The Last Comback: A Novel

By John M. Daniel

Kit Sawyer agrees to try for one more comeback. At 67, Kit is tired of the road, but Archie promises him this time there will be no live performances. They won’t even have to leave their home on California’s Central Coast. This time all Kit has to do is record the tracks to some new material and learn the uncomfortable art of social networking, starting with Facebook. Reluctant at first, Kit gets hooked on Facebook, where he explores his past by searching for old friends, including Jimmy Skinner, a lad he loved when they were young. Next Kit types in the name of Doris Tobin, a girl he had an affair with in the summer of 1962, while he and Jimmy worked as hired hands and musicians at a dude ranch in Colorado. He finds out that Doris gave birth to a boy nine months after they said goodbye. Forced to face his past, Kit recalls in vivid detail that glorious, bewildering summer in the Rockies, where he first found himself on the confusing and alluring path of bisexuality. The Final Comeback is a short novel that spans 50 years and the American continent from the California dunes to the snow-capped Rockies to the ivy-draped walls of New England. It is about songs and show business, youth and maturity, friendship and love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daniel & Daniel Publishers
• Release date: Aug 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781564748058

Book preview

The Last Comeback

a novel

John M. Daniel

2016 • Daniel & Daniel, Publishers, McKinleyville, California

Copyright © 2016 by John M. Daniel

All Rights Reserved

ISBN 978-1-56478-798-3

This is a work of fiction. People, places, and events in this novel are products of the author’s imagination, and any similarity to real people, places, and events is unintended and coincidental.

Published by Daniel & Daniel, Publishers, Inc.

Post Office Box 2790

McKinleyville, CA 95519

www.danielpublishing.com

E-book production: Studio E Books

Distributed by SCB Distributors [phone]

I wish to thank my writing group, the Great Intenders, for support and feedback, while I was writing this novel. I also am grateful to Toby Tompkins and Susan Daniel for reading the manuscript as it grew and for giving me welcome critique and encouragement.

for Susan

Contents

Part One: Another Comeback, 2009

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Part Two: Haderway Ranch, 1962

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Part Three: Reunion, 2010

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

About the Author

Part One: Another Comeback, 2009

Chapter One

Hurry up, Archie said, again. You’re going to be late. Again.

Kit Sawyer fastened the pearlish snaps of his shirt. Yes, dear, he said with a sigh. Snap, snap. All done.

Your hair, Archie reminded him.

Kit brushed his hair, which had turned white but was remarkably full for a sixty-eight-year-old has-been. He practiced his smile in the mirror. The teeth were replacements, but they were copies of the originals, not tarted-up faggy Chiclets.

No, he didn’t look as good as he had in his twenties, but who did?

———

Kit Sawyer and Archie Willson had a nearly ideal relationship. Kit was rich, formerly famous, and still handsome. They both agreed on that. Archie was short, balding, and chubby, with a winning self-deprecating smile. He was a good cook, grew his own herbs, and knew how to deal with the remote control, the Internet, and automobile maintenance. He managed the household, the finances, and what was left of Kit Sawyer’s career.

It was in the sex department where they weren’t the perfect couple. They liked each other so much that they had wanted the bedroom scene to work, but it didn’t. Archie preferred younger men, and Kit preferred his memories, more than half of which were about women. So, separate bedrooms it had been, for the past ten companionable years. Kit encouraged Archie to flirt with other men, and even to have occasional one-nighters, so long as he didn’t bring strays home or fall in love. Sometimes Archie would treat Kit to scandalous tales of what had happened, which Kit found humorous, generous, and painfully erotic. But Kit liked it best when sex was not an issue. He knew he had pissed on his last campfire, and didn’t like to be reminded that Archie was still occasionally ready to ride in the high country.

