Requiem for Voice and Guitar

                                                                Requiem For Guitar and Voice

                                                                                                                                                            by James R. Coffey



    Izzy aimed his Strat and sent it flying.  It teetered on the edge of the cradle--then rocked back into place.  Staggering to the kitchen table he took a long pull from a half-empty bottle; his breath hit back like kerosene.  Closing his eyes, he gasped, falling into the old vinyl chair.

    “You know, you’re so god-damn pathetic you make me sick!”

    Spinning in his chair, Izzy scanned the tiny room. 

    It wasn’t the first time he’d heard things; saw things that weren’t supposed to be there.  But one more swig always silenced them.  Drew the curtain tight.

    “Why the hell do you even bother,” the voice asked.  “Give it up.  You blew your fucking chance!”

    Izzy floated his blood-soaked eyes across the gray expanses of his cluttered room once more for good measure: sink, stove, frig (door standing wide open), rising mound of garbage; old chest, mattress, john, pile of moldy clothes.  As he knew too well, nobody.  One more draw should do it.

    “Just look at you, you filthy pig.  I don’t know how the hell you live with yourself!”

    Dropping his head to the table, Izzy planned his escape.

    “That’s it.  Go ahead and run you fucking coward!  But don’t expect me to be here when you come crawling back!”

    Head throbbing, Izzy opened his eyes and stared blankly ahead.  Digging through the ashtray he rooted for the biggest roach he could find and put it to his callused lips.  A blazing stick match sent his mind racing off toward oblivion.

    “What a fucking joke.  A fucking burned-out, never-was has-been.  Rock & roll gigolo my ass!”

    “Just fuckin’ quit it!” Izzy called out, wagging his head mournfully.  “Leave me

. . . the fuck . . . alone!”  Pushing up from the table he aimed his body at the far side of the room and pushed off.  The familiar stench of piss and vomit rose up from his mattress to greet him.  Eyes closed, he let the room spin out of control.

    “What?  No pills?  Nothing up the nose?  Oh . . . I forgot.  Can’t afford the primo stuff anyone, can you rock star!  Yeah, this is sure-as-shit the good life you promised me!”

    “God-damn it!  Get the fuck outta my head!” Izzy moaned, grabbing a hank of hair as if to rip it out.  Rolling over, he pressed his face to his sheet-less bed.  “Get the fuck out!”

    “Out of your head?  Why you fucking idiot.  If you had half a brain left you’d know I’m not in your head!  Who the fuck would want to be in there?  I’m right here where you threw me like some worthless piece of trash.  Like the fucking whore you made of me!”

    Feeling his stomach begin to convulse, Izzy sat up with a jerk and tried to steady himself.  Forcing his eyes to focus, he stared longingly at the toilet.

    “Not there, you fucking ass hole.  Here!”

    Izzy shifted his stare to the corner or the room; to the place his guitar stood among the cobwebs and dust.  This was a new twist on his usual mind contortion, he thought.  For a moment, there through the fog of this mind, she was the seductive woman she’d once been.  That beautiful piece of ass!  ‘She’s so fuckin’ beautiful she makes my dick hard,’ he remembers saying when he first spotted her in Gruhn’s window.  But that was a long, long time ago . . .

    Feeling his crotch growing warm, he jumped up and threw himself toward the crusty bowl.  Struggling with his zipper, he felt the hot liquid streaming down his legs.

    “Pissed yourself again, huh, rock star,” she taunted.  “God, you make me want to puke!”

    Spinning around, Izzy screamed, “Hey, what the fuck do you want?  You think I fuckin’ like it like this?”

    “You must!” she insisted.  “Otherwise you’d put us both out of our fucking misery right here and now!  --So we’d never have to wake up with that foul, disgusting taste in our mouths ever again!  Right--Mr. Guitar Wizard!”

    Squinting through his vomit-caked hair, Izzy ran side-long toward his bed, tripped and collapsed on the floor beside it.  A sea of blackness washed over him as he fell back 30 years, a million miles an hour.



