The Same Lonely Songs

By Philip R. Sullivan

Like most of us, Cal Connors knew who he was, or at least thought he did, until he experienced too much change in too short a time. His ensuing crisis of identity led him to attempt a brand new life as a songwriter, hitching up with a country band in its wanderings from the Gulf of Maine to the Gulf of Mexico. But two of the people whom he met on the way to his newly invented self--Suloo and her ex-husband Jason--evoked more acute turmoil than he had experienced even in his former life. Here's how Cal described Suloo when she joined him on the Florida Keys: "The water was everywhere, and the sun was sparkling on everything, and Suloo was out-sparkling everything else, especially when she took off her brother's old shirt so her new bikini with the white crystals could reflect light on the rest of the world." As for Jason, he had this to say: "Suzy, I love you. I need you. You're all I have. Everything!" The Same Lonely Songs is the story of what happened when Jason's old world and Cal's new world collided.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Foremost Press
• Release date: Dec 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9781936154722

Philip R. Sullivan

In addition to his private practice, Doctor Sullivan has taught clinical psychiatry and neuroscience at Harvard Medical School for many years. He lives in a countrified Massachusetts setting where he has also raised African sheep.

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THE SAME LONELY SONGS

Philip R. Sullivan

Published by Foremost Press at Smashwords

Copyright 2010 by Philip R. Sullivan

INTRODUCTION

I would like to share with you some experiences from the life of a man I used to know, a fellow named Cal Connors. Since Cal does not fall into a category that’s popularly thought worthy of biographical coverage—star athlete, business magnate, media celebrity—I should explain why I think his account deserves your attention.

First let me address those of you who have experienced any sort of identity crisis along the course of your lives. If you have tried to make sense of that turmoil after the fact, Cal’s story will speak directly to you. Not that you are likely to have resorted to his peculiar manner of coping with events, because he went to a rather bizarre extreme. However, extremes are useful to observe for the very reason that elements of a situation which are usually more subtle and obscure stand out in clearer relief.

If I may anticipate Cal’s own storytelling a bit, he responded to the cascading crises of his life by abandoning both his home and his former self in 1974 in order to take on a radically different identity. Since he proceeded to live the life of an artist—putting the affair in its most charitable light—he might be seen as following in the footsteps of well-known figures like Paul Gauguin. Or since Cal became a country music writer and performer, he might be compared with Kris Kristofferson, a man who also left home, wife, family, and career to become a well-known cowboy of more recent times.

But for every recognized figure like Kristofferson or Gauguin, a thousand others have roamed unnoticed in search of their elusive dreams, launching their day as nameless nobodies and ending their night with final words unheard. Such also seems to be the fate of Cal Connors, and if no further point were involved, his story would hardly deserve your consideration. It’s the peculiar manner in which he wrestled with the human problem of personal-identity-over-time that I believe merits your attention.

The sense of who we are develops in our formative years, and the gradualness of change during day-to-day living fosters our healthy sense of identity. Questions like Yes, but who or what is the real me? seldom come to mind; and should such issues arise at all, they are ordinarily cast onto the back burner in favor of more pressing matters.

Our friends also do their best to keep us within the boundaries of our everyday selves. So much so that if our behavior is markedly different on a given occasion, we can expect a remark like What’s wrong? You’re not yourself today, which reinforces the happy notion that each of us indeed has (is) a real self. For the usual person, this firm sense-of-self is challenged only by too much change, of too severe a degree, within too short a time. Feelings and reactions undreamt of during ordinary periods of life may then emerge, a tsunami obliterating our usual shoreline; and it is then also that we begin to wonder in earnest not only who we really are but who we once were.

In the Boston Museum of Fine Arts stands an oversized canvas by Paul Gauguin portraying surrealistic Polynesians—haunted figures on an eerie background—and on the upper left corner of the painting the following words are scratched:

Who are we

Where do we come from

Where are we going

Those are not questions from our day-to-day life. We are usually far too occupied with the ordinary demands and pleasures of the moment. Such words, however, typify the thinking of an introspective person during a crisis of identity.

