CC Deville doesn’t notice me when I walk in. I, however, clock him and a couple in the corner booth.
"What the hell’s with the lovebirds," I ask Gary trying to sound more curious than pissed. You had to tread lightly about this guy. One minute you’re passed out naked in the desert thanking God that it’s him by your side, the next you’re avoiding his text messages. Plus, due to his position as the public face of Rodz Metal Sports Bar, his boyfriend, Rod (yes), paid to have his multi-directional fangs attached to a fresh mouthful of braces. The braces make him look twelve, which is the upper limit of his emotional development. I trust him to do the job, but his methods are unorthodox.
"Those guys? They're here to see the twins. Ain’t nothin I can do about that."
" But Gary, you understand this is a delicate situation?"
" A what?"
I am let down by the reality of CC Deville. I am Dorothy after the great green reveal. His hair, that hair, lay lifeless and flat on his prominent brow. He is so human it makes me uncomfortable to be this close to him, in this dark place where I am thinking of playing one of his songs on the jukebox. I feel it's not the right note to begin what I foresee will be a true shit show, so I punch in “Poison” by Bel Biv Devoe and hope that he gets the joke. Gary sets me up with a triple Old Crow and a glass of tap water. CC is thumbing a message on his phone when I join him at the table. He looks up, cramped, constipated.
"You didn't forget. Did you forget?"
I dig the pills out of my pocket and the door squeaks open, admitting a long frame of sulphurous afternoon sun.
Gary lets Winona get one good foot in before barking at her.
“We’re closed.”
What the hell happened in your mouth? she asks, standing her ground.
He sprays her with the soda gun and she fucks off. This is what I’m talking about. You want to trust Gary, but it’s the unknown variables that spook you. I feel the mossy green fingers of regret bearing down on my windpipe. I take a sip of water and dip my finger in the whiskey. CC pops the lid on his prescription and drains a fresh greyhound.
"See, we build a stage in each town," he says, starting right in with the earnest look of someone who knew he could sit in front of a refreshing vodka cocktail, in a dark bar, alone and the answer yes would just descend upon him like a warm bubble bath. "I could wear a hat, and, and we could go to like, Mississippi, you know, the river. The delta..."
I stare at my drink. At the Forum, two nights ago, during the second encore of a Tom Petty concert, I promised my wife I would quit drinking before she could issue an ultimatum. Technically, I made clear, starting after the show. God it was easy to say, and so liberating. She said, you know, you've got to do this for you. And, well, I thought, so long blackouts. No more human bowling ball. Probably ever.
CC stands up and stretches, his stone-washed jeans snug, tucked into pointy red leather boots. He motions for another and I prompt him to continue.
"A stage?
"Bro, you were sitting right there. It was like Kshhh! Hollywood Man, listen to the rain."
But the couple nestled in the corner booth have started to hiss like cockroaches, clawing at each other over the Formica booth.
“It’ll be called, RedisCover CC with a capital C in rediscover so there are like three C’s? The third C is the new me. Undercover, like disguises at first at least so they don’t lose their shit because of me.”
“CC.”
“Well, you never know.”
I think of life without booze, of losing this account with CC. Pretty bleak. But, look, he’s laughing now I'll always remember that. He really can take over a room. I mean own a room. He has that going for him. Still, CC at Staples Center is something entirely different than CC in Tupelo, Mississippi. His untested ambition disregarded the normal ebb and flow of shitty and frustrating life. He started in a garage on Riverside and graduated almost immediately to stadiums. He filled stadiums, this guy, piping hot, wet, promises via towering Marshall stacks. But how does one cross-market the unique talent of convincing 78,000 people a night that slugging Jack Daniels and finger-fucking is a sustainable lifestyle?
“Listen CC, I follow you so far. You’re thinking reality, sort of mobile America’s Got Talent. We go to them sorta thing, but on a small town tip. Southern, Delta, music, raw, blues. Throw in some gothic, old-South, hoo-doo shit and the whole, fish out of water have to prove even white boys get the blues element and Bam! We got TV.”
Gary reaches down his cargo shorts and whistles, high and shrill, possibly because of the braces. He extends his arm toward our table and squeezes off one perfect round. CC’s expression pinches and gathers like a raisin in the middle of his face. His head cracks on the table, the glasses rattle and rest, pocked with bits of shit from CC’s exploded brain. Wow. So that's how it goes. I had no idea. I'm not sure if shock is the right word, but I notice the couple in the booth have stopped fighting.
After processing the magnitude of the events I have set in motion, I go straight for his, Christ, a purse? a bag? what on earth? and slip out a 50. A sense of decorum would have been normal and humane, but he's dead, no question. I ask Gary to call me a cab. Remember your promise, she said to me before I left this morning. Shit. Forget the whiskey. I go back to the bag. I needed something, anything. Fuck it. Like they won’t be able to identify CC fucking Deville. I palm his license. The lovebirds stumble up to the bar, single file.
“Can you split the bill?” says the dude. What a chump move.
“Eww. Gross,” she says, making for the exit, “That’s CC Deville.”
Gary draws again and pops one in the back of her skull. Jesus.
“She was about to walk her tab,” he says high pitched and defensive, the neon catching his braces.
Chump ass move. Though it was none of my business. I commit the scene to memory because today would be the touchstone by which I measure future days. I make good and goddamn sure to pay my tab. I take care of CC’s too, just to be safe.
When I get home, she notices me. I notice her. We play this game. She's still in her EMS gear.
“Did you get the autograph?”
“Practically,” I say, handing her CC’s ID.
“Breathe.”
“I’m clean,” I say, expecting a parade. But settling for her uniform which I cannot resist. All that shit attached to it. Her name tag, the devices. Life saving devices! I make the sound effect of wind whistling through the pine trees and blow in her face.
“Jesus," she says, wincing, "you smell septic."
“Well, yeah. But what does that mean?”
