Bubbles Meets the Prince of Darkness

By Max Crandall

Bubbles Callahan’s relationship with her slacker boyfriend is going nowhere. But her relationship with 'Kind of Blue' is a different matter. The 1959 Miles Davis album sparks a series of events that transport her far from her comfortable life in Philadelphia, to a dangerous and uncertain existence in the slums of Rio de Janeiro.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 5, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543916164

Book preview

Interview

PART ONE

BUBBLES MEETS

THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS

Philadelphia, 2004

1

Sully stops short. Bubbles, lost in an intimate moment with her jumbo mocha latte, blunders right into his back. Her 32 ounces trace a graceful arc against the sky before exploding on the sidewalk.

Shit, Sully! My coffee! What are you doing?

Sully stands frozen. His eyes narrow as he sniffs the air.

What is it? Sully?

Over there ’round that next block. Darting between the cars, he scrambles across the street and out of sight. Following him, Bubbles turns the corner, where she spots Sully entering a grimy storefront.

Shaking her head, she mutters, Un-fucking-believable.

The sign above the door reads, The Vinyl Solution—Records and Tapes Bought and Sold.

He can smell them—moldy, old records—blocks away…

Rolling her eyes, Bubbles takes a deep breath and enters the dingy shop. She glances around until she finds Sully methodically thumbing through the racks. He’s got that look on his face. This is going to take a while. Here’s where they do their familiar thing. She makes a big show of looking as bored as possible—and he won’t even notice.

Sighing, she turns her attention to the layers and layers of promotional posters that cover everything—walls, ceiling, cabinets, and floor—a veritable geological stratum of pop music ephemera. Bits of Elvis’ pelvis can be seen underneath a headless Rod Stewart, topped by Madonna’s ass poking out behind a paint-by-numbers portrait of Beck, his eyes blocked out by a Radiohead bumper sticker…

However, one poster draws her attention. A stark black and white image of some jazz guy with a trumpet. In a sharp-looking suit, crouched menacingly over his horn, his black skin shines like burnished metal. Without taking her eyes from the poster, she sidles up to Sully. Nudging him she says, Hey, who’s that, on the wall over there? Oblivious to her, he continues combing the rack of LPs. She slams the row together, pinching his fingers.

Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow. Bubbles, what the…? Who? Oh, that’s Miles Davis. He’s cool.

Do you have any of his music?

"Yeah, I’ve got a couple of disks. Kind of Blue and Bitches Brew."

Do you ever play them? I’ve never heard you play his stuff.

"Well… you know, it’s kind of chill-out music. Umm, not Bitches Brew, though, that’s pretty out there."

Kin I borrow them? I’d like to hear what they sounds like.

"Um, yee-ah. I guess. Just don’t, like, lose the booklets or crack the cases. And don’t lend them to any of your roommates. And, hey, Bubs? Have you got a few bucks? I found this import maxi-single of Grandaddy’s El Caminos In the West with two unreleased tracks from the Sumday sessions… so I’ll pay you back, you know, soon, and…"

Three months later the thing with Sully is like, so over. However, the Miles Davis CDs remain in her possession. He’d sent a couple of huffy texts demanding their return, but screw him. She figured they were even, considering the constant sponging she’d endured for the thirteen months they were together.

Her relationship with Kind Of Blue, however, had become a different matter. Often, late in the evening, while her roommates sit slack-jawed before the TV, she settles into the hammock on the porch with a cup of tea and the last of the day’s Marlboros. With much effort, she has run wires from her stereo out her bedroom door, up around the living room ceiling and through the bathroom to put a pair of speakers out on the porch. Though in heavy rotation on her iPod, Kind of Blue sounds even better through those big, ol’ fat speakers. Settling back in the hammock, she fires up a cigarette. As she exhales, the smoke mingles with the delicate, ghostly piano chords that introduce the first track. As she gazes to the east over the rooftops, towards the river, the music and the sounds of the midnight city become one.

