Life By The Drop

[Evrviglnt]

Synopsis: A true fan of a dead music legend gets the offer of a lifetime.

Part one of three.

Life By The Drop

His shoes were red.

That's why you could see see glimpses of them as he careened through the morning crowd with his suitcase tucked under his right arm like a football…a nuclear football. Like a salmon on the run he struggled against a gushing tide of humanity, and it didn't help that Jasper Wynd had a terrible sense of direction. And he’s ungainly too, so his small, lean frame seemed to flex with the stress until he would suddenly get knocked out of control – like a steel ball struck in a pinball game, spinning his way to his office in accounting.

He made it to the elevator only to have a hand split the doors just as they closed. Johnson forced his way in. “Jasper!” he said maliciously. He jabbed a thick, calloused finger at the ‘4’ button. Five times. “What kind of name is Jasper, anyways?” Johnson asked over his shoulder down at his target.

“It’s mine. I own it.”

“I’d rather own a box of nails.” He abused the floor button again as the elevator groaned. Johnson was 32 and just out of the military. The man was so huge that Jasper was sure they used his back to land helicopters on. His square, flat face could have been Zeus’s ping pong paddle. The conversations he had with Jasper were one sided and full of insults, and since Jasper often stuttered and was ridiculed for it, he learned as a child that silence was the best response to thugs like Johnson. But if the tank could read his mind, he’d have slaughtered him already, probably with some exotic choke hold that made you pee your pants before you passed out. Totally embarrassing.

“You look like crap today.” Johnson charged.

“That hurts coming from a guy who buys his suits at the surplus.”

“And what’s that smell – it follows you around like a soiled car freshener!”

“It’s Chicken In A Bisket crackers. Not exactly chicken, but delicious.”

“Don’t you ever talk? What are you, deaf?”

“No dumbass…” Jasper looked up at the Marine with a spark of disdain flickering through his brown eyes.

“Don’t even think about it, old man. This is a dog that don’t never let go.” Johnson threw out a vibe that could have cleared a room. Then he flexed, dangerously stretching the threads that held his coat together. Jasper sighed, then imagined the Marine’s outfit bursting, freeing hand-sized balloons to the ceiling while the sock in his pants dropped to the floor.

The universation continued as the elevator pulled itself up through the center of the nondescript building. The bully blurted, “I heard you won 'Mr. Accuracy' again last month. It’s got to be a set up, man…no one is that good. What kind of criminal record you got that keeps you from being promoted outta here? You a child molester or somethin’?” He chuckled, then shot another accusatory glance at Jasper, whose wispy black hair fell across a plain face fading into a crumpled suit. His black framed glasses kept the hair out of his eyes. One look whispered that there wasn’t much interesting about Jasper Wynd. For twenty five years he’d been doing the same job for a chain of bosses whose names and faces had faded from memory. He spoke little, wore forgettable brown suits and drove an old sunbaked brown sedan. He had no wife. No kids. No pets. Parents dead almost 15 years ago. Few friends. But it was his life, and he had never wanted anything more. His world was held together by the glue of predictability, so that meant what mattered was work, Tivo and Stevie Ray Vaughan. It also meant he took abuse well.

“You need a fuckin’ hobby, Wynd.”

“I need a stun gun.” Jasper mused. The elevator struggled to a stop, its doors flinging themselves open like the mouth of an Egyptian slave hauling a heavy sack of camel dung to the top of Khafre’s Pyramid. The sack grew legs and sauntered out onto the work floor, and Johnson was quickly lost among a hundred cubicles already humming with whatever makes accountants hum. Jasper aimed for his office door, head down, eyes focused on the knob. Behind it he swung his suitcase onto his desk over the mounting pile of mail. The knocks on his door would start soon so he quickly set up the coffee maker. His hands worked by rote, like a soldier taking apart his weapon and putting it back together again with his eyes closed. The gurgling nector began it’s tune a minute and a half later. The door spoke. “Mr. Wynd?” Knock, knock.

