Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Stone
Open guitar case with money in it
Days like these I couldn’t decide what I missed more—my old band or a bed with a pillow. We’d been the classic rock ‘n’ roll cautionary tale, complete with the utter flameout that had brought things crashing down around us.
Not one members’ fault.
But all of us, collectively.
Rapid rise, utter adoration from the flocks of people who came to see us play.
Whiskey, parties, tour stops all over the world.
We spent money like the well was never going to run dry.
Not on possessions that would last us, like homes or even cars, but on all the things we’d felt like we’d lost out on growing up.
Every amusement park we encountered we hit with the enthusiasm of teenagers, riding from opening to close with those expensive ass fast passes that allowed us to bypass lines and piss people off in the process, since it wasn’t just us, we bought them for our entourage too.
We went base jumping and sky diving and even shelled out cash to drive a race car.
In other words, we indulged ourselves until we cared more about the indulgences than making music and paid for our arrogance with our careers.
That was two years ago.
I’d drifted across the country since then.
Restless, hopeful, driven to keep hunting for something I’d thought I’d found in the early days of our success, when words flew onto the page as my fingers crafted chords, putting together the songs that were rapidly making us famous.
Fueled by raw emotion, passion, and the drive to attain everything my birth mother had denied me when she’d surrendered me to an adoption agency without even giving me a name.
A nurse had dubbed me Stone because I slept like a rock in the nursery, even when the other babies were screaming, or so the note she’d left in my file relayed. Who knew if it was really true.
All I knew was that I had to have been born under a bad star sign or something, because being adopted didn’t give me any sort of life, stability, or that home full of love that every child dreams of.
I’m sure they did love me. It’s just that I don’t remember. They were killed by a drunk driver when I was four, and into the foster care system I went.
Music was my ticket out and my redemption. Too bad I lost sight of those things along the way and chose to chase the glitz and glitter instead.
Which was why I was out here on this train station depot bench, with my battered guitar case open on the ground by my feet.
A couple crumpled bills and a ton of coins rested against the velvet as I strummed the first guitar I’d ever bought.
That acoustic wasn’t worth anything at the pawn shops that I’d sold the rest of my guitars to, so I’d held on to it, since music was the only way I knew how to make a living.
Pathetic huh?
No other skills. No high school diploma.
I’d barely passed the GED test since I’d had no interest in anything my teachers had ever tried to teach me.
As far as I was concerned, they could keep their books.
I’d taught myself to play by ear, never taking a music lesson in my life, but I’d studied the greats, slipping an ear bud in when I was supposed to be paying attention in class.
And I’d made it.
Until I threw it all away.
These commuters seemed to have a thing for classic rock, so I moved through all the greats, from the Allman Brothers to ZZ Top, until I had enough in that case to grab a meal and maybe a bit of conversation if it wasn’t busy at the greasy spoon across the square.
Hell, my audience had been so kind today that I’d even be able to get a piece of pie to round out my meal.
Talk about a fall from grace.
“Hey man, I was wondering if you were gonna drop in today,” Pete, the owner said, when I plopped down on a stool at the counter and leaned my guitar case against my knee. “What can I get for you?”
“Burger, onion rings, root beer, and a slice of Mississippi Mud pie if you’ve got any today.”
“Charlene just pulled a fresh one out of the oven not too long ago,” he replied. “And we’ve only sold a few pieces. I’ll hook you up.”
“Thanks Pete.”
Like I’d hoped, the place was practically dead.
I loved that silent space between the lunch crowd leaving and the haggard, overworked folks flocking in to grab a bite to eat on their way home.
Sometimes I played something new for Pete, seemed like I was always writing new songs these days, not that I knew what to do with them.
I was thirty-five years old. Too old to start a new band. Too old to go tearing around the country searching for that rush of being up on stage.
And way too god damned disillusioned.
The music I had now was mine and I intended to keep it that way. I treated each song like a trusted friend, cherishing them, because aside from short term connections like the one I’d forged with Pete through repeated visits to his diner, I wasn’t in a position to be worth much to anyone.
No home. No car. No place to lay my head unless you counted the abandoned buildings and park benches I crashed on when I needed a rest. I’d gotten so used to being called a bum that at this point it might as well be my nickname.
“So, where did you set up today?” Pete asked when he returned with my root beer.
“Over at the depot again,” I replied after I’d drained half the glass. “Security doesn’t seem to care, and a couple guys pass through a few times a day, linger, toss a few bucks in, and make a request, unlike the park, where the cops love to sweep through and kick me out.”
