and tore through a ragged version of a ballad called “Wrestling with Aphrodite.”
A couple of cars went by. No one stopped. He was getting colder by the minute and by the end of the song, the fear had gone down to a murmur. He took a pen from his pocket, and scribbled on the back of the night's set list: FOR JIM . He put the note in the pick compartment, laid the guitar back in the case and snapped it shut. He would leave it on the bridge for someone to find. There was a luggage tag on the case, so if whoever found it didn’t just steal it, maybe it would be connected to him when his body washed up.
He felt a pang of regret about leaving the guitar on the bridge in the freezing cold for God only knew how long, snow piling up on it. It was a Gibson, and he knew that if the guitar ended up in Jim’s care, like he wanted it to, his friend didn’t have the money to repair a warped neck.
But that guitar still had a few more Billy Moon songs in it because of what happened next.
* * *
He stood there on the edge watching the snow spiral down into the icy black water. He reminded himself of the likelihood that if he left this bridge with his feet on the ground, he would end up as assistant manager of the pharmacy where he worked as a stock boy—overweight, using his store discount to keep a small arsenal of foot-care products in the medicine cabinet of his crappy apartment, and taking his acoustic out of the closet once a year to play it when he’s drunk enough. He stepped out with one combat boot pointing toward oblivion, as light splashed over the scuffed toe.
He couldn’t help it. He looked up at the oncoming car. The light moved too slowly. It was coming to a stop.
He heard a door open, but he couldn’t make out what kind of car it was or who just got out, not with the glare of the headlights in his eyes. Then he heard a voice coming from the light: a lazy melodious voice with a British accent. It spoke his name. He was trying to make sense of what he'd just heard, but his brain flat out rejected the idea that someone had called him by name—nobody in this city knew his name. That was why he was hanging off this bridge.
Certainly no one who drove a car knew his name. All his friends rode the T. The idea it was his boss flitted through his mind, but not with an accent like that. Is someone from work fucking with me? Had it been his boss, it would have only strengthened his resolve to throw his weight forward and end it. Only that felt wrong, too, because he had been interrupted.
Playing his encore and putting the guitar to bed in its plush velvet case felt right. It kept him in his suicide trance. But he couldn’t have the last thing he ever heard be his boss offering to give him a lift, in his best Nigel Tufnel impersonation. The suicide trance felt a lot like his songwriting trance, but the perfect rhyme he could feel forming on the dark periphery of his short life turned out to be a clunker that he just couldn't bring himself to end the third verse with. It was all wrong.
The man called Billy’s name again. It must be a cop who tracked me down for something, but I haven’t done anything, he thought . There was something deeply unsettling in the taunting singsong quality of the voice and as was the way he was so exposed in the headlights, like being on stage where everyone looking at you is a faceless silhouette beyond those blinding, hot aluminum cans. How could someone feel threatened by anything when in the act of offing himself? But he did.
He stepped toward the car to put a girder between his face and the light and could see a black limousine with a driver in a cap. One of the back doors was open, allowing a pool of red light to spill out onto the road like a fever. The man behind the seductive voice stood at the edge of that pool of sickly scarlet aura, grinning at him, wearing a tan suit, no tie, and sporting slicked-back black hair. Scruffy, in a rich sort of way, like a musician. Or
A couple of cars went by. No one stopped. He was getting colder by the minute and by the end of the song, the fear had gone down to a murmur. He took a pen from his pocket, and scribbled on the back of the night's set list: FOR JIM . He put the note in the pick compartment, laid the guitar back in the case and snapped it shut. He would leave it on the bridge for someone to find. There was a luggage tag on the case, so if whoever found it didn’t just steal it, maybe it would be connected to him when his body washed up.
He felt a pang of regret about leaving the guitar on the bridge in the freezing cold for God only knew how long, snow piling up on it. It was a Gibson, and he knew that if the guitar ended up in Jim’s care, like he wanted it to, his friend didn’t have the money to repair a warped neck.
But that guitar still had a few more Billy Moon songs in it because of what happened next.
* * *
He stood there on the edge watching the snow spiral down into the icy black water. He reminded himself of the likelihood that if he left this bridge with his feet on the ground, he would end up as assistant manager of the pharmacy where he worked as a stock boy—overweight, using his store discount to keep a small arsenal of foot-care products in the medicine cabinet of his crappy apartment, and taking his acoustic out of the closet once a year to play it when he’s drunk enough. He stepped out with one combat boot pointing toward oblivion, as light splashed over the scuffed toe.
He couldn’t help it. He looked up at the oncoming car. The light moved too slowly. It was coming to a stop.
He heard a door open, but he couldn’t make out what kind of car it was or who just got out, not with the glare of the headlights in his eyes. Then he heard a voice coming from the light: a lazy melodious voice with a British accent. It spoke his name. He was trying to make sense of what he'd just heard, but his brain flat out rejected the idea that someone had called him by name—nobody in this city knew his name. That was why he was hanging off this bridge.
Certainly no one who drove a car knew his name. All his friends rode the T. The idea it was his boss flitted through his mind, but not with an accent like that. Is someone from work fucking with me? Had it been his boss, it would have only strengthened his resolve to throw his weight forward and end it. Only that felt wrong, too, because he had been interrupted.
Playing his encore and putting the guitar to bed in its plush velvet case felt right. It kept him in his suicide trance. But he couldn’t have the last thing he ever heard be his boss offering to give him a lift, in his best Nigel Tufnel impersonation. The suicide trance felt a lot like his songwriting trance, but the perfect rhyme he could feel forming on the dark periphery of his short life turned out to be a clunker that he just couldn't bring himself to end the third verse with. It was all wrong.
The man called Billy’s name again. It must be a cop who tracked me down for something, but I haven’t done anything, he thought . There was something deeply unsettling in the taunting singsong quality of the voice and as was the way he was so exposed in the headlights, like being on stage where everyone looking at you is a faceless silhouette beyond those blinding, hot aluminum cans. How could someone feel threatened by anything when in the act of offing himself? But he did.
He stepped toward the car to put a girder between his face and the light and could see a black limousine with a driver in a cap. One of the back doors was open, allowing a pool of red light to spill out onto the road like a fever. The man behind the seductive voice stood at the edge of that pool of sickly scarlet aura, grinning at him, wearing a tan suit, no tie, and sporting slicked-back black hair. Scruffy, in a rich sort of way, like a musician. Or
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