But they had plenty to agree on, starting with Baywood Park, California, where they had a large weathered-wood house overlooking a beach, a wide bay, a dune-covered spit of land, and beyond that a very large ocean. A perfect place for an older couple to live. At one end of their street was a covered platform built by the local Audubon Society, where in the late afternoons they could watch the blackbirds flit among the marshy reeds and flash their red wings. At the other end of their street they could buy scones and coffee in the mornings and gab with the locals as they watched the estuary fill up or empty out. Their house was also only a short walk from the Sand Dollar, a neighborhood bar where they were recognized and welcome. Older people, people who remembered Kit Sawyer and had bought his records, still asked him to sing a folksong or two at parties, and even asked him for the occasional autograph. It wasn’t much, but Kit didn’t need much anymore. He had Archie, and he and Archie had a home.

But Archie wanted Kit to want more. You’re going to rot if you don’t get out more, Christopher, he said. Almost every day lately. We need to get you exposed a lot more.

I beg your pardon?

You know what I’m talking about. Damn well.

My comeback? Archie, once a singer has more than three comebacks, and each comeback is weaker than the one before—

This one will be big, Archie promised. Come on. Time to go.

———

Shoot-a-reckon, Kit declared from one of the minor stages at the Mid-State Fair, "it’s just so dang nifty to see so many a you cowpokes and she-buckaroos out here at the fair on this be-eautiful afternoon! Lookyyyyonder, not a got-dang cloud in the sky, just like back when I had a home out on the range. But y’all know what? What I liked most about my days on the range was my nights on the range."

How often at night, when the heavens are bright

With the light of the glittering stars,

Have I stood there amazed, and asked as I gazed

If their glory exceeds that of ours.

Home, home on the range…

As always when he sang this song, Kit remembered a particular night of glittering stars, high in the Colorado Rockies. Sitting around a campfire, eighteen guests there were that night, roasting marshmallows after a filling feast of venison stew, biscuits, and beans, and Kit tuned up his guitar and sang his way through his repertoire of western chestnuts, from Big Rock Candy Mountain to Don’t Fence Me In. He sang to the kids, their mothers, and their loud fathers, all guests of the Haderway Ranch. Between songs the kids shrieked and teased each other about charred marshmallows dropped in the fire, the fathers passed a bottle among themselves and swapped lies about the flies they’d tied and the trout they’d caught last summer, and their wives asked young Kit where he’d learned so many old songs.

Kit’s face was hot in the firelight, and his back was chilly, turned to the dark forest. Then it was time to bundle the youngsters into their bed rolls, which were laid out in a circle in the middle of the meadow. Kit sat in the center of their campsite and pointed up to the stars and told them stories about the constellations. The adult guests went into their tents and made silhouettes against the canvas, until one by one their lanterns went out. Luke Riley, the wrangler, put the fire to bed, and he and Kit pissed into the ashes one last time to make sure. Then Luke opened his jacket and pulled out a pint of cheap whiskey. The two of them sat down on stones in the moonlight to talk.

———

Oh, stop it, Archie told Kit later, at the Big Sky Cafe in San Luis Obispo. You were fine.

Marvelous, added Rick Bailey, the young man Archie wanted Kit to be polite to. At least listen to the man, Archie had insisted. Faaabulous, Rick insisted. Of course I’m a big fan.

Who was this kid? Half my age, Kit thought. If that. No, way younger. Him in his Hawaiian shirt, his porkpie hat.

That Mid-State Fair is a bitch, Kit said. "Paso Robles, California in July is the hottest place in the galaxy. It’s true. You can check it out in The Guinness Book of World Records. And if you want more proof, check out my armpits. I was sweating like a pig up there on that chickenshit stage."

Archie and Rick both laughed.

I have to open for Tucker Brent every goddam afternoon this week. I remember when Tucker used to open for me—the evening show. Main stage.

Rick Bailey set down his fork and said, Let’s talk business.

Business? What’s to talk about? Kit asked.

Archie set down his fork, turned to Rick, and said, Talk.

Rick bowed his head, looked up and grinned, and produced as if out of thin air a business card between the index and middle fingers of his right hand. He laid the card next to Kit’s dessert plate. Let’s make music together, he said.

Kit took the card, held it out at a good distance and squinted. ‘RBI Music.’ What’s RBI stand for?

