Drive (18 page)

The map legend had said The Pas was a city of between five and ten thousand, but you never would have known it. A few cars rolled along cautiously and the occasional pedestrian hurried by, bundled and desperate to get somewhere else. The streets were worse than the highway – deep ruts of dirty snow laid over ice. I drove up
and down the main drags, trying not to stop, swearing under my breath.

At one traffic light I got stuck. I sat revving the engine, wheels spinning helplessly, even though I knew better. When you lose traction, you're supposed to take your foot off the accelerator and try to creep forward instead of digging yourself in deeper. But you panic, afraid to stop moving because then you'll really be stuck. You think if you just gun it harder you'll catch a piece of the road.

This time it worked. I surged into the intersection at last, relieved.

“There it is,” Daniel said, pointing.

Rene's Guitar Bar was a sliver of a storefront between a lunch cafe and a space for lease. The painted sign over the door looked old and weathered but in the window hung the outline of an electric guitar in blue neon. The rest of the bar was dark.

I pulled up to the curb and cut the engine. The sudden stillness felt good and I wanted to just sit for a minute. But I couldn't stop. It was four o'clock.

Daniel followed me onto the sidewalk, his hat pulled down, jacket open. The snow came over the tops of our runners. In seconds my ears and face were stinging.

I grabbed the door handle. It was locked.
Shit! I peered through the window in the metal door and thought I saw a light burning in the back. I started to pound on the door with the side of my fist.

“Wait in the truck!” I yelled at Daniel over the wind. But he hung beside me stubbornly, one hand on his hat, the other jammed into his pocket. My cold fist was aching but still I stood there, whipped by wind and snow, hammering on the metal door. Somebody had to come. It was four o'clock and I didn't know what else to do.

The door finally swung open.

“What the hell do you want? I'm closed.”

The man was huge. Taller than me, bigger than me, he was solid from his wide shoulders down, thick arms and legs like tree trunks. His long hair had probably once been dark but now it was mostly silver, pulled back in a ponytail. Gold rings on his fingers, black leather jacket. He looked like an aging biker.

“Hi, how are you today?” I said, trying to edge my way in. But he blocked the entire doorway.

“It's a freakin' blizzard. I'm cold.”

I laughed nervously. “Well, yeah. So are we, actually. Can…can we come in for a minute? I'd like to talk to you…about the bar.”

“What about my bar?”

“I think I know a way to improve business” I said quickly

He hesitated, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Snow was blowing in from behind us. At last he backed away.

“One minute,” he said.

The sudden warmth of the dark, narrow room made me dizzy. In the mirror behind the bar I caught a glimpse of two snowmen – me and Daniel. There was space for about eight little tables and, at one end, a raised platform with a drum kit set up. But when my eyes adjusted I realized this place wasn't about the bar or even the stage. It was built for one wall.

I stared. I didn't count, but there must have been fourteen or fifteen guitars hanging there, an incredible spread of color and shapes, wood and metal. Fender, Gibson, Marshall, Rickenbacker. A solid steel guitar shone like mercury. There were acoustics and electrics and some that looked as if they'd been caught halfway between the two.

I lost my brother. He took off his snowy hat, clutched it in both hands as he drifted to the wall, lips parted.

“What about my bar?” Rene said again.

I jumped right into my spiel – who we were and where we were from, how Daniel could improve business because people stayed longer
and drank more when there was live entertainment. Standing next to that wall, the words sounded hollow even to me. You fool, Jens, was all I could think. You used car guy.

And still I kept going, stumbling over myself, digging in deeper.

“…and he took first place in the solo guitar category at Sunjam. It's a provincial comp —”

“I know what it is. Milky bastards.”

“Hey, you're absolutely right! That's what we said, too, but it led to this recording…” I fumbled for the cassette. Damn! I'd left it in the truck again.

Rene plucked a CD from a display on the bar that I hadn't noticed before. His picture was on it, with the steel guitar, and full band backup.
Mercy Please
.

“We've already got a house band,” he said. I could see it in his eyes: his bar, his band, his music.

