The improperly latched seat belt buckle
popped open as the Jeep Liberty
The ground below him looked rocky. Buddy
assumed he would die upon hitting it, but he was sure his body would be broken
beyond repair if he didn’t. He often had heard how time seems to slow down in
moments of impending doom. The reports were true. He’d also heard about seeing
your whole life flash before your eyes. He doubted the time distortion effect
was sufficient to accommodate a review his whole life, however. He settled for
revisiting the past few hours.
**** **** **** **** **** **** **** ****
**** ****
Buddy began his Friday night the way he had
begun most of his Friday nights since he moved out of his parents’ house. He
checked the internet for local concerts, and called a few friends to see if any
wanted to go with him. On this occasion, none did.
Buddy had made the move from his childhood
bedroom only the year before. He did so because his 25th birthday
was approaching, and he felt it was time to be on his own. It was a struggle
financially. His degree in Business Administration had given him a mountain of
debt and an entry-level job at a call center for WeCare4U Investments, where he tried to placate angry customers
without making any concessions that would cost the firm money. He had hoped the
job would be a stepping stone to something better, but after three years he sat
in the same chair. His apartment in a run-down building on the outskirts of Jersey City had the advantage of being close to New York
Buddy was not in a romantic relationship of
any kind. In truth, he never had been a ladies man. Shorter than average with
unimpressive looks, talents, or charm, his social life always had been one big
fizzle. Even in college, where young men were outnumbered almost two-to-one by
women, he always had the feeling that the few women who dated him were
practicing on him, honing skills for someone better. None of them had dated him
for long, which reinforced his inkling. Since graduation, he scarcely dated at
all.
So, he filled his weekends with music
instead, sometimes clubbing with his guy friends and sometimes going out alone.
He enjoyed the music clubs, and, besides, there was always the possibility of
meeting someone open to a fling or possibly more. This sometimes happened to
his friends, even the married ones.
Occasionally he went to see name bands at
large venues, such as The Beacon or Roseland, but he preferred small intimate
clubs. They were much cheaper, and the unknown musicians playing in them often
were remarkably good.
One band he had begun following recently
was The Heather Field Band. He liked her bluesy-rock sound, even though it
was far from original, and regularly checked her schedule on her website. On
this night Heather would perform at midnight, a prime time slot, at The Bitter End. Buddy intended to be
there. He usually took the Path subway under the Hudson
Holland Tunnel traffic was heavy but it
moved steadily. The Jeep made a distinct rumble that suggested Buddy soon would
be buying a new muffler. Buddy exited the tunnel, turned up Hudson 8th Street 10th Street Washington Square
The Bleecker Street
His timing was good. Heather and her band
were setting up. The musicians who played with Heather varied from gig to gig.
Tonight Harlan was on guitar. Buddy thought his idiosyncratic sound added
something extra to the band, though he noticed Harlan and Heather tended to
feud between sets.
“Do you mind sitting somewhere else?” said
a voice in back of him.
Buddy turned. The voice belonged to a young
woman with thickly banged shoulder-length black hair. She wore dark glasses, even
though the light in the bar didn’t rise to the level of dim. Her black sweater,
black jeans and black boots harkened back to the beatnik era. Her phrasing was
in the form of a question but her tone verged on a demand.
Buddy assessed the woman’s companions. One
was a young man, good-looking in a boyish way, with his head ensconced in a
grey hoodie. He sported a perfectly trimmed two-day growth of light brown
beard. Buddy wondered if there were special razors to maintain this look. Also
in her company were a short blonde girl with excessive makeup and a young man
dporting a peace-symbol sweatshirt, jeans, and spiky platinum-dyed hair. All
four appeared to be in their 20s.
“There are six chairs,” Buddy pointed out.
“Do you have two more friends coming?”
“Please,” the Dark-glasses girl said
simply.
Buddy didn’t feel like arguing. He
shrugged, stood up, and walked back to the bar.
Buddy ordered a club soda. He leaned on the
bar and observed the other patrons. They were an eclectic hodgepodge of ages
and types. Gray-hairs mingled with barely-legals. His attention kept drifting
back to the four to whom he had surrendered a table. They ordered and quickly
consumed two rounds of drinks. They engaged in some low-level dispute. In fact,
they argued in all the combinations mathematically possible for four people to
argue. As soon as Heather started her set, though, Dark-glasses girl shushed
the others.
Heather began with her original song Subterranean Groupie Blues, and followed
with several classic rock covers. On some songs she played keyboard, on others
not. Heather’s voice was rough, as though she had gargled with roofing nails.
Yet, it worked for her. The effect was captivating. Once again, Buddy wondered
why she remained virtually unknown.
