Revival

V

When I graduated from the University of Maine (2.9 cume, missed the Dean’s List by a coat of paint), I was twenty-two. When I met Charles Jacobs for the second time, I was thirty-six. He looked younger than his age, perhaps because when I saw him last he had been thinned and made haggard by grief. By 1992, I looked much older than mine.

I’ve always been a movie fan. During the 1980s I saw a lot of them, mostly on my own. I dozed off on occasion (Heathers, for instance—that one was a nodder for sure), but mostly I’d make it through no matter how stoned I was, surfing on noise and color and impossibly beautiful women in scanty clothing. Books are good, and I read my share, and TV’s okay if you’re stuck in a motel room during a rainstorm, but for Jamie Morton, there was nothing like a movie up there on the big screen. Just me, my popcorn, and my super-sized Coke. Plus my heroin, of course. I’d take an extra straw from the concession stand, bite it in half, and use it to snort the powder off the back of my hand. I didn’t get to the needle until 1990 or ’91, but I got there eventually. Most of us do. Trust me on this.

The thing I find most charming about the movies is the fluid way time passes. You might start off with this nerdy teenager—no friends, no money, lousy parents—and all at once he turns into Brad Pitt in his prime. The only thing separating the nerd from the god is a title card that says 14 YEARS LATER.

“It’s wicked to wish time away,” my mother used to lecture us kids—usually when we were pining for summer vacation in the depths of February, or waiting for Halloween to hurry up and come—and probably she was right, but I can’t help thinking that such temporal jumps might be a good thing for people living bad lives, and between the advent of the Reagan administration in 1980 and the Tulsa State Fair in 1992, I was living a very bad life. There were blackouts, but no title cards. I had to live every day of those years, and when I couldn’t get high, some of the days were a hundred hours long.

The fade-in goes like this: The Cumberlands became the Heaters, and the Heaters became the J-Tones. Our last gig as a college band was the huge and hilarious Graduation Dance ’78 in Memorial Gym. We played from eight until two in the morning. Shortly thereafter, Jay Pederson hired a locally popular chick vocalist who could also play both tenor and alto sax like nobody’s business. Her name was Robin Storrs. She turned out to be a perfect fit for us, and by August the J-Tones had become Robin and the Jays. We turned into one of Maine’s premier party bands. We had all the gigs we could play, and life was good.

Now here comes the dissolve.

Fourteen years later, Jamie Morton woke up in Tulsa. Not in a good hotel, not even in a so-so chain motel; this was a roachpit called the Fairgrounds Inn. Such places were Kelly Van Dorn’s idea of economy. It was eleven in the morning, and the bed was wet. I wasn’t surprised. When you crash for nineteen hours, assisted by Madame H., wetting your bed is almost inevitable. I suppose you’d even do it if you died in that drug-assisted slumber, although look at the bright side: in that case you’d never wake up in pee-soaked Jockeys again.

I did the zombie walk to the bathroom, sniffling and watering at the eyes, shucking my skivvies on the way. I made my shaving kit the first stop… but not to clear the stubble. My works were still there, along with a taped-down sandwich bag containing a couple of grams. No reason to think anyone would break in to steal such a paltry stash, but checking is second nature to a junkie.

With that taken care of, I addressed the bowl and rid myself of the urine that had accumulated since my nighttime accident. As I was standing there, I realized that something of importance had slipped my mind. I was currently playing with a country crossover band, and we had been scheduled to open for Sawyer Brown the night before, on the big Oklahoma Stage at the Tulsa State Fair. A primo gig, especially for a not-ready-for Nashville band like White Lightning.

“Sound check at five o’clock,” Kelly Van Dorn had told me. “You’ll be there, right?”

“Sure,” I’d said. “Don’t worry about me.”

Oops.

Coming out of the bathroom, I saw a folded note poking under the door. I had a pretty good idea what it said, but I picked it up and read it, just to be sure. It was short and not sweet.

I tried to stick the note in my back pocket and it fell on the balding green carpet instead—I’d forgotten that I wasn’t wearing anything. I picked it up, tossed it in the wastebasket, and peeked out the window. The courtyard parking lot was totally empty except for an old Ford and some farmer’s broke-ass pickup. Both the Explorer the band rode in and the equipment van that our sound guy drove were gone. Kelly hadn’t been kidding. The out-of-tune nutbags had left me. Which was probably all for the best. I sometimes thought if I had to play one more drinkin-n-cheatin song, I’d lose what little mind I had left.

I decided to make re-upping the room my first priority. I had no desire to spend another night in Tulsa, especially with the State Fair going full blast down the street, but I’d need some time to think about my next career move. I needed to score, too, and if you can’t find someone to sell you dope at a state fair, you’re not trying.

I kicked the damp skivvies into the corner—a tip for the chambermaid, I thought snidely—and unzipped my duffel. Nothing in there but dirty clothes (I had meant to find a Laundromat yesterday, another thing that had slipped my mind), but at least they were dry dirty clothes. I dressed and trekked across the cracked asphalt of the courtyard to the motel office, my zombie walk slowly perking up to the zombie shuffle. My throat hurt every time I swallowed. Just a little extra something to add to the fun.

