My Best Friend's Bucket List: Volume One

CHAPTER 9

  Lorrie And Me Go To White Castle Part 2

  (The Legend of Savy Clarkson)

  “I remember the year was nineteen sixty-four, wait, maybe sixty-five or sixty-six. Me and Big Jo Lou Greendale were playing a game of nine ball for nine hundred dollars. Which is probably about two million dollars nowadays money.” Said Big Gary. He was my cell mate and had been talking my ear off forever. His breathe reeked of stale alcohol and he looked like a man that had been beat down and broken but refused to die.

  Big Gary wore scars all over his face and hands. He looked like a real scrapper. Tall and wide, huge shoulders. But I was probably scarier looking then him at this point in life. But now I was going to be a prisoner.

  I stared and wondered why there was no bed in the cell. Big Gary wore a dusty brown suit, matching fedora hat, brown and white wing tip shoes and a yellowed button down shirt. He loved to talk. I liked to worry about my prison sentence.

  “You play billiards?” He asked, didn't wait for me to answer, “The place used to be called Pete's. A cat named Pete owned it. He used to sell moonshine behind the counter, to the right people of course. You see, back then folk's had integrity. They stayed outta each others business and let one another be. Unless of course, you started up some dust. Dust could be started up anywhere. At the barber shop, the five and dime, diners, in the street, schools...”

  Big Gary continued to name places people would start up dust. I was ready to ask him a question as soon as he was done.

  “Movie houses, brothels, candy store, sidewalks, public and private parks.” He paused. “Basically, anyone could start up dust at anytime. That's why back then, you carried a blade. You never know when some weasel was gonna try to run up on you.” Finally he stopped.

  “Big Gary?”

  “Yeah, Tucker?”

  “When are they going to bring us beds?”I asked. Big Gary broke into an uproarious dry laugh.

  “Son, we ain't in prison. This is the drunk tank. We'll be out in a few hours.” He laughed, then smiled. “Boy, you are in some serious shit. I heard the police talking 'bout you. What's her name?”

  Serious shit? I hoped Big Gary was joking. My bowels turned to acid again. I needed to evacuate them, soon.

  “I think you have it all wrong.” I said, weakly.

  “Why you look so scared, my man? She didn't press charges. There was no proof of any physical violence. And the little show tune excuse you used didn't work. Your downstairs neighbor heard all the ruckus.” Big Gary said.

  “He's a nosy fucker. Now he's gonna take her on a fucking date.” My anger replaced any fear I may have had. “I just wanna beat the living shit out of him.”

  “Sure, sure. Any chance to kick up some dust over a woman. I know, my man, I been there plenty. What's her name?”

  “Lorrie Lovitt.” I said. And saying the name pinched my temples. The though of her out with that idiot. He was probably nursing her back to sobriety. She was really drunk when I was arrested,

  “Why that is a damn pretty name. Is she?” Big Gary asked.

  “Is she what?”

  “Pretty.”

  “She's beyond any of that. The only word I could ever summon to fit her profile is angelic.” I said. She was probably being held by Milton, the downstairs douche, he was probably caressing her hair. Smelling the way she always smelled like peaches or lilacs. She was probably looking up at his stupid fucking hair. The emo kind that looks like he got smacked with a wet pillow.

  “You don't look so good, man.” Big Gary said.

  “Yeah, dude, you really don't.” Dick said. I looked up and my bloody dead best friend, the one that left behind the bucket list, bled and stared at me concerned and sad. Strange how men pick up on certain energies. I hadn't even had the thought yet, but everyone could feel it.

  When the police released me, I was going to kill Milton, the downstairs douche, with my bare hands or the large kitchen knife in the drawer at the apartment.

  I'm going to kill him twice if he even touched Lorrie, I thought.

  “What if that's what she wants, dude?” Dick said. I didn't care anymore. Lorrie Lovitt is one mixed up girl and Milton will pay for it with his life. “Dude, you sound crazy right now.”

  “Who you staring at? You know it's only you and me in here, right? Please don't tell me you're one of those, I always get stuck with the loonies.” Big Gary said and then spit on the concrete floor.

  “I'm not crazy. I'm gonna kill that guy when I get outta here.” I said, very sure of myself.

  “And you think that gives you a clean bill of mental health? Are you trying to end up a place this for life? Over a woman?”

  “SHE IS NOT JUST A WOMAN!” I said.

  “Shit, hey now, I know. I been there, man. I'm a blues guitarist, Tucker. You think I ain't had a bad deal dealt with these witches of modern time?”

