An Empty Bliss Beyond This World

I

Things ain’t good.

A monkey on my back, all fangs and claws, droolin’ mad.

Keep tellin’ myself beatin’ ol’ Cecilworth and takin’ home the gold’ll fix everything.

It won’t.

That’s a consolation prize, a gift card from God, a bribe to keep me from goin’ all the way off the deep end.

Problem is, I’m already divin’.

Ever since I started weanin’ off the steroids, I’ve been losin’ time. I ain’t talkin’ a couple minutes here and there; huge chunks. Hours. Days. One minute, I’m chasin’ ghosts in the desert and the next I’m dressin’ up like Marlon Brando. It all runs together now. Not like memories. More like somebody took my whole life, threw it in a cement mixer, and hit the switch.

I can’t keep track of nothin’ no more.

I keep tryna call Elaine, but she ain’t answerin’.

All I can do is hang on tight and hope for the be–

VOICEMAIL 1

“Hey Elaine. It’s Daytona. Dunno if you’re still usin’ this number, but… listen, I’ve been takin’ half-doses of them steroids you gave me and things’ve been gettin’ weird. I just wanted to see if you could… shit, I dunno. Just call me back.”

II

And suddenly, I’m in The Whorehouse.

“Listen,” I’m sayin’. “I know I ain’t been the easiest to deal with these last coupla months. But this? This is gonna fix me.”

Anna, Robby, and Freddy are starin’ at me like I’ve grown a second head and that thing’s foamin’ from the mouth. I’m standin’ in front of a whiteboard. There’s diagrams and arrows and a crude drawin’ of me wearin’ a cowboy hat and a frownin’ face.

“Now, see, this here?” I’m sayin’, tappin’ the drawin’. “This is me.”

I draw another me with another cowboy hat and a big ol’ smile right next to it.

“And this here? This is also me,” I say. “But he owns a honky-tonk in Nashville.”

There’s a long silence after that. The kind that settles over a room right after somebody says somethin’ profoundly stupid.

Freddy’s eyes narrow. Robby’s got one hand on his chin. Anna’s starin’ at the board like she’s tryna solve a murder.

Finally, Robby says, “You don’t know how to run a honky-tonk.”

“That’s true,” I say.

I turn back to the whiteboard and draw a big ol’ square ‘round the smilin’ cowboy.

“But I know what one oughta feel like.”

I start explainin’, and one I get goin’, I can’t stop. I tell ‘em there’ll be live music, jetski barstools, and a mechanical bull that holds a grudge. I tell ‘em there’ll be rooftop bars; plural. I tell ‘em how I’m already in talks to get ahold of Dale Earnhardt’s bones and how I’m gonna build a throne overlookin’ it all like the goddang King of Lower Broadway.

By the time I’m finally outta breath and done talkin’, beads of sweat are pourin’ down my face and my chest’s heavin’ like I just wrestled twenty rounds.

Freddy raises a hand.

He squints at me ‘fore askin’, “Hoss… where you gon’ sleep? In the honky-tonk."

“Well, hell,” I mutter. “Reckon I’ll… put a bed in my office or somethin’, y’know? Ain’t gotta be fancy. Ain’t ‘bout that.”

“Then what’s it about?” Rob asks.

I look back at the whiteboard. At that smilin’ cowboy. At the big ol’ square ‘round him. I feel a little achin’ in my head as all them brain cells start puttin’ in overtime to figure that one out.

“‘Cause…” I begin, but I don’t rightly know when my voice got so small. “Well… I keep wakin’ up places I don’t ‘member goin’, alright?”

Nobody says a word.

“I keep losin’ whole days. Findin’ receipts in my pockets from restaurants I don’t ‘member eatin’ at, seein’ pictures on my phone I don’t ‘member takin’, startin’ conversations I don’t ‘member havin’. Hell…” I laugh, shakin’ my head. “I don’t even know when I started makin’ all this.”

I wave my hand at the whiteboard.

“I just know I looked up one day and there it was.”

