Mortally Wounded, for the Last Time

“Hey, I’m thinking G suspended instead of G5 for Fillet of Heart. Sound good?” Kildaire picked the chord progression around G5. Everyone looked away.

“No?” Kildaire sighed and put his guitar away.

“Just, you know, play it like we’ve played it when practicing. The fans always liked it that way,” Jaybird said, her soft voice roughened just a little by age. The fans would like that as well. Her voice had new depth, and she still looked smoking hot on stage.

“I’m missing the first ten weeks of school,” Dan lamented, though he didn’t seem too upset by it. His students would undoubtedly be screwing around the band hall while the substitute teacher sat at his ancient desk and pretended to be keeping order.

“Shit! I’m out of Atorvastatin. Anyone got any?” Zoltar rummaged through his pill satchel.

“I got forty milligram ones,” Jaybird said, reaching for her own stash of medication.

“Sweet! Forty’s my dosage,” Zoltar reached out and took the pill, swallowing it dry.

“Big crowd tonight,” Kildaire came back from the stage wings. He wanted to watch the opening song from Six Pistols. He didn’t like them twenty years ago, and he doesn’t like them now.

“They still suck,” Kildaire said, smirking.

“Yeah, well, two of the original members are dead. Rob drowned in his own vomit, and Bash-Bash ate a bullet,” Zoltar informed them. Only Kildaire seemed surprised.

“No shit?”

“Yeah,” Jaybird said, “everybody knows that. Except you, I guess. You been living in a cave?”

“Close to it. Rural Texas. But hey, if you wanna know anything about George Strait or Willie Nelson, I’m your man.”

“How’s the ranch?” Zoltar asked without really caring.

“Almost successful. Why do you think I’m doing this tour? I could use the money,” Kildaire sighed, tossing his pick against the wall.

“Well, I’m a fucking band teacher in a middle school, so quit bitching about your life,” Dan spat out.

“Bite me, Percodan. You guys fucked me over twenty years ago. You fucked yourselves over in the process. We were big, and we had a good decade left in us, but nooo!” Kildaire sat back and sulked.

“You’re an asshole, Kildaire. You could have joined another band, so don’t go blaming us for your pathetic life,” Zoltar chimed in, throwing a keyboard riff in at the end. No one was amused.

“I’m the one who quit,” Jaybird added, “because I was pregnant and wanted to get married. All you guys decided to quit, too. You could have found another singer and bassist. It isn’t like they aren’t hard to find.”

The uncomfortable silence in the dressing room sunk into the peeling tiles, letting them hear the roaring crowd and the music from Six Pistols. They all found it hilarious that Six Pistols only had three members. Zoltar hypothesized that they were always so high that they saw double, hence the name. Jaybird knew that they wanted to pay homage to The Sex Pistols, especially Sid Vicious. Zoltar and Dan simply didn’t care at all about the origin of their band’s name.

“Anyway,” Jaybird continued, “that was three marriages and two kids ago. The lesson I learned is that husbands are very good at spending my money. So, that’s why I’m here. Again.”

Jaybird lit a cigarette, took a couple of puffs, then put it out. It tasted rank. Everything tasted rank on the farewell tour. Especially the chemistry between old bandmates.

“All you guys suck. I own a pissy-ant barber shop. I live above the pissy-ant barbershop. I get laid about once every Summer Olympics, and my meals consist of whatever a microwave can heat up,” Zoltar said, his voice gruff from too many cigarettes and too much cheap liquor.

Jaybird looked at him, her eyes softening for an instant. “What happened to your money?”

“Horses,” he intoned.

Kildaire looked up. “Hey, that’s how I spent my money. You have a ranch?”

“No, you stupid fuck. I didn’t buy horses. I bet on ‘em. The results were disappointing.”

Dan snickered. Zoltar jumped up, advancing on him. Kildaire watched it happen, unmoved by it all, but Jaybird jumped between them, extending her arms between the would-be combatants.