At lunch time the office grew quiet as the rat race relocated to the restaurants across the street. Jasper locked his door and leaned back in his chair. His fingers fondled his blue iPod, scanning through the playlists. His imagination hovered over the names as they scrolled past: Albert King, T-bone Walker, Jimmy Reed, Buddy Guy, B.B. King. He even had a few new names like a Kenny Wayne Sheppard and Jonny Lang. His blues library was massive. But his precious Ipod held mostly the work of one man: Stevie Ray Vaughan. The dour and elusive 'Mr. Accuracy' left work for a house wired for sound and spent every night lost in the legacy of a legendary blues guitarist who had played his last note August 27, 1990. The master bedroom in his condo was wall to wall SRV paraphernalia. The few who he had ever allowed in to see his tribute walked away understanding why the accountant had never married. He knew Stevie’s life, his inspirations, his fears and heartbreaks. He’d been to every stage the band had played on and knew most of the names of the women the late guitarist had loved and lost – Jasper had even met a few of them. He had every recording ever made of the man. Every video. Every book, poster, and T-shirt. Add to that picks once used and shoes once worn, half-smoked cigarettes and a sealed glass full of the scotch and cocaine concoction Stevie was addicted to. The incredible collection ranged from the petty to the profound, but it was all genuine and all of it priceless to Jasper. It was the closest he would ever get to the legend.

Each year he would spend a week in Dallas where the guitarist was born and a week where he died: East Troy, Wisconsin – climbing the hill to sit by the spot where they found Vaughan’s body far from the wreckage. He spent thousands for a sound system so audacious that the only thing it couldn’t do was flash a hologram on the coffee table of Stevie Ray Vaughn rockin’ with his guitar Lenny. Naturally Jasper had tried several times to learn the guitar, but he had small hands and no musical talent. The dream died swiftly. He was now content to be a professional listener, and in his mind lived the history of the blues he loved and those that brought it to life. He had an iPodian memory of songs at his mental fingertips. He shared his fascination with no one. No one cared for SRV like he did. His watch started blinking. Lunch was nearly over. The tremulous notes of ‘Couldn’t Stand the Weather’ flowed through his headphones as he closed his eyes to savor a last moment to himself.

By the time ‘Scuttlebuttin’ began, he was sifting through the mail piled on his desk. All crap. He ground his teeth as envelopes stuffed with coupons and credit card offers sailed toward the trash bin. A small card slipped through the airmail and landed back on his desk. Jasper read the blue card as he reached for it, in white it said only “Soul To Soul.” He flipped it over and found an address. No name. He moved to send the card where the rest of the mail had traveled but paused, staring down at it between his two fingers. 'Soul To Soul' was Stevie Ray’s third album recorded in 1985. Thirteen songs. Empty Arms. He rubbed the card and felt the faint ridges decorating it. Maybe someone had something for him that no one else could offer? Was there some memento of Vaughan’s they might be selling? He would buy it. A lost recording? Some handwritten invitation to a groupie? He slipped the intrigue into his shirt pocket and pondered.

Throughout the day his office door was assailed by employees and clients alike. The clients had good reason to be there. The encroaching employees were a motley assortment of ass kissers and goons trying to pilfer advice or scoop inside gossip that would catapult them past their rivals. Then came the sloppy accountants who had twisted themselves into numerical cramps and were looking for help on just where the first mistake lay in their numbers. You might think that Jasper was bitter to them or dismissive; it’s easy to be that way when you think everyone else is. What stopped him was something he had read years ago about what Big Jimmie Vaughan had once said to his rebellious son. “Nobody was ever who they wanted to be in this life.” Stevie Ray Vaughan proved his father wrong. Jasper certainly was more than he seemed. He was sure most everyone else was, too. He helped who he could and sent the rest walking.

Still, the plotters plotted and behind his back opportunists eyed his office like ravenous vultures. “Men, women – they’re all like.” he thought to himself. The men want you to think you’re their pal, and if that doesn't work they'll try to push you around. The women – even worse – use their feminine wiles to wet your appetite, then they start dealing; a warm smile for a good word, a cold shoulder if you don’t hand over your dignity. Men got places stepping on people. Women got people to line up on their hands and knees eager to get stepped on. It's the games people play, and they all treated him like he hadn’t earned his place. Being ugly and short was a real liability in this world. Nobody knew him, or cared to. He had returned the cold shoulder. They thought him a stuttering wimp. Willie the Wimp.

His red shoes were back on the pavement in a sweltering Los Angeles after the office had emptied at the end of the day. His Iphone flashed in his hand as he mapquested the address on the blue card. It was within walking distance. He worked through the crowd in his usual fashion, and found himself standing in front of a black door on an empty street 15 minutes later. He looked for a door bell. Knocked a few times. Turned the handle, and it gave. The heavy door swung open easily, inviting him into a long dark hallway glowing under a red light. Inside it smelled wet, like a street steaming after a swipe by the street cleaner. Faintly, music came from an open door ahead. About halfway there the heavy door behind him closed with a thud and the music instantly intensified. It was Double Trouble. Love Struck Baby.

