Dashboard Elvis is Dead, page 10
‘Holy fuck,’ protests Chic. ‘Ah wis just…’ He tails off. ‘Dae they have the death penalty where we’re goin’?’
‘Only for irritatin’ drummers wi’ single-figure IQs,’ says Jamie.
‘Fuck that,’ says Chic. ‘Ah’d beat the death row anyway.’
‘How?’ asks Kenny.
‘Ah’d get an ever-lastin’ gobstopper for ma last meal.’
The laughter stirs Bingo. She yawns.
‘Jesus Christ, wish there had been a bus wi’ beds an’ that in it.’ Bingo has been asleep for hours. She waits for a response and when none is forthcoming: ‘What did ah miss?’
Kenny McFadden takes Bingo’s intervention as an opportunity to lift the mood. ‘Look, why don’t we go an’ see somethin’? A touristy kinda thing, ye know?’ He is holding on to less-than-welcome news, given to him by Seymour Stein in Manhattan. He needs to find – or manufacture – the right time to release it.
‘Like what?’ says Bingo.
‘Well, ah picked this up back in Tulsa?’
‘VD?’ says Chic.
‘Naw, this, ya diddy.’ Kenny holds up a leaflet advertising the Route 66 Museum. ‘Come on, we’ve no’ done anythin’ like that yet. An’ we’re goin’ past the bloody thing anyway.’
‘Where is it?’ asks Bingo.
‘A wee place … Clinton.’ No-one responds. ‘It’s known as America’s Mother Road. It’s one ae the most famous routes in the United States. It originally ran fae Chicago, Illinois, through Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona before terminatin’ in Santa Monica in Los Angeles County, California, coverin’ a total ae 2,448 miles.’ Kenny’s enthusiasm isn’t matched by his compatriots. ‘They’re plannin’ tae decommission it soon. Glad we’re gettin’ tae see it while we still can. Come on, let’s go, eh?’
‘We dinnae need tae now. You’ve telt us aw there is tae know,’ says Jamie.
‘Aye, fuck it, let’s go,’ says Reef. ‘We can stock up on booze an’ smokes tae, while we’re there.’
‘There’s the sign,’ says Kenny. ‘A couple ae miles, just.’
‘Thank fuck,’ says Reef. ‘Haven’t had a shite for about a week. Aw that junk food, man. Ah’m backed up further than an M74 pile-up on Glesga Fair Monday.’
Bingo laughs.
‘Hey, dinnae fucken laugh, Bingo. That’s how Elvis Presley died. If ah don’t come out ae the museum bogs within the hour, send the National Guard in.’
‘Fuck that,’ says Jamie. ‘We’ll send flowers tae yer maw, but that’s it.’
‘Sup wi’ you, Chico?’ asks Bingo.
‘Got the shakes,’ he replies. ‘Mibbe somethin’ ah’ve ate.’
‘Well, if yer gonnae spew, dinnae dae it in here,’ Kenny warns him.
Jesus Castro parks the van. The doors open and all spill out, yawning, stretching, and squinting into the strong sunlight. All except Chic. He remains inside in the shade.
‘Just you’se go on,’ he tells them. ‘Ah need a bit ae air. Leave the door open, eh?’
Thirty minutes later, when the Scottish tourists return to the van, Chic is on his knees behind it. He’s vomiting violently and loudly.
‘Jesus, mate, are ye aw’right?’ asks Bingo.
‘Ah dunno,’ replies the drummer.
‘Hey, who’s been in my bag?’ asks AFB.
No-one responds. Chic gradually raises a shaking hand.
‘What the fuck, Chic?’ she screams.
Jamie and Reef look inside the van. AFB holds a small transparent plastic bag with trembling fingers. It contains an amount of fine, dirty-grey powder.
‘For fuck’s sake, Anna. Is that drugs?’ says Jamie.
‘No.’ AFB is crying now. ‘It’s Brian!’
‘What?’ asks Bingo.
‘Brian who?’ asks Kenny.
‘Brian Mason … yer brother, Brian?’ says Jamie.
‘He always wanted to see America,’ she sobs.
‘No’ like this though, surely,’ says Reef.
AFB can’t speak. Jamie stares at the bag in her hand. Chic snorts, back on his feet.
‘Christ, what was that stuff?’ he asks.
