Chapter Text
So far, Greg’s first day in New York City hadn’t gone exactly as he’d expected. From what he’d seen in movies and t.v., the Big Apple was supposed to be a lively, bustling city, full of art and music and culture. With more people crammed into five boroughs than lived in the entire state back home, he’d expected a steady buzzing of cars and crowds. But the relentless cacophony? The never-ending din that the tightly packed buildings trapped and amplified so that every blaring siren felt like twenty and every shouted curse a hundred? That, he hadn't quite been prepared for. Where he was from, there was prairie for miles and compared to the low quiet of the countryside, the sudden aural onslaught felt pert near aggressive.
And if the noise was just nearly, then the crowds left it no question.
Crushing and stretching out as far as the eye could see, they were equal parts fascinating and overwhelming. Moving with a rhythm and urgency he didn’t quite understand, he was certain if he'd been anything than what he was—tall and solid—they would have swept him right away. Even still, he’d been jostled and jolted, pressed up against and darted past and while no one else in the great sea of people seemed to mind when it happened to them, he was pretty sure he minded enough for everyone. Back home, he had space. Neighbors were a trek. Going into town, a whole day’s worth of effort. So to say this sudden lack of berth was unsettling mighta been the understatement of the century. To make matters worse, it was hot. Not just regular hot neither. Muggy. And as it did with the noise, the city seemed to intensify it. Soaking it up in its dark asphalt then radiating it back into the air in thick blurry waves so that everywhere you went, it was hot and cloying.
Greg'd never felt anything like it and more than once, overwhelmed by an uncomfortable sensation of suffocation, he’d been forced to duck into a side street and catch his breath.
Now, as he settled unhappily upon dingy motel sheets, he found the omnipresent heat almost more unbearable than ever. Although it was true the night had ushered in much more reasonable temperatures, his room was tiny, and like the city outside, far too cramped to allow for a graceful dissipation of the heat. Instead, it trapped it. Boxed it all up and helped it grow. Probably, the decrepit little window unit trembling and sputtering in the corner weren't helping things much neither. If anything, its frantically whirring motor was only heating the place up worse. So, with a cuss and sigh, he flicked it back off. Miserable, and already sweating through his undershirt, he made to divest himself of his denims but thought better of it when a fat cockroach sauntered lazily across the toe of one boot. With disgust, he put it down but good and as he cleared away its remains, he wondered if, maybe, he really had made a terrible mistake. If maybe, his father'd been right. Maybe he was a fool. A stupid, stubborn, vainglorious child with a head full of silly dreams and selfish ambitions who oughta been happy to stay home and follow in his father’s footsteps.
He supposed if he had been he’d likely be in some prairie right now—stretched out beneath the twinkling canopy of stars, surrounded by fresh, sweet-smelling grass, with the wind in his hair and a guitar in his hands—not holed up in some nasty flophouse, surrounded by bugs and rats and who knew what else. Back home, the only sounds in his ears would be the gentle night-time voices of the prairie, his own just above them and the guitar’s underneath them all.
Not honking cars or wailing sirens.
Back home, the night would be cool and calm. Lazy and familiar.
Yet, when it was over, when he came of age, what then? What would he do? Become a deputy like his father’d always wanted? Spend his days evicting poor folks from their homes and slapping bullshit charges on people whose only crimes were needing money or a doctor?
Fuck that. He’d rather spend a thousand nights in a shithole like this than do that crap. Besides, stupid or not, he’d earned his chance to try. When Pa'd made him promise to finish his schooling before he ran off to make it in music, he’d abided—buckled down, set his mind to his studies, and finished with flying colors. Weren't his fault Pa hadn’t specified how old he had to be. Or that the great Sheriff Saunders hadn’t reckoned on him tearing through his studies so quick he’d manage to graduate two years early. With honors.
