Hi there! Here’s part 2 of a longish short story I wrote about 5 or 6 years ago called On the Way to My Grave.
Part 1 is here.
I never figured out what genre it belongs to (is nihilism a genre?) or what to do with it, and I’ve evolved as a writer to the point that this story no longer represents me. So I might as well post it. You are welcome to comment positively or negatively without concern for hurting my feelings. This will be the tale’s final incarnation and resting place.
Done acting like a baby, I called our keyboardist, also named Tony, and told him about the letter from Brett Denson. Tony holds down a pretty good government job and has no use for me. His response was, “Whatever dude. The letter’s probably a fake,” before telling me he had to go.
Our drummer died in a car crash last year, and I don’t know what happened to the bass player. There was no one else to call. Strangle Taffy was just a memory. Like Brett Denson.
I left the wreckage of my Ibanez and went upstairs to get drunk. Sitting at the kitchen table, I poured shots of cheap tequila and fantasized about killing Hayden Campbell and all the other fuckers out there who humiliated me every goddamned day. Nadine. The customers. I dreamt about the looks of shock as they saw a cheap blue Ibanez six-string swinging at their heads.
I took Brett Denson’s letter from my back pocket and threw it on the table, wondering if the guy had been the last person on Earth to give a crap about my music.
The song referenced in the letter, Done to Me, never got radio play. It was the best song I ever wrote, though. A sweet, melancholy melody with bleak, nihilistic lyrics is magic when you pull it off right. Shit. They still play Dust in the Wind all the time.
Strangle Taffy had one buzz track called Pounce, which the record company made me write. One of those chant-along, one-hit-wonder types, only it wasn’t a hit. Our second album was supposed to be our breakout, but we rushed it and it sucked. The label gave us “one last chance” with our third release, which means we had a three-album contract to finish out. They spent about eleven cents promoting it and we were dropped. Fifteen people showed up for our last gig.
Tequila bottle empty, I zigzagged to the bathroom. The light hurt. Squinting, I opened the medicine cabinet and took out my oxycodone. Brett Denson had the right idea, I thought. I pressed down on the lid and tried to twist, but drunkenness robbed me of coordination. Then I put it on the toilet tank and attempted to push and turn with my palm, losing my balance when the bottle shot out from under me. I tumbled head-first into the wall.
On the floor, I remembered how eleven years ago I used to stare at myself in a full-length mirror thinking I was going to be the next Bono. Now I couldn’t open a child-proof cap to overdose on painkillers.
I awoke at four in the morning, still in my stupid white shirt and tie and curled up on the bathroom floor. I staggered to my feet, went back down to the basement, and found a crate full of extension cords.
Still inebriated, it took a while to make the noose. Finally I stood on the overturned crate, looped the wire over two crossbeams and secured it, and slipped the noose over my head.
The debris from my broken guitar lay at the foot of the crate. Even in killing myself, I recognized my knack for metaphors. Ever the songwriter. I thought, I’m about to be famous for one more day. Maybe they’ll play Pounce on the radio again. Maybe they’ll play Done to Me.
Then I thought, maybe they’d play it anyway if people found out about Brett Denson’s suicide. What if I showed up to offer my condolences? It could be great PR. It could lead to interviews. A benefit show for his family. Airplay.
A tribute song. I could write a goddamn tribute song.
With great care, I slipped my head out from the noose and stepped off the crate.
~ ~ ~
Hung over, exhausted, stinking, and miles away in my head, I must have looked like I’d just climbed from the grave. Or got lost on my way to it.
Nadine, who isn’t a bad person, gaped at me a moment before regaining her poise. When I asked for the rest of the week off, she said yes without probing. I worked the remainder of Tuesday in a trance, thinking about how my last fan in the world might have just saved me.
I looked up Denson’s address on my lunch break and printed directions. Later, at home, I meant to think up a master plan, but I passed out. As I drifted away, I gave imaginary answers to questions from an imaginary TV journalist: Yes, Brett was my biggest fan, which is why I wrote this song about him (I look straight into the camera). It’s called Never Forget. La la la…
(Imaginary spotlights are so bright)
~ ~ ~
Collingwood is a former mining town, but I have no idea what keeps it going now. When I rolled in at noon on Wednesday, I didn’t feel so sure about knocking on Sharon Denson’s door and telling her I killed her son. I drove around town a while then zipped through county roads that spider web outward from the main strip. I saw a old farmhouses, ratty-looking ranchers, and a townhouse development by the highway. And one big, old colonial with oversized columns, perched on a hill overlooking town.
Back in Collingwood proper, I got two cheeseburgers from McDonald’s dollar menu, ate them in the parking lot, and considered hitting the bar across the street for a few shots of something hard and cheap.
Instead I stopped at a drug store and bought a pack of gum. Besides the usual junk, the store sold sweatshirts and tees that said “Saber Cats” and depicted a pissed-off tiger. The clerk said it was the high-school football team. They were the big thing, he said.
Ah, small-town U.S.A. American rock-n-rollers can make a living writing songs about places like this. I thought about the inevitable abandoned coal mines and downtrodden economy and halfway wished I hadn’t wrecked my guitar.
I arrived at Sharon Denson’s house at 5:30, parked at the curb, and watched. After a few minutes I started to feel like a weirdo, so I spit my chewing gum and got out.
The woman who answered the doorbell seemed tired, with lifeless eyes and limp hair pinned back by barrettes. I expected anguish and got drab.
“Can I help you?”
(to be continued)