Moon's Blues

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Moon's Blues

iUniverse, Inc.

Chapter One

It stands to reason that you don't need to have the blues to play them. I mean, I'm sure B.B.King has had his share of suffering, but really, once you've salted away the odd million or two, the blues must necessarily be at least mitigated, wouldn't you think?

These were the sort of thoughts drifting through my mind as I practiced holding down the strings of a G chord on my new guitar. If you're surprised to learn that I was even giving thought to the blues, perhaps a bit of explanation is in order. For those of you who imagined that the House of Duggie would enter into a glorious era of serenity and satisfaction following the events of last summer's softball tournament, which turned out well for me even though we lost, because at the end Jenny told me she was going to keep me under closer supervision, and, as far as Jenny's concerned, I'm all for the closer the better, let me just say that for a while I, too, thought things were finally looking up for Douglas C. Moon.

But as it turns out, fate was just having one of its little jokes. At the time, of course, I didn't see the punch line coming. For those first three weeks, when Jenny was with me almost every day, I was as high as I believe it's possible to be without smoking anything. Then, on the last night in July, we were sitting outside the shack drinking beers and shooting the breeze. Jenny was tickling Orson under his chin, and he was purring like a snooze alarm. I should mention that Orson is a grossly overweight Persian cat who was foisted upon me by Phoebe shortly after the tournament. She claimed it would be good for my soul to adopt an abandoned cat, and I was feeling so on top of the world that I allowed this travesty to come to pass. Rufie is still in a state of shock. The creature has shown a complete disregard of pet decorum, brazenly snacking out of Rufie's bowl while he watches. I'm surprised he hasn't throttled the feline already, but then, Rufie, like me, follows the knight's code. We don't throttle the pint-sized, no matter how much they may deserve it.

At any rate, there we were. Jenny was gently scolding Orson for having eaten another cricket. He can't get enough of them, and it being late summer in Virginia, they are on the march, chirping incessantly. I can almost sympathize with Orson's penchant for pouncing on them. They seem to be asking for it.

So, where were we? Ah yes, I remember feeling almost guilty because, well, you know, the world is full of suffering and injustice and whatnot, and there I was, not rich in conventional terms, but, although I'm no longer an under-paid Latin teacher, I still find solace in the old saying: homo doctus in se semper divitias habet—a learned man always has wealth within himself. At that moment I was smiling at the stars, feeling like the luckiest man in Rapidan County. When Jenny put her hand on my thigh and squeezed, I leaned over to kiss her, but she pulled back and said, "Duggie, there's something I have to tell you."

If I'd been listening closer I suppose I could have heard Fate snickering. As it was I just smiled at Jenny, anticipating that she was about to reveal some embarrassing moment from her youth, some awkward confession of girlish fantasy.

"Duggie, you know I've been out of work since Shitley fired me at the tournament."

I nodded. It hadn't been one of those quiet, no-hard-feelings, pink slip firings. It was a public-shouting, insult-exchange type firing. There was applause from those who witnessed it.

I waited for her to get to the point, like a sitting duck unaware of the hunter slipping closer through the marsh grass.

"Well, I can't go on like this—being unemployed."

I stared at her, wishing I could tell her that we could live on my salary, but let's face it, I can barely live on it myself.

"So, I was talking to Miles at the café yesterday—"

"Who?"

"Miles Brandon. He's the artist who's renting Hickory House this summer."

"Oh. Must be nice."

"It is. I went up there this morning to talk to him about a job. He needs an assistant to handle his e-mail, answer his phones, do errands." She paused and gave me a look. "He's going to pay me really well."

"You've already taken the job?"

"You know there aren't any good jobs out here. And this will only be for a few months until he goes back to his villa in France."

"He's got a villa in France?"

"That's where he spends the winters. He showed me some pictures of his studio there. It looks amazing."

"Oh." I sensed this wasn't the supportive reaction a good boyfriend should provide, but really? I felt as if I'd just swallowed a handful of crickets and they weren't agreeing with me. "So ... this Miles guy ... he must be successful."

"And how. Some of his sculptures have been bought by museums and stuff. But he's not stuck up. He's funny and nice." The way her eyes shone when she said this set off the warning buzzer in my head, but I still clung to the good old hope. "So, he's an old guy?"

"No. He's our age."

