Robby Jones is a blues guitarist who plays regularly at the Black Dog Pub. He is still grieving the death of his wife, who was killed by a drunk driver while coming to one of his shows over a year ago. Robby blames himself for insisting she come. At the Pub, Robby plays an intimate solo set of delta blues for the friendly Thursday night crowd. After his set, Robby drives to his cottage in Cape Cod, where memories of his late wife are all around. He struggles with intense guilt and grief over her death.

1. Nathan Hevenstone
Creative Writing
Ms. Schachner
Rachel
Robby Jones sat on the stage of the Black Dog Pub, watching hands smack each
other in the air. He had been quite shocked at the turnout. He never thought delta blues
was this popular today. But then again, Robby knew why they had come. It wasn’t
because of the delta blues, it was because of him. When he had come back to the Pub
after touring around with one of the new-age punk bands he loathed, he started having a
turn-out he never had before. This large, dank pub just barely fit all the drunkards, fools,
and hopeful fangirls that wanted to see him. People said he was the best guitarist of the
day (though he was quick to disagree). He could play it all, from Bukkah White to
Audioslave, and everything in between. When playing band songs and white-man blues,
he had a backing band, and that usually included a singer, especially if he was doing Led
Zeppelin, since some of those notes he just couldn’t hit. Not that Robby liked playing
with backing bands, but certain group music just sucked to him without the whole
shebang.
Tonight, however, he was doing one-man stuff. He had wanted tonight to be
intimate, because he knew the crowd. It was Thursday. The pub’s Thursday crowd was
always the intimate crowd. While it was the largest crowd, they were the friendliest.
These were the homegrown people. These were New England’s nice people. These were
the people New Yorker’s were ashamed of. Robby loved these people. They were
content to sit back, drink their beer slow, and listen. Most of the girls were beautiful,
yeah, but this was the only crowd where the girls weren’t umpteen-year-olds hoping to be
taken to Robby’s bed. Robby liked this crowd because he was most like them. In New
York and those places he was always told he was too nice to be from New England. He

2. had to be a Southern wannabe. And he was damn proud of it. So for his favorite
listeners, he played the most intimate form of music he knew, Delta Blues.
As they cheered for him, Robby’s mind wandered to the memory of his wife, as it
always did since she had died. During the last night he had toured with one of the punk
bands (he couldn’t remember which, not that he cared), his wife, while driving to see him
play a show, had been killed by a drunk driver going to see him play the same show.
Robby had felt responsible (still did even now). His wife hadn’t wanted to come, but he
had needed the support that night. He had begged her to come. He had been unable to go
on that night after finding out. The damn singer of the punk band had told him to get
over it and get on stage. Robby probably shouldn’t have broken the singer’s nose before
the singer had gone on stage, but he deserved it, and it had made Robby feel a little
better, at least for that moment.
The sudden stop of the cheering brought Robby back into reality. He looked
around at the crowd. They were looking at him expectantly. He had wanted to end the
night there, but they obviously wanted another song. So Robby spoke into his mike.
“I intended to finish this here, but I’ll give all of you one more, seeing as how
you’ve all been so great. So here goes one more. A little blues song by an obscure artist
about losing someone you love.”
It was a short song, but Robby sang it with all his heart. When he finished, the
crowd erupted into cheers again. He looked at the tables closest to the stage, and noticed
a couple women in front crying. He had touched them. He was happy. Well, as happy
as he could be.

3. “Good night, everyone,” Robby said into the mike. “I have to go away for a little
while, but I will definitely be back.”
As he got off the stage, his favorite waitress, Sandy, walked over with his check.
“You’re real soulful when you play, Robby.”
“Thanks, Sandy. How’s school?”
“It’s good, thanks for askin’.” Sandy was studying to be a nurse. Robby envied
her for having her life set in stone.
“Well, I best be goin’ Sandy. I gotta early mornin’.”
“Catchin’ that train, after all, huh?”
“I’m drivin’.”
“That’s right, you finally got you’re car workin’.”
“Yeah. Well, have a great night, Sandy.”
“You, too.”
Robby started to pass Sandy, but she grabbed his arm. “You gonna be all right,
man?”
“I’ll be fine, Sandy.”
“Robby… call me, okay? Talk to me. Let me help if I can.”
“Sure,” said Robby. He would, just not as soon as she’d like.
Robby clasped her hand, and then moved towards the door of the Pub. He passed
Debra on the way out, and waved. She and a few others waved back. He headed towards
the door, where he said goodbye to the head bouncer, J.Z. He was a tall, scruffy man,
and very strong. Robby was ashamed to admit he was rather scared of the guy, so he kept
on his good side.

