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Ain't Nobody's Business
One day, I have ham and bacon
And then the next day, ain’t nothin’ shakin’
It ain’t nobody’s business if I do
Strange
that the first song of the evening should still circle through my head at 3:30
Sunday morning.
It’s
kind of a dreary opener, but one of the few advantages to playing solo is
singing whatever you feel like whenever you feel like it. James Cotton couldn’t
have felt it more when he recorded his version back in the '60s.
Kelly’s
never did pick up. Typical. It makes for a long night. But better that than
what happened last Friday. At least I didn’t end up with blood all over the
fretboard of my guitar. At least I didn’t get suckered into Cliff O’Dett’s
bullshit again. At least I didn’t…
Did I
really do that? That’s the only time in my life when the clasp knife in my
pocket felt like a weapon rather than a tool.
That’s
not strictly true. I’ve checked for it defensively a few times in rough places,
but last Friday I just about lost my cool entirely.
Is Eve
that hot? Or has she just convinced me that she’s that hot? What’s the
difference?
She’s
hot, that’s for sure. That unflinching, ice-blue stare, cold and hard as it is,
still melts me. Her skier’s legs, wrapped around mine, paralyze me. Those
glorious breasts, sweatered and unfettered, deceive you into thinking that you
can tell what’s on her mind…
Whoa,
turn down the testosterone, big fella! Been awhile, huh? She’s more than
physically hot. She’s creative, inconsiderate, unique, maddening, pretentious,
flattering, and incredible, in both senses of that word.
Not
that I’m only guy in Seattle mooning over Evening Singletary. It’s too late and
I’m too restless to think about that now.
Kelly’s
sucks. It’s got to be the worst gig in Seattle. For what they pay it’s barely a
gig at all. It’s one of those jobs you only play on the way up or on the way
down, and having played there years ago, it’s pretty obvious which way I’m
headed. Plus, I had to talk Lucy into booking me. How depressing is that?
Not as
depressing as the fact that the audience—that handful of misfits and
wierdos—has the same contempt for me as they do for their scruffy little bar,
or for themselves, for that matter. The only response the Gay Caballero had to
that first song was that my JBL cabinets got in the way of his pool shots.
The Gay
Caballero, whatever his name is—now there’s a piece of work. The gaudy earring
under the cowboy hat, the torn jeans and the boots, the T-shirt that sags over
his beer belly. He dreams, he once lisped confidentially to me, of singing
“Rhinestone Cowboy” on stage someday. If I could remember it well enough to
play it for him, I would, if only to witness (and maybe envy) his goose-fleshed
titillation at imagining himself “riding out on a horse in a star-spangled
rodeo.”
But the
Gay Caballero seems straightforward compared to Cliff O’Dett.
Why
would anyone worth ten million bucks hang out at Kelly’s? Cliff’s response to
that was that his grandkids live nearby. That’s not unbelievable. He looks like
a self-made working stiff. He did sheepishly admit that he lost his wallet and
a bunch of gold credit cards to a $20 prostitute, so he must have earthy tastes.
Maybe
that’s what appealed to him about my music, which he seemed genuinely gassed
by. The solo act doesn’t have the oomph that Four Day Creep had, but it’s still
no-doubt-about-it blues. And if he wants to be my Colonel Tom Parker, far be it
from me to tell him otherwise. Some of Cliff’s promotional schemes are lame,
but if he has the brains it takes to get that rich, I’m sure he has the brains
to hire a professional manager for me and to relegate himself to the sidelines.
But
doesn’t it seem either too ironic or too romantic to run into precisely the
sort of backer my career needs swigging beer at Kelly’s? And to impress him
that much on such a bizarre night?
And if
he’s that impressed with the music, and that rich, why make the offer to put me
to work driving one of his dump trucks at the quarry till my career takes off?
Not
that I couldn’t use the $1,000 a week he offered. I’d be out of the hole in no
time at that rate. But if I’m that valuable to him as a musician, why waste my
time on grunt work? That’s no way to get along, as the old Stones song says.
I was
glad Crazy Fred had me pull out “Prodigal Son.” At least a few people still
remember me from before the Four Day Creep days. I’d forgotten Jagger and
Richard wrote it themselves till I saw it on my sheet.
Get out
the Good Book, look that story up…
That’s
what I thought. Jesus doesn’t say what happens next. Has the Prodigal Son
learned his lesson? Does he stick around like his older brother? The old man,
after all, told the older brother, “All that I have is thine.” Does the
prodigal just hang around till the left-over fatted calf is gone and then split
for the wide world? In other words, is he prodigal by nature? And if so, how
many times can he come back before the fatted calf gives way to just a cold
beer? Or a cold shoulder?
I’d
just as soon not have to hit Dad up for a place to crash again. Not that he’s
ever refused me. In fact he’s never really changed his tune since Mom died:
“You don’t have a mama no more.” That’s why he’s got to take me back. Why he
can’t stand in the way of me playing my music. Why he used to give me a
“whuppin’” every so often. Why I never seem to amount to much.
