Adios, Nirvana Page 6

  We both know it. We know it now, forever, because I don’t pick up a guitar. Don’t have the guts. Not in front of The Vedder.

  So I sink into the timid couch. But that’s okay with me. That’s where I belong in the presence of Eddie the Great.

  In the course of noodling, Eddie and Telly start to form patterns, and the patterns start to sound familiar. Eddie guides it with glances that say “like this” or “key of G.” Telly picks it up right away. Eddie hunches over his dreadnought and slips into a trance. Then he starts singing.

  I’ve heard the Great Vedder a thousand times on CDs, but nothing sounds so raw and achy as the real thing.

  His voice is the hammer of Thor and the velvet glove of Jesus rolled into one. And he’s not even using a mike.

  The song they do is “Masters of War,” a chug-a-chug-a rant against the military madness. Against all the boneheaded generals and lip-synching politicians.

  Listening to that song, I begin to feel strongly there’s only one thing America can do—hold a global peace picnic on the banks of the Mississippi.

  Then they do “Society,” which is just the opposite, a spare, sweet, wistful song about soul isolation. In the midst of Telly’s rhythm, Eddie plays a lead riff, and every note rings purely and humbly, except one, which he bends. And that one bent note haunts the entire song. It is the cry of all humans for love.

  On good guitars, freshly strung, you can really make it hum. I wonder about those sleeping kids downstairs, but Eddie’s probably soundproofed the studio.

  They stitch it up, and Eddie drapes himself wearily over the D-28.

  “You got something?” he says to Telly.

  This is like asking a bird to sing in the morning.

  Telly glances at the Ric. “Hey, if you don’t mind . . .”

  Eddie shrugs. “Go ahead.”

  Telly jumps up and swaps guitars. Now he’s cradling the Ric. Holding it like a swaddled newborn, with tender awe. He pops in a cable, turns the volume to just louder than acoustic. Clamps a capo way up on seven. Presses the Ric tightly against his hip. Plays an arpeggio D chord. Immediately you hear the Ric’s distinctive voice. A ringing softness backed with power. Like Hannibal standing in the Alps and whispering into the valley.

  Telly changes to a heavy pick. In front of The Vedder, this takes a full nut sack. When you choose a heavy pick, you’re going for a crisp, confident sound. You better hit every note. Because if you trip on the wrong one, it’s over. I would’ve chosen a thin pick, because you can kind of hide your mistakes.

  But Telly goes for bold.

  He anchors himself.

  Waits for god’s permission.

  Then he bursts into the angel-note intro to “Here Comes the Sun.”

  It just pours out of him. Bright and shiny.

  A perfect sunrise.

  A golden dewdrop.

  Not a hair nervous, even though this is The Vedder.

  EV—Eddie the Great.

  Mr. Wes C. Addle.

  But now Eddie’s just another guy draped over a guitar on a moonless Halloween night.

  And the sun is rising. Warming his cheeks.

  Telly’s voice finds it. He’s a better singer when he sings softly. When he shouts, he’s only average. But softly, he can go all kinds of places. You believe him when he sings about how long and cold and lonely the winter has been.

  He plants himself on D, plays the rundown.

  Plays the contrapuntal stuff on the low strings, the upward bass run.

  I’ve never heard him play so well. His fingers spider-dance across the frets.

  It’s like the Ric knows exactly where to go and is guiding Telly to the summit. He can make no mistakes. None. The Ric won’t let him.

  Telly sews it up.

  Stitch, stitch, ain’t it a bitch.

  Ching!

  The room rings silent on a final, sublime D.

  Telly’s as stunned as I am. He stares at the Ric in awe. A crazy, saintly smile spreads across his face.

  The Vedder remains draped over his dreadnought. Pondering. Everything hangs in the air. Then he cracks a grin.

  “Dude,” he says. “DUDE! How old are you?”

  That afternoon in the Taft music room, Kyle plugs me in. Not to a baby amp, but to the one used at football games: Fat Phyllis. She has a slightly smaller twin: Big Bertha. These two amps are the size of Ford and Toyota pickups. Kyle leaves Bertha parked on the sidelines, thank god.