“Our first show is tonight, idiots, so simmer down. After this tour, we don’t have to see each other ever again. All our lives are fucked up, so harden up and do what we’re paid to do.”

Dan and Zoltar muttered responses that sounded like old men who had lost an argument to their wives. Jaybird was certain that they sounded like this from vast experience.

“How did it all go so wrong? I mean, we had money. Lots and lots of money,” Kildaire said, speaking more to himself than to his bandmates.

“We lived the rock ‘n roll lifestyle, but we weren’t rock ‘n rollers. We were grunge, and we should have known better,” Jaybird sighed, lighting another cigarette. She knew what she said didn’t make sense, but it felt right.

“Hey, you guys remember when we started? Fuck, it was so good. Nirvana hits it big and we’re suddenly popular. Touring all the time. Anything we wanted, we got. Hell, any ridiculous thing we could dream up, we got. I remember,” Kildaire leaned forward, “I remember when I asked for that expensive-ass pink sea salt. Well, after the show, some chick shows up, starkers, and she has whipped cream in strategic places. She then proceeds to sprinkle that pink sea salt on herself, lays back, and beckons we with a finger.”

“What did you do?” Zoltar leaned forward, licking his lips, a little angry with himself for not doing this sort of thing often enough.

“I feasted,” Kildaire said, leaning back and looking smug.

“When was this?” Dan asked. He didn’t remember any pink sea salt.

“Chicago, 1999. We debuted our biggest hit that night. You Have to Buy Me Dinner First. I’ll never forget that night.”

Jaybird looked at Kildaire, shaking her head. “Do you remember the chick’s name?”

“No,” he said, sententiously. “Do you remember every guy you fucked?”

“Yeah, I do.” Jaybird glared at him.

“Their names?”

Jaybird looked away. She didn’t remember their names. She remembered their scents, their touches, their eyes. What she remembered most was how awful they looked the next morning. She refused to think about how hideous she looked.

“Nobody’s smoking weed out there,” Kildaire said, changing the subject without meaning to.

“Gummies. Your audience these days do gummies, Xanax, and moderately-priced wine. They wear clothes from Dillard’s and eat at places like Chilis and Panera. Their American Dream has turned into a nightmare of mortgages and college tuition. They don’t believe in paradigm shifts, or the value of modern sensibilities. They live their lives unfulfilled and desperate to find meaning through their ungrateful kids and reality TV.”

Kildaire watched the retreating figure of the man who spoken. “Who the fuck was that?”

“Zach. One of our roadies. You didn’t recognize him?”

Kildaire shook his head. “He looks like Jesus, with all that long hair and a beard. Sandals, too. He can’t wear sandals while working, can he?”

Zoltar shrugged. “He gets paid minimum wage, so I don’t care what he wears.”

“What if he gets hurt? He’ll sue.” Dan, not wanting to be sued by a Jesus figure, spoke up.

“Not us. We didn’t hire him,” Jaybird said, smoking another cigarette. She wanted her voice rougher than usual for the first show. It would add poignancy to their songs.

“Rolling Stone wrote a review about us last month, after one of their so-called writers watched us in rehearsal. And I quote, ‘Mortally Wounded still sounds mortally wounded. I never got them. I’m amazed that people out there pay good money to listen to Jaybird wail and Kildaire play badly. Grunge has a lot to answer for.’” Zoltar hit a C note on the portable keyboard he always traveled with, and sat back. He didn’t seem upset by the article.

“Hasn’t hurt ticket sales,” Jaybird said, also not seemingly upset by the article. She had been through too many husbands to get upset by comments meant to hurt.

“By the way, you’re on in five,” Zach stuck his head in the door before sauntering toward the stage.

                                                          ______________

Jaybird flopped on a sofa, as did Kildaire. Zoltar and Dan slumped in chairs, wiping sweat from their faces and drinking light beer.

