Cages and Those Who Hold the Keys Part 32

"Would it be all right if the kids watched Rudolph again? Kyle and Missy really like it, even though the b.u.mble kinda scares them."

"The b.u.mble?"

"The Abominable Snow Monster. Remember, Yukon Cornelius calls it the 'b.u.mble'?"

"That's right. Huh. Thing scared me half to death when I was a kid and saw it for the first time."

The Reverend called me over to the kitchen area, where he, Jackson, and Grant McCullers were warming up some stew and wrapping other food for the refrigerator. Grant was doing most of the wrapping, and doing it quickly. I only mention this because he's got a bad hand that looks more like a claw than it does a human hand. It's been that way for as long as I've known him. Arthritis. But he can play a mean harmonica better, serve drinks more smoothly, and wrap food faster and with more dexterity than anyone I've ever seen.

"Hey, Sam, I hear you're something of a music expert," said Grant.

"Not an expert, but I know trivia. Some trivia."

"Did you ever hear of a band called Parallax?" asked Grant.

I looked at Jackson and the Reverend, both of whom were staring at me like the answer to this was something important.

"Sure. They only did three alb.u.ms, but they were pretty good."

Grant finished wrapping a half-pound of hamburger, tossed it onto the pile of to-be-frozen foods. "They were from Ohio, right?"

I nodded. "Two of them were from Zanesville, but the guitarist, Byron Knight, he was from here, from Cedar Hill."

Grant exchanged an I-told-you-so look with Jackson, who nodded his head and gestured for the Reverend and me to follow him into the back.

"It was real nice of you to bring over all this food," I said to Grant.

"The new freezer's a tad smaller than I'd planned, so I had to do something with this chow, y'know?"

I grinned at his white lie. "How's the Hangman coming along?"

"I look to re-open in about two weeks."

"You gonna replace the old jukebox?"

He stopped for a moment, thought about something, then shook his head. "You know, I don't think I will. It works just fine. In fact, I'm getting rid of that new one."

The reverend came up behind me. "Are you two finished with this architectural discussion? I could use Sam's help."

"You can always use Sam's help," said Grant. "In fact, I wonder if you'd get anything done if you didn't have Sam's help."

"And yours, and Ted's, and G.o.d's. I am useless without any of you."

Grant laughed. "Just wanted to hear you say it."

"It's unbecoming of you, Grant. Fis.h.i.+ng for a compliment."

"Been a bad couple of months. But you don't want to hear about my dreadful personality problems."

"Your lips to G.o.d's ear."

They looked at one another and smiled. The Reverend took hold of my elbow and we fell into step behind the sheriff.

"This guy was in pretty bad shape," said Jackson, "so Grant and I put him back in your office. Hope you don't mind too much."

"As long as he hasn't puked on everything."

Jackson grinned. "Not that kind of bad shape. The guy was s.h.i.+t-scared half out of his mind. Wanted to be put someplace where no one could see him."

"Did he get here before or after Bill Emerson?"

"After." Jackson grinned. "Can't say any of us were much help to Bill."

"Still no word about Joe, then?"

"Afraid not. I've got my deputies out looking for him, as well, now. Don't worry, We'll find him."

"G.o.d, I hope so."

We arrived at the door to the Reverend's office-slash-living quarters. Jackson gripped the doork.n.o.b, then looked at us. "I was kinda into Parallax, too, when I was younger. That's why I about fell over when I saw who this was." He opened the door and we stepped into the room.

Byron Knight-that's right, the Byron Knight-was laying on a cot beside the Reverend's desk. It had been almost 30 years since anyone had seen him. Most people who cared to remember him at all a.s.sumed that he was dead, what with his dramatic disappearance back in the early 1980s.

The years had not been good to him. His once muscular frame-featured on the covers of both Rolling Stone and Melody Maker the same month-was now an emaciated ruin. The clothes he wore were torn, patched, and tattered. And the sickly-gray pallor of his skin betrayed an illness I was all-too familiar with: cancer. I'd watched it slowly chew my mother to death after Dad abandoned us when I was twelve.

"The source of the ulceration," whispered the Reverend.

"The source of the what?" asked Jackson.

