Icy Sidewalks

By Glenn Cutforth

Sometimes life is like walking down an icy sidewalk—if you don’t watch your step, you could end up flat on your face.

Former rock star, Eric Taylor, considers himself an expert at plunging down the icy sidewalks of life. His hard rock band Pepper & Ice broke up amid conflicts and resentments just as they achieved major success with their debut album Mass Media. Rather than pursuit his music career any further, Eric left his music aspirations behind and married rock 'n' roll groupie Sarah Livingston.

But for Eric and Sarah, marriage was difficult—men are from Mars and women are from Venus—and all that stuff and Eric finally walked out on their ten years of sharing the same bed with Sarah, traversing the same lies, as they beat each other into emotional pulp—it was definitely not a marriage made in heaven.

And now, after two years of separation, Sarah suddenly reappears in his life, stirring up a hornet's nest of emotions and feelings he thought he'd gotten over. At the same time, an unexpected reunion with his former band mate, drummer Carl Pepper, leads to misunderstanding and confusion as Eric's past as a musician suddenly reclaims his present and changes his future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Glenn Cutforth
• Release date: Jun 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9780991972814

Glenn Cutforth

I read somewhere that a writer needs to write and discard a million words before they have even a minimal grasp of the craft. Having written and discarded my million words and now well into my second million (or third), I’ve discovered that fewer words get deleted and the right words do come more readily ... which is a relief since it takes a long time to bear fruit that is luscious and tasteful and something you want to share with others, especially when writing novels. My writing experience includes articles for local publications, from business to entertainment, corporate newsletters and a couple years as editor/publisher of a local entertainment weekly. I’m also a closet musician, graphic designer and I never went to college or university (lucky me). Writing novels is not a new experience, but one that has taken up much of my spare time over the years. There’s something special about having a new character you hadn’t planned on suddenly impose his/her way into your story just when you need them. It’s a magical moment of creation that is difficult to beat as a life experience. I firmly believe that, along with writing your first million words, being an avid reader is the best training for any aspiring writer. Thus I thank all the authors who’ve inspired me to write over the years, especially my idol, William Goldman (Marathon Man, Princess Bride, Boys and Girls Together, Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid, etc.—yes, THAT guy) who still unconsciously influences my writing style, though I’ll never admit it, so please don’t tell anyone, okay.

Book preview

Icy Sidewalks

by Glenn Cutforth

Other books by Glenn Cutforth

Fiddling Under Vesuvius

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

eBook Edition: Copyright 2013 Glenn Cutforth. Thank you for downloading this free eBook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial and non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

Note: Canadian/UK spelling is used throughout. For example, doubled letters (i.e. focussed), ou’s (i.e. colour) and ‘re’ (theatre) and so on including other differences from American spelling.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Other books by Glenn Cutforth

Preview of Fiddling Under Vesuvius

Chapter One

Sometimes life is like walking down an icy sidewalk—if you don’t watch your step, you could end up flat on your face.

To tell you the truth, being flat on your face is actually one of the better angles in which to get a clear perspective on your life and since I have a habit of always leading with my chin, I’ve become an expert at detecting when I should brace myself for the next plunge.

For instance, marriage is difficult—men are from Mars and women are from Venus—and all that stuff. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to actually meet your soul mate. The perfect relationship without all the headaches and worries and fighting over the remote control and money and ... sure, in your dreams, Eric.

It was now two years since I’d last pulled myself off the sidewalk, this time shifting my life into neutral while I tried to recover from bad memories and relationships that had drifted out to sea and, for the most part, I had succeeded. After briefly reaching rock ‘n’ roll stardom with my hard rock band Pepper & Ice, and then struggling through a disastrous marriage, my life was now basically a holding pattern waiting for the next adventure life had to offer. I wouldn’t say my life was dull—routine would be a better word—but at least it wasn’t so routine I needed to take up sky-diving or bull fighting to keep my blood from freezing up. Being partners with Gus in our fledgling advertising agency was enough to ensure that much, at least.

