Mandolin Dreams. Chapter VI.ii
London, one year ago
“...about 55 million human beings die each year. That works out to about 152,000 deaths each day, 6,300 per hour, 105 each minute, and nearly two each second.”
With all trace of Hobson gone, Terry turned and put his gigantic arms out and around me, over my shoulders. He submerged me into himself. I fought, and pushed. We stood there, not saying anything, not trying to make it anything other than what it was. My struggles subsided by degrees, until I gave in and wrapped my own arms around this man that had somehow become my friend, perhaps my only remaining friend.
"Thanks, Terry. I think I need to sit down."
Terry released me and we both turned to the booth, our booth, but I stopped. I saw all of the paraphernalia, all of the memories. It was overcrowded with ghosts. I couldn't sit there, not yet. I veered left and collapsed at a table in the middle of the pub. I never sat in the middle of anywhere if I could help it, too exposed. I always aimed for the gunslinger's seat, the place in any room that had a clear view of the door. I had never been in a gunfight, didn't even own a gun, but I didn't sit with my back to any door, ever. I slumped into a chair with the front door somewhere off to my left, the bar behind me, the light from the opaque window outlined Terry's form in front of me. He had just locked the door and stuck a sign in the window.
He came back with two glasses and the bottle of Highland Park. He placed one on either side of the table, dropped into the chair opposite and poured out a couple of doubles. I picked mine up, rolled it around in my hands, watched the smoked amber liquid as it went left to right, front to back. It fought to remain steady as I tipped it further and further this way and that. I threw the glass across the room, right into that back booth. It shattered. The whiskey disappeared into the seats, the floor. Shattered glass sparkled faintly on the tabletop. When I looked back down, there was another glass right there and Terry was filling it. I picked up the new glass, watched the liquid, and listened as it shattered against the wall.
I don't know how many times we repeated this, but Terry never said a word, never hesitated. He just replaced the glass and the whiskey until the bottle was empty. I looked at the last drop fall and sighed. This time I picked it up and took a large mouthful. I let it sit there for a few seconds. I let it sting my gums and tongue. I felt the bile rise in my gut. It threatened to spew out of me, but I held it in check. Barely. I swallowed. It burned.
"Can I tell you something? I've always hated the taste of whiskey. Only ever drank it to be close to him." I put the glass down. I still fought the tears, not ready to give in to grief. "We weren't done, you know."
Terry looked at me. He wanted to address this new admission but didn't. He just nodded.
"It's not like I can't understand death, that it happens to everyone, that it can happen at any time, that it's always looming. I know people die. I'm fifty years old. Of course, I do. But there had to be sort of order to it, grandparents, parents, childhood heroes, old people, other people, strangers. I'm not an idiot. But I'll tell you," I looked up past Terry at the people outside "I would trade any of those people, as many as needed, to get him back."
He nodded.
"I think that what irks me the most, is that we always thought we were special, that were above it all, or at least on the outside, that we weren't affected by perils and problems of regular folk, that nature's rules didn't apply to us. Not until we were ready. He needed his music to be heard. He needed to play to crowds of millions. You've heard him. You know that was where he was going, that it was waiting for him, that it was inevitable."
Again. He nodded.
"But if he can be plucked out of life without having fulfilled his" the word stuck in my throat "destiny? What of the rest of us? I haven't a fraction of his talent, and none of his drive. What am I supposed to do? I just don't know that I can go on, without him, you know?"
Nod.
I put my hands up as I realized how I sounded. "No need to freak out, not yet anyway. I don't mean I'm not going to keep living. I ain't suicidal. I can be alive, but not sure I can keep living. It might only be a sheep-like life, like I might just lobotomize myself and become a bootman; join the ranks; forget everything else; just do what everybody else does. Just do nothing."
"I mean, I am pretty much already there. I buried that creative drive so deep, that it may as well not be there. How am I supposed to go on and what? Write? Why? What's the point? I may start and never finish? Just be wasting time."
This time, Terry didn't nod. He didn't move. He watched me. The air around us seemed to seize up, become solid. It felt like the whole world had stopped and held its breath. Perhaps anticipating what I would say next. "Could we pour out a glass, for Van?" He reached, I don't know where, and pulled out another glass, set it down to my left, his right. He filled it and then the rest of the glasses on the table.
I stared at the bottle. I was missing something. Something I wasn't supposed to see. The bottle had been empty and all the glasses… We knew that Terry, and Hobson, could do things, make things appear and disappear. I looked at him, as if for the first time in a long time. When did I start to look older than him? I squinted. He looked the same as the first day we met. He was the same as in the pictures in our booth. I was not.
"Terry. How old are you?"
He put the bottle on the table and downed his latest double. He didn't seem surprised by the question. There was more of a quiet resignation to his movements. Time swelled between us. I thought he was not going to say anything.
"Anthony. Are you sure you want to have this conversation? Once open, this door can't be closed. It will change everything, but it will not change what has already happened. Nothing can change that." He watched me, hoping I would let it go.
I nodded.
He sighed.
I await Part 2 with alacrity! 🪄