The Reverend, ignoring the sheriff's question, turned to me. "You stay here with him, Sam, all right? Don't let anyone except me or Ted or Grant through the door, understand?"

"Yes sir."

"What the h.e.l.l is going on?" asked Jackson. "I only ask because it seems to me that neither one of you were too surprised to see him here. Me, I see a rock star from 30 years ago who I thought was dead, I get curious."

The Reverend took hold of Jackson's arm and led him out of the room. "Lock the door behind us, Sam."

"Don't have to tell me twice."

They left, I locked the door, and I heard a voice from behind me say one word.

"...mudman...."

Wow.

Okay, it wasn't quite the same as hearing Morrison call himself the Lizard King...but it was close.

The Buckeye State has produced only four rock acts that ever amounted to anything more than pa.s.sing curiosities; Devo (Akron), The James Gang (Cleveland), Guided By Voices (Dayton), and Parallax (Zanesville/Cedar Hill). Parallax came out of central Ohio in the mid-1970s, just as the progressive rock movement was. .h.i.tting its zenith. Bands like Yes, Emerson, Lake & Palmer, Flash, King Crimson, and a trio of Canadian upstarts calling themselves Rush were engulfing the airwaves with long, complex "concept" pieces like "Close to the Edge", "Tarkus", and "2112". It was not uncommon (thanks to the earlier success of Iron b.u.t.terfly's 17-minute "In a Gadda-Da-Vida") to turn on your FM radio and hear only three songs played over the course of an hour. 10-minute songs were almost short compared to a half-hour epic like "Karn Evil 9." It seemed that if you were going to be taken seriously in the prog rock movement (by anyone who wasn't Lester bangs of Creem magazine), you had to produce a "concept" piece that would initially befuddle listeners while giving the DJs time to take a leisurely p.i.s.s break. A lot of it was pretentious c.r.a.p, but some of it was kind of amazing. It didn't matter if you thought Rush's "The Fountain of Lamneth" was overblown silliness, because Yes's "The Revealing Science of G.o.d" might blow you away right after.

One of these concept pieces that you could hear played on FM radio back then was an 18-minute beauty by Parallax ent.i.tled "Kiss of the Mudman."

What made "Mudman" so unique that even Lester bangs admitted a grumbling admiration for it (Bangs was infamous for loathing everything about the prog-rock movement) was its fusion of traditional blues with Hindi music. Critics were divided on whether or not it was a successful piece, but even those who disliked it had to admit that it was unlike anything produced during the short-lived prog era-and that it was performed by your basic rock trio, using only a ba.s.s, drums, and a single guitar, without any studio trickery or overdubs, served, according to Rolling Stone's review, "...as a testament to Parallax's serious-minded goals, if not their c.u.mulative musicians.h.i.+p, which seems too agile at times to move 'Mudman' into the realm of potential cla.s.sic. Still, Canada's Rush might soon have reason to be looking over their shoulders if Knight, Shaw, and Jacobs continue to move in this direction."

Kiss of the Mudman (both the alb.u.m and the song) made Parallax instant (if fleeting) icons. Their two previous alb.u.ms (both of which had done okay but not great) were re-issued and sold like crazy, giving them two gold and one platinum alb.u.m the same year, 1978.

And then Alan Shaw, the ba.s.sist, died of a heroin overdose, and Tracy Jacobs, the drummer, was killed in an auto accident (it was later determined that he'd been drunk at the time). Byron Knight recorded a terrific solo alb.u.m that just bombed, and then he dropped off the radar. Some college stations still dusted off "Mudman" from time to time when the DJs felt like making fun of it (or needed a leisurely p.i.s.s break), and it, like the band who recorded it, was now nothing more than a curiosity piece.

Still, if you were a fan, (like I'd been) to hear the man who'd written and sang the song mumble the word "...mudman..." was, well...still kind of a thrill, and I couldn't help but remember the verse that had been all the rage for a few months back when I was a teenager: "You wonder where it all went wrong and why you feel so dead why it seems that every day you're hanging by a thread Are you still who you were and not what you've become?

Is this the taste of failure that lingers on your tongue?

Your dreams are ending in a place far from where they began Because what's on your lips Is the memory of the kiss Of the mudman..."

