Smith All Tomorrow's Parties

1. Auflage 2015
ISBN: 978-1-4835-5212-5
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 576 Seiten

A story of friendship, loyalty, nostalgia, regrets, and the joy and healing of music.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Smith, Marty

Leseproben

merry christmas from the family

I’ll bring the smokes and I’ll bring the wine, and we’ll harbor up safe tonight;

Black cats and babies go to Heaven….

And everywhere you go you leave something beautiful behind

Everywhere you go you leave something beautiful behind….

-- Twilighter, “Black Cats and Babies” (2002)

* * * * * *

The same year the Beatles released Sergeant Pepper, a motel was built not far from Chapel Hill. It lay in a grove of pines near where Highway 70 passed under Interstate 85: two wings of ten rooms each, at right angles, with the office and manager’s quarters at the center. A gravel drive in front surrounded a lawn with a small swimming pool and a fire pit. A path behind the office led down to the banks of the Eno River. The motel stayed in business for several decades (longer than the Beatles were together, in fact), but despite the efforts of several successive owners it never made enough to pay back its mortgages, and finally closed. Until recently, though, people still lived there.

Its motel life was uneventful. No rock stars overdosed there; no desperate criminals were cornered in its nondescript rooms; no one saw God, the Devil or the ghost of Elvis in the neutral patterns of its carpeting. Long after it closed, however, things happened there which shook up the whole community: a fatal accident, a failed suicide, and murder. Certain things, once thought long-lost, were found.

* * * * * *

Andy always had a party in the dead week between Christmas and New Year’s: no longer one of his big ex-motel blowouts, but small and quiet, a hangout place for anybody stuck in town over the holidays. This night would see, at the most, three dozen guests. Some had come early, lingered a while, and moved on; others had promised to arrive late. Sally was splitting a second shift at the hospital and said she’d roll in about ten-thirty. Right now a small core were gathered comfortably in the former lobby, with its dusty bachelor-pad atmosphere of stale cigarettes, stale beer, air freshener and leftovers. At one end the old gas stove on the fake fieldstone hearth made a faint hollow roar, a yellow-orange glow flickering behind its front panel. There was beer in the fridge; and the big plastic bong with the “Just Say No” sticker on its chimney sat on the coffee table, next to an ashtray, matches, and a bag of pale green bud. MTV was showing retrospectives of dinosaur-old bands. “Dear God, is that Dee Snider?” Dorcas suddenly said, pointing at the TV. (It was indeed.)

She and John Overstead were on one sofa, he with his arm round her shoulder. They didn’t go out as much now that they were married – “we’re quite Domesticated,” John liked to explain, “complete with suburban ranch house and all” – but the first North Carolina party John attended, after moving down from Ohio, had been one of Andy’s “holiday betweens,” so he’d made a tradition of it. Rick Yost was on the opposite sofa with his current girlfriend Eviva Raikes. She was wearing “Ricky-the-Stole,” her favorite thrift-store find: an actual mink stole, over eighty years old, from long before the days of political correctness and animal rights, the head still attached and the mouth worked into a clasp so that it could drape, tail between teeth, elegantly over a lady’s shoulders. She was eagerly talking music with Brendan and Karl, rhythm guitarist and bassist of Calisteo, on tour and between shows – the Tabu last night, the Wherehouse in Winston-Salem tomorrow – and staying in Andy’s ex-motel rooms. (Andy had a standing offer of crash space to any band that played the Tabu.) Their drummer Nick was slouched down in another armchair near the warmth of the stove, his knit cap pulled low on his forehead, a wavery wasted smile below. His fingers had earlier been drumming out complex rhythms on the chair arm, but were now still. Billy Heffernan leaned against the counter, his palms down against its ledge, as though ready at any moment to push him into motion.

Andy as always was spread out in his preferred spot, his “throne,” a huge ultra-deluxe Barcalounger. It had sat in the exact same place longer than any of them could remember, ever since he’d brought it back in triumph from a yard sale in Caswell County. It had holders for cups (or beer cans) and pouches for remotes, cigarettes and magazines (or stash, rolling papers and lighter). Buttons in the right arm reclined the back and raised the footrest; or rather, would do so if he got around to fixing the motors. It was upholstered in deep maroon velour, now worn bare in spots and patched in others, and spotted with cigarette burns and bongwater spills.