2

Seven-fifteen AM, and the garbage men clatter and bang in the street. Bubbles wakes with a start. Disoriented, mouth dry, she slowly draws herself upright. Spent all night in the hammock again. Tossing off the army jacket that serves as a communal porch blanket, she stretches and yawns. The sun is just peeking above the rooftops and the air is still and muggy. Reaching for a cigarette, she shakes out the pack and finds two left, one broken but one still whole. One drag and she snubs it out. Damp and stale. As the rumble of the sanitation truck recedes down the block, she hears music playing, faintly. Shit. Left the CD player on. Kind of Blue has been playing all night long. Flopping back in the hammock, she ponders the hour: "Jeez, what time is it? What the hell day is it? Wednesday? Uh oh, late for work! Umn, no, no, it’s Thursday. Don’t go in ’til four." Relieved, she lies back and lets her mind drift. As Miles’s elegant trumpet dances and weaves, she begins to doze, All Blues enveloping her in its swinging embrace.

Bubbles daydreams as she bangs away at the toothpaste boxes with the price-sticker gun-thing. The job at the pharmacy was getting on her nerves. So what now? She’d graduated, got her degree in graphic design. She’d made up her fancy résumé, promo pieces and business cards, spent a fortune on the printing; but she’d been unmotivated to look for work. The pharmacy job had been fine while she was in school. She’d had some laughs working with Stacey and Tucker, but since they’d both moved on, she’s been spending most of her time on her shift trying to avoid Carlos. Car-los. At first he seemed ok, but she soon realized her open and friendly manner had been misinterpreted, ’cause Carlos fancied himself a ladies man…

Hey Bubbles, after your shift, what you say… let me take you… Squinting, he brings his thumb and forefinger to his lips and draws in deeply. Exhaling, he intones, On a magic carpet ride.

Carlos. Listen. You’re a nice guy and all, but, ah… She shrugs and returns to pricing boxes.

"But what? Why can’t you just, like, come hang with me? We could have some fun. I’m not just some asshole. I got some seriously good weed, we could get some cold ones, you know?"

Following that smooth come-on, he leans over her and starts kneading her shoulders. Bubbles stiffens. Gripping the sticker gun she rises and turns to face down the shorter Carlos.

"No, Carlos, actually, you are pretty much an asshole. Back off. Please."

Red faced, Carlos barks, You know what? You’re one stuck up, skinny-ass bitch. And I don’t even know what KIND of skinny bitch you are, anyway, some kind of niggery, A-rab, chinky lookin’ girl…

With a swing of the sticker gun, she catches Carlos under the chin, sending him staggering back into a cardboard pain-reliever display. Sprawled out in the clutter, he struggles to get to his feet. Before he can recover, Bubbles drops the sticker gun and sprints right out the door. Hot tears stream down her cheeks as she runs, darting through the crowds, block after block. Finally she stops, gasping, bent over. Still trembling, she sits on a bus stop bench and tries to collect herself. It felt like she was nine years old, back in the schoolyard. How long had it been since she’d been taunted for her color? Yeah, Bobby Collins, fourth grade. That little fucker. She’d smacked him silly, too. Chuckling to herself, she digs in her pocket for a smoke. Lighting up, she realizes she’s still wearing her pharmacy smock. Cigarette clenched between her teeth, she yanks off the smock and tosses it towards a nearby trashcan. Ugly gray with red piping, it hangs limply from the edge of the can, her nametag still pinned to it. She glares at the tag. "Hi, my name is Bubbles. How many times had she been teased about her name? That’s a whole ’nother story. She finishes her smoke and unfolds her long legs. Trying to look casual, she ambles over and pulls the tag from the discarded smock. Putting it in her pocket, she looks around. I’ve been in this neighborhood before. With Sully. That crummy record store is around here somewhere. The one with the Miles poster.

Pushing open the sticky door, she’s greeted by that smell, the smell Sully could detect from blocks away. She glances up at the clerk. Not the same one she remembers—that pale, old fat guy with a ponytail. It’s a young, nervous Asian dude with big, black-frame glasses and a Farrah Fawcett t-shirt. She scans the wall looking for the Miles poster. Ah, there he is. Nice to see Miles is still accorded a little respectful space.

Looking for something in particular?

Bubbles turns to see the clerk giving her the once over. He squints at her and says with a smirk, You’ve got kind of a Macy Gray thing, circa ’99. Macy Gray maybe mixed with Olive Oyl. And that would be the E.C. Segar original comic strip Olive Oyl, not the Shelly Duval version from the turgid 1980 movie.

