[stylist] Change It - prompt response

Fri Jan 20 17:19:09 UTC 2012

Chris,
As usual, your writing is stellar. Everything from the fishing scene through
the surgery and dream/transition to the poignant end had me hanging on every
word. I was struck by the thought that you must be a musician, which I never
knew, or do you just hear enough about hammer-ons and chords to have picked
it up like this. I used to go fishing with my father and brother. We didn't
do much fly fishing, but we did some, and this brought back some good
memories. I liked Don's voice particularly. Maybe you could go back in his
life and write other stories.

There is only one thing that stuck out and grabbed my editor persona from
her slumber:
Block quote
When he seemed to be out of song ideas, Keith Richards took the lead and
started playing 'Can't You Hear Me Knocking' which the crowd went crazy for.
Block quote end
I know that old rule about not ending a sentence with a preposition isn't
held to all the time, nowadays. But I think you can still maintain the
conversational tone without it, and it did take me out of the story
momentarily. How about:
Block quote
When he seemed to be out of song ideas, Keith Richards took the lead and
started playing 'Can't You Hear Me Knocking,' and the crowd went crazy.
Block quote end

You really should send this out, you know.
Donna
-----Original Message-----
From: stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On
Behalf Of Chris Kuell
Sent: Friday, January 20, 2012 11:16 AM
To: Stylist
Subject: [stylist] Change It - prompt response

Greetings. When Bridgit posted her prompt last week, my first thought was to
post one of my previous stories, because, after all, if a story doesn't
involve change, it isn't a story. But that's not really the purpose of a
writing prompt, so I waited a couple days for inspiration to hit. On Monday
I was exercising, listening to my ipod, when the Stevie Ray Vaughan song,
'Change It', came on. I let it stew for a few days and this is the result.
It's longer than normal, 3500 words, but I feel like I could easily expand
it by a thousand words. All comments, critiques, suggestions, etc... are
welcomed. And for the record, real people in my world swear, and I always
write about real people.

Change It

By Chris Kuell

I

Saturday, May 8, 1990, 2:38 p.m.

Don Peterson eyed a spot on the other side of the river where a rock pile
formed what he hoped was a quiet pool. The type of pool a fat, hungry trout
might be lurking in. He jerked his pole back, the bright yellow fly whizzing
past his shoulder with a whisper, then he flicked the fly toward the pool.
It landed maybe three feet left of the target. Don let it sit for ten
seconds or so then repeated his cast, this time placing it right where he
wanted it.

"C'mon, you bastard," he said to the fish he hoped was there. 

Don already had three good-sized trout on his stringer, but another would
keep him ahead in the competition with Tom. Not a formal competition, but
the competition for bragging rights between friends who had been fishing
this section of the Peshtigo River in Northern Wisconsin for over twenty
years. Don sipped from the can of beer in his breast pocket, then returned
it and watched his fly. A jay bird squawked at something in a tree by the
other bank.       

Sixty or seventy feet to his left, Don heard a splash, then a whoop of
delight. "That's what I'm talkin' about," Tom hollered. "Come to Poppa."

Don watched as his friend, dressed in bright yellow waders and the goofy
fishing hat decorated with perhaps 200 of the ugliest flies ever tied,
reeled in what looked like a small Brook trout. "Is that a fish, or your
bait?" Don called out.

"It's bigger than your dick-so you tell me," Tom hollered back.

Don laughed. His fly had drifted up against the rocks, so he took advantage
of the lull to light up a Camel and take another sip of beer. Yes, his wife,
Linda, would spit thunderbolts if she knew he was drinking and smoking, but
he only did it while he was fishing, which was only three or four times a
year. The rest of the time he was good as gold, or at least, as a high
quality silver. 

Donald Peterson had been born with a small hole in his heart. By the age of
five he'd survived eight surgeries, and was forbidden to play sports. At
twenty-six, he'd had his first pacemaker implanted. Since then he'd received
a newer, improved model. He'd also had three mild heart attacks, plus four
surgeries to repair a tear and place stints into his thickened, hardened
arteries. Cardiomyopathy just wasn't as much fun as it sounded.    

Deep in his defective heart, he knew Linda was right. She was a good woman,
a great mother to Anna and Gabriel, and his life wouldn't mean a thing
without her. But, what she couldn't understand, and what he'd tried a
hundred times to explain to her, was that sometimes he just had to forget
the fact he'd been born with a bad ticker and live a little. Out here in the
woods, surrounded by trees and the birds and the amazing pulse of the river,
you just had to forget about the stresses of life and enjoy. 

And yes, a cold beer and a few cigarettes enhanced that enjoyment.       