“Please,” I lowered my voice, “you don't have to pay him anything.”

“You're Bourbon Ray,” Daniel blurted. He was looking at Rene now, staring at him hard, as if he was a ghost who'd disappear. It was the first time he'd taken his eyes off the wall of guitars. “You…you opened for Muddy Waters in the seventies. At the concert hall in Winnipeg. You were a Blues Brat.”

Rene bit his lip as if he'd been caught in a lie, but he couldn't stop the grin. It lit up his rough face.

“August 25th, 1977. Me and Dave McLean and Gord Kidder. Yeah, we were the Brats.”

“Big Dave McLean,” Daniel repeated in a hushed voice. “He was a mentor to Colin James.”

Rene was nodding, truly smiling now. He started toward Daniel, toward the wall. “You a history student, little man?”

“I'm…a student.”

Rene unhooked a battered black acoustic from the wall. The finish on the wood had been worn right off over the frets. He held it out to my brother. Daniel was squeezing his hat. He looked down at the guitar as if he was afraid of it. Rene made a small movement, almost a shrug, and at last Daniel reached out for it.

My heart sped up. Play “Night Drive,” I prayed. Show him, Daniel.

There was no shoulder strap attached. Daniel pulled out a chair and put his foot on it, setting the guitar over his thigh. He dug a pick out of his pocket, then looked hesitantly at Rene once more.

“My hands are cold…”

Bourbon Ray nodded patiently. Daniel
strummed a few times. It sounded tuned to me.
Play
, Daniel.

It wasn't “Night Drive.” It was true blues, Waters or Dixon or one of those old guys, notes tripping over themselves as they walked, rhythm so lazy I couldn't find the beat.

Bourbon Ray could. His foot began to tap. Soon he started to hum and halfway through he couldn't stand it anymore.
”Well my mother told my father/Just before I was born
…' His voice seemed to rumble out from below his belt. ”…
gonna be a rollin' stone
…”

And that's how it started. One song led to another. An electric came down off the wall, and a bass. When Bourbon Ray took over the strings, Daniel stood, swaying with the beat but rapt, as if he was memorizing every movement, every quivering sound. The guitar pick disappeared in his huge hand, but Bourbon Ray was liquid fire.

They looked so different, a silver-haired giant and my long-legged stringy little brother. But as they passed the guitars back and forth, watched and listened and finally played together, I knew. They spoke the same language.

I had a headache, dull pain throbbing in my temples and behind my eyes. I stood at the bar, shifting from foot to foot. Did we have a booking or didn't we?

It was twenty to five. They were between songs, talking about people I'd never heard of and the Chess recordings, the kind of stuff my brother used to bore me with all the time. Now his face was shining.

“Daniel,” I interrupted.

He looked over, as if he was surprised I was still there, that I existed at all.

The bar was too small to be private. I tugged my brother into the men's room.

“Ask him,” I said.

“What?”

“Ask him! If you can have a gig.”

Daniel looked dumbfounded. “Jens…that's Bourbon Ray. The man is a legend and he's actually
talking
to me. We're jamming. I'm playing his guitars!”

“Daniel –”

“I'm lucky to even be here.”

The pain in my temples was harder now, it had begun to pound. “If you're not going to ask, then we've got to go. Right now. There are other places…”

“No! Not this time. I pawned the Fender. I stood on your truck like an idiot – a freak show – because you wanted it. Now I finally get something for me…”

“What are you talking about? It's all for you. There's a thousand bucks sitting in that truck—”

“So why don't you
eat
it? Shove it down your own throat like you shove it down mine!”

I hit him, a wild swing with the side of my forearm that caught him hard across the ear. He stumbled back into a stall door. It blew in against the metal wall with a bang.

The bathroom door burst open. Rene knocked me against the wall, pinned me to it with one big arm, the light switch digging into my back. His eyes were icy blue.

“Don't wreck my place,” Bourbon Ray said.

“I'm going,” I gasped.