I can feel all three of ‘em watchin’ me now, but I can’t look at ‘em. I just keep starin’ at that little drawin’ of me. “I’ve been tryna figure things out,” I say. “Ever since Bambi left. Ever since Mexico. I don’t know nothin’ no more…”

I take a shaky breath.

“But I know bars. I know music. I know cowboys,” I say. “And I figure… if I have a place like this… if I have somethin’ that’s mine… then maybe when I wake up somewhere and I don’t know what day it is or how I got there, I’d at least know where I’m ‘sposed to go.”

I don’t look at ‘em. I can’t. After a while, Anna says my name, real soft.

“Daytona… Maybe you don’t need a honky-tonk.”

I keep starin’ at the whiteboard.

At that little smilin’ cowboy.

“Maybe you need hel–”

III

Neon-soaked streets and hollerin’ voices. A pedal bar rolls by and they’re all singin’ a song I can’t name, but know every word to. There’s music pourin’ outta every doorway, all of it crashin’ together into one big, beautiful noise. Fiddles and drums and guitars and laughter and somebody hollerin’ “WOO!” like they’d just witnessed the second comin’.

There’s keys in my hand.

Big brass things with teeth on ‘em, jinglin’ together every time my fingers twitch. One of ‘em’s got one of them little plastic tags hangin’ off it, labeled in big letters: DAYTONA’S.

My breath starts hitchin' in my chest. I look up and... there she is.

Three stories of brick and neon standin’ shoulder-to-shoulder with all them other honky-tonks like she’d always been there, like she’d been waitin’ on me this whole damn time. A big sign bolted over the entrance readin’ DAYTONA’S BOOGIE BAR in letters damn near as tall as I am, saloon doors swingin’ where regular doors oughta be, and somewhere up above it all, I can see red neon blinkin’ ‘gainst the Nashville sky.

ROOFTOP BAR.

I squint up at it. Then I squint higher.

SECOND ROOFTOP BAR.

I just stand there with my mouth hangin’ open while a whole river of tourists flows past.

Because there it is.

Home.

I don’t ‘member buyin’ it. I don’t ‘member signin’ paperwork or meetin’ with bankers or hirin’ contractors. Hell, I don’t ‘member flyin’ to Nashville. But somewhere in all that lost time, somewhere ‘tween Mexico and Hayes Hanlon and hellfire and brimstone and all the days I can’t account for, I did it.

I built myself somewhere to go.

I wipe my eyes with my sleeve ‘fore I shove one of them saloon doors open and step inside… and the place damn near explodes.

“DAYTONA!”

The cheer hits me like a right hand. Glasses go up, cowboy hats thrown in the air, somebody starts poundin’ the bar and the whole damn room joins in.

There’s people everywhere. Dancin’. Drinkin’. Hollerin’. A band’s up on stage tearin’ through an ol’ Merle Haggard track while colored lights spin ‘round the room and catch on beer bottles and belt buckles and rhinestones. I don’t recognize a single face in the whole crowd, but every single one of ‘em seems to recognize me.

A woman with hair bigger’n her entire body kisses me on the cheek. A fella in a bolo tie shakes my hand like he’s tryna pull my arm outta socket. Someone slides a beer in my hand and some ol’ boy gets thrown off the mechanical bull, givin’ me a big thumbs up ‘fore he even hits the ground.

And I just stand there.

‘Cause this is it.

This is what I saw on that whiteboard.

No.

It’s better.

Louder. Brighter. Warmer.

And all I can think is, I ain’t never felt so happy in my whole fuckin’ li–

VOICEMAIL 2

“Hey! Elaine! Still ain’t heard back from you, but uh guess what? I bought myself a bar down in Nashville! A whole-ass honky-tonk! Maybe you and Bambi could come and see it some time, huh…? I mean, y’aint gotta, but uh… listen, I started takin’ full doses again. Figured maybe if I went back to what I was doin’ ‘fore, maybe things’d go back to normal. I dunno. Just… call me back, alright?”

IV

A dark room. A burnin’ cigarette. Music on the other side of the door. Cheerin’. Shoutin’. I don’t know how long it’s been. Hours. Days. But I’m in a dark room, smokin’ a cigarette, waitin’ for my cue from the band.