Andy grinned up at Billy, indicating Nick’s inert form. “Remember how Chuck used to do that?”

Billy grinned back. “Yeah.”

“Who?” John inquired. “Or as the grammatical owl would say, ‘Whom?’”

“Chuck McDonough. Used to go to grad school here. One of Dr. Dave’s students. When was that?” Andy asked Billy, who shrugged. “Loved live music. Loved the Tabu. He’d come to my parties and pass out in that chair. But earlier he’d be singing Bugs Bunny songs and stuff!”

“We both did,” Billy smiled.”

John nodded. “A man of taste and discernment.”

Rick interrupted them. He’d been watching with some suspicion Eviva’s absorption with the band guys. “Andy, man, tell them how you got this place. You know he owns it.”

“Dad gave it to me!” Andy beamed and spread his arms, taking in the room. “His company fronted the money to build it. But they kept going bankrupt, because –“ he gestured again – “well, look; it’s too small. Twenty rooms? You can’t make a profit on twenty rooms.”

“Yeah you could,” Billy said. “Rent it as rehearsal space.”

“He already does, for free,” Rick replied. “You let me and Mickey Hill jam out here all the time. If he starts charging people’ll say fuck it. Did you call Mickey and tell him to come out? I hope he does. He needs to do some more Buckhorn Boogie shows.”

“So, like, you kind of inherited it?” Eviva asked Andy.

“Inherited? - Oh yeah. No. Damn! – lost my thought.” He tilted his beer and found it empty. “Hef, you wanna get me another Busch?” Billy sprang to his feet. Andy held the empty can up. “Anybody? Beer?” Nick stirred to half-life and raised a hand. Andy paused.

“Inheriting the motel,” Dorcas prompted.

“Yeah, yeah. They kept going bankrupt and the property’d kick back to Dad ‘cause he held the loan. The last owners skipped out on him; and about that time I was wanting to move out to the country, and I told him ‘Let me stay there and I’ll fix it up.’ Because they’d left it a wreck. Then after he died Ed and me each got half the estate, so I kept it.”

“That’s awesome,” Eviva said. “I wish somebody’d leave me a bar.”

John put the bong down and remarked, “I knew a girl in college who was set to inherit some money, and her stepdad tried to have her framed for murder so he’d get it instead.”

“Are you serious??” Eviva was appalled. “Did they stop him?”

John leaned back to reminisce in stoned comfort. “Trudy Horvath. She and I were both in architecture school at Kent. She was a couple of years behind me. Yes, they did catch him; this friend of hers, Penny Froward, who was visiting, figured it all out. She was determined to help Tru so she questioned everybody and talked to the police, and figured it out. Tru’s stepdad and step-uncle, I guess is the term, had lost a lot of money in a bad investment, South American oil stocks but the country had a revolution; money they’d snuck out of their jobs by sketchy accounting. Then her step-uncle shot her stepdad, and of course they caught him. He went away for a Long Time.”

“Was she a journalist or something?”

“No; She went back to Rockville and became a lawyer. Specializing in wills, in fact, last I heard. Rockville, Maryland. I always remember that because of the REM song. Don’t Go Back to Rockville.”

“If we’re nice to him he won’t sing it,” said Dorcas, matter-of-fact. “So the moral of the story is –“

“The moral is, when I’m stoned I become a Digressosaurus.”

“Who’re you gonna leave the place to?” Billy asked Andy.

Andy shrugged and lauged. “Damned if I know. You think I got shit to leave anybody?” He picked up the bong.

“It’s a good thing I don’t try to code while stoned,” John speculated.

“You got this place,” Billy insisted. “Who’ll you leave it to?”

“Everybody’s got something to leave,” Eviva said.

“My dad’s giving me his ’73 Charger,” said Karl.

“That thing is sweet,” Brendan added. “Fuck, man, he should give it to you now, not make you wait ‘til he’s dead.”

“I leave my kit,” Nick drawled.

“But all your porn, that’s going with you,” Brendan shot back....