  I tune up and lick into the intro to “All Apologies,” a Kurt Cobain power riff. Whoa! Even at five percent volume, it’s gigantic. A magnitude-twelve earthquake. Kyle shudders gleefully.

  “Naw, man,” I say. “Bring it down.”

  Kyle tweaks down the volume, then plants a mike in front of me.

  “Play ‘Desecration Smile,’” he says.

  I open with a C-sharp minor chord because I can’t handle John Frusciante’s four-fret stretch. I do, however, play his added ninth on E, which is like putting a dash of paprika on your poached eggs. I play the tune crunchy but gentle. Sing it whispery, hoping nobody will hear.

  Kyle grabs Mr. Takakawa’s cowboy hat off a hook, dips it low over his eyes, and joins me for the chorus, banging bongo-style on a drum case.

  The strings of the Ric are silken. I mess up a couple times, but the Ric is so sweet, so forgiving, it covers my mistakes.

  Any guitar that’s smarter than you is a work of art.

  The Ric is Michelangelo’s David.

  “You heard that?” I ask Gupti when she wraps up her lecture on the principles of student discipline, as inspired by Shiva and Vishnu.

  “Oh, dear boy,” she says. “I heard every last note. You were . . . how can I say it? Fabuloso.”

  “Fabuloso?”

  “You know, Jonathan,” Gupti says, “talent is like the grape on the vine. It sweetens only when we nurture it, let the sun shine upon it. But it shrivels if we keep it in the dark. You must share your many gifts.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I don’t want them to turn into raisins.”

  Gupti smacks my knee. “I have full confidence in you, Jonathan. Let’s seal our agreement with a handshake.”

  “Why not.”

  We shake. Her hand is trucker size.

  “Good,” Gupti says. “Now our strategy for success is in place. Doesn’t that feel better?”

  She stands, flips her scarf over her shoulder. “Off to class with you.”

  I slump out of the chair and reach for the doorknob.

  “Oh, Jonathan.”

  “Yeah?”

  Gupti smiles. “If you really want to please me, you’ll do my all-time favorite Pinky Toe number, ‘Crossing the River Styx.’ Will you do that for me?”

  I’ve never heard of the tune. But in ignorance, all seems equal.

  “Why not.”

  “Fabuloso,” she says.

  As I step through the door, I whisper:

  “Fabuloso.”

  Chapter 11

  Next is lunch, but my only appetite is for sleep. In the hall, I catch the eye of José the janitor. He’s all brushy mustache and coveralls.

  “Amigo,” he says, shaking his head. “You look like a zombie from hell.”

  I grab his arm. “Dude, you gotta let me catch a nap in the furnace room.”

  “Sure, amigo, sure.”

  “Gracias, gracias.”

  Tucked behind the furnace, in a narrow little nook fanned by industrial hum and chuff, on the warm concrete floor, I fall instantly, dreamlessly asleep. Forty-five minutes later, in the middle of the bell, José jabs me with a broom handle, sweeps the dust off my ass.

  I’ve filled my tank about two percent, but it’s enough. José looks tragic. “Amigo, amigo,” he says.

  We bump fists sadly. “You saved my life, José. Usted guardó mi vida.”

  “Always do, Jonathan. You and Telly. Yo lo adore.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “He loves you, too.”

  “Con dios, amigo. ”

&n
bsp; “Con dios, man.”

  I have just enough gas to get through chemistry. Last period is study hall, and I don’t feel I’m violating my agreement with Gupti by ditching it.

  I hop the northbound 128. The snow has melted a bit, then refrozen, then melted a bit more. California Avenue is a deep, slushy soup. The sky is a dirty gym sock. The world is no longer a perfect virgin, but a toothless slut in rags.

  From the bus stop, I trudge the last quarter mile to the Delphi. I stop on the bridge over Schmitz Park. Gaze at the noisy creek hidden under a pillowy bed of snow. It’s forty or fifty feet down. I could lie there forever.

  I push into the Delphi and once again inhale the B.O. of death. Inhale the deodorizing lemon spritz that tries to hide it. Hear the game-show laughing in the lounge. See the cancer-perforated guests sitting on couches or watching from wheelchairs. The TV laughs and laughs.

