David Gates - Preston Falls

"You can spare us the sarcasm, Mr. Reed."

"Tm just pointing out that I don't understand exactly what law Mr. Willis is supposed to have violated here. I might add that this.22 stayed behind the seat of the truck during this whole episode, that Mr. Willis never mentioned or in any way so much as alluded to this.22, much less produced it or threatened anybody with it. It simply happened to be in his vehicle, hundreds of feet away, at the time of this very silly, very unnecessary dispute."

The judge looks over at the sheriff's deputy. "What about it, Don?"

"Your Honor," says the prosecutor, "the weapon was found in a routine search of the defendant's vehicle incident to the arrest. It's not clear what he was planning to do with it."

"What's clear, Your Honor," says Reed, "is the fact that he didn't do anything with it. What's the implication here? That Mr. Willis was planning to stick up the concession stand? Mr. Willis" — glancing at his yellow pad—"is the Director of Public Affairs for Dandineau Beverages. I

don't know what his salary is — I didn't ask — but I assume he's got the price of a hot dog."

The judge looks at Reed over the top of his glasses. "You must be coming up in the world, Mr. Reed. That or Mr. Willis is coming down." He looks at the prosecutor. "Well?" he says.

The prosecutor looks at the sheriff's deputy, who shakes his head and waves a hand as if batting away a mosquito. "In the interest of saving time," the prosecutor says, "we're willing to be satisfied with the defendant's guilty plea to the charge of disorderly conduct."

"I should think so J' the judge says. "But I'm surprised at you, Don. He must've annoyed you considerably." He looks at Willis. "You. I'm fining you fifty dollars. You pay the clerk, down the hall there. Your distinguished counsel will show you."

"But Your Honor—" says the prosecutor.

"Bang bang," the judge says, pumping his fist to suggest an imaginary gavel. "Court's in recess."

"He's a beauty," says Reed, leading Willis to the door. "Roy," he says to the prosecutor, "how's everything? Don?" Neither the prosecutor nor the deputy says anything back. "Hey, we put the hurt on 'em," he says in Willis's ear. The deputy meets Willis's eyes. Willis considers snapping the son of a bitch a salute. But no.

Reed gives the clerk two twenties and a ten, brings Willis back downstairs to claim his wallet and duffel bag, and they walk out the basement door into a sunny morning. Grass still wet with dew. Couple of leaves falling.

"Well, listen, thanks," says Willis. "This turned out to be pretty painless. And I appreciate the little touches, by the way. Coffee and everything."

"Like I say, you'll get the bill," says Reed. "So listen, you have time to grab some breakfast? Bet you a hundred dollars they didn't bring you breakfast this morning, am I right?"

"God, did they? No. Yesterday they did."

"Shitheels. See, they knew you'd be out. And that way Benny gets his breakfast this morning on the taxpayers' dime. This is the level they think at. Anyhow, we'll make it quick. I know you got a long drive ahead of you."

"Just back to Preston Falls," says Willis.

PRESTON FALLS

"Oh well. Hell, then. I thought you were driving all the way down to Westchester."

"No, actually I'm up here for a couple of months. Hell of a way to start it off."

"Nowhere to go but up," says Reed. "So listen, there's a little hole-in-the-wall place that makes decent omelettes, there's Denny's and that whole spectrum, and then there's a couple places with scones and latte and all that bullshit."

"Anything," says Willis. Actually, the scones-and-latte thing sounds best; he's just been in jail, for Christ's sake, with a toilet on the wall.

"Then Dudley's it is. Here, let's take my wheels and I'll drop you back here after, so you can get your vehicle out of hock."

Willis follows him over to a sharky black sports car, a Z-something, parked cheekily next to a police cruiser. Its roof comes up to Willis's waist. He opens the unlocked passenger door, sits way down and opens his window so he won't stink up the cockpit. He still has on the jeans and t-shirt he pulled out of the dirty clothes whatever day it was he tried to rip down the ceiling. And he hasn't had a shower since — well, not in jail, that's for sure.

Reed climbs in and twists the key, and the sound system blasts so loud Willis flinches. After a little he recognizes it: "Smells like Teen Spirit," which he understands can only be coincidence. Reed turns it down to reasonable. "This gets on your nerves, say so."

"No, I'm into it," says Willis.

"Well, it's funny." Reed noses out of the parking lot, waits for a Saab to go by. "For the longest time I thought either I was getting old or this shit was the emperor's new clothes, you know? But then when he killed himself I started picking up on it." The Saab passes by, and they're off.

"That's amazing," Willis says. "I went through that same exact thing. But the guy could play, no question. I mean, he couldn't really play, but within that, you know?"

Reed looks over. "You play music?"

"Yeah, in a half-assed way."

"Weird. You know, I thought so. I don't know, there's a look or something. Fuckin' Calvin, man. He never told me he had a musician next door. I got to take this up with him. So what do you play?"

"Guitar, like everybody else in the world."

They stop at a stoplight behind the Saab, which has one of those ANOTHER SHITTY DAY IN PARADISE bumper stickers. Willis keeps

being surprised that there's nothing unique about his sensibility. The song's going Oh we oh we oh we oh or whatever it really is in that part.

"Electric?" says Reed.

"Mostly." Which Willis isn't sure is true, but to play acoustic is to be a sensitive plant. "So, you too? What do you play?"

"Like you say. What does anybody. You play in a band?" The light turns green. Reed honks and the Saab moves.

"Used to," says Willis. "Couple years ago. Now I just haul the thing out once in a while and play along with stuff. Try not to lose my calluses."

"Well, hey, you're welcome to come jam with my sick crew," says Reed. "What kind of guitar you have?"

"Tele."

"Cool. So who are you into?"

"Whoever. You know, lot of people. I guess if it came right down, Keith more than anybody."

"Cool."

"Speaking of people who can't play but can play" says Willis. "But if I'm jamming along with something, it'll be anywhere from, I don't know, country shit—"

"Cool."

"— to James Brown to—"

"Cool. Listen," says Philip Reed, "you got to come jam with us, man. We finally, after three years, found a kick-ass drummer."

"Hardest thing," says Willis.

"Yeah, see, you know. Fve been trying to get this across to these assholes. All the guy asks is that we let him sing 'Get Out of My Life, Woman'—you know, that's his little number that he likes to do — and these guys are like 'He's em^^^rrassing us.' Unbelievable. This is a guy who used to tour with Anne Murray, man. You know, he says. Course he's also a major fuckup, but come on. Here, this is the place right here."

A plastic Diet Pepsi sign hangs over the sidewalk from a two-story brick box with fresh white paint and red geraniums in the window. Willis holds open the screen door, not out of courtliness but because he doesn't want Philip Reed behind him, where his most shameful stink must be.

"So does your band play out?" Willis picks up the menu, a Xeroxed page in a clear plastic sheath with metal corners.

"Once a month, that's it. The Log Cabin, over in Brandon? Shit,

PRESTON FALLS

we're all busy. I mean, Sparky's not busy — the drummer I was telling you? But everybody else, you know, between jobs and families. We do get together once a week and just kick shit around. Guy who plays bass lives down in Sandgate— way out in the fuckin' boonies — and he fixed up a spot in his barn where we can make some serious noise." Willis notices for the first time Philip Reed's wedding band. "In fact, what are you doing tomorrow night? We're supposed to get together about nine o'clock, and we usually go to one, two in the morning."