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Choosing

Rated PG for mature themes---nothing really *happens*
Or—maybe a lot does 8)

Keith sings.  That’s new XD
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Well, I didn’t mean to go down in a spray of booze.  But since I had been doused in the stuff (and since that snippy bastard had disappeared, maybe forever!) I didn’t see a problem with getting as squiffed as a mad owl.  In fact, to retain sanity at this point drunkenness was almost a necessity.  And who was here to play Momma and complain about the harmful side effects?  No one but the bums.

I’d lost him.  I’d lost him and everything *sucked* from this point on.

Wait a minute.  No it didn’t.  Ah, batshit! What was I, a chick flick? I still had friends, goddammit!  Screw Carson!

I kind of roared at everyone in the area. “Beer me! NOW!  More beer!!”  I sounded like something green and growing from the Little Shop of Horrors, but I did make my point.

Bearded heads jerked up like a herd of deer startled by a tiger, and they hurried to oblige me. See?  Lots of friends!

I woulda liked something stronger than Bud or Coors at this point, but demanding shots or Bacardi 151 in public struck me even then as a slightly bad example.  I also noticed that my rather hefty money contribution to the cause had vanished within the first twenty minutes.  The guys were taking care of *me*, now.  Damn right! Merry fucking Christmas! I thought self-righteously, and kept on drinking.

Note to all, by the way:  Beer works, if you drink a trainload of it.

I was outside, sitting under a huge tree that passed for an oak in Berkeley.  I felt—invincible, as if I belonged there forever.  I realized I had my newly purchased Flying V in my hands rather than in a bag at my side.  I was singing.  I was playing.

So were three bums.  Tom of course, really pro quality on drums just as he’d been last year. The other two guys I didn’t know but they were semi-passable guitar and bass.  There was a guitar case---*my* new guitar case, dammit!---cracked open on the ground in front of me.  It was as full of change and George Washington dollars as any Scrooge McDuck could wish.

Woot.  I was a street performer again---sans permit, naturally.  Well, they gotta catch you first is what I always say.

I glared around as if my head was on a swivel, feeling a perverse curiosity as to what street I was “on”.  Instead of spotting the sign, I toppled over like a wobble-weeble and woulda clonked my skull on the curb if not for all the obliging attendees.  They helpfully propped me back up and urged me to continue.  Since I couldn’t really remember what I’d been doing up to this point, it was kind of a pointless request.

“In a gadda da vida,” some kind soul remarked.  “Haven’t heard that in *years*.”  “Dance the Fish cheer again!” another enthused, and I winced hard.  Oh, gawd, tell me I *hadn’t!*

Carson had only come to see me play once, the bastard. And before our set had ended he’d fled the club as if demons had set fire to his ass.  Maybe he woulda liked this hippie stuff better than the hard rock Dreadnaught played.  Well, not the rowdy Fish cheer, I guess.  Because the stiff prick had no since of humor, is what!

I groaned.  Stiff prick.  Now just *why* did I have to put it in those terms?  It flipped enough images through my brain to make me groan like a dying clam---quiet but pitiful, I mean.  Pitiful indeed, why was I playing this Summer of Love dribble?  I liked harder stuff, dammit!

I’d blown it.  I’d never see him *or* his dick again!  Well, who cared?  Anti-social asshole!  Who the hell cared?

“You okay, McIntyre?  Hey, guys, take five, our singer looks a little sick!”

I did feel kinda like puking---probably from all the beer. I  musta upended a keg down my gullet and shared with no one.  My head not only hurt, it seemed to expand and contract in a very disconcerting manner, like when you blow up a balloon and then release part of the air rather than tying it off.  My mouth tasted like a chicken run.  And something in my back pocket was poking me insistently in the ass.

No, it was *burning* my left ass cheek!  Had I sat on a live cigarette butt or something?  The way the day was running it would figure!

I struggled to my feet, using the new guitar ruthlessly as a semi-crutch, then handing it blindly to a concerned audience member.  I slapped at my ass (there were hoots from my audience, obviously I had established myself in these lost hours as excellent entertainment and my antics didn’t surprise them in the least).  Yeow!  Hot!