Lotsa folks’ll tell you buyin’ a honky-tonk and staplin’ all your hopes and dreams to it right ‘fore you’re ‘sposed to have a big ol’ fight for a big ol’ belt probably ain’t a good idea. They’ll call it a distraction when you oughta be trainin’. They’ll say ol’ Farthington’s a goddang sonuvabitch and you oughta be sharpenin’ spears instead of buildin’ rooftop bars…

But lotsa folks ain’t Daytona Diamonds.

Outside that door, I hear the frontman shoutin’ into the microphone. “Hot damn, Nashville! How’s that for a Thursday night?!”

The crowd roars. Boots stompin’, glasses clinkin, then the chants get started.

DAY-TO-NA! DAY-TO-NA! DAY-TO-NA!

“Well, hellfire!” the frontman laughs. “If that’s who y’all came to see, don’t let me keep you waitin’! Ladies and gentlemen, let me hear y’all make some noise for the owner of this fine establishment! The Rhinestone Cowboy himself! DAYTONA DIAMONDS!”

The place erupts just as I shove open the door and step out into the lights. I damn near can’t hear nothin’. The band starts playin’ “Fastest Horse in Town” to walk me to the stage, confetti streamers start fallin’ from the rafters, and all them people are liftin’ their beers and grinnin’ their lips like I done got elected President of Tennessee.

And I love every last second of it.

I grab the mic and look out over the room, surveyin’ my kingdom ‘fore I give it a little nod.

“Y’all havin’ a good evenin’?”

The answer just ‘bout lifts the roof off.

“That’s what I like to hear!” I shout back. “‘Cause this ain’t no ordinary honky-tonk! This is the greatest goddang bar ever erected by human hands! You know I ain’t lyin’!”

I give ‘em a big ol’ grin.

“And in just a few days, I’m gonna take this place from legendary to immortal,” I tell ‘em. “‘Cause, y’see, I got me a match comin’ up and I’m plannin’ to march my ass into Philadelphia and I reckon I’m gonna beat the brakes off ol’ Cecilworth when I get there!”

I let ‘em cheer for a while. Hell, I encourage it. Raise my beer up, pace ‘round a little more, point at folks in the crowd and nod at ‘em like they’re next of kin.

“Now, don’t get me wrong. Ol’ Cici’s a real smart sonuvabitch!” I say. “I fought him once, y’know, and he beat me! Fair and square! Ain’t no shame in admittin’ that!”

I nod solemnly.

“But that was then. And that was a different Daytona.”

I wave my hand ‘round the room.

“This one? This one’s got himself a fuckin’ kingdom! Yeehaw!”

The crowd roars.

“Y’see, ol’ Cecilworth likes knowin’ where all the pieces fit together. He likes puttin’ people in boxes and settin’ em on little shelves and tellin’ hisself he understands ‘em!” I shout. “But there ain’t a goddang shelf in this world big enough for me!”

I point upwards.

“And when I beat that asshole and take that belt off his waist, I’m gonna bring it right back here and hang it over this very bar! Right next to Dale Earnhardt’s bones!” I shout. “And every single motherfucker that walks through these doors for the rest of time is gonna look up and know they’re standin’ in the house that Daytona Diamonds built! And there ain’t a goddang thing in this world gonna stop m–”

VOICEMAIL 3

“Hey. It’s… It’s Daytona. Something’s real wrong, Elaine. Real fuckin’ wrong. Call me back. Please.”

V

Silence.

Ain’t no cheerin’.

No fiddles playin’ or boots stompin’ or bottles clinkin’ or drunk girls gettin’ their tits out.

I blink.

I’m holdin’ a flashlight.

I stare at it for a long time ‘fore I turn it on.

The beam cuts through the dark.

I ain’t in my honky-tonk.

I ain’t even in Nashville, I don’t think.

I don’t know where the hell I am.

Moonlight’s spillin’ like warm milk through busted windows.

Dust hangs in the air so thick it almost looks like fog.

