Words to Music - Sample Story: “Cocaine Blues”
Words to Music (Volume 1)
Wells, et al. (Authors)
One of forty stories in the book on sale at Amazon.com.
Cocaine Blues
by Kenneth Wayne
Japan
Staring at the Marantz amp purchased with cocaine money, you wonder why he’s wasting its potential on an old Johnny Cash album.
“Was this recorded at Folsom or San Quentin?” you shout over the music at Rune sitting in a faded easy chair to the right of the battered sofa you’re occupying.
He cups an ear hidden under his shoulder-length, curly black hair.
“Huh?”
“San Quentin or Folsom?” He shakes his head, stands up, walks over to the amp and turns the volume down.
“Love those speakers, but fuck man, can’t hear shit. What did you say?”
“Just wanted to know if this is San Quentin or the one at Folsom?”
“It’s Folsom. Quentin has that asinine ‘Boy Named Sue’ on it.”
“Don’t you got something that could demonstrate the quad capabilities of this system?” you ask, hoping he’d change the album since you never liked the “Man in Black” after he had that lame TV show a few years back.
“I could play some Pink Floyd or something, I guess. I just wanted to check out if you’d agree,” he says as he plopped his six-foot-three frame back into the overstuffed brown chair.
“About what?”
“One of my connections said something that makes the next song a great example of now.”
“Huh?”
“Well, this guy said ‘now’ consists of five seconds. Everything else is either the past or the future.”
“You mean, our sense of the present lasts about five seconds? What’s that got to do with the song?”
“Well, last night I just finished snorting some coke and decided it fitting to play, ‘Cocaine Blues.’” His pale blue eyes are bloodshot from the pot you just sold him and there’s a hyper intensity in his stare as he talks through a big grin covering his thin lips. “Anyway, I was listening and realized . . . oh here, listen yourself.” He pops back up, flies to the amplifier, and cranks up the volume. While standing he starts counting on his fingers. “See,” he shouts, “one, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five . . .”
“So, each line is five seconds?” You shout back.
“Yeah, each line’s now.”
“Oh fuck! I gotta go,” you say, standing up. He immediately turns the sound off.
“Hey, just cool it a little man. You’re freaking me out! You hear something?”
“No, I have to be at the ‘Market’ in five minutes. Fuckin’ forgot about it.” You take a quick look at your Timex.
“Well, if you got to meet the man, you gotta do it. Thanks for the prompt delivery of the Columbian. It’s heavenly smoke man, heavenly.”
“Yeah, thanks for the line.”
He heads to the dark-stained wooden door. “Sure you don’t want a little snow?”
“No can do. I’ve got to move a little more of this lumber first,” you say with bright sunshine seeping inside as he opens the door to a warm day in April.
“If you want, I’ll dub this to a cassette so you can experience the ‘now.’ You can pick it up when you decide you need some coke to enhance the high of that herb.”
Within minutes, you pull your powder-blue AMC into the parking lot of the “alternative” shopping mall where your customer said he’d be waiting. Since graduating from college close to a year ago, you’ve been making ends meet by dealing pot. Your more legitimate income source is to go door-to-door in residential areas and gather the names
of people interested in buying storm windows. You earn a 10% commission for each person who’s stupid enough to be suckered into installing them. With unemployment looming larger than the percentage of your commission during this recession, or semi-depression that the Republicans had been blaming on the brother of Billy-Beer Carter, it’s been hard to make an honest wage. Frankly, though, you haven’t been looking very hard since you enjoy providing
herbals: Columbian, Mexican, and some of the local homegrown seedless varieties.
You climb a staircase with the walls painted in bright blues and reds and lined with posters for rock concerts, outdoor activities, and local events. A whiff of spice becomes a deluge of aromas as you enter a large room sprinkled with people dressed in blue jeans sitting on benches and patio furniture around wooden tables and surrounded by a dozen stalls or small stands selling “ethnic” fast food, vegetarian sandwiches and organic delicacies. Seated in a chair near the falafel stand, you spot a college-aged boy with semi-long, straight, brown hair who acknowledges your presence with a small nod.