And so, I rode the elevator down to the lobby with little expectation the day would be any less predictable than any other day, except, since I made part of my living as a music critic, to reflect on the realization that rock ‘n’ roll music was now basically dead, despite all proclamations otherwise. A sure sign: All the classic rockers have grown old ... or died and the music of today has little resemblance to the glory days of rock. A new sound has taken over the radio airwaves, one that is less melodic with a more hypnotic pre-programmed drum beat that either put you to sleep or made you want to punch someone out. The one positive is that at least there hasn’t been a revival of Disco music. Disco wasn’t so bad, not really, it just wasn’t so good, either.

I stepped off the elevator and began my usual routine—a brief trip to the mail room to check my usually empty mail slot and then a leisurely fifteen minute drive downtown to the shabby offices of Fun Gus Productions where I did a reasonably good simulation of working for a living.

But today, the mail slot wasn’t empty.

I was a bit surprised. Now I had to decide whether to open my new treasure immediately, or shove the letter back into the mail slot to be picked up in the evening when I returned from another tough day of rape and plunder in the world of business.

I suppose I should have been pleased, at least the letter wasn’t another piece of junk mail and really was addressed to me and hadn’t been slipped into my slot by mistake (the usual reason when my slot wasn’t empty). However, as I turned it over in my hand a familiar fragrance invaded the air around me and, like clockwork, that old, also familiar, tingling in my jaw began its early descent.

The envelope was long, skinny and mauve, and postmarked two weeks earlier, March 22, from Montego Bay, Jamaica. There was no return address, but Sarah’s fingerprints were all over it and for once in my life I was pleased with our lousy postal service since it had spared me a few days of anxiety. Sarah’s vacations in the sunny south weren’t usually characterized by any form of communication with me—not even a post card—but then, communication was never one of the strong points in our relationship.

A long, deep sigh helped to clear away the numbness that started invading my circulation. I hesitated for a moment before stuffing the envelope into the back pocket of my jeans. No matter what the envelope contained, it was likely my world of peaceful routine was about to be disrupted in ways only Sarah could create. I stood there and stared at the parallel rows of mail slots.

Okay, steady now. What’s with this weird apprehension just because she sent you a simple perfumed letter? This was annoying. Why would a grown-up person like myself, an expert at emotional self-preservation, be so thoroughly jolted from his secluded and comfortable cocoon. Of course, I knew the answer. When it came to Sarah, I was never really in control.

She always seemed to be the one who played the trump cards, at least, until I walked out on our ten years of sharing the same bed, traversing the same lies, beating each other into emotional pulp—it was definitely not a marriage made in heaven. Our separation had finally acknowledged the need to save what was left of our shell-shocked sanity, though it was hard to realize that our shared expectations had been tossed to the wind like dandelions gone to seed.

I suppose that’s why I now had such a strong urge to hide out in the corner of the tiny mailroom until old age set in and I never had to deal with Sarah again. It had taken me a long time to revert back to a level of emotional blandness that made life manageable and I guess I didn’t relish the thought of my new found stability being interrupted by anything Sarah had to say.

Yuk! Self-pity was one of my bad habits so I quickly tried to keep my mind from falling back into that abyss. I couldn’t help wishing we had completed divorce proceedings back when the reasons and animosities were still clear. A separation agreement seemed the right move at the time. However, as I stood there, once my automatic responses dissipated, I had a difficult time dredging up the exact nature of our problems. I guess the passage of time brought on a fuzziness, an uncertainty in my mind and it seemed strange, but I really wasn’t ready for that final end in our marriage that would inevitably have to come.

Suddenly, it seemed very important to remove myself from the tiny confines of the mailroom before an overwhelming sense of isolation reached out and crushed me. As I stepped into the hallway I almost ran over Jerry, the mentally challenged kid from the second floor who was on his way to the lobby lounge where he spent his days staring out the window.