The lady on the desk was a hard-faced country girl of about fifty, currently living her life under a volcano of teased red hair. A talk show host was on her little television, chatting up a storm with Nicole Kidman. Above the TV was a framed picture of Jesus bringing a boy and girl a puppy. I was in no way surprised. In flyover country, they have a way of getting Christ and Santa all mixed up.

“Your group has already checked out,” she said, after finding my name in her register book. She had the local accent, which sounds like a badly tuned banjo. “Left a couple of hours ago. Said they were driving all the way to North Cah’lina.”

“I’m aware,” I said. “I’m no longer with the band.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Creative differences,” I said.

The eyebrow climbed higher.

“I’ll be staying another night.”

“Uh-huh, okay. Cash or credit card?”

I had two hundred or so in cash, but most of that liquidity was earmarked for the dope purchase I hoped to make at the fair, so I gave her my BankAmericard. She called it in and waited, phone cocked between her ear and one meaty shoulder, now watching an ad for paper towels that could apparently drink up spills the size of Lake Michigan. I watched with her. When the talk show returned, Nicole Kidman was joined by Tom Selleck, and the country girl was still on hold. She didn’t seem to mind, but I did. The itches had started, and my bad leg was starting to throb. Just as another ad came on, the country girl perked up. She swiveled around in her chair, looked out her window at a blazing blue Oklahoma sky, and chatted briefly. Then she hung up and handed back my credit card.

“Declined. Which makes me dubious about taking cash. Supposing you have it.”

That was mean, but I gave her my best smile, just the same. “The card’s good. They made a mistake. It happens all the time.”

“Then you’ll be able to rectify it at some other motel,” she said. (Rectify! Such a big word for a country girl!) “There’s four more down the block, but they ain’t much.”

Unlike this roadside Ritz-Carlton, I thought, but what I said was, “Try the card again.”

“Honey,” she said, “I look at you and I don’t have to.”

I sneezed, turning my head to catch it on the short sleeve of my Charlie Daniels Band tee. Which was okay since it hadn’t been washed lately. Or even not so lately. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I left my first husband when him and both his brothers took to smokin the rock. No offense, but I know what I’m lookin at. Last night’s paid for—on the band’s credit card—but now that you’re what they call a solo artist, checkout time’s one o’clock.”

“On the door it says three.”

She leveled a chipped nail at a sign to the left of the calendar featuring Puppy-Giving Jesus: DURING STATE FAIR, SEPTEMBER 25 TO OCTOBER 4, CHECOUT TIME WILL BE 1 PM.

“Checkout is spelled wrong,” I said. “You should rectify that.”

She glanced at the sign, then turned back to me. “So ’tis, but the one PM part needs no rectifyin.” She glanced at her watch. “That gives you an hour and a half. Don’t make me call the police, hon. At state fair time, they’re thicker’n flies on a fresh dog turd, and they’d be here in a jiff.”

“This is such bullshit,” I said.

That was a blurry time for me, but I remember her reply as clearly as if she had spoken it in my ear two minutes ago: “Uh-uh, honey, this is reality.”

Then she turned back to the television, where some fool was tapdancing.

I wasn’t going to try scoring dope in the daytime, not even at the state fair, so I stayed at the Fairgrounds Inn until one thirty (just to spite the country girl). Then I grabbed my duffel in one hand and my guitar case in the other, and set out walking. I made a stop at a Texaco station around where North Detroit Avenue becomes South Detroit. By then my walk had become a portside limp and my hip was throbbing with my heartbeat. In the men’s room I cooked up and delivered half my goods into the hollow of my left shoulder. Mellowness ensued. Both my sore throat and the ache in my leg began to recede.

My good left leg became my bad left leg on a sunny summer day in 1984. I was on a Kawasaki; the elderly asshole coming the other way was piloting a Chevrolet the size of a cabin cruiser. He wandered into my lane, leaving me a choice: either the soft shoulder or a head-on collision. I picked the obvious choice and made it past the asshole okay. The mistake was trying to swerve back onto the road at forty. Advice to all you novice riders out there: swerving on gravel at forty is a terrible idea. I dumped the bike and broke the leg in five places. I also shattered my hip. Shortly thereafter, I discovered the Joy of Morphine.

With my leg feeling better and the itches and twitches at bay, I was able to move on from the gas station with a bit more vigor, and by the time I got to the Greyhound terminal, I was asking myself why I’d stuck with Kelly Van Dorn and his screwed-up country band as long as I had. Playing weepy ballads (in the key of C, for God’s sake) was not what I was cut out for. I was a rocker, not a shitkicker.

