Return To The Aurora

Arthur kept his eyes down as he navigated through the dining hall, weaving around walkers and wheelchairs. He ignored the side glances from the Whispering Pines residents and settled on an empty table in the back, hoping to eat his dinner in peace. But before Arthur could swallow his first bite of what he assumed was Salisbury steak, the Home’s day manager occupied the empty seat across from him. 

“Mr. Osment, may I have a moment of your time?”

Arthur didn’t look up from his plate as he scooped up a spoonful of limp green beans. 

The manager cleared her throat. “There have been some complaints from the other residents about your guitar playing.”

It was unfathomable to Arthur that he would ever receive complaints about his music. He also never imagined himself living in a nursing home that boasted of “wheelchair accessible line dancing.” Yet, here he was. 

“Mr. Osment, we’ve talked about this. If you’re going to play your guitar, you have to avoid quiet hours, and play at a reasonable level.”

“I do play at a reasonable level,” Arthur mumbled between bites. This accusation felt a bit one sided; people from the parking lot could hear how loud the residents kept the volume on their televisions.

“Well, let’s stick to playing during waking hours.” The manager snapped her fingers and smiled with her whole face. “Here’s an idea! How about putting on a show for the residents? We could turn the community center into a boot scootin’ honky-tonk.” 

Arthur scoffed at the idea. He was no magician, and there was no way the community center, with its fluorescent lighting and cracked linoleum floor, would bear even the slightest resemblance of Nashville’s famous honky-tonks. And he certainly wasn’t going to be a part of that forced mirage, especially when he used to be a part of the real thing. Arthur took a massive bite of his steak and looked out the window. The meat was tough, and he could chew all day. Luckily, it didn’t take that long. 

“Think it over, okay?” The manager rose from her seat and walked over to another table, where a gaggle of silver-haired women flagged her over to discuss who knew what. Probably Arthur. 

Once finished with dinner, Arthur shuffled back down the hall to his room, passing the community center filled with seniors playing bridge and the occupied outdoor bocce ball courts. Contrary to what everyone believed about Arthur now, he did have quite the circle of friends back in the day. He even considered some, especially his bandmates, as family. Sure, none of them were biological relatives, but after seeing the other residents' children trudge in, clearly on obligation, and rush out because “they had so much to do,'' he didn’t feel like he was missing much. Even the grandchildren, that everyone once seemed so desperate to get, just floated through the halls like ghosts, mindlessly scrolling through their phones and looking more empty than the residents in memory care. Still, as Arthur settled in his room with only his guitar to greet him, he couldn’t help but wonder if a life on the road was better than a family life in the suburbs. At least then, someone would be forced to visit him. 

With a sigh, Arthur took his guitar from its stand and plugged it into his amp, playing through the night and only stopping when dawn’s pink streaks chased the stars away. 

A hard knock at the door woke Arthur with a start. He rolled over to see his bedside clock read 2pm. Sleeping through breakfast and lunch was a common occurrence for him, his circadian clock shattered from a long career in music. But that didn’t stop the staff from worrying that an absence from meals indicated an absence of breath. 

“Mr. Osment? Are you there Mr. Osment?” 

Arthur groggily shuffled through his living space and opened the door with a grunt. A young line cook stood on the other side, his stained apron donning a crooked name tag that read “Jameson.” The other residents talked about this employee often, whispering about how he was ever going to get a job covered in tattoos, while he was already working at said job. Arthur never minded him though. He always waved when spotting Arthur in the dining hall, and would sneak extra desserts on his plate. 

“I saw that you missed lunch today. Actually, I see that you miss lunch a lot of days, so I saved you some leftovers.” Jameson handed over a tin foil wrapped plate. Arthur took it with a nod of thanks, hesitant to show too much appreciation and find this turn into another ruse to entertain the residents. But Arthur didn’t need to say anything. It was his guitar that beckoned the kid to come in and make himself at home. 

“Holy Toledo!” Jameson pushed his way into the living room where the guitar leaned in its stand in the far corner. 

“Look, I appreciate the food, but I’m not much up for visitors today,” Arthur began, but was interrupted by his guest’s appreciation. 

“A Gibson Trini Lopez?! In pelham blue!?” Jameson hovered his hands around the guitar, his desperation and respect for the instrument ravishing a war inside him. 

Most people, or at least the residents, didn’t talk much about guitars except to complain about them, and Arthur was stunned by the kid’s admiration, genuinely worrying if his drool was about to damage the hardware. Crossing the living room to sit in his recliner, Arthur lifted the guitar from its stand and set it in his lap. “I take it you play?” 

Jameson sat on the couch, unable to take his eyes off the instrument. “Yeah, some. I mainly play bass.” 

“Bass, huh?” Arthur picked at the strings. Whether plugged in or not, if a guitar was in his hands, he was going to noodle with it. 

