Hard Rain (19 page)

A man walked out of the gloom, but he didn't break the mood. How could he? He was perfect in his embroidered jeans, plaid lumber jacket, granny glasses and long ponytail. Jessie hadn't seen a ponytail on a man in some time; once they'd been common, even in Santa Monica.

“Hello,” the man said, waving to her, or had he actually flashed the peace sign? It was too dark to tell. The man had a long, loose stride; he came closer, into the light. Then Jessie saw the lines on his forehead, the gray in his hair. “Can I help you?” He had a soft voice and soft, bloodshot eyes behind his granny glasses. He brought smells with him—wood smoke and stale sweat.

“I'm looking for a song Dave van Ronk recorded,” Jessie said.

He looked her up and down, but very quickly and furtively. “You like brother Dave?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.”

“Far out.”

“But it's a particular song I want.”

The man made a loose-jointed gesture at the bin. “I've got everything he ever cut. Maybe not in mint condition, but it's all there. I mean he's seminal, right? What's the name of the song?”

“‘Spacious Skies.'”

“
Travelin' Light
. Vanguard R143. Side two. Cut three.” He moved past her, pulled an album out of the bin and handed it to her. Jessie flipped it over. Side two, cut three: “Spacious Skies (Artie Lee).” Artie Lee was Pat's nom de plume—something to do with a tax scheme Norman Wine had set up, he'd told her.

“Can I hear it?”

He tugged at a loose strand of hair. “That's a sealed record. Like I'd hate—”

“I'm buying it anyway.”

“Okay. Eight ninety-five.” Jessie paid. He tucked the money in his jeans. “I've got a turntable in back.”

He led her into the gloom and through a doorway. On the other side lay an all-purpose room: desk piled with business papers in the center, boxes of records along the wall, wood stove in one corner, unmade bed in the other. The turntable rested on an empty crate within arm's reach of the bed. A record was spinning. The man took it off, opened the van Ronk and placed the disk on the turntable. opened the van Ronk and placed the disk on the turntable, handling the records as though they were made of glass. Lowering the tone arm, he paused and said, “Like some tea?”

Jessie didn't want tea. She wanted to listen to the lyrics and get out of there. The man watched her with his soft red look, the needle hovering over the vinyl.

“I'm having a cup,” he said, swinging the arm back onto its cradle.

“Okay,” Jessie said, feeling suddenly like a foreigner negotiating for something in an Oriental bazaar. “Thanks.”

He took a kettle off the wood stove and filled two lopsided ceramic mugs. Then he opened a desk drawer and removed a plastic bag. “Herbal,” he said, sprinkling green leaves into the mugs. He handed her one. She smelled dandelions. “Sit,” he said. The only place for sitting was the bed.

“I'm fine,” Jessie replied; she leaned against the desk. The man sat on the bed and lowered the tone arm. Dave van Ronk played a little intro and started singing:

I dreamed

I dreamed a dream of dreams

And woke as Sergeant Pepper
.

All wrapped in light

And feeling right

And high, high, high
.

Higher than mountains

And higher than air

It was all so fine

Under Spacious Skies
.

I dreamed

I dreamed a dream of dreams

And woke as just plain me
,

With a mouth like dust

And a tongue like rust

And down, down, down
.

Lower than earth

Deeper than graves

I must have been back

Down in Morgantown
.

I dreamed

I dreamed a dream of dreams

And woke as Sergeant Pepper
.

All wrapped in light

And feeling right

And high, high, high
.

Higher than mountains

Higher than air

It was all so right

In Spacious Skies
.

“That's what you wanted?”

Jessie was silent for a moment. She'd forgotten the power of Dave van Ronk's singing, especially when he used his whispery voice. But that was only part of it. “Yes,” she said. “That's what I wanted. Is Morgan near here?”

“Morgan?”

“The town in the song.”

