Undead Reckoning

Sean has seen enough slick Netflix and Hulu horror movies to know he should throw away the invitation. Embossed in fancy, red wax seals and a hint of sandalwood odor, the invitation itself is an appealing parchment that should be destined for the recycling bin, along with his poor solo album review in the local alternative weekly paper.  

“No harm in opening it,” he mutters, as he trudges back to his house from the mailbox. It is three in the afternoon, and he is still in his bathrobe and slippers. Traditional time keeping has lost its allure as of late, as the siren song of the next great American guitar riff is just barely within his grasp.  

He opens his door to go back inside, and his cat Ziggy runs out the door. “No matter. He’ll just leave me like the rest of the important things in my life.” He realizes how pathetic this sounds after saying it, but it is the truth. In his mind, at least. His furry friend will be coming back, however, as he knows where his bread is buttered. Yet Sean’s line of thinking stands to reason: he has given up.  

Normally, a strange invite to a mysterious soiree would be cause for intrigue, peppered with a bit of concern. Looking at the nuts and bolts of the situation, he doesn’t have many friends left. Perhaps just as important is that he also lacks enemies. People in his life have moved on, and those that remain are not unlike him, with one hand on the bottle and one foot in the grave.  

So he pours himself a 32-oz tumbler of white wine straight from the room temperature box, puts on some tattered jeans and a CBGB tee shirt, and plops down to read the invitation.  

***  

“Come as you are. Rest well, and keep your mind open. Thoughts can add to your knowledge” 

That was it? That was all that was written on the fancy paper that probably cost more than the wine he was drinking? He flipped it over to see an address. The strange gathering—and what who knows what else—is being held in a nice area of town tomorrow, but not ‘gated community’ nice. The address doesn’t ring any bells in his head, but his front doorbell has something to say.  

Sean is startled, as he can’t recall the night before, and he usually has to apologize to what feels like a thousand people the night after a shoddy show at the local tavern. He is criminally behind on his bills, so there is always a looming specter of process servers coming around.  

The bell rings again.  

He gets up with a groan and goes to check the peephole in the door. On his way, stepping over empty beer cans and dirty clothes, he wonders why he even bothers apologizing for his drunken antics. It was almost like Oswald offering to pay for Jackie’s dry cleaning.  

He leans in, and sees that it is Chester, the UPS guy. Chester is the closest thing that Sean has to a friend these days, and even then he feels like Chester is always thinking for a reason to get out of the conversation.  

Why is he not just dropping off the package? Must be a mandatory signature thing. But who is sending such a thing? His parents had disowned him long ago, and with no other family left...BANG! Chester appears to be losing patience with his latest supplication for acknowledgement.  

Sean opens the door.  

“I was wondering if you finally done drank yourself to death!” Chester said. “Look, I don’t know who would be sending you nothing this important, but you have to sign for it. Make it quick, I’m late for my fantasy football draft night.”  

This just keeps getting better. He signs, and takes the large box after muttering goodbye to Chester. Before the door closes, his cat scampers back in.  

“Maybe you’re a good omen, Ziggy.”  

Normally, Sean would be reluctant to open a mysterious box. In light of the events of the past thirty minutes, however, he figures that discovering the package’s contents is one of the things he can control. He tears it open, and can’t believe his eyes.  

*** 

Myriad physical objects can be a symbol, a totem that harkens back to halcyon days of yore. Especially to those who feel washed up and waiting for death, like Sean. They can take the form of trinkets, photos, clothing—even a vial of ash can do the trick. Inside the large box, Sean sees his past and his future.  

It is his vintage 1959 Les Paul guitar. He sold it years ago to make rent, as the original rent money went to the fruit of the vine. And meth, but that is another story. Yet here it is—the washed cherry sunburst finish, the mahogany body, the weathered but still good jumbo frets. The cigarette burns are still there, as is the road rash on the front and back of the body. However, the strings have been changed. It has also been restored with a full setup, with good-as-new intonation.  

“Now who in the hell...” 

There is no note; just the axe in all its semi-restored beauty. Sean doesn’t know what to think, but he sure as hell won’t forgo the mysterious invite now. And regardless of what the catch is—he suspects the gift is conditional of his sobering up—he is going to be lit for what feels more and more like a reckoning tomorrow.  

***  

Alarms.  

Kerplunk! 

Banging on his window. He wretches, he spits on the floor. With a heave, he falls out of bed.  

Laughter.  

Through swollen eyelids and foggy tears, he sees the painting crew at his apartment complex. They are on a Genie Lift and—knowing of his libations—have decided to bang on his window for fun. Bastards.  

It’s just past noon, and Sean is almost proud of himself for allowing plenty of time to recover and regroup for what he is now dubbing Mayhem and Mystery ‘24. He is mostly at peace, which is surprising when considering his default uptight nature. Over the years, his stoicism has given way to full-fledged nihilism, and on this day it was serving him well.  

“So what if it’s bad news or something awkward? What else can the persons involved or life itself take away from me?” He even considers another TV show that he forgot—Intervention. He hasn’t been followed around by cameras, but what if the few folks left in his life go that route?  

“Free food and a nice place to stay for at least 28 days,” he mutters as he reaches for his emergency vodka. He needs to kickstart his regimen, as the dinner is a few hours before he peaks—lit up, but functional and coherent. He downs two shots and takes slow, measured breaths without otherwise moving a muscle. It is vital that he holds the four ounces of poison down.  

