David Gates - Preston Falls

Willis notices the music's no longer on. An electric guitar, live, plays an E chord. Cheers. Then big notes on the bass.

"Calvin the same way. Forty years old, he looks fuckin' sixty, and this money means he won't have to cut fifty cords of wood this winter. He tell you about his hands?"

"Carpal tunnel?" says Willis. "Yeah, he was telling me."

"You get weary, dealing with fuckin' pathetics."

Couple of whacks on snare drum. Thud of bass drum.

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"Sounds like they're about ready," says Willis.

"Yeah, well, they have their instructions." Reed picks up the staple remover. "Tell me something. How often you get up to Preston Falls usually? When you're not on vacation. Couple times a month?"

"Depends," says Willis. "Why?"

Reed makes the staple remover bite twice. "Seems to me, tiger, you're pretty well positioned to get a profitable little sideline happening. Look at you, you're a thing of beauty — chief whatever-the-fuck at a big company? Family man? All it would involve — okay? — you make your little trips up with the family, and every once in a while, three-four-five times a year, you bring an extra piece of luggage. Lot easier than old Calvin having to schlepp all the way up to Richford or some fuckin' place to meet the scary Canucks out in the woods. You make some tax-free bucks, you meet some interesting folks, plus you get to, you know, indulge your little hobby." He taps the top of the film can. "To the fuUest."

"I don't think so," says Willis.

"Hey," says Reed, holding up a hand. "Fine. If you're not comfortable, it may not be the right thing for you." The band starts up, loud, with the "Hard to Handle" riff. "Whoa, sounds fuckin' righteous. We got to get out there, man. Rock and roll. Too much business, you know? Listen, though. Fm just a little worried about one thing."

Willis turns a palm up. Damned if he'll ask.

"See, Fm afraid if you're not careful you could run into a problem with your neighbor there. You know, on the one hand it could be fine. But I think old Calvin was kind of counting on your continuing participation. And he's not a guy that handles disappointment real well — I know this about him. Be the easiest thing in the world for him to go in your house when you're away, plant some shit somewhere and call the tip line. You know what Fm saying? What I would hate to have happen, you come up some night with your family and there's half a dozen cop cars in the yard."

Willis says nothing.

"Hey," says Reed, standing up. "I don't mean to be a downer. Just give it some thought, okay? Meanwhile…" He picks up the film can, comes around the desk and hands it to Willis.

Willis sticks it in the breast pocket of his denim jacket. "Thanks," he says.

"I better get out there. You comin', tiger? Or you want to hang here

PRESTON FALLS

for a while? Get yourself" — he flutters his fingers in front of his eyes— "prepared."

"Yeah, I think I'U hang," says Willis.

"Take your time. I'll lock the door behind me so you don't get interrupted. Shit, don't lose track of that." He points to the envelope in Willis's lap. "Or old Calvin really will he disappointed."

The door closes.

Willis feels his heart start to pound: the excitement of being allowed to get high all by himself. He looks up and sees what he can't believe he didn't see before: a calendar with a bleached and busty babe in a stars-and-stripes bikini bottom pouting astride a full-dress Harley with little American flags on the handlebars, her nips the same orangey red as her lipstick. The month is still July.

He takes out the film can, unscrews the top and tries to think what to use: ah, keys. He digs in his pants pocket for his key ring and dips the ignition key into the sparkly white powder. Through the wall he hears a yell go up and Reed howling Bay-bay, here Ah am, Ah'm a mane own the scene. Shit, maybe he better not. He needs to keep his wits about him. Because he's in deep shit here. But on the other hand.

He blocks the left nostril and snorts a little up the right. Blocks the right and a little up the left. Tilts his head back, keeps sniffing.

Oh yeah. The right decision, absolutely.

After a while he opens his eyes and looks at the busty babe. She is incredible. A prostitute who didn't even bother to bleach her black eyebrows. He can feel the Unnamable thickening: down, boy. Okay, heart's going a leet-tle faster, and if it keeps up, that is not cool. But he feels like it's sort of beating better} Jesus, this is the cure for depression, irresolution, inertia and every other fucking thing. Plus he can fucking think for a change.

It takes him all of fifteen seconds to figure out exactly what to do. So fucking simple: it's like when it hit the Buddha, sitting under his tree, that he was a free man. And all the shit fell away, supposedly.

He stands up and sticks the envelope under his jacket, which is snug because of the weight he's put on. He tucks the film can back in the breast pocket, where it bulges out like a titty — but what he can «o^ indulge in right now is some fucking little aria of self-contempt. So he takes it out and carries it in his cupped hand. Better anyway, if you have to ditch it. Though he's not going to have to fucking ditch it — that's just more depressed thinking. When he tries to open the office door the son

of a bitch is locked, and that really does get his heart pounding, but it turns out all he has to do is turn the little thing.

Willis closes the door behind him. Whoa, out here they are fucking loud. The nasty texture of distorted guitar makes him grind his teeth, and he craves to get his own fingers clawing at the strings, bending them to torture out the shrieks. But it would be insane to let himself be tempted onto the stage. Even though they've got his guitar up there; that can't be helped now. Wait — actually this is perfect. See, if they do spot him picking his way to the exit, which they won't, they'll think he's just going out to his truck.

Hey, which he is.

Driving back to Preston Falls, he dims his lights for every oncoming car. When lights appear in his rearview mirror, he neither slows down nor speeds up; they want to pass, let them. On a straight stretch of empty road in a broad valley, with harvested cornfields on both sides and the full moon just pouring its fucking heart out, he ignores the urge to cut his lights and drive a larky mile by moonlight alone.

By the time he turns onto Ragged Hill Road he's crashing again, but that can sure as shit be fixed. Past Calvin Castleman's, casually. Get all your ducks in a row first, then deal with him. When he's safely around the corner he slows down, and now he does cut his lights, just on the off chance Calvin might be somewhere — in the woods, for Christ's sake? — where he could see somebody pulling in. Okay, and now if a bunch of cop cars will just please not be sitting there. By moonlight he bumps up into his dooryard and noses into the shadow of the woodshed. He climbs out and takes a breath of that clean air. A sky-sized silence, its surface etched by katydids.

He's afraid to turn on lights in the house, so he feels his way upstairs and into his study. Enough moon through the eyebrow window so he can see to boot up the computer. Someone might spot the glow of the monitor from the road — but enough, enough, enough. Jesus, drive yourself crazy. While waiting out the rigmarole of copyright screens and skittering digits, he gets out his film can. Just a tad, to maintain.

He clicks into Word and starts typing:

BiUofSale

Sold to: Calvin Castleman Sold by: Douglas Willis

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One Martin D-18 + hsc, ser. #

One Gibson J-200 — I- hsc, ser. #

One Rickenbacker 6-string electric + hsc, ser. #

One Fender Telecaster + hsc, ser. #

One Fender Twin Reverb, ser. #