Bethel's Meadow (4 page)

Whatever the case, I had other things to deal with.

I didn’t have a doctor anymore, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to crawl back to Dr. Beady Eyes to make amends. Less than a week after my final visit to Tabak’s office I received a letter from him stating that his services would no longer be available to me. I wasn’t exactly heartbroken about the whole thing, but burning that bridge had really left my ass in a crack now.

I recalled Sidebottom once mentioning that he had a doctor friend who freely handed out samples and prescriptions to anyone who asked for them. So I picked up the phone and called him about it.

“Hey, Smith,” he answered. “What happened back there at the library? Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”

“I’m sorry about all of that,” I said. “I’m just as sick as a dog right now, and the last thing I need is to get flirty with the same librarian who probably checks out Caitlin’s books.”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “I’m there all the time and I can’t recall having seen Cathleen more than a time or two. God, you really need to get away from her and find someone a little nicer.”

“You’re there all the time?” I asked. I was trying to change the subject. I really didn’t want to listen to Sidebottom rant about Caitlin, despite the fact I was beginning to agree with him about her.

“Yeah, I’ve been there almost every day since you and I got replaced by the Indians at the bank last year,” Sidebottom said. “Hell, I’ve got nothing but time now. Nobody’s hiring. Besides, I have enough money to last for a while. So I hang out at the library and catch up on my Shakespeare.”

“You know that doctor friend of yours you were telling me about?” I asked him. “You know, the one that prescribes you Viagra?”

“Cialis, actually,” he said. “But yeah, Dr. Sam Fleming is a really old friend of mine. The doc keeps all kinds of pharmaceutical candy in this big chest at—”

“Can you hook me up with him?”

“Her. Dr. Samantha Fleming is a
her
.”

“You never mentioned that the doctor was a woman.”

“What diff does it make? Anyway, why you asking? You need some boner pills? If so, no prob. She’ll hook you right up.”

“No, though my pecker doesn’t get used much of late, it works just fine,” I said. “I just need a prescription for some . . . Well, I need some sleeping pills. Look, it’s late Friday afternoon. I can’t wait until Monday to see a doctor.”

“Say no more,” Wally said reassuringly. “Hold on and I’ll call her and then call you right back.”

Two minutes later: “How about meeting me at six o’clock at 52 Palms?” Sidebottom said, referring to a nearby restaurant and bar. “She won’t get there until seven or so, but we need to get there early to grab a booth in the bar. The doc won’t sit at the bar or at a table in the restaurant—only the booth. Besides, it’ll give you and me a chance to chat it up without a librarian telling us to shush.”

It was still just a little after two, and I didn’t know what to do with myself until my rendezvous with Sidebottom. So I drew myself another bath and plopped back into the tub.

…

After Sidebottom and I—along with twelve others—had been laid off several months ago from our IT consulting jobs, I realized I potentially faced a protracted period of unemployment, especially given the bad economy.

“What are you going to do if you can’t find immediate work?” I had asked Sidebottom.

“Well . . .” he had said thoughtfully while rubbing his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “Now that you mention it, I think I’m going to finally write that novel I’ve always wanted to write. I mean, even if it never gets picked up by an agent or a publisher, I would at least have a finished manuscript that I could maybe self-publish. I could leave it out on my coffee table at home, and when chicks came over to my pad they’d see my name on the cover of a book. A book, man, a book! You know who Charles Bukowski was? Only the ugliest motherfucker to have ever written a novel. And that guy got laid all of the time, for no other reason than him being a writer.”

The idea of it had really boosted Sidebottom’s spirits. I was glad I had started the conversation, even if Sidebottom only viewed writing a book as a means to getting laid on a more frequent basis. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I had always heard writers were the absolute bottom of the barrel when it came to impressing women. The musicians are lined up well ahead of the writers. Maybe
wealthy
writers can draw a crowd of babes, but that’s only because they’re rich, not because of their literary prowess. I also restrained myself from saying that I wasn’t completely sure of the type of woman that Bukowski had tended to attract.

As for me, I had decided to bide my time by learning to play piano. So the very day after I was escorted from the premises by bank security to make way for my Indian replacement, I went to the music store and purchased a console piano.

While there I inquired about piano lessons. The salesman gave me a card with the name and number of a teacher. I had thought playing piano would bring me hours of peace and enjoyment. But, as I suppose so often happens in the homes of many others, my piano quickly ceased being a piano and instead became a rather expensive piece of living room furniture.

I’d had about ten piano lessons before, out of frustration, I called it quits. My teacher was an old lady—probably in her early seventies—who, when she walked through the door, seemed quite cordial. Until, that is, she sat next to me at the piano, at which point she instantly transformed into a Marine drill sergeant. The woman mercilessly shouted into my ear during each lesson, criticizing every aspect of my play:

“Sit up straight, young man.”

“One and, two and . . . stop there. That’s a quarter note, not an eighth note.”

“Fingers raised higher, wrists supple and relaxed.”

“This is a waltz, not a march.”

“Softer!”

“Harder!”

“Play with more feeling.”

“This is a piano, not a typewriter.”

“Pianissimo, not pianoforte.”

If she’d had a ruler she definitely would have given my knuckles the treatment. How I put up with it for as long as I did I’ll never know. I should have received a congressional commendation of some sort.

The metronome soon became a ubiquitous and evil force in my life. The damned thing sounded more like a tolling bell than a timing instrument.

And the music: chart toppers like “The Traffic Cop,” “Swans On The Lake,” “The Merry Clown,”
The Fairies’ Harp
.