He stood just beyond the doorway at the end of the hall, peering into a dimly lit room. The music had softened so much now that he could hear finger slaps on a guitar neck, fingers sliding down ribbed strings, notes plucked and hung on a heartbreak. Through the haze he could see sitting in a corner of the room playing a worn and scorned, dried out yellow 1959 Fender Stratocaster. His wide brimmed black hat covered his face but the sound coming from him was unmistakable – it was Stevie Ray Vaughan come back to life! Every note was perfect, the grinding energy and the groaning sadness, the skipping joy and the violent anger. Lifelong riffs spilled from the guitar like an old friend telling stories everyone knew. He was about to say something when a voice answered a question interrupted.

“No, man. Stevie’s dead. When you’re dead, you’re dead.”

Jasper gasped as the man’s face came into view. It wasn’t Stevie Ray Vaughan, that was for sure. The figure was old, weathered, and wild. His green eyes shone with forbidden knowledge as his deft fingers ran a ghost trail over the strings, teasing a few bars of ‘Let’s Dance’. The mauve suit he wore hung lightly on him, so that Jasper’s eyes fell to the black and white creepers on his feet and the sparkling reflections intertwined in the laces. His hair was long and dark, curling up at his shoulders. The room began to stink of scotch, and the accountant noticed for the first time that he stood in the middle of a dressing room like you’d find in the back of seedy club. The walls thumped with the echoes of a band in session...The Fabulous Thunderbirds. The door behind him swung closed. The music got louder as the blood red tint in the room throbbed like a lover enraptured. He could see the walls now - covered in uncollectables of the most precious Stevie Ray Vaughan memorabilia, none of which he had ever seen before. His heart spasmed in painful bursts as every spot in the room he laid his eyes on revealed a discovery so fantastic that it stunned the mind and strangled reality. The Voice broke the reverie. “I hear you got a quite a collection yourself.”

Jasper scanned the room again. “This isn’t a c-c-collection, it’s heaven.” He looked back at the guitarist. “Who are you?”

“It ain’t me, man. The question is, who are you?”

Jasper felt a familiar frustration run through him, and for a second he was standing back at his office sifting through the intentions of another office floozy playing him for a fool. “Listen here,” The Voice continued. “I ain’t never met a stick like you. You got SRV fever from your toes to your nose. You probably know everything about Stevie and his music that I do, you’re so crazy for the man. But I got the one thing you don’t. I can play SRV. Really play him, like he’s got my hands in his and his heart in mine.” As he spoke the guitar came to life again, vibrating strings hollering the chords to ‘Look At Little Sister’. He played effortlessly, talking all the while about the music and what it felt like to create it. Jasper stood in awe even as his patience began to break. What was this guy all about?

“What are you selling?”

“I’m buying. You’re sellin’,” came the reply. “You want everything about the man, but there is one you can’t have. I can give that to you. I can give you the gift.”

Jasper’s mind raced. Was this some kind of joke? Did he just get invited to a time-share party? When people started talking about getting you something they claim only they can provide, a good first reaction is to head for the door. But He couldn't take his eyes away from the fading figure sitting in front of him. Burgundy cigarette smoke rose seductively between them… cloves; sweet and exotic. A smile broke through the rising curtain.

“I’ll give you the gift – the talent to play Stevie Ray Vaughan like the man himself. I ain’t talking ‘bout just strumming chords, I’m talking about playing the blues so hard ain’t nobody gonna be able to walk away without cryin’ or fightin'. You might as well be Stevie Ray, ain’t nobody can tell the difference. And I can give it to you instantly.”

Again he had answered the question that hung on Jasper's lips. Not even years of guitar lessons would ever cure him of his clumsiness. “How?”

“Just a touch.”

“Who a-a-are you?”

“Now? Just an old man, but like you I got heart, man.” He stood the guitar up beside him and leaned back deep into his chair, his thin, small hands coming together across his chest, clasped under his chin. Jasper could see faintly a graying goatee perched upon a sharp chin. “What you hearin' today can be yours, to enjoy for yourself, for your friends. For your enemies.” In Jasper’s mind flashed the faces of conspiring co-workers hovering at his office door. The looks of consternation from his unyeilding parents long ago were fresh memories now. Family or friends, mocking and disdainful of his love for Double Trouble and the man who led the band; their daggers and incomprehension surged through him again. Among all the faces that looked down on him now there was only one that didn't make his mind curdle, but she was as much fantasy to him as he was a mystery to her. “Imagine yourself on stage, man. Think of how everything you’ve ever wanted goin’ come right through your hands, come right to you. You deserve it, man - you deserve all the good things.” continued the melodic voice from under the black hat.