“Hey Bro,” he says as you approach. He’s framed by a large window outside of which looms a huge oak with its intricate network of arm like branches covered in verdant splendor. The size and proximity of the tree to this building attests to the long history of this warehouse, which around the height of Watergate was converted into a catacomb of shops for local artisans from the “alternative” community. Your customer wears the unofficial uniform for university students in this college town; blue jeans, a blue work shirt rolled up at the sleeves, and a small back pack for books. Around him are others similarly equipped sitting around slurping on herbal teas or smoothies, and scarfing down ‘healthy’ food.
“Hey, Timmy. How’s it hanging?”
“My friend, my friend. You made it,” he says, extending his hand for a power-to-the-people handshake.
You slide into a canvas-backed lawn chair next to him. “I’m running a little late.”
“Hey, no problem.”
“Willing to take a walk?”
“Sounds like a plan,” he says, grabbing his bag and standing up. He deposits his empty paper cup into a trash bin, while you head in a direction opposite the one in which you entered. As you leave, your eyes scan the people milling around to make sure no one appears interested in your movements. You’re not paranoid, just cautious; being aware the local cop shop likes to install narcs in hangouts like the Market. For the next five minutes, you walk with Tim around the shopping section of the building, pretending to inspect some of the handmade wares for sale by the craftsman or sold on consignment. You smile at a cute hippie chick you know. She has a radiant smile framed by waist-length, wavy, blonde hair, and is dressed in her usual garb: an ankle-length cotton dress adorned with a purplish-colored Indian print.
“How goes it?”
“Hi Amy,” you say. “How’s business?”
“Can’t complain, give Robbie my best.”
“Definitely will. So, drop by sometime,” you say as you glide past still enjoying a lingering sense of power and control from the coke.
Soon, you’re behind the wheel of your nondescript vehicle, pulling out of the lot with Tim toward a city park on the top of a nearby hill. Within minutes, you pull into the empty parking lot at the entrance, grab your own backpack-style book bag from the backseat, and the two of you walk towards some picnic tables under huge Douglas Fir trees. Shortly after you sit at a secluded table, you pull out a thin joint, cup it in one hand, light it with a BIC, and discreetly pass it to Tim who inhales its potent smoke.
While Tim is testing the quality of your wares, you carefully survey the park to make sure it’s cop-free.
“Good shit,” Tim says as you reach into your bag and pull out a small plastic baggie, palmed in your hand and quickly deposited to his midsection, as you stand and walk back to the car. He drops it in his bag and follows. Back in the car, he places $160 on the seat between you. Within minutes, you drop Tim off a block from the market.
As you accelerate slowly, you press a button on your car stereo and the spiritual sounds of Peter Tosh fill the enclosed space of your car as you head toward the bat cave.
The garage of the rented house you share with Robbie is a small tool shed that sits behind the house, approached through an alley overgrown with trees, shrubs and blackberry bushes. It’s not visible from the front of the house, and isn’t readily apparent from the alley when the door is closed, since the blackberry bushes surrounding it are so thick. As a result, you christened it: the Bat Cave. You like both the idea of a “hidden” garage as well as owning a car that looks like one owned by a 70-year-old grandmother rather than a marketer of a “controlled substance.” To further the caped crusader analogy, you don’t allow your clients to stop by. Instead, you leave your cave and go to them. This way you feel your residence is protected from easy detection by the police, but mostly, it’s a rule that Robbie demanded to be enforced once she realized you were a pusher of more than storm windows.
“You know, the lawn is looking pretty ratty,” Robbie says when she realizes you’re home. You walk over to her looking out the picture window facing the lawn. You wrap your arms around her waist and press your body against her warm back. She continues to stare out the window, while she lightly touches your hands covering her belly. You rest your chin on the top of her dark-brown curly hair and look out at the lawn.