My fingers went into my pocket.  They came out with a cold, hard disk about the size of a silver dollar.

Only it wasn’t any such thing. The Dollar Bill dude hadn’t commissioned this out of any Earthly metal.

On one side was a profile, kinda grim of expression---it could have been male or female, the gender seemed to change at every glance.  On the other side, a different person reached for the sun, as if that distant star were only a ball made for playing.

When I pulled it forth, something ignited—and no, it wasn’t my butt, thank you kindly.  Gone far past that, nothing funny here.

Fire, ice---the dawn on other planets.  Melting crystal, colorless suns. I knew the life and times of the person who’d tossed this thing to me in a heartbeat.

Shattered, I stared down at the writing on the medal.

“Khal’hath denarj”.  That was what was inscribed there in curly script from a language I’d never read.  “The path forks” is its literal meaning.  I knew that instantly without knowing how I knew.  Confused yet?  I sure was.

In English?  A simple word only.  “Choose”.  Or maybe “Wish” is a better way to say it.  Make a wish?

Oh, right---magic.  The crap that had gotten me into this mess to begin with!

I glared at the coin defiantly.  I want nothing you can give, I snapped in my mind.  I’m concentrating on, on wishing for nothing.  You suck!

Oh, really?  And I thought you were not a coward.

I glanced up at my audience, startled although the remark hadn’t truly been vocalized.  The blueness of those eyes slapped the mad right out of me.

Very blue eyes she had, a lovely girl with skin like black suede.  Arms crossed across her chest dripped fringe and tinkly bells, and a white leather choker set with azure glass bling stones graced her long, chiseled throat.  Multi-colored feathers drizzled from her smoke-pale braids.

Well, well.  Looked like an ancient goddess had been cruising the hippie retro stores down on Haight Street. She was all but an idealized incarnation of the ‘60s culture I seemed to be playing for.

The thought should have made me smile, but---something was messing with my smiler, man.  “Hey,” I remarked, attempting cheerfulness, “I see you gotcher collar.  Far---out.  Sorree I forgot about tit.”  Hell, speaking more carefully never cures the slur from drinking twenty beers instead of the two you started with.

She said nothing, watched me with cool cat eyes, measuring; somehow waiting.  Was she doing a Carson on me about the drunk thing?  Oh, bloody hell, I’d thought the Name!  That Name I drank all those damn beers to not think of and stuff.

“I refuse to wish,” I said as hastily as I could, given the suds tangling my tongue up.  “Don’ need nothin’.  Here, you takit.” And I wound up and threw the coin, not a toss but a rather spiteful speedball pitch straight at that judgmental head.  Well, if you feel like suicide---which of course I didn’t—beaning a goddess should be one easy way in.

To my amazement, she smiled then and stepped aside; the coin seemed to vanish into a long dark corridor beside her.  But it spit a tracer of flame as it vanished that totally blinded me for an instant.

“Lanisha.”  The unknown word touched my lips and my ears like insanity itself, and yet even that was good.

My whisper hit the air, and changed on impact.  “Arthur,” I heard myself say to the gathering gloom.
“I choose you, and deny the darkness.  Come for me, Pendragon.”

“Oh, fuck!” I then added.  And not because I was worried about the laughing, staring audience who thought I’d gone totally crackers.

So it began.  As it always begins, with some jackass braying what amounts to a promise in some fancy lingo.

Or making a wish despite himself and all his swearing not to.

After fifteen minutes of nothing happening, though, I began to swell with outrage rather than trepidation and even sat down again. The Mid-western tourist to whom I’d stupidly passed my expensive guitar timidly reminded me of my drunken vulnerability by being honest and tapping my shoulder to hand it back.  For some reason, this proof that not all people were assholes plunged me deeper into gloom.

I was getting cold, the beer was wearing off, and Tom was making busy noises about when we could resume playing now that I was done staring off into space.

The crowd was still interested, but thinning. “McIntyre?” my temp drummer suggested cautiously, thinking only of the dollars involved.  “You feeling better?  Maybe you can just do acoustic, no singing?  You were talkin’ some strange shit there,” he added in a mutter.  “If you’re droppin’ acid at least you could share, man.”

