Blanco County 04 - Guilt Trip (30 page)

But, Christ, this morning he was paying the piper. His brain throbbed like he’d just had cranial surgery. His mouth tasted like a hamster had camped out in it overnight. His memory of the evening’s festivities reminded him of one of his trendy music videos: lots of quick cuts and fades, vignettes that lasted mere seconds, bathed in shadow. He had fragmented flashbacks of nude people in the hot tub. White lines on the glass-topped coffee table. Sucking tequila out of some babe’s navel. Had it been one of the twins?

Kathy and Kelly? Lisa and Leslie? Something cutesy like that, he was pretty sure. The girls were still snoozing, or passed out, really, one on either side of Mitch in his king-sized bed. He propped himself on his elbows, trying to ignore the drumbeat in his skull, and surveyed the room.

Three pairs of boots and jeans were scattered on the floor. Panties. Blouses. He looked for telltale condom wrappers—expecting two or three—but spotted none. Was that a good sign or a bad one? Had he gone in completely unprotected, not even a thin layer of latex between him and a paternity suit? Or had he managed to control himself this time, to refuse the bounty that was so lovingly offered?

It brought back a recent conversation Mitch had had with Joe, his manager.

“You cain’t keep humpin’ everything on two legs, Mitch,” Joe said with that harsh East Texas twang Mitch still hadn’t gotten used to. Sounded so damn ridiculous.

Mitch laughed. “Wanna bet? I take vitamins.”

“What I mean is, you shouldn’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Damn, son, you’re a
country
star, not a
rock
star. I know the ladies love you and all, but take it easy on the one-nighters, will ya? You got an image to maintain. No more buckle bunnies.”

“But I—”

“Besides, you’re getting married, remember?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“And dope, too. Steer clear of that shit. Nothing stronger than beer, ya hear?”

“Ryan Buckley does it,” Mitch pointed out. “Sleeps around
and
gets high.”

“Now, see, Ryan Buckley is an entirely diff’rent product. He’s the bad boy of the industry. Why d’you think he wears a black hat?”

“Well
,
then, maybe I should get a black hat. Maybe we should shake things up a little and—”

“Too late. You’re white hat all the way. You’re supposed to be
wholesome,
Mitch. All-American. God-fearing. The boy next door, ‘cept better looking. You’re lucky they even let you keep the goatee.”

“What about this whole gun gig? The boy next door carries a gun?”

Scroggins shook his head, like he was dealing with a slow child. “Down here they do. As far as country fans are concerned, ain’t nothin’ more American than guns. Ain’t you been paying attention?”

“I still don’t understand why I can’t just be myself,” Mitch whined.

“You do that,” Scroggins replied, “and we’ll both lose a gotdamn fortune. That want you want? Hot one week, out on your ass the next?”

So, yes, all in all, it had taken some getting used to, this whole hat-wearin’, boot-scootin’, gun-totin’, good-ol’-boy act. That’s because Mitch Campbell’s real name was Norman Kleinschmidt, and he’d been born and raised in Middlebury, Vermont. His father was a highly paid industrial chemist, his mother a stay-at-home mom. Back when he was known as Norman, he’d never shot a deer, roped a calf, or chewed tobacco. He’d never done the two-step, and he didn’t know the first thing about tractor pulls, stock-car races, bass fishing, or any of that other redneck crap.

Norman, in fact, had attended private prep school, followed by four years at Dartmouth, where, between pot-smoking parties and Ecstasy-induced orgies, he occasionally attended class. His grades were appalling, but generous donations to the school by Norman’s exasperated father ensured that he wound up with a degree. After graduation, Mitch worked on Wall Street for two years. Wore a thousand-dollar suit every day. Made big bucks. Absolutely hated it. Assholes everywhere.

What he needed, he decided, was something a little more creative. A career where everyone wasn’t so damn uptight. So, to his parents’ dismay, he switched gears and signed on at an advertising agency as a junior-level copywriter. Here, he thought, he could use his brain and his sense of humor. This would be fun and rewarding and glamorous.

His first assignment was to write a thirty-second television commercial for a feminine-hygiene spray called
Spring Mist.
The project brief specified that the spot should feature “two middle-aged Caucasian women” who were having a “genuine and frank discussion” about “neutralizing feminine odor, not just covering it up.”

Holy Christ.

Norman left for lunch, had five Manhattans instead, and decided not to return.

