Page 7 of Dead Rockstar

I scanned the crowd, my eyes falling briefly on a soft, matte black leather jacket in the crowd. Then it was gone, lost among the throng. The band had started playing, and folks were gathering near the stage. Kids were crouched down on the pavement, making chalk figures. Dogs with bandannas and monogrammed t-shirts led their owners through the aisles. I forced myself to smile, but I couldn't shake the feeling that whatever, whoever I was trying to see, was watching me.

I stopped at another booth to buy a bunch of bright-green collards that looked inviting. I was reaching for my wallet when out of the corner of my eye I saw him again. I looked up, slowly, and he smiled. Standing there in the avocado booth, where I'd just been, he was unmistakable. It had to be Philip Deville; the man was a dead ringer. Down to the flashing green eyes, the cupid's bow mouth, the dark, heavy brows. But it couldn't be. I shoved my money at the woman with the collards, and squaring my shoulders, stepped out into the mass of people, trying to decide if I should approach the man or run.

The band onstage was a ukulele-and-banjo playing duo - brothers, folksy guys who played here often. They were doing a cover of a Mr. Bungle tune I hadn't heard in forever. It was giving me a weird feeling of deja vu. My brain searched for the title and came up blank. I tried to assure myself that I wasn't going crazy, but with my ears swimming and my head ringing, it was hard to believe it. Retrovertigo. That was the song. A fitting title, considering how I felt right now. My eyes searched for the mysterious man, lost again in the crowd.

I stumbled over to the bread booth, hoping they might have corn tortillas for my flautas, still trying to shake myself out of the trance, caused by what had to be the world's worst hangover. Could you hallucinate from drinking too much? Fuck, I had to get ahold of myself; it was too much. I was too much.

There was a man standing in front of me, tall with dark, pulled back brown hair and a black t-shirt emblazoned with the Metallica logo. He was wearing a light black jacket, rolled up to his forearms, and was quite handsome. He's the guy I saw, I told myself. You just saw the tall guy with dark hair and your imagination filled in the rest. I smiled at him and reached for a bag of tortillas. He gave me a warm smile in return and went back to picking out his bread. He was holding the hand of a little girl in a green dress, explaining to her the different types – rye, pumpernickel, ciabatta. I sighed with relief, the mystery solved, willing my heartbeat to slow down and making myself the sincere promise that I would not drink a single drop of alcohol tonight.

The taller of the brothers on the stage was singing, his voice light and airy and full of sugared irony and I stood there a moment, taking it in. Then a flash of glimmering black hair, absorbing a ray of sunlight, a tall, rigid back rounding a corner and ducking behind a booth. I blinked; there was nothing in front of me but cottony, homemade handbags and buckwheat pasta. It was time to go home.

I headed toward the exit, my shopping done. I felt oddly cheerful, considering my wooziness and what had to be some serious dehydration-induced hallucinations. It might be a good idea to go home and grab a nap before starting dinner. And I'd drink at least a gallon of water. No more wine. At least for a couple of days. I was drinking too damn much, and it was making my brain weird.

Someone knocked into me, hard. I dropped my bag full of food.

“Oh, damn. I'm sorry!” The young man reached down and grabbed the bag and handed it back to me. “I didn't mean to just mow over you there.”

He had run smack into me while holding a huge bouquet of flowers, and now I had white and yellow petals all over me. I brushed off my shirt and looked at him. His wide silver-blue eyes were a little frantic. “It's fine.” I held out my hand for the bag, masking my irritation, and he handed it over. I'd never seen a grown man with so many freckles. His hair was sandy colored with threads of silver, most of it tucked under a ball cap. He was wearing a red polo shirt with the Georgia “G” on it, which made his flushed baby face appear even pinker. Despite the silver strands of hair, I guessed he couldn't be more than twenty or so. “Thanks.”

He stood there a moment, seemingly ready to say something else, but I moved past him and kept walking out toward the parking lot and my car. So I'd struck out twice due to my own social ineptitude, but it just wasn't my day. My stomach was rumbling angrily, and I realized I hadn't eaten since the day before. No wonder I felt half insane. Bumping into freckled frat boys and floating obliviously past cute farmer guys were the least of my worries. My blood sugar was so low I was hallucinating dead rock stars.

On the drive home, I blasted Pantera loud enough to wake the dead and shook my head clear of all the nonsense – both from the night before and at the farmer’s market. I told myself that I was being silly, that I was letting my imagination get away from me, that it was just a good old-fashioned dose of anxiety combined with loneliness and that I needed to decompress. A long talk with Sloan full of her acerbic, rough-around-the-edges support combined with a good bang (I decided I'd go back to the farmer’s market tomorrow and give cute avocado guy my number) should do the trick. I'd eat a good meal. I'd go to bed early. It's all about intention.

I'd managed to finally convince myself that it was all a bunch of hock-and-booey right up until I walked up onto my front porch. My foot stuck for a moment on the welcome mat, and when I moved it, a string of turquoise-colored gum stretched out from my shoe to the carpet. Fuck, my favorite burgundy chucks. Groaning, I pulled my foot upward to remove the gum and had to brace myself against the door when I saw the tarot card stuck to the sole. I knew which card it was before I pulled it off. Death.

Four

“Stormy, you’ve lost your goddamn mind.” Sloan dipped a chip into the guacamole and grimaced as it broke. “Fuck, man overboard.” She grabbed another chip, rescuing the first one, and popped it all in her mouth. “You are batshit, woman.”

“Don't talk with your mouth full,” I said irritably, but I was laughing. “I'm telling you, it happened. I did the spell, and the lights went out, like, immediately. And the video that I know I took, wasn't in my gallery.”

“You probably deleted it by accident when you turned it off,” she said in a logical voice that I loathed. She broke a chip in half and dipped it. “And that storm was a doozy last night. I heard there was a tornado in Glynn Haven and that's not far from here. The lights actually flickered at the bar where Dan and I were-”

“I noticed the storm,” I interjected. “I'm just saying it's weird, that's all.”

“Well, anyway, point being, your little spell didn't work.” She gestured around my tiny trailer. “I see no middle-aged rock stars lurking around.”

“Yeah, too bad.” I'd been getting ready to tell her about the man I'd seen watching me at the farmers market and changed my mind. Sloan had an edge to her tonight, more than usual. I decided she wouldn't find it funny. Instead, she might give me a lecture, or worse, bring up Tess. “So what about the death card turning up everywhere?”

“It's an old deck. The box won't even shut properly. See?” She grabbed the little cardboard box off the table and demonstrated how the top wouldn't stay folded down. “You said you pulled the death card last night, right? When you put it back, it probably didn't go all the way in the box. It just fell out. And we both know how bad you are about throwing away your gum without wrapping it in paper first.”

“That doesn't explain-”

“It does, though,” she cut me off.

I poured a glass of Merlot and held it out to her. She waved it away.

“You seem bitchy,” I remarked, taking the glass for myself despite my vows from before. I hadn't yet eaten anything. With the way Sloan was murdering my guacamole I might not get to. I had, at least, managed to down a ton of water. I'd been peeing all evening. “You know, more so than usual.” She gave me a sharp look, then laughed.

“You know me too well.” She grimaced. “I guess I am kinda salty.”

“Date not go well?”

“Oh, that. No, it went great, actually. Jeez, Stormy, you wouldn't guess it from looking at him – he's so cute, but he's got this pinched up expression he does, like he's wound up so tight a fart couldn't escape – but once I got his clothes off, he warmed up rather nicely. And hung like a-”

“Stop!” I protested, laughing.

“The date was fine,” she went on. “I had fun, actually. But I probably won't see him again.”

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