| Summer Series 2002: The Journey of the Fool Story the 17th ~ The Star By Kuzibah |
| Disclaimer: Spike is not mine, more's the pity. Spoilers for �Grave� and season 2 of �Angel.� Rated �R� for language. Archive- Please email request. Feedback- Absolutely. ******************* -Somewhere in America Even through the blackout curtains of the private train compartment, Spike knew that the sun was down, and he was one day closer to California. He crawled out of bed, shivering. It was always too cold on these trains, as thought the chill could somehow mask the fact that you were riding in a compartment crowded with screaming children and sweaty adults. It had almost doubled the price of his ticket, but the private room had been more than worth it. He pulled back the duct tape, raised the shade, and looked out on the darkened landscape. Telephone poles passed by, dividing the scene into two-second intervals, now and then broken by a tree or a cluster of houses. The moon had not yet risen, and the stars shone brightly, fixed constants above the changing scenery below. Spike grabbed his bag and made for the bathroom, such as it was, to wash and change. ~:~:~:~:~ Did I disappoint you? Or leave a bad taste in your mouth? You act like you never had love And you want me to go without -�One� by U2 The guitarist singing in the corner of the club car was pretty good, a rarity on these trains. Usually you got some stoner who stopped every three seconds to figure out the next chord and re-started the song five times with a ,�hold on, I�ve got it now,� until you were ready to break the instrument over his head. This guy, a sort of redneck-looking fellow with a plaid shirt and longish hair, actually played entire songs beginning to end, and was keeping a nice mix of classic-rock ballads and older standards. There was a group of college-age girls at his table, listening intently, but Spike suspected that had as much to do with his sky-blue eyes as his superior musicianship. Spike slid up to the bar and pulled out some bills. �Bourbon,� he said, and the bartender slid a glass into his hand. Spike downed it in one go and set it down. �More,� he said, and the bartender obliged. After four, Spike felt calm enough to sit at one of the tables. ~:~:~:~:~ I bet there�s rich folk eatin� in a fancy dining car. They�re prob�ly drinkin� coffee and smokin� big cigars, But I know I had it comin�, I know I can�t be free, But those people keep a-movin�, and that�s what tortures me. -�Folsum Prison Blues� by Johnny Cash �No points again, Spike,� one of the men playing hearts said as he added the scores. �I�d say you were hustling us,� another put in, �but I don�t think you�re better at it than we are.� All four players laughed. �That�s one hundred points for Eddie,� the first man said. �I guess you win this round, Spike.� �Shall we play again, then,� Spike suggested. �Not me,� Eddie said. �I�ve got to get some shut-eye.� �Round of beers?� The three humans shook their heads, and pleading fatigue headed back to the passenger car to sleep in the reclining seats. Spike got another beer for himself. It was after midnight, and they passed fewer and fewer houses, rolling instead past mile after mile of corn fields, bathed in the silver light of the now-risen moon. The club car was not as full as it had been right after dinner, but the crowd was rowdier. Something about being on a train seemed to suppress people�s inhibitions. The guitarist was still playing, even taking requests from time to time. Spike had been half-listening all night and moved closer to the corner table now. The guitarist had what some called a whiskey voice, smooth but with just a little burn going down, and when he spoke he was mannered and quiet, with a soft southern drawl. Spike slid down in his seat, half-closing his eyes. Unconsciously, he rubbed the velvet nap of his shirt between his fingers. ~:~:~:~:~ I�m not singing of the future I�m not dreaming of the past I�m not talking of the first time I never think about the last -�A Rainy Night in Soho� by the Pogues It was almost three, and there were only a few left in the club car. A few serious drinkers, one or two insomniacs, the vampire, of course, and the guitarist, who, although he took longer breaks between songs, never put the instrument aside. Spike moved to the table beside him. �So,� Spike said conversationally, �heading to L.A. to become a pop star?� �Been there,� the guitarist said with the first trace of bad humor Spike had heard in his voice all night. �If I never see it again I�ll die a happy man.� �Didn�t find success, I guess.� �No, I was very successful,� the guitarist said, the smile creeping back. �That was my trouble.� Spike allowed a smile of his own. There was a story here. �What are you drinking?� he asked. �Lone Star,� the guitarist said, and Spike signaled the barman for another glass. �Got screwed by your manager?� Spike guessed, and the guitarist laughed. �No, I was doing the screwing,� he said. �I was a high-priced L.A. lawyer. I was damn good at it, too.� �What happened?� �Lost the stomach for it. Realized I was selling my soul on the installment plan.� He strummed a few minor chords, and hummed a few words under his breath. �What about you?� he said. �Gonna be a big star? You could, you�ve got the looks for it.� Spike laughed. �You think so?� �Trust me,� the guitarist said slyly. �I�m a lawyer.� �No,� Spike said. �I�m just going home. Try to� I don�t know.� He sighed and stared down into his beer. �I�m making changes, too, I guess. Trying to set things right. If I can� If it�s not too late.� �It�s not too late,� the guitarist said. �I turned away from all that a year ago. It hasn�t been easy, but I�m sleeping better at night.� �Yeah. That�d be nice.� �Look, I�m not a preacher. But I�ve seen a lot, and I know as well as you that there is evil working in the world. But there is great good, too.� He took a long swallow of beer, then went on. �You make yourself open to it, let yourself be willing to do its work� it�ll find you.� �Hopeful words,� Spike said dubiously. �Not just words,� the guitarist assured him. ~:~:~:~:~ �Tis a sigh that is wafted across the troubled wave �Tis a wail that is heard upon the shore �Tis a dirge that is murmured around the lowly grave Oh, Hard times come again no more -�Hard Times Come Again No More� by Stephen Foster �I�m closing up,� the barman announced to the last few die-hards. �We reach the next stop in two hours.� �That�d be me,� the guitarist said, packing his instrument away at last. �Where are you going?� Spike asked him. �If it isn�t too personal, that is.� �Back home. Find the family I thought I was too good for when I got my scholarship.� The guitarist gave a rueful smile as he snapped the latches on the case. �I�ve been looking for a place since I left L.A., and it�s finally just dawning on me it might be the place I tried to get furthest from. But what about you? What�s in L.A. for you, since those natural-light photo shoots are out?� Spike laughed. �How did you know?� �It used to be my business to know.� Spike grew serious again. �Looking for my family, too,� he said. �I think we just might be on common ground again.� The guitarist gave Spike a hard, appraising look, then shook his head with bitter amusement. �It�s a small fucking world,� he said. �What do you mean?� �Never mind,� the guitarist said. �Good luck to you.� �Thanks,� Spike said. �You, too.� �Thanks,� the guitarist said. �And now I better go check on my truck. Make sure they unload her properly. It was good talking to you.� �Same here, mate.� ~:~:~:~:~ Spike walked quietly through the darkened passenger car, looking down at the sleeping people as he passed: the card-players from the club car, the college girls, women with children headed away from something or towards something better, young men on their way to jobs, and others looking for other things. Spike entered his compartment, latched the door and double-checked the duct tape securing the curtains. He thought of the guitarist�s words of hope as he fell into an exhausted sleep. Go on to the next part - The Moon Main Menu ~ Return to Summer Series 2002 Menu |