Here is the way Kristofferson put it in a line from his own autobiographical song, Breakdown: But you still have the same lonely songs to remind you, of someone you seemed to be so long ago. Not someone you were, but someone you seemed to be. The sense of reality has been lost, and the reality of this loss was not lost on Cal Connors, who plucked the name of his own story from that line in Kris’ song. But while Kristofferson might have judged that his old self was simply not in touch with his real self that was now emerging, Cal came to view the notion of an underlying real self as no more than an invincible illusion of our ordinary life.

And how Cal viewed his personal reality had a vivid impact on the way he proceeded to live his life. He said in effect: Since there is no real underlying core me, I do not have to be tied to some old story of who I really am; I can choose to be whoever I want to be. And Cal chose to be a modern-day cowboy, almost as if he had rephrased the old country song made famous by Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson: Mamas, please let your babies grow up to be cowboys; don’t make ’em be doctors and lawyers and such. But unfortunately for Cal’s new venture, things past began to intrude with overwhelming vividness into his present tense. In response, he developed a peculiar way of thinking that might be viewed as a variation on two of the central themes of the great Eastern religions.

Both Hinduism and Buddhism have promulgated a belief in reincarnation, the doctrine that we have lived before and that we will be born again. Alongside this belief lies the close-fitting dogma of karma, teaching that our future reincarnations will surface for better or worse in accordance with our conduct during this present life. Our present selves, in turn, have inherited the just desserts of past behavior during earlier lives.

Note that if such doctrines are to adequately represent what is actually going on, there would have to be some thing, some entity, some real me, possessed of sufficient robustness to make its way intact through that awesome perturbation known as death. Otherwise, nothing sufficiently organized to be called me would remain for incorporation into future lives.

Cal could not literally submit to any such notion, since he thoroughly subscribed to the modern scientific belief that all mental processes are biological. He saw consciousness as arising from brain function as naturally as motion flows from muscle function. Give the head a good knock, for instance, and the brain’s momentary physiological lapse translates into temporary oblivion. And even in the normal cycle of our brain’s activity, all awareness leaves during the recurrent slow-wave episodes known as deep sleep, returning intermittently during that peculiar form of dream consciousness experienced during REM episodes.

Since Cal viewed consciousness as this sort of ongoing function of his organism, he had no reason to postulate an additional entity, a gossamer substance that might spirit itself away like the ghost of Hamlet’s father, perhaps to enter another body at another time, carrying its karma along. Indeed, Cal recognized no core within his organism that might remain identical with itself, as in A = A. Instead he thought of the self as a sort of series-of-selves, his self-of-the-present-moment forming, so to speak, the latest reincarnation in an ongoing series within an ever-changing organism.

Cal’s present self, so he came to judge, did in a manner of speaking inherit the karma from choices made and acts done by earlier stages of his organism. In fact, he came to theorize that this manner of inheritance during progressive eras of a human being’s development probably formed the natural basis on which the religious doctrines of karma and reincarnation had been elaborated in the first place.

If, however, Cal’s denial of our commonsense notion of the enduring self tended toward one extreme, his arch rival during the period covered in his autobiography carried the unexamined belief in an enduring self to the opposite extreme, and with tragic results. But now let Cal tell you what happened, in his own words, and with his own offbeat sense of humor.

CHAPTER I

Introduce me to your friend, she said, smiling at Mike Shannon from the chair she’d just helped herself to. She was a little forward, but good-lookers tend to know their place.

He smiled back. Good-looking guy himself, hair as blonde as hers, but with a weird combination of Prince Valiant cut and trimmed beard, and muscles that stood out where his sweatshirt was cut off at the shoulders.

Sure, babe, Mike said, what’s your name?

Candy.