4. Robby walked out into the street, passing other customers on their way in. He
waved to John “Jagged” Mayall, John’s girlfriend Sarah, and Nigel Leons, three British
people who were always good for a laugh, or, in John’s case, a bar-fight, before finally
getting in his car and leaving the Pub behind. He watched it disappear in the distance
through his rearview mirror. He was going back to the cottage in Cape Cod. The place
was his solitude. He could think freely there.
Before he looked back at the road, Robby studied his face in the rearview mirror.
He had shaved this morning, but his facial hair grew quick. Too quick. If he let it go
three more days he would have a full beard and mustache again. He contemplated for a
moment, and decided he’d let it grow, but he’d keep it trimmed. He didn’t like looking
wild. But his eyes didn’t help that. He hated his eyes. Sandy always found them
captivating. They were hazel, but there was a fire there. A wild fire, too. That’s what he
hated. He always looked hungry for something. He always thought his wild eyes made
him a look like a killer, which, as far as Robby was concerned, was true. He should have
never insisted his wife come. He may as well have killed her.
Robby pulled into a gas station to get some gas and a couple cans of Amp. He
had a five-hour drive ahead of him, so he needed to be alert. He pulled in, turned off his
car, got out, and, ignoring the smell of gasoline, walked into the station. He grabbed his
Amp, went to cashier, and paid with cash. He decided to use his card to get the gas. He
walked out to pump, put in his car, chose unledded, and began to fill up his tank. As it
filled, Robby looked out at the street. It was dark, but there were lots of lights. Hundreds
of cars passed. Robby watched as he saw one familiar car drive by in slow motion.

5. It was him and his wife. She was laughing. He was telling her a joke. It was a
parrot joke. She had loved parrot jokes. They were her favorite because they were the
funniest. And Robby had agreed with that. He loved parrot jokes, too.
The sound of the gas pump stopping brought him back to reality. The car he saw
he and his wife in passed by, the couple he didn’t recognize laughing over something he
didn’t know. He had the machine print his receipt, closed up the gas tank, got in his car,
and drove off. He opened a can of Amp, put Led Zeppelin II in the CD player, and let
himself drive. The five hours went by instantly, and he was at his cottage.
He had not gotten one of those secluded, in-the-middle-of-nowhere cottages. His
wife had seen a for-sale add for a sort of double-cottage on Sweetbriar Drive in Chatham.
The larger of the two was called the Mariner, and the smaller was called the Surfer. They
were connected by a nice patio. He had told her no, but he bought the cottage as an
Anniversary gift. She never knew it, though, because she had died the night before their
anniversary, when he meant to take her there as a surprise. He had still gone, and had put
a picture of his wife in the family room of the Mariner.
“Here you are, sweetie,” he had said. “I got it after all. I hope you’re happy with
it. I hope you like it.” Then he had cried. For hours.
Robby got out of his car and picked up his guitar from the back seat. At that
moment he saw Kathy, a selfish, funny, typical 16-year-old girl roller-blading towards
him.
“Hey, picker!”
“Hello, Kathy.”
“How many times do I have to tell you? It’s Kay.”

