BLACK to Reality (4 page)

Rusty being a euphemism for completely clueless after two decades without strumming so much as a chord.

When he made it back to the office, Roxie was still out. Mugsy glared at him with the studied indifference of a feline Buddha from his position on the lobby sofa.

“Look at you, you tubby bastard. I could probably cut steaks off you and live for a week,” Black said.

Mugsy, as if sensing his thoughts, leapt off the couch and rubbed against Black’s legs, leaving a trail of hair on his trousers. Black stared down at the fur as Mugsy darted into the dark area beneath Roxie’s desk. Black debated chasing him down and throttling him but chose the high road, removing most of the hair with some of Roxie’s Scotch tape while a pair of beady cat eyes peered at him from relative safety.

When Roxie returned an hour later, she looked about as happy as Black felt.

“How did it go?” he asked.

“I heard this disembodied voice cackling as I shook her hand, and then it said, ‘Welcome to hell.’ Is that a bad sign?”

“Sounds like a winner to me. You guys should get along swell.”

“Tell me you got the client.”

“It’s not that simple.” He filled her in on Bobby’s offer.

“Crap. I’m screwed. No way you’re going to last more than a week or two unless the other bands suck hard,” she offered helpfully.

“I haven’t even decided whether I’m going to do it.”

“Oh. Right. You’re going to turn down national television and having a shot at stardom and a lot of money. I forgot how logical you can be. My bad.”

“I don’t even remember how to play.”

“Start practicing.”

“I don’t have a guitar.”

“That could be a problem.”

Black frowned. “I don’t suppose you have an extra I could borrow for a few days?”

“Do I look like the local pawn shop or something?”

“That’s what I figured.”

“Then again, it might be worth it to watch you humiliate yourself. So yes, I do have a guitar. A Gibson SG. Like Angus plays.”

“Really?”

“Really. And only because I’m totally bitchin’ will I let you borrow it.”

“Can we get it now?”

She opened her purse and removed a bottle of black nail polish. “I’m kind of busy.”

“Think about how embarrassing it’ll be for me.”

“You driving?”

On the way to Roxie’s apartment she had the bright idea to call one of her friends who played in a cover band and ask if Black could sit in on a few songs. When she hung up, she had an evil smirk of triumph on her face.

“Tonight’s your lucky night. He said no sweat.”

“Roxie, I’m not sure I’m ready for that…”

“Bullshit. After a few hours of playing this afternoon, it’ll all come back. If you’re going to be jamming in front of thousands, you need to get used to going out there and putting it on the line.”

“You’re not just doing this to watch me crater in front of an audience, are you?”

She struggled to keep the delight out of her eyes. “I can’t believe you suspect my motives. Of course that’s why. I’m bringing popcorn.”

“You’re going to be there?”

“Absolutely. This will be better than Mel Gibson on a jag. I actually almost peed my pants when Josh agreed to let you sit in.”

“Don’t you have a show or rehearsal or something?”

“Nope. Wide open. Can’t wait.”

“You’re not really pumping me full of confidence.”

“I hope you don’t freak out or anything. Like run screaming off the stage. Or freeze. The worst is when they freeze. They say you never get the sound of the jeering out of your head after that. It haunts you forever.”

“That’s good to know. But remember, I used to play big clubs all the time, so I’m not exactly a virgin.”

The guitar was serviceable, the strings fairly new, and Black nodded in approval as he set the case in the back of the Cadillac. Roxie handed him two plastic picks and returned to the passenger seat.

“Come on. Let’s get to jamming, wild stone! Woohoo,” she said, feigning enthusiasm.

“You really need to work on your bedside manner.”

“Is that one of your thinly veiled and super-creepy sexual innuendos? Ew. I should so sue your ass. I would if you had any money.”

“You should wait until I’m a rock star again. I hear it pays well.”

“Wouldn’t know to look at you.”

Back at the office he tuned the guitar and began the rusty first runs up the frets. Roxie sat at her desk and listened for a half hour, and then picked Mugsy up and carried him to Black’s doorway.

“I can’t take it. I’m leaving.”

“Come on. It’s not that bad.”

“It sounds like two chickens fighting.”

