Mortal Weather - Ch 10A: Warm In Future Seeking

Stories, Friendship, and Humanity

Last week I posted the last free installment of Mortal Weather. Looks like I funnily overdelivered on the free content. I had promised a third of the book would be free—six chapters—but then bookmarked my brain for nine chapters, somehow still thinking that was a third of the book. I suppose I have some kind of vertical, numeric dyslexia that makes me flip sixes upside down without changing their value. Oh well—there are worse problems in life, as Stanhope and Gaya well know.

MW is all over the place now:

• MW on BookSirens

• MW on Bookfunnel

• MW on Bookshop: https://bookshop.org/p/books/mortal-weather-kp-mccarthy/19760644

• MW on Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/mortal-weather-kp-mccarthy/1143087160

• MW on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Mortal-Weather-Novel-KP-McCarthy/dp/1970107375/

• MW on Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/122758242-mortal-weather

• MW on BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/books/mortal-weather-a-novel-by-kp-mccarthy

Things get weirder the next night. Connie and Cub pick me up in the van and we drive to Inigo’s. Connie calls Gaya before I can object. She really ought to leave the over-worked nurse alone. Missing physical work and nervous about Gaya, I throw myself into setting up the instruments, horsing the old fridge across the dance floor by myself. The Shelvadors love me for it. Chet’s a chiseled, shy man, proudly Creole, who hides behind big guitars. The drummer, Taz, is a wide, brooding assemblage of tattoos. Wendy’s a full-lipped blonde who plays about nine instruments. The set-up is playtime. For an hour, the musicians tweak their instruments and riff, solo and together. Harmonize perfectly and spontaneously. I’m not half the drummer Taz is, but he lets me beat the skins anyway. I’m weak on fills but keep time like an atomic clock. We talk about drummers and Taz’s technique for quite a while. The guy is solid: a strong safety—dependable, stepping up regularly to surprise and delight. The drum set is his refuge. We’re drum breddas.

Chet sets up with an acoustic guitar, an electric, and a mandolin. Wendy floats here and there, singing questions, checking in with Cub, noodling deftly. I could play with these guys. I think they’d tolerate me for a song or two, anyway. The old fridge is spotlighted center-stage, just behind Cub. Chet and Wendy fill it with mixed bottles of craft brews, telling me about each flavor. While the band finishes setting up, Connie and I order dinner for all. Connie watches the band so eagerly that I give her a hard time about it.

“I never figured you for a groupie.”

She extends her arms expressively. “I’m just an old granny who loves to dance.”

“With Cub.”

She takes my hand and squeezes it. “Is it written all over me?”

I give her an encouraging smile. Gaya appears, magically, as the food arrives. She’s a little shy, but Connie hugs her and pulls her into the chair next to me. Chet brings a six-pack to the table, explaining that this particular beer was inspired by Vonnegut. It’s called Nice Chime, after Uncle Kurt’s Ice Nine substance in Cat’s Cradle. The brew lives up to its name, contributing a lot to our rowdy, late dinner. Cub and Wendy work out a call-and-response doo-wop tribute.

“I like-a your hair.”

“I like-a your guitar.”

“Let’s go upstairs, where they have a good bar.”

They put their heads together. “For a nice time, a Nice Chime, a Niiice Ch-ch-chiiime! Oooooweeeyooooowaaaaa!”

They like the jingle so well that they open the set with it. Then they plunge into “Blue Train.” The rhythm section hits a peppery groove. Cub deedles like a madman, shuffling around the fridge, leaning on it, drumming it, kicking it, pouting his little-boy mug under a powder-blue trilby. Gaya gives me a side hug. The place is barely half full— maybe two hundred people—but several couples get right out on the dance floor. Connie drags me out. Dancing is something I never think about and seldom try. I figure if I move my arms a lot, no one will notice that the rest of my body is hardly moving. Connie covers for me with style, swinging her hips and hula gesturing. I try not to think about Gaya watching.