"Oh. Great," I managed to say, but I'm pretty sure she could tell I didn't mean it. The problem was, I'd seen this Brandon around, buying toothpaste at the Gas-n-Go, and though I didn't let on to Jenny, it was clear to me from the way the salesgirls swooned over him that they had been profoundly affected by his PBS accent, his chiseled profile, and disheveled mop of thick black hair. I suspect he dishevels it on purpose if you want to know the truth. Be that as it may, the guy has a kind of style, I suppose. All right if you like that kind of thing. Ask anyone. They'll tell you I'm not conceited about my looks. I know they're in the average range—not a gargoyle, not a god. But even so, if it came to a mano-a-mano with Brandon, I think I could almost take him if it weren't for the eyes. His are the kind of sparkly sky blue that made Mel Gibson rich. Plus he's got eyelashes like a girl. Seriously. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that he uses mascara. So. All in all, not the kind of guy you want your girlfriend hobnobbing with on a daily basis.

But of course I couldn't say anything. Vir sapit qui pauca loquitur, as the fellow said. Know when to hold your tongue.

After she left, however, I felt as if the night grew darker, the stars seemed farther away, and even the crickets seemed to have shut up. It was spooky. No doubt all in my mind. Still, if it hadn't been so late I would have trotted up the path to Morris's house to see if he could offer some sage counsel. But I considered that it would be sager on my part to wait till morning, so instead I smoked a joint and tried to think of other things. I'm pretty sure I did, too, although of course I can't remember what they were now.

Morning brought no relief. When I arrived at Morris's at a decent hour, midway between nine and noon, there was no sign of him. Car gone, etc. Then I remembered that he'd mentioned something about a book tour last time we spoke, and I wished I'd been paying closer attention. Did he say he'd be gone a week, or six weeks? I trudged back down the path trying to cheer myself up by whistling under my breath, but the only song that occurred to me was that one by whoever it is, "Born Under a Bad Sign." Not much help there. Still, maybe it was the rhythmic tramping on the path, or the joint I smoked once I got back to the shack, but within an hour I had a brilliant idea for how to get rid of my blues. All I needed was a guitar. And someone to teach me how to play it.

I found Alvin kneeling in the sunshine on the back porch of the house he shares with the other guys in his band on the sunrise side of Flattop Mountain. He was pouring milk into a saucer, and three cats were trying to get their heads into it at the same time.

"Hey," I said. "When did you become a cat man?"

He stood up and shrugged. "I don't know, man. They just keep showing up. I don't know where they come from."

"Do you want another one?" I asked, thinking Orson might enjoy being part of a gang.

"Hah. No thanks. I think three's my limit. It's like girlfriends. If you get too many you can't keep any of them happy."

I let this go. As a musician, Alvin has never lacked for female companionship. It doesn't hurt that he's got the kind of winsome good looks that have made Brad Pitt's life such a walk in the park. Alvin's got the cheekbones of a supermodel and the unshakable self-confidence of a superhero. Women hurled themselves at him with a regularity that would have been annoying if he hadn't been so generous. When we were roommates in college he would sometimes try to offload some of his excess on me, but generally speaking, the kind of girls who flock to the front of the stage tend to lack a certain, how shall I say, depth. Which never bothered Alvin, of course, since he was never a lad for serious discourse. But for me, well, it was all moot, since my heart belonged then, as it does now, to Jenny.

However, I hadn't come to Alvin for advice in matters of the heart, even though mine was certainly a bit off-kilter at the moment. Alvin may be shallow when it comes to women, but when it comes to laying down a solid rhythm and doing it all night long he's a pro. Musician, I mean. In college he was always in some band or other. I haven't exactly kept up with his most recent configurations. You know how these bands are. They're like those chemical substances that are inherently unstable. The slightest thing can send them spinning out into the cosmos in search of whatever it is they're looking for. I doubt any of them really knows. It takes more than matching tattoos to keep a band together.

Anyway, I figured if anyone could teach me to play guitar it would be Alvin. He's boiled it down to its essence. He'd pretty much have to, since he's always completely ripped when he plays. So, that works for me too. My kind of guitar teacher.

After I explained my mission he shook his head and said, "Duggie, I don't know. I'll help you get a guitar. And I'll show you some chords. I can get you started. But, man, it's not as easy as it looks."

I scoffed at this. "How hard could it be? You taught yourself, didn't you?"

"Well, yeah. That's my point, man. It ain't like Latin. You were always good at Latin, no question. But the blues ... I don't know. You can't really teach 'em. You gotta feel 'em."

I put a hand to my chest and said, "That's why I know I can do this. Because I'm feeling it. Now. This is about Jenny. She's working for this artist and I know he's gonna put the moves on her."

"What artist?"

"His name's Miles Brandon. Kind of a Hugh Grant clone."

"Who Grant?"

I frowned. I should have realized Alvin never watches movies. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. The point is, I want to learn to play so I can show Jenny that I've got soul, you know. I want to show her that I'm an artist too."

"Duggie. How long have we been friends?"

"Long enough," I said.

