Dispatch #22: Wild Times at the Ruby Slipper (pt. 4)
a novelette on love, death, and country music, part 4 of 4
Hey Dorks—
A special Wednesday edition of the Dork Mansion Dispatch! Below, find the thrilling conclusion to “Wild Times at the Ruby Slipper.”
Pt. 3 Recap: When Randy and Lynda’s band, the Wagoneers, burns hot and burns out in the mid 80s, they return home to Grainger, TX and open the Ruby Slipper; in present day, Den gets high with Marty, the lead singer in a band, and is reborn right back into real life, and Lynda decides to burn down her beloved bar.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
Last Night: Lynda
Lynda tore the green room apart looking for a light. She had already found a bundle of quarter sheets from some long-ago gig and turned it into kindling in the trashcan in the corner. Then she raided a cabinet and found a half-empty bottle of rubbing alcohol in a first aid kit. And now she needed to seal the deal.
"Randy if you can hear me," she said, eyes to the heavens. "I need fire!"
She opened the cabinet again, dumped the rest of the contents on the floor. She got down on her hands and knees and peered under the couch. She went through the boxes under the windowsill, all filled with posters and more quarter sheets from forgotten shows. The room was torn to shreds and no combustion was to be found.
She ran a hand through her sweaty, matted hair, her tidy braid long undone.
"The couch."
She lunged at the couch cushions and threw them across the room. She ran her hand along the side seam, along the back seem, along the other side.
"Bic!"
She raised the lighter high like a trophy and immediately dropped it, startled by a knock on the door. She dropped down to her hands and knees and fetched it from under the couch.
"What," she said, holding the lighter tightly with both hands.
Marty stood outside the green room door, mid knock and still gently tripping.
"Lynda Cole," she said.
Lynda looked over her shoulder, all anxious energy and unsure why she opened the door in the first place.
"What do you need, I'm," she said, looking over her shoulder at the makeshift fireplace in the corner. "Busy."
Marty saw the upturned room and looked up at Lynda. She walked in, replaced a couch cushion, and sat down.
"I just wanted to settle up," she said.
Lynda thrust herself back into bar owner mode, her frenzy extinguished.
"Oh, Jesus, of course," she said. "OK. Hold on."
Lynda walked back to the bar. Larry was passed out in his spot, and the bartender and Meatball were tidying up and resetting the bar as if they'd be coming back for more tomorrow. She still didn't have the heart to tell them. She grabbed a plastic bag with a few limes and dumped them out. She opened the cash register, stacked all the bills, and put them in the bag.
"Meaty, sweetheart," she called to the front door. He was counting up the cover. She waved him over.
"Just put it in here, honey."
"But I haven't--"
"Thanks, hon."
Meatball slowly set the bills in with the others. Lynda winked and went back to the green room. In a deft motion she twisted the handles of the plastic bag and tied it off. She tossed it to Marty.
"Here you go, safe travels."
Marty regarded the bag with confusion and delight. She hefted it, feeling its weight. Lynda stood impatiently by the trash can, fidgeting with the lighter, working up the nerve again.
Marty stood up.
"This is too much. There were like 12 people and half of them work here. I think our guarantee was like one fifty, so--"
"Listen, I just need you to go. Take the money, I don't want it." She moved to sweep Marty out of the room and Marty saw the lighter in her hand. She looked at the trash can and finally placed the smell of rubbing alcohol.
"Lynda Cole," Marty said, a smile of realization on her face. "You're gonna light this place up."
"They’re gonna tear it down anyway, figure I'd save em the trouble."
The lighter took a few flicks before giving a spark, but soon Lynda touched a steady flame to the paper in the basket and the whole thing went up.
"We had a few more good records in us," she said as the flames rose higher. "But when I said the word, Randy pulled the trigger. He was a mean son of a bitch when I met him, tell you what. But he tanked the whole operation for me. And now there's nothing left."
Marty got up and put her arm around Lynda. They both watched the flames until Larry ran in with a fire extinguisher.
"Jesus H Christ on a Cross, Lyn, ya nuts?"
#
2022: Randy
I don't know how long I was out for this stretch but I can tell it wasn't long enough. I sit up and take a long drink of water to get the taste of pennies out of my mouth but it doesn't go away. I cough for a few minutes and stand up to piss.
I go downstairs and try to keep quiet while I make a pot of coffee and fry up a couple sausages and eggs for breakfast. While they're cooking I go check the mail and fetch the paper. The neighbor has his sprinklers on and I stand there smiling on the sidewalk in my slippers and bath robe feeling mist on my face and the hot morning sun on my bald head.
Inside Lynda's stirring on the sofa bed so I bring her a cup of coffee and set it in the side table. I sit on the arm of the couch and watch her sleep, this being the only place she can catch a wink since my fits started. She's on her belly like always, face turned towards me and her cheek all smooshed up. She's singing. I kiss my hand and touch her head and go eat my breakfast.