Jasper looked again at the guitar and then at the gnarled, bony fingers of the guitarist. From such tortured hands came the most beautiful music ever? Impossible!

“Not impossible, just expensive.”

“How much?” Jasper tallied every penny he had.

“Ten years.”

“What? Ten years? Ten years of what?”

“Life, Jasper Wynd. I’ll give you the talent to play Stevie Ray Vaughan as good as he ever was, but it’s gonna cost you ten years of your life. I don’t want your soul, or your loyalty. You still a free man, but you gonna die ten years earlier than destiny intended. But think about it. You might dream your whole life of playing like Stevie and live ‘til you're 100 fantasizing about it. That’s a century of nothing – it ain’t livin’. But now you gonna spend the rest of your days living that dream, and goin’ home 90 years old is about right.”

So that was the deal. These weren’t sterile numbers he was talking about – it wasn’t dollars in some account somewhere Jasper had saved up over a lifetime. It was time for sale. His time. He was 54. But for a few vices he was a healthy man, he could live until he was ninety. Then again, he could get hit by a truck tomorrow and die no matter how healthy he was. He was dealing away a future he had no idea existed. It was an unknowable quantity.

“What if I’m supposed to die only five years from today? Jasper asked.

“You drop dead right here; I get the five.” was the answer.

“Who are you?” Jasper again, getting increasingly nervous.

“Hope and Change.”

“Great. Now I’m sure this will be expensive.” Jasper looked again around the room at the scenes of Vaughan’s life. Music. Love. Lust. Fame. The man had lived just long enough to give to the world a slice of the joy he could create. Vaughan died at 46. He had finally straightened out his life – kicked the cocaine and the booze, found real love, and soon to be married. If only some record executive had taken the last seat on the helicopter that night. But that was history. His life was cut short just when he had taken control of it. Now Jasper was being asked if he wanted to release the control he had always had on his life, and step out, to live the rest of the life Stevie never got to. With every generation, fewer people knew the blues master and the power of his music, and one day soon with the last fan winked out the second life of SRV – true death – a day when his music would no longer be played. He would play it. But was knowing the final mystery of his music worth ten years of this life? Would he lose that intangible that beat at the heart of his love for the man and his music? But then to play a master’s music is to pay tribute to him in a way that made the professional fan an apostle. Visions of himself playing in front of crowds and in smoky clubs suddenly shamed the memories of himself in his living room wielding an air guitar and lip syncing Pride and Joy.

Again reality hit him – he was literally taking his life into his hands now. He knew many people who had died young – many of them were his old bosses. His parents died young, would he? Was it genetic? Wasn’t a bachelor’s life of fast food and no exercise a sure route to a stroke and paralysis at 55? He hadn’t started the day expecting to be dead by nightfall. Nothing was prepared. He had no life insurance. He had no one to mark as a beneficiary. His work would be left unfinished. What would they do with his collection? What would she...?

“I’ll do it. B-b-but how do I know you’re not g-going to trick me?

“There’s always a trick, you know. But who’s the fool? Reach out your hand.”

Jasper hesitated. The figure rose to his feet and was much taller now. Around him it grew very warm, the music seem to thump through the walls and Jasper noticed then that the door behind him had altogether disappeared. Everything was drenched in pulsating red. Suddenly he really believed the old man. It was all too real now. The languid smoke of burning cloves encircling him brought his attention back to the moment. He hesitated.

“Riviera Paradise” began playing. Jasper thrust out his hand. The dealer reached out and touched his palm with a single finger, the contact between them fusing into a brilliant blue light. The accountant could feel something stir inside of him, stir in fright and then rage, fighting against the drawing power that siphoned life from him.

In every one of us a primordial urge lives clinging to buried fears. It is the untamed fantasy that we will be the one who lives forever. It makes a woman endure the deepest pain and a man grasp with wild tenacity at the last shreds of this life. Mortality. Once we accept it, once we realize that we are all destined for a cruel disease or arrive mangled to a morgue somewhere, we begin to fear death. It is nature’s way of giving meaning to our existence, and why time is the bane of lovers since ancient times. Now this conspiring angel, or charming demon, was tearing a hole through the skein of Jasper’s life.

The thread of life that left one to feed the other began to have its effect on the old man. His arms lost their pallid color and began to fill out. His veins began to glow and the shoulders broaden. Jasper looked up into his face. The gaunt look that framed bright eyes began to disappear, age spots to fade and pocked marked cheeks softened smooth and supple. Before long the old man had become youth personified – stout and lively, sensuous and alluring. His face still remained partly shrouded, but the smile could not be hidden.

