dank little dive a few blocks from the Mystic River. The barroom was set apart from the room with the foot-high, beer-stained stage by a half wall over which the silhouettes of a few regulars could be seen nursing pints and watching the Bruins game. Even the house soundman had ducked in there to drink and watch the game, leaving Billy’s mic to whistle and howl with feedback the guy pretended not to hear.
Billy knew he should be angry about it, but all he could feel was the black shroud of depression winding around him as he sang, making it hard to draw enough breath to deliver the last line when the final distorted chord receded. He didn't even bother singing it, didn't look at his mates, just stomped on a footswitch and fiddled with his tuning. As if it mattered whether or not the instruments were in tune tonight.
A few weeks earlier, Billy had stopped taking his Zoloft. The drug kept the black shroud down around his knees, but Billy knew it was doing so by suppressing the very emotions that he considered his stock in trade. To write, he needed to feel something. But the only song idea the un-medicated muse had granted him so far was a clunky title, ‘Hope Prolongs Misery.’ And that wasn’t even original, he had to admit, dressed up in a new melody or not.
The phrase had been with him since high school when Kim McLane, the first punk chick he’d ever had a crush on, had felt him staring at the nape of her neck in Sociology class and, turning to lean over her fiberglass seat, had whispered the words in his ear. Hope prolongs misery . It was the inverse of the American Dream.
For a little while, there had been Friday and Saturday night gigs. Club owners seemed satisfied that their little crowd drank like a big one, but somehow, the moment when a small following might have grown had passed and they were back to Tuesday nights and the slapback echo of bodiless spaces.
Jim Cassman, the bassist and default bandleader talked the guys into playing a few more songs and treating the empty gig like a rehearsal, but by that time, Billy already knew there was nothing to rehearse for. When Jim finally laid his bass in its case, and Andy crossed his sticks on the snare drum, Billy didn’t hang around to help load the van. He picked up his own guitar case without a word and walked out the back door while his bandmates called for their complimentary pitcher of Bud.
Outside, the sky was a luminous battleship gray, infused with urban light pollution, snowflakes swirling around in the streetlights like ash. He walked toward the river, the wet slushy snow saturating his combat boots until his feet started to go numb. Passing under the green girders of the Tobin Bridge, he saw the sign they had posted for jumpers: DESPERATE? DEPRESSED? HOPE PROLONGS MISERY. He wasn’t sure what that last part really said. Probably some 800 number.
The Tobin Bridge does not provide a scenic view of a romantic city skyline, just smoke stacks with pulsing red lights and flickering strobes, towering over vast paved lots scattered with forklifts, the crumbling asphalt somewhere giving way to the ice floes migrating down the black river. Not much to remind you of what you have to live for.
He reached the halfway point, sat down on the railing and took his guitar out of the case. He would play one last encore for the night, and then exit stage left. It felt impossibly important that the last song he and the boys had half-heartedly trudged through not be the last thing he ever sang. The last song of a lifetime should be something with heart. One more time, with feeling. Take it from the bridge. He laughed. A broken sound that seemed to come from someone else.
For a moment, he couldn’t decide what to play, couldn’t even make his fingers move properly to find a few chords and stumble upon an idea of what made sense, and he knew it wasn’t just because they were cold. He was scared. Scared, but also sure, in a peculiar, distant way. Finally, he dug in
Billy knew he should be angry about it, but all he could feel was the black shroud of depression winding around him as he sang, making it hard to draw enough breath to deliver the last line when the final distorted chord receded. He didn't even bother singing it, didn't look at his mates, just stomped on a footswitch and fiddled with his tuning. As if it mattered whether or not the instruments were in tune tonight.
A few weeks earlier, Billy had stopped taking his Zoloft. The drug kept the black shroud down around his knees, but Billy knew it was doing so by suppressing the very emotions that he considered his stock in trade. To write, he needed to feel something. But the only song idea the un-medicated muse had granted him so far was a clunky title, ‘Hope Prolongs Misery.’ And that wasn’t even original, he had to admit, dressed up in a new melody or not.
The phrase had been with him since high school when Kim McLane, the first punk chick he’d ever had a crush on, had felt him staring at the nape of her neck in Sociology class and, turning to lean over her fiberglass seat, had whispered the words in his ear. Hope prolongs misery . It was the inverse of the American Dream.
For a little while, there had been Friday and Saturday night gigs. Club owners seemed satisfied that their little crowd drank like a big one, but somehow, the moment when a small following might have grown had passed and they were back to Tuesday nights and the slapback echo of bodiless spaces.
Jim Cassman, the bassist and default bandleader talked the guys into playing a few more songs and treating the empty gig like a rehearsal, but by that time, Billy already knew there was nothing to rehearse for. When Jim finally laid his bass in its case, and Andy crossed his sticks on the snare drum, Billy didn’t hang around to help load the van. He picked up his own guitar case without a word and walked out the back door while his bandmates called for their complimentary pitcher of Bud.
Outside, the sky was a luminous battleship gray, infused with urban light pollution, snowflakes swirling around in the streetlights like ash. He walked toward the river, the wet slushy snow saturating his combat boots until his feet started to go numb. Passing under the green girders of the Tobin Bridge, he saw the sign they had posted for jumpers: DESPERATE? DEPRESSED? HOPE PROLONGS MISERY. He wasn’t sure what that last part really said. Probably some 800 number.
The Tobin Bridge does not provide a scenic view of a romantic city skyline, just smoke stacks with pulsing red lights and flickering strobes, towering over vast paved lots scattered with forklifts, the crumbling asphalt somewhere giving way to the ice floes migrating down the black river. Not much to remind you of what you have to live for.
He reached the halfway point, sat down on the railing and took his guitar out of the case. He would play one last encore for the night, and then exit stage left. It felt impossibly important that the last song he and the boys had half-heartedly trudged through not be the last thing he ever sang. The last song of a lifetime should be something with heart. One more time, with feeling. Take it from the bridge. He laughed. A broken sound that seemed to come from someone else.
For a moment, he couldn’t decide what to play, couldn’t even make his fingers move properly to find a few chords and stumble upon an idea of what made sense, and he knew it wasn’t just because they were cold. He was scared. Scared, but also sure, in a peculiar, distant way. Finally, he dug in
Similar Books