“Maybe I’ll see if the lawn mower works. We did promise to keep the lawn in shape,” you say while sliding a hand under her white Tshirt. She quickly grabs it and twists her body out of your embrace. A big smile spreads across her pretty face. She’s not necessarily beautiful; looks a little like a shorter, younger Barbara Streisand, with a somewhat prominent nose on a thin, pale face. What she may be lacking in facial beauty she makes up in personality, playfulness, and the most beautiful breasts you’ve caressed.
“No, no, no. You’re going to mow that lawn before both you and I have to go to work,” she says, backing away and darting for her bedroom giggling. You follow in pursuit and use your foot as a door jam before she can get it closed. She continues giggling and doesn’t put up much of a fight.
As it turns out, you don’t get to the lawn until the next morning. After you both played, you had to get ready to do your evening gig of going door-to-door through a suburban neighborhood, and Robbie went to the restaurant where she works as a waitress.
While pushing the ear-jarring mower around the front lawn, you look up and see her watching from the living room window. You nod, she waves back then retreats from the window. While mowing, you think about how your relationship developed since beginning to share this house six months ago. You were living in an apartment complex when you spotted the ad Robbie had posted on a notice board at the Market. She had first rented the house with a girlfriend who moved after getting married. Since the rent was too much for her to handle, she put the announcement up at the Market. You contacted her because you were tired of having to deal with a nosy neighbor who lived in your complex. Robbie and you are about the same age, she evidently thought you looked “safe” so you moved in. The past month, however, you’ve become more than just housemates.
A familiar Ford pickup that had seen better days slows down and someone yells out, “Hey man!” You see Rune waving at you, so you stop, turn off the mower and walk over as he pulls up to the curb.
“Hell, I just saw you yesterday,” you say into the open window .
“Small fucking town, eh? You know, your stuff, man, really packs a punch.”
“Yeah, well . . .” you say softly while looking around to see whether any neighbor is near.
“So, you live here?” Rune says, sliding over to the passenger side.
“Nah, I just mow lawns for pocket money.”
“You’re shittin’ me, man.”
“I moved a while back.”
“Hell, I used to know a couple of girls who lived here. I was porkin’ Linda and her roommate’s name was Robbie, I think.”
“Well, Robbie’s still here,” you say, feeling a little uneasy.
“No shit,” he says, pauses a few seconds, looks down at his dashboard then back to you. “I just remembered. I dubbed that tape for ya, I got it in the deck here.”
“Hey, that’s cool.”
He takes it out, picks the case off the dashboard, puts the tape in it, and says, “I grabbed it this morning to listen to in the truck. Thought I’d give it to you the next time I saw you. Didn’t think it’d be so soon.”
You take it from him. “Thanks man.”
“Is that who I think it is?” Robbie walks over to us. “It’s the Big Man. Haven’t seen you in ages. How ya doin’, hon?” She reaches into the truck and they attempt a partial hug.
“Hey Robbie, it’s great to see you. You’re looking very fine, baby. You’re one lucky little fucker,” he says after she pulls herself out of the embrace and stands by your side. You’re slightly pissed off about the “little fucker” comment.
Robbie smiles and says, “Would you like to come in for a bit?”
Obviously he accepts, and soon the three of you are inside the house sharing a joint. As a guest, Rune decides to chop up a little coke and set out a line for each of you. While chatting, you learn that Rune and Robbie’s old housemate, Linda, had split up shortly before she decided to get married.
“It’s amazing I haven’t seen you around.”
“Especially since I do still eat at the restaurant from time to time,” he says handing you the mirror he used for the coke. You hang it back up on the wall.
“Evidently, not when I work,” she says.
“Evidently not. So, have I convinced you to make a purchase?”
“It seems pretty clean,” you say, sitting next to Robbie on her recent furniture purchase, a pink silk love seat.