I catch myself after I eat and barely make it upstairs before another attack. Breakfast comes up, along with an unholy mess of blood and bile, most of which ends up in the commode. I clean up and turn my other end to it and figure I'm finally empty.
I get dressed and comb my hair, now just a white mud flap down to my collar. I grab my keys and kiss Lynda on her cheek. She's up and reading the paper and on her second cup of Joe. I refill my own mug and head out the door.
The truck starts easy. I take my sunglasses from the visor band and open the glove box. the pack of Marlboro reds is half empty. I light one and crank the windows down and turn up the radio. There's a man telling me if I have mesothelioma I could be entitled to compensation. If only it were that easy, cap.
I pull out and head to the Ruby to get the cash from the safe and take it to the bank. Before I go I add a couple splashes of Irish whiskey to my coffee mug and turn on the TV. The lights are on low and you can’t tell it's hot and sunny outside. Might as well be dead of winter. Might as well be three in the morning. Can't tell. The Ruby time warp. Might as well be thirty years ago.
I watch the TV on mute and drink my coffee. There's something about baseball and then a dozen commercials for miracle drugs that can't fix me. I cough again but not bad this time. I finish my coffee and take another nip straight from the bottle. It burns my shredded throat.
I take the zipped up canvas bag of cash and tuck it under my arm. I squint into the late morning sun and get back in the truck. At the bank I fill out a deposit slip and hand it with the bag to the same pretty lady I always do. We go through the routine. Nice to see again, Mr. Cole. Always a pleasure, Ms. Olivia. Got any big plans today, Mr Cole? Staying out of trouble, ma'am. Well you come back and see me. Take care.
Instead of heading back to the house I stay on 90 for another couple miles. A heron pecks at some standing water in a ditch and cocks her head as I drive by. I give her the high sign.
I knock on Larry's door and no surprise it takes him forever and a day to answer. I sit on his rocking chair and smoke and watch the trucks go by. Across the street there's a Dairy Queen and a Dollar General and a place to get your nails done.
When Larry answers he's in his skivvies and under shirt so I ask if I can come in where he'd be more comfortable. We sit at his kitchen table and I walk him through the letter I had folded up in my shirt pocket. He asks me if this is a joke and I tell him no it's not. I pull out a pen and sign it and motion to him to do the same. I can tell he hesitates so I tell him it's alright and everything will be just fine.
He gives me a big hug and I pat him on the back and get back in the truck. I give him a wave and beep my horn as I pull out the driveway. I cut off the radio and just listen to the road for awhile until I realize I missed my turn. I make the block and get back where I was going. I pull into the U-Store-It driveway and punch my code into the little keypad and pull through once the gate arm lifts. I drive to the back and park. The sun’s straight up now and I can see little mirages hovering on the asphalt. The pine trees on the other side of the barbed wire fence loom tall and parched.
It hurts to crouch down but if I get on my knees I'd never get up again, so I bend down low and fiddle with the padlock until it pops open. I take a deep breath and lean back as the pain goes from stabbing to burning, then I roll open the door. The familiar smell of air conditioning and lacquer. Stacks of black guitar cases, floor to ceiling, in two neat rows. Next to that are my Slingerland drum shells, also in black cases. Lined up among the wall are my amps—Marshall, Orange, Fender black panels. Road warriors. I take two guitars off the stack them in the bed of my truck. I breathe deep but don't pause putting the door down and painfully resetting the lock.
The guys at the Come and Tape It recording studio are young and dumb but they're sweet kids with good taste. I want to see their faces when they see what I have for them. Just a taste of what’s to come, I tell them. Benefit of being old as shit is your old stuff, some of it anyway, is now treasured. Vintage. Haha.
Normally by this time I'd be home for a nap before heading to the Ruby with Lynda but today I go to the gas station off Taft with the lady that makes the oyster po-boys and eat one in my truck with a Miller Lite tall boy right out of the fridge. I eat it slow and wipe the mayonnaise from my mouth with the back of my hand. When it's over I just close my eyes and think about every good sandwich I've ever had. Of all places that Reuben in some far-flung corner of Montana is probably still top 3. But this oyster po-boy is probably number 1.
I crank up the truck and immediately start coughing again and I keep my foot on the break until it passes. I piss myself so decide to go home instead of straight to the Ruby to sort that out. Lynda's just pulling out of the driveway in her rust bucket Peugot by the time I get home and she waits for me to change so we can go open up together. She's a saint, that woman. I change into my cleanest dirty clothes and creak back downstairs. I buckle my seatbelt but realize I left my smokes in the truck and move to get out but Lyn puts her hand on my chest like I'm a toddler and she just slammed the breaks. She asks if I’m insane. I wave it off and say just drive.
We see a stranger knocking on the front door when we pull into the alley and around back. Lyn yells out the open the window that we open at 3. He knocks again after we cut on the lights and I open the door to tell him to piss off. Mr. Cole? he says. Randy, but yeah. What do you want. He says he's there on behalf of the NRC, the National Recording Company and I know I can't be interested in anything that comes out next. I tell him to piss off and close the door. I hear him out there saying that he's been trying to call and write and go through friends of friends to ask if I knew it's the 50th anniversary of the first RC and the Wagoneers record and that they could help us cash in on a little reissue and maybe a vanity tour or some shit like the Eagles or the Mick Fleetwoods. I open the door and hock a bloody snot ball on the sidewalk and tell him to piss off a third time.