All the singing and playing I’d done had left me parched, despite the overhang that had shaded my bench.
“Told you before you needed to look for a permanent gig. You’d make more playing in any one of the bars around here, especially if you told them who you were.”
“You mean who I used to be.”
Snorting, Pete shot me the same stink eye he gave whenever we had this discussion.
“Time to get over yourself and move on.”
“Not ready to hop another freight car yet,” I said. “It’s hell on the knees, especially getting off with that case.”
“That wasn’t what I meant, and you know it.”
“Come on Pete, all I’d be doing was going backward if I took your advice.”
“Why?”
“You know why,” I said. “Soon as folks find out who I am they start asking questions that I don’t wanna answer.
This is the longest I’ve stuck around anywhere since my life fell apart.
Was thinking I’d stay until it started getting cold, then head back to Nevada.
Maybe bum around Reno this time. Folks tend to be a lot more generous with their cash in gambling cities, especially when they’re on a winning streak. ”
“And what happens when you get bored in Reno?”
“I dunno. There’s always Vegas and L.A. after that. I haven’t been back there in a while.”
“Or you could let me ask around, see if I can find you a room somewhere,” Pete offered, and not for the first time. “I’d give you one upstairs if there was anything available.”
“It’s a good day when I can order a slice of pie, Pete. How am I supposed to pay for a room?”
“The same way the rest of us regular folks do,” Pete replied. “You get a job, you play music in your free time, and you figure out what you want the rest of your life to look like.”
I’d never been so happy to hear the cook ring that bell to signal that my order was ready. Bless him, Pete, with his weathered face and curly gray hair, at least twenty years my senior and forever doing his best to give fatherly advice.
“Thanks Pete, I appreciate the offer, but I’m not interested in settling down anywhere,” I said as he slid my food in front of me.
Fortunately for me, someone came in then and he took a menu over and chatted with them for a bit before taking their order, leaving me to enjoy my burger in peace.
He knew the way I liked it, with two pieces of cheese melted on top of a thick slab of meat, lettuce, tomato, and spiral cut red onions sitting in a pile of ketchup and barbecue sauce.
As he always did, he brought two dipping cups of ranch for me to dunk my onion rings in, though I always added two or three to my burger before biting into it.
Best burgers in the world, and I’d had more than my fair share of them in my travels.
I took my time savoring it. No big bites for me. I switched between the burger and onion rings, sipping soda until Pete came around to refill my glass again.
“So, answer this for me,” Pete said as he slid my glass back in front of me. “What happens if you meet someone? You gonna up and leave them when you get the itch to change cities?”
The way he worried about me was almost enough to get me to say yes to him finding me a room.
He cared more than almost anyone who’d ever been paid to look out for me and that was saying something, considering how many homes I’d been through.
The problem with people caring, though, was eventually, I let them down.
Better to hit the tracks before that happened, than to leave more shattered dreams in my wake.
“Look at me Pete,” I said after I’d wiped my mouth, “I spend half my time sneaking into the Y to shower and the other half washing up in the fountain in the park. My hair ain’t been trimmed in forever and I barely make enough to keep myself fed, let alone afford a proper date.
You don’t have to worry about me running around breaking hearts.
No one picks a bum to fall in love with. ”
“Done told you before to stop calling yourself that,” he grumbled.
“I’m a lot of things, Pete, but at least I’m honest,” I said before popping the last onion ring in my mouth. “Pretending to be good for anyone would just be a load of bullshit.”
“Tell that to the kid you brought in here and fed last week when you barely had enough for a meal yourself,” Pete pointed out.
“Or that Veteran you sat right in that booth with over there and helped fill out his VA paperwork so he could get glasses, since he couldn’t see the lines to do it himself.
Should I go on, or do you wanna stop trying to feed me that line of bullshit? ”
“Can I have pie now?” I asked, weary of the conversation and him constantly trying to save me.
If I was meant to be saved, then someone would have done it a long time ago instead of leaving me twisting in the wind.
Huffing, he shoved away from the counter, muttering beneath his breath about me being a stubborn bastard as he stalked away.
I was and I’d come by it honestly enough.
Pretending otherwise was just as bad as a lie.
As I waited, eagerly anticipating the slice he’d bring back with a mound of whipped cream on top, one thought skipped through my mind, completely unwanted and entirely Pete’s fault.
What would it be like to be loved?