“Oh yeah, it’s mostly rock, so hasn’t been stomped on too much.”
“Not too much talcum powder, huh?”
By the time he leaves, Robbie and you decide to share the cost. Rune promises to drop by the next day with the stuff. Then you go out to finish mowing before you head out to push some windows.
That evening, you’re not successful in getting people interested enough in storm windows to surrender their names and phone numbers to you. You aren’t clear why that is. You went through the same routine, you tied your longish hair in a ponytail, wore slacks and a golf shirt, and you weren’t overly pushy or arrogant. Perhaps it was an edginess lingering from the line of coke you had snorted, but something didn’t click.
Actually, you even got some advice from a retired guy who was washing his Buick when you walked up his driveway. Initially, it appeared that he was interested in having your team come by and give him an estimate, but before he provided you with his phone number he started saying you’d be better off taking computer classes rather than wasting time with door-to-door sales.
After getting blown off at a dozen more houses, you start to agree with the old guy. Remembering that tonight was Robbie’s night off, you decide your time would be better spent sharing the evening with her.
While driving, you decide to put Rune’s cassette into your deck. As you turn onto the street that’s in front of your house, the song “Cocaine Blues” begins to play. Just then, you see Rune’s truck parked alongside the street.
“He must have decided to drop it by now,” you mutter to yourself as you turn the block to enter the alley that leads to the Bat Cave. You’re surprised since he said he probably couldn’t drop the coke by until the morning. You said that was fine since you had to canvas a neighborhood anyway. When you enter the cave, you remember how Rune mentioned this song was a good example of now. Before you leave the car, you delay turning off the deck since Johnny Cash just sang that Willy Lee had shot his woman because she had been cheating on him.
“Did that line run five seconds?” you ask, while turning it off and ejecting yourself from the car. You walk from the garage to the back door, then hesitate before entering the house. Perhaps you’re influenced by the theme of the song, but for some reason – maybe the voyeur in you – you walk behind the house and sneak up to Robbie’s bedroom window. No doubt, it has something to do with the way Robbie and Rune hugged each other, or it’s the song, but you just want to make sure they’re not hitting the sheets. Before you get to her window, however, you can hear her vocalizing at an intensity never attained with you. Immediately, your legs weaken, a shiver goes up your back, and you feel faint. She’s so loud, sounding as though she’s in the middle of a multiple orgasm.
Rune shouts, “Baby, you’re so hot! Fuck that feels great!”
You look down at the freshly cut grass surrounding your feet as you stagger back to your car, get in and close the door carefully, trying not to make too much noise. You stare ahead at the back of the garage and see the random tools that hang on the wall. You wonder if you should grab one of them, rush into the house, knock the shit out of Rune with it, or what? Before you do so, you remember the song you were listening to. Are you going to react like Willy Lee and kill the bitch? Your hand shakes while reaching for the pack of cigarettes in your shirt pocket and pull from it a pinner you had rolled before work. You punch the cigarette lighter located on the dash next to the tape deck.
While waiting for it to pop out, you press the play button on the deck and the Man in Black is singing about Willy. The lighter pops out, you spark the thin joint and inhale the burning weed in a five-second segment. You listen to Johnny Cash belting out his lines of now, explaining about the trial, jury, judge and the 99-year sentence the jealous fucker gets. As you release one of the tokes you hope will help you reach a decision, you hear the “Boy Named Sue” sing that it’s best to stay away from whisky and cocaine or you’ll get 99 years in prison for doing something stupid. You envision doing just that. Probably, it would take about five seconds to kill both of them.
“Hell, I just share a house with the bitch, that’s all,” you conclude and decide you’re not wasting any money on purchasing some chokebrain cocaine from the dickhead who’s given you the blues.
“Thank you, Johnny Cash,” you say as you put the car in reverse to get some dinner. “And I ain’t gonna eat in Robbie’s restaurant no more,” you sing a five-second line of now to the tune of Dylan’s “Maggie’s Farm."