As soon as Heather took a break at the end
of her first set, the four at the table resumed squabbling. Buddy soon
discerned the group’s internal dynamics. Dark-glasses girl played it aloof,
knowing the pose annoyed Hoodie-guy. Hoodie-guy grew increasingly put out at
the disregard from Dark-glasses. Blondie outwardly was marginally attached to
the spiky-haired guy, but in fact was infatuated by Dark-glasses girl on whom
she cast longing looks. Spiky was “just happy to be nominated,” and joined in
the spats simply to avoid being left out.
Heather walked past Buddy and sat at the
bar several seats away from him. Buddy leaned over to the bartender and said,
“I’d like to pay for Heather’s drink.”
“It’ll be a double Jack Daniels,” said the bartender, a young woman in a tight-fitting
blouse and clear aviator glasses.
“OK.”
The bartender put the double shot in front
of Heather and whispered to her. Heather downed the double shot in a swallow.
She briefly acknowledged Buddy with a glance and a wave of the glass. She
tapped the glass on the counter. The bartender refilled it. Heather bolted it
as quickly as the first. The third vanished the same way. She slowed down on
the fourth. She was sipping it when Buddy wended his way to her side. Buddy
thought to himself that he would be comatose if he drank so much alcohol so
fast, but he had seen Heather put away more than this without affecting her
stage performance.
“I’ve caught you act before. I like your
work,” Buddy said to her.
“I know.”
“You know?”
“Yeah, I’ve seen you. Do you think you’re
invisible?”
“You know, sometimes I do. So where are you
playing next?”
“Check my website, but you already know
that. Look, honey, if you’re slowly working around to asking me out, don’t
bother, but you can buy the rest of these rounds if you really want to.”
“Oh. Well, OK.” Paying her tab seriously
depleted his cash. He wondered if the parking garage took VISA.
Heather looked him up and down. “You’re not
a vampire,” she told him.
“Is that a shortcoming?” he asked.
“No.”
Buddy decided not to mention that, if anyone
looked like a vampire, it was Heather herself with her long black hair, pale
skin, and blood-red lipstick. He wasn’t sure if this was some off-beat humor or
if she was a little crazy.
“Your girlfriend is a vampire though.”
“Girlfriend?”
“The chick in the bad wig you gave your
seat up for. Stay away from her, even though she dumped the other boy,” said
Heather.
“You mean Hoodie-guy? She dumped him?”
“Yes, but he hasn’t accepted the fact yet.
He’s a vampire, too, by the way.”
“I see.” Buddy decided she was serious.
Apparently, Heather was daft.
She tapped the counter. The bartender was
reluctant to pour Heather another Jack
Daniels, but in the end she did.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Heather said
to Buddy. “Vampires are real, but they aren’t like in the movies with fangs and
sucking blood and shunning sunlight and all that. Vampires enter people who let
them in. They grow inside those people and live on their corruption until in
the end they are the people. If you
play with that woman, she’ll corrupt you and then you’ll be a vampire too.”
“Would you go out with me then?” he joked.
“Maybe, but you wouldn’t like it,” she
said. “I’ve got to go.”
Heather was steady on her walk back to the
stage, and began her second set without visible or audible impairment.
Heather was right about Hoodie-guy – at
least the part about him being dumped. Two songs into Heather’s set, Hoodie-guy
stood up, spilled his drink, and stomped out of the club. Blondie looked
thrilled at the development. Spiky sipped his drink wide-eyed. Dark-glasses
girl showed no emotion. She leaned over to Blondie and said something to her.
Blondie got up, went to the front door, peeked out, and came back nodding.
Heather didn’t miss a note in any of this,
but her eyes followed Dark-glasses girl as she stood up and walked over to
Buddy. Buddy noticed she was a several inches taller than he.
“Hey. Have you got a car nearby?” she asked
him.
“Yes.”
“You did me a favor, so I’ll do you one.
Get your car. Let’s go somewhere,” she said.
“With you?”
“I’m the one talking to you.”
It was the first time in his life a woman
had picked him up at a bar. He saw that Heather was right about the wig. Buddy
didn’t care if she was a vampire.
“Sure.”
“Get you car and pull it in front. You have
your cell on you, I presume.”
“Yes,” he said.
“Give.”
He slipped the phone from his pocket and
handed to her. She punched a number into his phone.
“This is my friend Regina
“The blonde girl?”
“Yes. Call her when you’re in front of the
club. We’ll come out. What kind of car is it?”
“A Jeep Liberty
“Hurry up, then. Go.”
He went.
He was out of breath by the time he reached
the garage, which did take VISA. He drove to Bleecker and rang Regina
Dark-glasses girl and her companions
hurried out of the club. Two men standing on the sidewalk suddenly had cameras
in their hands. Dark glasses girl got in his front passenger seat and the other
two got in the back.