And Jasper was alive, at least for now. He stood without moving, watching in amazement as the smells and colors of the room around him began to melt away. The mists that once mingled between them seemed to follow a breeze, and the macabre sounds of the blues, now wailing in some kind of drunken warning, slipped away defeated. The heavenly collection once surrounding them disappeared along with the ambiance of a venue built for long nights and shuttered mornings. Now only the impeccably dressed stranger and a wide eyed Jasper Wynd stood facing each other in a dilapidated room strewn with abandoned junk. “Who are you?”

“I’m the culmination of humanity’s broken dreams. I give, and I take, but what I can’t do is live for you the life you have left. You carry a piece of the man you idolize within you now. Your life will never be the same. That brings me great joy! I’ll watch and see what you do with it, and what he does with you. It all may kill you. It might bring you everything you desire. Surely you will never understand the power you’ve paid so dearly for. But some do. Some do.” He turned away and, after a final glance back with a hint of sadness, he slipped through the wall and was gone. The scent of cloves lingered.

Jasper Wynd found the door at the back of the room hanging by its hinges. He ran through the dark hallway and let himself out. Night had fallen and the wind blew hard through the trees, snapping twigs and stripping leaves. Trash skipped along empty streets and people walked about like spirits wrapped in night shades. Only a few stores remained open. He had to test the gift, had to see if this was all real. His car was a mile away. “Too far.” he thought . He ran down the street peering into storefronts for a guitar of any kind. He needed a pawn shop, in the heart of L.A. it was the only place that might have what he was looking for at this hour. There was a thrift store open under the lamp on Broadway and third. He cut across the intersection as fast as his red shoes would take him. He burst through the doors like a man crazed and scanned the place. Hanging on a back wall was a ukulele. He headed for it and pulled it down. He strummed it. His left hand reflexively found a chord. The opening of Cold Shot belted from the untuned instrument, and it flexed in his hand as he wrenched from the novelty a pounding blues medley of SRV songs. His heart raced as if he were drinking cold water after a long walk in a dark, dry, lonely place. One of the strings snapped. He kept playing, frantically, almost giddy now as he went through every title surging through his mind. Wall Of Denial. Give Me Back My Wig. Ain't Gonna Give Up On Love. Texas Flood. Rude Mood. One after another the melodies leapt from the strings, A few customers began to gather around him, astonished at the square in a brown suit going oblong with a Ukulele in Fausta’s Thrift Shoppe. He opened his tearing eyes and saw the crowd closing in on him. He threw the ukulele down and ran for the door as fast as he had come through it. A step slower he might have seen Doris, one of the secretaries in accounting. Naturally she was quiet and overly shy, but her hand to her mouth in shock made her even easier to miss. She shook her head in amazement - she had just watched Mr. Wynd play the songlist on her Ipod.

She walked over to the instrument, lying on its side exhausted. She picked it up and turned to the cashier leaning on an elbow eyeing her. “How much?” He tipped his hat and smiled, waving his hand.

“It's a gift, from me to you.”

She held the ukulele in her hands. It was still warm. “Voodoo Chile” she said to herself, still blushing.

“Precisely.” came a voice.

[Vorcla]

Ah, yes.

As a musician myself (and a fan of SRV), I'm partial to tales like this. This is fascinating. You must be a picker yourself; a lot of the details are very vivid. You have a great narrative voice and an easy, flowing style that make this a joy to read. I've always enjoyed reading your stories, and I hope this means you'll be around on a more regular basis. You've been missed.

Looking forward to Part 2, Shane.

[Razor]

I don't know how you do it, but damn I enjoyed that!

It started a bit slow, and I was weary, but then I just kind of fell into the flow of the story. Not exactly how I'd have started it, but it all seemed to work.

The cost of it being years is something I've thought about. It's a rather intriguing concept. As you pointed out, you might live to be 100, so what does 10 year matter, or you might live to be 55, and 10 years becomes a big deal. Loved it!

I'm not a good grammar editor, or sentence structure for that matter, so I leave that to others.

The story flowed well, although it was a bit slow at first. The description was well done, and the characterization of Jasper came along very nicely. Well done!

[Atlas]

Very good, I absolutely loved it and hated the fact it was cut short. It left me wanting a great deal more. I really connect with the story, I play guitar myself and adore blues and pretty much anything else you can throw down on a guitar. I surely do hope you continue with this, good job.

[DarkStar]

I don't know what it was about this that made me keep reading it. I can't quite place my finger on it.

Although the genre isn't something I would normally enjoy, I found this piece nothing short of brilliant. You characterize everyone almost perfectly, giving life I haven't seen yet until now.

Two thumbs up, and a hi-five.