“I’ve done enough sharing for today.” I growled, as if I really had a pocket full of hoarded head candy and was being a Grinch with it.  “And what I *do* is sing, you chucklehead!” I snarled this out, and slammed down a chord to prove it.

Hell, if I’d handled that wish thing right, I coulda been heading for my European tour in fact.

Or even better, be nominated Teacher of the Year and watch my hair-berating boss crying all over me as I turned in my resignation and marched grandly off to teach---I dunno---in some weird foreign country where they really appreciated learning things.   Why had I blown it and said no thanks?  Despite the fading drunk, I definitely remembered saying no thanks.

As if in negation of my memory, a heavy coin spun through the air and skated into our collection of loot with a flash of bright elven fire.

“Sing, then.”  The dark and lovely voice hushed me for an instant.  Had he been listening all this time from the gathering shadows at that unknown door?  As usual, referring to something I’d said minutes previous and half forgot about. Oh---holy fuck---had he heard me call him Arthur?

My brain had been slammed from medium-muzziness to sharp sobriety in the instant he spoke.  It kinda sucked, actually.

And yet now I was honest enough to admit I wouldn’t have traded this uncomfortable moment for all the tours and come-uppance in the universe.

I swallowed, and spoke brashly into the weird silence.  “So.  Whatcha wanna hear, goth boy?”

I was so scared.  And yet when he spoke again, it calmed me right down.  “You know, I think.”  His voice was entirely serious, and very quiet.  Everyone but me and him might have been on another fuckin’ planet.

I closed my eyes, and remembered him telling me with a note of apology that he sorta liked this stuff his father had enjoyed---*before* the man had become a monster.

This time, I didn’t announce what I was gonna play. It would complete the job of trashing my rocker boy rep, yet I was determined to do it.  So my bewildered “band” could only huff and chuff as I strummed the first few chords.  Kinda pissed off, I suppose, at me suddenly deciding to “wing it”.

Then Tom gave out a soft, pleased sound of recognition (I did mention he was excellent, right?)  There wasn’t too much for him to do on this song, but he produced the lightest ghost of backbeat from the resources of his talent and imagination. It was enough to give me courage and start me speaking in an almost conversational tone.  Not singing, speaking---something admittedly almost as easy as singing for me.

“The continent of Atlantis was an island
which lay before the great flood
in the area we now call the Atlantic Ocean.
So great an area of land, that from her western shores
Those beautiful sailors journeyed
to the South and the North Americas with ease,
in their ships with painted sails---“

It wasn’t a love song, but it was Donovan.  I thought that was why Carson made a small noise too vulnerable for his usual persona, before falling silent and just listening with the rest.  And I didn’t realize until a long time afterwards that hey, I’d picked a song about another world straight out of a raft of choices.  Donovan might not have been my favorite flavor in the world of recorded sound, but he had been hella prolific at churning out melodious sap.

Carson picked up on the significance immediately.  Well, he was more of a mystic from the beginning than yours truly would ever be, even at the top of my wizardly form. I’m more into practical, ass-frying magic rather than feeling vibes, and I always will be.

Oblivious to all foreshadowing, I chanted my way through the many verses, even throwing in the lilting Scots accent gratis.  When the chorus began, I glanced up sneakily.  And---hell, I admit it!---almost shyly.

Now, it definitely wasn’t a romantic moment, because the whole crowd, drunk and sober, had drawn in a collective breath and was bellering along with me.  Enthusiastic it was, but not strictly tuneful.

But still, his eyes were closed, his full lips brushed with the faintest smile possible.  He wasn’t singing along with the audience, natch, nor linking arms and swaying with them.  He stood in a small island of his own, proud and beautiful as a wolf silhouetted against a winter moon. And yet I had no trouble deducing that he liked it, that he knew I’d made it for him alone despite the mass of people.

Rattled at the sudden gush of happiness, I looked away from him and gazed around at my fans; my court if you will.  The magic I’d thought I repudiated had somehow run wild amongst them.  I mean, crap, I’m the first to admit I’m entertaining as hell and can not only carry a tune but also mimic nearly any singer for a cover song if required.  Well, at least the ones who don’t sound like buzzsaws in heat.