He’s good. After showering and pouring himself a tumbler of wine, he plugs in and strums a few chords on his guitar. The sound is as rich and moving as it ever was. Lush notes emanate, his fingers dancing across the fretboard, making melodies perfect for either an arena or a campfire.  

Figuring that the guitar and the invite are not mutually exclusive, he makes the decision to bring the Les Paul along. If he’s wrong, then the weirdo hosts can let him put the guitar in a corner while he plays whatever dubious game they wish. Perhaps it is paranoia, but the whole thing has a sinister feel. His earlier uneasy peace eludes him. He then completes the alcohol-lubricated thought loop by remembering his devil-may-care nihilism.  

Even though he has a nice four-drink buzz—it took his tired liver eight drinks to get him there—he finds it hard to chat with the Lyft driver. He looks out the window, his hometown smeared by velocity as he ambles to his destination. It is in a warehouse district, but this one is gentrified: all have been repurposed as artist collectives and rehearsal spaces for mid-level bands and recording artists. Lofts aplenty, with all of the ripped denim, man buns, and biodiesel cars you can shake a stick at. In fact, the latter is going on as he gets to his building.  

James, a thirtysomething woman greets him as she is shaking a burning sage stalk all over what looks to be a music hall. “It takes away the bad vibes and gets the place ready for creativity” she says. Sean smiles and nods, and figures that she is as good a person as any to ask about his invite. He produces the waxed parchment and her eyes light up.  

“Oh, it’s you, finally!” she squeals. “Your friends told me all about tonight, and how you’re the final piece of the puzzle. Come with me.”  

This keeps getting better and better. He’s glad that he has his trusted guitar to go along with half pints of vodka hidden in various pockets and compartments on his person. They go through a winding hallway, and he begins to hear a familiar melody.  

His melody, the one he wrote with his band The Ill-Legitimates many years prior. “Thoughts and Knowledge” was the tune, and it was all over the radio once upon a time. The band was courted by major labels. Infighting, drugs, and drinking squashed everything. The Ill-Legitimates got in their own way, and everyone took their separate paths. Sean felt that his was the most sad and dark, and he knew it was his own damn fault.  

James opens the door, and all of his former bandmates smile, but keep playing. Sean doesn’t know what to think, other than to go with the flow. He wouldn’t have it any other way, in fact. He is glad they keep playing, and he walks over to the nearest VOX amp that he can find, waiting for him like the past ten years didn’t happen. It was his old amp, and even though he didn’t have time to fiddle with the settings, his tone and melodies melted perfectly into what the rest of the gang was playing.  

How? Why? Why didn’t the band do this years ago? After the song ends, there is not a word spoken, only smiles. Megan the drummer pipes up, “welcome back, mi amigo.” Singer Jon and bassist Stefan pile on him for a tearful group hug, and Megan follows suit.  

“It just needed time to heal. We needed time to heal,” said Stefan. “There are demons to be addressed, but in due time.” The man isn’t wrong, as Sean has become suddenly self-aware that he smells like a distillery.  But it only adds to the strong residue of other substances in the room.  

“But first, we jam. We revisit why we fell in love with each other’s music in the first place.”  

Song after song, the magic awakens. A crowd begins to form in the large loft space and before any of them knows it, it has become an impromptu show. They are getting a head start on recreating a buzz—the good kind—for the band.  

Afterwards, they all realize that a good bonding session is needed to clear the air. Music can move mountains, but ‘housekeeping’ issues persist. Bruised egos, perforated septums, and scarred livers aren’t going to resolve themselves with sweet melodies. The gang realizes that this can take days, if not longer.  

“Let’s meet up in a couple of days, if everyone is free,” said Sean. “Noon next Tuesday...but where?”  

“Here, silly. We didn’t just rent this place for one night,” said Megan. Sean is both excited and anxious, as he realizes he can’t afford to chip in for what is sure to be an ungodly rent. Stefan instantly picks up on his vibe, and provides some life changing news.  

“Oasis Records is paying for this. If we can detox and stay clean together, they are willing to re-sign us if we can come up with an album’s worth of new material.”  

Sean is speechless, as he wonders what he did to deserve this sudden reversal of fortune. This time it is Jon’s turn to read minds.  

“We can’t afford fancy stationery and the restoration of your guitar, dumbass.” Laughter erupts all around. “Thoughts and Knowledge” is going to be used for some new Paramount + show, and the label is gambling that there is a renewed interest in our rough-around-the-edges style.”  

Fair enough.  

The goodwill of Oasis records didn’t extend to transportation for the evening, so Sean hitches a Lyft ride back. He splurges and orders the XL Black Luxury ride. As he heads back to his apartment, his mind races. He doesn’t spend much time on any one thought, as his processing ability is mercurial at best. His urge is to have a celebratory drink when he gets home, and he indulges it. An unassisted detox for his stage of alcoholism can be life threatening, so he pours a strong one when he arrives at his messy abode. Ziggy the cat doesn’t seem to mind, and he goes about exploring the strange new guitar case.  

The next morning, Chester stops by. He doesn’t have a package this time; he simply wants to wish Sean well on the next steps of his journey.  

“Thanks, man, I appr—wait! How do you know about all of this?”  

“Boy, you must have fried a little too much of your brain!” said Chester. “The Ill-Legitimates were bigger than you think, I guess. I knew who you was. Besides, I know a guitar case when I see one in my delivery truck.”  

Sean smiles, and as per usual as of late, he is at a loss for words.  

“Hey, don’t even worry about it, man,” said Chester. “Let the music do the talking.”