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The Thrill is Gone by Phil Nerges
Well, The Slackers have hit the literary scene! Below is an excerpt from a novel called The Othen Street Chronicle by our good friend Phil Nerges. "It is about a guy who works for mobsters and is raising 4 very wild kids on his own. He is befriended by a woman named Marcelle, who shows him that there is a different side to life than what he has known. Billy is the oldest of the kids, then Michael, Sarah, and Kevin. The scene in the club was constructed from a Slackers show."
Let us know what you think!
"The Thrill Is Gone"
In Princeton, Marcelle picked out a restaurant on Nassau Street. I couldn't help thinking what Emily had said to me, about having money to go out, but not to get Sarah's tooth fixed. The words were on my mind as we ate. Marcelle remarked that I was quiet, and asked if anything was wrong. I told her that Emily had come over to pick up Sarah and Kevin earlier and that we had had an ugly exchange, but didn't go into detail. Marcelle said that was too bad, but didn't press for any details. We'll go for a walk after dinner, and you can tell me about it if you like, she said, and left it at that.
Our dinner was pleasant. I was fascinated by the families there, imagining them connected to the university in some way, well dressed, intelligent looking people with a relaxed air. I found myself daydreaming about story-book lives of people who could afford to send their well adjusted kids to Ivy League schools. One man, in his mid-twenties, having dinner by himself was absorbed in a book about Riemannian Geometry, would look up from time to time as if to make sure that he was still in the same place. As amusing as these meanderings were, I shook them off and looked to Marcelle: you look terrific tonight, I said. I should have said more, but didn't. She thanked me, smiled a little, and looked at her plate as though she was not entirely comfortable with a compliment.
After dinner, we crossed Nassau Street and walked through iron gates into the campus, past ivy covered stone buildings that looked very old, down slate sidewalks, beneath gaslights and pampered trees. I told her that Emily had come over to pick up Sarah and Michael. I paused, wondering what her reaction was going to be, then opened up about what Emily had said and about playing The Thrill Is Gone really loud when we started to argue. I did it in anger, and now was thoroughly humiliated by it.
So that's how men act when they are the custodial parent, you're a bastard, Marcelle said half-kidding half-serious.
We passed through an archway beneath a building that looked more like a fortress than a dormitory, down a stairway, into a courtyard surrounded on three sides by stone walls going up three stories, topped with slots for archers for a decorative effect. Marcelle told me that she liked what Emily had shouted at me. It was true, she said thinking out loud, but didn't say what was true, or wait for an answer. Then after a confusing pause, finished with: cigarettes are such an awful waste of money. You have to treat yourself better than that.
After crossing the square, we passed beneath another archway on the far side of the building, out to a street. We were off of the campus, in the town again. So you left your wife and kids sobbing in the driveway? I began to feel anxious, but instead of answering, waited to hear what she would say next. We turned the corner, onto Nassau Street. Are you that cold? she asked. I wondered if something unpleasant was coming, but she was holding my hand in a way that was reassuring, and there was nothing angry or condescending in the tone of her voice; it was sympathetic and confusing, all at once.
I didn't know how to answer those questions, whether I should just say yes, or try to defend myself. We crossed the street, turned down another that was just barely wide enough for cars, through a passageway, and out into a square filled with trendy shops. I feel awful about it, I confessed. I can't believe that I did that. Marcelle stopped to look at an outfit in one of the shop windows. She brought her free hand up to the window as though she might be able to reach through the glass to feel the fabric of the dress on the mannequin. I love it, she said. The light from the window cast a flattering glow on her face. She turned to me and asked me if I liked it. I did. She studied it for a few moments more before we resumed our stroll.
She stopped and faced me, switching the conversation back to Emily. You lost that one. You looked like the bad guy. She never let go of my hand as she spoke. You looked like a heartless bastard. I could only agree with her, but at the same time became aware of the contradiction between what she was saying, the tone of her voice, and the reassurance of her hand. I did feel confident though, that she was enjoying it in some odd way, and was in control of where the conversation was headed. We wound our way back onto Nassau Street, and sat at a bench on the far side of the street. The weather was growing warmer, but now that we had stopped walking, a chill began to set in and we closed our jackets. Marcelle amused her self watching the couples walk by, college aged mostly, in jeans, with knapsacks, some in faded military type jackets with emblems of punk bands. Marcelle turned toward me and looked into my eyes as if she could see inside then said, if you want to know how a man is going to treat you, see how they treat their ex wives, or their dogs. She looked back to the street, but still seemed relaxed. She wasn't expecting an answer.
