three VINCENT part 2
A science-fair volcano bubbled in my gut. I vented a belch and moaned.
You gonna throw up?
Maybe. Later.
I sat up slowly, relieved to feel the polluted tide of my stomach ebb from the root of my tongue. I drew a heavy breath that ran rough in my chest. Exhaled and it was sharp on all sides like something made of metal.
You still hitting the drums?
Fuck no. Check this out.
Carl switched on a buzzing bank of lights at the far end of the basement. Wheeled a ticking ten-speed Schwinn to one side and snatched a bedsheet from his decommissioned drum kit with a magician’s flourish that left a quivering high-hat hissing like a snake.
That mothballed setup was once a steel-driving machine, an explosive decibel factory that laid steady tracks for the Clownhunter sound. Now it was a cramped slum of basic shapes on chromed steel stands, a forgotten city silhouette obscured by exhibits of the recreational and leisure pursuits of Carl’s dying North American nuclear family.
So when’s the last time you saddled up and played those? I asked.
Carl shook his head, half-shrugged and stretched his arms apart as if estimating the size of something mysterious he’d only glimpsed from a distance. His hands dropped like two shot birds, palms cracked against his sides and he took a deep breath. Came up on his toes and rocked back, staring at the floor and shaking his head, stumped.
This was proof you’d reached the real Carl, when a response to your statement or question wasn’t immediately batted back at you. I knew now we were talking about a system he couldn’t scam. A code he couldn’t crack. It was the same expression, the same broken-robot, cut-puppet body language he used when he said he couldn’t move to Seattle with me because his dad was dying.
He cast the sheet over the drum kit and snapped off the lights.
You ever try to find someone who needs a drummer? I asked. Set those things up and play?
Yeah what, haul those into a coffee shop for open-mic night? I see Dave and Pete once in a while but they don’t play anymore. And I don’t even have time. My world is small now, man. I’m lookin’ after my mom and that’s-
He raised his arms again. Exhaled and let them softly fall.
That’s pretty much my life.
He rolled the bicycle back in front of the drums.
Clownhunter was your band, Vincent. You wrote the songs, you organized every practice. You made all that happen. If YouTube was around back then I know we would have gotten serious exposure.
He was right. Indie success stories in the ’80s and ’90s were limited by a real-world bandwidth of opportunity. There were only so many clubs hosting shows and a finite number of dates each year for a lucky few bands to play. Oh, and you had to be really goddamn good.
Carl nodded toward my guitar in the corner.
Set fire to a man’s house, he’s gonna grab his most valuable possession goin’ out the door. You lost your job, your girl kicks you out and what do you do? Hit the streets with your fucking Fender. Absolutely badass.
Carl, I didn’t-
I know you think your session work wasn’t a big deal but I was proud of you. Tellin’ everybody fuckin’ yeah, Vincent’s a professional musician in Seattle, he’s doin’ it. You did it.
Man I played a lot of local radio ads. Scored a video game about wizards, wrote some atmospheric filler for a couple of independent films. But it’s not like I went up there and made, you know, “Pet Sounds” okay? It was work. Just paying the bills.
So fucking what? You weren’t wearing a name tag, sitting under a headset in a call center. You made a living with those strings and that makes you a professional. I haven’t seen you since last summer but here you are. Poundin’ the pavement like “El Mariachi” at the end of the world.
Carl went to his dad’s old workbench in the corner, opened a cabinet beneath it. Said:
If this house was burning right now and I didn’t have to worry about my mom? I’d probably run out of here with all her meds and my Xbox.
He found a five-gallon bucket, placed it on the floor near my head and stood over me. Pointed toward the dark end of the basement.
That was the first time I’ve looked at those drums since I dumped them down here. But there’s no dust on your guitar. You never gave up the dream. I wish you felt good about that.
Carl walked to the stairs.
If Mom’s awake I’ll tell her you’re here. We’ll have breakfast tomorrow. Today. Okay?
You bet.
You want a Percocet?
I wanted two. He brought me drugs and a glass of water, shut off the lights and went upstairs. I tracked a fading series of kittensqueaks as Carl trod above me. Headlights of passing cars sent frames of light skimming across the wall over my head and I wriggled and rolled, desperate to find the least uncomfortable posture.
©2017 J.R. Schaefers — all rights reserved.