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The Return Of Baker
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: * * * * *
This is one of those messed up first drafts. It moves too fast. It's poorly edited.
The ending is not quite the ending. Among other things that need to be improved.
There is no mystery. Everyone knows everything about everyone.
Random things are contrived.
The girl at the end just starts singing, no explanation given. Bothers me, and I wrote the freaking thing.
These guys have been with me through out the dawn of my own time. I am glad to give them voices,
and I hope you find them as fascinating as I do.
Because everyone seems to know everything about everyone, perhaps the girl is just making things up?
-- this is why there needs to be some mystery.
Baker is pretty complicated, and this draft does not do him justice.
Baker's hair is "poofed up around the band." The whole band? The headband? His hair is that big? Okay.
Ba-haha. "He opened the door and found that to be true of the rear view." He had to open the door in order
to arrive at that conclusion? He could not determine this simply by observing?
* * * * * DRAFT NUMBER TWO: * * * * *
Getting there. Liking it more and more.
He walked along the long broad street in Los Angeles, scowling.
He had been scowling since the late 1960s, when Baker died.
“Damn it,” he said, for probably more than the thousandth time regarding this death.
A young man walking toward him, too young to remember anything about the sixties, said, “Hey, Kirbster. Still selling records after all these years.”
Kirby nodded and managed a tiny smile.
The young man patted his arm and moved on.
Kirby glanced into a window, checking his reflection. On a good day, he barely looked different than his 1964 self, now more than forty years in the past. He still had hair. He still had his 20/20 sight. He still had his hearing. He was still thin and tall. And he still had his health. No sicknesses or deaths, and not from sexually transmitted diseases, as his wife was worried about on a day long ago.
He scowled again, now at the thought of her.
He had divorced her a few months after Baker died, when she proceeded to be annoying and confusing. She had accused him of being lazy as he grieved the loss of his close friend. The band had let Kirby take a break which had lasted a few months. Money was coming in, and Kirby did his share of the house work. He cooked some of the meals, and he did his husbandly duties. Despite all this, his wife was convinced he was not grieving, just loafing, and that had led to him moving out when he could not stand the accusations and the noise. She had then accused him of having some kind of escape plan.
He had his lawyer send her a note reminding her about the legalities of harassment. She stopped making noise, went back to school, got a degree in Spanish, became a teacher and married some superintendent from some place up north. When two of the superintendent’s college friends died in Europe, she was by the superintendent’s side day and night. Kirby knew this because a newspaper story on the college buddies included way too much information.
Remembering that made him feel that justice had been served somewhere. She had become an adult and displayed loyalty and compassion. “Better late than never,” he muttered.
He sighed then winced. He felt achey from all the walking he had been doing lately. His joints hurt, and he was getting a migraine. He reached into his pocket and furtively pulled out one Vicodin tablet, hoping no one would notice what he was holding, by the curve of his hand. He swallowed it dry, and waited. Soon, he felt a bit more relaxed, but not much.
Baker. The loss still hurt. Baker had been a devoted, kind friend. Also a bit eccentric and outspoken and sarcastic. But always there.
Kirby winced again, remembering the day of Baker’s death. They had been standing in an alley on a cool evening, after a long set in a small, stifling nightclub, chatting about their mistakes onstage.
Baker had said, “My hand slipped. That ballad turned into jazz for a few measures.”
As they snickered, Kirby heard firecrackers nearby. Who was setting them off? It was October.
Baker’s smile vanished; he reached out.
“What the--” Kirby said, holding on to Baker’s slim arms.
Behind his friend, a tall hefty dark figure stood in the alley, near the street, about twenty feet away. The figure called, “Y’all suck.” Streetlights backlit the shape, which held something that glinted briefly - a gun-shaped object.
Kirby froze for a few seconds; yet had clear thoughts: he hoped the figure would shoot him too. He suddenly realized life would be dull without Baker around.
The figure turned and fled.
Kirby’s awareness returned; he felt Baker leaning on him; in such a way that Baker’s back was visible: terrible stains of dark red getting larger and larger.
Abruptly, the door to the alley opened, and their drummer leaned out with a big happy smile and said, “Hey, guys, lets--”
The smile vanished.
Kirby stared up, unable to speak. He had thoughts that were somehow simultaneously confused and clear: he did not know what to do; he was in shock.
Baker was becoming more difficult to hold up.
The drummer stood there for a few more seconds.
Kirby said, “Call the ambulance.”
