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Because the Night

Bill Tope

    Patti Smith stood at the mic, dark hair falling over bare shoulders, leveraging tune after tune, much to the delight of her captive audience. She reached a crescendo by belting out “Because the Night,” which left everyone exhilarated, ecstatic and exhausted. Or in Dennis Garvey’s mind’s eye, at any rate. Dennis was—for the time being—president of Garvey Productions, a global entertainment enterprise which specialized in bringing the best to the most. Again, in his mind’s eye. In fact, Dennis Garvey was a temporary janitor at Southern Illinois University, with hopes of one day being elevated to the esteemed position of permanent custodian. But such are the things that dreams are made of.
    Garvey was twenty-three years old, although his birth certificate stipulated 1951 as the year of his christening. He had thrived in the age of bell bottom trousers, woven head bands, Led Zeppelin and Happy Days. He was discommoded when the rest of humanity didn’t hew to his own set of fantasies.
    Just now Dennis was cleaning the rec room in the basement of the Student Union, brandishing his dust mop with flair and abandon. Whenever his fellow workers wanted to get the most out of him, they discreetly slipped a dollar into the vintage jukebox and punched in any of Garvey’s one thousand favorite oldies; hence Patti Smith.
    Dennis Garvey was definitively in a time warp, with his music as with everything else. He could identify all the Moody Blues by name; knew that the Beatles were once called the Quarrymen; and knew that Steely Dan was not just one bloke. But, when asked what he thought of Adele’s latest album, or that of Beyonce or even Madonna, he’d reply, “Who?” Now he floated across the rec room in jeans covered with colorful patches which he had himself sewn on; his most recent girlfriend, who might normally have done so, dated back to 1972, the year before he had experienced his profound breakdown. That Asian war had been a nightmare in more ways than one.
    Having policed the room of debris and mopped the floor, Dennis set about wiping the surface of all the tables. Suddenly he stopped, looked down at the floor. Bending, he retrieved what looked to him like a soapstone pipe, just ideal for smoking opium, hashish, or what have you. He turned it over in his hands, indulging in excellent hallucinogenic memories of yesterday. He slipped the pipe between his lips and gripped it with his teeth, enjoying the solid feel of the material.
    Standing off to one side, unseen by Garvey, were Veneggi and Cornelli, two Italian-Americans who worked alongside Dennis and regularly made purposeful deposits into the jukebox. The pair had planted the pipe. Veneggi elbowed his brother and said,
    “Dennis. Where’d you get the pipe, Man?” Garvey started, swung about and hurriedly snatched the pipe from his mouth, acting very guilty.
    “Look, Dude,” exclaimed Cornelli, “the cops are on their way here! The Man: do you get it?” Garvey’s eyes protruded like bloodshot cocktail onions. Veneggi elbowed his partner in crime.
    “You gotta’ get rid of that shit, man. You can go to prison for a single joint, you know? That’s Menard; hard time, guy!” Dennis, still living in the context of five decades ago, believed this to be true. In a frenzy, Garvey hid the pipe in one large fist. Cornelli shook his head no.
    “No, Dennis, you gotta get rid of it!” Breathing heavily now, Garvey stuffed the pipe into an already overflowing trash receptacle. The men could hardly contain themselves.
    “That’s the first place they’ll look,” countered one of them. “Quick, out the window.” With that thought in mind, Garvey lifted the big trash can and tossed it bodily through one of the huge 6 X 8 foot glass panels, whereupon the glass exploded with a deafening crash. The other men were rolling in the aisles now; this had gone much better than they would ever have anticipated. Dennis Garvey stood there, stark raving mad. Veneggi added, “And no witnesses, man, you gotta’ get rid of the witnesses!” His partner looked at him questioningly and he whjispered, “Hey, this guy is so scrrewed up, maybe he’ll buy us off, give us a few bucks.” The other man nodded avidly. A look of decisiveness came over Garvey and, reaching into the rear of his waistband he pulled out a huge, menacing black revolver. The other men just stared. Pulling back the hammer, Dennis Garvey shot first Veneggi and then Cormell, in the center of their foreheads.
    All at once calm seemed to suffuse the old man. He heaved a great sigh of relief, replaced the firearm where he’d kept it. And taking up a dustpan affixed to the end of a wooden handle, began quietly sweeping up the shards of glass, glad to be back home again. Without having been touched, the jukebox began playing “Because the Night” once again.

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