This here’s Cal, he said, real country-like as he nodded in my direction. And while I’m at it, might’s well introduce you to the rest of the boys in the band.

She spread her smile over the five of us relaxing around a beat-up corner table between sets, and Mike kept up his patter.

That handsome guy with the perfect set of teeth you just sat down beside, he’s Les, the one on keyboards. And the skinny guy between him and Cal, that’s Tony, best bass player you’ll ever hear. And on my other side—he jerked his thumb in that direction through the haze of cigarette smoke—this little guy’s my ole buddy, Crash Cranston. Nobody plays drums like him.

Love your singing, she said, zeroing her eyes in on mine again. That pushed me into a closer look. She was young—couldn’t have been more than twenty—her face was a little too long, and her two front teeth came close to overlapping. Somehow though, when you put the whole package together, it worked out pretty darn well. Not to mention, her figure didn’t exactly hurt; tight jeans and a lemon flowered body shirt. Maybe I didn’t look convinced about the praise though, because she went on to add: I mean it.

While she was in the middle of complimenting me, Les’ smoothy smile stretched itself into a full grin. Les Bingham. He was one talented guy, so he couldn’t take my music skill too seriously. But he loved to see Mike taken down a peg or two every so often. Mike Shannon was our lead singer and lead guitar.

Yes, said Tony, who was sitting to my right, fiddling with a bottle of Bud and an empty glass, Cal has a sophisticated style.

She looked at him and nodded serious agreement, so he went on: Of course, that makes it hard to accompany him sometimes.

Her big painted eyes took on a questioning expression, so I thought I’d head him off at the pass. What Tony’s trying to say is that he just took up bass, so he really doesn’t know what he’s doing.

That’s part of it, Mike agreed, but you also have to understand: Cal’s pretty clever. Some singers change keys between the verses of a song. He does it between words.

The guys guffawed. We’d only been together for a few months, but this was already a standing joke. I could tell it went over her head though, on account of her eyebrows furrowed.

Mike’s ear ain’t so good, I explained, so he thinks I don’t carry a tune.

They laughed again, thanks to the malt beverages and our frayed nerves. Let me tell ya about the fancy way he syncopates his lyrics, added Crash, jittering his small frame like a spring on the squeaky wooden chair beside Mike. She smiled, but you could see she still wasn’t getting it.

Drummers are all the same, I explained. They don’t think anyone can keep time but themselves.

The light dawned: Your buddies are rankin’ you!

No shit? That was Mike, in a tone of surprised discovery. The guys broke up again, same as if he’d said something funny.

They’re just jealous, she said. I think you’re terrific! Goldilocks had missed the target a bit, on account of it’s hard to feel jealous about an okay voice when you’ve got a real good one, and that’s what Mike had.

He probably was a little envious though about a barstool beauty shaking her long mane in my direction instead of his, so he asked, You like the old stuff?

He’s not old, she said. He’s got class.

And you’ve got great judgment. Impeccable taste in men. One of us said that.

She beamed across the table at me. Can I buy you a drink?

Allow me! I answered in my best chivalrous as I was hailing the waitress. Then back to her: What’ll you have?

Whatever you’re drinking.

That brought another round of laughs from the group. He don’t drink, explained Crash.

That’s not so, I said, hefting my water glass as exhibit A.

She was impressed. You really don’t drink? I think that’s wonderful! I could see that she could see I was teeming with wonderful qualities. Heck, for all I knew, I might’ve had one or two of them. But the guys in the band were sort of cynical, even though they hadn’t been shaving all that long.

Cal’s on the wagon, Mike said, since he’s been Born Again.

The waitress started getting impatient: I can’t stand here forever, she said, staring at the pattern of scratches and gouges that’d accumulated on the table top over its years of abuse.

My admirer threw out another smile. I’ll have a margarita, she said, then leaned across the table—one of the advantages of long legs—and stroked my temples, which were just beginning to fleck gray. You look so distinguished, she added, having discovered still more of my sterling nature. Silver.