The drummer turned. The door shut.
Kirby abruptly felt frightened about the tall figure returning, yet somehow insulated by his shock.
Slowly, he lowered Baker to the ground, on his side. Baker was not moving. His eyes were half open.
“No,” Kirby said. “Baker. Please. Please.”
The door opened up again. “Kirby?”
He looked toward the street. Anger filled his soul. He rushed toward the street, emerged onto the sidewalk, looked around. The place was crowded on a Saturday night: restaurants and nightclubs and art galleries and convenience stores. He saw no one who looked like the tall hefty figure.
He turned and marched stonily back to Baker, where the drummer and their manager squatted.
They looked up at him.
He made some weird sound: “Oh.” Then fainted.
The ambulances came. One for Baker, one for Kirby. He had resumed consciousness, but had to be sedated. For a whole day all he could say was, “Baker died.” He had clear thoughts, but no other words. He thought perhaps his mind was gone. But a kind doctor explained that he was in shock, and needed to stay at the hospital until he improved. The doctor sent Kirby’s wife away when she wanted to know why he, Kirby, was so upset about his band-mate dying.
Kirby smiled. The doctor had said, quite clearly, “Ma’am. Your husband has experienced a severe shock. His best friend was gunned down right in front of him. Did you vow to nurse him through sickness as well as health?”
His wife had merely looked at both of them, then left.
A few days later he was speaking again, and would be taking a few months off. Everything was difficult. He slept a lot. He grew thinner. He grew more wordless than usual.
Then the noise started: constant questioning about why he had feelings. But only for a few weeks. As he moved out a few weeks later, and as his wife and one of her girlfriends watched, he silently put all of his belongings into his thankfully large pickup truck and drove away.
Kirby felt terrible again. He saw a tiny record store, went inside, and flipped through the classic rock section. They had one of the albums: their third effort, not as good as the others, but still beloved by their fans. Baker was on the front, dressed in a big tan shirt and a tan headband, which barely controlled his big afro. Kirby and the others stood around him, all of them in their late twenties.
“Miss you, man,” Kirby said.
He felt better now. He made no attempt to hide his face, believing yet again everyone in the room was probably too young, but as he approached the door, one of the clerks said, “Hey, Kirbster. Still kicking it. Looking good.”
“Thanks, man,” Kirby said. He gave the kid a peace sign.
“Right back at ya.”
Outside, Kirby walked for a few more blocks, then went into a more upscale part of town. He casually looked for anyone who might be following, took a few detours, then went to the gate of his apartment complex and punched a few buttons.
Once inside, he wandered the property: it was up on a hill, looking west. He scowled at the view, then sat on a comfortable patio chair and observed the other tenants as they swam, chatted, and went about the business of life.
One of the tenants, a woman about forty or so, glanced at him, then looked away. She wore a green bikini over a tall slim body, and had an androgynous appearance: narrow, hardly any curves. She had long light brown hair and a flat, square face. Kirby imagined her ancestors were American Indian and Swedish.
He looked away, looked back. She had a towel the color of Baker’s guitar: dark maroon. As she moved the towel, he saw a silver pattern on it. As she dried off her legs, a group of people approached her -- more tenants: a small family with a mother, father and several children. The father spoke to the woman. She nodded and stood up and walked toward Kirby. The family sat at the vacated table and chairs.
Kirby hoped his smile looked charming as the woman approached him.
She said, “May I sit here?”
“Please.”
She had no smile as she sat and made herself comfortable.
He stopped faking his, and scowled at the swimming pool.
The woman ran her left thumb over her left fingertips.
“Guitar player?” Kirby asked.
“Yes.”
“Professional?”
“No.”
“Mostly amateur hour in the comfort of your living room?”
She nodded. Still no smile.
He was about to say something else when she said, “I wanted to be a musician. But had to stop pursuing that. Other things had to be attended to.”
Kirby nodded. He observed her peripherally. She sat at the table the way Baker used to: her left arm on the table, the pad of her left thumb running over the pads of the other fingers. Back and forth, back and forth.
He said, “Other things? Did you go into another profession?”
She nodded. “I’m a philanthropist. Kind of a secret until I get to know people. So don’t tell anyone.”
“Ok.”
Kirby examined it all: the towel, her hand, her overall appearance. He decided to give his theory a whirl and said, “I had a friend once. He said if he could come back in another life, he’d come back as a white woman.”
The hand stopped moving.
Silence.