Jamie grabs him by the shoulders. ‘Chic, you fucken moron! Did you snort some ae that … some ae him?’
‘D’ye mean, him?’
‘That wis Brian. His ashes,’ Jamie screams, inches from his face.
‘Eh? How the fuck…?’ Chic pauses to vomit again. ‘How the fuck wis ah meant tae know, eh? It wis pitch-dark in there.’
Jamie is now being held back by Kenny McFadden, restraining him by the arms. But Jamie’s forehead jerks forwards and catches Chic on the bridge of the nose.
‘Fucking Brian, man!’ yells Jamie. He is almost in tears too.
‘Aw God,’ Chic splutters.
‘God must’ve been drunk when he made you, son,’ says Kenny.
‘Jamie, come on, mate,’ pleads Reef. He helps the manager draw the irate guitarist further back from the stricken drummer.
AFB comes out of the van. She is distraught. No-one knows what to say to her. Jamie, still raging, follows her back into the museum.
‘What were ye dain’, Chic, rummaging in the lassie’s handbag? What were ye lookin’ for?’ Reef asks him, once a degree of calm returns.
‘Ye know how Seymour’s crew dealt out they wraps back in New York. Ah heard AFB tell Bingo that she’d take the bags but she wisnae takin’ any ae the coke.’
‘Aye. So?’
‘Well, ah just wanted a wee boost. Needed somethin’ tae take the edge off. Ye know whit it’s like, Reef.’ Chic sniffed and rubbed his nose. ‘Ah didnae think she’d mind. I had a hunt. Found the bag. Had a wee toot.’
‘Ya fucken clown, ye.’
‘It wis only when the … aw that grit shot up ma beak that ah knew it wisnae the goods.’ Chic looks at Reef shaking his head in disgust. ‘Reef, how wis ah supposed tae know?’ he says, again.
‘Ye could’ve asked her first,’ says Reef.
‘D’ye think it’ll dae me any harm?’ asks Chic.
‘Ah fucken hope so,’ Reef replies.
‘Where is that absolute plank?’ asks Jamie, when he and AFB finally return.
‘Over there,’ says Reef. He nods in the direction of a telephone box. ‘Ah telt him aw they wee bits ae bone an’ dental fillings gettin’ rammed up his nasal cavity might kill him. He’s phonin’ his maw. She works at the Royal.’
‘Aye, that’ll help. She’s a cleaner,’ says Jamie. ‘Hope it does fucken kill him, though. Save me the bother.’
AFB hears him and bursts into tears again.
‘Ach, sorry, Anna hen,’ says Reef.
Chic returns.
‘What did she think?’ asks Bingo.
‘Dunno,’ Chic replies. ‘By the time she’d finished tellin’ me aw about ma da fallin’ out a windae, the pips went an’ ah got cut off.’
‘Right, let’s get outta here,’ says Kenny. ‘What a bloody shambles.’
‘Sorry, hen,’ says Chic, sheepishly.
Chic might be a hardman but he’d still shite himself if the AFB raised the potential of a Ronnie Mason sanction.
AFB turns away from him.
Hours have passed since they left the museum. Hours of driving through flat, characterless nothing. The van drives past a series of billboards advertising everything from washing powder, ammunition, Marlboro cigarettes, The Johnny Carson Show and then finally, one for KMCR-FM, Maricopa County Radio. Another board poses the rhetorical question: What Is the Meaning of Life?
‘Whit is the meaning ae life?’ ponders Chic.
‘Life is sufferin’,’ says Kenny.
‘Whit?’ asks Chic, puzzled.
‘…In silence,’ adds Kenny.
‘Whit does that mean?’ asks Chic.
‘It means shut the fuck up, because we’re aw fucken sufferin’ wi havin’ tae listen tae you.’ Even Kenny McFadden’s endless patience has reached its limit.
Bingo stretches out a leg. Her boot connecting accidentally with AFB’s head.
‘Sorry, pal.’
It’s the final straw.
‘SORRY?’ AFB screams. ‘Fucking sorry? You don’t know the meaning of the fucking word, you arrogant bastards. I’ve put up with all your moods, your determination to ignore me completely … the relentless, horrendous farting … and for what? To get repeatedly kicked in the fucking head inside this sweltering, stinking tank. I’ve had it with all of you. This is mental fucking torture. You are nothing but a bunch of horrible … cunts!’ She is crying again. ‘I don’t deserve this. I just don’t fucking deserve it. Brian didn’t deserve this.’
