The driver resembles no mortician I could’ve imagined. A young man in dark denim and a sleeveless T-shirt, feet covered in two-tone black-and-white oxfords. Barely an inch of his exposed skin is free of ink. Arms illustrated with arch-backed Halloween cats yowling at zombie lovers who rot in each other’s arms. Green-skinned witches drawn like pinups fly across the ham of his bicep, their gartered thighs wrapped around broomsticks as if in copulation. Even the man’s neck is tattooed with tiny leaking punctures meant to resemble vampire bites. The only clean patch left is a handsome face. Not the chiseled jaw of an All-American quarterback, but attractive despite chubby cheeks. He fingers the grease-laden pompadour atop his head while the cowboy waits against the car.
“Can I help you?” I ask. I’m a little fearful that they’ve followed me here. I keep trying not to stare at the gun. The cowboy keeps the same quiet intensity from the march.
“Holy shit,” the tattooed one says. His voice is high-pitched like some brat that’s never fully matured. Considering his looks, I bet most women must find it a real shame.
Strangers often approach me as if I exist only for their amusement, but this man doesn’t have the sideshow glee of someone ready to jeer. No, his face reminds me of the trance my father slipped into when the spirit ran hot and the faithful convulsed with Bibles clutched against their chests. This is the mania of worship. Even before he reaches me, I know this man desires communion.
“I mean, holy shit,” the tattooed man says. Closer now, I smell the mint chewing gum smacking between his jaws. The cowboy keeps his distance. He hasn’t even acknowledged his partner’s excitement.
The illustrated man extends a hand. DEAD tattooed on his left knuckles. LOVE on his right. “My name’s Russell Watson. Mr. Bragg, I’m your biggest fan.”
“Watson” is a common enough name, but I think of the protests, of the college girls with their picket signs.
“One of the Watsons?” I ask.
Russell’s face goes red at the mention of his surname. “Don’t judge me the same as my daddy,” he says. “I despise everything that son of a bitch stands for.”
“It’s true,” the cowboy says. “If he wasn’t an ally, I wouldn’t ride with him.”
The blurted confession explains the tattoos and the odd friendship. Rich kid rebellion, guilt because the silver spoon was acquired at the expense of others. Still, I understand the sentiment. It’s the same way I felt about my father.
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” I say. It’s been years since I’ve felt the grip of a man’s handshake. My first reaction is to pull away, but I resist that impulse. Russell jerks my arm hard. He’s grinning again, so I start to wonder what he meant by “fan.”
“This is surreal,” he says. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
“How can I help you, gentlemen?” I ask.
“I told you, man. I’m a huge fan. When Victor here saw you down at the protest, I knew we had to come introduce ourselves.”
“Big fans,” the cowboy says with little enthusiasm. It’s clear he’s only here because his friend wishes to meet me. He’s bored with this errand.
“I think you’re mistaken,” I say. “I’m not whoever you think I am.”
“Come on, man. You grew up playing with Angela Carver. You’re an original Troubadour.”
I try to control my face and hide the shock. Panic floods in as I construct a million different lies at once. What I need is to remain calm and keep my composure. A lot of people remember I played with Angela as a child. It doesn’t mean he’s sussed out our current arrangement or knows everything about our history. Still, it’s a dangerous precedent. If the truth is ever revealed, it will ruin Angela and steal my anonymity. After all this time, some part of me still wants to protect her.
“You’re mistaken,” I say.
“No, I’m not,” Russell says. “I’ve seen a bootleg tape of you and Angela Carver playing ‘The Poison Flood’ from the first Troubadours record. You’re in Bowling Green, Kentucky, two years before the album dropped. You guys were called The Ramblers back then, but it’s you.”
I remember that night. We were onstage in some biker bar, surrounded by hollow-eyed drunks and big-haired women wearing their lover’s leather jacket. The microphone smelled of bourbon and my ears rang from the amplifiers until all that remained was feedback. Even then, I knew my hearing would never fully recover, just listened to the swan song of that certain decibel and welcomed it. With the gain cranked loud enough, there was no silence between songs to hear the audience whispering. I could just avoid looking at their lips and pretend all the wide eyes were from the sounds coming out of my guitar.
“I had to meet you,” Russell says. “It’s amazing that someone from here could make music like that.”
We were just dumb hicks killing time, but I recognize the myth building, can see Russell turning a lucky bar band into a bunch of poor kids expressing their resilience through art. Nothing so serious ever crossed my mind. I kept playing because it made Angela need me.
“Listen,” Russell says. “Our band, we’ve been together for a few years. We’re all giant Troubadours fans. Murphy down at the pawnshop said you had a lot of music memorabilia. I was wondering if you have anything from Angela Carver or The Troubadours you’d be willing to let us see. Maybe share some of the old war stories?”
I suppose I deserve this for not being more careful. Secrets stay kept by convincing yourself the past never really happened. I should’ve destroyed all those relics years ago, but I’d just been too nostalgic about past glories. The night I showed Caroline the guitar Angela signed, I’d been drunk with gratitude, looking to impress the beautiful woman who occasionally shared my bed. I needed her to see I’d accomplished something once.
“I played with Angela, but I was never really a member,” I say. “I don’t really have anything worth showing.”
Behind us, Victor rests on the car hood. I’m beginning to discern this relationship. The master and the servant, but I still can’t figure how the two hooked up. Even if Russell is in some sort of rebellion against his father, it feels extreme that he’d befriend someone like Victor. It’s one thing to resent your family’s privilege, it’s another thing entirely to actively try to dismantle it.
“Come on,” Russell says. “Too big-time to thrill some locals?” Something in his voice sounds truly slighted. I’m not surprised he isn’t convinced. My lies never hold water. “I just want to see the stash.”
“All right,” I say.
Russell smiles, but Victor doesn’t budge from his place on the car. “Do you mind if I walk down to the creek while you’re visiting?” Victor asks Russell. “I wanna take some water samples.”