Rufus woke late, the warmth of the sun already heating his tent beyond comfort. When he visited the shower block, he found The Lucky Dawn had plenty of hot water; he luxuriated in the steaming water for a very, very long time.
He emerged, neater, cleaner and a whole lot further along the continuum from degenerate to upstanding member of society.
* * *
The office was closed and locked when he walked past, and he wondered whether Mac was inside, sleeping through the middle of the day. It wouldn’t surprise him, something about Mac screamed day-sleeper, perhaps his age, his hippy hair, or maybe the way he’d barked his shin on a coffee table when Rufus had arrived; maybe he’d been asleep on the couch then too.
Sleep well, Rufus thought, I’ll see you later on.
He stepped out of The Lucky Dawn and onto the asphalt road.
* * *
Like many small towns he’d travelled through, there wasn’t much to hold his interest here. He knew there would be, as he got to know people, as he began to see the ebb and flow of daily life, but in these early days, he always felt like he might as well have been a ghost.
For the rest of that day, alone on a hill, Rufus sat perfectly still.
Watching this town in the mist.
* * *
Mac was sitting on a rocking chair in front of the office when Rufus returned to The Lucky Dawn later that afternoon. The wood creaked back-and-forth, louder even than the distant bustle of the town.
“Evening,” Mac said, tapping his forehead.
“Hi,” Rufus smiled back.
“Busy day?”
Rufus squatted by the side of the rocking chair.
“Nah, not really,” he said, “it’s always slow when I first get somewhere.”
“Slow?”
“Getting to know the place, the people, you know?”
Mac nodded.
“Not really,” he said, smiling.
Rufus laughed at this, standing.
“Well, maybe I’ll show you some time. Right now, though, I’ve got a gig to play.”
“Ah yes, The Folder Corner awaits!” Mac announced.
“Sure does. You coming along?”
Mac rocked back-and-forth in the chair for a long, silent moment; staring across the street at the deep woods.
“I don’t think so,” he said finally, without turning to Rufus, “me and this town, we…”
He fell to silence.
“Er,” Rufus began, unsure of whether he should break Mac’s train of thought or not, “well… If you change your mind, you know where I’ll be.”
Mac shook his head; clearing cobwebs. Looked up at Rufus.
“Sure enough,” he said, “nothing against you and all, but the people here freak me out sometimes and I… I’m just not in the mood to be around them tonight.”
Rufus knew that feeling, knew it all too well.
“Okay,” he nodded, “next time, though. You’re definitely coming along!”
“Yes, boss,” Mac smiled back.
* * *
Rufus walked into town with his guitar on his back. Late afternoon, the transition from commerce to social; business to food and friends. Shops closing, restaurants opening.
Up ahead, on the street corner, three kids were playing tag, all bubbling laughter and frenetic chasing.
“Wait!” one of them yelled. “I’m tired!”
“Too bad!” cried another.
And the chase continued as Rufus walked into the center of its maelstrom.
Suddenly he was knocked sideways and he fought hard not to fall over, pinwheeling his arms, a clear vision of his guitar being under him as he crashed to the ground.
Somehow, he managed to stay on his feet, and he whirled to face his attacker.
But it was just one of the kids.
“Jeez, mister!” the kid exclaimed, like Rufus should have known better than to intrude on the field of battle.
Rufus stood for a moment, staring at the kid, biting down on his initial angry response. Eventually, the kid looked away for a moment, blushing. Rufus had won the stare down.
“Take it easy,” Rufus said, and walked on towards downtown.
* * *
Jesse came through; The Folded Corner pulled almost thirty people in to listen to Rufus sing. Of course, only one or two actually sat in front of him, but he could see and sense the others browsing the bookshelves while he sang.
Jesse had set him up at the front of the store, standing sideways on in the picture window, so that anyone passing on the sidewalk would see him and hear him through the open door. As he looked forward, his view was neatly bisected; street on one side, bookshelves on the other.
And directly in front, behind the register, Jesse; her larger than life Shakespearian dialects and tie-dyed effervescence.
For the first two or three songs, he was distracted by the street; the movement of cars and people and…
He snapped back to the moment, to the song that was already underway.
Stop singing on autopilot, he cautioned himself.
Eventually, though, he relaxed into his flow and, once there, Rufus opened to the energy inside and its connection to his listeners. His chest, throat and mouth opened fully and he sang; of love, loss, heartbreak and hope. He sang of change and possibility.
Rufus sang of the human condition.
* * *
About forty minutes in, a movement in amongst the bookshelves. Black and white moving within the dim light.