It’s the most any of them have heard her say in months. AFB is inconsolable, her face concealed in her hands. The embarrassed males – even Jesus Castro, eyes darting between the road and the back – stare at Jamie, with inappropriate ‘fuck sake, control your woman’ looks. He blushes but says nothing.
‘Erm, we nearly there yet?’ asks Chic.
AFB’s sobbing continues, getting louder and more hopeless.
‘Aye … Kenny, this is pish. Is it still fucken July?’ says Reef.
‘Gie it up, eh? We’ve only been on the road again for a couple ae hours.’ Kenny is torn. They should really pull over and make sure AFB is alright. But since Jamie is making no such demands, he feels that it isn’t really his concern.
AFB’s sobbing gets louder. Reef kicks Jamie’s foot and nods silently at her when he looks up. Jamie continues strumming the acoustic guitar.
‘Have a word, eh?’
‘Leave it, aw’right?’
‘She’s fucken devastated, mate,’ Reef whispers.
‘Ah said keep out ae it, okay?’ Jamie has no obvious right to be irritated, but that isn’t stopping him. ‘Ah’m totally fucken bored wi’ this aw’ready.’
‘Whit d’ye mean? The sparkling repartee?’
Jamie sniggers at Reef’s sarcasm. Tempers are slowing rising once again.
‘We’ve been oan the road for less than a week, man,’ Reef continues. ‘The record’s sellin’. The English gigs were aw good. Ye said so yerself. We’re actually gettin’ somewhere.’ Reef is almost pleading now. He, if not the others, is aware of the pivotal point the band had reached.
‘Christ, have a listen tae yersel, Reef. There wis nae cunt fae the record label tae meet us at the airport. The “luxury coach” we were supposed tae be gettin’ is a fucken plasterer’s van wi’ nae proper seats in it. Ah lost a guitar, an’ fuck knows where it is now. Probably havin’ a better time than us though.’ Jamie glances at AFB. ‘We should’ve stayed in Scotland. The only thing we’re gettin’ ower here is fucken dehydrated. An’ sick ae the sight ae each other.’
‘Jesus fuck, Jamie. Ye have tae put in the effort – the fucken miles, man. Nae such thing as overnight successes in music nowadays, is there?’
‘Joe Dolce?’ mutters Chic. But no-one is listening to him anymore.
‘You sound just like him.’ Jamie nods at Kenny McFadden.
‘At least he’s no’ actin’ the prick every minute ae the fucken day!’ shouts Reef.
‘Fuck off!’
‘Naw, you fuck off!’ yells Reef, a finger pointing at the guitarist’s face from less than an inch away.
Jamie lifts the wooden guitar and, with limited space for a proper backswing, jabs it at Reef’s head. The body cracks into the singer’s nose. Blood immediately spurts. Chic launches himself at Jamie, swinging a fist that connects with Bingo’s jaw on its way round. Jesus Castro hits the brakes, propelling Chic backwards, his forehead making a dull thump on Jamie’s mouth.
AFB cries. ‘I wanna go home,’ she wails between sobs.
‘Erm,’ says Kenny McFadden. ‘That’s us here.’
A State of Independence (6)
The two of them are intoxicating. They are named Matt and Brandy. Surnames are extraneous. Unnecessary branding, they say. A convention for others too scared to live as if every day was their last. I know nothing else about them. I am too reserved to ask more during our first day together.
Everything needed for a life on the road is packed into the trunk of their car. I spend that night in their tent. Matt pitches it just beyond the public trails of Catalina State Park. He finds a concealed spot in the scrubland foothills of Mount Lemmon. He makes a fire and cooks a chicken – bought, not stolen or caught. We drink beer. I don’t like the taste. They promise me it will get better as I become accustomed to it. I lay on a blanket, another wrapped around me, my rucksack for a pillow. I sleep until the sound of them outside wakes me. Through the weave of the blanket, I watch them have sex in silhouette. Uninhibited, and unconcerned about being observed. I see her legs coil around his. His large, stiff cock edging closer until she can reach a hand down and guide it into her. Their movements are slow and hypnotic. Almost balletic. Not jerking or urgent.
