Johns go a-meetin'
Written but never submitted in January for Casey's "Best American Short Stories of the Last Ten Minutes" anthology. Because I spent more than Ten Minutes on it. Now, it needs to leave my drafts folder.
The night had gone as far as it should have; and on this particular night, that point was far enough. High and mighty Hollywood was tearing up. Down and humble folks in Nashville were brewing another pot, giving themselves the energy to avoid eye contact. When you don't cry, you gotta work hard to keep that Jesus.
Speaking of, the good Lord himself was expecting company. Two Johns, one Ritter and one Cash, the objects of Hollywood's and Nashville's mourning, respectively-like. The intercom buzzed in the robe room at Jesus's Graceland-style mansion in heaven and St. Peter was on the line. "Jesus," St. Peter said, "they're in the elevator."
Ritter had boarded in Hollywood, before the elevator went a few floors higher and opened for Cash in Nashville. As the doors revealed only Ritter inside, Cash shook his big head and sighed. Ritter was wearing beat-up tennis shoes, short shorts and some sort of a rugby shirt. Gray and red with some sort of tiny alligator on the left breast. Celebrity has overrated, the black-covered Cash thought, when it came to dying.
He stepped into the elevator, climping and clomping in his boots. Feeling sized up, Ritter slunk back and smiled politely from the corner. The television star looked too young to go, Cash thought. Far too young. He'd seen the boy's episodes here and there over the years. Rick Rubin even had a tape of him recording that damn song.
"Come an' knock on our door, we've been waitin' for you…."
Cash spit and rued that tape.
He looked over at Ritter again. Another smile and a limp wave. Cash wondered how long the elevator would take. It wasn't that he didn't like Three's Company. Those girls were all a sight. They must have been a little bit country, he thought. But the pace of that show. Have mercy. Those plots didn't walk the line, no sir. They picked two points and hauled themselves all over creation in between. All that setup, just for one line you half expected him to say anyway.
But way down in his heart (where the good Lord shown), Cash knew he couldn't hold that traipsing against Ritter. The boy only wanted to make folks laugh. Nothing wrong with a laugh, Cash thought. He hadn't done much of it since June died, so he figured maybe he was in the right spot. Damn elevator hardly seemed to be moving.
Mind made up to say something, Cash stared at the elevator floor and tried to find a notion. He'd never had real problems with Jack Tripper. He'd always liked characters similar to the guy, really. Back when Gilligan was on, Carl Perkins used to bring over his 20" RCA and they'd watch. The two couldn't speak for Elvis or Jerry Lee, but at least half the Million-Dollar Quartet considered the Skipper solely responsible in the wreck.
Later on there was Balki and that crazy Urkel, and of course Tripper in there too. Carl was gone by then, but Cash always watched. He knew Carl was watching somewhere. So, maybe, thought Cash, even with Ritter dangling around like he was there in the corner, they had some in common.
Cash finally looked up from the folds of his jacket and spoke to the boy.
Not too loud. Just talking.
"Nelson," he said, "what you need is a pair of boots."
