Sign of the Times
Written 3/1/26
A short piece from my fiction writing class, broken up into two parts (one in the '80s, one around 1975). Depressive episode ahoy.
I
Out of the darkness came a blinding whiteness that Custer had not seen since the winters of his youth in Northern England. And likewise, he was much younger, the wind pulling at his once-full, short hair and long dark peacoat. Snow raced in a constantly buffeting whirlwind. It sucked up each leg to the knee as he trudged, his breath coming out in rattled gasps.
I have to get to this gig, he thought, however, clutching his guitar case harder and lowering his head in a feeble attempt to keep out the agonizing cold. It was his one chance to get himself out there. His one chance to make his parents proud.
But then, a giant black hound appeared from the endless expanse of white. Stopping Custer in his tracks, it pulled back its jowls to reveal deadly teeth, glaring at him hungrily.
"Washed up country singer, Custer Buckley, puts out another rushed flop," growled a voice, "Some critics claim that it's his worst yet."
He blinked in shock, barely processing the words. As he took a cautious step back, a second dog ran in beside him.
"Buckley's latest work lacks passion and it shows. The songs are repetitive, his guitar-playing sloppy, and the scratchy vocals sound old even for fifty-three."
Then a third, cutting off his route of escape. "How many times must he fail to resurrect his 1950s fame before he finally gives our poor ears a break?"
More and more dogs joined the frenzy, raising their voices in a half-bark-half-human-voice cacophony as they spun around Custer.
"The old crone can't string a solo together to save his life..."
"... Donning a hideous blonde wig in an attempt to be hip..."
"... This single isn't without its uses. Scooping kitty litter, for example..."
"... It's time he let go of what little youth he has left and moved on."
His scarf lurched him violently backward as a dog tugged it. Another bit the end of his coat. In a blink, they were upon him in a black furry mass, pulling him down into the snow with a yell.
Then leather pressed hard against Custer's cheek, his head swimming with a dull ache. Sweat clung to his stained shirt. A blurry blue light danced behind his eyelids.
"I understand you're here to perform your new single for us?" A man calmly spoke. Custer groaned, pulling up a hand to shield his eyes.
"No. I don't want to perform anything. Go away..."
"That's right. We have ten thousand American viewers who would be delighted to hear you play on our show tonight."
He shifted his body away from the voice, away from the light, mumbling louder, "Leave me alone, damn it."
But suddenly- "Why, yes, Landy. It'd be an honor." A softer voice, chillingly familiar. Jesse?
Custer sat up from the messy couch, blinking rapidly. The outlines of the wooden entertainment center, the old carpet littered with beer bottles, and the western memorabilia on the walls began to define themselves in the light of the television. As the bluesy music of his younger peer and twice-bandmate came through the speakers, he crumbled to the floor and crawled to the screen as if in a trance.
Timeless. The song, his voice, the entire scene. Although Custer had refused to listen to the new record that had soon flown off the shelves, anyway, the painful sound was now filling the cramped trailer, seeping its way into his heart, shrinking him more than the words of any critic ever could.
His fingers touched the screen, tracing Jesse's youthful face. Do you know that I'm watching? Do you even remember me? The thought sprung new tears from Custer's eyes, running down his wrinkled cheeks for the fifth time that night.
II
"Look, I don't know what to tell you. I have a smoking complex. Even the smell makes me nauseous- quite."
Custer's words came out a little more blunt than he intended. But Jesse, leaning against the hotel balcony door beside him, laughed good-humoredly, taking everything in stride.
"More for me, then," he said, his southern American accent contrasting with Custer's ironic English one, as he shifted through the cigarette pack. It was late into the morning after a show, over a decade before the first dream about the dogs. Jesse was barely an adult then, hip in a brown fringe jacket. Meanwhile, Custer was already on the older side, donning a patchy beard, his shoulder length hair beginning to thin in the front. Chicago stretched out before them in the pale sunrise, the soft rumble of traffic echoing off its buildings. Jesse grabbed the end of a cigarette, hesitated, and lowered the pack.
"Y'know, C.B., the first time I met ya I was all... damn! Here's a fella who went out there and made it! 'When I'm Yours'? 'Tulip Belle'? 'Ballad of the Blue Falcon'?"
Custer hid his face, sighing through an embarrassed smile. "Ah, geez, I must've been sixteen when I wrote those. What about 'Head To Toe'?"
"Oh, man," Jesse whistled, running a hand through his curly gold hair, "'Head To Toe', 'Head To Toe'- I don't even know where to begin with that album! You still got it. I have to ask, though..."
Still got it. Still got it. Custer was so busy revelling in those words that he didn't even notice the silence stretching between them at first. Eventually, though, he turned towards his friend, searching his freckled face. Somewhere down below, a car honked.
"Bein' in the industry as long as you have, do you ever wonder if it'll all disappear? Like one day, folks will just forget about you?"
His first instinct was to force a laugh. "You're too young to be thinking about that. You've got a good thing going here. Keep doing it."
Jesse pulled from the door, however, raising a hand as he faced Custer. "No, no, man, I mean like... what about you? How do you deal with it?" He leaned forward so that they were closer to eye-level, his brown gaze like a fire tinted by fog. Custer had to finally avert his eyes, scratching the arm of his denim jacket awkwardly.
"Well, I just... I sort of... Things come and go, right? Some days you're lucky, some days you're not. I've gone years without a single song in the charts, y'know. But I wouldn't give up music for the world. I just don't know what else I'd be doing with my life."
His eyes were looking out over the city again and Jesse straightened his back, watching alongside him. The buildings seemed oddly small now in comparison to last night's memories. The excitement. The adoration. The cheering crowd. Music was getting louder and faster these days, and yet Custer proved that he could keep up. More, more, they had shouted. He shouted, too.
"If I wasn't doing music, I'd be a cowboy," his younger friend finally said.
Custer smirked, closing his eyes and shaking his head. "Ah, if only..."