In 2010, Charley gave me the account of his son’s death. I heard Queenie’s story five years earlier, and had been haunted by it ever since; my mind had ready access to its many details. So the moment Charley mentioned the name of his wife’s parents’ shop — Ballendine’s Second Penny — everything started to click. We can presume that the cheap-looking, provisional dog tag featuring the merchant’s name fell off somewhere between Paris and Berkeley; after all, it was fastened to the cane, most of which had already disappeared by the time Kelly came across it. (God knows how it held on during its life in India.) Otherwise, I would most assuredly have heard about it from Charley. It would have been a very big deal indeed that an item from the “Second Penny” would have reappeared in such a way — like the proverbial dog traveling thousands of miles to come home… and an even bigger deal that Ryder would have jumped from it.15
As earlier explained, the chronology of narratives was reversed for dramatic considerations; in a sense, Queenie’s story was the “second guru” in that (for me) it truly did make sense of the first, in ways both figurative and literal. And I suppose I naturally resisted the linear approach, not only because it goes against my grain but because some key plot points — the dog tag; the chair winding up in Berkeley — might have interfered with the reader’s absorption in Charley’s moving chronicle, even telegraphing what was to come. The last thing I wanted was to rob anyone of a hoped-for frisson.
I often find myself musing along the same lines as Queenie. We know how the chair journeyed from India to Berkeley yet the story behind its voyage to Dashir Cave from a defunct antiques shop in Syracuse that occasionally bore a “Gone Fishin’” sign will never be known.
But as the lady said, there are mysteries upon mysteries.
These were among Queenie’s last words, on the night before I left. We haven’t spoken since, nor do I know her whereabouts. All efforts to contact her have failed.
She was very stoned.
Okay, that’s enough.
E-nough.
I’m finished—famished. Let’s go kill ’n eat somethin’. Then it’ll be your turn, bub. Tha’s right, bubba, I’ve decided I can’t let you leave… just yet. Right on. No way. ’Cause you’re blessed. An’ I’m too blessed to stress. Aw, just teasin’! You are hereby free to go. You’re probably a better listener than you are a talker, anyway. Am I right? Course I am. On second thought, you ain’t completely off the hook yet so don’t fall to pieces on me… O come on now. I ain’ gonna make you sing for your supper. But I cain’t just let you skate. I mean how would it look? To the ladies and gentlemen in our audience? Well you know maybe I could but that just wouldn’t do, not after what-all you put me through. Just wouldn’t be right. What are friends for. Blah. Man, I am drunk. Guess that’ll happen when you have a 72-hour nip or however long the fuck it was — heh heh heh — was that the long goodbye or the long hello? But enough about me, let’s talk about me. Okay now really. Listen up. I’m gonna ask you to perform an activity, I’ll tell you what it is. In a minute. No cause for alarm. Nothing illegal or compromising. Well maybe just a little. But I swear it won’t hurt—though maybe it kinda sorta will. What are friends for. Have some wine, we need to soften you up for the kill. Ease the ol’ performance anxiety… Hey-oh! I’ll bet you’re the type who needs loosening up. O shit, I’m not going to have to seduce you, am I? [calls out to staff] Esme? Ez? Es-me! — where is that girl? O there you are. Don’t mind me, I’m drunk off my ass. I’m so drunk I’m drunk off his ass. And yours too. Must be the celebratory oxy. Things go better with ox. And the celebratory weed. And the and-the and the and-the. You know: job well done. I told the whole story! Whoa. Kinda honored my baby, my Kura, something maybe I never did so well in life. Though that isn’t really true. He didn’t honor me. No, that ain’t true either, he was awesome. Sorry, Kura. Devil made me do it. Ez-honey? Do you think we can get a fire going? Ya do, ya do, ya do? O goody. Then can you get that together? To get a fire going? Could Miguel — can you tell Miguel? That we want a fire? Maybe over by the tent? Yes. Well, dig a pit then. Go for it, Esmeralda… do what you gosta do… Say what?