6. “And how many times to I have to tell you? It’s not picker.”
“Why am I supposed to care?”
“Oh, that’s right. I forgot. You’re 16. It’s all about you. How long you been
here?
“Since summer started.”
“It’s over soon, though.”
“Yeah, soon. Then back off to stupid school. Hey, see you around. I got
somewhere to go.” Kathy bladed on past him. Robby smiled, shook his head, and
walked on. From the cottage behind him, called The Tower by it’s owners, The
Henderson’s, who were renting the Tower, called his name and waved. He waved back,
but sped up just a little. He didn’t want to talk to them. They were newlyweds. Last
time they were here on their honey-moon. They must have really loved it, because they
were back. They were happy. They were together. And he doubted tragedy would strike
them, such good, honest, upstanding people. Robby hated them.
Robby walked quickly up to the Mariner. It wasn’t that big, but it was peaceful.
The patio in front was a light blue color with white rails. Both of the cottages were
white, with the exception of the outside of the living room area of the Mariner, which was
just its natural, wooden color. He walked onto the patio and into the mariner, walking
right in to the kitchen. He cooked and ate here, and the main bathroom was in here as
well. There were two bedrooms on his right. He preferred the one towards the back of
the cottage, because it got darker at night in there.

7. Robby brought his guitar to the front bedroom, where he kept his summer clothes
and belongings, and many music books, when his cell phone vibrated. He answered it
without bothering to see who it was.
“Hello?”
“Robby? Hi. It’s Sandy.”
“Did I leave something at the pub?”
“Of course not. You never do.”
“Then why…”
“I can’t call just to say hi?”
“Of course… I mean… you know… I…”
“That‘s okay. Are you at your cottage?”
“Yeah.”
“And you get service out there?”
“I have Cingular. You know, more bars, more places?”
“Raising the bar. Guess you would get service in Chatham with them. So, how
are you feeling?”
“Well, besides how I felt at the Pub?”
Sandy laughed. “Yes.”
“You know. It’s been a long day, and a long tour. I’m--”
“Tired, I figured.”
“Yeah.”
“You looked it. You sound it, now. You gonna get some sleep?”
“No. I can’t.”

8. “How come?”
“Oh, you know… I just… I can’t get over it.”
He heard Sandy sigh. “So you blame yourself?”
“I had insisted she come. She didn’t want to.”
“And you knew she would get hit how?’
“I don’t understand.”
“Come on. Of course you do. It’s simple. You needed her there. You wanted
her there. You couldn’t have known she’d be hit. And neither could she.”
“Maybe she should have refused.”
“Now you’re blamin’ her?
“No! Of course not! It wasn’t her fault.”
“And it wasn’t yours, either.”
“Sandy--“
“Do you know who’s fault it was, Robby? It was the drunk driver’s. I mean, he
tried to run, Robby, remember? Isn’t that what your letter said?”
“Yeah…”
“Blame him. Okay? Blame him. And let the law take care of him.”
“I shouldn’t have--“
“Stop it. It wasn’t your fault. It will never be your fault. And I’m pretty sure
your wife would be angry with you for moping around blaming yourself.”
“How would you know? My wife is dead. Gonna be kinda hard to know she’d
feel.”
“Don’t be like that.”

9. “Then quit tryin’ to me how my dead wife would feel!”
Robby hung up the phone.
“She was crazy if she thought she could presume what my wife would feel,”
Robby thought to himself. “Damn Sandy. Always makin’ damn presumptions. How
could she even think to know what my dead wife would feel?”
Robby decided Sandy was right about one thing, though. He needed sleep.
Robby walked into the back room, and laid down on the bed. He decided he needed to
call Sandy back and apologize, but it could wait for the next day. He stayed awake for a
couple hours, counting the tiles in the ceiling, until he finally fell asleep.
Robby spent most of the next morning on the couch in the family room with the
TV on. The picture of his wife was on top of the TV. He did everything he could to keep
from looking at it. He continually flipped through the channels looking for something,
until he heard some background music playing on an old episode of “Walker: Texas
Ranger.” Walker was looking at the picture of a woman, and there was some slow, sad
music playing in the background. He listened for a minute before turning off the TV,
getting up, and going in through the kitchen to the front bedroom to get his guitar. He
then brought it back into the family room. He sat in a chair just in front of the now blank
TV, and looked at the picture of his wife. He started to play. He wasn’t sure why what
he heard had made him want to do this, but it did, so he played, to his wife.
Like the music on the show, what Robby played was slow and sad. As he played,
he thought about his wife. He thought about how she laughed, and how it was so
infectious. She could light up a room with her laugh. He thought about her soft, soothing