Water stains crawl ‘cross the ceiling in big brown blooms.

The whole place smells like mildew and old cigarettes and permanent decay.

I turn slow.

The saloon doors ain’t there.

DAYTONA’S still painted on the wall, but half the letters are missin’.

I just stand there.

The stage ain’t there.

The bar’s a buncha cardboard boxes.

There’s racecars drawn on the wall in marker.

There’s Christmas lights hangin’ from the rafters.

There’s a cooler full of melted ice.

A throne.

I walk over to it.

It’s an office chair.

I stare at it.

Then I sit down.

I don’t know how long I stay there.

Minutes. Hours. Days.

I just sit.

And look around.

I built this.

Not the place from before.

No band.

No crowd.

No kingdom.

This.

This dead thing.

This empty room.

I built myself somewhere to go.

And I got there.

A laugh slips outta me.

Then another.

Then I’m bent forward in that office chair laughin’ so hard my ribs hurt.

I wipe my face.

I look ‘round.

I can’t ‘member comin’ here.

I can’t ‘member paintin’ the walls.

I can’t ‘member hangin’ the lights.

I can’t ‘member any of it.

I stand up.

I don’t wanna be here no more.

The flashlight’s shakin’ in my hand.

I walk on quakin’ feet towards the front door.

Then I stop.

‘Cause there’s somethin’ hangin’ over the cardboard bar.

I look up.

A belt.

The Universal Championship.

I stare at it.

Then I raise the flashlight.

It’s a hubcap.

Spray-painted gold.

I don’t make a sound.

I don’t reckon I’m breathin’.

I just stand there.

Then I blink.

I’m outside in the daylight.

I blink.

Night again.

I blink.

I’m on the roof.

I blink.

I’m in the alley.

I blink.

My hands are covered in dried blood.

I blink.

My phone says it’s Tuesday.

I blink.

I’m holdin’ a gun.

I blink.

I’m cryin’.

I blink.

I’m in a truck.

I blink.

I’m in the desert.

I blink.

There's a noose 'round my neck.

I blink.

I blink.

I blink.

I bli–

I–

–

VI

She’s sittin’ ‘cross from me.

Elaine. Smokin’ a cigarette.

I didn’t even know she smoked.

She’s already talkin’.

“What you’re experiencing isn’t a widely reported withdrawal symptom.”

We’re in a diner. I don’t know when we got here. I don’t even ‘member sittin’ down. But there’s a half-drank cup of coffee sittin’ in front of me. My hat’s sittin’ on the table beside it. Reckon that means we’ve been here a while.

Outside, headlights drift past the windows. Somewhere behind me, plates clatter together, but it all sounds a million miles away.

She’s starin’ at me. It ain’t concern; not exactly. It’s the way an engineer looks at a machine when a gear snaps and the whole goddang thing starts tearin’ itself to pieces from the inside out.

“What is the last thing you remember?” she asks.

“I don’t…” I bite at my lip, searchin’ my memories. “...I was in Nashville. I built a bar. A real big’un. Three whole stories. Right there on Broadway. Everybody was cheerin’ for me, Elaine. They was hollerin’ my name.”

She studies me, sittin’ her cigarette down in an ashtray ‘fore foldin’ her hands together on the table. I don’t reckon I’ve ever seen Elaine at a loss for words before. Usually, she’s got a chart or a graph or a theory. Some explanation with words too big for me to spell.

Tonight, she just sits there.

“Daytona,” she says. “You weren’t in Nashville.”

“But…I got the keys,” I mutter, fingers twitchin’ ‘gainst the formica table. “I…”

“I picked you up three hours ago,” she says. “In Philadelphia. You were standing in the dark inside an abandoned meatpacking plant, talking to an empty room.”

“That don’t… that don’t make any goddang sense, Elaine,” I say. “How’d you even find me…?”

“I received your voicemails,” she says. “My contacts track your phone. I flew in as soon as I could.”

“Why…?” I ask.

She looks down at that cigarette burnin’ ‘tween her fingers, tryna piece together what to say.