After a few seconds, he released me. I started for the door. Daniel was still standing in the stall, holding his ear, glaring at me.

“I hate your guts,” he whispered.

I kept going. On the street, I leaned into the wind. It was cool against my throbbing head. I plowed along the sidewalk, sliding, stumbling in the snow.

So I didn't get to Thompson. So I didn't get Daniel a gig. I could still fix this! I still had the ball and I could run with it – today, right now.

In the sports bar at the end of the street, there was a phone cubicle at the back of the room. I got a handful of change from the bartender. I was trying not to shake.

“Kruse Studios,” he answered.

“This is Jens Friesen.”

“Jens! Just the man I want to…”

“Well, good,” I cut him off. “Because I've got something to say to you, too. I've been doing some investigating and I don't think you've been fair to my family. I think the deal you offered my parents was about twice the going rate, and you knew they'd take it because they'd do anything for their kid. And maybe Daniel's not anything special to you but he doesn't deserve…”

“I think the world of your brother,” Kruse broke in. “He's an exciting talent, and a hell of a songwriter.”

I was stunned.

“I…I've been trying to reach you all day, to apologize for Friday,” the producer hurried on. “I said things I didn't mean. Maybe we all did. But I want you to know that I'd really appreciate the opportunity to keep working with Daniel.”

I didn't know what to think. Kruse was saying he wanted the contract in effect again, but I hadn't even finished my speech.

“What about the money?”

He laughed, a thin and nervous sound. “Well, I think that can be resolved. I…heard from Home Grown Music today and they're very interested in a songwriting contract with Daniel – not as a recording artist, but as a
writer. They're not a big label but I'm sure you know what an important step this is. After all, he
is
only sixteen years old.”

All Daniel had to do was record whatever he wrote and send it to Home Grown. Kruse would handle all the negotiations, as his agent.

“Did you tell our mom and dad?”

Kruse hesitated. “You know, I wanted to talk to you first. Daniel's…passionate. Hey, that's a good thing. It means he cares about what he does. But I know he was upset on Friday.” He took a breath. “He really looks up to you.”

I had the ball. I had it in my hands. And there was no game.

“Mr. Kruse,” I said quietly, “I'm sure Daniel will be thrilled.”

I hung up the phone and sat down at the bar. I didn't get up for a long time.

It was about eleven o'clock when I knocked the stool over as I slid off. Bending down to get it, the room tipped. I grabbed the edge of the bar so I wouldn't go, too. Only a few people looked.

When I straightened up, the bartender put his hand over my forearm. His name was Martin and we were friends. I'd spent a lot of time telling him how to make a perfect omelet.

“You're not going to drive, Jens,” he said.

I was touched. I felt heat behind my eyes and the sudden terror that it might be tears.

“You're a straight-up guy, Martin,” I said, and tried to turn away. But he kept me pinned easily with my arm on the bar. I was amazed. I was bigger than he was.

“How are you going to get home?” he said.

He meant it. He wouldn't let me go without an answer.

“My brother's…down the street,” I said.

The bartender finally released his grip. “All right. You make sure he takes you, now.”

I got as far as the door before I looked back. “I'm really sorry, Martin.” I meant about the stool. “God, I'm so sorry.”

I pushed outside and stumbled into winter. It had stopped snowing but the wind was still blowing harder than ever. One corner of my brain kept telling me to do up my jacket, but the rest of me was completely absorbed with walking, just staying upright, one hand on the storefronts and buildings, getting through the jagged drifts crusted by ice.

It was a long street, longer than I remembered. My insides started to slosh, then churn. It had been a bad idea to switch from beer to rum, and finally Scotch. Glenkinchie, just like Sy.

I'd lied to Martin. I couldn't go home. For seven months I'd stayed away even when things seemed good, because they weren't good enough. And now it was Monday. Today I was a thief. And a liar. And a bastard. My brother hated me and I deserved it.

I had to stop between two buildings and throw up. Afterwards, I leaned against one of the walls, my forehead on the bricks, and closed
my eyes. I felt as if I'd been running and running for years.