Gary A. Braunbeck - Cages and Those Who Hold the Keys

“Girl was so good it was scary ,” said Hendrix.

Garcia nodded. “You got that right.”

“Never recorded a demo for anyone,” said Buchanan. “She was only 22 when she died.”

“ I was only 25,” said Tommy Bolin.

“Yeah,” replied Hendrix, “but it was your own fucking fault. By the way, I want my ring back.”

“This one?” said Bolin, holding up his hand. “My girlfriend gave it to me.”

“That was the same ring I was wearing when I died,” said Hendrix. “How the fuck she wound up with it, I don’t know.”

Bolin removed the ring and tossed it to Hendrix. “It was kina tight, anyway.”

“Says you.” Hendrix slipped it back on his finger, and the two men smiled at each other.

“ She’s a ghost,” said Cobain, pointing toward Roberta Martin. “ We’re …shit, I guess you’d call us…what?” “Ulcerations of the idealized,” replied Entwistle. “Good going,” said Morrison. “We’re more than a memory but less than something alive.” “I still don’t understand.”

“Who says that we do, hon?” asked Billie Holiday.

In the street, Roberta martin stopped and turned toward the van. Everyone inside became quiet. She smiled at us, lifted her hand, waved, and then disappeared into the sleet.

“Girl had the fire ,” said Hendrix, his voice suddenly sad. “She sure did,” replied Buchanan. Cobain nodded. “A fuckin’ shame.” Jerry Garcia leaned forward, passing halfway through Janis Joplin, who shared his seat. “You know anything about physics, Sam?” “A little, I guess.” “So you know how black holes are formed by stars that collapse inward on themselves, right?” “Okay…?” “And how matter can be reformed into anything as it passes through…I mean, at least theoretically?” I shrugged. “I guess, sure.”

“Then think of us as a something that’s come out of a black hole…only in this case, it’s a black hole of idealization, formed by a collapsing psyche.”

I opened my mouth to speak, then shook my head and looked at the Reverend.

“They’re not ghosts,” he said to me. “They’re the idealized versions of themselves. They’re not the people they were, they’re the icons, what they were imagined to be by those fans who idealized and worshipped them.”

I nodded. “The legends, not the human beings?”

“Right.” He looked back at our passengers. “Right?”

“Close enough,” said Morrison. “At some point, every one of us has been idolized by someone. Be idolized by enough people, and that idol-image becomes more real to them than you ever could be. Fuck, man, I had so many people calling me a ‘rock god’ that I started believing it myself.”

“I wouldn’t know, mate,” said Paul Kossoff.

I looked back at the guitarist. “But you were good . Back Street Crawler was a kick-ass album.”

“Thanks, mate. But after I left Free…” He shrugged. “All I was to the world—to whatever part of it still noticed me—was ‘ex-Free guitarist…’ And the only thing Free did that people still remember or care about was ‘All Right Now’.”

“But at least that’s remembered,” I said.

Kossoff smiled. “Yeah, there’s that .”

“All it takes,” said Buchanan, “is one person. One person idolizes you, and you’re screwed. Like it or not, from that moment on…you kinda split in two. Some part of you is always aware of the idol-half” he gave his head a little shake. “And it can mess with you.” “Amen,” said Cobain. Morrison tapped my shoulder. “You need to get moving again.” “Where are we going?” “Back to the good Reverend’s shelter.” “Why there?” “Because,” said Entwistle, “the source of the ulceration that brought us here should be there by now.” “You and your bloody loopy syntax,” said Keith Moon. “You always talked just like you played. Too damned busy for its own good.” “Coming from you,” said Entwistle, “I take that as a compliment.” “You would.” Then Moon smiled. “Good to see you again, Ox.” “Likewise.” I looked at the Reverend. “I’m scared.” He said nothing in return, and I knew. Despite what Morrison had said to us, the Reverend was scared, as well.

6

It didn’t help that none of them said a word after that, just sat back there staring out at the night and looking more and more like the ghosts they claimed not to be.

They filed into the shelter silently, each finding a cot or a chair at various spots around the main floor, where they sat, watching all the doors and windows.

The dog—Lump—sat up as soon as we came inside, his ears jerking. Missy sat down to pet him when he started growling, and Beth looked at her daughter, then to me.

“Lump never growls,” she said. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him all of a sudden.” “It’s just a bad night,” I said, as if that could explain everything. “Where’s your son—sorry, I forgot his name.” “Kyle? He’s downstairs taking a shower.” “How’re you doing?” “Hm? Oh, me…I’m okay.” She patted her stomach. “The food really hit the spot.” “Well, if anybody wants seconds…” “You’re very nice.” “I try.”

“Would it be all right if the kids watched Rudolph again? Kyle and Missy really like it, even though the Bumble kinda scares them.” “The Bumble?” “The Abominable Snow Monster. Remember, Yukon Cornelius calls it the ‘Bumble’?” “That’s right. Huh. Thing scared me half to death when I was a kid and saw it for the first time.”

The Reverend called me over to the kitchen area, where he, Jackson, and Grant McCullers were warming up some stew and wrapping other food for the refrigerator. Grant was doing most of the wrapping, and doing it quickly. I only mention this because he’s got a bad hand that looks more like a claw than it does a human hand. It’s been that way for as long as I’ve known him. Arthritis. But he can play a mean harmonica better, serve drinks more smoothly, and wrap food faster and with more dexterity than anyone I’ve ever seen.

“Hey, Sam, I hear you’re something of a music expert,” said Grant.

“Not an expert, but I know trivia. Some trivia.” “Did you ever hear of a band called Parallax?” asked Grant. I looked at Jackson and the Reverend, both of whom were staring at me like the answer to this was something important. “Sure. They only did three albums, but they were pretty good.” Grant finished wrapping a half-pound of hamburger, tossed it onto the pile of to-be-frozen foods. “They were from Ohio, right?” I nodded. “Two of them were from Zanesville, but the guitarist, Byron Knight, he was from here, from Cedar Hill.”

Grant exchanged an I-told-you-so look with Jackson, who nodded his head and gestured for the Reverend and me to follow him into the back. “It was real nice of you to bring over all this food,” I said to Grant. “The new freezer’s a tad smaller than I’d planned, so I had to do something with this chow, y’know?” I grinned at his white lie. “How’s the Hangman coming along?” “I look to re-open in about two weeks.” “You gonna replace the old jukebox?”

He stopped for a moment, thought about something, then shook his head. “You know, I don’t think I will. It works just fine. In fact, I’m getting rid of that new one.”

The reverend came up behind me. “Are you two finished with this architectural discussion? I could use Sam’s help.”

“You can always use Sam’s help,” said Grant. “In fact, I wonder if you’d get anything done if you didn’t have Sam’s help.” “And yours, and Ted’s, and God’s. I am useless without any of you.” Grant laughed. “Just wanted to hear you say it.” “It’s unbecoming of you, Grant. Fishing for a compliment.” “Been a bad couple of months. But you don’t want to hear about my dreadful personality problems.” “Your lips to God’s ear.” They looked at one another and smiled. The Reverend took hold of my elbow and we fell into step behind the sheriff. “This guy was in pretty bad shape,” said Jackson, “so Grant and I put him back in your office. Hope you don’t mind too much.” “As long as he hasn’t puked on everything.”