Hi, Danni, Rufus thought, I’m glad you came.
As he sang, he looked in that direction, trying to spot her, though it was hard with other people browsing.
No, there she was, way back there, flicking through a novel or some such.
As he sang, he stared at her, feeling a wish that she would look in his direction; a disappointment when she did not.
Still, he’d catch her after the gig. And in the meantime, he had a clear view of the door, and would know whether she left or not.
Rufus returned his attention to the people in front of them, bringing the current song to its close.
A small ripple of applause, most of it coming from Jesse.
“Thank you,” Rufus said, “Now this next song is…”
Across the street, a couple of blocks up, the kid who’d bumped into him stepped up to the crossing. He was alone.
He’s young to be out, Rufus thought to himself, frowning.
“Ahem!”
A police cruiser rolled past The Folded Corner.
“Ahem!”
Rufus snapped his attention back to the audience. At the near end of the bookshelves, an old man stood staring at him. It took a moment, but Rufus realized it was the guy who had come into the bookshop the day before, when he’d auditioned for Jesse.
In the dim light now, the guy’s face was all mottled shadows and half-light, his eyes narrow and dark, one seeming to float higher than the other, giving his face a distinctly lop-sided look, not helped by what looked like a scar running from the corner of his lip to the edge of his left nostril.
The old guy nodded: go on.
“Yeah,” Rufus said to the audience, “sorry… I was off with the faeries for moment there. Now, where was I?”
He glanced back to the window, saw the police cruiser approaching the boy on the corner.
“Ahem!”
“Yes, this next song was written a couple of years back,” he stepped back into his well-rehearsed introduction, “about a girl that I’m glad is still a couple of years back.”
And he started his most twisted love song, verses of desire and betrayal, a chorus of summary dissolution.
As he sang, he avoided looking in the direction of the old guy, tried to maintain his attention on the two or three people in front of him, on Jesse back there behind the counter, ringing up purchases and goodwill.
Try as he might, he found himself stealing glances at the street.
The police cruiser had pulled over.
It’s door opened.
And out stepped Rufus’ distorted deputy, his face just as much a freakshow mask under the streetlights as it had been in the interrogation room.
The officer walked around the cruiser and stood before the boy; towered over him.
Rufus sang his transition into the middle eight.
The boy looked up at the officer, chatted with him. There was subservience in that stare.
Rufus looked into the store, at the audience, at Jesse; out into the bookcases, seeking a glimpse of Danni, even if only as slight respite from the distraction.
She was still back there, reading the book; still, she didn’t look up at him.
He flowed into the last chorus.
The police cruiser was driving away, leaving the kid alone at the crossing.
Rufus started the final repeat of the chorus.
And there was the old guy walking along the street towards the boy, crossing to the other side.
Rufus sang the last chorus, speeding up slightly.
He closed his eyes, forced himself back into the song.
When it finished, applause spattered across the room.
“Niiice,” he heard Jesse breathe out back behind the counter.
“Why thank you very much,” he said, delivering well-practiced gratitude, “it’s always good when my old wounds can bring you pleasure.”
The smile on his face was little more than skin deep.
He glanced towards the corner, but the kid and the old guy were nowhere to be seen.
I should stop the gig, Rufus thought with sudden certainty, something’s not right. I should stop the gig.
“I…” he began but then paused.
Why don’t you get a real job? the pick-up driver crowed from memory, don’t think you can change anything here, you’re wasting your time!
I’m not, Rufus thought angrily, I’m singing, and my songs change the world a little for the better.
But you’re no Woody, Mac’s voice.
I’m a musician, he thought, and I’m singing.
“I’m really pleased to be singing for you,” Rufus spoke into the microphone, “and thank you so much for lending an ear.”
Jesse beamed at him and he smiled right back.
“So, I guess I’ll just drag up another tortured memory for you,” he laughed and felt the audience reciprocate.
Rufus stepped back into his flow, diving deep into that cool, clear water, and sang on into the night.
So lost was he in his muse that he forgot the kid, forgot the old guy, forgot Michael Ridenour’s accusative eyes.
He didn’t see Danni watching him, the eager look on her face, the hope that he would notice her, directing a song at her, to her, for her. He didn’t see her pay for the novel she’d been leafing through, and leaving without a glance back. He didn’t see her head down the street directly towards where the kid had been standing.
Rufus sang on; just another fool on a hill, seeing nothing beneath.
RUFUS – A NOVEL is a novel-in-progress by Vincent Tuckwood, a Brit author living and working in Waterford, Connecticut, USA. Read more by Vincent Tuckwood.