Good Morning, Mr. Taylor, he said, except for Jerry it came out sounding more like: Goo maun Misser T-ta-lur.

Jerry was returning from the first of many trips to the laundry room pop machine and was carrying a Pepsi can in his left hand and his metal cane in the other. Both his feet dragged along the floor like the hunchback of Notre Dame and his upper torso jerked rhythmically back and forth, giving him the momentum that carried him forward. Other than his messy blond hair and the smoothness of his pale skin, he looked like a ninety-year-old man wearing blue jeans.

For people like Jerry, life is one slow, agonizing, headlong slide down an icy sidewalk.

Hi Jerry, how’s the pop today?

Real cold, he said, his lucid blue eyes shining with the delight.

For the past year I’d been spending a few minutes in the morning talking to Jerry before I cranked up the old Volvo and headed downtown to the agency. He was a good kid, but most of the people zipping through the lobby did their best to ignore him. Jerry usually responded with a look of disappointment as he tried to get a friendly hello from one of the empty faces that hustled by without acknowledging his existence.

They obviously refused to look beyond his outward appearance and I knew that no matter how much sympathy I felt for him, it wouldn’t change his situation, so I did my best to treat him like a regular guy.

I followed him into the lounge just off the main entrance to the apartment building and sat opposite him on one of the two facing couches that were beginning to show noticeable signs of wear. Jerry dropped a pocketful of change onto the coffee table—his supply of pop money for the day—and then he sat down and began the endless rocking of the upper half of his body, back and forth, back and forth as if some private song was going through his head, its infectious melody making it impossible for him to sit still. Sometimes he would stop for a moment and move his head to stare out the window for a few seconds, and then he’d shift to staring down the hallway, and then back to the rocking.

So, did you have a good weekend?

I was never very good at making small talk and found it difficult getting a conversation going. Jerry, on the other hand, was a real talker when he wanted to be.

Ya, he said, his head nodding vigorously, I got to stay up late and watch a moovee—a John Wayne moovee —he strong, kill all the Indians. Mama wanted me to go to bed, but I told her to leave me alone.

He abruptly stopped rocking and picked up the can of Pepsi, gave it an energetic shake and then popped open the top, squealing with laughter as the foaming cola sprayed all over his face and lap. He then placed the can on top of the coffee table and pushed it towards me.

Wanna drink? he asked as he smacked the sticky puddle on his lap with the palms of his hands.

No thanks, Jerry. If I drink pop in the morning I get an upset stomach.

He shrugged, grabbed the can, raised it to his mouth and took a long gulp. Droplets of pop slipped through on both sides of his mouth, and when he finished, he wiped them off with his sleeve, and then he started rocking again.

Like my new jeans? he blurted out with obvious pride.

They look great, I said smiling. I had recently started working on an ad campaign for a new line of fashion jeans for which I was expected to come up with an appropriately sexy name. I wondered if Sol Bernstein would consider calling them Jerry Jeans. Not likely.

My Dad got them for me.

Really? Has your Dad been around to see you?

Ya, and he said I could stay up as late as I want to. Jerry’s radiant smile revealed a mouthful of tiny, yellow teeth as it spread across his face. No doubt getting a new pair of jeans from his Dad was by far the major highlight of his whole life up to that point.

Jerry’s parents were divorced. I had only seen his father once and he had impressed me as being one of those slobbering, greasy drunks who walk up to people on the street begging for their loose change. Jerry’s Mom called him ‘the bastard’, so I was surprised he’d been around.

Gee, I didn’t think your Dad could afford to buy such nice jeans, does he buy you lots of other things?

I asked, but it was immediately clear I was treading on sensitive grounds. His face dropped about a mile and a look of consternation took over as he rolled his eyes and shook his head rapidly back and forth, and then he suddenly stopped rocking and stared at me, his eyes squinting as he concentrated on my face.

You look sick, Mr. Taylor, he said triumphantly and then he sat back and started rocking again.