  “Stop trying to plug your song titles. I have never had homicidal thoughts toward anyone but myself. This happens to be the first time in my entire life I have ever been sure of anything.” I said. I wasn't lying either. Milton would die at my hands.

  “Let me tell you a story-”

  “Please, not another one.”

  “Or what? I suppose you may try and kill me? You a big cat and I would not want to be beat to death by you.” Big Gary laughed his dry laugh. Dick looked concerned but said nothing.

  “I wouldn't hurt you.” I said.

  “I know it. Look, this here story happens to pertain to the current situation. It's about a cat I knew named Savy. Savy Clarkson. He was a big man. One of the best blues musicians, hands down.”

  “Let me take a crack at what happened to him. Drove his car off the Santa Monica pier?” I said, sourly. Big Gary laughed hard. Dick joined in.

  “No, no, Tucker. Savy was the best and then one day he wasn't.”

  “That's all?”

  “Just keep your mouth shut and hear me...”

  Big Gary Tells Me About Savy Clarkson

  Savy Clarkson was number one in the underground blues scene. He was hot. His sound was like the finest razor sliding across every wrist in the room. When Savy played, you didn't hear the guitar, you felt it. The slides, the harmonics, palm muting, the pick plucking away at each string. The music intertwined with your soul.

  The feeling was like being drunk on your porch when you should be at work or school. It was rebellious relaxation at its finest. No one could ever mimic the sound because it wasn't what he was playing, it was the way he played that couldn't be copied. Many have tried, even nowadays in the underground scene you can always find a Savy Clarkson copier.

  All the ladies would be in tears, the men would have their faces in the sleeves of their jackets and shirts. Once Savy started up, you never wanted him to stop, and neither did he. You could always tell. The crowd and him became one in the warm Summer nights or the coldest Winters.

  The thing was that no one knew where he came from. His background, what cities he had seen. It was rumored that he was a runaway: Ran away from home with his first pair of shoes, picked up the guitar when he first felt the blues. They used to say.

  See in those days all the blues men sang about where they'd been, where they were headed, what they wanted to do. Not Savy. In fact Savy barely sang ever. But when he did, he always sang of a lady named Laurie. Like some mythical siren. A sort of a one-that-got-away tune, which most blues tunes are, but when he sang about that Laurie, you could hear the guitar suffering. He made the instrument suffer through his soul.

  “So what happened?” I interrupted. Me and Dick were on the edge of our seats. “You said he was the best, then one day he couldn't play?”

  So, story goes, the songs about Laurie were true. Laurie was the one that got away from Savy. She died giving birth to a child she had become pregnant with. Not with Savy, but with a rich white man, Duncan Chesterfield. Duncan and Laurie were having relations behind the back of Savy and Mrs. Chesterfield.

  So, story has it, Savy ju
st left. Took his guitar and never looked back. He didn't wait for a burial or a funereal. But he never spited her. Never spoke a bad word of her. Word on the beak is that Savy still holds a torch for Laurie. A blue flamed torch that burns in his heart.

  “When did he stop playing?” I asked.

  Well, it is said, four years after Laurie's death, Savy was playing a bar in Memphis. After his set he received a phone call that would change his life.

  “Was it from a ghost? A dead Laurie?” I looked at Dick. He winked.

  The call was from Laurie. But she was no ghost. She had been trying to hunt down Savy. You see, her death was forged to protect the Chesterfield Family, the child she gave birth to died during the birthing process. The whole thing was a cover up. That way there was no baby, or no woman to be linked back to Duncan Chesterfield.

  After that, Savy and Laurie were reunited, he never did pick up his guitar again. That is not until Laurie committed suicide some years later. Story goes, she could never get over the guilt of having that Chesterfield miscarriage.

  Big Gary's Story Is Over

  I was confused now. The story of Savy Clarkson did touch me and it made me think a lot about Lorrie Lovitt. But a part of me still wanted to kill Milton. Especially if he so much as put his arm around her.

  “Hey, man. What are you thinking?” Big Gary asked.

  “Nothing. I guess about Savy Clarkson.” I lied.

  “You still wanna kill that man, huh?”

  “Yeah.” I said. I heard footsteps approaching the cell.

  “Let me tell you a secret,” Big Gary leaned into my ear, “Killing a man don't fix nothing.”

  “How would know?”

  “Let's just say, story goes, Savy looked up old Duncan Chesterfield shortly after Laurie's suicide. He used a guitar string to end the mans life, strangled Duncan assassination style. Nearly took off poor Duncan's head in the process.”

  Something behind Big Gary's eyes stirred, I saw him different suddenly, my skin grew cold. “You're Savy Clarkson,” I said in an icy whisper.

