The Wild Road Back To Life

By Brian Christopher

Rick, a long forgotten rock ‘n’ roll legend lives on the streets of New York. After ending up in a hospital he is asked to help promote a benefit concert for a retirement home for old musicians. Eventually, he reluctantly agrees to help. The idea seemed so simple, but they should have looked more carefully as to how he ended up on the streets.....before they asked.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian Christopher
• Release date: Jun 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005074500

Brian Christopher

Born in Dublin, Ireland. Worked as a producer with various national broadcasting companies. Having created a collection of original stories over the years - they are now gently being released into the real world.

Book preview

The Wild Road Back To Life

By

Brian Christopher

WWW.BRIANCHRISTOPHERNOVELS.COM

Copyright © 2020 by Brian Christopher

brianchristophernovels.com

Cover Photograph: Fira Anuar

Cover design B. le Ier

When The Lady Smiles © 1984 G.Kooymans/B.Hay

Life on Mars ©1971 David Bowie, Chrysalis Music, EMI, Tintoretto Music

La Grange © 1973 ZZ Top

Together © Thé Lau music & lyrics

publisher – PeerMusic/Maximan 1990/2008

Chapter One

Rick crouched in the pitch dark porch of the department store, and pulled his legs up to his chest to conserve warmth. The weather reminded him of the Britain he left behind long ago. It had rained three days, non-stop. Years ago he would have laughed about getting a bath and washing his clothes at the same time. Right now all his joints hurt, and his cough was getting worse. This was no joke. This was a nightmare, especially now, in the dead of night, in the middle of New York City. The old dark blue German aviation coat he found six months ago in a rubbish dump covered his knees – a welcome protection against the sharp freezing winds that came down from Canada at that time of the year. Damp and soaked throughout, it weighed him down. At times like this it had become more of a burden than a protector from the elements. Even if he wanted to stand up, he did not think it was possible. Having no exact idea of the time; daylight seemed an eternity away. Rick suddenly remembered – his eyes twinkled. A bright light shone at the end of this dark and miserable tunnel, and he was the only one who knew about it. Smiling, he patted different parts of the coat, knowing what he wanted was within reach; if only he could find the right pocket. His hand dug deep into a gaping breach – another disappointment of the coat. He tried again, a smaller hole this time, then another hole only smaller, no luck there. Another, then felt something solid.

Yes, he cackled. His mood immediately lifted from the expectation of what was to come. He gripped the aluminium cap between his thumb and forefinger, and pulled out a half empty bottle of fifteen year old Scottish malt whiskey. With a quick twist the cap was off. The moment he hoisted the bottle high, his throat lit up as the whiskey flowed. The surge of the fire went deep into his chest, first warming, then burning – like petrol thrown on a dying flame: no drug in the world had such an effect. The blazing sensation of alcohol seeped into his skeletal frame and spread gently through his old body. Rick followed it with his mind, aware of every tingle on every nerve; ecstasy. He nurtured it like a man inhaling the essence of his last cigarette before execution. Good whiskey at a time like this came at a price, and he was determined to savour it to the last drop. Especially since that was the last bottle, and hours before he could acquire the next.

From the near-total darkness of the damp corner of the porch, the world around him suddenly lit up. Quickly he covered his face with his arms to avoid the stinging brightness. Without warning, a deafening sound of clamouring metal erupted – directly behind his back and side his damp stinking coat began to rise.

What the fuck? He grumbled.

No matter which way he turned, everything seemed to be rising. What was in that drink? That was no cheap stuff. He might live on the streets like a tramp, but he did not have to drink like one. The back of his coat pulled up over his head, as if it had taken on a life of its own, and about to consume him. This German coat was taking revenge, and winning.

Please God, Jesus, Mary, and the rest of the family, he moaned. Please, let me live. Don’t take me now. I won't let you down this time.

His plea ignored; the metal shutters continued to rise.

Squinting to avoid the painful light, he opened his eyes a fraction to try and see what was happening. Another light appeared from a different angle and flashed directly in his face. His effort to avoid the blinding beam proved impossible, it followed wherever he turned. Rick tried to focus on the ground. The only thing his eyes could make out was a pair of occupied highly polished black boots on the wet concrete, directly in front. No doubt about it, a security guard, and by the look of the shine the kick-ass, no questions type, probably supporting a haircut so tight it would put a marine to shame. On your feet, scum bag, the security guard growled. You can get your beauty sleep elsewhere.