You don’t say, replies Bubbles. You’d be sort of an Elvis Costello thing, mixed with some left-over Chinese take-out.

The clerk winces. Ouch.

Bubbles flashes him daggers and heads for the door. Yeah, well, I’m leaving now, funny guy.

Ooh, no, sorry, sorry, sorry! Really. Um, that was uncalled for. I’m kind of an asshole.

You know what? This must be International Assholes’ Day. I’ve already taken enough from another member of your organization today.

Aw, c’mon, I’ll take a buck off any disk you like. Are you looking for a particular artist?

It crossed her mind to flip him off and stalk out, but she reconsiders. You got any Miles Davis?

The clerk’s eyes light up. "Miles? Hell, yes. Any special title? Here’s some sweet remastered stuff from the early 60’s. Also some classic Prestige sides, you know the first great quintet, with Coltrane. There’s Steamin’, Relaxin’, Workin’, Cookin’ … you can’t go wrong with any of them. All classics."

"I just quit my job, so Relaxin’ sounds about right."

As the clerk rings her up, she looks over the cover. Relaxin’ with the Miles Davis Quintet in yellow block letters across a black bar at the top. Below, there’s an abstract female form composed of long thin triangles, reclining on a sea of pea-soup green.

The clerk hands her the receipt. Hey, thanks. And no more dumb remarks from me. Come back again.

She shoots him a cool look and says, We’ll see, as she glides out the door.

On the bus ride back to her apartment, she reads the liner notes. John Coltrane, tenor sax, she knew from Kind of Blue, along with Paul Chambers, bass. Red Garland on the piano, and Philly Joe Jones on drums. Of course, Miles on trumpet. Recorded 1956, Hackensack, New Jersey. She gazes out the window as the bus pauses at a light and her eyes fall on a tall, light-skinned black man standing at the curb. Kinda reminds her of how her mother had described her father. Her dad? She knew so little of him. When she would ask, her mother would only say, There’s so little to tell. Got pregnant as a senior at Princeton, 1983. Decided to have the child. That child would be you, Sweety. She’d asked if she had seen him through the years. Never saw him again after that night. He doesn’t know about you.

She gets off the bus. It’s dusk. She buys a hot dog from a street vendor and decides to go down to Penn’s Landing before going home. Just as she finds a bench, the lights come on along the Ben Franklin Bridge. Kind of humid, no breeze. Like a typical Philly summer night, but it’s only early May. She pulls out her CD player from her backpack and drops in the CD. A scrabbly voice croaks, I’ll play it, and tell you what it is later. Finger snaps count off, the piano plays a little riff like a doorbell chime, the brushes hit the snare, and that delicious muted trumpet swings in, dancing along with the flickering lights reflecting off the Delaware River.

3

Nothing, nothing, nothing, and more nothing. Opportunities in sales—plenty of that—but no jobs in graphic design. Her head in her hand, Bubbles zones out for a moment. Her eyes burn a hole in the classifieds, while her finger traces the coffee cup rings on the tabletop. Snapping to, she looks at her watch, and swallows the last cold mouthful of her latte. Kicking back the chair, she jabs a cigarette in her lips, and with two long strides she’s out the door. Firing up her smoke, she recalls feeling pretty heroic, dropping that shitty pharmacy job, just like that… for a couple of days, anyway. Luckily she got paid on Tuesday, so, with the little she has in the bank, she’s good for at least three weeks, maybe a month. After that, it would mean… a call to Mom.

Her Mom was cool, though. Well, perhaps too cool. As in stoic. That’s how she described herself, stoic and pragmatic. The woman had put herself through Princeton, pedal to the metal, good grades, bright future, then a minor detour—nothing she couldn’t handle—unexpected pregnancy, no father—then, baby on hip, she finished grad school, and shifted into a full-throttle career as a psychologist.

Stirred from her thoughts by the ring of her cell phone, Bubbles takes a step aside from the sidewalk traffic, and goes into the little dance she does when she’s trying to pry the phone loose from her way-too-tight jeans pocket. She squeezes until, like a deep splinter, it finally pops loose, causing her to juggle it like a wet bar of soap.

OH, BUBS! A female voice wails on the other end. He’s, he’s, GAUWGGH!

Angie? What’s up? Slow down, I can’t understand… Yeah. OK. Josh? Again? Alright, I’ll be there. Soon, yes, soon.