  “No,” He whispered back, “I'm just a copier of him. No one will ever be as good as he once was.” Someone cleared their throat outside of the cell. It was the arresting officer of me.

  “Hey!” The officer shouted.

  “Yeah.” I said, happy about finally leaving.

  “Not you, show tune boy.” He looked at Big Gary, “Salvatore Clarkson. You're out.” The officer unlocked the cell and Big Gary/Savy Clarkson stood up and put on his hat. He turned to me and tipped his hat.

  Then I was alone with Dick. Waiting for it to be my turn.

  As I stood at the bus stop in front of the police station two things were in my head. One, Savy Clarkson and his epic tale. Two, I was hungry, I missed Lorrie, I wanted to kill Milton. Okay, maybe four things. Dick stood beside me. The blood from his wounds dripped on the sidewalk.

  I had my wallet. Blackberry. Keys. Cash. It was almost noon. I couldn't believe I had spent that much time in the slammer. The big house. But something was different inside me. I would usually be in tears or having severe anxiety. None that was happening.

  I wanted to give the credit to Savy Clarkson and his story, but truth was, the moment I decided I wanted to kill Milton was when something inside me snapped. Nothing mattered accept ending his superficial life and taking him away from Lorrie Lovitt.

  The bus arrived and I almost paid for two tickets, forgetting momentarily that not everyone can't see Dick. I checked my phone and I had a text message from Nico Saucony. It was directions to his Uncle's White Castle franchise in the San Gabriel Valley.

  I got off the bus and phoned a cab. Me and Dick waited at a corner liquor store. All the booze hounds and bums were there. I slipped inside to grab a small bottle of Jack Daniels for the road. Dick scowled at me.

  “I'm not driving.” Was all I said.

  The cab showed up fifteen minutes later and it was clean and driven by a cute white girl. She probably had a gun. Otherwise the rape would never stop. Even though we were in California, some jobs never stop being dangerous.

  “Where to?” She asked.

  “Azusa Boulevard.”

  “Huh? In the SGV?”

  “Yeah, you got a problem?” I asked.

  “No, it's just far.”

  “Well, stick with me, I'll buy you some sliders. You ever eat White Castle?” I said.

  “No, sir.” She put the cab in gear and we were off.

  “I know a secret location, we can grab lunch.” I said politely.

  “I'm not sucking your dick.” The cabbie said.

  “Okay, I'm not sucking yours either.” I said.

  “Just saying, a lot of guys try to buy me things in exchange for sexual favors.” She said.

  “I don't mean to be an asshole, but just focus on the road, you're not my type and if you don't want to eat I won't buy you food.” After that she shut her mouth. Dick rolled his eyes and was making faces at the back of her head.

  The inside of White Castle smelled like cooking hamburgers and the sweet onion smell of tiny chopped onions. There was a clear glass barrier between those preparing the food and those preparing to eat it. I was drooling over the smell and decided from the poster that I was going to order cheesy fries.

  The cabbie stood behind me, looking around rather paranoid, but I smiled at her anyway.

  “No one here expects you to suck them off, don't worry.” I said. The cabbie rolled her eyes. I laughed and Dick was the happiest I had seen him since he was killed.

  We ate sliders(mini burgers)and fries. The cabbie told me stories of working certain routes and fares. I didn't listen, I had heard a great story from Savy already. The whole time I imagined me slitting Milton's throat, it somehow made the food taste better.

  Dick ate too. A lot for a dead ghost.

  Before I knew it number 21 on Dick's bucket list had been fulfilled. It was time to catch the cab home and handle Milton.

  I opened the door to the apartment. Lorrie must be helping her mother run the corner store she owned. No one was the there. The place smelled of bile, vomit, lilacs and peach. Lorrie must have spent last night there and showered in the morning.

  Milton would be downstairs asleep. He worked graveyard shift as a EMT, he got to wear a uniform and drive around in an ambulance. He couldn't make it tonight though. He was done and over forever.

  I took the largest butcher knife we owned. Put on some sterile rubber gloves. Snuck down to the managers place, she never locked the door. I took the spare key to Milton's apartment.

  Inside Milton's place. I looked over the various knick knacks and pictures in frames. No one will miss him, I thought. I crept into the bedroom. Milton slept on his back, facing the ceiling, shirtless and about to get his neck sliced open.

  The knife shined in Sunlight coming from outside. I slowly put the blade to his throat. Then something happened I did not expect. His eyes shot open, he saw me and the knife, and he screamed like a girl.

  My only thought was to push the knife into his throat to quiet him.