… Yup. Exactamente. Thank you, Esme! Man, I have been wanting me a fire all day long. If we don’t get one going pretty soon I’m like to shoot somebody, and I shoot pretty good too. From the hip! Right. Ha! Hey-oh. But seriously, Broozer, you’ve talked to what, thousands of people? Okay, maybe not thousands but hundreds, right? I mean, at least. So don’t get all modest. However you slice it, it’s a shitload and a halfa people. Right? And not everybody has the gift of blab, comme ça. I mean, comme moi. Non? Mais non? Mais oui? May we? Well, pardon my French. Bet you’ve had your fair share of folks baring their souls in under an hour, brevity being the soul of wit and all. Speed storytelling. Oops! Then what does that say about moi. Enough about toi, let’s talk about moi. I talk a lot but I’m funny, right? Aren’t I, Brewster McCloud? Does being funny make me look fat? Don’t answer that. Allow me to continue. Some of the folks who told you their stories — some of ’em probably blew lunch in an hour, maybe less, am I right? Course I am. So here’s my little request. Queenie’s gonna lay it all out for you, put all her cards on the table. K? I want you to think of a story somebody told you, a single, solitary story. Like a beautiful one. It can be short, but hell, it don’t have to be. It can be long-ass. But the deal is it has to have stayed with you, plus you have to need to want to tell it, because — because there’s something about it you just couldn’t shake. K? Beautiful or haunting or crazy-funny or whatever. Do a really short one, or a long one, I only offered training wheels as a simple courtesy. Didn’t want to jam you up. But if you’re pressed for time, it can really be short, you can tell it, like, in a New Mexico minute. Ha. Hey-o! Y’all remember those “60-second fairy tales”? Edward Everett Horton. Horton Hears a Who. Horton hears a whodunit… Weren’t they a hoot? Or should I say weren’t they a Who. And why is it that whenever I get drunk, I start with the y’alls and the — the Southern shit. I don’t know why, but it’s been that way since when-evuh… Love will keep us togethuh. Remember “Fractured Fairy Tales”? From Rocky and Bullwinkle, right? Boris and Natasha! You could just tell us a fractured fairy tale, Bruiser. But enough about me… but I’m serious, I want to hear a story you really liked, one for the road, or at least one you think I would like. One for the roadies. Something memorable. So c’n you think on one? While I go freshen up? I guess the story’s on the other foot now, huh babe — ha! Come on. Just think on it. And we’ll just sit here in suspense waiting for the other story to drop. Ho ho ho. Heh heh heh. I know you can do it, babe. I know you can make it! I know damn well… yes we can can I know we can can yes we can can uh why can’t we if we wanted to we can can—tell ya what. To be fair. If that big brainuh yours rolls snake eyes, then you can just make something up! Hell, ain’ nobody gonna hold you to it, no one’ll ever even know the difference. ’Cause nobody’s even fucking listening but me, bubba. Man, you have got to understand, Bruce — right now I am so fucking tired I don’t even know my name… I know I’m drunk but I am freaking serious about this! Get your freak on, Mother Jones… get your free gun. So you’ll — do we have an affirmative, sir? I mean, you can wait, you can wait to tell us over dessert. Crackling fire, starry night, blah. Or you can not wait, you know, tell us whenever. Blah. Pull up a chair and stay a while. [sings] “Don’t be shy meet a guy pull up a chair. The air is humming… please don’t be long please don’t you be very long please don’t be long or I may be asleep—”… Tell you why — I’ll tell you why I’m harping. Why I’m being so importunate over here, is because — because it’s — it’s so weird that this thing just came over me like BLAM—right when we finished. It is too fucking strange… because you would think that after three days I’d had enough. Nope! It just sort of dropped down on me, this crazy urge, this need—do you know what I’m saying? Sounds sexual huh. Wull mebbe it is. I just had a thought… know what it might be? It might be I’m still in my own stuff, you know, stuck in my head, and maybe I just want to get out of my head. Because these last few days we went to some very heavy places, my friend, I am telling you. And you know it. You little devil. ’Cause you took me there. Dark, heavy places — beautiful but heavy. So maybe now I just want to cleanse the palate. Does that make sense? What are friends for. Don’t answer that. Why fucking analyze. Where’s Esme… Esme? Ez! Ezzy? Esme! Never can find that girl. [sings] “Never can say goodbye, no no no no… Then you try to say you’re leaving me and I always have to say no, tell me why… is it so… don’t wanna let you go”—bubba, go have some wine and start Googling that big brain o’ yours while I freshen up. I am just so effing tired of hearing my own story — for three effing days! — and it’s such a trip, I am telling you it was like whoosh right you know exactly when we finished like this voice was saying “No!”—this need, this fucking need washed over me, this primal thing, and it’s not even a full moon! — like an actual physical craving. So Bruce you have got to fucking think — because I don’t want — it’s like it’s too soon, I’m not ready—I hear this voice—you know I’m just not you know quite ready to—apparently, anyway — this voice is saying like come on come on just let me hear one more—blam blam blam—’cause I’m just not ready yet, Bruce — it’s like a drug, like I’m still coming onto the drug—goddammit Bruce all I’m saying is I want to hear one more story! So just come on, man! — and I fucking know you understand — come on! Come on come on come on come on come on—tell me a fucking story!