Bubbles rubs her temples. Angie and Josh. So much drama. She tosses the newspaper in a can and strides the three blocks to the apartment Angie and Josh share with Tony. Good old Tony. Completely unflappable. There he’d sit, smack in the middle of one of Angie and Josh’s scorched-earth scream-fests, reading a graphic novel with a well baked grin on his big face.

As she climbs the three flights, she hears a serious commotion coming from above. When she gets to the landing, there is Tony, sitting in the hall, reassuringly baked and grinning.

Tony, what are you doing out here?

Shit’s flying around in there. Safer out here.

Something heavy crashes against the door. Tony shrugs and says, Josh’s stuff. Mostly.

Bubbles cracks open the door and peers in. She sees Angie rocking the CD rack until it topples over, sending hundreds of disks crashing to the floor, sharp plastic bits flying everywhere. Leaping on the pile of spilled disks, she’s kicking them in every direction, a few whizzing out the open window. Disks are slipping and sliding dangerously under her feet, causing her to lose her balance. Arms flailing, she goes down hard, her head rebounding off the floor. Angie! Bubbles rushes in, and kneels at her side.

Holy fuck! Angie, are you alright?

Dazed, she looks up at Bubbles. The corners of her mouth curl down and her eyes well up.

Noooo, I’m NOT alright. He’s gone. He did it, the bastard.

Where did he go?

Los Angeles. With that bitch, Chloe.

Bubbles looks over at Tony standing in the doorway. He nods his head. Yup, dude called me yesterday from L.A. Wants me to send him some of his choice CDs. Tony surveys the wreckage and snorts. Sure, Josh, no problem.

Bubbles gets Angie upright and checks the back of her head. No blood.

C’mon, Anj, let’s make you a cup of tea.

She helps the sobbing girl to her feet and guides her into the kitchen. Setting her in a chair, Bubbles goes to the cupboard for a teabag and a mug. Though she’s still breathing hard, Angie seems to be cooling out a bit. Bubbles puts the kettle on the greasy stove, then sits across from Angie.

You sure he’s not coming back? As soon as the words leave her lips Bubbles knows she shouldn’t have gone there.

Angie stiffens and shoots Bubbles a look.

No, he’s NOT coming back. Says he’s going to be a gaffer, whatever the fuck THAT is. CHLOE knows people in the industry. CHLOE has connections…

OK, Anj, take it easy. Here, take some deep breaths and sip this tea. Bubbles slides the mug in front of Angie. She regards it suspiciously, then takes a tentative sip. She looks at Bubbles with a weak smile. S’good. Thanks.

It’s Oolong, I think. So, Anj, it’s time to move on. Josh has been jerkin’ you ’round forever. It’s good he’s gone. You’re gonna be fine.

But Angie’s not listening. Her eyes glare at something in the other room. Bubbles turns to see what has her attention. It’s Josh’s bass guitar, leaning in the corner. That crazed look returns to Angie’s face. Bubbles reaches over towards her.

Anj, don’t do it…

Angie jumps from the table and dashes into the living room, Bubbles stumbling after her. Grabbing the bass, Angie swings it towards the open window, but succeeds only in smashing a lamp. She resumes her assault, dragging it around by the neck, crashing into the furniture. Catching the leg of the table, it’s wrenched from her grip. It hits the floor, strings going WONGNGNG. She jumps on it like a skateboard, but it kicks out from under her feet, going skittering across the room. Before Angie can pounce again, Bubbles snatches it up. Anj, stop! That bass might be worth some money. You could sell it or something…

I don’t want to sell it! I don’t want to look at it! Goddamn piece of shit. He couldn’t play it anyway. Fucking poseur. Just get rid of it.

Who, me?

If you don’t take it outta here, I’ll smash the thing, I swear!

Bubbles looks at Tony. Don’t you want it?

Tony looks at her, like, Are you serious?

Bubbles eyes the bass. She’d played a little guitar when she was in middle school. She knew a few chords. What if he wants it back?

He’s not getting it back! He owes me money, and he can consider it gone! I’m serious, Bubs, just get it outta here!