10. voice, and about all the times her voice had enticed him to bed. He thought about how
she used to just sit in his lap when he was upset, sad, or angry, and just her warmth, her
weight, would make him feel better.
He remembered how they had never fought a lot, but when they did, they were
always quick to apologize. He remembered how they would always get along. They
were compliments of each other, Robby and his wife. She had been his best friend for
several years before he asked her out. It took two more years before he asked her to
marry him. Then they got married and lived happily together for a year and a half. Then
she had been killed.
He had been so excited about that one night. Granted, he had been opening for a
crappy new-age punk band, but he was at his height. And that night, an agent was at the
show, looking for fresh talent. He had wanted his wife at that show to support him, just
in case the agent had wanted him. Plus, he hadn’t seen his wife for over two weeks, and
he had been looking forward to seeing her again. When they talked on the phone, she
had said that she didn’t want to go. She had said she wasn’t feeling that great, but she
would have a surprise for him when he got home. He had insisted, telling her an agent
was in the audience and he couldn’t wait any longer to see her. So she gave in.
Robby now wished he hadn’t insisted. He remembered being told by the police
ten minutes before he was to go on that his wife had been hit by a drunk driver. She had
still been alive and kept asking for him. He couldn’t believe it. He was so angry by the
news that, at the last minute, agent or no agent, he had refused to go on. The lead singer
of the headlining act had been rather rude.

11. “Dude. Fuck your wife. You’re being paid to go on. Get your ass on stage and
quit being a puss. You can see her after you finished.”
“My wife may be dead by the time I’m done, asshole,” Robby had responded
angrily.
“Mourn after your fucking set, then.”
Robby had punched the guy in the face and broken his nose. A couple cops went
to grab him, but he got out of their way and ran out of the stadium. He got in his car and
drove to the place where the crash had occurred, less than half a mile from the stadium.
A man, the drunk driver, Robby had presumed, was in hand-cuffs, and had been trying
everything to get away, to no avail. Robby had ignored the driver and ran over to where
his wife was in a stretcher. She had still been alive, but barely. He had started crying
when he saw her.
“I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. I should have never asked you to come. I love
you. I love you. Stay with me, please? Stay with me.”
She had opened her mouth to try and say something, but nothing came out. She
had looked awful. She had been completely wrapped in bandages, and they were already
dark red from blood. He face was horribly bruised and cut. And her leg, he could see by
the foot, had been turned in the opposite of its normal direction. He had begged the
doctors to let him ride with her on the way to the hospital, and they agreed. Robby and
his wife had held hands on the ride, but she had died on the way there.
Now, back in the cottage, Robby’s playing on the guitar turned slower, darker,
and more menacing as tears welled up in his eyes. He looked at the photo of his wife
above the cottage’s TV. Why didn’t he kill himself the night she died? Why did he

12. agree, one week, later, to playing at the Black Dog for three weeks before coming to
Chatham? Why did he keep going?
In the photo, Robby’s wife was smiling. She was happy. She had no idea she
was going to die a little under a year later. But Robby began to realize something as he
looked at her photo. His wife had supported him through his music. She had never
wavered in her support of him or her love for him. She was by his side as much as she
could be. And she told him to go on.
As Robby remembered that, he realized why he kept going. He kept going for
her. It wasn’t fair to his wife that he give up. Sandy was right. Robby’s wife wanted
him to go on. Robby had to go on. He had to keep going. He had to move on. He had
to live his life, for both of them. He had to live for the child they never had. He had to
do it all for her. He had to go on. That’s what would make her happy.
As Robby thought about this, his guitar-playing changed. It became faster, more
upbeat, and happier. He stopped crying and began to smile. He began to memorize what
he was playing. This was it. He would write the lyrics later, if there would be any. But
this was it. His wife was giving him what he needed. Not the song; the hope. The want
to continue. The need to go on.
“Thank you, my love,” said Robby to the picture of his wife as he continued to
play. “I understand. This one is for you. This song is you, my wife. This song is
Rachel.”