But dig it---in the front row, singing their hearts out, stood a couple of grinning SFPD officers.  Probably the very ones who’d been sent to quell the disturbance near the Civic Center Burger King.  The female of the pair wore a small pink pinwheel on top of her cop hat; the little winged pig spun merrily in the freshening breeze, and I laughed out loud at the sight, forgetting to sing.

It didn’t matter, though, because the crowd was on its own magic carpet now and roaring out the words like a chorus line. “Way dooown below the ocean!” filled the air for what seemed like miles. The sight of the scrawny tourist Ralph and his laughing kids in my audience didn’t astound me much.  But then I spotted his chubby wife Martha, hair unclipped from its rigid pins to flow down around her shoulders.  She was crying as she sang, and I looked away quickly, oddly embarrassed at the sight.  Well, as the smurfs had said, you can’t judge a girl by her expression!

Then my eyes went back to Carson.  And just like that, I doffed my guitar and placed it gently to the side, and went to him.

“Sorry, my ride’s here,” I tossed back to Tom.  Not really caring what he thought about it, but you know, it was manners and all.  Either he waved one hand resignedly, or he kept on singing and didn’t even notice I’d left.

I don’t remember.

What I remember was me walking up to Carson slowly but steadily, my teeth clenching in protest at the apologies I was gonna force past them.  Dig it, I didn’t feel like I’d been exactly *wrong* in just being my usual sociable self. But I hadn’t meant to make him feel unwanted or left out and apparently I’d managed both.  And it was important to let the over-sensitive jerk know I hadn’t meant to hurt him, but vocalizing the idea was a harder thing.  I don’t have much experience in apologizing, being more the type of guy who sticks his jaw out at a hint of guilt and invites the world to bite me.

His eyes finally opened as I came within a foot of him, so intense a blue that it stopped me in the middle of a step.  And I knew I would do this thing, no matter how stupid it made me feel. I opened my mouth, without a thought in my head of what exactly would come forth.

Nothing did, since he placed his finger gently on my lips before I could squirt out a syllable.

His touch burned my words away, at least temporarily.  I rolled my eyes at him like an idiot, already exasperated at being silenced. The faintest grin brushed his lips as he let his hand fall away from me, and all my grudging “sorrys” fell with it.  Got it in one; none were required.

*So, wizard.  Your brain and your mouth denied you needed anything, and loudly!  But you forgot to silence that whisper from your heart. And he heard it, even if you did not.*

Oh, bite me, Baast.  So annoying, for a goddess to gloat in your head and meow “I told you so”!   Well, at least I didn’t need to grovel anytime soon!

Though I think, maybe, I would have.  If required.

“Your ‘ride’?” Carson murmured, with a flirting look that caught me off guard since I’d said that five minutes ago and had to roll the tape back a hair.  “I would certainly *like* to be!  But given your stubborn nature, I can only drive you home, alas.”

I flat-out gaped at him.  Yeh, I heard him through all the racket; mind-touch or just a gap in the noise wall, not important.

Important was: instead of drowning me in mush or guilt trips, he’d made a joke.  A damned long-winded one, but undeniably dirty.  Said in that purring panther’s voice, a knock-knock joke woulda been suggestive, but this---!

It musta been the unexpectedness of it (not to mention the mental image) that caused me to blush instantly like someone’s maiden aunt.  “Yeh!  Home is good.  I’m tired of shopping and---stuff,” I gabbled.  “Ah---maybe we can order stuff in to eat, I wanna be---“

“Alone with you,” he interrupted quietly.

I didn’t know what I’d planned to say really, but I had no reason to argue so I just stayed shut.  Maybe I even nodded a bit, worn out with playing and too much beer, my head felt a bit heavy, y’know?  He slid an arm smoothly around my shoulders to steer me to the curb, and I let him.  I didn’t squawk until he let me go to key the door of an unfamiliar, silver-grey gas guzzler.

“What the hell, Carse?  Where’s your leased lemon?”  Not that I’d loved that stupid beige Volvo he’d scored simply because it was the first thing available and he was in a hurry.  But where did this gleaming Caddy come from?  I couldn’t picture a pissed-off Carson deciding to casually toot into Rent-a-Heap and exchange his first mistake for a plusher ride.