I wake as the sun comes up. I can’t see them. I can’t be entirely sure I haven’t dreamt it. Wondering if everything in the last month has been a dream. The button of my denim shorts is open. The zip is down. I’m wet between my thighs.
I’m still circling places on my map. We cruise the I-10 westwards past Marana. Onwards to Red Rock. Matt driving, a long tattooed right arm snaking around Brandy. Me in behind them. Like a little family of three, care-free and on vacation. Matt is lively and excited. He spots an isolated call box. We pull over. Matt jumps the car door again and goes to make a call.
Are you guys on the run? I ask Brandy.
Everybody’s runnin’ from somethin’, Jude, she says. Y’know, it’s not real, any of this … not really.
B-but the gun… I stammer. Brandy laughs. She gently touches my forearm.
It’s not even full, she says.
What d’you mean? I ask.
She doesn’t answer me.
Who’s he callin’? I ask.
Jeez, kid, so many questions. I dunno. He’s a law to himself. I’m just caught, dragged along in his wake. Brandy laughs. It’s excitin’ though, y’know?
Yeah, I say, because it is. To feel this alive for the first time ever. Or at least since those days with AJ.
Where you from, Brandy?
Ain’t where we’re from that matters, it’s where the road takes us, that’s all. An’ those we encounter along the way.
She smiles at me, but sensing my puzzlement she adds, San Francisco.
You’re a long way from home too, I say.
More than you’ll ever know, sweetie, she says.
What about Matt?
Him? She laughs again, He’s from everywhere … an’ no place at all.
Where did you meet him?
Strangest thing, hon … It was only three years ago, but I can’t remember.
That’s a long time, I say.
No, it isn’t. Not really, she says. But this last year… She gently shakes her head.
A relationship takes three years to catch, she says. It’s just a romantic comedy before that. It’s like he’s been with me – somewhere deep inside me – forever. Like all the shit before him just don’t matter anymore, she says.
We watch Matt burst from the call box.
And then she says: Bein’ with someone and then not bein’ with them is the only way to measure time.
And I write it down in my journal right there and then, exactly how she phrased it because it sounds important and profound, and because I think it might give meaning to AJ Carter’s impact on my life.
Matt runs back smiling. He jumps into the car, again without opening the door.
What you been doin’, babe? asks Brandy, coyly.
Somethin’ important, he says. You’ll see.
Matt turns the ignition, and we drive off. We drive with the radio on, and music that I like is playing. The radio DJ talks excitedly, and Matt turns the volume up. I notice him glance down regularly at the stolen cartoon watch on his wrist.
He taps the head of the wobbling figure on the dashboard. The one I stole from the gas station. And then he sings, country-style:
Well, ah don’t care if it rains or freezes,
long as we have our plastic Elvis,
Ridin’ on the dashboard of our car,
Through all trials an’ tribulations,
we will travel every nation,
With our plastic Elvis we’ll go far.
Brandy giggles as he finishes his improvised chorus.
Let’s go to the West Coast. I wanna swim in the sea, says Matt.
Yeah, okay, babe, says Brandy.
I ain’t ever seen the sea. Wanna see if it’s that emerald-green color they say it is, says Matt. He looks at the watch again.
Okay, now. Shhh! Matt turns the volume right up.
…And next up, an oldie goin’ right out there to a cool young dude an’ his gal on their sweet way to Vegas. You’re listening to Dave Diamond on KMCR-FM, Maricopa County Radio, and this is for Brandy, a personal request from Matt … will you marry him, Brandy?
Brandy puts her hands over her mouth. It looks like she’ll cry.
This is for you two lovebirds … it’s Looking Glass, with ‘Brandy, You’re a Fine Girl’, an’ I bet you are.
Yeah. she is crying now.
Anything. Yes! I’m yours. WOOOOOOAH! she screams.
Brandy leans over Matt, and he almost can’t see the road ahead of him and we nearly run right off into the dirt as he whoops and hollers. I laugh too and clap my hands in the back. I feel more comfortable in the company of these two strangers than anyone else I’ve ever met, other than AJ Carter.
I love ya, Batgirl! says Matt.
And I love you too, Kit-Kat. Always an’ forever, says Brandy.
Always an’ forever, he repeats.
She kisses him.
Jeez … pull over if you’re gonna do that. I don’t wanna die right here in the back of this shit-wagon ’cos you two are makin’ out doin’ a hundred on the highway.