Shucks, I answered. The conversation went on that way the rest of the break, her admiration working itself up to a peak while the guys in the band were playing counterpoint. Sort of funny though how I made my biggest score. It came out that Candy was short for Candide.

She’d been named after the heroine in a famous book, she told us, only she hadn’t read it yet. She was impressed as anything when I said it was written by a guy named Volt Aire. Right then and there, she was ready to bed me down.

Until the trouble started. He came rumbling across the low-lit room with both shoulders cocked forward, holding his arms as if he were an old-fashioned ice man clasping hundred-pound cakes on both sides. With invisible tongs. Things got sort of chilly when he reached the table.

Candy, he growled.

Oh hi, Bus, she answered.

I been watchin’ from outside.

So, what’d ya see?

I’ll tell ya what I seen. I seen these jerks makin’ passes at you, and I don’t like it! He glared down at me. Especially this wiseass here.

I was getting a little uneasy. The guy had pulled up across the table from his girlfriend, and that put him more or less beside me. Too close for comfort, if he wanted to start trouble. No offense, I said, Why don’t you pull up a chair and join us?

Blessed are the peacemakers, I might’ve been thinking. Either that, or I was trying to keep my health, on account of he looked sort of big. And mean.

Sit beside a music fag like you? I don’t wanna’ get infected. He reached over and tussled my head in an unkind way.

Could tell from the firm hold he was strong. When your locks get a little longer, Alice, he added, you can put them in curlers.

Guess my hair was sort of unkempt; I’d let it grow a while back. But, at the moment, I was worried about other stuff. Some guys in my shoes would’ve felt scared. Only things I was aware of: dry mouth, tight throat, clammy skin, thumping heart, and some mild feelings of intense panic. I noticed that the girl and my new friend, Bus, weren’t wearing wedding bands. But he had a couple of rings on his right hand that were big as brass knuckles; and my music buddies were looking all around the room, like anything of interest must’ve been happening somewhere else.

You’re not such a big talker now. That was what’s his name again, commenting on my lack of chitchat.

I leaned forward and put my elbows on the table, hands up by my chin. What d’you want to talk about? I asked.

Maybe you could apologize for puttin’ the make on my girl, he directed.

Somehow, I managed to glance across at her while not losing sight of him. Here’s the funny thing. I couldn’t read her face; she didn’t look either alarmed or indignant. Sorry, I said, no offense meant.

You wimp! he sneered at me.

Saw that I’d made a mistake. This wasn’t just a jealous boyfriend; he was a good old-fashioned bully. Instead of salving his pride, I’d egged him on. He was enjoying my grovel-grovel. I edged my chair out from the table a bit.

Where ya’ goin’ honey, he exclaimed, outside to gimmee a blow job? He slammed me hard across the back. Open-handed, but it hurt. He was in his glory with everyone’s attention.

I jumped up suddenly, twisting to my left, and was able to block the first punch because I already had my hands up by my chin, but the force sprawled me across the table. Kept rolling till I landed back on my feet again on the other side. He lunged over, splish-splashing drinks, and got hold of my jersey so I had to close with him. When we tumbled to the worn wood floor, the others including his girl had scattered like mallards after a shotgun blast.

I managed to get behind him with a stranglehold. I was lying on my back, clamping onto his neck for dear life, and sandpapering splinters with my shirttails. The guy was on top, but he was on his back, too, so he started taking turns prying at my arms and elbowing me in the gut. And all the time he was working to shove himself up and over by bending his knees and pushing his feet against the grungy floor boards. Or he’d stop that for a few seconds and try to kick back against my shins. At forty-two, I had almost twenty years on him and not enough gas in the tank. Felt like I was riding a Brahma bull around the corral upside down. Finally had to let go—couldn’t make it to the buzzer—but did it as he was giving a giant lurch, and I took the moment to jump to my feet.

He came at me again, but by this time the manager, a big burly guy, had gotten