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Singer of Souls
By Adam Stemple, Patrick Nielsen Hayden Tom Doherty Associates
Copyright © 2005 Adam Stemple
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-5751-3
CHAPTER 1
I held the needle in my hand and flicked it idly with my right index finger.
January twentieth, I thought. Only took twenty days to break my one New Year's resolution.
"Doc?"
Doc. Not my real name, or my job. But ever since I'd spent one night, twisted out of my gourd, speaking entirely in rhyme, I had been known as Dr. Seuss. Doc for short.
I looked around the cramped apartment. Winter coats and unwashed roommates were draped over every available surface not already covered in beer cans or dishes. Nicky, one of two ex-girlfriends in the room, lit a cigarette, adding to the gray-brown cloud that clung to the ceiling.
"I cooked you up a nice one, Doc," she said, her voice already tobacco-rough despite being just out of her teens.
It's not too late, I thought, watching the liquid in the needle quiver each time I flicked it. I was through the hard part, the physical symptoms of withdrawal fading, and only the mental addiction to go. I had beat it; I had won. But here I was, three weeks of Hell about to go to waste because I couldn't say no to a pretty face and a simple, "You want a taste?"
Handling withdrawal had been easy. I didn't even remember the first few days — though apparently I did a lot of screaming and smashed a fair number of things — but I came through with no new scars and all my most worthy possessions intact. Which is to say, I didn't break my guitar. The stomach cramps that followed were painful, but not deadly, and the shakes and hallucinations were a lot like dropping acid outside in the cold Minnesota winter, a not-uncommon occurrence. The puking was a bit more troubling, but I'd thrown up at least as much drinking cheap tequila or Southern Comfort. Even the explosive diarrhea, once I learned to catch it in time, just meant an extra minute or two on the can. I brought a book or a crossword puzzle with me and waited it out.
I couldn't wait this one out.
I put my hand over Nicky's as she tied me off, then looked around at my motley collection of friends.
"I love you guys," I said, and received many a woozy smile and a few blank stares in return. And I did love the whole dirty, pierced lot of them. Pulling Nicky's hand off my arm, I continued, "But I won't see any of you ever again."
If I did, they'd be the death of me.
My hand shook as I dropped the needle in her open palm.
Nicky shrugged and sat down in my chair, tugging at the one long forelock on her otherwise closely shorn skull. She waved for the tube around my arm, and began prepping herself. She'd take my load.
When I came out of my room a short time later carrying a small bag and my guitar, I didn't expect much of a send-off. I wasn't disappointed. Counting two waves and one, "Later, man," I was out the door, down the two flights of stairs, and on the street, homeless for the first time in six years.
I had learned early on that it's one thing to be a junkie, it's another to be a homeless junkie. No matter how strung out I got, I always had enough money stashed away to pay rent. "Roof money," I called it.
The Christmas season had been good to me. I'd staked out a particularly busy spot in the rat's warren of downtown skyways and bribed the beat cop with donuts every morning so he wouldn't move me on. The coins had flown into my open guitar case in great numbers and I had nearly seven hundred dollars of "roof money" hidden about my person when I left the apartment. Now I needed somewhere to spend it.
I walked east on Lake Street, past two gas stations perched on opposite sides of the street. They were locked in mortal mercantile combat, the slings and arrows — LOWEST PRICES! BEST GAS! FREE CARWASH! — they hurled across the four-lane DMZ almost making me duck my head. I smiled at the outlandish characters perched in the window display of a purple brick-fronted bookstore. I'd passed many an afternoon there, reading in the easy chair set out for potential customers. Never following through on the implied contract to buy, I just read novel after novel until the counter girl threw me out — sometimes pissed off, sometimes with a "See ya tomorrow or the next day, Doc." I passed a tattoo parlor and a hemp store and a shop that sold stripper's clothing (what there was of that particular product) before finally turning right onto Lyndale Avenue. It was cold, Minneapolis cold, and by the time I reached Twin Town Guitars on the corner of Thirty-fourth Street, I was shivering with it.
"Hey, Zee," I said as I entered.
Zack Johannson, the owner of Twin Town Guitars, was mantling a '79 Strat with its guts splayed out. Older — in his thirties — he was married, with a new baby. A retired musician, he was an addict like me. Only his addiction was gear: exotic, expensive, hard-to-find guitar gear. It was going to be tough for him to get rich owning a music store; he was a dealer who kept dipping into his own stash.
"Doc! The Lowden need some love?" He glanced up from his work only long enough for identification. The smell of solder was in the air.
My guitar did need a little attention. Dress the frets, maybe shave the bridge down a little.
"Nope."
"Picks? Strings?"
I shook my head. "Nah. I need to ask you a favor."
"Sure. What's up?" He grinned. "Doc."
"Haven't heard that one before," I said dryly before grinning back. "I need a place to stay for a couple of days. Just lost my apartment."
Zack unbent from over the Strat. He put his hands on his hips and twisted from side to side until his back gave several audible cracks.