I purchased a ticket on the following day’s noon bus to Chicago, which also bought me the right to stash my duffel and my Gibson SG—the only valuable possession I had left—in the baggage room. The ticket cost me twenty-nine dollars. I counted the rest sitting in a bathroom stall. It came to a hundred and fifty-nine bucks, about what I had expected. The future was looking brighter. I would score at the fair, find a place to crash—maybe at a local homeless shelter, maybe outside—and tomorrow I’d ride the big gray dog to Shytown. There was a musicians’ exchange there, as there is in most big cities, with players sitting around, telling jokes, swapping gossip, and looking for gigs. For some this wasn’t easy (accordion players, for instance), but bands were always looking for competent rhythm guitar players, and I was a smidge more than that. By 1992 I could even play a little lead, if called upon to do so. And if I wasn’t too wrecked. The important thing was to get to Chicago and get a gig before Kelly Van Dorn put out the word that I was unreliable, and the pisshead just might.

With at least six hours to kill until dark, I cooked up the rest of my shit and put it where it would do the most good. Once that was taken care of, I bought a paperback western at the newsstand, sat on a bench with it opened to someplace in the middle, and nodded off. When I woke myself up with a volley of sneezes, it was seven o’clock, and time for the former rhythm guitarist of White Lightning to hunt up some of the good stuff.

By the time I got to the fair, sunset was just a bitter orange line in the west. Although I wanted to save most of my money for a buy, I splurged on a taxi to get there, because I wasn’t feeling good at all. It wasn’t just the usual coming-down twitches and aches, either. The sore throat was back. There was a high, sour humming in my ears, and I felt hot all over. I told myself that last was normal, because it was one hot bitchkitty of a night. As for the rest, I was sure six or seven hours of sleep would put me right. I could catch it on the bus. I wanted to be all I could be before I re-enlisted in the Rock and Roll Army.

I bypassed the main entrance to the fair, because only an idiot would attempt to buy heroin at a craft exhibit or livestock exhibition. Beyond it was the entrance to Bell’s Amusement Park. That adjunct to the Tulsa State Fair is gone now, but in September of 1992, Bell’s was blasting away full force. Both roller coasters—the wooden Zingo and the more modern Wildcat—were whirling and twirling, trailing happy screams behind each hairpin turn and suicidal plunge. There were long lines at the water slides, the Himalaya, and the Phantasmagoria dark ride.

I ignored these and idled my way down the midway past the food concessions, where the smells of fried dough and sausages—usually enticing—made me feel a little sick to my stomach. There was a guy with the right look hanging around the Pitch Til U Win shy, and I almost approached him, but caught a narc vibe when I got close. The shirt he was wearing (COCAINE! BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS!) was just a little too on-the-nose. I kept moving, past the shooting gallery, the wooden milkbottle shy, the Skeeball, the Wheel of Fortune. I was feeling worse all the time, my skin hotter and that humming in my ears louder. My throat was so sore I winced with every swallow.

Up ahead was an elaborate mini-golf layout. It was mostly filled with laughing teenagers, and I thought I had arrived at Ground Zero. Wherever there are teenagers out for a night of fun, there are dealers in the vicinity who are happy to help them maximize said fun. And oh yeah, I could see a couple of fellows who had just the right look. By their shifty eyes and unwashed hair shalt thou know them.

The midway ended at a T junction beyond the mini-golf, one way leading back to the fairgrounds, the other to the racetrack. I had no desire to go to either place, but I’d been hearing a strange electric crackle off to the right, followed by applause, laughter, and cries of amazement. Now, as I drew closer to the junction, I could see that each crackle was accompanied by a bright blue flash that reminded me of lightning. The lightning on Skytop, to be perfectly specific. I hadn’t thought of that in years. Whatever the gaff was, it had drawn a big crowd. I decided the sharpies hanging around the golf course could wait a few minutes. Guys like that never go away until they shut off the neon, and I wanted to see who was making lightning on this hot and clear Oklahoma night.

An amplified voice cried, “Now that you have seen the power of my Lightning Maker—the only one in the world, I assure you—I’ll give an actual demonstration of the wonderful portrait that one portrait of Alexander Hamilton from your wallet or purse will buy you; one amazing demonstration before I open my Electric Studio and offer you the chance to sit for the photographic representation of a lifetime! But I’ll need a volunteer so you’ll see exactly what you’ll be getting for the best ten dollars you ever spent! Volunteer? May I have a volunteer? It’s perfectly safe, I assure you! Come on, folks, I always heard Sooners were famous in the Lower Forty-eight for their bravery!”

There was a good-size crowd, fifty or sixty, in front of a raised stage. The canvas backdrop was six feet wide and at least twenty feet high. On it was a photograph almost as big as a movie screen image. It featured a beautiful young woman on what appeared to be a ballroom floor. Her black hair was piled atop her head in a series of complicated twirls and tucks that must have taken hours to create. Her strapless evening gown was cut low, the tops of her breasts curving sweetly above it. She was wearing diamond earrings and bloodred lipstick.

Facing the giant ballroom girl was an old-fashioned camera, the nineteenth-century kind that stands on a tripod and has a black drape the photographer can throw over his head. Placed as it was, you would have said it could only snap the ballroom girl from the knees down. Next to it was a flash-powder tray on a post. The black-suited, top-hatted gaffmeister had one loosely curled hand on the camera, and I knew him at once.