                                                                                      *  *  *  *



    “So this is what it was all about,” the voice sang out to him.  The clock said 5:47--AM or PM, he didn’t know or care.  It had stopped days, maybe weeks before.  And it had been much longer since that room had seen the light of day or felt a breath of clean air.  He was down to his last tube of saltines but had no thoughts of going out into the real world.

      “The hours and hours of playing that same  . . . boring . . . shit over and over . . . all the lost friends . . . living like a god-damn recluse so you could suffer for your art.  For what?  For this?  This diseased, rat-infested shit hole?  Day after day, wallowing in our own piss and jizz--  Oh, I forgot.  That withered little thing between your legs doesn’t work anymore, does it?  It used to be able to handle all the slutty little pussy that dropped their jeans, but now . . . you can’t even get it up let alone get it in!  Isn’t that right Mr. Rock & roll Star!”

    Parting his cracked, dry lips with his tongue, he lifted his arm against the bare bulb blaring above.  Head banging mercilessly, he absently rubbed his crotch.  “It‘s different this time,” he said out loud. No voice had ever survived the pass-out.  Crawling to the table, he reached up and grabbed the fifth, gulped down the last swallow.  Belched.  Farted and may have shit himself.

    “Hey, why not eat the rest of those ludes while you’re at it.  Shit, maybe we’ll get lucky and you’ll nod off and never wake up!  Wouldn’t that be too cool!”

    “You think I won’t?” Izzy blurted out, his head and stomach twisting in painful knots.  “You think I won’t?”

    “Can’t!” the voice assured him.  “You’re a god-damn spineless cunt!  Need reminded of the Japan tour?  The no-sign with Sony?  The fucking disappearing act you pulled in London?  You didn’t have what it takes then, and you sure as shit don’t have it now!”

    “Hey, fuck you!  Fuck you and every other mother fucker that says--” he started crawling toward the voice.

    “Ah, pointless vulgarity, the last vestige of every inarticulate limp-dick!  But . . . you’d like to, wouldn’t you?  To fuck me?  Maybe then you could prove that you’re not the worthless piece of shit everybody says you are.  Mediocre . . . common  . . . and impotent on top of it!”

    “Hey, suck my ass!  Suck . . . my . . . ASS!”

    Staggering to his feet, Izzy swayed side to side and headed for his dresser: a paint-chipped pink and yellow piece of trash left behind by some other poor social reject.  Rifling through countless empty bottles, he withdrew his one cherished stash.  Holding it up between his eyes and the blinding light, it rattled invitingly.  Beautiful powder lined the orange plastic.

    “You’re so fuckin’ sure I won’t, ain’t you!  Ain’t got the fuckin’ balls!  But see, what you don’t know is I’d eat a god-damn bowl of pills to get rid of you!” he called over his shoulder.  “That’s what you don’t fuckin’ know!”  Stomach heaving, he stumbled to the counter, took each dead soldier by the head and shook it.  Two fingers of cheap vodka, he popped off the medicine top, poured the bitter tablets into his mouth and washed them down.  In seconds his eyes glassed-over as they took hold with a jolt.  Belching and farting loudly, he sent two inseparably repugnant odors into the stagnant air as contentment kissed him on the lips.  “Who’s the pussy now?” he said defiantly.  Collapsing to the floor, he fell back hard against the sink cabinet door.  The cool, rusted metal stung the back of his neck.  “Huh?  Who’s the fuckin’ pussy now?”

    “Well, you aren’t dead yet, Clapton!” the voiced dismissed him.  “And if there’s a way to fuck it up, you sure the hell will!”

    “Well, stand back and watch, you heartless cock-sucker!  Then you can be the first in line to kiss my cold, dead ass goodbye!”



                                                                                *  *  *  * 

   

    “But what if it isn’t enough?” she rousted him.  “After all, you’ve built up a heavy-duty tolerance after all these years of frying your brain.  What if that little handful isn’t enough?  We’ll be right back where we started!”

