Page 124 of The End of the World As We Know It
648. 650…
He could see it now. Ahead. The steps leading up. The very steps the band must’ve taken when they carried their gear out of the house to go play an acid party for their friends.
A dead body face down on the sidewalk and Lev stepped over it, eyes fixed to the house,thehouse, without looking down.
Then finally: 710.
He stood a moment, taking it in. Should he play? He should, right? He should. A song on the steps of Jerry’s house. Just think… if Jerry heard it… coming in through the window… proof of life… Lev Marks delivering the missing finger…
Yes.
He sat on the lowest step and took the guitar from its case and the finger from his pocket. Had the finger rotted? It looked darker. Smelled funny. But maybe that smell had followed Lev since he’d found it. Yeah, maybe he’d mistaken the smell of the finger for that of the world. And maybe a rotting, foul finger was a small pittance to pay for carrying a piece of Jerry Garcia home. Breathless, he strummed an E. “Viola Lee Blues” was, after all, blues. He could figure out the E-A-B of it. He sang as he played:
“Wrote a letter…”
And the wind carried his voice, he thought, even as it tousled his hair, even as it graced the dead finger-pick in his hand. What a gem this song was. What ajam.
The door opened above and behind him and Lev turned, wide-eyed, expecting to see the bearded wizard, the maestro, the gray hair, the glasses, a black shirt and rainbow pants, the greatest musician who had ever been born, a man who now doubt would survive the end of the world:
Captain Trips.
“Hello?” the man said.
It wasn’t Jerry Garcia. Wasn’t even close. A short man with no hair on top. A suit coat. The man looked more like a lawyer than a musician and he eyed Lev with some apprehension. But Lev saw some hope there, too.
“You’ve made it,” the man said. “You survived.”
Lev rose then and the man saw the tie-dye shirt and something changed in his appearance.
“Isn’t this Jerry’s house?” Lev asked.
“My God,” the man said. “Even after the end of the world, this continues.”
“What do you mean?”
But the man put on a kinder face and took the steps down. Lev saw he carried a suitcase in one hand.
“You’re not sick, are you?” the man asked.
“Are you?”
“No. Are you?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He came down the rest of the way until he was on the sidewalk, Lev a step above him.
“Yes, this was once Jerry Garcia’s house, but that was a long time ago,” he said.
“Did he survive? He had to have.”
The man smiled sadly.
“That I don’t know. I’ve lived here three years. You can imagine the number of visitors I’ve gotten. Most are kindhearted.”
“Damn straight.”