Dave van Ronk started singing “Cocaine.” The man lifted the needle, put Bob Dylan back on. The song resumed at the exact point of interruption.

“Why do you ask?” he said.

“I thought the song was about a commune in Vermont. I'm looking for it.”

Wind rattled the windows. The man reached into the pocket of his lumber jacket and took out a joint. He lit it, took a deep drag, held it out to her. Jessie shook her head.

“You're not rejecting my hospitality?” he said, smoke curling out of his mouth. The question sounded funny, but there was nothing humorous about his tone. “Everyone's in such a hurry these days.” Slowly he got off the bed, replaced the van Ronk record in its cover and gave it to her. “I won't keep you.”

Jessie didn't move. “Is it about a commune in Vermont?”

“Maybe,” said the man, raising the joint to his lips; the smells of marijuana, sweat and wood smoke acted on the tuna balled in Jessie's stomach, nauseating her. “I mean, could be.” He held out the joint again.

The soft red eyes were on her. They knew something about Spacious Skies. But first she had to take communion. The wafer was in his hand. Jessie took it.

She hadn't smoked marijuana in years. She brought it to her mouth, inhaled hot smoke and passed it back to him. He waved it away.

“Take another hit. Live a little.”

The phrase—Barbara's words coming from his mouth—paralyzed her for a moment.

“Something wrong?”

“No.” Jessie inhaled a little more and held out the joint; this time he accepted it.

“Good shit, huh? Homegrown.”

Jessie didn't feel a thing. “Was there or is there a commune called Spacious Skies?”

The man took another drag, sat back down on the bed. “There was. How come you're interested?”

“How come?” she repeated. Then someone pounded a bass drum; an organ came in like a far-off wail; guitars, electric and acoustic, made the air vibrate in metallic and woody ways; and a raw scared scary voice, not Bob Dylan from
People
magazine and MTV but Bob Dylan back then, started to sing: “Visions of Johanna.” It took her away on musical roads that divided and subdivided in her mind.

“Good shit, huh?”

Jessie looked up, into soft red eyes. “Yes. It is.” All at once her voice sounded very young, like a teenager's.

“Come have a seat.”

“I'm fine here.” Where? Leaning against the desk; blackened roaches in a beer bottle; stacks of bills and letters: “Dear Mr. Flenser,” she read, “Your account is now five months overdue and we can no longer …”

“You know, I dig your taste in music. Your musical likes and dislikes, I mean. ‘Visions of Johanna.' A world in itself, right?” He sang along in a very light, high voice, but in tune and surprisingly sweet.

“Look, Mr. Flenser—”

“Call me Gato.”

“I'd like to find Spacious Skies.”

“How come?”

“How come? Because …” But the music grabbed her again, much harder than before: she lost her feeling for the desk, the floor; she lost her sense of smell, for the sweat, wood smoke, marijuana; her vision shrank to a soft red smear; all was hearing—she bounced along the bass notes, felt the thump of the drums in every fiber, lingered in the meaningful bent silences that marked the guitarist's long runs, came face to face with the raw scared scary voice.

This was tedious.

It was just an old record. Straighten up. She pushed herself away from the desk. Wobble, wobble.

“Homegrown. But I've been breeding selected plants for fifteen years. This is the best shit you've ever had. Right or wrong? Be objective.”

“You're asking me to be objective and stoned at the same time?”

Gato began to laugh. He kept laughing until his body shook with it. Jessie felt like laughing too, but she didn't let herself. Once started, she'd never stop, and it would be the furthest thing from laughter. She took a deep breath to clear her head, but got caught up in the process of breathing: how the air felt cool in her nostrils, warmed as it dipped down into her throat; how she filled like a balloon, ribs stretching, bra straps tightening.

After some time, Jessie realized she was holding her breath. She let it out. Deflating. The man on the bed wasn't laughing anymore. He was watching her.