    “Enough?” Izzy spit.  “Man, fifteen ludes’ll stop anybody’s clock!  Anybody‘s!”

    “Aaaaa, you’ll fuck it up!  Sure as shit, you’ll end up puking your fucking guts!  You’ll see.”

    “Hey, what the fuck do you want from me?” he moaned, tears pooling in his eyes.  “This was your fuckin’ idea!  I did what you wanted so leave me alone!”

    “Not until it’s over, you fucking asshole.  And believe me, that won’t be soon enough to suit me!  The quicker we part ways once and for all the better I‘ll like it!”

      “What?  I ain’t dyin’ fast enough for you?” Izzy mumbled, spit running from his mouth.  “Maybe I should slice through my veins, too!  Would that shut you up?”

    “Well, that hadn’t occurred to me, but it’s certainly worth a try.  Sure . . . why not!  Yeah, the more I think about it the more I like it!  No one could survive pills and slit wrists!”

    “Alright!  Alright!” Izzy screamed out, his lips now dripping blood.  “Anything to get rid of you!  Anything!”

    Crawling to the toilet, Izzy pried a rusted single-edge from the floor bolt with his nicotine-stained nails; sliced open his thumb.  Clutching it in his trembling fingers, he crawled back to his dying place.  Feeling a familiar cloud gathering in his brain, he smiled and propped himself up against the sweaty pipes.  Eyes popped, he laid the corroded edge on his skin. 

    “Now, mother fucker!  Now we’ll put an end to your fuckin‘ complaining once and for all!”  Staring into the corner where she stood, he closed his eyes and ripped the dull blade across one wrist--then the other.  His face bleached white as the hot red serum shot out over his jeans and inched across the floor.  “Now mother fucker!” he moaned victoriously.  “Now what the fuck you got to say!”  With an audible gasp, he slumped lifeless on the floor.



                                                                              *    *  *  *



    “See!  I told you you’d fuck it up!  Didn’t I?”

    “But . . .”

    “You can’t even kill yourself right, you stinking piece of shit!”

    “But--” Izzy mouthed--confused--vomit gushing out.

    “The drugs ran out all over the floor, you asshole!  All you accomplished by opening your veins was to sober your sorry ass!  What the fuck’s wrong with you?  Can’t you do even one mother fucking thing right?”

    “But, you’re the one!!”

    “That’s it.  Blame everyone but yourself!  That’s your style.  You’re so fucking pathetic!”

    “Suck my ass, you fuckin’ ghoul!” Izzy screamed, his eyes filming yellow.  “Too bad I

don’t have a fuckin’ gun, ain’t it!  Then I could blow off my fuckin’ head!  My brains all over the fuckin’ walls!  That’id shut you up, wouldn’t it!  Wouldn’t it!”

    “Shit, you’d probably miss, you fucking moron!”

    “Well, if you think it’s so fuckin’ easy, then you do it!  You end this fuckin’ thing!”

    “As you wish!” the voice sang out.  Tra . . . la . . . la.



                                                                              *    *    *    *



    It was several days before anyone questioned the foul stench wafting out of room 612.  And even when the police finally broke into the dank, fly-infested room, they still couldn’t make sense of the scene.  They’d covered dozens of junky overdoses and starving musician types offing themselves in their years on the force, but nothing like this.

    Chalk-white, Izzy’s rotting body dangled from the overhead light fixture; maggots well-nested in his gaping flesh.  A thin strand of wire wrapped around his filthy, bearded neck, his head hung to one side nearly severed.  Beneath him a pool of dried blood spread across the floor and into all corners of the room.  At his feet stood his Strat in its stand, the E string conspicuously missing. 

    “Man, how the hell’d he get up there?“ one cop asked, looking around for the chair or table he’d used.  “Shit, I don’t know, but what a sweet guitar,” the other said, absently rubbing his crotch.

    “Yeah, kinda reminds you of a woman, doesn’t it.”

    “A damn fine woman,” the other said, eyeing her up and down.  “Damn fine!”