To my great delight, it was his turn to redden and look away.  He didn’t stammer, but his embarrassed blurt was nearly as fine.

“When I’m upset---I tend to buy new cars.”

I felt the smirk beginning and tried to head off the giggles, but it was impossible.  I didn’t wanna piss him off again immediately, but I couldn’t help choking out, “Jesus Christ, Ravenstreet, I know you don’t approve of it but even a ton of beer is hella cheaper for dousing a mad-on than buying a----OH FUCK!”

His reflexes were lightning-fast; he caught me in a body-lock even as I turned and lunged toward the now-dispersing crowd a block or so away.  “Keith, you lunatic!  Now what?  You’ve socialized more than enough and by the gods I won’t allow it further!”

I didn’t even notice his high and mighty tone; lucky for him or there mighta been trouble.  “My Vee!” I screamed, struggling fruitlessly.  He just stared at me, baffled, and I elaborated frantically.  “My fucking new guitar, I just walked off and left it on the GROUND, not to mention a case full of money we’re supposed to SPLIT and those damn guy’ll spend it all on beer and stinky cigars if I don’t get back there not to mention that Gibson cost twenty thousand bucks of YOUR money, dude----“

He was so fucking strange.  I was sure that last remark would secure my release; even for Carson twenty grand has to hurt.  Instead, he tightened his grip, pushed me back against the car, and kissed the hell out of me.

It was a better way to be shut the fuck up, I guess.  Guess, hell, my brain cells exploded a bit and I ended up kissing back.  But memories of my lost treasure swirled to the fore when we came up for air, and I opened my mouth only to find his finger at my lips again.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” he said firmly, eyes a shade of blue only seen in Hammer films.  I glared, noticing the bossiness this time.  Before I could let my temper rip, though, his expression turned wistful.  “Please?  I want to go home.”  He still had me pinned against the car. But from the way his voice and his body had softened, I knew he’d let me go if I insisted.

Home.  I didn’t know if he realized what he’d said, or not.  Implying it was *his* home, too.  And I wasn’t sure what it meant to *me* that he’d said it, but it gave me goosebumps anyway.

“Oh, all right all ready, son of a bitch.  If you can afford it why should I complain?  The neck was warped a tad anyway I think, noticed a whang on a few songs. This saves me going back and ripping someone a new asshole about it so I guess it’s all for the best—“

“Keith.”

“Yes, Mother,” I sighed dramatically.  “Getting in the shiny new gas hog now, you betcher ass!”

He smiled, and released me to head for the driver’s side.  And although I had only the tiniest intention of trying to scam him and hustle off to retrieve my green goodie while there was still time, I didn’t jump in the car instantly after all.

Because something small and insistent pushed hard against my ankles; the rumble of her purrs seemed to slow the universe.  It certainly slowed Carson; at the corner of my vision he was now doing the floaty, 15 seconds per step thingy.  Great, more magic.  I grinned a trifle.  I could always buy a new guitar, but this---Carson walking through air glue---this was priceless.

“Kitty,” I said respectfully, ignoring the mean urge to add “Feline Busybody” to the title.  “You comin’ with, or what?”

I don’t think my trepidation showed, but Baast grinned a small, toothy cat-smile nonetheless.  No, she did not think I would welcome her presence on the ride home.  And believe it or not, she *did* have business other than mine, in this City that had not quite yet forgotten her. But she wished to give us her blessing before saying goodbye.

And she did so, with a chirping giggle that made me study her narrowly as I grabbed the door handle and endured the rain of sparkling, greenish light that bathed me and Carson for the space of five seconds.

Then, time returned to its normal framework and I watched a small black cat in a white jeweled collar bound into the tangled San Francisco streets and away.  The air for several yards around me stunk of catnip and maui wowie.  Far out, man!

“Keith?” I heard Carson say sharply.  Given the sudden aroma he probably thought I was delaying to smoke a doobie or something.  I smirked at him over the hood of his stately wheels and slid inside.

“Coming,” I replied.

I grinned to myself, and silently wished that the word would become prophecy the minute we reached the house.

I do believe it was Baast’s influence that made things happen a trifle sooner.

Feline busybody!