  If there is a hell, it is here.

  I sit down in the lobby. Fish out my notebook and pencil. Sink into the chair. Scrawl:

  Chaos XV

  All year, I’ve been

  building fences

  on the ragged

  boundary of death.

  Just when I’m ready

  to wipe my hands and slouch away,

  I open the gate,

  step in.

  Shove it closed behind me

  (good ranch hand that I am).

  Yipee-aye-oh-cuy-ay!

  I’m back in

  Death County, USA.

  Poems are best when you stir in light and dark, plant ironies under paper cups, like firecrackers.

  Walking down the Delphi corridor, I feel the blood of Telly rise in me.

  Twin blood. More powerful than ordinary brother blood.

  That night is an old movie, remembered in flickering images. Telly counting crumpled one-dollar bills. Stuffing them into a Ziploc bag. Grabs his long board. Skates off. It’s just past 11:30 p.m. on April 17. Typical misty-slick Seattle night. He’s wearing his flip-flops, blue board shorts, Seahawks hoodie.

  Walgreens is six blocks away.

  “Back in twenty. E-Z.”

  Famous last words.

  But his final last words were these . . .

  “Adios, dude.”

  Today, a new girl sits behind the reception counter at the Delphi. Like Dreadlock, she has weird hair. Must be a job requirement. Day-Glo blue. Bowl cut. Big glasses. Black rims.

  She locks me in her sights. Blam!

  “Coward!” she says, jumping out of her chair. “Why did you run away?”

  It’s Dreadlock. She’s cut her hair. Straightened it. And no more wheelchair.

  “Guess they cured your polio,” I say.

  “Nobody gets polio anymore. God, what a coward!”

  Whoa!

  I check her out, something I didn’t do while she was in the wheelchair, out of respect. She’s average height, maybe an inch shorter. Thin and tight, like a swimmer. Small breasts. Behind those glasses, almond eyes. God knows if she’s Ethiopian or banshee. Her skin—not a zit. Must be mixing some kind of exfoliator with sea salt. But she’s a shade too pale, especially around the eyes. Maybe too much midnight reading, like me.

  Nose, neck, jawbone—the royal line. Her mouth, like a diamond, is a ten on the hardness scale.

  She jerks her head. “C’mon.”

  I follow her down the corridor. Passing room 101, I glimpse David Cosgrove sitting in his wheelchair, watching TV. Then I remember: he doesn’t watch, he listens.

  Dreadlock stops at room 114—Agnes’s room. It’s dim inside. The little waterfall gurgles in the corner. The standing fan breezes back and forth. I gotta hand it to the decorator; it’s like we just stepped from a Costco aisle onto Waikiki Beach. All we need is ukulele music.

  Agnes is watching a soap opera. A man lies comatose in a hospital bed. A curvy blonde sobs over him. The blonde is overacting, throwing her arms everywhere. Even the comatose man is overacting.

  Agnes looks as ancient as a Dead Sea Scroll. Her hair is whiter than her pillow.

  Dreadlock says, “You were right. He’s back.”

  Agnes looks up from the soap. Her expression transforms into a glow. She reaches for my hand. Her clasp is fragile, as if a hard squeeze by me might break her bones. She strokes my hand, grandma style.

  “Take the road down to the sea,” she says.

  I glance at Dreadlock, who holds a finger to her lips.

  “Free the swimmers,” Agnes says. “They’ve been under so long. Show them the way.”

  “What is the way?” I ask.

  Agnes lets go of my hand and pokes my chest.

  “You know,” she says. “Where’s your lute?”

  “My lute?”

  Dreadlock says, “You were supposed to bring a lute, remember?”

  “Hey, who do you think I am, Romeo? Nobody’s had a lute for five hundred years.”

  “Well, next time bring one,” Dreadlock says. She turns to Agnes. “He promises he’ll bring a lute next time. And he’ll play for you. Right, Jonathan?”

  “Yeah, why not.”

  Agnes says, “I’m ninety-nine years old.”

