A Few Good Things
Daniel King Blake is fifty-eight years old, and he’s tired. He’s a musician, and lately a writer of sorts. Over the last few years, he’s had a couple of small books of poetry published by what some call “the underground press”--which literally translates to way out-of-sight, way out-of-mind.
D.K. is a pretty good guitar player. He likes to call himself “D. King, best white bluesman that ever came out of a Carolina mill village”. When he was a kid he had illusions of becoming a rock star, but the only bands he’s ever played in have been “bar bands”.
Right now, he’s lying on his back in bed staring up through the half-light at a motionless ceiling fan. He’s wearing the same jeans and T-shirt he’s had on for a week. On front of the shirt there’s a picture of an M-14 rifle and the Globe and Anchor insignia of the U.S. Marines. Under the rifle, are the words: “In 1969, this is the only Woodstock I saw”. Laid out alongside
D.K. is a 1957 Gibson Les Paul Goldtop. A year ago he had eight guitars. This is the only one left. This one, he will not sell.
He’s been here since early this morning trying to conjure a reason to move. Things are fucked up--have been for a long while now. D.K. is now ready to own up to the crimes that have left him here. He’s ready to admit how at each crossroads, he chose this way, toward this place.
Nothing adds up anymore-borrow one here, carry one there--a million calculations never satisfied. D.K. Blake, lives in his anti-world of unfillable space, unwilling to move toward a world of comfortable clichés--a lifetime spent, futilely searching for some kind of affirmation-forever poking his head into pointless places, looking for some kind of tired surprise.
D.K.’s eyes move down to the picture tacked on the inside of the bedroom door. It’s a picture of Jesus. He found the thing tucked inside his front door screen last Saturday. It’s one of those pictures where Jesus is standing with his arms raised, palms toward the sky. There are some small children in the foreground, and the caption at the bottom says, “Suffer the
little children to come unto me.” But the thing D.K. likes about the picture, the thing that makes him smile, is Jesus looks like he’s shrugging his shoulders, as if he’s saying, “beats the hell out of me”. That’s the reason he put it on the door. Good old “beats me Jesus”.
D.K. likes Jesus because Jesus was a sharp guy--became a legend by playing his cards right. He toured the countryside for a while, making a name for himself, then got the fuck out. He went from Jesus to Christ in thirty years or so. Jesus knew you had to do it while you were still young, or else suicide, even altruistic suicide didn’t mean a goddamn thing. Just like Jimi
and Janis and that Cobain guy, you have to seal the deal before you get old and fat--make a dramatic exit while it still means something. Don’t stay around long enough to fuck it all up.
You take Elvis. Elvis held on too long. These days, when you think of Elvis, all you can picture in your head is “Vegas Elvis”--a fat imposter with dyed black hair wearing a gigantic jump suit singing “Hunk of Burning Love”. Or maybe “Graceland” Elvis, lying dead as hell on his bathroom floor like a beached whale. Yeah, timing is everything when it comes to feeding the
legend.
D.K. knows his time has passed--went by in a blur a long time ago. Now, even if he jumped off the back of a fucking ocean liner in the middle of the Atlantic, like Hart Crane, nobody would ever know he was gone. He wouldn’t even make a ripple.
The mailman is rattling around at the door, trying to stuff more crap in a box that’s already overflowing with bad news. Ominous documents like that eviction notice that he glanced at last week and stuffed back in the box. That’s the only thing he ever gets in the mail these days. They all want their money, and nobody gives a shit about you or your situation. They
wouldn’t give a rat’s ass if you were out panhandling the street, and had a wife in the whorehouse. There’s no excuse for being late with a payment.
D.K. turns over on his left side. On the nightstand, there’s a photo of him and his ex-wife. They’re standing beside an orange and white U-Haul van, smiling, still young, back before either of them knew anything about distance. Next to the frame, there’s an empty plastic water bottle. He tries to remember just when and why it was that people stopped trusting the local
water supply. When he was a kid they all drank the water right out of the spigot--even kept a pitcher of cold water in the refrigerator. Now everybody has to have water with exotic names. Clean water, bottled in clear plastic that comes from hidden springs high up in a mountain somewhere. Some place far away from factories and mills or anything else that might fuck up the
purity.
Closing his eyes, he wishes he could go to sleep--a little “time travel” to an imaginary world where everything is still in order. Maybe he’d get lucky and have a good dream-like the one he has from time to time about playing football in high school. Goddamn Friday night in the South. When you could focus on one thing for a couple of hours--a brief reprieve from the
meaningless everyday horseshit. That brotherhood you felt with your teammates. The closeness you thought would last forever.
Just for a second, he thinks he can hear “Boo Radley” crying outside the bedroom door. Then, just as quickly, he remembers that his cat is gone. He gave his best friend away three weeks ago--gave him to old Jim Williams, who used to be the best barber in town. Jim’s wife died last year, and D.K. knew that having “Boo” around would be just the thing for him.
The funny thing is, he keeps hearing him. Sometimes, he even catches a glimpse of gray out of the corner of his eye. Once in the kitchen, before he could catch himself, he’d actually called out his name.
Old “Boo” used to come in and lie on his lap while he was watching “The Andy Griffith Show”. He’d curl up and close his eyes, and wouldn’t get up until D.K. did. Damned fine cat, that Mr. Radley.
D.K. can feel a tear start to form in the corner of his left eye--one more thing he can no longer control. It’s a cold fact. If you allow yourself to get old, the emotions are always floating, face-up, on the surface of your soul.
He reaches back behind his head and feels along the shelf at the top of the bed--just to make sure it’s still there. It’s a nickel-plated .357 magnum that his father once owned. He worries a little about the bullets. They’ve been in the gun for a long time--ever since his father used the gun on himself, more than ten years ago--the same five rounds and one empty casing,
still in the cylinder. He wonders if he should fire it once, just to make sure it will still do the job. Maybe put a hole in “beats me Jesus”. One hole. Right there in his forever-benevolent face.
While he’s thinking it over, someone knocks at the front door. Pounding hard, like it’s really fucking important. D.K. knows it’s got to be someone he doesn’t want to see--probably some errand boy from the “fly-by-night” finance company. Maybe he should just get out of bed, go to the door, and slap the shit out of the son-of-a bitch, beat his ass like a toy drum.
Fuck it--today, he just can’t summon the rage.
Why can’t people just leave him alone for this last little while? Let him think back. Just long enough and far enough to try and remember a few good things.
DB Cox is a blues musician/writer from Laurens, South Carolina. He can often be found in the early-morning hours bent over a Fender Stratocaster guitar in roadhouses, honky tonks, and juke joints throughout the south. His poems and short stories have been published extensively in the small press in the US and abroad. He has published four books of poetry. His first chapbook, entitled "Passing For Blue", was published by Rank Stranger Press. Two other chapbooks, "Lowdown" and "Ordinary Sorrows", were published by Pudding House Publications. Main Street Rag published his first full-length collection, entitled "Empty Frames" A new chapbook called "Nightwatch" is coming soon from Pudding House Publications.
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