[stylist] Change It - prompt response

[Barbara Hammel]

The one thing I love most about your writing is the descriptions:  The color 
of people's eyes, the trout he caught, the feeling Don had as the heart 
attack began and the detail of how he played the guitar.
Barbara




Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance. -- Carl Sandburg
-----Original Message----- 
From: Chris Kuell
Sent: Friday, January 20, 2012 10:16 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 Chicago'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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