Rick’s suspicion was confirmed. This was the type of bastard who after army life found the police unprofessional, civilian life unbearable yet addicted to a uniform. What better way than to work as a lone security guard, and be your own boss. Massive hands reached down, grabbed his water-logged padded shoulders and pulled him up and out of the doorway. Rick did his best to twist out of the iron grip. Pisssss off, he screamed. A shower of spittle left his mouth, and landed on the spotless black uniform directly in front of him. The guard immediately released him, and took a quick step back. I know how to stand up, Rick said, with an arrogant air of authority. I’ve been doing it for years. Half bucked; he managed to straighten himself up. His thin lanky body was at least half a head taller than his aggressor. Now that the nasty security guard had a better look at him, and would catch the scent of his very personal body odour, he knew he would never lay another finger on him. The fear that hobos carried all sorts of diseases like the Black Death, Hepatitis, Yellow Fever, AIDS, or the Coronavirus would keep him at a distance. No doubt he was already sorry he soiled his hands on his soggy stinking coat. Rick sucked in a deep breath, raised himself an extra half inch, and with arms wide, bellowed. Thank you very much for the bed and breakfast.

The security guard pointed a threatening finger at him. Get the hell out of here, he ordered.

I'm going, keep your hair on. Rick chuckled at the marine styled haircut.

With his whiskey bottle tight in one hand and eyes locked on the security guard, he carefully maneuvered around the human bulwark and backed away. After landing in a water-filled pothole, he turned and swayed down the street in the rain, and made a mental note of the warehouse. Next time the ape might overcome his fear and beat him to death; definitely not a place to go back to.

An hour later the sun broke through the clouds. Somewhere along the way the bottle had disappeared, and much to his disappointment, he was sobering up. But things were looking rosy. With a little luck, breakfast was just up the street in the form of Smiler's, his favourite diner. A cup of coffee would be welcome, but then again he might really get lucky with a donut or fried egg on toast.

Rick slapped his hands together and rubbed them enthusiastically. Yes, he said in a wheezed cackle, breakfast coming up. With only half a block to go, he quickened his pace.

Outside the diner he cupped his hands around his eyes to block the glare, and peered in through the window.

Jenny had been on her feet since eleven the previous evening and was nearing the end of her shift. Only months after the coronavirus lockdown had been lifted, it was still relatively quiet, just the way she liked it. The odd factory workers coming off the night shift, worn out truck drivers, and sex workers resting their feet; exactly the type of clientele she preferred. Too tired to complain about the food or service, and not busy enough to mix up the orders.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Rick staring through the window.

Christ, he’s still alive. Her shoulders sank. Jenny took a deep breath and shouted towards the kitchen. Hey Jack, the old man, the long skinny one, is back. What’ll I do?

Normally she had no problem with tramps turning up for a cup of coffee, as long as they conformed to her three commandments: Don't stink; don't bother the customers; and keep your hands off the waitresses. This first he usually broke the moment he set foot in the door. The second, five minutes later, and the third she could see coming because he was just never quick enough. However, something about that drifter that set him apart from the rest, although she found it impossible to put her finger on it. He was smarter than most, and had a way with women which at times crude, was also captivating. To turn him away would in these stricken times, make her feel guilty. Jack on the other hand was level-headed, and always knew what to do.

He survived the epidemic, that’s something, came the voice from the kitchen.

What if he’s infected?

Not possible, everybody, including people like him, were tested for immunity or got a compulsory vaccine. If he wasn’t okay he wouldn’t be allowed to roam the streets. Just give him coffee and send him away.

That was Jack, he also had a heart for most of the losers who turned up at the diner in the middle of the night or early morning, but knew when to draw the line. As long as there was no violence and no one coughing, he monitored the balance.

Don’t forget to check his health card, just to be on the safe side.