“Yeah. Figure it might not get me a lot of ladies, but it would definitely get me in a band.” 

Arthur laughed. He almost didn’t recognize the sound. “Even in Nashville, bassists are hard to find. So, you play in a band?” 

Jameson nodded. “Did you?” 

It hurt hearing the assumed past tense. But really, what did Arthur expect? The kid was young, not blind.

“I did, for fifty years, if you could believe that. My bandmates were the closest I ever came to a family.” 

“Do you still see them much?” 

Arthur rested his hand down to silence the strings. No matter the time that passed, this question was never easy to answer. “No, they’ve all passed on.”

Jameson turned his gaze to the floor. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t worry about it.” Arthur went back to plucking the strings. “We had a good run while it lasted, traveling the country together and opening for the likes of Johnny Cash and Merle Haggard.” 

 “You played with Johnny Cash?”

Arthur held up a hand. “I said we opened for him. My band opened for a lot of artists, in a lot of places. But we were known more for warming up the spotlight rather than standing in it.”

“That’s still pretty amazing if you ask me, Mr. Osment.” 

“Call me Arthur.” He extended out his hand. “And it’s mighty nice to meet a fellow musician.”   

After that day, Jameson’s meal drop-offs became a regular occurrence, allowing Arthur to keep playing through the night without missing meals, while also decreasing the number of times he needed to hear about the “damn racket” from residents gossiping in the dining hall. Keeping his nocturnal routine also helped lift a bit of the loneliness he felt shrouded in these days. On the nights he really allowed himself to fall into the music, he could almost believe he was back on stage, his bandmates behind him and the crowd before him. But it was when Jameson would swing back at the end of his shift, sitting on the couch awe-struck while listening to stories, that Arthur truly felt like he was reliving the past. He liked those days the best. 

“I hope I live half the life you lived,” Jameson said with a sigh. 

Arthur, sitting in the recliner with his guitar perched in his lap, regarded the statement. “Music sure does connect you with a lot of folks the way not much else in life can. I always figured I would never be alone, as long as I had a guitar in my hands. But now, music just brings me back to the past and reminds me of what and who I lost.” He thought about his bandmates who had left this earth, the stages he would never again grace, and his hands that ached when making even simple chord shapes. It seemed all he had now were haunted songs. Arthur strummed his guitar, melancholy and slow. His soul could always be found in those strings. 

“Be careful of this life,” he began after a few barres. “As far as I can see, the only thing left at the end is pain.” 

Arthur woke to his usual alarm and hustled over to the door, eager to find Jameson on the other side. Except this time, he was handed not only a plate of food, but also a neon green flier that, in crude, black sharpie, exclaimed the time and place for a show. Many bands that Arthur never heard of were listed, surrounded by drawings of mohawked rats playing instruments. But it was the band listed in bold lettering at the top that really caught his attention. 

“Who in the world is Gutter Scum?” Arthur asked. 

“It’s my band.” Jameson walked inside and settled in his usual spot on the couch. “We play tonight at the Aurora.” 

Arthur handed the flier back to Jameson. He didn’t know much about the kind of music Jameson played, their conversations always leaned more towards Arthur. But judging by the name and design on the flier, he assumed there were power chords, distortion, and a lot, a lot, of kick drum. “The Aurora is a great venue, I played quite a few shows there myself back in the day.” 

“Oh yeah, I forgot it used to be a country hall. Didn’t Dolly Parton sing there early in her career?” 

Arthur nodded. He was at that show. Not on the bill, but lucky enough to be breathing the same air as Miss Parton herself. 

“Well, then good, you’ll feel right at home.” 

Arthur snapped to attention. “I beg your pardon?”

“We need you to come to the show tonight.” 

The Aurora was a small venue, most artists outgrew it quickly. It did, however, have a wide, open floor, allowing patrons, back in the day, to line dance well into the night. Which also meant no seating to speak of. 

Arthur did his best to show gratitude, flattered that Jameson wanted him to come to his show. But his knees forbade him the pleasure of attending a general admission venue. 

Jameson regarded Arthur with a smirk. “Oh, you won’t be watching. You’ll be playing.” 

“You know I don’t play anymore.” Arthur dwelled on his arthritis, his vision, his bladder. Did the kid think he was just in this nursing home for fun? 

“You play every night in your room,” Jameson stated.  

“Not in front of an audience, and it's not the kind of music you play.” 

“You said you opened for Johnny Cash. Who is more punk rock than Johnny Cash?” 

“Plenty of other people, I assure you.” 

Jameson fell to his knees in front of Arthur, his hands pressed together in a prayer. “Please Arthur, our guitarist bailed last minute and we can’t lose this gig. We’ve waited so long to play the Aurora.” 