All that is clear, but my memory of what happened next is untrustworthy—I freely admit it. I was a longtime junkie who had graduated to the needle two years previous, first just skin-popping, but more and more frequently aiming for the vein. I was malnourished and severely underweight. On top of that, I was running a temperature. It was the flu, and it had come on fast. Getting up that morning, I’d thought I just had the usual case of heroin sniffles, a cold at worst, but by the time I saw Charles Jacobs standing beside an old-fashioned tripod camera and in front of a canvas backdrop with PORTRAITS IN LIGHTNING written over a giant girl, I felt like I was living in a dream. It didn’t surprise me to see my old minister, now with touches of gray at his temples and lines (faint ones) bracketing his mouth. It wouldn’t have surprised me if my late mother and sister had joined him onstage, dressed as Playboy Bunnies.

A couple of men raised their hands in response to Jacobs’s call for volunteers, but he laughed and pointed at the beautiful girl looming over his shoulder. “I’m sure you guys are brave as the devil on Saturday night, but none of you would look good in a strapless.”

Good-natured laughter greeted this.

“I want a gal,” said the fellow who showed me Peaceable Lake when I was but a tyke in short pants. “I want a pretty gal! A pretty little Sooner gal! How ’bout you folks? You down with that?”

They clapped their hands to show how down with it they were. And Jacobs, who had surely already picked out his mark, pointed his cordless mike toward someone in the front of the crowd. “How about you, miss? You’re about as pretty a gal as anyone could want!”

I was at the back of the tip, but the crowd seemed to part before me as if I were possessed of some magical repelling force. Probably I just elbowed my way forward, but I don’t remember it that way, and if anyone elbowed me back, I don’t remember that, either. I seemed to float forward. All the colors were brighter now, the tootling of the carousel calliope and the screams from the Zingo louder. The humming in my ears had escalated to a tuneful ringing: G7, I think. I moved through an aromatic atmosphere of perfume, aftershave, and discount store hairspray.

The pretty Sooner gal was protesting, but her friends were having none of that. They pushed her forward, and she mounted the steps on the left side of the stage, tanned thighs flashing beneath the frayed hem of her short denim skirt. Above the skirt was a green smock that was high at the neck but left a flirty inch of midriff revealed. Her hair was blond and long. A few men whistled.

“Every pretty girl carries her own positive charge!” Jacobs told the crowd, and swept off his tophat. I saw him clench the hand holding it. For just a moment I felt sensations I hadn’t since that day at Skytop: gooseflesh on my arms, hair standing to attention on the nape of my neck, the air too heavy in my lungs. Then the tray beside the camera exploded with something that was certainly not flash powder, and the canvas backdrop lit up in a dazzling blue glare. The face of the girl in the evening gown was blotted out. As the dazzle faded I saw in her place—or thought I saw—the fiftysomething country girl who had kicked me out of the Fairgrounds Inn some nine hours earlier. Then the girl in the low-cut spangly gown was back.

It wowed the crowd and it wowed me, too… but it didn’t completely surprise me. Reverend Jacobs up to his old tricks, that was all. Nor did it surprise me when he put his arm around the girl, turned her to face us, and for an instant I thought it was Astrid Soderberg, once more sixteen years old and worried about getting pregnant. Astrid who sometimes used to blow smoke from her Virginia Slims into my mouth, giving me a hard-on for the ages.

Then she was just a pretty little Sooner gal again, in from the farm and ready for a night of fun.

Jacobs’s assistant, a kid with zits and a bad haircut, trotted out with an ordinary wooden chair. He put it in front of the camera, then made a comic business of dusting off Jacobs’s old-fashioned frock coat. “Sit down, honey,” Jacobs said, ushering the girl to the chair. “I promise you a shockingly good time.”

He waggled his eyebrows and his young assistant did a little electric jitter. The audience yukked it up. Jacobs’s eyes found me, now in the first row, passed on, then came back. After a second’s consideration, they moved on again.

“Will it hurt?” the girl asked, and now I saw she didn’t look much like Astrid, after all. Of course not. She was much younger than my first girlfriend would be now… and wherever Astrid might be, her last name was almost surely no longer Soderberg.

“Not a bit,” Jacobs assured her. “And unlike any other lady who dares to step forward, your portrait will be…”

He looked away from her, back at the crowd, this time directly at me.

“… absolutely free.”

He seated her in the chair, continuing with the patter, but he seemed a little hesitant now, as if he had lost the thread. He kept glancing at me as his assistant fastened a white silk blindfold over the girl’s eyes. If he was distracted, the crowd didn’t notice; a petite pretty girl was about to be photographed at the feet of a giant beautiful girl—while blindfolded, no less—and all that was very interesting. So was the fact that the live girl was showing a lot of leg and the one on the backdrop was showing a lot of cleavage.

“Who wants”—the pretty girl began, and Jacobs promptly put his microphone in front of her mouth so she could share her question with the whole crowd—“a picture of me wearin a blindfold?”

“The rest of you sure ain’t blindfolded, hon!” someone yelled, and the crowd cheered good-naturedly. The girl in the chair pressed her knees tightly together, but she was smiling a little, too. The old I’m-being-a-good-sport smile.

