Chapter 56&½: The Blues Brothers
Floyd roamed the casino like a wraith, restless and unable to settle. He’d had the best of intentions after the show, intending to make himself scarce, fade into the background, and leave Janice to whatever she chose. If he had been honest with himself, he secretly hoped that perhaps he’d been mistaken—that he’d imagined what he’d heard that afternoon—and that, despite all evidence to the contrary, she’d come and put her arms around him and tell him that he was the only thing on her mind.
It hadn’t exactly happened that way. Floyd had lingered, hating himself for doing so, but wanting—wanting so much—to be proven wrong. There had been a moment—just a moment—when Floyd had literally felt her approach. It was like standing close to an amplifier and feeling the static wash over you. Hmmm, Floyd thought dismally. Being with Janice was a lot like having everything amplified—colors, feelings, touch. He sighed. She had come up behind him, and he had turned, pulled like a magnet into her gaze.
The generous mouth had smiled up at him, but there was something restless in her eyes—she would not quite look at him.
“Like, Floyd—is it okay if we don’t go out tonight? I need to….” She hesitated, then flashed him a quick, nervous smile. “…take care of some, uh, girl things.” She hesitated again, looking down. “You know, take a bubble bath and do my, um, nails.”
In all the time that Floyd had known Janice, her personal grooming, while excellent and garnering superior results, had never taken precedence over…well, anything.
But he had said, “Sure, Babe. Take whatever time you need.”
He’d been proud of himself for letting her go—less proud for later watching her leave the hotel by a side door with Clifford. But at last, at least—he was sure now. Sure there was no mistake, sure there would be no respite for where this was heading.
Too miserable to sleep, and too restless not to move, Floyd had taken to the corridors, his boots making no sound at all on the thick carpeting. He had wandered the casino—not daring to test his luck in light of recent events, passed lines of people gambling or lining up to eat. What meal did you eat if you had no idea what time it was? Floyd wondered, and smiled in spite of himself, thinking of Mabel’s pie.
It was truly a fluke, an example of happenstance, and ode to serendipity that caused him to wander down to the empty auditorium and pull on the latch. He’d expected the door to be locked, but it opened easily to his tug, and he opened the door with some surprise, and no little apprehension. His apprehension melted away when he heard the guitar, and he threaded his way backstage until he found Gonzo, perched on one the ubiquitous cubes and plucking away absently on the strings of his guitar. Gonzo looked up, gave a half-smile, but didn’t speak, and Floyd leaned his rangy form again one of the support columns and listened.
“Honey, I see shoppers buying presents,” Gonzo sang, his gravelly voice plaintive. “I see Christmas trees all shining bright. Santa Claus is out on every corner to watch me going home alone tonight.” His furry blue hands moved over the frets as he softly strummed, pouring him hurt into the guitar, into the music. “I know I didn’t do the things I ought to. You told me so in oh so many ways. I didn’t know the gift I had till you were gone and now I guess the blues are here to stay.”
He looked up at Floyd and the unhappy bass player closed his eyes and nodded softly.
“I have to say it doesn’t feel like Christmas,” Gonzo sang. “Holidays without you aren’t the same. ‘Guess I’m feeling blue this year at Christmastime, but I don’t think that Christmas is to blame.” Gonzo played the intro line again and launched into a second verse.
“Santa, I can’t ask for any favors,” he admitted. “You won’t find me on your Christmas list. My baby’s gone and left me here in Vegas, and I’m so low I think it’s for the best.”
“Wish I’d done my Christmas shopping early. Wish I’d gone and bought my Christmas tree--but most of all I’d have to say I’m wishing that you were here to spend this time with me.”
When Gonzo sang the chorus the second time, Floyd sang along, his voice mingling soulfully with Gonzo’s. It felt good, letting some of pain out in a song.
Floyd stopped when the chorus did, waiting to see what Gonzo would do with the ending.
“It’s warm tonight in Vegas where I’m staying--waiting here to play for one more show.
Even though the sun’s been brightly shining, in my heart I swear it’s cold as snow.” Floyd’s heart felt like Antarctica—he could get behind this feeling.
“So here I sit with neon lights around me,” Gonzo sang. “Just me and my guitar and some ol’ song. I don’t have a thing to fill these empty arms until my baby’s back where she belongs.”
Floyd closed his eyes, glad that Gonzo was saying everything, making it all so easy.
“I have to say it doesn’t feel like Christmas. Holidays without you aren’t the same. Guess I’m feeling blue this year at Christmastime, but I know it’s not Christmas that’s to blame--yes, I’m feeling blue this year at Christmastime, but I know…” Gonzo paused and took a deep breath. “…I’m the only one to blame.”
The sound of the guitar and singer were swallowed by the big empty spaces backstage. The big empty spaces in Gonzo’s heart—and Floyd’s—swirled the sound and meaning around for a space of quiet, then Gonzo put the guitar down and smile sortof lop-sidedly up at his fellow musician.
“Heck of a Christmas,” Gonzo said.
“Yeah,” said Floyd softly. “Sure looks to be.”
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