Two days later, stoned out of his gourd on some outstanding herb, listening to a group called Canker Sore, it finally dawned on him. Of course! It had been so obvious all along. He had never enjoyed anything more fully than the garage band he’d had in high school. They called themselves Pus Bucket, a mixture of rock, neo-punk, and fusion. As far as talent went, they were plenty loud. But Norman
did
have a voice. Despite his cushy and privileged upbringing, Norman always managed to sound as hauntingly poignant as Kurt Cobain or Alanis Morissette.

I’ll write some new songs!
he thought.
I’ll cut a demo!

And so he did, ignoring the fact that the odds of making it in the music industry were astronomical. Norman got hold of some wicked meth and wrote ten songs overnight. When he finally had a clear head, he narrowed it down to the best three—“Sweet Love Weasel,” “Say Hello to Woody,” and “Binge and Purge.”

Then he hired some awesome session players and they were in the studio three days later. The recording went flawlessly. He felt certain he had genuine platinum on his hands. The next day, Norman sent press kits—a CD, a bio, and a head shot—to two dozen producers, record-label heads, and managers. Norman was feeling giddy as he dropped the promotional packages into the mail.

Then reality set in.

A month passed. Nothing. Two more weeks. Not a word. Norman made some calls, but he couldn’t get past the iron wall of front-office stooges and peons.

Two months later, finally, a response! A man named Joe Scroggins had scribbled a note across the bottom of Norman’s head shot:
You got a face for Nashville. Ever written any country?

Country?
Norman thought.
Sappy songs about broken hearts and beer joints? Fiddles and steel guitars? You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.

He tossed the note in the garbage can.

Another month passed. Norman sent out more press kits and got nowhere. He was being completely ignored, and it pissed him off.
Don’t these fuckwads recognize talent when they hear it?
he wondered. He should do the music industry a favor, he thought, by tracking these jerkoffs down and putting a bullet into each one of their heads.

That’s when he decided to write a country song after all. A catchy little ditty about guns. It started out as a joke, really, just goofing around on his acoustic guitar. Something he noodled around with to make himself feel better. It was full of black humor and bitter revenge fantasies. He mailed it out for no other reason than to give all those assholes a piece of his mind. Nobody could possibly take it seriously.

Nobody, that is, except Joe Scroggins. Joe heard something more. He had a vision. He saw the potential for this tossed-off novelty song to become an American classic.

“It’s a winner,” Joe said over the phone. “But it needs help. Maybe a bit of redirection.”

“What do you mean?” Norman replied, a little stunned. And a little stoned. Was this guy for real? The song was mostly a gag. But Norman decided it wouldn’t hurt to play along.

“I’m thinking it needs to be a tad more patriotic and a bit less, well, homicidal.”

“Yeah?”

“Instead of hunting down record producers, for example, make it terrorists. Then you’ll have something.”

“Terrorists?”

“Got-damn right. They’s big right now. Now, I don’t mean come right out and say ‘Let’s all kill Mohammed’ or some shit like that. Ya gotta be subtle. And pro-USA. Wrap a flag around it, as they say. Guns are what make us strong. Guns prevent crime and keep our country safe. That sorta thing.”

“Anything else?”

“Change the Kalashnikov to a Remington or a Colt. American-made product. Now I realize that’ll gum up your rhyme scheme, but I think it’s for the best. Just rework that whole section. And down in the chorus, where you’re talking about writing epitaphs in blood—make it something about the Constitution instead.”

“You serious?”

“As a swollen prostate.”

Norman had never been to Nashville, so, three days later, he decided to fly down and present the revised lyrics in person.

Joe read them twice and said, “Damn, boy, now we’re getting somewhere.”

“You like it?”

“Got-damn, I love it. This could be huge. The time is right for this kind of message. ‘Mericans are nervous, maybe a little scared. The world’s in turmoil. Song like this makes ‘em feel safe and secure. Like we’re all in it together, ready to kick ass and take names.”

Norman couldn’t help himself. He was starting to get excited by the prospect. Country music? Really? Who would have guessed?

“One other thing,” Joe said. “You’re gonna need a new name.”

“What?”

“And a dialect coach.”

“Seriously?”

“No offense, son, but you talk real funny.”

Norman laughed. “I talk funny?”

“Glad we agree. And I notice you got a little hitch in your gita-long.”

“A what?”

“A limp, son.”

“Oh, that’s an old snowboarding injury.”

“Snow what?”

“Snowboarding.”

“The hell’s a snowboard?”

“It’s, um, kinda like a surfboard, but smaller. You ride it. On snow.”

Joe gave him a puzzled stare. “Well, forget that crap. Cowboys don’t snowboard. Anyone asks, you done that riding a bull.”