“My dear, I think you’ll be surprised,” Jacobs said. Then he turned to address the crowd. “Electricity! Although we take it for granted, it’s the greatest natural wonder of our world! The Great Pyramid of Giza is only an anthill in comparison! It’s the foundation of our modern civilization! Some claim to understand it, ladies and gentlemen, but none understand the secret electricity, that power which binds the very universe into one harmonic whole. Do I understand it? No, I do not. Not fully. Yet I know its power to destroy, to heal, and to create magical beauty! What’s your name, miss?”

“Cathy Morse.”

“Cathy, there’s an old saying that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. You and I and everyone here is going to witness the truth of that saying tonight, and when you walk away, you’ll have a portrait you can show your grandchildren. A portrait they’ll show to their grandchildren! And if those as-yet-unborn ancestors don’t marvel over it, my name’s not Dan Jacobs.”

But it isn’t, I thought.

I was swaying back and forth now, as if to the music of the calliope and the music I was hearing in my ears. I tried to stop and found I couldn’t. My legs had a strangely meaty feel, as if the bones were being extracted, inch by inch.

You’re Charles, not Dan—do you think I don’t know the man who gave my brother back his voice?

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, you may want to shield your eyes!”

The assistant theatrically covered his own. Jacobs whirled, puffed up the black cloth on the back of the camera, and disappeared beneath it. “Close your eyes, Cathy!” he called. “Even beneath the blindfold, an electrical pulse this powerful can be dazzling! I’ll count to three! One… and… two… and… three!”

Once again I felt that strange thickening of the air, and I wasn’t alone; the crowd shuffled back a step or two. Next came a hard click, as if someone had snapped his fingers beside my right ear. The world lit up in a blue burst of light.

Aaaahhh, went the crowd. And when they could see again and realized what had become of the backdrop: AAAAAAHHHHHHH!

The evening gown was the same—low-cut spangled silver. The inviting curve of bosom was the same, as was the complicated hairdo. But the breasts were now smaller and the hair was blond instead of black. The face had changed, too. It was Cathy Morse standing there on the ballroom floor. Then I blinked, and the pretty little Sooner gal was gone. It was Astrid again, Astrid as she had been at sixteen, the love of my days and the eventually requited lust of my nights.

The crowd exhaled a low gust of astonishment, and I had an idea that was both crazy and persuasive: they were also seeing people from their own back pages, those either gone or changed by the fluid passage of time.

Then it was just Cathy Morse, but that was astounding enough: Cathy Morse standing twenty feet high in the sort of expensive gown she would never own in real life. The diamond earrings were there, and although the lipstick of the girl in the chair was candy pink, that of the giant Cathy behind her was bright red.

No sign of a blindfold, either.

Same old Reverend Jacobs, I thought, but he’s learned some tricks a lot flashier than Electric Jesus walking across Peaceable Lake or a cloth belt with a toy motor inside it.

He popped out from beneath the black cloth, tossed it back, and pulled a plate from the back of his camera. He showed it to the audience, and they went AAAAHHHHH again. Jacobs bowed, then turned to Cathy, who was looking mighty puzzled. He held the plate out to her and said, “You may take off the blindfold, Cathy. It’s safe now.”

She slipped it down and saw the picture on the plate: an Oklahoma girl somehow transformed into a costly French courtesan of the demimonde. Her hands went to her mouth, but Jacobs had the mike right there and everyone heard her Oh my God.

“Now turn around!” Jacobs cried.

She stood, turned, looked, and reeled back at the sight of herself, twenty feet high and tricked out in high-class glitter. Jacobs put an arm around her waist to steady her. His mike hand, which was also concealing some sort of control device, clenched again, and this time the crowd did more than gasp. There were a few screams, as well.

The giant Cathy Morse did a slow fashion-model turn, revealing the back of the gown, which was cut much lower than the front. She looked over her shoulder… and winked.

Jacobs did not neglect the mike—he was clearly an old hand at this—and the tip heard the real Cathy’s follow-up exclamation as clearly as they had the first: “Oh my fuckin God!”

They laughed. They cheered. And when they saw her bright crimson blush, they cheered even harder. Above Jacobs and the girl, the giant Cathy was changing. The blond hair grew muddy. The features faded, although the red lipstick remained bright, like the grin of the Cheshire Cat in Alice.

Then it was the original girl again. The image of Cathy Morse had faded out of existence.

“But this version will never fade,” Jacobs said, holding up the old-fashioned plate again. “My assistant will print it and frame it and you can pick it up before you go home tonight.”

“Watch out there, Slick!” someone in the front row yelled out. “Girl’s gonna faint!”

But she didn’t. She only swayed a little on her feet.

I was the one who fainted.

When I next opened my eyes, I was in a queen-size bed. A blanket was pulled up to my chin. When I looked to my right, I saw a wall done in fake wood paneling. When I looked to my left, I saw a nice kitchen area: fridge, sink, microwave oven. Beyond it was a couch, a dinette with four chairs, even an easy chair in the living area facing the built-in TV. I couldn’t crane my neck far enough to see the driving compartment, but as an itinerant musician who had traveled tens of thousands of miles in similar rigs (although few as squared away as this one), I knew where I was, anyway: a large RV, probably a Bounder. Someone’s home away from home.

