I know you’re gone, gone before all this started, but I wanted you to know how it is now, anyway. I wanted you to know that it’s alright. Most people, they’ll say that the world’s gone to hell in a hand cart and I guess if you just look at the evidence then you’d nod right along and say it was so. But that’s only half of it, I reckon and you always told me that a story’s got two sides, same as any coin in the world, and I think this one has too. So this is my side of it all.

First and foremost, yeah, most people are gone now, there’s no getting round that fact. The government said one thing, the people said another; I figure the truth’s about halfway, just about. The TV used words like ‘virus’ and some-such and then the TV died and people came up with their own words for it. Whatever they called it, it was a bad thing, pa. And people, they didn’t die easy, neither. They screamed and then…rotted and then, well, I guess they came back, one way or another. They came back, but not whole, not like they were just repeating themselves. They kept all the scars and wounds and trouble that led to the end of them and then just kept on going, like they didn’t know they were dead.

Maybe they didn’t, I don’t know. But it happened all the same. The government tried to fudge that, too; said statistics showed that not so many people died as they first thought. Well, they might not have died, but they sure weren’t living, that much was sure.

But people banded together, the way they always do. Camps and settlements and just about every sort of group came together afterwards. Some were good and some were bad, like it was showing us that the world hadn’t changed so much, not really. I got with a good group and we made our place. And I guess in the movies and on the shows, this is the part when it ends, or maybe some struggles ensue. But real life ain’t a story that’s ever written, right pa? It’s lived. And this is how mine came about.

I became a teacher of sorts, right after you died, pa, pretty much. Not a full blown teacher, but an assistant, more like, helping out and doing what I could. After this all blew up, I figured that would be the end of it, as far as the education went, but I was proved wrong on that count, by a quite a way, in the end. I taught the kids that were in my settlement; some were good and some were bad, the same as they ever were.

And then, I decided I wanted to teach the others, too. The ones who weren’t living but not dying, neither.

Let me tell you, pa, when I started it up, well, there was quite a stir. I got threatened a fair bit, thrown out of the camp, ready to pass sentence on me. Now, in this world, there are rules, pa, but not the ones you were used to living by; instead it’s a set of rules that bend or break to suit the situation; it’s a good and a bad basis for life, but on this occasion I didn’t have no complaints; I was lucky to be left living, was the view of most folks where I was. In the end, they left me in a corner, far away from everybody else.

But living I was and teaching was what I set my heart on doing for them. There were a lot of rumours about these poor unfortunates, stories about attacking people, eating and whatnot and the more time I spent with them, the less I found it to be true. I’d say that most of what people said was a lie and all of what went up on the TV screens before the electricity popped was bull. Most of them only ate what they were given and none of them went looking for a living thing. I saw one of them petting a cat like it was a damn baby. I guess what I’m trying to say, pa, is a I saw more in them than most; I didn’t think they were monsters, not by a long way and I think I saw a little bit more life in them than other folks; I saw…residuals, I guess. A flicker in an eye, the way a hand would move, like it was searching for something and not just groping in the dirt. There was something there, I was sure of it. So I went to work.

I got the ones gathered round my place together and set them down on benches, like some nightmare country fair, or something. They let me lead them by the hand and they sat still, gold as gold, once I put them where I thought was best. I got out an old board I had stashed away and I started up things for them to do; simple things, the way you’d do for a kid who was slow or troubled. I started on one thing and if it didn’t work out I tried something new. I remembered some tricks the other teachers used to do to make the lessons work and I’ll be damned if they didn’t work a little when I tried them, too! After a while, I got each of them onto something that they liked well enough.

Do you think I was wrong, pa?

I know there’s no way of you telling, same as there’s no real way of me knowing, but it doesn’t feel bad. It feels like I’m making them happy or something. Sure, some of the kids from over the way come and point and laugh. They throw rocks and taunt them until I chase them away. But when that happens, I see how they react, all huddled up and kind of shamed, and I wonder who the real monsters are. Other grown up folk stop by and they warn me; come up with dumb ideas about armies and threaten me with their stolen weapons that they carry around in broad daylight, just as pleased as punch. But they won’t do anything, pa, I’m sure of that. They hide behind it, see; the weapons and the doubts and the fears. They make themselves bigger by making others hide. But I know if something happens, something real, they’ll go running just as sure as they did the first time round when it all started up. So, I guess what I’m saying pa, is I’m not so scared, not really.

Do they get anything out of it? I honestly don’t know. They copy well enough and sometimes I see them gathering themselves up, as if they’re readying themselves to do something, before they slip on back to how they were and my heart just about sinks. But sometimes, pa…sometimes I think they’ll make it. Maybe they’ll remember a part of themselves; that I’ll show them just one thing that will trigger something, something buried inside and they’ll grow a little from the inside to the out. Maybe they’ll find a little of themselves and then…and then who knows?

I still sleep safe at night, pa. I’ve built a set-up in the trees. I did it to keep them from me, but now, I do it to stay out of sight from the folks who go roaming at night. Sometimes I think they’re looking for me and other times I get the idea they’re just looking for anything moving. I watch their torches and hear them hollering and pa; it chills me more than anything else I’ve seen so far. But other times…other times I look out from where I’m sitting and I see the stars and the moon and it’s like nothing’s happened; nothing too serious, at least. And then I see them shuffling along-they don’t sleep, not really-and I fool myself into half-thinking they’re looking at the stars, too. Maybe they are. And when I see something like that I think we do have a chance at something, somehow. And other times, I realise it’s just wishful thinking, more than likely.

