You don't have to go all the way down to the crossroads to make a deal with the devil.
Stay here in the Gutter and he'll come to you.
Stay here in the Gutter and he'll come to you.
Sharp Focus by Terri Lynn Coop
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I
spent the first minutes of the last day of my life blowing chunks in my
mother’s rust-stained kitchen sink. The irony wasn’t lost on me as I cranked
the faucet so the weak trickle could disperse the remnants of Mr. Cuervo’s gold.
It was tequila that’d landed me in this mess. Twenty years ago today, at the joint
where I played guitar for tips, a roll of the dice gave me the stars and cost
me the sky.
The
old guy was buying rounds off the top shelf when he asked if I was up for a
wager. Since I’d recently pawned the pot I piss in, all I could do was laugh.
His
voice, silky as sludge, said, “Seriously, what’s your heart’s desire? A record
deal?”
“What
are you, some kind of agent?” I have to confess, the words “record deal” got my
attention.
“Not
exactly, but I know people.”
“I’ll
bite. What do you get if I lose?”
He tossed the dice and counted the exposed pips.
He tossed the dice and counted the exposed pips.
“Twenty.”
“Twenty
what? Twenty bucks? Sorry, you’ve confused me with somebody else.”
“You’ll
figure it out. When you barter as much as I do you become a good judge of
character. Do we have a deal?”
That’s
where the bottle got empty and the shit got fuzzy. I do remember the dice ending
up on the floor, so I’m guessing I lost.
Or
not. A month later I was sitting at an acre of desk signing a contract. Then a
gold record and a concert tour. Within a year, I’d leveled up from truck stop
blowjobs to fucking this year’s face of Sundew Cosmetics.
The
anniversary cards started at the two-year mark. Never a signature. The bar fog
of beer, smoke, and despair radiating from the paper was a constant reminder of
what “twenty” meant. I was riding a rocket, but what was going up was destined
to come down. I decided I would auger it into the ground.
A
three mil check got rid of Miss Sundew, her divorce lawyer, and her coke dealer.
Knowing the game was rigged, I went all-in on every hand. The records, awards, women,
and paydays all turned to twenty-four karat. Then the calendar page with today
circled arrived inside a twentieth anniversary card.
Tonight
I was going to toss back shots at the old bar and wait for whatever was going
to happen. Right now, I needed food. Decades of practice blunted the hangover,
but my fame-spawned ulcer had my belly blazing.
The
menu hit the table and a voice from my past said, “Hey Sweetie, you slumming?”
In
high school I’d dreamed of climbing into her cleavage and drowning. Even with
the mileage she looked pretty damn tasty. It’d been a while since I’d seen button-straining
tits that were original equipment.
“Local
boy makes good and comes home on a vision quest. The usual shit.”
“Lemme
know how that goes. Coffee?”
My
abused gut clenched at the thought. “I’ll start with milk and toast.”
Her
eyes flashed from amused to knowing. A factory town café serves a lot of milk.
I
was on my second glass when the woman opened the door and set the frog bell to
tinkling. It was shift change. Drones trying to forget they packed plastic garden
tools for eight bucks an hour filled the café. The chair opposite of mine was
the only unoccupied real estate in the room.
Summoning
up the smile I use to separate groupies from their panties, I caught her
attention and waved.
The
tail of her braid brushed the top of her tall boots as she glided toward me, the
light playing on hair the color of polished oak. The smell of her leather messenger
bag alongside citrus and herbs cut through the greasy ambiance of the diner.
My
waitress scurried over, curiosity bright in her face.
“I’ll
have tea and toast, please.” Her voice vibrated with everything I treasured,
but rarely heard. It was the difference between Top-40 pop and the blues.
“Put
it on my tab.”
“Thank
you, but I should be treating after you so kindly offered me a seat.”
“I
won’t hear of it. What brings you to town? I have an excuse. I was born here.”
“I’m
a photographer. It’s a contract job for a client.”
“Tell
me more.” I wasn’t interested in shutter-bugging, but it let me listen to the
song buried in her words.
By
the time we were getting waitress side-eye for hogging a table, the café had
emptied of breakfast loafers. I hadn’t learned anything about cameras, but I knew
she had green eyes and that full-sleeve tattoos danced under the sheer fabric
of her blouse. My heart was simultaneously full and broken. If someone had
appeared with dice and a wager, I would’ve bet it all for one more day with
her.
After
tipping like a six-top who’d ordered the dinner special, I offered a tour of
downtown. What I really wanted were those skeins of hair spread across my bed, but
this felt like enough.
We
stopped at the bridge spanning the sewer that masquerades as a river.
“May
I take your photograph?”
Even
though it’s a familiar request, excitement trilled through me. Usually, if the
girl was hot, I’d throw an arm around her and cop some side boob while she
fumbled her phone into selfie mode. This was different.
“I
don’t know. Are you going to steal my soul?” I didn’t add, “like you’ve stolen
my heart.”
“What
makes you think that?”
“Just
teasing. I was going to say you’ll have to find it first.”
“Just
hold still.”
The hard veil of ice that fell over her eyes contrasted with her wistful smile. As she lifted the camera, it all came into sharp focus.
She
was here on a contract job.