“Guilt,” she says. “This… wasn’t supposed to happen to you, Daytona. I do not know what this is anymore.”

“So, you're gonna fix me, right?” I ask. “Gimme a pill or a shot or somethin’?”

Elaine looks at me for a long time. The neon sign in the diner window buzzes; a low, irritated hum that vibrates right through my teeth. She exhales a long plume of smoke.

“It isn’t that easy,” she says. “I… don’t know how.”

And I reckon that scares the everlovin’ shit outta me ‘cause I ain’t never heard her not know somethin’ before.

“With Mingliang dissolved and research on ML-347 halted, my options are limited,” she explains. “And even if they weren’t, this is uncharted territory.”

“So… that’s it?” I ask. “I’m stuck like this…?”

“I…” she pauses, choosin’ her words. “I’ll reach out to some people. Former colleagues. Researchers. People smarter than me.”

“You know people smarter’n you…?”

That gets the tiniest twitch at the corner of her mouth. “Debatable.”

I laugh. She doesn’t.

“I cannot promise you treatment, Daytona,” she says. “But I can try.”

“That’s somethin, I guess.”

“That’s something.”

‘Fore the silence can settle over us again, she reaches into her purse and pulls out a pen. She tears a napkin from the holder and writes somethin’ on it. When she’s done, she slides it ‘cross the table. It says: WRITE THINGS DOWN.

“What’s that…?” I ask.

“You need anchors,” she says. “Your memory cannot be trusted right now, so you shouldn’t rely on it. Write down dates. Places. Conversations. Leave notes for yourself. If you wake up somewhere unfamiliar or begin forgetting things, read them.”

“You think that’ll help…?” I ask.

“It wouldn’t hurt,” she says.

I nod and fold the napkin, stickin’ it in my shirt pocket.

After a while, it’s just the two of us sittin’ there. She’s finishin’ her cigarette and it feels like we ain’t got much else to say, so I go ahead and ask the question chewin’ on the back of my brain.

“How’s Bambi…? And Talladega?”

She studies me for a long moment.

“We aren’t discussing them.”

“I was just askin’ if they’re–”

“We aren’t discussing them.”

She ain’t angry or mean. Just firm.

“I’m here because something is wrong with you,” she says softly. “I think we should focus on fixing that.”

“...right,” I say.

Neither one of us says nothin’ else after that. Eventually, Elaine crushes her cigarette out in the ashtray. When I look up, she’s standin’. I don’t ‘member her standin’. She puts her purse over her shoulder and studies me one last time.

“You should sleep,” she says. “You need rest.”

I nod as she turns and starts toward the door. ‘Bout halfway there, she stops and looks back over her shoulder at me.

“Oh,” she says. “And good luck with your matc–”

VII

Harsh lights and bloodthirsty fans. A cacophony of boos and strobe lights and “Free Bird” playin’ louder’n it’s got any right to. I’m already halfway down the ramp.

I don’t ‘member leavin’ the diner. Didn’t stand up, didn’t say goodbye to Elaine, didn’t walk outside or get in a car or check into a hotel or drive to the arena or sit in the locker room, waitin’ and waitin’ and waitin’ for my name to get called.

I’m just… here.

Ultraviolence.

I stop. Thousands and thousands of people are screamin’. Signs are wavin’ in the air. Fireworks burst somewhere overhead and smoke hangs ‘neath the lights like stormclouds. My wrists are taped. I don’t ‘member wrappin’ ‘em.

I make two fists.

They feel right.

I look toward the empty, waitin’ ring… and for the first time in what feels like forever, there ain’t a whole lot happenin’ in my head.

No honky-tonks or imaginary kingdoms.

Just this.

I don’t know who I am anymore.

I don’t know where I’ve been.

I don’t know what happened to all those lost days.

I don’t know if tomorrow I’ll remember any of this or if it’ll all disappear into an empty bliss beyond this world.

But I know this walk.

I know these lights.

I know this fight.

I let out a long breath, rollin' my shoulders and holdin' my chin up high. I let them boos wash over me like cool water.

And I start walkin’ again.

This time, I know where I’m goi–