Kirby added, “He was a strange fellow. Believed he had lived many lives before his time. When I knew him, he was a tall skinny black man. He said that was his true identity. But he always had great sympathy and insight into all types of people.”
She sat still, listening. Then said, “What happened to him?”
“He died.”
More silence.
Kirby said, “What do you think of that?”
She said, “I think some people feel that way. By the way, my name is Cheyenne.”
There’s the American Indian influence, he thought. He said, “I know. We met once a few months ago. And I’m still Kirby.”
“Oh, yeah. We were in the lobby one day. And I already knew you from your music.”
“Please don’t call me Kirbster.”
The first promise of a smile. “Don’t like it?”
“No.”
“OK.”
Another silence.
She broke it with, “I would have made a great musician. I think I was a black musician in a former life. Maybe in the thirties. Or a bit later. And died. Not sure how or why. It’s just always been there, as a part of my identity. I was a man. Did not get to fulfill my dream completely. So I play now and then to satisfy that goal. I might become a session musician, but no rush on that.”
There was another long rather comfortable silence. Kirby watched the pool, the other tenants as they swam, the sky as the sun went down, the building ... the woman next to him.
He said, “You are ... well ... you’re welcome to ... uh ... join me. I’m going in to get a cup of something. They have that great coffee/hot chocolate bar in the lobby.”
“Sounds nice.”
As Cheyenne stood, Kirby noticed two large brown spots on her back: on Baker, they would have matched the spots on his back where he had been shot.
“What are those?” Kirby asked as he stood, reached across the small table and touched.
“So far, nothing but extra pigment. Strange. The rest of my skin is just one boring color.” She pulled her hair back with a hairband. “Ready.”
As they got closer to the big glass doors near the community room, Kirby watched their reflections, then smiled as he remembered many conversations about reincarnation with Baker: his old friend had said, “Y’all never tell anyone about this. Ever. Not unless you believe it’s me. Then say something. And you know what else? I hope I’m such a fine woman that I look perfect in a bikini.”
Kirby discretely observed. Cheyenne was fine: slim and long and not too round. As she walked in front of him, he found that to be true of the rear view.
Inside the community room, she started snapping and singing along to a good old song: “Sexual Healing” which was playing softly on an invisible sound system. She said, “Come on Kirby, get into it.” She sang a decent impression of Marvin Gaye’s voice. Kirby sang in harmony, getting chills. She looked nothing like Baker, but the spirit in both human beings was similar.
For a few blessed moments, he believed Baker was there. Cheyenne smiled; her eyes widened. The old rhythm was back as they sang and danced for a few moments.
Kirby said, “You’ve got a natural talent.”
“Thanks. Now let’s get some coffee.”
“Okay, man.”
“‘Okay, man’?” Kirby said.
“Yep.”
They prepared cups of decaf coffee, added splashes of cream and moved to a table and chairs near long glass windows which looked out over the pool area.
Cheyenne looked outside, still humming the song.
Kirby flinched when a loud happy voice said, “What’s up, girlfriend?”
A tall, slim black man, dressed in a tank top and shorts and flip-flops, approached their table.
Cheyenne turned to the man. A brief smile barely reached her eyes. She said, “Pete. Going out to the pool?”
“In a few. Thanks again for loaning me that sugar. Pay you back in a few days.”
“Don’t worry about it, man.”
“I will worry about it, girlfriend. I pay back my debts.” The man said to Kirby, “And how are you today, sir.”
Kirby nodded, momentarily shy, struggling to form an answer when Cheyenne rescued him.
“Pete, this is Kirby.”
“Pleasure.”
“Same here,” Kirby finally said.
“Gotta go,” Pete said. “On my way to an audition.”
“See you, Pete,” Cheyenne said. “Break a leg.”
Kirby hummed along, now infested with an ear-worm. Then realized he felt better than he had in a long time.
He thought about Baker’s last words, spoken as he was getting heavier and heavier in the alley that evening.
Baker had said in a strangely clear and audible way, “Catch up with you later, man. We’ll work together again.”
Kirby had never told anyone about those words. The police had taken a report, and the questions never covered anything Baker said.
Kirby glanced sideways at Cheyenne. She was still humming along, now to “Play That Funky Music.” She was humming the bass-line.
He was sure Baker had returned.
“Thank you,” Kirby whispered in a brief, happy prayer.
“Sing along, man,” Cheyenne said.
Kirby complied, singing the guitar part.
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