The conversation paused. I began to feel uncomfortable, a sense of dread even. She turned to me again, and took my other hand too. You're going to have to find a better way to respond than that, Marcelle said. You shouldn't have played that song. You took the bait, and now you are the one who feels like shit…I wonder if she rehearsed it. Marcelle was looking at me, nodding her head up and down as if prodding me for agreement. The only thing that matters here is the tooth. Get the damn tooth fixed. Forget about Emily, and that's enough of that. There are happier things to think about. I know a place in New Brunswick that has live bands; would you take me there?
A half hour later we were in a bar in another university town a few miles up the road from Princeton. It was too small to have live bands, but did anyway. We, in our early 40s, were the oldest people there. Most of the others were in their 20's, in punk band tee shirts, tank tops, tattoos. Colored stage spotlights pierced through a heavy cigarette-smoke fog that burned my eyes. There was no stink of perfume there, only a thick heat and humidity formed of sweat from tightly packed young bodies. Marcelle seemed to know where she was going and pulled me though a crowd so dense that we had to turn sideways to slide between people sporting purple Mohawk haircuts and denim jackets covered with patches, most of the people oblivious of our intrusion except for a few creepy looking guys checking out Marcelle out as we moved towards the source of the music.
The band, wearing brightly colored suits, was playing a music that drifted between reggae to rock to jazz. Marcelle called it Ska Music. A trombone player wearing a sweat soaked white pinstripe suit and a Blues-Brothers fedora hat was blowing into a trombone so hard that I thought his cheeks were going to burst. I kept waiting for the slide of the trombone to poke someone in the eye, but it always seemed to just miss, moving up or around at the last instant. A saxophone player wearing a bright red suit and blue tie performed a solo that excited the crowd. He was followed by the organ player who enthusiastically assured the mass of bodies before him that they were the best group that they had ever played for. The audience marveled to hear that they were the best, and they knew deep in their hearts that they were. They cheered, they sweated, they drank more beer, and pushed closer to the stage. The trombone player responded to the cheers with a laugh and a grin, and blew even harder into the horn.
Marcelle pulled me to the small area where they were dancing. It was different than the singles dances, nothing like I had seen before, fists and feet flaying wildly about with a violent sensuality, mostly guys, drops of sweat flying off of them into the crowd. I studied Marcelle's face in the dim light as she watched the dancers. Reflections from stage lights were visible in her eyes. She was fascinated by the dancers, though didn't seem interested in joining them. She looked to me as if to gauge my interest, then smiled and squeezed my hand to coax my approval. I was fascinated by it too, but also wondered why she had brought me there. It was as though she had been drawn there, by something unknown to me, and I couldn't help but wonder about it.
We listened to more than a dozen songs before we left. It was a shock to step into the chilly night air after the heat and humidity. Our wet clothes chilled fast once we were outside. We wrapped our arms around each other as we walked to the car. I remarked to Marcelle that this was probably the place where my kids would be headed in a few years. Yes, it is, she said, that place is the best. A woman, probably in her 20s, wearing combat boots and a plaid skirt, looked like she was about to get sick as we passed. For me, the club was a puzzling, though enjoyable, piece of stimuli to close out a very confusing week for me. Seeing the woman getting sick triggered the inevitable slideshow in my mind. I thought of the nauseating fuel oil at Green Island, the smokestacks, of the way that Emily's face contorted as she shouted at me, Marcelle's smile, Sarah's tooth, juvenile detectives, how hot it had been inside the club, and the saxophone solo that I had just listened to.
On the way back to Marcelle's she thanked me for going with her. It had been fun for me too, but I was a little bit surprised she would go to a club like that; she had never shown any interest in that music since I had known her. There were some tough looking characters in there, I said. Maybe, she said, but it's not a bad place. Once in a while somebody gets punched or kicked while they are dancing; that's about it. She had gone to college in New Brunswick, and used to go there with her friends. There were a lot of memories there for her, and she liked to go back every so often to think about times when life was a little simpler. The faces are different now, Marcelle said, but it is still just kids trying to have fun on a Saturday night.
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I called Billy from Marcelle's. He was playing video games with Michael, and I relaxed a little because they were well, and I didn't have to rush home. Marcelle lit candles and made tea. I had worried about telling her about what had happened at the house in the afternoon, but she was very affectionate now, and by the time I left, The Thrill Is Gone was no longer playing in my mind
-Phil Nerges
8:59 PM
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