Outside, Rick smiled and waved to Jenny when he noticed her watching him, then hastily headed for the door. Before the epidemic, it was the only diner for miles around that would have him, and was totally convinced it was because of Jenny. He remembered how she once single-handedly broke up an argument between him and a truck driver who had enough of his stories of times gone by. She calmed the confrontation within minutes and negotiated a compromise which resulted in the two of them leaving the diner like old buddies. She had tact, charm, and when she smiled his heart melted. What was the beautiful woman like her working in a dump like this? Jenny was taller by at least four centimetres, and in heels taller still. What he wouldn’t do to go out on a date with a lady like that. She captured the beauty of every ex-wife and girlfriend he ever loved. Her red hair and slender figure was a heart-warming vision on such a miserable night. But it was her smile and laughter that brought people back, everybody loved Jenny: he did too. His only hope was that he wasn’t too far back in the waiting line.

Welcomed only by the warmth and the sweet smell of fresh donuts, he headed towards his old stool at the counter, the only spot in the entire diner where he could still get a look at her when she disappeared into the kitchen. The moment she placed an empty mug in front of him, Rick gave her a warm smile. Soaking wet and shivering from the cold, she was more than a welcome sight.

Card, Jenny demanded.

Rick reached into the same pocket where the whiskey had been, and pulled out the medical card issued by the state of New York to everyone who had received a vaccine or had survived the coronavirus infection.

Without touching it, she quickly saw his status as he held it up. So, you're vaccinated, and survived the virus as well. A goddamn miracle.

Rick wriggled his fingers. I’ve got all these little antibodies running around my blood now, I’m not contagious.

She looked at him in disgust. I wouldn’t bet on it.

Jenny poured the remains of a pot of coffee into a large cup.

He gave her his best smile. Ooooh you’re wonderful.

Her reply was sharp and serious. Just one and that’s it.

Ahhh, you're a beauty. He reached over the counter. Give us a kiss.

Jenny bolted back, and threatened him with the empty coffee pot. Keep your hands to yourself, or I’ll give you something worse than a virus.

Rick wheezed out a cackle of laughter. The white of his eyes lit up around his incredibly dark pupils – his nostrils flared like a horse in heat. Right now she was the sexiest thing he could imagine. Don't worry, me darlin’, you're safe with me.

Safer in a snake pit.

I love redheads.

Jenny answered him with one of her knife cutting looks, then immediately turned on her heel and disappeared into the kitchen.

Rick chuckled and relaxed. He settled back into his stool and wrapped his fingers around the hot cup and took a slurp of the coffee. If only he had some whiskey to add to it, then life would be perfect. He scanned the clientele: all strangers. The moment he entered he never noticed a couple of people sneer and turn away in disgust. He knew he smelled, but never gave it a second thought. He lived his life the way he wanted to, and his odour was one of the consequences. If nobody accepted him the way he was, they always had the freedom to fuck off, simple.

Maybe his last remark did not go down well. It might be a better idea not to push his luck by asking for seconds. Jenny seemed a little touchy this morning; definitely not her usual cheerful self. Maybe the epidemic had changed her, or had someone been ruffling her feathers? Rick looked around the room. Unfortunately, he could see no one to categorize as being suspicious or troublesome. Everybody seemed reasonably quiet and respectable. He glanced up at the dull white clock on the far wall. Another forty minutes and Jenny should be finishing her shift. Maybe he could get a fresh cup from her replacement.

Outside, it had turned daylight and another rain cloud broke and lashed the city streets.

Chapter two

Three and a half thousand miles away, on the edge of a desert in Utah, Preston had walked for most of the night. His right leg was stiffer than ever, and hurt at the knee when he straightened it outright. Fortunately, his left leg was still good; otherwise he would have been confined to a wheelchair or even worse, a Zimmer frame. A walking stick helped ease the discomfort, but what he really needed was a lift out of this hell hole. Back in the sixties, hitching rides, jumping trains, and finding places to stay came a lot easier. People were not as friendly these days. A seventy-five year-old busker with an aging guitar on his back did not fit into this world of young, glitter, hip-hop, rap and instant fame.