Okay, "Blowin' in the Wind" it wasn't, but as a soul-sick cry of loneliness and alienation, it works-and that's what "Mudman" was, an 18-minute musical suicide note, chronicling the last minutes of a dying rock star's life as he looks back on all the people he's hurt and left behind, knowing that none of it-the fame, the money, the women and riches-was worth it, that all he'd ever wanted he'd p.i.s.sed away, and now had to die alone, and deserved his fate.

I'd always wondered just who or what the Mudman was (as did all the fans of the piece), but Knight would never say.

"...sonofab.i.t.c.h," he slurred from the cot as he attempted to sit up. I went over and helped him, got him a gla.s.s of water, and watched as he pulled a bottle of pills from his pocket and popped two of them into his mouth. "For the pain," he said, taking a deep drink of the water. Setting down the gla.s.s, he wiped his mouth, rubbed his eyes, and looked at me. "Was I dreaming, or did you say something about an ulceration?"

I shook my head. "That was someone else, the Reverend, the man who runs this shelter."

"Ah." He blinked, coughed a few times, and rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm kinda sick, I'm afraid."

"Cancer." It was not a question.

He looked at me. "Seen it before, have you?"

"Yes."

"Don't worry, I'm not gonna flip out on you. I just needed to get a little shut-eye in a warm place."

"You're Byron Knight."

He paled at the mention of his name. "I was Byron Knight. Now I'm just a sick transient who's come back to his hometown to die. Think the Reverend would have any objection to my doing it here?"

"We've had people pa.s.s away before. The Reverend never forces anyone to leave if they don't want to."

"That's good, because I don't want to. Don't have anywhere to go, anyway." He ran his fingers through his hair, then stuck out his hand. "You are?"

"Sam," I said, shaking his hand.

"What the f.u.c.k happened to that ear of yours?"

I touched it, as I always do whenever someone asks me about it. "Frostbite."

"You hear out of it? No, huh?"

"Nope."

"So I guess it was a dumb question."

"Not really."

He sniffed, then looked around the room. "Your Reverend, he wouldn't have any booze stashed around here by chance, would he?"

I knew the Reverend kept a bottle of brandy in his desk. I got it out and poured Knight a short one.

"Is that a good idea?" I asked him as I handed the gla.s.s to him. "I mean, on top of the pain pills?"

He laughed but there was no humor in it. "Sam, I think I'm way past worrying about the effects this'll have on my health." He lifted the gla.s.s in a toast. "To your health, then." He downed it in one gulp. "Oh, that's nice." He held out the gla.s.s. "One more? I promise that'll be it."

I poured him another, this one a little higher than the last. This time he sipped at it.

"I wish you'd stop looking at me like that."

"I'm sorry," I said. "It's just that...I was a big fan."

"That's nice." He sounded as if he really meant it. "It's nice to know that someone remembers."

"You guys were good."

"No, we could have been good. f.u.c.k-we could've been great, but it just got too easy to hear everyone else tell us how great we were. 'Better the illusion exalts us than ten thousand truths.' Alexander Pushkin said that. Don' ask me who he was, I couldn't tell you. I read that line in a book of quotes somewhere. Always stayed with me." He dug around in his pocket and produced a hand-rolled cigarette. "Yes, Sam, this is gra.s.s, and I'm gonna light up. I can do it in here or we can step outside, it's up to you."

I nodded at the joint. "That for the pain, too?"

"Everything's for the pain these days, Sam."

"There's a sheriff out in the shelter."

"So? Here or a jail cell, at least I'll be inside when I buy the farm." He fired up a match and inhaled on the joint. The room was instantly filled with the too-sweet aroma.

"Want a hit?" he said, offering the joint.

"No. Go ahead and bogart it, my friend."

He laughed. "I'll bet the first time you heard that song, it was in Easy Rider. Am I right? Tell me I'm right."

"You're right."

"Thought so." He took a couple of more hits, then licked his fingers and doused the business end. "No need to use it all at once."

The smoke lingered. A lot.

No, wait-lingered isn't quite the right word. What this smoke did was remain. It didn't drift off, didn't start to break apart and dissipate, it just hung in the air, a semi-solid cloud that didn't appear to be in a hurry to go anywhere.

"That must be some strong stuff," I said.

"It does the trick, if used in combination with the right ingredients."