“But in a good way.”

“It’s scarring Mugsy for life.”

Black brightened. “Are you taking him?”

“Of course not. I’m just debating calling animal protective services and filing a cruelty complaint.”

“Which end’s his head again?”

She set Mugsy down. “Pick me up at my place at nine.”

“You’re serious about this.”

“I don’t have any money to go to a movie with, so this is the cheapest free entertainment I’m going to get. Besides, I’m debating calling your friends and your parents and selling tickets.”

“Roxie…”

“Kidding. But have a few bucks available to buy us drinks. You’re going to need ’em, and I get thirsty.”

Her leather-clad bottom sashayed away, managing to be simultaneously alluring and insulting, and he returned to running scales, trying to get his fingers to obey his brain’s commands. So far the fingers were winning, but some of his chops were returning, albeit agonizingly slowly.

At five he took a break and called Sylvia. She sounded busy but happy to hear from him. He told her he’d be occupied until eleven that night and wanted to know if she was in the mood for company.

“Are you sure you’ll be up for it?” she asked.

“I’m always up for seeing you, Sylvia. Besides. I have some big news. Or may have.”

“That’s cryptic.”

“I just haven’t decided on something yet.”

“I’ll be up if you want to come by. Or are you thinking your place?”

“Nah, I’ll be up on the strip. I’ll stop by yours.”

“All right, Mr. Black, man of mystery. I’ll see you then.”

Black hadn’t figured out how to break the news to Sylvia about the show, but figured it wouldn’t matter if he decided not to do it. Although he had to admit that the thought of standing in front of a crowd, living his dream again, had appeal. Being booted from his band on the eve of their first big tour had festered in his gut like a malignancy for years, and even though he’d thought that was behind him, he realized the burn in his stomach was back, stronger than ever.

Mugsy studied the forbidden leather couch with destructive intent. Black stared him down and called out his name. Mugsy gave him a large cat yawn and, with a final wistful look at the supple black leather, waddled off to wreak havoc elsewhere. Black sat back and began strumming a Rolling Stones song, wincing at the occasional flub or muddled chord. But as he noodled, his confidence returned, and by the time dusk colored the sky with swirls of orange and red, he was feeling slightly less unsure of himself.

But the first real test would be to see how he did with a band.

Which, a glance at his watch informed him, would be in two hours or so.

Wearily he put the guitar back into its case and turned off the lights on his way out of the office. Mugsy was sprawled in his customary position on the lobby sofa, snoring, the oversized food bowl empty, another tough day of lounging around doing nothing having worn him out.

Chapter 5

Roxie led Black into the darkened interior of the Red Pony Saloon, where a small crowd milled around, the flotsam and jetsam that called the strip home – bikers, pimps, blue-collar workers drowning their sorrows, retail clerks dressed up like rockers, everyone participating in the same illusion that enabled them to be whatever they wished away from the harsh light of day.

“Sweet Home Alabama” pumped from the stage as a five-piece band bashed its obligatory way through the standard, followed, no doubt, Black was sure, by “Free Bird”. A woman on the wrong side of fifty, looking in her denim vest like she’d been ridden hard and put away wet more times than she could remember, offered a bleary smile to Black as he pushed his way past her.

The club was a reminder of countless similar dives he’d played when his band was struggling to make ends meet. It was at a place much like this one he’d first seen his future wife, belting out a Heart ballad with a set of pipes that Mariah Carey would have envied. The only thing missing was the fog of cigarette smoke, now a thing of the past.

Black watched Roxie – who had exchanged her top for a sleeveless Pantera concert shirt, the better to display her tattoos – as she marched through the quarter-full audience and positioned herself, hip cocked, in front of the small stage. The band hit the final chords to a few inebriated screams of Skynyrd from several sweating, overweight men doing boilermakers as they whooped as if Wednesday in a Hollywood dive was New Year’s Eve in Times Square.

The band surprised Black by launching into a Kings of Leon hit instead of another Southern anthem, and he debated the wisdom of a shot of Jaeger with a draft beer chaser. As his nerves jangled with each pop of the snare drum, he decided that this certainly qualified as an emergency, so strong medicine was in order. When the heavily pierced, goateed bartender moved near, he modified his order to a tequila shot and a glass of Red Hook, already feeling guilty at squandering his precious dollars.

