David Gates - Preston Falls

For a consideration of $5,000

(signed)

A consideration of! That's the way to talk. Except five thousand's too low to be plausible; the Martin alone is worth that. Make it $7,500, ask Calvin for five and let him talk you down to whatever, though not less than four. Well, thirty-five. Leaving this up on the screen, he takes a pen and a piece of paper downstairs to get the serial numbers; the ones on the Twin and the Tele Calvin can fill in when he gets his hands on them. He should probably play a last song on each guitar, but what would be sufficiently ironic? He lights a match to read each number, then puts the cases by the kitchen door. He goes back upstairs and types the numbers in, prints the son of a bitch — double spaced, so it won't look lonesome on the page — and signs the bottom by the monitor's dim light.

He starts taking his pictures down, thinking he might want them with him wherever he's going. In addition to the imperishable memories. At least the picture of his house — his real house. Meaning his father's house. That is, his mother's house. Whoever the fuck's house. But no. This doesn't want to be another crawl-back-into-your-childhood thing; that was the whole mistake of Preston Falls. This wants to be going in the other direction, like a space probe, though that's a bum analogy: the idea isn't to find stuff out. And certainly not to send back signals. So you might say, Well, Doug, just what is the idea? But something or other being the idea isn't the idea.

He loads the Rick, the D-18 and the J-200 onto the truck. Anything else here? There's the truck itself, but he'll need that. The boombox? Hey, there's a quick five bucks. The computer's only a 486, worth zip anymore; he was going to donate it to Preston Falls High School this year and take a deduction. Couple cords of wood in the woodshed. The slates off the roof? Shit, if Calvin's still in the market.

He pulls into Castleman Enterprises and goes rocking over the ruts. Calvin's truck is still heaped high, and lights are on in the trailer. Willis

PRESTON FALLS

sees a window curtain move. He gets out of the truck, and Calvin comes out the door in a thermal undershirt, pulling on a plaid flannel shirt over it.

"What happened?" he says.

"Nothing," says Willis. "It's fine. I got it."

"Fuck you doin' here? This ain't the plan. What did I tell you, I told you stay there, I told you don't come back early, leave when everybody's leaving. Jesus fuckin' Christ. Reed tell you to come back here?"

"I needed to ask you something," says Willis.

"Where's the money?"

"I've got the money, don't worry about it. But I want to make you an offer."

"Yah, I don't want to fuckin' hear it. I don't want to hear no more of your bullshit. Reed's bullshit—"

"Calvin, would you fucking listen?" says Willis. "I'll be glad to give you the money. But — ^would you just hear me out? I want to sign all my guitars and shit over to you, okay? Including the guitar and amp I left back there with Reed. I mean, those are worth probably close to five thousand just the two of them. Now, the other three I brought with me, okay? Now—" He takes the bill of sale from his hip pocket. "Now, I made this out to say seventy-five hundred because I didn't want it to look too low, but I really only want the five. And actually, seventy-five is incredibly conservative. Shit, the Martin I paid thirty-five for like ten years ago, the Gibson I paid like twenty-five—"

Calvin makes no move to take the piece of paper. "Where's the fuckin' money}''

"Calvin, you could make back—"

"Hey. I asked you something."

Willis holds up a hand. "Okay, fine. Look." He opens the door of his truck and takes the envelope from behind the seat. "Let me just give you this so you got it. You can count it—"

Calvin grabs the envelope.

"I was going to say,'' says WiUis. "After you count it — okay? — and you see it's all there? — maybe we can do some business."

Calvin opens it and feels inside. "Yah, well, let's not fuckin' stand out here."

In the shop, Willis takes the car seat while Calvin sits at his workbench and counts the money twice.

"Okay?" Willis says.

I 7 5

Calvin looks at him. "Now, what the fuck is your problem?"

"Okay, basically, I need cash. I'm absolutely broke, I've got bills to pay, bunch of shit coming due—"

"Why's that make you special?"

"Look, all I'm saying is, I can sell you stuff for a very low price, for cash, that you'll more than get your money back on. Guaranteed."

"Guaranteed, shit. How'm I supposed to sell them fuckin' things?"

"Why can't you? Here, you got a bill of sale with serial numbers on it. Totally kosher." He puts the paper on the workbench. "Put 'em in Want Ad Digest. Worst comes to worst, you could take 'em down to Albany. Lark Street Music. They deal vintage instruments. Or up to Burlington. I forget what the place is called, but—"

"That easy, why'n't you take the shit and sell it?"

"I need the money now."

"That ain't my problem." Calvin picks up the piece of paper.

"Listen," says Willis. "I could also throw in my computer."

"What's one of them worth?" He's moving his index finger down item by item.

"Well, it's a 486. I paid twenty-five for it two years ago." Three years ago.

"Yah, I don't give a flyin' fuck what you paid'' Calvin puts the paper down. "I said what's it worthT'

"I'm sure you could get five."

"You might's well keep it," Calvin says. "I don't know nothin' about them piece of shits. Don't want to." He gets up and puts the envelope in the top drawer of his file cabinet.

"Okay, listen," says Willis. "A couple years ago I remember we talked about you taking the slates off my roof in exchange for putting on a new metal one, right?"

"I ain't in the roofing business no more."

"Five thousand doUars," says Willis. "All the slates off the roof, plus the guitars."

Calvin rests a buttock on the metal stool again and shakes his head. "Nah. Time I buy that galvalum roofing, screws, all that shit, pay some kid help me put it on there—"

"No no no. Forget the new roof. If you just put some plastic up there, that ought to hold until I can get some kind of roof on myself."

Calvin looks at him. "Be snowing in two months."

"Yeah, well," says Willis. "Like you say. Not your problem."

PRESTON FALLS

Calvin picks up a gun telescope from the workbench and sights through it at something. Maybe that Far Side cartoon. He sets it back down. "So you and Reed gonna make you some serious money, that the idea?"

"God no," says Willis. "Truly. I just really got caught short and I need some cash to get me through."

"Look, I don't give a shit. Just leave me the fuck out of it. You can tell Reed that too." He looks over his shoulder at the file cabinet. "I give you a thousand."

"No; no way," says Willis.

"Suit yourself."

"Calvin, those guitars — any one of them is worth like twice that."

"So go sell 'em. / don't give a flyin' fuck."

"Plus a complete slate roof? A couple of years ago you were going to put on a whole—"

"Thousand dollars cash."

"No way," says Willis. Then he says, "I got to get at least three."

"Yah, not from me you ain't."

"So what would you give?" says Willis.

"I told you already. Thousand dollars cash."

"No way," says Willis.

"Then get the fuck out of my house. I don't want your shit — sell me this, sell me that. Just because you're fuckin' done with it. And all of a sudden you fuckin' need money. So you come around trying to trade your fuckin' toys. Hey, I'll trade you. Thousand dollars cash."

"Christ," says Willis.

"The fuck you care?" Calvin says. "That stuff don't mean shit to you."

"Fifteen, and that's it. Fifteen and I'll throw in the computer."