So Bubbles, the instrument slung over her shoulder, heads back to her apartment, with Tony following, carrying the little amp that came with the bass. She feels sort of conspicuous, so she tries to feign nonchalance, shuffling along, like Yeah, that’s my thing, just walkin’ around with my bass, no case, whatever… you know, maybe got a gig tonight.

Arriving at the apartment, she gives Tony a big hug and sends him off with a cold beer from the fridge. She drags the amp and the bass into her bedroom. All her roomies are away for the weekend, so she plugs it in and starts to fart around. She can’t make it sound like much. She puts it down and turns off the amp. It’s stuffy in the little room so she kicks off her jeans and her big sweater. Flipping through her CDs, she stops at Bitches Brew. This one will do. Miles’s electric music. Nasty stuff. She picks the second disk, pops it in, cranks it up and flops back on the bed. She closes her eyes as the music begins to cook, immersing her in a cauldron of churning electric gumbo. The burbling funk simmers, the mysterious rhythms rise and fall. A weird energy begins to course through her, compelling her to reach over and pick up the bass. She flips on the power, and begins thumping it rhythmically, feeling herself meld into the pulse, the essence of the groove. She lets her sweaty fingers slide up and down the neck, making it growl and groan. Undulating in her underwear, she stirs the funky stew as Miles Runs the Voodoo Down.

4

I don’t know about this, Tony…

"It’s cool, Bubs. You just hold these two wires together as you turn the key, then put your foot on the brake, don’t let go of the wires yet, jiggle the shift knob like this, then put it in gear, and off you go. Then you can let go of the wires."

Tony’s so proud of his ride. 1974 Olds Tornado. Big Brown, he calls it. That’s about right. A two-ton turd bomb with white sidewalls and a vinyl roof. However, Bubbles needs to borrow a car. She has a job interview, up near Princeton, and Tony is the only person she knew who has a vehicle—such as it is.

Above them is the underside of the Ben Franklin Bridge, as it begins its ascent over the last few cross streets before stretching over the Delaware. Here between the huge, gray concrete columns is a parking lot where Tony parks Big Brown. It’s one of those strange urban places that you might see when passing in a car, but where you would never imagine you’d ever find yourself standing in. Street detritus blows around their ankles while the rumble and hum of the traffic above makes it hard to hear.

C’mon, Bubs, get in.

Tony ushers her into the driver’s seat and gets in the passenger’s side. Check it out. He rubs his hand over the seats. I made these seat covers out of my grandmother’s old shag carpeting! Ha! Also please note the nautical-style porthole windows in the back, and—here’s the best part—Ta-da! Eight-track tape player! And it works! He reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out an old, scuffed up tape cartridge. Presenting it like a game-show girl revealing the grand prize, he barks, Steppenwolf’s Greatest Hits! ending with an air guitar flourish.

Er, Tone, don’t you have any more of those eight-track thingies?

Nope.

That’s it? Really?"

Yup.

Well, I got to get going now. Tony, I really appreciate this. I’ll call you when I’m on my way back. Is there anything else I should know about the car?

Hey, this baby drives like a dream, but sometimes the gas pedal sticks.

What?

You just put your toe under the pedal and pull it back. No problem. And, yeah, if the speedometer doesn’t work, just tap on it, like this. That’s pretty much it, I think. S’got plenty of gas, too.

Bubbles rubs her temples. Tony…

Don’t worry, Bubbles. Big Brown will take care of you.

That’s what I’m worried about…

Wanna get baked before you go?

No, Tony.

She creeps along through the Old City streets, getting the feel of the big boat, until she finds her way onto the ramp for 95 North. Waiting for a break in the traffic, she makes her move. She hits the gas: Big Brown lurches forward with a squeal of tires and jumps assuredly out onto the road. Apart from a tendency for the car to drift a bit, she soon feels comfortable behind the wheel of the rusty behemoth.

The trip to Princeton should take just a little more than an hour. She’s got her directions on the seat beside her, along with her cell phone, portfolio, and briefcase. She brushes some lint off her new suit. Well, her new OLD suit. The one from the vintage clothing store she’d had tailored. The sun’s shining, traffic’s not bad at all. She puts the windows down, enjoying the blast of air. Some tunes might be in order. She tries the radio, punching the buttons and fiddling with the dial. Nothing. She glances at the glove compartment. The eight track. Steppenwolf? What the hell. Reaching over and flipping open the glove compartment, she