CREATIVE NONFICTION

By Amy Scheiner

You’re with me on those summer days, all the windows down and the moon roof open, the sun strong enough to warm our skin but not so strong as to blind us. Your kalei­do­scop­ic bracelets reach­ing from wrist to elbow clang togeth­er, my stubby fingers thrum on the wheel. That’s when I make you sing.

You sit in the passenger’s seat, your dirty feet on my dash­board, over­sized sun­glass­es tipping on the bridge of your nose. I dig it man, you say. Turn it up, you reach for the volume. I look over at you when you cackle, that strained laugh halfway between joy and pain. Get It While You Can. Little Girl Blue. Work Me, Lord. I turn the volume louder.

Damn, I sound good, you yell out the window at no one, take a swig and a drag. You sit next to me as I drive alone because like you, I hate to be alone.

Your voice is sen­sa­tion­al, which is to say, it exhil­a­rates my senses. The first time I heard

Sum­mer­time I felt every pore on my body open up, vibrate in eupho­ria, prob­a­bly not unlike how you felt the first time you tried heroin. I know your loyalty to the sixties is strong but you couldn’t dodge your mem­ber­ship to the 27 Club? You couldn’t have stayed a little longer?

They say it’s your demons that did you in, your love of plea­sure, your inabil­i­ty to say when to stop. We have to know when to stop.

They say you were your own worst enemy. You’re on this drive with me so we can talk about these heavy things, like when to know if it’s love or lust and if vodka is better than gin and how to ignore suf­fer­ing. How could someone so beloved be ruled by crush­ing inse­cu­ri­ty? I guess that’s why they call you a tragedy.

You defined your value by what others thought of you and you could never get over those

voices from your child­hood. The voices that uttered Ugly and Strange and Sinner. I saw it when you went to your high school reunion, all feath­ered and beaded, still a freak, still on the outside. You never really left Port Arthur, did you?

They say if you had lived longer you would have learned your worth. Most people do with time, or so I am told.

If you were here, at 79, I could have waited in line at a book­store in San Fran­cis­co, a dif­fer­ent San Fran­cis­co than the one you knew. I’d be feath­ered and beaded and hold a copy of your memoir in my sweaty hands. That book you were des­tined to write. The one that is ded­i­cat­ed to your first love, Bessie. The one with the groovy vibes, the loose scenes, the psy­che­del­ic rock, the psy­che­del­ic drugs. The bad drugs. The whiskey. The love affairs. The drunk affairs. Kris and Jimi and Eric and Dick. It’s enough to make you want to sing the blues, jumbles out your mouth while you clench a cig­a­rette between your teeth, thrilled to see people still line up to see you.

My hands would have trem­bled as I passed the bounded tes­ti­mo­ny of your life over to your steady ones for you to sign. I remem­ber you! Your wrin­kles would widen along your mouth and mem­o­ries of our car rides with the dry heat bashing through the windows, the noth­ing­ness of America passing by, just us two cool cats lis­ten­ing to your cool tunes driving side by side would flash before your eyes. Our eyes would have locked and you have smiled that infec­tious smile and I could have thanked you for showing me what it looks like to move on.

This story orig­i­nal­ly appeared in Stonecoast Review Issue 19. Support local book­sellers and inde­pen­dent pub­lish­ers by order­ing a print copy of the mag­a­zine.

Photo by Alex Plesovkich