“Pull away!” she ordered. “Head uptown.
Fast”
He followed her directions. At 3rd Avenue 18th Street
“What?”
“Did I slur my words? You want to hang with
us or what?”
He pulled to the side, slid the shift into
Park, got out of the Jeep, and switched seats with her. Buddy tried to latch
the passenger seat buckle three times before it caught.
“You’re car is a piece of crap,” said
Dark-glasses girl.
The car had 170,000 miles on it but Buddy
kept it in repair.
“It’s old but it’s got a good engine,” he
said.
“We’ll find out,” she answered.
She took off her glasses, much to Buddy’s
relief. He preferred that she be able to see. She lurched away from the curb.
She drove aggressively up to 34th and then hung a quick left into
the entrance to the Midtown Tunnel on a yellow light.
“Any of the bastards behind us?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” said Spiky. “I thought a Suburban was following us, but it
stopped at the red light.”
“Maybe he’s just being sly. Keep an eye out
for him.” They exited the tunnel and headed west on the LIE.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Buddy.”
“That sounds like a name for a German
Shepherd dog.”
“I think I was named after the character in
The Nutty Professor movie.”
“Eddie Murphy?” she asked.
“My mom preferred the Jerry Lewis version.”
“There was a Jerry Lewis version?” asked Regina
“Apparently,” said Buddy. “So who are you
guys? Why would a Suburban follow
us?”
“You don’t know?”
“Sorry, no.”
“At least this damn wig isn’t a total
waste.” The driver peeled off the wig, revealing a mane dyed blindingly DayGlo
red.
Buddy remained silent.
“You still don’t know me?” she asked
Spiky laughed in back.
“You can laugh when cars follow you,
asshole,” she said to Spiky. To Buddy she said “But you do know that nobody
singer at the club. Were you there to see her?”
“Yes, Heather Field. She’s good.”
“Yeah, she is. So what? Her act is
old-fashioned. She doesn’t put on any show on stage. The days are long gone
when you can just walk out, play music, and get anywhere. Besides, she’s too
old – in her 30s I’ll bet. It’s too late for her to break out unless she does
some stunt or commits some freaky crime that’ll get her name in the news in a
big way.”
The word “crime” connected in Buddy’s head
with the red hair.
“You’re Wendy Wolfegang.”
“I know.”
Wendy Wolfegang was a “pop tart” singing
sensation whose recording career had peaked few years earlier. Since then, drug
busts, several very public car accidents, sex tapes, brawling incidents, a
bizarre drunken Tonight Show
interview, and an arrest for public lewdness had turned her into a running joke
for late night comedians. Multiple court dates were pending for her.
Songs from Wendy’s first album continued to
rack up millions of hits on YouTube, but her second album was a complete flop,
despite (or because of) all the publicity from her misbehavior. Critics were
calling her washed up. She was 22 years old. Buddy remembered reading something
about her dating a former member of some boy band. He assumed that was
Hoodie-guy.
Wendy snapped her fingers. Spiky handed her
a flask. She took a swig and held it back over the seat. Regina
“Where are we going?” Buddy asked.
“Do you care?”
“Just curious.”
“My place, while I still own it. It’s on
the North Shore
“‘While you own it?’ Are you planning to
sell it or something?”
“It’s not really a plan. I might have to.
I’m broke,” Wendy explained.
“That’s hard to believe.”
“Believe it. I owe millions on the house.
My agent, business manager, staff, and lawyers take almost everything I make,
and the IRS takes the rest – in fact they claim I still I owe them more.”
“Why are you revealing this to me?”
“It’s not a secret. The tabloids carry on
about it, using ridiculously inflated numbers. I really need this next album
and tour to work, but the critics are fucking with me, panning it before
they’ve even heard it.”
“There is a Suburban back there,” said Spiky. “I’m sure it’s the same one. He’s
hanging back a few cars but he is definitely following.”
“He knows where we’re headed. Maybe I can
lose him by taking an early exit,” said Wendy.
“Does it matter if we’re followed?” asked
Buddy. “Don’t paparazzi follow you all the time?”
“Yeah, that’s the problem. Right now I need
to control my press. It won’t be cool for anyone in my target demographic to
buy my album and download the singles if I’m nothing but a joke. Cool is gold
in this business. It will be cool if I look like I straightened out. People
love recovery stories. But you can bet that Trevor is already badmouthing me to
some gossip-monger. Very uncool, and the comedians will be all over it. The
idiot following us wants some shots to go with the story, spinning it something
like, ‘Wendy dresses in black, mourning her failed relationship.’”