Don took a deep drag, tucked the Camel in the corner of his mouth and
twitched the fly line back over his shoulder. He timed his cast perfectly,
landing it about six feet to the right of the pool. As he watched, the
current moved the fly over the still spot. 

"C'mon, you."

The water erupted like a boiling spaghetti pot right as the head of a huge
rainbow trout shot to the surface and gulped down his fly. He fought the
urge to yank and just let the fish swallow the lure a bit before giving his
pole a light tug. The hook set and the trout jumped in protest, a long,
brilliant beast reflecting all the colors in the natural spectrum before
splashing down to run and try to break his line or spit up his hook. 

"Yeee-haw-w-w!!" don yelled. This one had to go four, maybe five pounds. As
he started to reel, a cold sliver of ice shot down his right arm and leg. A
frigid, metallic claw seemed to reach into his chest and squeeze his heart.
It squeezed more and the cigarette dropped from his lips with a soft pfftth
sound as it hit the water. Another powerful squeeze followed by a sadistic
twist and the pole dropped from his hands into the river. Don tried in vain
to scream out for Tom, but barely a gurgle escaped his thin lips. The
metallic claw drove hymn to his knees, his waders filled with cold river
water, his fishing hat floated aimlessly downstream. The agony in his chest
blotted out the sun, quieted the birds and covered the world and all of its
glories with a thick, leaden blanket.

II

Sunday August 27, 1990 8:07 a.m.

"Mrs. Peterson," the chubby, red-haired nurse said again. "We really need to
take him inn now."

Linda looked down at don, her husband, her beloved, a shadow of the man she
married lying there on the gurney. Her Don, so pale and thin, his lips an
odd shade of blue and that goddamned tubing taped up under his nose. Please
God, she prayed-help him. 

When they'd finished, when the new heart was beating strong and true in
Don's chest, his color would return to normal. His eyes would be bright, his
appetite would return and he'd never have to have that goddamned tube up his
nose again. He could play with the kids, he could mow the lawn and take out
the garbage again, and they would make slow, tender, sweet love again. Or,
screw that-they'd hire a babysitter, go to the closest hotel and make like
wildcats until security came to ask them to leave.

"Oh, Donald," she said, willing herself not to cry. "I love you. Be strong,
and I'll talk to you again in a few hours." She planted a kiss on his cold
cheek and signaled for Anna and Gabriel to come over.

Anna skipped over to the gurney, a purple jelly stain on the front of her
jumper. She clutched Nurse Barbie, who was missing one shoe, in her right
hand.  "Bye, Daddy." 

"Good luck, Daddy-oh," Gabriel began, then added, "Remember to ask them if I
can keep your old heart."  

"C'mon, Kids," Linda took the hands of her eight-year-old son and
five-year-old daughter. "Let's bow our heads and say a prayer for Daddy."

Don did the best he could to smile, then mouthed the words 'Love you'. He
was tired, so tired. It was almost a relief when the nurse took charge of
the gurney and wheeled him through the heavy white doors.

III 

Sunday August 27, 1990 10:13 a.m. 

Don felt really out of it, his brain full of cottony wool, like the time
he'd gone camping with Tom and Rick and Eddie back in high school. They'd
polished off an entire bottle of Southern Comfort, a pack of Winston's and a
two pound bag of Reeses Cups. Definitely not quite right. Something, or
someone, was moving him down one hallway, and then another. His legs were
heavy, things were out of focus. Doors opened, metal gears ground, people
mumbled. Finally he arrived at a dark wood door with STAGE lettered in
white. It opened and a pretty young woman in a snakeskin mini skirt and
tight knit top handed him an electric guitar. She grasped his other hand and
ushered him on stage. 

Dazed and confused, he looked out at the crowd. Thousands, or maybe tens of
thousands of people cheered, swayed and yelled as if expecting him to do
something. There was a thin, Smokey haze over the audience, and at the back
of the concert hall-for that's what he figured it was now-stood big,
muscular cops holding billy clubs, ready for action.

Don turned to look behind him. Three massive speakers the size of
refrigerators stood on both sides of the stage. Colorful lights of blue and
red and yellow danced frantically about, beamed down from a huge light
system in the ceiling. A cymbal crashed twice, then a drum rolled from high
to low and back again, ending with a steady tapping on the high hat. Behind
the nine piece was his old friend Rick, who he hadn't talked to in more than
a decade. Back in high school they used to smoke bong hits and jam in Rick's
basement, or at least pretend to jam, when Rick's mom was waitressing nights
at the Marriott. Rick, who didn't look much older than he did when he was
seventeen, winked at Don and rolled one drumstick around his fingertips like
a cheerleader with a baton, finishing with another sharp cymbal crash.  

