Cece Chapman

 

 

Tules glisten in the late river-sun, red-edged blades under a pink and purple zebra striped sky. While the boys on deck drink, smoke and joke about murderers throwing bodies in the delta thinking they'll never be found. "Always was a good place to lose something and maybe find it later," Harley laughed at his own wit, spitting beer, slapping flies off the wet wolf-skin spread out to dry with a late edition of the blood flecked city newspaper. Liar's dice slammed on the barrel top table.

It wasn't funny to me. I wasn't happy. I'd found the Brazilian singer asleep in Nick's bed when I returned to his house boat. So I was finally moving out. Dragging my duffel bag on deck. Harley yelled, "Hey Sandy, how's that riverboat you bought? Maybe you need help with something; just let me know." I looked at him stink-eyed, as they said, and tossed my bag over the rail and jumped off with it.

The riverboat was 65' and 60 years old. It needed work and I speculated I'd be putting my waitress tips into it for a while. But I'd have room to paint, good light, privacy and low dock fee. I'd rarely move it, I'm no sailor. Nick wasn't happy with my decision to move as our eight month fling cooled. I figured the Brazilian was to let me know. A charmingly gracious Boston gambler with a string of infamous restaurants and bars in his past, women and projects interested Nick only for so long. But my thing with him was now over, I intended to avoid my boss by working the 2 to 8 p.m. shift.

Deep in tule grass in a backwater slough, hanging off steep river banks, the rambling ruins of a Gold Rush bordello mansion, Nick's Hotel and Delta Lounge and Henry's Turtle River Cafe hid themselves in early morning mist. Mid-day sun slammed the roof deck, blasting light from the river below, reflecting off open lounge windows, blinding birds and drunks by late afternoon. The summer night air was satin-velvet, water animals cooing and snorting in the dark. When musicians played in the Delta Lounge it never closed. The bar shut down slowly as the kitchen opened. Locals, eager fishermen, maniac hunters, furtive city businessmen with their mistress', gamblers from the Indian casino, musicians and anyone else left in the bar ate Henry's food, leaving nothing on their plates, ducking low to avoid his knife-throwing, hot south-Asian tantrums.

I worked on the boat in the morning and painted. My life became a predictable pattern of events for the first time. Wild birds nested in the open upper cabin, a stray dog found me. Winters were cold, chilling in the dense tule fog. Musicians crowded the bar and lounge through vicious mid winter storms, a lot of people stayed in the 15 rooms upstairs. Liars dice crashed in the bar. In the last seconds of twilight the windows were wrapped in tule fog gauze, only music up-holding the universe, the lounge hanging over thrashing water below, illuminated by the roaring rock fireplace. Notes stretched out over eternity, moving around, pulling the night in. It was one of these moments when the devil entered the bar.

"What can I get you tonight sir, will you be dining with us later?" I asked him when the hostess released him from her elaborate flirtations at my table.

"I want your soul." He replied.

"You can't have my soul, it's mine. Why don't you go bother someone else, a terrorist, a rapist or murderer?"

He laughed, removing his tight lizardskin custom-made jacket, pulling out and handing me his card. "I want you, a waitress, someone who knows how to serve, someone who can approach anyone in the world with ease and besides, you are an artist and can access creativity at will, you....."

"My shift is over in a few minutes," I interrupted. " I need to take your order or transfer you to Maxine who will be delighted to take care of you."

"Think of all the good you can do."

"Good?...what does the devil have to do with good?"

"I'm not the devil, just an agent, and as such, not really concerned with right or wrong, good or bad. I'm only here as directed, to sign a pact for your soul at any price. So tell me, what is it you want?"

"I need your drink order sir. No disrespect, but could you tell me what you want from the bar?"

Smiling at me patiently, he made room for the girl-woman slipping in beside him. "You would be the only person in the house tonight not to do business with me, except that blind musician who says he hates the sound of my voice."

To call D. 'that blind musician' was a mistake. You could write a book about the famous D. Musicians sought him out. The prison-born son of a Black Panther on the run and a local Indian, his voice called angels, birds stopped singing, animals lay beside him. He married a duchess who left him the minute she landed in the local airport. He lost his eyesight and hand in a hunting accident, never touring again, living in the hotel as Nick and Henry's guest, drinking partner, confidante. Sometimes he called himself the Delta Duke when he was drunk. The temptress shared a secret glance with the devil and ordered a Red Apple Martini. I transferred the table to Maxine and went home.

I ran down-shore, the short way home through pouring rain, and grabbed the surprised stray dog to sleep inside with me. Fingering the devil's card, an ad agency in the city, I fell asleep with blazing lights, doors and windows rammed shut, the stray curled tight beside me. Early in the morning walking slowly up-shore, assessing the storm damage in swollen waters, I found D. sitting in high boulders, soaking wet, singing to himself.

"that be the past, nothing going to last, don't never deal with the devil..."

"What are you doing here? Are you alright? Come with me and we'll go back to the hotel..." I was shocked at his condition, wet, shivering, crazed, helping him off the ankle-breaking, storm-tossed beach.

"that way is gone, it be the past, can't gonna last, don't never deal with the devil..."

He laughed as I dragged him over slick rocks and debris to the hotel. It wasn't there. Emergency trucks, ambulance, police, fire crew everywhere. Neon yellow tape like spider webs, big bags. Squawking radios, people crying. Smoke, the sound of sizzling timbers. The edge of the river bank was a charred black hole...D.s wailing whisper "don't never deal with the devil..." sounded like the devil's own voice.