Meanwhile,
brother Jim’s an optometrist and he and Gina have the townhouse and sailboat in
Gig Harbor, and we don’t make a point of seeing each other any more.
Maybe
I’ll have a beer.
Me and baby, we fuss and fight
But then the next minute, we’re all right
It ain’t nobody’s business if I do
So what
were we fighting about, anyway?
What
are fights ever about?
Control.
For
someone named for the calmest part of the day, Evening Singletary can be pretty
hot-blooded. She brings it out in me.
Her
driving doesn’t help. Her Fiat pretends it’s a Ferrari. She honks
blasphemously. So my knuckles were pre-whitened anyway. And the CD release
party scheduled prematurely for that Saturday at the Old Timer’s put pressure
on everybody. Was that just three weeks ago?
That’s
right, we were arguing about what the last song on the Four Day Creep CD should
be.
I can’t
believe how fixated she was on the song Mark wrote. “Taking The Low Road.” Good
Lord. In any case Mark had only played bass with us for six weeks and he wasn’t
even on the other tracks we’d put down at Earwax. We should give him the
closer?
Besides,
the project needed a rocker. I still think “Rock Her” is a good title, and I
like the few lines I’ve got: “Don’t let her see you hungry, don’t let her see
you sweat. Don’t let her ever see that she’s the best that you’ve had yet.” I
mean, if you can’t get your ya-ya’s out in music, you’re dead. Now if I can
just finish the damned thing.
She
wanted to know what was wrong with “Low Road.” But I couldn’t tell if she was
defending the song or Mark, with his smarmy smile and his guttural laugh and
that stupid old black Cadillac.
“It’s a
bit blatant, don’t you think?” I asked her, meaning all of it.
“It
comes right out and says it,” she maintained about the song, then sang her
favorite part: “‘When you go south with your mouth…’ It’s a scream. Don’t you
get it?”
“I
don’t want it,” I said sarcastically. “Do you?” Laying it on thick.
“Don’t
be a pig.” Punctuated by the dramatic brake-squeal in front of the Old Timer’s,
making every transient and tourist in Pioneer Square turn his head.
“Pigs
are good at sniffing out what’s underground,” I shot back dramatically,
grabbing for my guitar in the tiny back seat.
A
perfect exit line requires an immediate exit, though. The guitar hangs up on
the seat belt. I lose my temper, try to jerk the case out.
Now, I
love that 1967 bone-finish Stratocaster as much as I’ve ever loved anything. It
makes sounds “no voice can hope to hum,” to quote Dylan.
But
Fender cases suck. Compared to the original flimsy, tippy one, the new case
seemed like a big improvement—until one of the hinge pins fell out. And in
whatever crisis dominated the moment it made sense to replace it with a
finishing nail. Why waste time fixing it right, right?
The
next part’s like a tape loop. Eve’s foot tapping the gas pedal impatiently. The
sweat and the rain on the back of my head. The obstinate fabric of the seat
belt. The pressure in my eye sockets. The last-moment glimpse of my left
ring-finger as it slid onto the end of the nail I’d used to repair the hinge.
The point of the nail exiting the skin just above the callous created by the wear
of the guitar string. My reflexive arm jerk tearing the nail free, splitting
the toughened callous in half. The knee-buckling pain, the first drops of blood
beading on the vinyl car seat.
And the
way the look in Eve’s eyes, as she turned around, shot from disdain to dismay.
Three
shots of novocaine and five stitches later, and she’s back to loving me, at
least for the moment.
But so
much for Four Day Creep. With no lead player, there’s no band, no crowd, no
party, no release. All down the tubes. The bastard at Earwax still has the
master against the studio time we booked and didn’t use. Oh well. Nothing lasts
forever. Tell me something I don’t know. I should work that into “Rock Her.”
If my
finger ever gets right again. At least I didn’t have to soak it in peroxide
tonight.
People
don’t understand how such a relatively small cut can trash a guitarist. For
that matter, I can still play a lot of chords with the other fingers. The solo
stuff is okay because it’s mostly chords and I can adjust.
But
blues leads come out of the tip of that ring finger. The blues aren’t about
resolution, they’re about dissonance. The minor third against the major chord.
The sixth stretched up to the dominant seventh. The dissonance makes the blues
possible. And unbearable.
And the
only way to get there is with that tip of that left ring finger. It’s a
stronger commitment than marriage. If you cut that finger, you don’t have to
take off a wedding ring. But try getting that G up to a G#. It’s like pulling
raw meat along a cheese slicer. You just can’t get the blues out.
Maybe
I’ll soak that finger anyway.
One day, I’m going crazy
Gonna buy me a shotgun and shoot my baby
It ain’t nobody’s business if I do
Talk
about dissonance: earlier tonight, hardly a soul in the place, the flower lady
came through dead, scuzzy Kelly’s. She wore black and carried a big wicker
basket of semi-fresh flowers that interested no one. She wanted to hear
something feisty, like Van Morrison, so I played as much of “Blue Money” as I
could remember. She danced by herself and left a bruised, long-stemmed rose
across my tip jar. What’s the old Steely Dan line? “I pray for the weekend and
hope the little girls still throw roses.”
