The Cursed Song ~ a ghost story (pt 1)

In the spirit of October, every Monday this month will see a new section of Erik Virtanen’s four part short story ‘The Cursed Song’.

1

Buddy Rock fuckin’ owned the Blacksmith Pub on Tuesday nights. Ya see, on Tuesdays, that country dive cleared its stage for any cowboy with six strings and a voice. If you had the guts, ‘ole Manny, the fat slob who booked singers and served up pints, ‘ole Manny’d give you a chance to stomp yer boots on the same wood panels that lil’ Pauline belted out her first tear-jerkin’ vibrato before becomin’ the infamous Paula Lips; the same fuckin’ stage Eddy Fingers’ high E string snapped up and got him right in the eyeball, forever changing the poor man’s name to One-Eye Eddy; the same place Bubba Gums was struck dead with a heart attack cryin’ out that killer chorus, “It’s over, babe! It’s all so o-whoa-whoa-whoa-.”

The voices that haunt that stage. The notes and rhythm in that silence. You can step right in there. Step right into that silent music, that phantom history, and join it all.

Fat ‘ole Manny, that fat fuck who tossed so many recorded hopes n’ dreams in his trash can – a heart and soul dumped right there next to a black rotten banana peel, under the sawdust sods that soaked up Crazy Betty’s vomit explosion from the night before – Fat ‘ole Manny, on Tuesdays, pulled his big red nose down from the clouds and let any Joe or Sue off the street play a tune for us drunks.

The leaves were fallin’ and everyone was gettin’ sick the night Buddy Rock strolled in our pit. A dead-white soul in a new man’s body. This young buck had his whole life ahead of him – but he looked already done. The way that boy drank, the nothing in his eyes. Seemed he got ended in this world before he had a chance to start.

But maybe courtin’ death was his gift, ‘cause I gotta say, that boy healed us with his songs. His guitar was fuckin’ weeping all over that stage, screamin’ like its child was dead. Then his voice – like I was listenin’ to my twin. The boy was speakin’ my soul. Fuckin’ tellin’ me who I was. Those notes stung like a needle in yer heart, like Buddy strummed somethin’ out of himself and injected it into everyone listenin’. I forgot I was sick. I forgot I was drunk. Where the Hell am I? That’s what I said out loud when he was done. Where the fuck am I?

Week after week, Buddy sang our life to us. Tuesday after Tuesday, Buddy said everything we didn’t know how. He took our measly, unimportant nothin’ selves and turned us into music.

An’ I ain’t ashamed to say I shed many ‘a tear when his songs slipped in these ears. I made sure I was there every Tuesday because that boy helped me forget. Better than this alcohol shit ever could. Forget about where I was, what I was doin’, where I wasn’t goin’. Buddy fuckin’ Rock.

(stay tuned for next week’s installment of The Cursed Song)

©2007, Erik Virtanen