The moment dawn broke he felt the temperature slowly rise. By mid-day it would be 40ºC or higher, and he would have to take cover in the shade of some large rocks. His age old trick was to lie down between a couple of boulders, out of the sun, and take a nap. If there were none to be found he would hang his jacket over the neck of his guitar to create a cover for shade. With more than sixty years’ experience of being on the road, he knew how to adapt and improvise – the only way to survive.

Suddenly, he felt a slight tingle in his left ear. A noise, low in tone and constant, drew closer. He turned his hearing aid up to full strength and tried to concentrate. No mistake, that was an automobile with a big expensive engine.

Preston shot out his arm, raised his thumb, then turned to see a red open-top sports Mercedes heading straight for him at high speed. Without realising it, he had drifted out onto the middle of the road. He turned and did a quick hop and a shuffle to back to the edge as the Mercedes roared past – it missed him by a hair. A large cloud of dust from the backdraft covered him completely. He raised his stick high and screamed at the top of his lungs. Fuck you too, ye goddamn fascist.

Like an aging ghost, Preston continued down the road. With each step he cursed the driver. Stupid bastard, he moaned through gritted teeth. Stupid fucking bastard. Assholes like that should be fucking shot.

After the dust finally settled, his parched mouth felt as if it had been sucking sandpaper. In the distance he could just make out a pole with a Texaco sign that towered above a small service station.

Preston paced himself. The nap would come later. Right now his only concern was fresh water. His much used plastic Perrier bottle was half full, and stale. Soiled from the bacteria from his very own spit going back into the bottle after each swig – and aided by the desert heat multiplying the bacteria, it reeked.

Finally, he reached the shaded canopy of the garage.

Parked outside, was the red Mercedes that nearly killed him, the driver, nowhere in sight. Lying in the back seat was a guitar. Not unlike the thirty-dollar instrument he was carrying, this one resembled the owner's automobile; expensive and beautifully trimmed. The cover page of the Rolling Stone magazine that lay next to it had a picture of a young pop star dressed in denims, leaning on an electric guitar.

The headline read.

‘PETE GARRET BREAKS ALL RECORDS! MILLION SOLD IN TWO DAYS.’

In the stinking men's room Pete Garret washed his hands next to the cracked ceramic toilet bowl. Garret finally kicked open the door, and sucked in a breath of fresh air. Out on the forecourt he saw the old tramp with the walking stick next to his Mercedes, browsing through his magazine.

Hey you, put that down and step back from the automobile. Garret shouted, and headed towards him.

Preston turned back to the cover of the magazine and studied the photo on the front page. Same kid, except now he was dressed in a black leather jacket with a black silk shirt, black leather pants and crocodile skin boots. He not only sounded, but also looked like a right asshole.

Garret quickened his pace, and kicked up dust with each stride.

So, you're the new pop star, Preston said.

Garret stopped at a distance. Yes, that’s me. And maybe you didn’t hear me the first time. I said get away from my automobile old man.

Preston cleared his throat, and spit out a mixture of phlegm and dust next to the tire.

You’re scared to come closer, aren’t you? You don’t know whether I’m carrying the card or not. You don’t know if I’ve got the virus.

Garret didn’t answer.

Why didn't you pick me up back there?

Was that you?

See anyone else with a walking stick and a guitar on his back?

I'm not going in the same direction.

Preston raised his solid oak hand-carved walking stick, and pointed north where the road disappeared into infinity.

You were going that way, weren't you?

So what.

Me too. He shouted, then slammed his stick down on the hood of the car. Splinters of red paint shot into the air. Garret's mouth dropped open – he staggered back in disbelief. The stick had left a deep dent in the hood of his beloved Mercedes.

In the same direction… Preston continued. He slammed his stick down a second time. Fresh shards of paint flew in all directions. …with a bad leg. He slammed again. …in this devils hell hole.

Why you... Garret ran at him.

And a fellow musician... With perfect timing Preston took a step back and swung the stick to the left, it smashed over Garret's head. The long legged musician hit the dust face down like a slaughtered bull, and lay motionless.

The oil-covered weathered looking attendant staring at them from the inside of the garage picked up the phone and dialled 911.

In the coolness of the police cell Preston strummed away on his guitar. During the last ten years he had been regularly in and out of jail. Mostly one-night stands for getting into fights or drunkenness. Not enough to make the papers or serious enough to warrant extra attention from a judge. But this was different. He had just felled one of the top names in the music business, and much to his surprise, was still unconscious when the ambulance drove away.