The liquid courage warmed him, and when Roxie found him, he was telling a joke to two hard-looking bikers wearing sunglasses long after the sun had set.

“So there’s this place in Anchorage, I swear, called Skinny Dick’s. The sign by the highway says, and I’m not bullshitting you, ‘Liquor in the front, poker in the rear!’”

The men laughed together, and Black waved the bartender over for another shot of tequila. Roxie sidled up to him and elbowed him in the ribs.

“Save some of that for onstage. And yes, I’d love a Grey Goose, straight up.”

“Sounds expensive.”

“You get what you pay for, Boss,” she said and winked in a way that was anything but professional.

Black felt a wholly inappropriate stirring. He shrugged it off as one of his companions described being in the Bakersfield joint for two months pending trial. When the drinks arrived, Black laid a few of his remaining bills on the bar and turned to Roxie, cocktails in hand.

“Mud in your eye.”

“Josh said you should head up there whenever you’re ready. You guys talk about what songs you know, and they’ll figure it out,” Roxie said and then knocked back her vodka without blinking. “Now would be a good time, unless you’re planning to ride bitch with one of your new boyfriends instead of playing tonight.”

“You do know how to frame a persuasive argument, don’t you?” Black said and downed his third tequila shot, his nerves now humming. A familiar sense of excitement coursed through him as he prepared to take the stage.

The reality was anticlimactic. Playing in front of maybe forty people, most of whom were there for lack of anywhere else to go, was hardly a substitute for standing in front of a sold-out crowd at the Whiskey. When Black stepped on the stage, he suddenly felt claustrophobic, the area more the size of Mugsy’s kitty litter box than a real venue. Josh handed him one of his spare Les Paul guitars and switched on a backup amp and, after a hurried discussion, launched into a Pearl Jam song Black thought he could play in his sleep.

That turned out to be an exaggerated belief. The next song, “Black Dog”, went even worse, and by the time they finished an Eagles number, Black was sweating and ready to leave. Josh was courteous, but Black could see in his eyes he was as anxious to be rid of Black as Black was to get off the stage. It hadn’t been a complete disaster, but when Josh turned Black’s amp down by half in the middle of the second song, it sent an unmistakable message: you suck.

Which the few courtesy claps and occasional muffled boo from the back of the room had underscored.

When he lumbered off the stage, Roxie wouldn’t meet his gaze, and all his suspicions were confirmed. If it hadn’t been terrible, she would have gleefully given him a supersized ration of shit. As it was, all she did was hand him another tequila shot.

“You can tell me the truth, you know,” he said, sweat beading down his face as he tilted his head back and swallowed the harsh liquor in a gulp.

“There’s no Santa or Easter Bunny.”

He grimaced from the burn in his throat. “I meant about my playing.”

“I’d say it speaks for itself.”

“Pretty terrible, huh?”

“I’m bored. Let’s get out of here.”

Black nodded and moved to the exit, Roxie close behind, and when they were outside amidst the cigarette butts and exhaust fumes, she slowed.

“Okay, you asked for it. It was rough. Embarrassing, even. I mean, there were moments where I wanted to gouge my ears out with a jam knife to make it stop.”

“Don’t sugarcoat it.”

“But there were also a few where it was decent. Not good. Decent. And you could see that if you kept practicing, it might get better than decent. Which I’d think you’d know. How many years were you playing before you got good? And how many hours a day did you spend with a guitar in your hands, on average?”

“I was always noodling around…”

“And now, after not playing for twenty years, you expect to spend three or four hours and be any good? Why would you think that?”

Black shook his head and began walking. “Because sometimes I’m a dope.”

“No, it’s because you have that penis thing going on, where you want to be the dominant one at all times, and it blinds you to reality. Men are competitive, and they forget the negatives in order to blunder forward. What you’re guilty of is being male, not a dope. Although you can be a dope, too.”

“That’s reassuring. I’m not only delusional, but also stupid. I wonder why I never thought about putting that on my dating profile.” He grunted. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

“My job here is done.”