The man on the bed took the elastic out of his hair and shook it loose. “It is good shit,” he said. “But more than that, we're sharing it.” The record finished playing. “What do you want? More Dylan? Or how about Leon Russell? You make me think of him—that zippy way he plays the piano.”

“I'm not zippy.”

“No?” Gato's fingers wound themselves into his long hair. “I didn't mean anything by it.”

“That's okay. But if you know anything about Spacious Skies, please tell me.”

“See—that's zippy.”

“For God's sake.”

Gato glanced at her. He looked hurt. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you so interested in Spacious Skies?”

“I want to go there.”

“Why?”

She toyed with telling him the truth; given her state of mind at the moment and the way he was, it might take days. So she said, “I'm writing a story on communes.”

“Yeah? Who for?”

“
Rolling Stone
.”

Gato perked up. “You work for them?”

“Free-lance.”

He bit his lip. “Do they pay your expenses?”

“It depends.”

“Maybe the information is worth something.”

“Maybe.”

“How much?”

“Twenty,” Jessie said. It seemed to be the going rate.

“Make it thirty.”

“Split the difference.”

“Okay.”

“Where's Spacious Skies?”

“Where's the money?”

“After you tell me.”

“How do I know you've got it?”

“Because you looked in my wallet when I paid the eight ninety-five.”

He sank into thought, biting his lips again. “You're a sharp chick. You know that? Zippy, but on you it's good.”

“Spacious Skies,” she reminded him.

“Amber waves of grain.” He laughed. “Shit,” he said. “Funny how quick the mind is.” He shook his head at the wonder of it. Long twists of hair fell over his face. “Two human beings in a room with a record player and some grass. What else do you need?”

“The information.”

Gato laughed. For a moment Jessie feared another laughing binge, but he came out of it quickly. “Okay, okay. The song. ‘Spacious Skies.' Words and music by Artie Lee. A somewhat mysterious figure in the music business—seems to be his only song. They say he lived on the commune for a while, but that was before my time.”

“Before your time?”

“Here. I spent three years in Marrakesh.” He lingered on the word.

“Who says he lived on the commune?”

“Dudes. On the other hand,” he said, holding up a finger like a logician splitting a crucial hair, “the woman says she never heard of him.”

“What woman?”

“Blue.”

“Who's Blue?”

“Woman from the commune. Only it's not a commune anymore. At least it wasn't the last time I talked to her.”

“When was that?”

He bit his lip. “I guess it was around the time
Exile on Main Street
came out.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Yeah? Well, that's the last time I saw her. She came in the store. The old store. I had the old store, then.”

“Where was that?”

“Bennington.” He made it sound dreamy, like Marrakesh. “They dug music in Bennington.”

“This
is
Bennington, isn't it?”

“Not the old Bennington. Now it's all …” He searched for a word, but soon gave up, falling silent.

“Is the commune near Bennington?” Jessie asked.

“It's not a commune anymore.”

“What happened to it?”

Gato was looking down at the floor. “What happened to everything?”

“Is the woman still there?”

“What woman?”

“Blue, you said.”

“As far as I know.”

“Have you been to her place?”

“Not when it was just hers. Back when it was a commune, I was there once.
Sticky Fingers
.” He used album releases to keep track of time, the way Cro-Magnon man watched the stars.

“Was Artie Lee there then?”

“No. I told you. He'd been and gone. If the song's about it at all. You can't always tell.” He perked up again. “Manson thought the White Album was about race war, right? Which is bullshit: it's about death. So that chick—what's her name—got forked for nothing. Can you dig that?”

What the hell are you talking about? Jessie wanted to say. But she asked, “Do you remember where the place was?”

“Right off Route Eight. Third left after the stop sign.”

“What stop sign?”

“At Nine.”

“The stop sign at Eight and Nine?”

“Right.”

“Is that far from here?”

“Why are you asking me all these questions?”

“I told you,” Jessie said. “I'm doing a story on communes.”

“But it's not a commune anymore.”

“That's the point of the story.”