A thundering of electric bass notes jumped out of two of the refrigerator
speakers, hitting don like waves on the shore. A guy stepped from behind
some kind of stage prop, a tall, gray board, and Don recognized John
Entwistle from the band, The Who. The bassist played several scales up and
down the neck then played a riff which don recognized as the chorus from the
song 5:15. A lead guitar then kicked in, not blending with John's bass, but
going off in a new direction altogether. Don turned to the right and saw
another rock legend-Keith Richards from the Rolling Stones.  Richards, who
had an acoustic electric guitar, played a few riffs from Sister Morphine,
Angie, then he flipped a switch on the body of his guitar and played, ala
Jimi Hendrix, the Star Spangled Banner. As he milked the last few notes the
crowd went wild. Richards smiled at Don, then pulled a silver flask out of
his back pocket and took a long swallow.

"C'mere, mate," he said and handed Don his flask.

He took a long swallow, still floating on a cloud of disbelief. I'm drinking
Keith fucking Richard's whiskey, Don thought. If I'm dreaming, please don't
pinch me.        

Richards lit up a smoke, tucked the flask back in his pocket and scratched
the side of his face. "Well, Donnie-you ready to rock-n-roll-l-l-l?"

Don remembered the guitar the girl had handed him. He still clutched it by
the neck. A bright red Fender Stratocaster--looked to be a model from the
60s. Telling himself not to over-think things, Don Put the strap across his
shoulders and strummed all six strings. The result reverberated through the
two outside speakers, and the crowd began to chant for more.

"She's all tuned up," Keith said, and handed Don a pick. "Now let's make
some noise."

Don turned to face the audience. A microphone stood two feet in front of
him, the colored lights continued their dance around him, and he felt a
distinct warmth in the center of his chest, in a spot that had been so cold
these last few months.

It had been nearly twenty-five years since Don took guitar lessons, and he
had no clue what or how to play.  Don't over-think it, he reminded himself.
His left hand found what he thought was an open C chord, and he strummed.
Then A minor, D, G, E and E minor. Not too shabby. He played a pentatonic
scale up the second and third frets, then continued up the neck. Somehow,
his fingers knew where to go. He paused, looked over at John Entwistle, who
gave him a thumbs up, took in a deep breath and fingered a D chord. He began
to pick out 'Sweet Home Alabama', which he and Rick used to play rather
poorly back in the day. But, it actually sounded pretty good, up here on
this stage, in front of all these people. The warmth in his chest grew as he
began to sing, "Big wheels keep on turning. Carry me home to see my kin."

Keith and John and Rick joined in and before he knew it, they really were
rockin' and rollin'. The crowd was getting into it, dancing and laughing and
a pair of white panties flew like a dove up onto the stage. Don sang, amazed
that he remembered all the right words, and somehow, his fingers knew where
to go to play all the correct notes. They even did the hammer-ons
perfectly-a technique he'd had trouble with back in high school.

The crowd roared when they finished the song. Don smiled like the proverbial
Cheshire cat and flexed his bicep, big and strong. He hadn't felt this good
in years. Given his new magic playing ability, Don Thought about the Led
Zeppelin song 'Over the Hills and Far Away', which was one of his favorites.
He plucked the G string, then hammered the second fret and did a pull off.
>From there, his fingers were nimble on the strings and he played the intro
just as good as Jimmy Page once did. When John and Keith joined in,
fireworks went off above them and Don became lost in the music. He sang out
with all he had, "Many times I've lied, and many times I've listened.Many
times I've wondered, how much there is to know."

>From there Don took them through 'Black Dog', 'Closer to the Heart', 'Voodoo
Child' and 'Layla'. When he seemed to be out of song ideas, Keith Richards
took the lead and started playing 'Can't You Hear Me Knocking' which the
crowd went crazy for. Not to be outdone, John Entwistle led them into 'My
Generation', which Don sang like he'd been singing it most of his life-which
in a sense, he had.

After a brief respite in which the impromptu band polished off what was left
in Keith's flask, Rick-the-drummer said, "Not much time. How 'bout we play
some blues?"

They   returned to their instruments and Don looked over at Keith. The
guitarist had a half-smoked cigarette tucked in the corner of his lips.
Watching Don, he began strumming a few chords, which don mimicked. As soon
as he did, Don recognized the song as Stevie Ray Vaughan's, 'Cold Shot'. The
melody and words coalesced in his mind and his fingers proceeded to hammer
out that unique, Texas blues sound. Don lost himself in the music, simply
pulling the notes from the ether around him. He felt the blood pumping
through his veins, the air in his lungs, every neuron, every synapsis was
alert and firing as he played. As the song wound down, each of the musicians
soloed for a few bars before finishing on a stage quaking crescendo. 