But that was on him. And if you asked Greg, he shoulda known better. After all, when had he ever done anything in half measures? Not when he’d learned to ride, rope or shoot. If'n he had, he wouldn’t have a drawer full of buckles and a reputation as one of the best hunters in the county. Sure as shit, he wouldn’t be able to out-ride, out-rope and out-shoot men twice his age. But he did and he could and the fact that his father hadn’t taken all that into consideration—hadn’t seemed to really grasp the kind of man he was dealing with—well, that was just another indication of how far they’d drifted. As such, when he’d told him he’d put in the paperwork for graduation and the sheriff had exploded, Greg had thought it a mite unfair.
He'd told him so too. Without thinking. And tactically, it'd been a mistake. His father had been furious; reminded him right then and there that, agreement or not, he was still underage and if he stepped one toe out of that house without his permission, he’d be a runaway and not a cop in the state would hesitate--for a second--to drag his ass back home in cuffs. To that, Greg had scoffed; pulled himself up as tall as he could and sneered back that while all that was true, if he did it, he’d be breaking his word and how was he gonna stay up on his high horse then? Like his righteous indignation before it, that too had been a mistake because his father had riled; barked at him to watch his mouth, told him how ashamed his mother would be, and ordered him directly to his room. Stung, abashed--as he always was when his mother was invoked--he’d forced out a shaky, “Yes, sir,” and beat a hasty retreat. After that, they’d fallen into an unpleasant routine of vicious arguments and stony silence. Sometimes they’d go days without talking. Sometimes weeks. Eventually, there came a time when his father hadn't looked at him except to scream or scold and every second in that house had felt like an eternity.
But, in the end, he’d gotten his way.
Not because he’d yelled louder, or longer. Or because his father had suddenly gained some new understanding of him as a person. Rather, because, at his core, his father was a letter of the law kind of man; possessed of a certain arbitrary inflexibility that had seen him enforce all manner of unfair laws and unjust rulings. And as that blind devotion had so often prevented him from doing the right thing and refusing to execute a lawful—but hideously unfair—order, so too had it prevented him from doing the sensible thing and simply breaking his word.
Truth be told, it was exactly what he'd been counting on and he'd felt no small amount of satisfaction in knowing that the infuriating mindset that'd pushed them so far apart had, ultimately, been the means by which he’d won his freedom. In his opinion, there was a certain kind of poetry to it. An elegance. And if he’d been half as addled as most folks thought he was, he mighta even pointed it out. As he was, however, very much in his right mind, he'd let it lie. Choosing, instead, to accept the begrudging dispensation with as much good grace as possible. Even going so far as to offer his hand and a mild, grateful smile. When both were very swiftly rebuffed, he hadn’t riled either. Only stood awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen and asked when he’d be allowed to leave.
“You make this place sound like a goddamn prison,” his father’d spat.
“No, sir,” he’d protested, with a twinge of guilt.
“Don’t lie, Greg’ry,” he’d snapped back. “Ain’t manly. An’ if’n yuh go through with this damn fool idea, that’s exactly what folks’ll expect yuh t’be. Rent. Food. Medicine. It’s all gonna be up to you and if you cain’t hack it ain’t no one gonna cut you no slack. So you think on this here plan a’ yers real good an’ real hard, ‘cause if'n you walk out that door, you ain’t never comin’ back. You un’erstan’ me?”
And, of course, he had. Weren't stupid, after all. Had never really expected the man to give way gracefully. He’d hoped for it, maybe. But expected?
Never.
So, while the words had been painful to hear, they hadn’t changed his mind a whit and, with tears standing in his eyes, he’d given his father the expected, “Yes, sir,” then asked again when he’d be allowed to leave.
Running a hand roughly across his face, his father’d shaken his head.
“Yer a stubborn fool,” he’d ground out, “but a deal’s a deal. So, after yuh graduate, reckon yer a free man. Can do what yuh want.”
And he had. The day after graduation. With little more than the shirt on his back and the guitar on his shoulder. That had been four days ago. Four days since he’d woken up in his little bed, in his little room, in the ass-end of nowhere with no one to see him off, no one to hug good-bye and the only succor for both, a sparkling vision of the greatest city in the world.