Rick Bailey Independent. I’m an indie music producer.

What kind of music do you produce, Rick? You better not say rap.’

Rick laughed and shook his head. There are too many of those already.

You’re telling me. So. What kind of music business are you in?

I produce and sell downloads. Now that there are basically no record stores left, it’s all Internet. A whole new ball game, a whole new music business. Which is great for us indies. You know?

Back to square one, Kit said. What kind of music do you produce?

Rick looked him straight on and said, What I know I can sell.

Kit shook his head. He looked at Archie, whose mouth was drawn in a tight line, but his eyes were merry. Kit looked at Rick, whose eyes were wide and blue. He said, You’re talking to the wrong artist, pal. My last four CDs tanked. Nobody wants campfire music anymore. You should maybe consider rap after all.

Rick feigned outrage and said, Give me back my card—no, just kidding! Kit, you know what I like about you? Why I want to produce your next album? Because you do have a fan club. I’ve been Googling your ass, and you have fans. There are thousands of people out there interested in Kit Sawyer.

Well, as far as I can tell, they don’t buy records.

Nobody buys records anymore, Kit. Or CDs. They download tunes. Or albums. Costs me nothing to produce and nothing to distribute. Well, there’s the recording session, but your friend Archie says you guys can make the masters right in your own home studio. Says you’ve already got some songs ready to go. Multi-tracked, mixed, and everything. Garage Band, dude. And you can do dozens more, he says. Put them together for me, email them to me, I’ll take it from there. I’ll sell downloads—singles, or the new album—and pay you a handsome royalty. Every month. What do you say? Rick Bailey leaned onto his forearms and stuck his grinning chin close to Kit’s face. What do you say?

I say how the hell are you going to get these so-called thousands of fans to order my songs from you? And who are these thousands of people anyway?

You got mucho niches, my man.

Rick, if you don’t mind, I am not your man.

Rick nodded. Not yet, anyway.

And another thing. Never call me ‘dude.’ Now. Name these people, my fans. Name a thousand of them.

Well, there’s actually an interest group that collects campfire songs. For kids, Boy Scouts, summer camps, Christian retreats, stuff like that. Then there’s the old folkies. People who dug the Kingston Trio, the Limelighters, Peter, Paul, and what’s her name, back in the day. Then you got your gay fans. Believe me—

You can stop right there, Kit said.

Archie said, Kit, they’re loyal. And you’ve been out for years. For Christ’s sake, you came out in 1981, right on Hollywood Squares.

Kit decided to laugh. He laughed. Okay, okay. This is some nutty niche we got here, a bunch of geezer fags who also happen to be Christian Scoutmasters.

Actually, Rick Bailey said, it’s a bunch of different niches. The smaller the target the better the odds. That’s how focused marketing works. You know who my best-selling artist is right now? A square-dance caller, because he’s famous in a small niche. But the more targets you have the bigger your chances, and Kit, you have three niches ready-made.

Okay. So how do you plan to reach all these different markets? Kit asked.

I don’t. That’s your job.

Oh, right. In the immortal words of Sam Goldwyn, include me out.

Archie giggled. You are out. We’ve already established that niche.

So I take out an ad on Google? Get your red-hot gay cowboy crooner, right here? Forget it. I don’t hide who I am, Archie, but I’m not going to exploit my lifestyle.

Of course you are, Rick said, laying a hand on Kit’s arm and giving it a squeeze. You don’t have to be a queen about it, just be friendly. That’s what social networking is all about. Why it works. Why it sells product.

Social—

Think Facebook. Think Twitter. Think blog!

I don’t want to be on fucking Facebook.

Archie said, Yes you do.

Believe me, Rick Bailey said, you do.

Kit said, Believe me, I don’t.

———

While he waited for Kit to change his mind, Archie redesigned the Kit Sawyer website, littering it with pictures of the grinning cowboy crooner, some from long ago and others from his more recent comebacks. The website, written by Archie in Kit’s folksy voice, offered autographed albums—mostly CDs, but some vinyl, too—for sale, dirt cheap, and