[stylist] Change It - prompt response

[Brad Dunsé]

Chris,

That was excellent. Kept me in from start to 
finish. The grabber out of all this is the 
detail. So you are either very observant or 
researched a bit, or both,  to be able to write 
from a perspective of believability giving just 
enough detail. What I mean is some detail in 
writing is just cold, arbitrary detail, but then 
when it is backed by the solid weight of a "been 
there" type perspective, the writing  will 
flow.  And you  won't  believe this. This past 
fall we went tubing down the Peshtigo 
River.  That is my old stomping ground in NE 
Wisconsin. I remember hearing about the day SRV 
bought it. I was in Menominee Michigan, out in 
the gravel parking lot  of our family roofing 
business. A radio was playing  while I cleaned up 
and repainted the equipment of our family roofing 
business, getting it ready for auction day.  How 
does someone from east coast know about the Peshtigo River? haha.

Brad

On 1/20/2012  10:16 AM Chris Kuell said...
>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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Brad Dunsé

"Find out what you do best, make it your job...
And never work another day in your life." --Capt'n Frank

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