I spend the afternoon getting slowly sauced with the regulars and thinking about the oyster po-boy. I watch Lyn move and realize all over again that she has the most perfect ass I've ever seen and wonder how I still have the pleasure of watching it work every day.
The first band is an outfit of local dirtbags I'm not sure why I booked other than I liked the name. The Mind Killers. Sci-fi shit, I like that. Sounds like it's their first show, they're rough around the edges, but I dig it. Gotta start somewhere. They play a tight 30 which I also appreciate and load off quick and when the front guy comes over with his little red drink ticket for his well whiskey I lean over the bar and say I like the tunes, son. That turn around on the minor 7 in the third number, that's songwriting, son. I can tell he hears me because he came over all hang dog and brightened up after I say it. I pour him a double and tell him to keep it up.
#
Last Night: Den
Den swished the puke out of his mouth with Gatorade in the Pequod and lit a cigarette. He laid on top of the van, willing the drugs and alcohol out of his body. The stars' dancing slowed and the cloudless sky echoed with the light of the waxing crescent moon. The air was still and wet and cold, and the bullfrogs and crickets buzzed louder than the highway in the distance.
"Den?" a voice called out. "Den you still here?"
Den sat up and saw Steve, the Mind Killers drummer, standing in the parking lot.
"Yo," he said. "Up here."
Steve said he called after he put the kids to bed, but Den didn't answer so he checked his house and his roommates said he might still be at work. He hoisted himself up on the roof of the van and watched the stars for a while. Den told him about the Ruby and asked him if he'd ever heard of a co-working space before. Steve said he watched a movie about it on Netflix and whatever it was somebody was making a killing on it.
They shared a thick silence only old friends know, on the cusp of a conversation neither wants to have. Steve said he watched the video message a couple times at work and had to take a walk to cool off.
"I was just like, fuck man. Can't even tell it to us straight, you know? And I know I got a little hot last night after loading out, but you don't seem to understand how shitty it is to be in this band, having a great fucking time, and then see you having a bad attitude all over the place. Like, this is supposed to be fun! And it hurts to see you like this, man. Like, we could be the fucking kings of this town! We could be playing downtown every weekend if we wanted."
"Yeah," Den said, momentarily unable to hold himself back. "Opening up for a karaoke night? Or a Steve Miller cover band?"
"See there you fucking go," Steve said, sitting up. "Negative fucking shit! Who cares who we open for? We're hanging out with our friends, man. We're playing fucking rock and roll. I could do this forever and die happy. You could, too, man."
Den closed his eyes. He willed himself to be fine with things as they were, just settle into the Grainger lifestyle.
"Yeah man," he said. "That sounds great."
"Thank you!" Steve said, throwing his arms up for effect. "So you're not going thermonuclear on us? Practice on Tuesday?"
"Yeah man, see yall Tuesday." They hopped off the van and Steven enveloped Den in a tight bear hug. "Fucking love you dude. Yo by the way-- Why didn't you answer the calls or texts and stuff?"
Den laughed. "I might've thrown my phone into the woods."
Steve laughed and punched Den in the shoulder. Steve called Den's number and flipped his phone flashlight on and they scoured the woods. Den spotted it a few paces in. The screen was cracked and muddy, but it still worked.
"Damn, must've hit a tree."
Den watched Steve's taillights go around the bend and out of view. He leaned into his van and grabbed a cigarette.
Den's music gear was still in the car from the night before. He allowed himself to dream about getting back in the car and driving, no destination in mind, never to return to Grainger. Maybe go to the beach; he hadn't been to the beach since he was a kid. Maybe hop on I-10 and go to Florida. Or maybe California would be closer. Maybe the desert would do him good. Or maybe the mountains. He met a band from Denver at the Ruby last year and he asked them about the weed and snow. Maybe Denver was the right spot. Maybe he could roll into a new town and find a bar back gig. He tallied up the liquid assets he had and figured he might be able to swing a hotel room or two, maybe sleep in the van a few nights, scrape by until his first paycheck. Then maybe find an apartment or a room in a house nearby, find a new band that gave a shit about art and before he could think about it he was back in the Pequod, going 50 in a 35. He flashed the peace sign to the 12-passenger van going the opposite direction, back to the Ruby, and hit the gas.
#
Today: Lynda
When the club finally cleared out, Lynda cut out the lights but couldn't leave. She lay on the floor and closed her eyes, spread her arms out and felt the worn wooden floor with her open palms.
As the first wisps of morning light made their way through a gap in the door, Lynda opened her eyes. She sat up, rubbed her eyes awake, and looked over the bar. On her feet, she walked over to the framed picture and blew a final kiss to the couple, larger than life, freer than wind, filled with endless potential.
###