside when the phone flashed. The text message: “Say what?”
Instinct made him access the contact information for Cheyenne. That did not sound like her. He studied the phone number.
He stood up, went to an end table and picked up a scrap of paper upon which she had written her number one day.
He compared the two numbers. They were not identical.
He called the number she had given him.
“Hello, Kirbster?” Cheyenne answered with her pleasant alto voice.
“Hello, Cheyenne. Hope I did not catch you at a bad time.”
“No. You okay?”
“No, but getting better.”
“Did you eat?”
“No.”
“If you’d like, I’ll bring you a bowl of home-made chicken soup.”
“Uh. Thanks. I’d be delighted.”
“Be there soon.”
He hung up, and dialed the number for “Baker,” which was one digit off.
An intense high tenor said, “What is up with y’all?”
Kirby said, “Uh, hello.”
“Boy, what is up with you tonight?”
“Sir, I am so sorry. This is Kirby. I think you may have sent me a text message by mistake.”
“Kirby? Kirby? What the-- Hold on a minute.” There was a great deal of muttering. Then, “Mr. Kirby, I apologize. I had to re-enter all my kids’ numbers yesterday. Looks like I was off by a couple of numbers for my oldest. You have a wonderful day, sir.”
“You too.”
Kirby looked at the two numbers for a moment. Wondered how two people could have entered the wrong numbers within a few days of each other, and sent somewhat relevant text messages to each other. Decided it was not too unusual.
Then wondered what the gentleman’s name was.
He sent a text message: “Sir, mind me asking your last name? Just curious. Your message lifted my spirits.”
He waited.
A few minutes later a message came through.
Kirby sat in the growing darkness, staring in wonder at the words, until there was a knock at the door and a faint scent of chicken soup nearby.
The response: “I’ll give you my full name: Jeremiah Samuel Baker Lincoln, Junior. Just the same as my father’s. Proud to be a junior. And we as human beings should do our best to lift each other’s spirits up. I’ll keep you on my contact list and in my prayers. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some child-rearing to do. God bless.”
Baker shared only one name with this gentleman.
That was enough to ease the darkness of part of the day, and let back in some of the light.
TO BE CONTINUED
BACK TO JOURNALISM - * - BACK TO ARCHIVES