I was hot, burning up. My mouth was dry as road dust. I was also jonesing like a motherfucker. I pushed the blanket down and immediately started shivering. A shadow fell over me. It was Jacobs, holding out a beautiful thing: orange juice in a tall glass with a bendy straw sticking out of it. The only thing better would have been a loaded hypo, but one thing at a time. I held my hand out for the glass.

He pulled the blanket back up first, then took a knee beside the bed. “Slow, Jamie. You’re one sick American, I’m afraid.”

I drank. It was wonderful on my throat. I tried to take the glass and chug it down, but he held it away from me. “Slow, I said.”

I dropped my hand and he gave me another sip. It went down fine, but on the third one, my belly clenched and the shivers came back. That wasn’t the flu.

“I need to score,” I said. This was hardly the way I wanted to re-introduce myself to my former minister and first adult friend, but a junkie in need has no shame. Besides, he might have a skeleton or two in his own closet. Why else would he be going under the name Dan Jacobs instead of Charles?

“Yes,” he said. “I saw the tracks. And I intend to maintain you, at least until you’ve beaten whatever bug you’ve got running around in your system. Otherwise you’ll start throwing up whatever I try to feed you, and we can’t have that, can we? Not when you look to be at least fifty pounds underweight as it is.”

From his pocket he brought a brown gram bottle. It had a small spoon attached to the cap. I reached for it. He shook his head and held it away from me.

“Same deal. I do the driving.”

He unscrewed the cap, dipped out a tiny spoonful of grimy white powder, and held it under my nose. I snorted it up my right nostril. He dipped again, and I treated the left nostril. It wasn’t what I needed—not enough of what I needed, to be exact—but the shakes began to subside, and I stopped feeling like I might hurl up that nice cold orange juice.

“Now you can doze,” he said. “Or nod off, if that’s what you call it. I’m going to make you some chicken soup. Just Campbell’s, not like your mother used to make, but it’s what I’ve got.”

“I don’t know if I can hold it down,” I said, but it turned out I could. When I’d finished the mug he held for me, I asked for more dope. He administered two very stingy snorts.

“Where’d you get it?” I asked as he tucked the bottle back into a front pocket of the jeans he was now wearing.

He smiled. It lit up his face and made him twenty-five again, with a wife he loved and a young son he adored. “Jamie,” he said, “I’ve been working amusement parks and the carny circuit for a long time now. If I couldn’t find drugs, I’d be either blind or an idiot.”

“I need more. I need a shot.”

“No, a shot’s what you want, and you’re not going to get it from me. I have no interest in helping you get high. I just don’t want you to go into convulsions and die in my boondocker. Go to sleep now. It’s nearly midnight. If you’re better in the morning, we’ll discuss many things, including how to detach the monkey currently riding on your back. If you’re not better, I’m taking you to either St. Francis or the OSU Medical Center.”

“Good luck getting them to take me,” I said. “I’m two steps from broke and my medical plan is convenience store Tylenol.”

“In the words of Scarlett O’Hara, we’ll worry about that tomorrow, for tomorrow is another day.”

“Fiddle-de-dee,” I croaked.

“If you say so.”

“Give me a little more.” The short snorts he’d doled out were about as useful to me as a Marlboro Light to a guy who’s been chain-smoking Chesterfield Kings all his life, but even short snorts were better than nothing.

He considered, then parceled out two more hits. Even stingier than the last pair.

“Giving heroin to a man with a bad case of the flu,” he said, and chuckled. “I must be crazy.”

I peeked under the blanket and saw he’d undressed me down to my skivvies. “Where are my clothes?”

“In the closet. I segregated them from mine, I’m afraid. They smelled a trifle gamy.”

“My wallet’s in the front pocket of my jeans. There’s a claim check for my duffel bag and my guitar. The clothes don’t matter, but the guitar does.”

“Bus station or train station?”

“Bus.” The dope might only have been powder, and administered in medicinal quantities, but either it was very good stuff or it was hitting my depleted body especially hard. The soup was warm in my belly, and my eyelids felt like sashweights.

“Sleep, Jamie,” he said, and gave my shoulder a little squeeze. “If you’re going to beat the bug, you have to sleep.”

I lay back on the pillow. It was much softer than the one in my Fairgrounds Inn room. “Why are you calling yourself Dan?”

“Because it’s my name. Charles Daniel Jacobs. Now go to sleep.”

I was going to, but there was one other thing I had to ask. Adults change, sure, but if they haven’t been struck by some debilitating disease or disfigured by an accident, you can usually recognize them. Children, on the other hand…

“You knew me. I could see it. How?”

“Because your mother lives in your face, Jamie. I hope Laura’s well.”

“She’s dead. Her and Claire both.”

I don’t know how he took it. I closed my eyes, and ten seconds later I was out.