"No can do," he said. "The wife would never go for it."
"I really need your help on this one, Zack." I needed to stay with someone who wasn't going to offer me dope every other day.
"Don't you have any family you could stay with?"
"No." I couldn't go back to my parents' house — I'd left that bridge a smoking ruin — and as for my brother and sister, youthful sibling rivalry had blossomed into full-blown resentment and bitterness. There'd be no help there.
Wait a minute. A thought hit me hard enough to stop my whining to Zack. Maybe it was time to implement The Plan.
When I was thirteen years old, we'd flown to Edinburgh, Scotland, to see my maternal grandmother. Grandma McLaren, short and matronly but tough as a Franklin Avenue crack dealer, with a voice that could still make my mother jump. The trip ended badly, as all our family outings inevitably did, but I distinctly recalled Grandma McLaren saying, "If any of you kids ever want to visit, you're welcome to stay here as long as you like."
Something about that had stuck with me, and I'd always thought that if I could get clean, maybe get a little money saved, I'd take her up on that.
Maybe I could get to Scotland, stay at Grandma McLaren's, in a place where I didn't know anyone. And where no one knew me. A place where I wouldn't know where to score even if my will failed me again.
A pipe dream, whispered a dark voice inside me. Forget The Plan. Forget Zack. Go back to your apartment.
I could almost feel the needle in my skin.
Yeah, I thought. It was a nice walk in the cold, but now it's time to go back home. A pipe dream.
Or was it? Grandma McLaren, the little I remembered of her, hadn't struck me as someone who would make an offer like that lightly. I am clean — or mostly, anyway — and I've got a little money saved.
I clamped down on the nay-saying voices and ticked off the things I would need. Passport, plane ticket, Grandma McLaren's address ...
"Zack, can I borrow your credit card?"
"No fucking way."
I dug into pockets and socks and chained wallet, spilling my roof money out onto the counter.
"Here, Zack. Take it." His eyes bulged to see me with that much cash. "I just need your card to get a plane ticket. I try to pay cash and they're going to get the guy with the longest fingers at the airport to give me the twice-over."
"A plane ticket?" Zack ran a hand through his hair. It had been cobalt blue the last time I'd been in. He must have dyed it back to normal after his kid was born. "You going somewhere?"
"Scotland," I nodded. "Visit my grandmother."
"Scotland, eh?" Zack began scooping the crumpled bills into his free hand and stuffing them into his pockets. "You got a passport?"
I shook my head. "Going downtown to get one today." I smiled inwardly. I was really going to do it!
"It'll be a while till it gets here," Zack said.
"Really? How long?"
"Couple of weeks, maybe?"
You won't last three days, said the voice. Go home.
"Shit."
"What are you going to do till then?"
"That's why I need a place to —"
"Can't do it, Doc." He began pulling bills back out of his pocket. Spreading them flat on the counter. "Here, take your money back."
A bell hanging over the front door jangled loudly, signaling a potential customer had just entered. Zack and I turned to see a teenager with a junior rock mullet and an Audioslave concert tee saunter into the store.
"Hey," he squeaked. "You guys give lessons here?"
"Guitar?" said Zack. He didn't need to ask. This kid had "Aspiring Rock God" tattooed all over his face.
"Yeah," the kid said.
Before Zack could answer, I said, "Sure we do, Boss. In the basement. Head on down — I'll be with you in a second."
"Doc," Zack warned.
"I don't have an ax." The kid scratched his belly, gazing wide-eyed up at the rows of guitars that lined the walls. "Yet."
"Don't worry about that," I said. "I'll bring one down for you to play."
"Doc ..."
"You like Gibsons, Boss?"
The kid nodded. "Hell, yeah."
"Hey, Doc." Zack was beginning to sound angry.
"I'll bring you a Les Paul," I said, still ignoring Zack. "Head on down." The kid wandered downstairs and I finally turned, holding my hand up to Zack before he could speak again. "Zack, let me do this," I pleaded. "I've been playing music since I was five. I even went to school for it. Probably have a degree somewhere I could show you."
"Doc —"
"I can do this. I don't even want to get paid!"
Zack blinked. "I'm listening."
"Okay, here it is. I work for you. Lessons, repairs, sales. Anything. You let me stay here in the store. In the basement. I've seen the cot down there."
Zack nodded. "Yeah."
"And when my passport comes, I'm gone."
I could see him weighing the wisdom of letting a junkie stay in his store after hours.
He won't go for it, said the voice, ever the pessimist. He isn't that stupid.
But the voice sounded doubtful. Zack had known me since before I was the Aspiring Rock God's age. Since before I used. He'd give me this one chance. And if I blew it, he'd never talk to me again. Never let me in the store. And he knew I loved the store.
"Okay," he said. "It's a deal." He pushed the pile of now neatly folded bills toward me. "You better take your money till you get your tickets, so you have something to live on."
Yeah, said the voice, desperately. Without money, you can't —
That's right, I silenced the voice. I can't.