I wasn’t surprised by his perception. Obviously the unexpected jolt back to memories and emotions I hadn’t experienced for a while back in the mailroom had left a few exterior signs.

What makes you say that? I asked defensively.

He stopped rocking and then he leaned over until his head stretched hallway across the coffee table. He squeezed his eyes tightly together for a moment and then he stared directly into my face again.

I moved forward so he could get a better look.

You red.

What?

You face.

Oh.

This was, no doubt, his way of getting even for questioning his Dad’s ability to pay for his jeans. I sat back on the couch and mumbled, Thanks a lot, Jerry.

They say people with handicaps develop increased strength in their other senses, which in Jerry’s case meant he must have developed an amazing sense of hearing because he mumbled back, just as softly, You welcome. He then slid down to the end of the couch, as far away from me as he could get, dragging his cane along with him.

Look Jerry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.

His response was to grab the half empty can of Pepsi and throw it onto the floor.

My Dad said I could stay up as late as I want to! he screamed, and then he turned around and stared out the window.

I shook my head, annoyed with myself for opening my mouth and letting something stupid pop out. But, alas, it was the story of my life. People always seemed to react strangely to what seemed to me like innocent remarks. Maybe they sensed an underlying tone of cynicism that I wasn’t aware of, or perhaps I was too quick to point out the obvious—things that were sometimes better left unsaid. Or maybe I just saw reality too clearly and, deep down, I had an unconscious need to stir up people’s hostilities by only dealing with my observed sense of the truth, without wasting time on shades of grey.

Who knows!

I glanced down at the bubbly, foaming puddle of Pepsi that had formed on the floor where the can had spilled out its insides. It suddenly occurred to me that a lot of people were like that can of Pepsi—it usually took a nasty shake and a turning upside down before they were able to spill out their insides.

I was probably number one on that list.

I headed for the parking garage with a one last glance over my shoulder at Jerry. As I departed, a well-dressed lady stepped into the lounge—probably to wait for a cab—but when she noticed Jerry, she quickly changed her mind and instead walked straight towards the lobby entrance.

Jerry had stopped rocking and was trying to get the lady’s attention with a friendly smile, but as he watched her walk away, the smile disappeared and a look of depression crossed his face. I wanted to run back and tell him not to put so much importance on people like her, but decided there wasn’t much point.

I could feel my own black clouds beginning to form and it would only be another case of the blind leading the blind.

I stepped through the door to the garage and paused for a moment while my eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. I was bombarded by the usual stench of any large, enclosed area that housed a couple of hundred cars, a mixture of gas fumes, oil and dust.

My mind began to wander as I moved slowly down the concrete floor towards my parking space. Faces from the past and present kept popping up in flashes and then disappearing like ducks in a shooting gallery.

I trudged along wondering if I would ever feel the sense of freedom I had always assumed living alone would bring. Not likely, since freedom and peace of mind rarely came easy for a person who had trouble not feeling guilty every time he screwed up, as if failure was not a viable alternative since everyone always expected you to succeed.

I wondered how many times in my life I’d screwed up. More important, at least for my own peace of mind, how many times had I not screwed up? No doubt the balance was relatively equal, especially when you considered that I was quite capable of brushing my teeth, tying my shoe laces or putting on my socks without making too many mistakes. But the human creature seems to have a self-destructive habit of amplifying the negative and down-playing the positive almost as if you would wither away and die if you didn’t get your daily dose of depression.

I felt a sudden chill and as I zipped up the front of my leather jacket, a brief glimpse of my red Volvo broke through the parade of faces in my mind and I started walking in the general direction of where it was parked.

But when I looked again, the car was nowhere in sight.

I looked around feeling lost and disoriented.

Okay Taylor, let’s get a hold of yourself! I said out loud, and then I noticed the numbers painted on the concrete poles that designated the different parking areas were blue, which meant I was in the wrong area since my number was painted in white.