Cliff
sure lobbed some roses at me last week. At first he just betrayed the familiar,
non-musician’s awe that I can charm the blues out of that old guitar, even with
a bloody finger.
But by
the second time I talked to him he’s got out his briefcase, showing me arial
photos of his quarry, of the dock he built on the Duwamish, then all the paper
work for his telecommunications deal. But he won’t give me his phone number.
What’s that about? If he’s making it all up, it’s amazingly elaborate fiction.
But if it’s not fiction, why tell me 50 times he’d call me by Wednesday and
Sunday’s already under way and still nothing?
Meanwhile,
the whole time I was nodding and smiling at him but glancing at Eve’s cigarette
burning down in the ashtray. It seemed like she had been trying to make it
right between us by coming to Kelly’s, but then Mark showed up not ten minutes
after she did. Coincidence?
Cliff
looked beat. He has the eyes of a man who has spent considerably less than a
third of his life asleep. I was surprised he made it to midnight. By the time
the cabbie poked his head in, Cliff had made his last empty promise and I
helped him stagger out, still looking for clues about his authenticity. Can’t
tell much about a man who rides in a cab.
But a
black Caddie speaks volumes. Mark’s windows were steamed and I could see only
him at first. But then Evening straightened up from where she’d been leaning
toward his lap.
The
next thing I know my hand’s in my pocket and the knife’s in my hand. I actually
took it out, even took a couple of steps toward the car. Then I saw her let out
the smoky hit. A cop wouldn’t know what kind of smoke it was unless he smelled
it.
I
glanced at my hand. The blood looked almost black in the mercury-vapor blue of
the streetlight. The knife was already streaked with it.
What
did I think I was going to do? Where’s my stocking cap, my leather gloves, my
Bruno Magli shoes? I’ve already got my own blood on my knife, I’m going to add
more?
Maybe
I’ll have another beer.
One day, I’m gonna take a notion
To go straight down and jump in that ocean
It ain’t nobody’s business if I do
I hate
this house. It’s dank and musty and smells like gas all the time. And it’s more
than I can afford.
The
shreds of fog off the water make this dilapidated neighborhood look like
something from an old black-and-white movie. I feel like taking a walk but
being stuck out here where Alki Point disappears into the Sound, north, south,
and west all lead me into the ocean.
I
wonder how far out I could swim before the cold got to me? A guy jumped from a
ferry a couple of weeks ago and was dead before they could fish him out. But if
I swam out and didn’t leave a note, they might not even know it was suicide.
Hell,
I’m a blues singer. There’s nothing but notes.
Maybe
they’d call it an act of God. But if God is all he’s cracked up to be, then
what isn’t an act of God? If he made me, he also made my life what it is. An
omnipotent God would have to be awfully callous to leave me like this.
Nobody
knows you when you’re down and out.
I can’t
believe I bought into Cliff’s spiel. A player of my years should know that the
only bar talk to listen to is Bartok. But more unbelievable than his offer was
how I lapped it up with a spoon. For a grand a week I was willing to sell my
time, my integrity, even control over my music, the one thing that’s ever meant
anything to me. And what’s more, I’m bummed that the deal fell through. I used
to vow never to sell out; now I can’t seem to sell out no matter how hard I
try. I feel like a too-old hooker.
And how
did Eve get so far under my skin? What happened to my cool? Last week’s passion
sure left a bitter after-taste. Since when can’t I turn my anger inward?
She
said if she didn’t show up tonight she’d call. Another lie to ease the blow. Oh
well. She’s somebody else’s problem now. Come on, boys, she sure ain’t mine.
Step right up to be the next in line. To rock her.
That’s
not bad. I ought to write that down. Isn’t my notebook in the guitar case?
Nope. Damn, I must have left it in the car.
Jesus,
it’s even colder and danker out here. The tide must be out. You can smell the
rot and salt and fish. Life begins and ends in the ocean. If I went south, the
shortest way, I’d have to scramble over the slimy rocks just to get to the
water. Probably break my neck trying to kill myself.
Is that
the light of the city or dawn? Hard to say.
I’ve
worn a depression in the gravel drive where I get out of the car, which is now
a puddle, making me go through contortions when I unload my gear from the car.
Oh, what the hell, my shoes are already soaked.
There’s
the notebook.
What am
I stepping on? Oh, it’s that long-stemmed rose the flower lady left me. It must
have caught on something and fallen out, and I trampled it in the dark. What
could be more worthless? The petals are scattered and torn. Nothing’s left but
the thorns.
Do I
really need to write about Eve? I’ve lost plenty of other women in my time. I
know how easily ecstacy dissolves in entropy.
One
more song won’t make much difference. Ultimately, who cares?
Maybe
I’ll take that walk anyway.
The End