Arthur remembered when punk rock rose to popularity in the 80s, hearing the stories that went down in venues like CBGB in New York. It intimated him, knowing the speed at which the music was played and intensity the lyrics were sung. But playing in front of a crowd again sure beats playing alone in his room, with the scent of antiseptic and used adult diapers wafting in from under his door. So, and he surely was going to regret this, he agreed and Jameson dragged him out the door, guitar in hand.  

The Aurora was just as Arthur remembered, complete with its sticky floor and small bar off to the side. The high, domed ceiling, along with the plush velvet curtains hanging on either side of the stage, gave one the impression they were entering a place of worship. As Arthur followed Jameson across the empty floor and towards the stage, he felt a shiver down his spine as memories materialized before him: hearing his bass player tuning, tasting a pre-show shot of whiskey, and smelling backstage cigarettes. Arthur scanned the venue for a familiar face, his mind convinced he’d fallen back in time. But the space was vacant, save for a few individuals stocking the bar and the rest of the Gutter Scums setting up for sound check. 

“Have no fear, our guitarist is here,” Jameson yelled, his voice bouncing off the high ceiling. 

Arthur slowly climbed the steps to the stage, his knees complaining the whole way. He wasn’t sure how he would be welcomed by the band, he surely didn’t look like he belonged; absent of any leather, tattoos, or spikes. As the boys closed in on Arthur, he felt his shoulders tense and heart quicken.

“We really owe you one!” The mohawked drummer bellowed from behind his kit. 

“Jameson said you toured with the Man in Black. Is that true? Tell me that’s true!” The leather-jacket-wearing singer demanded. “I’m not worthy to share this stage with you.” 

“I wish you were my grandpa!” Arthur felt arms wrap around his middle and the band, rolling their eyes, told Todd to get off the stage and back to setting up their merch table. 

The praise made Arthur feel foolish that he thought these boys were about to harm him. It also made him feel terrible that he was about to let them down. 

“Fellas, I appreciate you offering me the gig. But like I told Jameson, it’s been a long time since I’ve played for a crowd, and I don’t sound like I used to. There’s nobody else you can get to step in?”

“Nobody’s as good as you, Arthur. I know good guitar playing when I hear it, even if it's always behind closed doors.” Jameson brought over a stool for Arthur to use, along with a music stand holding sheets of written tablature. 

Arthur slipped on his bifocals and reviewed the music. It was simple chords, that much was reassuring. The speed at which they would be played, however, was what worried him. For the first time ever, Arthur found himself wishing he was back home, playing alone in his room. But as the doors opened, and the crowd began to trickle in, Arthur found his nerves begin to calm as realization set in: This was home. 

“Just enjoy it,” Jameson said backstage, as the previous band let their final chords ring out into the night. The crowd screamed for the next act, their electric energy desperate for a conductor.

“Are we ready to rock?” The singer asked, his arms outstretched as he pulled his bandmates, and Arthur, into a huddle. 

“Sir, yes sir,” the drummer yelled. 

“Right you are,” Jameson said. “Arthur?”

 With his arms wrapped around the boys, the crowd screaming beyond, Arthur saw his past, his present, and yes, even his future flash before him. And it was filled with music, just as it should be. 

Just as he always wanted it to be. 

Arthur rolled out of bed, sore and slightly hung over from the night before. His hands, never having to move so quickly up and down the fretboard, complained all night and refused him any decent sleep. No matter. He was fine with laying awake, reliving the roar of the crowd, the scream of his strings, the bass rattling his rib cage. It revived him in a way no defibrillator ever could. 

As he splashed water on his face and took some painkillers from his cabinet, he heard the familiar afternoon knock. He shuffled over to the door, beginning to wonder if last night actually happened. Perhaps it was just a fabrication of longing, brought on by bad cafeteria food, or some sort of vivid fever dream. What if, heaven forbid, it was the beginning of dementia creeping in? Was he turning into Saul from down the hall, who shook hands with anyone who made eye contact, as he campaigned for president? 

He swung open the door, to find Jameson in the hallway, bass slung over his shoulder and a plate of food in hand. The sight reassured Arthur he wasn’t going crazy. Yet. 

“I bring food,” Jameson said, handing over the plate. “And thought we could play together tonight? Maybe work on writing some new songs for Gutter Scum?” Jameson moved past Arthur, maneuvering his bass and amp through the doorway. 

“You want me to help you write some songs?”

“Well, you are a member of the band, after all. Unless you don’t want to be?”

A silence rested between them that said everything that needed to be said. A blurred image of Jameson tuning his bass stood before Arthur. It took him a moment to wipe the moisture from his eyes, before following suit to tune his own instrument. 

Together, they played long into the night, the music drowning out the deafening roar of loneliness, along with the muffled shouts from the hall to “turn down that racket!”