"Tell you what, Zack," I said, sending the cash back across the counter to him. "Why don't you hold on to it? And up my pay to room and board."
I could see it dawning on him, what I was trying to do. He suddenly realized the danger the money represented to a recovering junkie with time on his hands.
"Yeah. I guess I'd better hold on to the money." He pulled it toward him, then looked up. "How much board?"
"Two burgers and a six-pack a day oughtta do it."
"Okay," he said. "But you're sharing the beer."
"Pleasure doing business with you, Zee." I shook his hand, then headed down to the basement to give my first lesson.
* * *
I SETTLED INTO my first regular job easily. I was a musician, after all, and spending my time surrounded by the tools of my trade — playing them, fixing them, talking them up to potential buyers — was not a bad way to go. And during the day, the busywork and out-of-tune students kept my demons at bay. But each night, I lay on my tiny cot, staring wide-eyed into the near dark until the cords and wires that hung from the walls began to twist and move in the moonlight. LEDs and power strips glowed like eye-shine round a campfire and whenever I finally drifted off to sleep, I inevitably came awake with a start minutes later.
You could get up, said the voice. You could walk ten blocks. You could knock on the door of your old apartment and shoot yourself into a peaceful slumber within the hour.
I lay still and waited for morning to come.
* * *
MY PASSPORT ARRIVED after ten days.
"A good likeness, Doc," Zack said, peering over my shoulder.
It was a chiaroscuro image, all white face and black hair, sharp lines of cheekbones and nose. Like a fossil of someone I used to see in the mirror. I wished he was wrong.
It turned out I couldn't fly direct to Edinburgh on the money I had. I could only get a ticket to Glasgow and then take a train cross-country. But even to Glasgow, the plane ticket cost nearly all my ready cash. I didn't have enough left for a train ticket. Once I changed my remaining dollars into pounds, I suspected I wouldn't even have enough for a candy bar.
No problem. From what I remembered of my last visit to Grandma McLaren's, Scotland was littered with hitchhikers. And it must be safer there than in this country, because my grandmother, all five foot one of her, had continually picked up German teenagers even rattier-looking than me without hesitation.
So, it was to be my thumb for transportation and my guitar for working capital. Wouldn't be the first time.
As a last favor, Zack gave me a ride to the airport. We banged fists at the curb.
"Good luck, Doc," he said. "Have a good trip."
"Thanks, Zee. Thanks for everything."
I checked my guitar, suffered through one perfunctory search and two thorough ones, and boarded the plane. As soon as we were off the ground, I spent the little cash I had on three miniature bottles of Jack Daniel's, trying to drink myself to sleep. But it wasn't what I wanted, or it just wasn't enough, and I succeeded only in souring my stomach, which made the airplane food seem even less appealing. I refused every meal the attendants offered on the long transatlantic crossing.
* * *
I ARRIVED IN Glasgow, hung over and tired. And hungry. Once on the ground, my appetite recovered with a vengeance, and not even the gigantic plaid decals peeling off the airport windows could put me off my feed. I was hungry enough to eat the proverbial horse. I was even hungry enough to eat one of the airplane meals, but I had missed my last opportunity somewhere over Iceland.
Stone broke and starving, it seemed everyone I saw was eating. An attractive older woman pulled granola bars and juice boxes from a backpack her husband wore, producing them with a magician's flourish to the delight of her children. A man in a suit ate from a package of pretzels stolen from the beverage cart. Why hadn't I thought of that? Even the customs official made me wait while he finished off some sort of pastry. He licked his fingers clean and motioned me forward.
"Name?" he asked.
"Douglas Stewart."
"Well, that's a fine Scottish name."
"So they tell me."
"Purpose of your visit?"
To get clean. "Visit my grandmother."
"That the address you have listed here?" He pointed to the customs form I had filled out.
I nodded. I hoped it was, anyway. It had cost me a half-hour of tense long-distance conversation with my sister to get it.
The customs official plucked another pastry out of a bag on his desk and took a bite off the corner. I tried not to salivate as the spicy-sweet smell hit me right in my empty stomach.
"You don't look too good, son," he said, taking in my dirty clothes and dearth of luggage. He brushed his hand twice across his uniform front and sent a shower of puffy flakes to the floor. "Not good at all."
Uh oh, I thought. Don't panic. I shrugged. "Long flight."
"No," he said, his eyes starting to go all cop-flat. "It's not just that."
I'm strung out, broke, starving, and I'm about to enter your country for an indefinite amount of time without a work visa. Okay, so I couldn't say that. But I had to tell him something. And in my experience, a half truth always works better than a whole lie.
"Tell you the truth," I lied, "I'm hung over and starving." I pointed at the pastry in his hand. "And you are absolutely torturing me with that ... that ... what is that?" It appeared to have a hot dog or something inside the puff pastry. "A meat donut?"
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Singer of Souls by Adam Stemple, Patrick Nielsen Hayden. Copyright © 2005 Adam Stemple. Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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