“Absolutely.”
“You don’t have to admit anything. The proof is right there in your band name. Farewell Ghost? There are maybe one in ten million people who still know what that is, and even fewer who’ve tried it.”
“Well, you’ll have to ask my bassist,” Clay kept on. “Fiasco Joe? He was the one who suggested the name. I just thought it sounded better than The Queefs.”
“Now who’s lying through their gosh-darn teeth?” Essie flashed a grin in the dark. “Boyle’s still in the Generator. I hear you in there, talking to him.”
“Listen, Es, I think we need to pretend like this conversation never happened. If you heard me talking to anyone, it was one of my bandmates. If I was out there alone, you probably heard me reading lyrics. It’s part of my writing process.”
Essie’s hand was cold as she reached under his sheet to seize his bare ankle. “Boyle trusts you, but he doesn’t feel the same about me yet. All I ask is you mention my gift to him. I’ve trained my whole life to communicate with the dead, with the mystics of Jeramigo Canyon and elsewhere. I can help him be at peace. If you’re really his friend, you’ll—”
“Okay, yeah. I’ll put in a word for you.”
The cold hand went away. Essie’s nightgown floated back across the room.
“This is why you’re with him, isn’t it?” Clay told her. His voice was sure-footed again. “You only want to hit the medium jackpot.”
“I would never do that to another soul. Your father is a sweet, good man. I’m grateful for his kindness, and to be with him.”
“Well, I’ll be sure to tell him all this, so he can disown me.” Clay inserted his earbuds. “Close the door behind you.”
Essie stood defiantly in the doorway. Before she did as he asked.
Fortunately, for everyone involved, Rocco Boyle didn’t turn into a violent spirit. So lonely was the occupying soul, so concerned he’d be abandoned by the only people who still knew he existed, that when Clay returned to the Generator with a pair of guitars, he’d hardly set foot inside before Boyle emerged. I never struck anyone in my life, he said. Not even in the school yard in seventh grade, when most of my classmates were the cruelest bunch of assholes imaginable. Violence was my old man’s style. I spent my life doin’ the opposite of him. It worked most of the time.
“Is this your way of saying sorry, Rocco?” Clay asked.
I was never real good at it, but yeah—sorry’d be the word.
Clay set the guitars—a black-and-blonde Telecaster and a “dragon’s blood” B.C. Rich Eagle—down on the couch for Boyle’s examination.
“For a small restocking fee, I can return any guitar I buy at Dooley’s Den within 48 hours.”
What do you need two at a time for? You’re not a rock god yet, my friend.
“I thought we could jam.”
Won’t someone see? He lifted the Telecaster to illustrate how it could play itself in mid-air. I don’t want your feisty new housemate walkin’ in and makin’ brownies in her pants.
“Oh, don’t worry, Essie’s informed me she’s a medium with special powers. Have you gotten that impression? Does she have what Savy and I have?”
Boyle’s laughter started long before Clay could finish. She’s in here every few days. I have to click off the internet so she doesn’t think you’re the one browsin’ MILF porn sites. But yesterday she found your Ouija board. She started doin’ some kind of new-agey chant with it.
“Yeah, she’s studied with the mystiques of Catatonia Canyon.”
I went right up to her face, shouted Booooo! Nothin’. Total blank. I think even Ganek’s wife was less dense.
“Shhhheeeeeet,” Clay laughed. “I’ll have to start locking the door and pulling the blinds.”
Speakin’ of Ganek, was that him drinking by the pool yesterday?
“It was. I offered to bring him in here, but he was… reluctant.”
A lot of that goin’ around these days.
“Don’t worry, I don’t have enough friends to chuck you aside, Roc.” Clay lifted the B.C. Rich and tossed the strap over his head. “And for the next few days, Essie won’t be bugging us. Her and my father left for a weekend in wine country. So what say you?”
I don’t know. The biggest difference between life and death, to me, is tactile. It’s like knowing how to play piano, then having to do Chopin with oven mitts.
“The first time I heard you in here, I challenged you to play ‘American Rapture’ and you did it perfectly. So quit bellyaching. Unless you’re worried I’ll show you up.”
Show me up?
“Like maybe you think I’m going to blow your ass through the wall.”
Alright. Shut up and tune down.
Clay chuckled and plugged them both in.“What’s the song of choice?”
One of mine, of course. Tip the deck in my favor.
Boyle tuned to Drop D and broke into “Occasional Pleasure & Guaranteed Pain.” It was rough going at first. He stopped, re-started, fucked up right away, re-started again. But within minutes, the strings were twitching and snapping with melodic precision, and Clay shut his eyes and joined in. They played half of Watch It Burn! and most of The Disharmonic, along with a handful of Metallica and System of a Down favorites.
“Oven mitts or not, you could still mop the stage with me.”
Yeah, move over, Rover! Boyle laughed, sounding about as relieved as he did amused. But not for long. Call that gut instinct—even if I ain’t got guts no more. You’re twice the guitarist you were even a month ago.
“Thank you. My ass is here all morning if you want to keep kissing it.”
No, I’ll leave the kissin’ of private parts to your guitar player.
Clay grimaced and Boyle cracked up. Ha! Knew it! How many times did I warn you to leave the pie alone? Just had to serve yourself, huh?
“It happened after the fire. Imminent death has a way of making you randy and impulsive.”
Boyle lowered the Fender. I guess if I ever had a
