Hitchers

CHAPTER 37

Half a dozen helicopters buzzed overhead as Mick made his entrance to wild applause (wild applause from Summer and me; the dozen or so press reps who were present clapped politely). Mick was dressed in black leather pants and a plain white t-shirt with the sleeves torn off, or maybe chewed off from the look of them. He waved to the helicopters as he approached the mike, raised his arms and shouted, “Hello, Atlanta!”

We’d stacked every amplifier in Mick’s apartment along the edge of the roof, and the sound was impressive. I’d had no doubt the press would flock to cover this—it had everything they craved—drama, celebrity, a feud, hitchers.

The helicopters descended, jockeyed for the best vantage point as Mick launched into the first song.

I’d heard bits and pieces of songs, croaked by Gilly, mostly under his breath. I’d had no idea.

By the third song tears were streaming down both Summer’s and my face. We kept exchanging astonished glances. Are you hearing this? the glances said. We knew something important was happening. This music was alive; it was breathing. It had undertones of New Wave and Punk, but it was neither. It soared to breathless heights, plummeted to low, dark places that chilled me, because I knew Gilly had composed them in Deadland.

The dead had returned to Atlanta, and they had brought something new.

Though Mick didn’t know the songs by heart (we had to tape the pages to the back of a hutch hauled up in the elevator), he sang as if the music was being pulled right up from his soul.

People hearing the music from the streets filtered onto the roof, slowly forming an audience, and Mick fed off their energy. There was a nip in the air, but he was pouring sweat. On the street below more people congregated, craning their necks toward the sound. Others gathered on nearby rooftops, or watched out apartment windows. The applause grew louder with each song, until it sounded like we were at a rock concert in Mick’s prime. Twenty years melted off Mick as he performed.

When the last note fell silent, a deafening roar filled the air, blocking out even the drone of the helicopters. The press rushed forward wielding microphones, but Mick pushed through them to reach Summer and me. The three of us came together in a hug.

Mick ruffled my hair; I could just hear him over the crowd. “You did it. He’s gone.”

I threw my fist in the air and hooted. For a few hours I’d been able to forget my own impending end, and, I thought, as I stood there with my fist in the air and remembered, it had been time well-spent.