So there you are pa, you know how the world died and then started living again. Some say its hell and some say it’s the same as it ever was. I think it’s some place in-between and that thought doesn’t scare me. Hell, the world was much the same, just in a different light, before all this; so maybe it’s all just a case of showing our true colours. All I know it’s not as strong without you being part of it, pa.

Your loving son.

I was in my final year of music school when Hank Mobley’s ghost appeared in my dorm room. He looked just like he did on the cover of Workout – on one knee, smoking a cigarette, his horn on a chair next to him, which had mysteriously replaced my George Foreman Grill.
 
He was in one of those suits that screamed: The sixties were fucking cool and you weren’t there.
 
I rubbed my beard. What do you say to your idol?
 
“Hey Hank. What’s up?”
 
He nodded, took another puff, his eyes focused on a distant point. Perhaps the empty case of Keystone Light.
 
Then he was gone. That’s how the Hank Mobley Tribute Band was born.
 
***
 
Sure, I had smoked opium that night and, yes, he didn’t actually say anything, but it was a sign – fuck that, it was a calling. I didn’t see Coltrane or Miles or Hendrix or Ornette Coleman. I saw Hank Mobley.
 
A few weeks later I’d transcribed all his tunes and most of his solos. I found a rhythm section and booked a bunch of shows. Small time stuff – wedding receptions, bars, pizza parlors. Enough to pay the bills.
 
Needless to say, people didn’t dig our sound. But they pretended to like jazz so they could appear intellectual.
 
Made no difference to me as long as they kept handing over the cash. I existed on a different plane than them, worshipping at the altar of the tenor saxophone god. Sometimes, when I was real into it, I would just let go, and I swear Mobley’s spirit would move my fingers. That’s when I played the real swinging shit.
 
But not everyone was as content as I was. The old men wanted Sinatra – they would stuff a dollar in the tip jar, say the band should play “My Way,” and wink as if this were some inside joke. I would pull the dollar out of the tip jar and shove it back into the geezer’s hand.
 
The Boomers cried for the Beatles and the kids demanded Miley Cyrus.
 
I told them all the same thing: “We play hard bop. You can shut the fuck up and learn something, or you can leave.”
 
That’s what got to me – the disrespect. And it wasn’t just with stupid requests.
 
This one time I was playing a cocktail hour at the Frosted Hills Country Club. One of those places with a chandelier every five feet just in case you forgot for a second how much a membership was worth.
 
I was waiting outside for the rest of the band to show when a shithead in a Porsche Boxster convertible screeched into the parking lot. Shithead sported a pink polo with a popped collar, stubble that was somehow lovingly maintained, and an orange glow courtesy of a tanning booth.
 
He catapulted over the car door because he could.
 
“Park it in the front row so I can see it.”
 
He threw the keys. I didn’t flinch. They landed at my feet.
 
“I don’t work here.”
 
“What?”
 
“Did I stutter?”
 
***
 
Our first set was smooth. We had a new drummer, Chloe, who played with only a ride cymbal and a hi-hat – she said playing with a full kit was for pussies. No one was paying any attention, but we knew we sounded tight – really communing with Mobley’s spirit – and that’s what mattered. 
 
Chloe and I went to the bar and ordered drinks when Shithead sidled up. He was chewing on the toothpick end of a neon green drink umbrella.
 
“Hey – you guys are in the band, right? You guys are uh good. But . . . it’s a bit sleepy.” He snapped and pointed. “You know what? You should play Piano Man, the Billy Joel song?”
 
Chloe said, “Seriously?”
 
“Oh yeah, it’s prime.” He leaned against the bar, twirled the umbrella from one side of his mouth to the other. “Pumps up the crowd and the chicks absolutely love it. They’ll be singing along in no time.”
 
“Excellent suggestion,” I said. “I know that one, Chloe. We can open the next set with it.”
 
I pushed in the bar stool and left, Chloe following close behind.
 
“What was that?” Chloe said.
 
“What was what?”
 
“You back there – keeping it together. I thought you were going to flip. I mean, fucking Piano Man?”
 
I shrugged. “Let’s just say I’m leaving it in the hands of a higher power.”
 
***
 
First thing in the morning – before I take a leak or shower or brush my teeth – I shed. Day after the gig was no different. Played scales, a couple of exercises. All warmed up, I ran through “This I Dig of You.” Played the solo from memory. Next was “No Room for Squares.” That tune demands rhythmic precision – that’s what Hank was all about. What he is all about.
 
After that I opened a few windows, put on a pot of coffee, fetched the newspaper from the doorstep. On the front page was an article about a local man killed in a car accident. Jeremy Witherspoon had crashed his Porsche into a tree last night. Authorities weren’t releasing details, but sources at the Frosted Hills Country Club said Witherspoon had been drinking.
 
Funny, the story didn’t mention how he had insulted the spirit of Hank Mobley. Most people would call it a coincidence, but I knew better. If Hank could guide my fingers on the saxophone, he could guide Jeremy Witherspoon’s car into a tree.
 
Some people say I take jazz too seriously. Truth is, they don’t take it seriously enough.
 
____________________________

©2011 Chris Rhatigan

Chris Rhatigan is the co-editor, along with Nigel Bird, of the upcoming Pulp Ink anthology from Needle Publishing. His fiction has appeared in A Twist of Noir, Yellow Mama, Thrillers, Killers ’n Chillers, Pulp Metal Magazine, and at other dens of inequity. He has work upcoming in the summer issue of MiCrow and in November at BEAT to a PULP. If you dig short fiction, stop by his blog, Death by Killing.