As if all of that excitement wasn’t enough to keep me interested, there’s this terrible book of finger exercises called
The Virtuoso Pianist
. It was composed by some sadistic pedagogue named Charles Hanon, the godfather of musical monotony. I’m sure all of that happy horse shit would benefit a six-year-old kid aspiring to become a concert pianist and who has his whole life before him. But what about a thirty-something who just wants to learn to play for his friends at parties, or just for his own enjoyment? When I asked the dear old lady that question, she looked at me like I had snakes slithering out of my nostrils, so I immediately showed the door to her ultra-pedantic ass.

I never touched the piano after that.

But something happened on this Friday afternoon that rekindled my musical aspirations. While I was relaxing in the tub, attempting to once again divert my attention from the here and now, I lapsed into a sort of half-dream. No, it was more like a
vision
.

In the vision I was sitting Indian style in the midst of a peaceful meadow, surrounded by an awe-inspiring landscape of immense mountains and rolling hills, plus all sorts of beautiful trees: dogwoods, maples, cherry blossoms, banyans, oaks, and willows. And perched on the branches of those trees were bluebirds, cardinals, spotted owls, blue jays, mockingbirds, and more. And to the side opposite of the mountains was an expansive, almost completely transparent pond so calm that it barely made a ripple. The pond’s surface mirrored the images of the marshmallow clouds and aqua-colored sky from above, making it appear like a freshly painted mural. My, my, I thought, what a magnificent work of art. I looked up and saw a flock of terns gently splash at the edge of the pond, later joined by the most gorgeous swans my eyes have ever beheld. And then I looked down and there was an acoustic guitar in my hands. I was strumming and singing along with Pink Floyd’s “Fat Old Sun.” As I was singing there was a cool breeze relieving my skin of the heat radiating from . . . the fat old sun. I felt light as a feather. There was nothing on my mind at all. I didn’t have a single damned worry in the world. I didn’t feel sick, either. It was a setting so peaceful and serene that I thought I must be in Heaven. . . .

But it was a vision so fantastic and so liberating that I quickly snapped out of it, no longer fooled into believing it was real. Okay, perhaps it had only been a dream, but for those five minutes it felt as real as anything I had ever experienced in my life. When I broke away from it, I would have killed at that very instant to have regained that vision, dream, or whatever you want to call it. If any human had been responsible for stealing it from me, I would have murdered him for doing it, without thought or remorse.

I wanted it back and I wanted it back desperately. I remained in the tub and closed my eyes, trying to restore the sublime vision of the meadow. I lay that way for an hour, but it never came back to me. Maybe I was trying too hard.

I finally gave up. If I couldn’t be in the meadow again, I could at least replicate one or two elements of the vision easily enough: the guitar and the music I was making with it.

As sick as I was feeling, I got out of the tub and went to the music store and bought a guitar.

…

Two hours later I was the owner of a Taylor brand acoustic guitar. Including tax, additional strings, and accessories to keep it clean and in tune, the rig set me back nearly a thousand dollars. Though I only had about sixty grand left to live on until I found a new job, I didn’t hesitate to make the purchase. And now that I had it at home, I needed to learn how to play this gorgeous instrument. So I powered up my computer and got on the Web. I soon discovered a site that offered beginner-level lessons for thirteen dollars a month. I signed up, and within an hour I was strumming simple chords and picking out simple one-note melodies.

As I played I hoped that none of the strings snapped because I had no clue how to replace a broken one. As with all challenges in life, I figured YouTube would help bail me out when the time came.

For two hours I diligently followed the instructions of my online teacher, and I was having a ball strumming the chords to “House of the Rising Sun”—until my cell phone buzzed.

It was Caitlin.

“’Sup, Cait?”

“What are you so happy about?” But before I could answer, she said, “Oh, never mind. Baby, guess what?” Her tone changed in an instant. She seemed overjoyed, which was kind of a rare thing for her.

“What?” I answered.

“Chicken butt,” Caitlin said, and then she laughed uproariously. I couldn’t believe I fell for that old gag. I hated it when she got in a jocular mood. It usually meant she’d been drinking. Caitlin could really slam them down once she got started.

“Are you drunk?” I asked.

“Baby, I am
soooo
excited. The Mickey Mouse that was supposed to go on the Minneapolis trip got sick. They asked me to fill in. This is so
fabulous
.” When she said “fabulous,” it came out as
fab-oo-lus
.

“When’s the trip?” I said.

“Baby, I’m on my way to the airport now.” She was indeed very excited. Caitlin had often told me about all the fun the crew had on those cross-country excursions. Before we met she’d gone on those trips several times a year. Though once she got the Tinker Bell gig, and then later the medical assistant job, that ended her days as a traveling character.

“Why didn’t you call me? I’d have given you a ride.”

“Oh baby, I don’t need your charity,” she said. “I’m capable of taking care of my own transportation.”

Any time I offered to help her in any way, even with something as small as offering her a ride, she’d pull that I-don’t-need-your-charity bullshit. That was something else I attributed to her childhood—no one had really given a damn about her when she was growing up. No one had really done anything for her at all, except teach her how to act, dance, and sing.

“Okay, whatever,” I said. “Call me when you get in so I’ll know you’re okay.”

“Fuck that,” she said. “Don’t even think about me while I’m gone. I’ll be back Tuesday morning. Just be sure to get your meds refilled and get back on track with that manic depression thing of yours.”

“Cait, if it’s all the same to you, I really want to hear from you every night, okay?”

“I really don’t need you to monitor me while I’m away. But if it means that much to you, I’ll call you before I go to bed tonight. All right?”

“Thank you,” I said, and then I realized that I didn’t much care anymore.

“I love you, baby. See ya Tuesday.” Before the line disconnected she got in one final jab: “Oh, and give my regards to the town pump.”

I looked at the phone’s time display and said, “Oh shit.” It was a quarter till six. I only had fifteen minutes to get to the bar and meet Sidebottom. I placed the guitar in its case and turned off the computer. I actually felt a little better.