“Hey, that’s not bad,” teased Regina. “Let
me get some video with my phone so I can get on Entertainment Tonight saying how sorry I feel for you.”
“Shut up.”
“Trevor? Is that the guy in the hoodie?”
asked Buddy.
Wendy laughed. “At least you don’t know who
the hell he is,” she said. “If you recognized him and not me I’d be pissed …
unless you’re gay.”
“No, I’m not that.”
“Let’s lose the Suburban,” she said.
Wendy swung into the left lane and sped up.
The Suburban followed. Suddenly,
through a barely wide enough break between cars, she crossed lines of traffic
to the right without signaling and veered off onto exit 39. The Suburban missed the exit.
“If he’s dedicated enough, he’ll get to the
shoulder and back up against traffic in order to take the exit and get back on
our tail,” she said.
At the first traffic light, Wendy turned
left onto Glen Cove Road
“Don’t you think you should slow down?”
said Buddy
“No. Shit, I’m coming down bad. Give me
something, Regina.”
“Hold on,” said Regina.
Buddy was overcome by a smell like burning
plastic.
“What the hell is that?” he asked.
He looked back and saw Regina holding a
lighter over the bowl of a small brass pipe.
“Is that crack?” Buddy asked.
“Ooo-ooh,” Regina intoned derisively.
“Chill, it’s not a big deal. Want some?”
“No thanks,” Buddy said, coughing at the
stench. He opened his window. “Do you mind?”
“Yeah,” said Spiky. “The wind is blowing in
my face.”
“Let him breathe, Billy,” said Wendy. It is
his car, after all.”
Regina stuck another small white lump in
the bowl, and passed the pipe and lighter to Wendy. Wendy held the wheel with
her knees as she inhaled on the pipe. Regina and Wendy passed the pipe back
and forth for the next few miles. Glen
Cove Road
“Give me another hit,” said Wendy.
Wendy turned her head away from the road
and reached over the seat for the pipe. Buddy realized she didn’t see the
stopped police car up ahead sticking out into the roadway in back of a
motorist.
“Wendy!”
Wendy glanced forward, swerved around the
police car, and sideswiped a pickup truck in the left lane. The Jeep careened
rightward into the guard rail. The Jeep flipped into the air.
**** **** **** **** **** **** **** ****
**** ****
Buddy, still flying, braced for impact. He
saw the Liberty
As consciousness returned, Buddy, lying
prone, waited for the pain to kick in. It didn’t, at least not in a big way. He
was dazed, but except for some scrapes and scratches, he seemed to be
uninjured. He emerged from the trees, surprising a policewoman who was
examining the Jeep which had come to rest wheels up. A middle-aged, paunchy, balding male
photographer snapped pictures of the gruesome scene inside the car. Wendy’s
head was crushed between the dash and the collapsed roof. One arm extended
through the broken windshield. The other two passengers had not fared better. A
Suburban was parked on the road
shoulder by the guard rail.
As so often happened when strangers spoke
to him, the officer unknowingly used his name. “Whoa, Buddy, sit down. An
ambulance will be here soon. Were you in the car?”
Buddy nodded. “I don’t need an ambulance.”
“Neither do your friends,” said the
photographer.
“One is coming anyway,” said the officer.
Buddy sat down on a rock. The photographer
approached him. “Listen, kid…”
“I’m not a kid. I’m 25.”
“I don’t care. Listen, kid. You stick with
me. You’re going to need an agent.”
“An agent? For what?”
“For your story of Wendy’s last hours.
About how she dumped Trevor for you. About how your romance, now freely in the
open, was cut tragically short. We’ll get you on the morning talk shows
circuit. Her new album is going to be a monster hit now, you know, even if it’s
crap. The label might want to use you to promote it. Maybe we’ll even get an E! documentary out of it. What’s your
name?”
“Buddy.”
“Perfect. Maybe we can use that old song My Buddy. If Wendy never sang it we’ll
get a voice double to do it.”
“Look mister, I don’t want any part of what
you’re talking about,” said Buddy.
“Kid, is this your car?”
“Yes.”
“Then there will be lawsuits and maybe
charges. You’ll need money for your legal fees or your life is ruined. But
don’t worry, kid. Stick with me, and you’ll come out smelling like a rose. All
I want is a few exclusives and a 20% agent’s fee. I know tonight has been rough
on your friends, and you must feel bad about that, but, trust me, one day
you’ll realize this was you’re lucky day.”
Buddy recalled the warning Heather had
given him. She had been wrong. Wendy hadn’t turned him into a vampire. He’d
become a ghoul.
[Note:
For more on the rocker Heather Field and her keen eye for inner vampires, see
the short story Slaying the Blues, also on this site: http://richardbellush2.blogspot.com/2010_11_01_archive.html]
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