When I woke up I felt cooler, but the shakes were back bigtime. Jacobs put a drugstore fever strip on my forehead, held it there for a minute or so, then nodded. “You might live,” he said, and gave me two more teensy snorts from the brown bottle. “Can you get up and eat some scrambled eggs?”

“Bathroom first.”

He pointed, and I made my way into the small cubicle, holding onto things. I only had to pee, but I was too weak to stand up, so I sat down and did it girly-style. When I came out, he was scrambling eggs and whistling. My stomach rumbled. I tried to recall when I’d last eaten something more substantial than canned soup. Cold cuts backstage before the gig two nights ago came to mind. If I’d eaten anything after that, I couldn’t remember it.

“Ingest slowly,” he said, setting the plate on the dinette table. “You don’t want to bark it right back up again, do you?”

I ate slowly, and cleaned the plate. He sat across from me, drinking coffee. When I asked for some, he gave me half a cup, heavy on the half-and-half.

“The trick with the picture,” I said. “How did you do that?”

“Trick? You wound me. The image on the backdrop is coated with a phosphorescent substance. The camera is also an electrical generator—”

“That much I got.”

“The flash is very powerful and very… special. It projects the image of the subject onto that of the girl in the evening dress. It doesn’t hold for long; the area is too large. The pictures I sell, on the other hand, last much longer.”

“Long enough so she can show it to her grandchildren? Really?”

“Well,” he said, “no.”

“How long?”

“Two years. Give or take.”

“By which time you’re long gone.”

“Indeed. And the pictures that matter…” He tapped his temple. “Up here. For all of us. Don’t you agree?”

“But… Reverend Jacobs…”

I saw a momentary flicker of the man who had preached the Terrible Sermon back when LBJ was president. “Please don’t call me that. Plain old Dan will do. That’s who I am now. Dan the Lightning Portraits Man. Or Charlie, if that’s more comfortable for you.”

“But she turned around. The girl on your background did a complete three-sixty.”

“A simple trick of motion picture projection.” But he glanced away as he said it. Then he looked back at me. “Do you want to get better, Jamie?”

“I am better. Must have been one of those twenty-four-hour things.”

“It’s not a twenty-four-hour thing, it’s the flu, and if you try leaving here for the bus station, it’ll be back full blast by noon. Stay here and yes, I think you’ll probably be better in a few days. But it’s not the flu I’m talking about.”

“I’m okay,” I said, but now it was my turn to look away. What brought my eyes back front and center was the little brown bottle. He was holding it by the spoon and swinging it on its little silver chain like a hypnotist’s amulet. I reached for it. He held it away.

“How long have you been using?”

“Heroin? About three years.” It had been six. “I had a motorcycle accident. Smashed the hell out of my hip and leg. They gave me morphine—”

“Of course they did.”

“—and then stepped me down to codeine. That sucked, so I started chugging cough syrup to go with the pills. Terpin hydrate. Ever heard of it?”

“Are you kidding? On the circuit they call it GI Gin.”

“My leg healed, but it never healed right. Then—I was in a band called the Andersonville Rockers, or maybe they’d changed the name to the Georgia Giants by then—this guy introduced me to Tussionex. That was a big step in the right direction, as far as pain control went. Listen, do you really want to hear this?”

“Absolutely.”

I shrugged as if it didn’t matter much to me one way or the other, but it was a relief to spill it out. Before that day in Jacobs’s Bounder, I never had. In the bands I played with, everyone just shrugged and looked the other way. As long as you kept showing up, that was, and remembered the chords to “In the Midnight Hour”—which, believe me, ain’t rocket science.

“It’s another cough syrup. More powerful than terpin hydrate, but only if you knew how to get at the good stuff. To do that, you tied a string around the neck of the bottle and twirled it like a mad bastard. The centrifugal force separated the syrup into three levels. The good stuff—the hydrocodone—was in the middle. You used a straw to suck it up.”

“Fascinating.”

Not very, I thought. “After awhile, when I was still having pain, I started scoring morphine again. Then I discovered heroin worked as well, and at half the price.” I smiled. “There’s a kind of drug stock market, you know. When everybody started using rock cocaine, horse took a nosedive.”

“Your leg looks fine to me,” he said mildly. “There’s a bad scar, and there’s obviously been some muscle loss, but not that much. Some doctor did a fine job on you.”

“I can walk, yeah. But you try standing on a leg that’s full of metal clips and screws for three hours a night, under hot lights and with a nine-pound guitar strapped on. Lecture all you want, you picked me up when I was down and I guess I owe you that, but don’t tell me about pain. Nobody knows unless they’re on the inside.”

He nodded. “As someone who’s suffered… losses… I can relate to that. But here’s something I bet you already know, deep down. It’s your brain that’s hurting, and blaming it on your leg. Brains are crafty that way.”

He put the bottle back in his pocket (I watched it go with deep regret) and leaned forward, his eyes locked on mine. “But I believe I can take care of you with an electrical treatment. No guarantees, and the treatment might not cure your mental craving forever, but I believe I can give you what the football players call running room.”

“Cure me the way you did Connie, I suppose. When that kid clotheslined him with a ski pole.”