As the audience stomped their feet, lighters blazing, chanting, "Don-ny,
Don-ny." the pretty girl in the snakeskin mini-skirt came to Don's side and
took away his guitar. She handed it to a rowdy, took his hand and lead him
back to the door from which he'd entered. When she opened it, the other side
was completely engulfed with a light brighter than anything Don could have
imagined. 

He stared at her with confusion. Was he supposed to go out there? How would
he be able to tell where to go?        

She smiled at him, her eyes as blue as a swimming pool, a face absolutely
pure and angelic. She leaned in close and kissed him softly on the cheek.
Without speaking, he turned from her, from the crowd, the music, the most
amazing day of his life, and walked into the light.   

IV

Sunday August 27, 1990 9:47 p.m.

Dr. Robert Zimmerman stepped into the staff lounge with a sigh as big as
Nevada. He removed his surgical apron, tossed it in the laundry bin and ran
his hand over his stubbly chin. He needed a shower and a shave. He needed
coffee. Hell, he needed a double scotch on the rocks and twelve straight
hours of sleep to forget this day.  

A woman surgeon, Danielle he thought her name was, from orthopedics, sat on
the couch engrossed in the latest JAMA. Two nurses were watching CNN on the
lounge television. He caught one of them, a short, Romanian looking woman
with thick bifocals, staring at him. When he stared back she returned her
attention to the newscast.

Mellissa, one of the surgical nurses who had worked with him all day, came
into the lounge behind him. She put a hand on his shoulder and mumbled,
"Sorry, Doc."

He nodded, saying nothing. Death is inevitable, especially in the practice
of medicine. Especially when your specialty was organ transplantation. He
played that sentence over again in his mind, and were the circumstances not
so grim, he might have smiled. Not today.

He pressed his tired eyes with two fingers. Caffeine was a must before
facing the forty minute drive home. At the Kurig, he chose Newmann's Finest
Blend and pressed the start button. A few stale pastries sat among a pile of
crumbs on a paper plate, and he bit into one. As he chewed, he tried not to
think of Dr. Lorber's appendectomy, and if he'd been here, things might have
gone differently. But no, that was just bad mojo talking. Robert was an
excellent surgeon. He'd done 36 kidneys, 21 lungs and 6 hearts since he
joined the transplant center at U.W.  And although four of the kidneys had
rejected, that was well within the statistical average, and the patients
were still around, even if dialysis was no walk in the park.

Dr. Janice Emory, who had partnered with him this morning and acted as
harvesting surgeon, popped her head into the side door. "You okay, Rob?"

"He sipped the coffee, black and bitter, and tried to smile. "Yeah, I'm
fine."

"She watched him, thin eyebrows lowering as if she didn't believe him. "We
did the best we could. The heart, it was too weak. Too much time had
passed."

Dr. Zimmerman nodded. She was right, of course. But still, he felt like
shit.

 On the television set in the lounge, the news shifted on location to a
hillside in Southern Wisconsin. A perky newscaster with eyes the color of
fresh lima beans was speaking before an image of a helicopter crash. ". At
1:30, Clapton's manager confirmed the worst: Stevie Ray Vaughan was indeed
among the passengers in the helicopter that slammed into a fog-shrouded
hillside near southeastern Wisconsin's Alpine Valley ski resort. He had just
concluded a show-closing all-star jam on Robert Johnson's "Sweet Home
Chicago" with Eric Clapton, Robert Cray, brother Jimmie Vaughan and Chicago
blues legend Buddy Guy before an ecstatic crowd of 25,000. Four Bell
helicopters awaited the artists and their respective entourages following
the jam. Because of the logistical traffic nightmare at Alpine Valley, the
major acts usually depart via helicopter. The caravan of blues stars left
Alpine Valley at two minute intervals. The first, second and fourth copters
landed without incident at Chic
 ago's Meigs Field. The third, bearing members of Clapton's entourage and
Stevie Ray Vaughan, never made it. Vaughan and the pilot, Geoffrey Brown,
were alive but in critical condition when the craft was located around 5:30
this morning, but both died on the flight to the hospital at the University
of Wisconsin, Madison. Poor visibility due to dense fog is prominent among
factors blamed for the disaster."

"Do me a favor," Dr. Zimmerman said to the two nurses sitting at the table.
He pointed a tired finger at the set. "Change it."   

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