"That's right. Long enough that I can tell you, as a friend, man, you're not a musician. You can hardly carry a tune."

"That's what the guitar is for. I won't have to sing. I can just play."

He smiled at me in a condescending way, and if I could have thought of any other way I might have walked away right then. But I had to put aside my pride, for Jenny's sake.

He shrugged and grinned at me and said, "Okay. If you really want to do this, let's go get you a guitar. You got money?"

Damn. There's always something.

Chapter Two

It's often puzzled me why people go to fortune tellers. I mean, obviously no one can predict the future. Or, if they could, they wouldn't spend their time at carnivals holding hands with complete strangers for a few bucks a pop. But my point is, knowing the future ... why bother? For instance, if you know everything's going to turn out peachy, well fine. Lucky you. But you still have to get through the intervening days, in all probability absorbing life's random blows in the process, and just because you believe you're going to land on your feet in the end doesn't make the fall any more enjoyable. And of course, on the other hand, if you get a bad prospectus, it doesn't make it any easier to take a punch just because you can see it coming.

All of this is by way of saying that when Jenny told me she had some news, I was just as glad I hadn't known it was coming. I mean, some people seem to get something out of pre-emptive suffering. Not me. I prefer to avoid any and all suffering until there's nowhere left to hide. But two days after I talked Glory into giving me an advance so I could purchase a guitar I was suffering like all get out. It's funny. When I think of all the times I've watched guitar players at concerts or in bars, and they always make those faces like souls in torment while their fingers scamper nimbly up and down the strings, I assumed they were enjoying themselves. Now, as I'm trying to ignore the bleeding blisters on the tips of my fingers, I wonder if I misread their expressions of agony. Alvin warned me my fingers would hurt for the first few days. But this can't be right. I can hardly roll a joint.

I decided to take a break and called Witty to see if he'd like to hang out. He's always ready to mooch off my stash, and he's been moping for the last month since Rosalie went back to France. These times between romances are hard on the Wittster. Although you'd never think it to look at him, with his pro-wrestler physique and hardened biker demeanor, Bob "Witty" Whitmore has a heart as mushy as one of those romance writers whose works line the grocery shelves. Each time he falls under the spell of some girl, he's convinced it will last forever, and when, after a month or two, love's flame sputters into ash, he wallows for a while in his misery. Lately, since Jenny has been spending more time with Brandon and less with me, I've turned to Witty for solace. He's not all that comforting, actually, but the sight of his gloom reminds me that at least my girlfriend is still within reach.

Witty suggested we go to hear some band at the Wrecking Ball. Having nothing better to do, and unable to face the prospect of touching the guitar, I agreed to go. The Wrecking Ball is one of those dives in Charlottesville where carefree students in the first flush of being able to drink far from their parents' watchful eyes tend to discover their limits. The music is loud, the lighting dim, and the women abundant in number and variety. Perfect for Witty, one would have thought. But as we sat crammed in a booth drinking our microbrews, he scowled past the multitude to the stage area where a determined foursome of skinny, eyeliner-wearing youths were doing their best to thrash the life out of the three chords they seemed to know.

"I thought you said the band was supposed to be good," I yelled across the table.

"This isn't them," Witt shouted back.

"This isn't who?"

"The Troll Models."

"Ah. Do you want to go someplace else?"

Witt heaved his shoulders with a look of disdain. "What's the point?" he bellowed.

"Maybe we can find a better band?"

"They're all the same," he grunted, slamming his empty tankard on the table.

I could see the alcohol wasn't doing anything to improve his mood. I patted my shirt pocket at him meaningfully and said, "Let's go to the park."

He kind of rolled his eyes, but he knows what "go to the park" means, so he stood up and followed me out. We didn't talk on the short walk to our favorite bench, the one that sits high above the greensward but is kind of hidden under a humongous oak tree, so you can see people coming but they can't see you. Perfect for the swift inhalation of soothing herb.

In the flickering street light filtered through the leaves Witty glanced at the joint and said, "Hey. Did you roll that thing in the mud?"

"Oh, you mean the spots? It's just blood."

"Yours, I hope."

"Yeah." I took a long hit and held it for a moment before I continued. "Playing the guitar is a lot harder than it looks."

Witty coughed for a few seconds. "Well, duh. If it was easy everybody'd do it."

"Doesn't everybody? It sort of seemed like it in college."

"Yeah, well, that was a long time ago, man. What are you trying to learn to play for now?"

"I've got to do something. That Brandon guy is using his arty charisma to undermine Jenny's feelings for me. I'm afraid if she keeps hanging around him she's going to come to her senses and realize I'm not good enough for her."

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Moon's Blues by C. H. Sprague Copyright © 2011 by C. H. Sprague. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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