I quickly changed directions, but as I stepped into the driving lane between the parked cars, I was greeted by the terrifying screech of tires and the frantic blasting of a car horn. I jumped back with the dexterity of a black cat who wasn’t interested in losing one of its nine lives, but my knee caught the side of a shiny blue Camaro as it whizzed by, its occupant slinging back a deluge of profanities.

I bent over and started limping, feinting serious injury, but the guy in the car didn’t seem too concerned as he stepped on the gas and left me standing in a cloud of smelly exhaust fumes. I let him have a few of my own profanities as I shook my fist wildly in the air, but he kept right on going. I watched him until he disappeared from sight and then I turned and started walking towards the Volvo.

But my limp wasn’t quite as phoney as I’d assumed, and now it was accompanied by a sharp, throbbing pain in the pit of my stomach.

By the time I found the Volvo my heart was pounding and each breath was coming in short, uneven gasps. My eyes were beginning to water and the stinging smell of oil and dust had attacked my nose and throat causing me to cough and sputter like a worn-out old engine.

I fumbled with the key and finally got the door open. After dropping heavily onto the torn and tattered seat, I slipped the key into the ignition in an attempt to get the car started, but my leg shook so badly I couldn’t keep the clutch down and it kept jumping to a stop. My mouth felt dryer than the parched bones of a dead rodent baking under the desert sun. I took a deep breath and then I allowed my hand to slip away from the key and slid down to massage my aching knee.

My state of frustration slowly drifted away as I warmed to the friendly interior of the Volvo and it occurred to me that this old car and I had a lot in common since it was made in 1999, the same year I’d stumbled through the second major plunge in my life when I precipitated the break-up of the briefly famous rock ‘n’ roll band I’d co-founded back in the summer of 1996. The band crashed in 1999 which was also the year I’d married Sarah, but that didn’t qualify as a major plunge, only a minor one. The major one came two years ago when we ended the whole unhappy relationship.

Actually, it was quite amazing how comfortably poor I now felt even though I’d spent almost ten years of my life selling real estate for Sarah’s father and enjoying the rich trappings that accompanied being the son-in-law of the illustrious Hubert P. Livingston. In fact, the transformation from driving a brand new Lincoln Continental while wining and dining my many independently wealthy clients, to writing music reviews and ad copy for numerous products ranging from fashion jeans to fabric softener and driving a bright red 1999 Volvo with bad brakes and a clunking transmission was one of the few periods of adjustments in my life I’d handled without too much anxiety.

I’d never really felt comfortable in that environment. I was more like a fish out of water than the hustling shark it took to be really successful.

I had also never been very good at being a part of someone’s team, especially during over-blown sales meetings that were skilfully designed to churn out company men who faithfully followed the corporate philosophy on how they should live their lives.

Making tons of money, getting that next big sale, keeping up with the Jones family—it all ran contrary to the independent streak I’d inherited from my father and it made my years in the selling game very difficult, to say the least. Hub had always done his best to understand me, even backing me up on occasion when one of his sales managers got on my back about some dumb regulation—but Sarah never tried to understand.

She constantly picked at me, saying over and over again, Look Eric, forget about what you were, you’re not a rock star anymore, you’re my husband and I have a right to expect you to provide us with a decent standard of living.

It would have been difficult for one of those money hungry corporate robots to keep Sarah in a style she was used to, but for someone like me, it was impossible from the beginning. I could never convince her that music had been, and would always be, the most important passion in my life.

After our separation I had little money and no job, but I still needed a reasonably reliable car. The salesman at the used car lot assured me there was still a few good years left in this old Volvo and, for once, a used car salesman had been right. Old cars are, in a way, not much different than people—there is always a few good years left in them if you treat them right.

The enclosed interior of the car began to feel hot and stuffy as my breathing returned to normal, so I rolled down the window. The air outside wasn’t much better, but at least it wasn’t sitting still. I reached up and turned the key in the ignition, but stopped short of turning it all the way.

Instead, I pulled out Sarah’s letter which, by now, was burning a hole in my back pocket. I wondered if I should read it or just tear it up and throw away the pieces. I decided I wasn’t in the right state of mind at that moment, but I knew I would get around to reading it before the day was over.