He looked surprised, then laughed. “You remember that.”

“Of course! How could I forget it?” I also remembered how Con had refused to go with me to see Jacobs after the Terrible Sermon. It wasn’t exactly like Peter denying Jesus, but it was in the same ballpark.

“A dubious cure at best, Jamie. More likely the placebo effect. I’m offering you an actual cure, one that will—or so I believe—short-circuit the painful withdrawal process.”

“Well of course you’d say that, wouldn’t you?”

“You’re judging me by my carny persona. But that’s all it is, Jamie—a persona. When I’m not wearing my show suit and making a living, I try to tell the truth. In fact, I mostly tell the truth when I’m working. That picture will amaze Miss Cathy Morse’s friends.”

“Yeah,” I said. “For two years, anyway. Give or take.”

“Stop dodging and answer my question. Do you want to get better?”

What came to mind was the PS of the note Kelly Van Dorn had slid under my door. In prison a year from now if I didn’t clean up my act, he’d written. And that was if I struck lucky.

“I got straight three years ago.” Sort of true, although I had been on the Marijuana Maintenance Program. “Did it righteous, went through the shakes and sweats and the Hershey squirts. My leg was so bad I could barely hobble. It’s some kind of nerve damage.”

“I believe I can take care of that, too.”

“What are you, some kind of miracle worker? Is that what you want me to believe?”

He had been sitting on the carpet beside the bed. Now he got up. “That’s enough for now. You need to sleep. You’re still quite a long way from well.”

“Then give me something that will help me.”

He did so without argument, and it helped me. It just didn’t help enough. By 1992, real help came in the needle. There was nothing else. You don’t just wave a magic wand over that shit and make it gone.

Or so I believed.

I stayed in his Bounder for the best part of a week, living on soup, sandwiches, and nasally administered doses of heroin that were just enough to keep the worst of the shakes at bay. He brought my guitar and duffel. I kept a spare set of works in the duffel, but when I looked (it was the second night, and he was working the crowds at his Portraits in Lightning shy), the kit was gone. I begged him to give it back, along with enough heroin so I could cook and shoot up.

“No,” he said. “If you want to mainline—”

“I’ve only been skin-popping!”

He gave me an Oh, please look. “If you want that, you’ll have to find the proper equipment yourself. If you’re not well enough to do it tonight, you will be by tomorrow, and around this place I’m sure it wouldn’t take you long. Just don’t come back here.”

“When do I get this so-called miracle cure?”

“When you’re well enough to withstand a small application of electricity to your frontal lobe.”

I felt cold at that. I swung my legs out of his bed (he was sleeping on the pullout couch) and watched him take off his show clothes, hanging them up carefully and replacing them with a pair of plain white pajamas that looked like something inmate extras might wear in a horror movie set in an insane asylum. Sometimes I wondered if he might not belong in an asylum, and not because he was running what was essentially a carny wonder-show. Sometimes—especially when he talked about the curative powers of electricity—he got a look in his eyes that didn’t seem sane. It was not unlike the way he’d looked when he preached himself out of a job in Harlow.

“Charlie…” This was what I called him now. “Are you talking about shock treatment?”

He looked at me soberly, buttoning the top of his white inmate pajamas. “Yes and no. Certainly not in the conventional sense, because I don’t intend to treat you with conventional electricity. My spiel sounds unbelievable, because it’s what the customers want. They don’t come here for reality, Jamie, they come for fantasy. But there really is a secret electricity, and its uses are manifold. I just haven’t discovered all of them yet, and that includes the one that interests me most.”

“Want to share?”

“No. I gave several exhausting performances, and I need sleep. I hope you’ll still be here in the morning, but if you’re not, that’s your choice.”

“Once upon a time you would have said there are no real choices, only God’s will.”

“That was a different man. A young fellow with naïve beliefs. Will you wish me goodnight?”

I did, then lay in the bed he had given up so I could use it. He was no longer a preacher, but still of the Good Samaritan stripe in so many ways. I hadn’t been naked, like the man who had been set upon by robbers on his way to Jericho, but heroin had robbed me of plenty for sure. He had fed me, and given me shelter, and propped me up with just enough horse to keep me from going out of my fucking mind. The question now was whether or not I wanted to give him a chance to blast my brainwaves flat. Or outright kill me by shooting megavolts of “special electricity” into my head.

Five times, maybe ten or a dozen, I thought I would get up and drag the midway until I found somebody who’d sell me what I needed. That need was like a drillbit in my head, boring in deeper and deeper. Nasally administered sips of H didn’t cut it. I needed a big blast direct to the central nervous system. Once I actually swung my legs out of bed and reached for my shirt, determined to do it and get it done, but then I lay back down again, shaking and sweating and twitching.

Finally I began to drift off. I let myself go, thinking Tomorrow. I’ll leave tomorrow. But I stayed. And on my fifth morning—I think it was the fifth—Jacobs slipped behind the wheel of his Bounder, keyed the engine, and said, “Let’s take a ride.”

I had no choice about it, unless I wanted to open the door and jump out, because we were already rolling.