The police refused to give Preston any information regarding the state of the young baby faced pop idol. Had he suffered brain damage? Or died? Preston wondered if he had landed in one of those states that took pride and joy in carrying out the death sentence. Or, if lucky, he could spend the rest of his life in jail. He was not proud of the thought, although at this moment in life the comfort of sleeping on a mattress together with regular meals seemed like a fair trade against the scorching desert.

The only comfort he really appreciated was the fact they let him keep his guitar. Strictly against the rules, he knew, but after pleading with the sheriff's deputy's they relented after calling the sheriff at home. In a state prison they would not be so lenient.

His small cell had no air-conditioning, but far cooler than the never-ending lonely road where they picked him up. Music began to form in his mind. He felt a new song coming on, and quickly tuned his guitar. However bad it looked, his instrument was not the worst in the world, it had a reasonable tone and stayed in tune for at least five songs.

His old friend Woody would have been proud. As a musician who had travelled the length and breadth of the country his songs and influence had become the most enduring of the twentieth century. By the time he died of Huntington's Chorea in New York, he had inspired thousands of songwriters around the world. From an early age Preston had decided to follow in Guthrie’s footsteps. It lasted until success, money, wives, children and the comfort of accomplishment slowed him down, then eventually took him off the road completely. But now he was back on the right path, on the road, living the dream and breathing the earth; a true Bohemian.

Preston lost the melody line and began another. Nearly a year had passed since he wrote a complete song. He sung it to a group of tramps at a campsite south of San Francisco, where he had received his last round of applause. Since then he drifted, turning up in cities and one-horse towns busking for money to pay for a meal. Unfortunately, the sight of an old man whose clothes had just about disintegrated scored no public sympathy in most towns these days. His boots were those of a true tramp. Split at the top with one hole that ran from toe to heel along the sole with no barriers for rain or dirt. Since his last pair were stolen while he slept on the beach in San Diego, Preston never removed these. Tramps had a habit of stealing each other’s shoes, forever looking for a better fit, or to sell for a dollar or two. Whatever the reason, he never saw them again. Maybe in five or ten years when they had gone full circle he would probably meet up with them again, worn to shreds by every other tramp in the land.

What did gain him sympathy was his ability as an old man to play the guitar and sing long-forgotten melodies of revered folksongs to those old enough to remember. As Preston studied the fingering for F sharp he noticed a shadow on the floor – someone stood on the other side of the bars. He glanced up to see the sheriff with a large beer gut staring down at him.

If you're going to stand there and enjoy my music you gotta pay. I don't give free concerts.

The sheriff smiled and rattled the keys. I’m sheriff Connolly and I can give you something concert tickets can’t buy, he said in a childlike manner, and rattled the keys a second time. Freedom. Charges have been dropped, and your medical card says you’re vaccinated, so you are free to go.

Preston did not seem to care one way or the other. Connelly reminded him of the gross overweight Oliver Hardy, and decided to ignore him. Why people talked to him in a childlike manner he assumed was due to old age. The older you got the more simple people treated you. He found another chord to suit the melody line and continued to strum.

Connelly unlocked the jail, then leaned against the frame of the open door to support his weight.

I used to listen to your music when I was growing up. I always wondered where you’d got to.

Preston continued to strum his guitar.

We don't normally allow instruments like that in the cell, Connelly continued, but when I heard it was you...

Preston immediately stopped playing.

Don't let me disturb you, Connelly quickly said, apologetically. You just carry on playing. As you know, people could use strings of a guitar to hang or damage themselves in some way. That's why we normally don’t allow that sort of instrument. But not you, I don’t believe you would do anything like that. I know these things.

Preston stood up and walked out of the unlocked jail. When anyone began to show pity it was always the best time to make an exit.

You don't have to leave right away. It's a scorcher outside,

Preston inched his way around the sheriffs’ massive girth.

You can wait until sundown. It’ll be cooler then.

The jail led out to a small office where two deputies sat at a desk across from each other. Connelly followed him into the office. He quickly removed a notebook from his breast pocket. "I