“Michelob Ultra-Light?” Jaybird asked, her voice raspy and weak. She had screamed out the lyrics to their encore, No Punishment for Bad Deeds, and it took all she had to finish strong. The first night had taken a toll on her voice. She regretted that she hadn’t paced herself as she should have.

“Yeah, just like we asked,” Dan passed her a bottle. He didn’t open it for her.

“No pink sea salt?” Jaybird scoffed, casting a look at Kildaire.

“No nubile groupies, either. Just a bunch of old women with their husbands, looking for autographs and selfies.” Zoltar shook his head.

“I bet we fucked some of those old women back in the day, Zo,” Kildaire said. He wrapped a towel around his neck and took a beer.

“Don’t be vulgar, Kil,” Jaybird glared at him.

“Sorry. But I bet we did, Jay. And maybe you screwed some of their husbands. Ever think of that?”

Jaybird had not thought of that, and she didn’t think of it now. All she could envisage, at the moment, was paying off her daughter’s college tuition and fixing her car.

“You guys were great! Fabulous!” Stewart walked in unannounced, but it was more like Tropical Storm Stewart blasted in. His loud, piercing voice cut through the band members, grating on their nerves.

“Thanks, Stew. Beat it, will ya’?” Dan waved Stewart away.

Stewart looked at each member before responding. Jaybird wondered why the man was still here. He was their agent, yes, but he didn’t need to be in their space. The tour was a done deal. The money was settled.

“Listen, there’s this promoter in Europe. He wants you guys for a fifty-date tour. 250,000 dollars, guaranteed, each, but probably more. I mean, who knows where this could lead? Retro acts are big now. Your audience has discretionary income, and they want to see the bands that they connected with emotionally when they were young.”

Jaybird sighed, as did Dan. Zoltar looked up, eyes bright. Kildaire was eyeing some of the middle-aged groupies that didn’t seem attached to a husband.

“C’mon, guys. A comeback tour. And I have just the name for the tour. Mortally Wounded, Again. Clever, right?”

“Sure, Stew. We’ll uh, we’ll discuss it.”

Stewart looked at the band members again, sighed, and walked out the door. Chubby groupies filed in respectfully. None of them asked to have their breasts autographed, but they all wanted a picture with Jaybird and Kildaire. Dan and Zoltar watched, amused.

Kildaire went to a hotel room with a pleasantly plump office manager. The rest retired to their respective rooms, devoid of company. Jaybird spent most of the night thinking about the European offer. Dan and Zoltar went immediately to bed, exhausted from working ninety minutes in front of 10,000 appreciative fans, loved and revered by people who didn’t know them.

                                                            ______________

Mortally Wounded did three tours in Europe, amassing more money than they thought possible, and retiring gracefully afterwards.

The aftermath wasn’t as graceful. Zoltar sold his barbershop, bought a condo in Arkansas, and died a year later, full of cocaine and alcohol. Dan bought a Maserati, and died from an overdose of brick wall, taken at high speed. Kildaire married a chubby groupie from the last night of their American tour, and regretted it every day. He toyed with the idea of killing her, but decided that life with her was a tad better than life in prison. He often debated on whether he made the right decision.

Jaybird paid off her daughter’s college tuition, bought her son a small house, and looked forward to the day when her kids got married and had kids of their own. She dreamt about her grandkids being just like her own kids, thereby fulfilling her sole revenge fantasy.

Her other fantasy included a small piece of land where she could grow her own food, keep a goat, for milk, company, and warmth at night, and a serviceable stove.

Mortally Wounded faded and disappeared. The Grunge movement lost steam when Kurt Cobain died, and further atrophied when people started listening to the likes of Lil’ Kim, Lil Wayne, and — God help us — the Dave Matthews Band.

Jaybird approved of fading away. She wished her memories would do the same. But, like a tiresome younger sibling, they persisted. All she wanted was a smelly goat and a warm fire, and perhaps some distance between her past and herself.

Mortally wounded, she reflected, doesn’t necessarily mean a quick death.