by Reed Turchi
Listen: I’m tired of re-telling this. The glass
begins to crack, but does not give. This was Midtown,
Memphis, & back then night sessions went til 6am,
day-shifts starting up at seven, so after long nights
in the studio we’d step out to a low-red sun & watch
pairs of cargo planes descend. “Jared”
was the night-guy’s name —paid minimally
to make sure the fire door didn’t get propped
open, to fan out smoke from the control rooms,
to spray fresh beginnings in the bathroom.
Mid 30’s, a baby face that camouflaged
the life he’d left in Arkansas. I mostly passed
him in the hall, but he’d call out when he’d
learned some new nuance of guitar —
would say hey, check this out, & demonstrate
how re-voicing chords of “Ring of Fire”
could lead to some new & half-familiar thing.
cool, I’d say, & get back to whatever I was doing —
there were plenty of distractions then,
the studio owner himself pre-occupied…
Eventually I left the studio, left Memphis,
& for a while my life became much quieter,
living in some shared room a few hundred
miles away. One night, I was red-dot notified
Jared was “going live.” And now? What do I describe?
The video? No longer there. Or what I learned
& spliced together later? Jared had stopped
taking his medication, & had broken up with
his girlfriend, who’d filed, that morning,
a restraining order. The video is dark & blurry —
Jared’s phone, in selfie-mode, is propped up
in some parking lot — somewhere outside a bar —
a light begins to glow a short distance away
& now dark blurs come crowding across
the frame — pushing towards a doorway —
Jared’s phone falls upside down & I crane
my neck to figure out what’s going on —
the light on the screen is growing — glowing
& now too bright & have you seen the calm
of self-immolating monks? This is not
like that at all. Jared has doused himself
in gasoline. He is thrashing. Burning. Overcome.
Later, I learn your muscles stop responding
while your body can still feel. Jared is up
& stumbling towards the door, is no
longer human, shaped into one rising flame.
Later, I learn this is where his now ex-girlfriend
works. Later, I learn how her palms burn
as she presses back against the presence
at the glass. The glass begins to crack,
but does not give. Jared collapses a final time,
& flashing lights come swirling in & it’s impossible
to make out anything — Jared’s phone is tipped,
or kicked, & points straight up into the stars.
Back then, we’d step out into the parking lot,
light one more joint, then head back in
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