Now, he was here. And it didn’t seem quite so great. It seemed loud and hectic. Clogged with foul-smelling air and stifling heat, it made him miss his home, his wide, green prairies, and most of all, his sister. Like their mother, Suzannah was smart and brave and level-headed, and if anything could lift his sinking spirits and soothe his frazzled nerves, it was a few minutes of idle chatter with her. It’d worked earlier when he’d called to tell her he’d gotten in safely and he was certain it would work again. After all, when had it not? Problem was, even with the time difference, it’d be late in Texas. So late, there’d be no amount of smooth talking what would convince her everything was fine. Then, she’d be worried.
That just wouldn’t do.
So... it'd have to wait till morning. He’d have to wait till morning. And if Pa could see him now, nursing a heatstroke and counting the hours till he could go mewling to his big sister, he’d probably fold his arms across his chest, frown down at him with those hard, blue eyes and tell him he’d told him so. Maybe, he might even ask if he’d learned his lesson and offer to let him come home.
Greg snorted. He hadn’t thought the heatstroke was really that bad but if his brain was floating ridiculous notions like that it must be edging somewhere near to dangerous. Cackling, he fell backward onto the musty sheets and stared at the ceiling. Like everything else in this dump, it was shabby as fuck. Yellowed with age and damp and, probably, cigarette smoke, it made him miss his old familiar skies more keenly than ever and to make himself feel better, he hummed a lazy little tune beneath his breath. Old, beloved, like the stars he missed, it was a nothing little something he’d learned a long time ago. Something his ma used to sing to put the critters at ease.
She’d been a large animal vet, the only one for miles, and everything he knew about riding, he’d learned from her. His brother and sister too. A champion barrel racer long before she'd ever picked up a stethoscope, she'd taught them all. On borrowed horses, of course. They’d never had that kind of money. But in an area like theirs, most folk were more than happy to trade a few hours in the saddle for services rendered; and he and his brother and sister had been afforded the luxury of sharing in one of their mother’s greatest passions and most fervent joys. First, as little more than passengers, cuddled against her heart in snuggly little papooses, but eventually, as riders in their own right--spending hours in the saddle; laughing and joking, enjoying each other’s company, and chattering away about everything under the sun.
Then, she’d gotten sick and though they’d taken her all the way to Cheyenne for treatment, it hadn’t mattered. Weren't nothing they could do. Caught it too late the doctors said. The natural consequence of having too few physicians over too much land. At the time, he hadn’t really understood all things they’d tried to tell him. All he’d known was that Ma was sick and then she was gone. Suzie and Jeff though, they’d understood from the word go—especially Jeff, the oldest—and even now, he can’t imagine how hard that must have been.
Sometimes, he wonders if it had something to do with what came later—with Jeff.
That he’ll never know ain't never stopped him from wondering. Just like it never stopped him from wondering what Ma would have thought about all this. He likes to think she woulda been supportive. Maybe even understood. But the truth is, he don't really know. She’s been gone so long, and he’d been so young that sometimes, he thinks half the notions he’s got about her are just things he’s made up in his head, because according to Pa, she’d be mortified. She’d been smart, he’d told him, respectable and if she could hear him now, talking about running off to join the circus, she’d be rolling in her grave.
When he'd said it, Greg had argued on reflex. Said Ma'd never cared what other folks thought, reminded him that she was the one who’d bought him that first guitar. Forceful and indignant, it'd been such a spirited rebuttal he’d mostly believed it himself. Now, though. He weren't so sure. Now, he wondered if, just maybe, his father was right. Maybe if she could see him now, sleeping in a dirty flop alongside rats and bugs, with all his hopes pinned on a few silly songs and a purty voice, she would be ashamed.
....Then again, maybe not.