  Dreadlock beams. “That’s wonderful, Agnes.”

  “I want to be an angel.”

  Dreadlock rubs her arm. “You will be, Agnes.”

  “Float a turd,” Agnes says.

  Ah, there it is again.

  Jagged glass and butterfly.

  No doubt about it, Agnes is a poet.

  I rap on David Cosgrove’s door. Slip inside.

  David sniffs. “Is that you, Jonathan?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  His skin looks yellow today. Like the anchor on CNN. He reaches for the remote and clicks off the TV.

  “Anything you want to get off your chest?”

  “Not really.”

  “Anything you want to ask me?”

  “You really blind?”

  “Black dungeon blind.”

  “How? I mean . . .”

  “Severe, chronic macular degeneration,” he says, “to the umpteenth degree.”

  “Whoa!”

  “Bad genes, Jonathan. Fortunately, they hibernated for the first seventy years and I could see fine.”

  “What else is wrong?”

  He chuckles. “Let’s take an inventory. I have the Big C—cancer, or more precisely, aggressive mantle cell lymphoma. I have a weak ticker, or more precisely, congestive heart disease. I got a new hip last year and barely survived the surgery. Now I’ve got a state-of-the art fake hip, just no strength to use it. I have a prostate the size of Texas. I take some fifty pills a day and am hooked on half of them. They make me pee a lot. Those are the larger brush strokes. If you’re into pointillism, I’ll give you the smaller ones some other time.”

  “Jeezus.”

  “Amen, brother.”

  “Just being blind—that must suck.”

  “Blindness is the least of my worries, Jonathan. Everyone should experience being blind, if only for a few days. The world can be filled with garish light.”

  Garish light. I slip out my notebook and jot this down.

  “It can be a terribly empty place, Jonathan.”

  “You got that right.”

  “Let’s try something. Turn out the lights.”

  I hit the switch. The room goes dark.

  “And close the shades.”

  I lower the shades, twist them tight. Now it’s dark—nearly black dungeon dark. The only light is the crack under the door and an orange glow in the light switch. I can’t see David Cosgrove, other than as a black blob. The clock begins to tick loudly.

  “Right now, we’re both blind,” he says. “In darkness, everything is different. Time. Place. Tone.”

  “Tone?”

  “Yes, especially tone,” David says. “The world is quieter, not so frantic. Your imagination awakens and begins to fill the canvas. You come to see that blindness is not a locked door but a different door. Remember, I could
see fine for the first seventy years of my life, so I have an encyclopedia of memories to draw from, all bathed in light.”

  “But you can’t even see to take a piss,” I say. “You can’t see that it’s snowing outside.”

  “Is it snowing outside?”

  “No. But during the storm—”

  “I saw it all, Jonathan. The inner eye. A word or two of description from the staff. Oh yes, the storm was very real to me.”

  “Look,” I say, “one thing you gotta know about me: I always tell the truth.”

  “Of course,” David says. “I want you to be truthful with me.”

  “Well, the truth is, I hate this place.”

  “I hate it, too, Jonathan.”

  “I’ll just say it now, man. I pity you.”

  “Why? Because I’m old and sick?”

  “No, because you try to put a happy face on stuff, like being blind.”

  “Not always happy, Jonathan. Some memories are unhappy. One most of all. Do you have any memories that trouble you?”

  “Put it this way,” I say. “Not a day goes by that I don’t think about jumping off a bridge.”

  David says, “I’ve stood on that bridge myself.”

  “If I was you, I’d get in my wheelchair and roll out the door and just keep on going. Even if I was blind.”

  “Where would you go?”

  “I’d get on the first bus—the fifty-one or fifty-five or one-twenty-eight—and ride it all the way to the end of the line. They got those things for wheelchairs, you know.”

  “Suppose I board that bus, Jonathan. Where do I go when I reach the end of the line?”

  “Just ride the bus all day. Transfer. Hop the ‘Night Owl.’ I don’t care. Anywhere beats this place.”

  “Feeling it now?”

  “Feeling what?”

  “Your blindness.”

  “Dude, all I feel is sleepy. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in months.”

  “Why is that, Jonathan?”