Page 123 of The End of the World As We Know It
“I think I’ll pass along now,” the man said. “I’m glad to see another living face. I wish you good luck on your journey.”
“But do you? Or are you justsayingthat? Just words, right?”
The man made to raise his hands in a peaceful way, to say,Well, okay, however you see it you see it, I’ll be on my way, but Lev was upon him before he could.
Lev swung once, missed, swung again, missed, and the old man reluctantly struck him over the head.
Lev fell then. The guitar sounded crazy as it hit the ground. And when Lev woke up, it was dark, and a herd of deer scattered at the life they saw in what they believed to be another dead body.
The good news was he still had the finger. The bad news was his head hurt. The pigeon-shit old man punk had sucker punched him is what happened. Didn’t even stick around for a fair fight. Fine. Thatwas fine. And to be expected of the people who populated a world so unkind.
Lev walked. And walked. At times the guitar felt heavy, and at times it did not. But it wasn’t broken, so that was good. He switched it from shoulder to shoulder and repeatedly checked the pocket of his cargo shorts to make sure he still had the finger.
“I… love… the…”
Yes, this new world was certainly more Alice Cooper than Grateful Dead and even the pun of it had worn off some. The song just sounded right. Lev imagined what the chorus walk-down notes might be between the repeating chorus lines. He stopped twice to try to figure them out, but it seemed the guitar had gone far out of tune. Hmm. Maybe the old man had screwed with it. Maybe it was his way of telling Lev he didn’t like the same music as Lev. And that was fine. Fine.
Up again, walking, tired, rattled, angry, he saw a sign he’d been waiting a long time to see:
WELCOME TO SAN FRANCISCO
“Should say ‘Home of the Grateful Dead,’?” Lev said. But even his own words were eclipsed by the thought of the address he needed to get to:710 Ashbury Street.
All good Deadheads knewthatmuch.
As he crossed the city line, he tried to sing Jerry songs, Bobby songs, even those sung by Pigpen or Donna. But all he could hear was Alice Cooper. Over and over. And those elusive walk-down notes. Like giant dark feet stepping down giant dark stairs into a giant dark nothingness.
He should feel good. He was close. Instead, he felt like he’d stepped over the curved edge of a vinyl album. Like he’d stepped out of the music and into reality.
And that, every Deadhead also knew, was the worst feeling in the world.
“I need a miracle,” he said.
But, as fun as it once was to say this, the phrase was too right-on now. Too on point. The miracle had already happened.
Lev had lived.
And he’d found the finger of God.
If he thought the woods and plains (even some desert—remember the crow out there?) were tough, they were nothing compared to the hills of this city. For starters, Lev had no idea where he was going. An hour of walking, absently looking for Ashbury Street, had gotten him nowhere. He finally got a map from a drugstore with a broken front door. He thought he heard people scampering when he entered the place. But the chances of that were low: the number of bodies out here on the streets was unbelievable. It was all Lev could do to sing songs, to hum, to pat his pocket and remind himself he was, like Frodo, on a real good quest. He was bringing a finger to Jerry Garcia, he who had mastered the guitar while missing one. He didn’t need to bully himself with bad feelings, darkness, vague plans for a future he knew nothing about. Right now he needed music. But it was hard.
If the world felt more like Alice Cooper on the way over, it was Ozzy Osbourne now.
Lev wouldn’t let himself singthosesongs. Too heavy. Too close to the new world. And he wasn’t about to let Ozzy Osbourne look like some kind of prophet for having—
“Ah!” he said.
Ashbury Street.
Lev Marks had arrived.
He stood alone on the corner, the sun high again. A crisp wind blew his curly hair and, panting, he looked left, then right. He knew what the house looked like, of course, but really, all the houses looked kinda the same out here. Even with their different colors (no two the same on any block), it was all of a piece. Lev checked the map.
“I… love… the…” Then, “Stop it! Grow up! You’reapproaching Jerry Garcia’s house with Jerry Garcia’s finger. The least you can do is sing Jerry Garcia’s songs.”
But try as he might, that silky Alice Cooper walk-down had slithered into his mind with grace and cunning; a song like “Sugar Magnolia” didn’t stand a chance.
Lev’s heart picked up speed as he passed 510, 512, 514. “Viola Lee Blues” put up a good fight, almost knocked Alice Cooper out of his head. The two shared space, two songs playing at once, a bit maddening, a bit too much.