After all, what he'd told his father was true. And the sheriff knew it. She had bought him that first little parlor. Sunburst orange with a shiny black pickguard, a perfect mother of pearl inlay and a handsome black case to match, it'd been his Christmas and birthday present all rolled into one, and from the very moment she’d placed it carefully into his still tiny hands, he’d been obsessed. Practiced every second he got. Studied chord charts and scales for hours. Proudly, she’d encouraged him every step of the way; smiled indulgently every time he showed off a new chord, never scolded when he’d listen to the same song for hours, over and over, trying to learn the lyrics or figure out a strum pattern. Even clapped and cheered through every mastered scale. Not only that, she’d been the one who’d bought him his first book of poetry too. Had left it on his bed, all wrapped up in sparkly, deep blue paper with a note about how she’d noticed him working his way through all the others in the house. When he’d started writing his own, no matter how clumsy or awkward they was, she’d always say they were beautiful then slip them carefully into a drawer in her desk.
All the things his father’d merely tolerated as childish frivolity, she’d enthusiastically encouraged. As proud as she’d been at the way he’d taken to riding and roping, she’d been equally so at what he’d discovered on his own. It’d never seemed to matter that neither lovely music nor precious verse had ever been her forte. All she’d ever seemed to care about was the fact that it was important to him. Unlike Pa, she’d never expected any of them to follow in her footsteps. Or his. Even when folks had talked with such certainty about her boys becoming deputies, she’d always smiled politely and replied that all her children could do and be whatever they wanted. Suzie, of course, had always beamed at that. Sharp as a tack, she’d never missed the subtle slights, nor the easy way Ma'd always put them down. And Jeff? Well, he’d smiled too. Not big and bright like Suzie, but quiet and calm. A simple curling at the corners of his mouth and a lambent glow in his green-brown eyes. Just as keen as Suzie, though in different ways, he’d had no interest in being a deputy either. Instead, he'd set his sights on far grander dreams of having a place of his own. For a young man with neither wealth nor business connections it was a not insubstantial challenge, but if anyone coulda done it, it was Jeff. For as long as Greg could remember, he'd been steady and strong. Capable, with a good head on his shoulders and a self-discipline few could rival, he’d been respected and admired by all. Even when he'd just barely been out of high school, all the folks in town had held him in the highest esteem.
When he'd passed, it'd come as a terrible shock.
Especially to Greg, who’d been the one to find him. Hours after anything could be done. All alone. In the dark. With a simple note of apology in his pocket and an empty bottle of pills at his feet.
When Ma'd gone, Greg hadn’t seen her. Pa hadn’t allowed it. Even when he’d cried and begged and whimpered that he wanted to say goodbye, Pa'd held firm. Told him, in no uncertain terms, that his mother had forbade it. Said she didn’t want him, or Suzie or Jeff, seeing her like that. That she wanted them to remember her the way she was, not the way she went. At the time, Greg had been furious. Indignant.
But after Jeff, he’d understood.
Not only had the image blotted out all others of his older brother, but it'd seared itself onto the backs of his eyelids and right down to the bottom of his heart. Even now, he had nightmares. Woke up screaming. Or sick. But in the weeks and months right after, when he’d spent every waking moment trying desperately to figure out what he'd missed—turning over every memory to try and understand how he could have failed him so completely—they'd been near constant and it'd been a special kind of misery he'd not soon forget. But slowly, very slowly, he’d crawled his way out. As it had after Ma, over time, the grief had changed. Not abated. It could never. But changed. Morphed into something he could live with—exist beside—and in those days, he’d thought about a lot of things. About Ma and Jeff and home, about what he loved, and what he hoped, and what he couldn’t live without. Gradually, little ideas grew to big ones, vague notions became concrete plans, and a new, driving sense of urgency enveloped it all.