It was now clear that my reaction to the letter was only a defensive mechanism I had build up inside me. It’s sudden entry into my stagnant life had stirred up feelings and emotions I hadn’t experienced for a long time—like when you stir up a bowl of vegetable soup that’s been sitting for a while and all the peas and carrots and green beans have floated to the bottom. I thought I had buried those feelings forever, but I guess they were only resting silently on the bottom of the bowl.

I gazed through the dusty windshield, my heartbeat back to thumping its normal, redundant rhythm, and wondered if I had ever really come to terms with my self-imposed exile from intimacy. I assumed I had, but I guess deep down I knew that living alone again hadn’t turned out to be the wild and wonderful lifestyle I had expected. My two years of solitary confinement had confirmed what I should have known in the first place. I needed more, someone to share my life with, even if the relationship wasn’t perfect. But any thoughts of avoiding the final break with Sarah were down right ridiculous and likely stemmed more from a need to be with somebody again, and less from any feelings I had for her.

I have always had a tendency to burn my bridges behind me and, with the exception of Gus, once someone is no longer a part of my life, it’s as if they had never existed. So why was I so concerned this time with Sarah’s sudden return into my life?

My mind shifted to Jerry’s disturbed reaction to my question about his father. It really wasn’t a reaction to me, personally, but to my status as the messenger who voiced something that stirred up feelings he was trying to hide from, just like the unexpected receipt of Sarah’s letter was my messenger.

For a moment I felt sorry for Jerry. He had no choices and few options. He was stuck sitting in the lobby staring out the window. He couldn’t roam around and try to get a handle on the situation, but I could.

I took a deep breath, let the air out slowly and then stuffed the letter back into my pocket. I noticed my gas gauge was registering close to empty and made a mental note to fill up on the way home after work and then I reached over and turned the key in the ignition.

This time my leg held firm on the clutch.

Chapter Two

Fun Gus Productions is located downtown on the third floor of an old building over a family shoe store and what I call a regular restaurant, as opposed to one of those fun fast food eateries that line the streets and boulevards all over town. I’m the Vice President of the company, which doesn’t amount to much, since Gus and I started the business with very little money and then we learned about things like cash flow and working capital.

On the day we took the papers down to get the business registered, we flipped a coin to see who would be President. Gus won, which meant he got to fill out the space that read: Name of Business—thus Fun Gus or, closer to reality, fungus.

In order to engage the services of our agency, a prospective client is required to climb thirty-eight death defying stairs up an oppressively narrow and steep stairwell, to which s/he soon discovers: one false step and it’s a bumpy ride back down. I sometimes wonder if business would be a little better if we could somehow transform the stairs into a long, sweeping escalator … failing that, maybe hire a big Russian weightlifter to carry people up. I know there are mornings I am totally disheartened when confronted with the unavoidable climb and if I didn’t have to make a living, I’d be tempted to say ‘the hell with it’ and go home.

However, halfway up there’s a four foot landing and to your right a huge glass door that leads to Universal Models and it’s an ideal spot to catch your breath and, if you’re lucky, maybe catch a glimpse of several gregarious young ladies earnestly painting their faces.

As I stood facing the long, uninviting hallway that loomed before me like the foothills of Mount Everest, I knew it was one of those mornings I would rather go home. My knee was still feeling the effects of its calamitous collision with the blue Camaro, so I limped along slowly, hoping it wouldn’t seize up on me and send me rolling backwards. Many nights I’ve had nightmares about losing my balance and tumbling down, but I always end up landing in the arms of one of the gorgeous models from the second floor. Somehow the reality of the situation didn’t offer the same prospects of a happy ending … which wasn’t surprising the way the day had started.

I reached the landing without mishap and as I paused to catch my breath, I cursed myself for not starting the exercise program I’d been planning to start for the past few years. The slight paunch that had been developing around my middle from