Then, Suzannah'd left; graduated high school and set off to follow her own, admittedly, much more respectable dreams, and suddenly, he’d been almost desperate. Within days of her departure, he’d made up his mind, told his father his intentions and when the sheriff had objected, he’d struck his deal. Now, just shy of two years later, he was here. In a shitty little dive, in a nasty part of town, because while mucking stables and baling hay might well have been honest work, it sure paid dick and he weren't about to blow his whole life savings on swanky digs before he even got a lead on rustling up some more. Which meant, to his great disappointment, this weren't likely to be his last night in this shithole or one like it and every part of that realization made him vaguely queasy.
Or maybe it was just the heatstroke.
Either way, his nerves were shot, and his head was pounding, so he pulled his guitar from its case, tuned her up and had just barely played his first chord when the man next door was banging on the wall and bellowing at him to shut the fuck up. Tired, frustrated and not a little bit cranky, a part of him was sorely tempted to march right over there and teach that asshole some goddamn manners but before he’d even made it halfway across the tiny room, he remembered two things. First, that anyone staying in this dump probably weren't having a great fucking day either. Second, it weren't his neighbor’s fault he was all het up. He hadn’t told him to leave everything he’d ever known to chase some impossible dream halfway across the country with barely more than a few months’ rent to his name. That'd been all him. So, instead of banging down the poor man’s door, acting like a grade A asshole, he snatched up his guitar and hightailed it in the direction of the roof.
Only a few stories up, it was everything he expected it to be. Covered in broken bottles and used condoms, it went perfectly with the other twenty odd stories of piss and shit below it, but he hardly even noticed. Because, for the first time that day, he could feel the wind. Not the hot rush of exhaust from a vent or a car neither, but the wind. Surprisingly brisk and deliciously cool, even if it weren't quite so sweet as the one back home, it was undeniably refreshing. No longer constrained by the solid walls of brick and steel, it whipped wild and reckless—dipping low to brush the back of his neck, then swirling up high to sweep the sweaty curls off his brow. At once both soothing and invigorating, it drew a rushing sigh from his lips and dragged his eyes closed with thoughts of home. Pretending he was on the lip of some craggy rock he breathed slow and deep and willed the picture into his mind. With the most verdant greens, he sketched out the plains. Imagined them stretching out into forever and rolling gently in the distance. With the earthy browns he conjured up the friendly old cottonwoods. And with the bluest blues, his great big endless sky.
It wasn’t perfect. The horns still blared and the sirens still screamed but up that high, they were all softer, quieter. A buzzy din instead of an angry clangor. And little by little, his breathing slowed of its own accord, the ruddy flush receded from his cheeks and the constant throb across his brow no longer pulsed with every heartbeat. Below him, the city still bustled and churned but as his head cleared and his nerves settled, it felt more energetic than assailing and more lively than aggressive. Even the lights that had glared through his window and obliterated every lousy attempt at sleep now seemed infinitely less offensive. Though no dimmer than before, they now seemed more enchanted twinkling than obnoxious blaze. More intriguing signs of life than relentless irritations.
Calmer and feeling more like himself than he had all day, he threw his guitar over his shoulder and curled his hand easily around its neck. Slowly, he picked out a simple little run. Letting the notes ring and fade as they would, he thought about why he’d come out there and what he’d left behind. Then, he added a tripping pirouette; a pretty, lilting little thing that picked up speed and flourishes as it went. Chasing each other around and around, the notes worked themselves up into a dizzying whirl, then fell beautifully in line to sing out in one bright, cheerful chord. From there, he added another. And another. A whole heart’s worth of memories all woven together to make one happy, joyful song.
Then, someone cheered.
Startled, with eyes flying wide, he whirled toward the noise and found, to his surprise, a clutch of tiny faces grinning up at him from a fire escape on the building across the way.
“Sorry,” one of them giggled, with a sheepish wave of his hand, “but you’re really good.”
Without a thought, he reached to tip his hat, then, remembering he’d left it downstairs, settled on a grateful nod and a wave of his own.
“Much obliged," he called back.
"You're welcome," they sang. "Will you play us another?”
“Sure,” he said, with a shrug and an easy smile, “whaddayuh wanna hear?”