Y THE END of this, you’ll probably wonder why I stuck around after the wedding, and I wouldn’t blame you. Two days ago, I would’ve thought the same thing: that only a complete moron would be where I’m at now, gazing at the wine glass in front of me, blood pooling onto my lap.
The gig was a surprise from the start. For several years, I’d been busking in Spokane and didn’t have much to show for it. The Knitting Factory was a fun place, but the pay was shit and the crowds were nothing but unwashed emo kids and dopeheads thinking they were about to get a heavy metal show. Nope—just me, my guitar, and sometimes a harmonica (before I lost it).
Spokane really was the Portland, Oregon of Washington State, weirdos and druggies; I got sick of it and hitch-hiked my way to Seattle, the Emerald City, its promises and dreams glinting like distant firelight in my mind. That was the place to be, man. The golden ticket.
Along the way, though, I stopped through a small town in Central Washington, just before you start zig-zagging through the Cascade Mountains. The town lingered in a dense, foggy forest—like something out of Twilight—and it was called Brumark, a Scandinavian name which fit the place like a glove: brick buildings, log cabins, a pointy church, a nondescript school.
There was also the Rusty Screw, its single drinking establishment.
‘Get a load of this guy,’ the bartender said as I walked in on a cold autumn evening.
When the Uber driver dropped me off, he said that, although it was the only place to drink in Brumark, it was better than nothing. It had a real character about it—the kind of place you’d see a cowboy stumble through in an old movie, with ragtime piano music blaring in the background then stopping with a record scratch as the bearded, Dave van Ronk-looking homeless guy staggers in and asks if he can play some tunes.
‘Just for a few bucks, that’s all. I’m headed west,’ I said.
The bartender was a thin woman with an aquiline face and a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. She coughed and said, ‘Go ahead, knock yourself out. Entertain us.’
I smiled and grabbed one of the barstools. The smell of cigarettes drifted through the joint like bad news. I slipped the battered guitar from its case, sat on the stool, and played my heart out like I always do. First, ‘Don’t Think Twice It’s All Right,’ then ‘Chelsea Hotel 2,’ then one of my originals, ‘That Crying Coast.’
By the end of it, the lady with the cigarette was streaming tears. ‘God, that was beautiful.’
‘That’s what they say,’ I said, zipping up the guitar in its case.
I was about to leave and wander toward a hotel or hitch another ride, then she stopped me by saying, ‘Hey man, my cousin’s getting married tomorrow and they couldn’t get anybody to DJ or play music or nothing. The one guy they got bailed out. She’s real upset about it, and I think maybe they’d dig your vibe. Could be a good gig while you’re in town.’
I got the groom’s number and called him not even twenty minutes later as I wandered through town. It would be my first wedding gig, and if I was lucky, these people might be desperate and loaded with cash. I couldn’t wait.
‘Listen, I don’t care if you’re Luciano Pavarotti or Taylor fucking Swift,’ the groom said. ‘We need somebody, or I’ll never hear the end of it from my girl until we divorce or end up in a retirement home. My dad’s got $2,500 left in the bank—deal?’
I probably looked like a druggie who’d just shot up and entered into hyperspace because my jaw dropped and chattered. I spit the words out. ‘Y-y-yes! Yeah, man! Sounds good!’
‘Frostholt Chapel. Be there tomorrow, by 4:00 at the latest. You won’t miss it. It’s the only church in town.’
‘Awesome, I’ll be there and thanks by the w—’
He hung up, and I stood in the middle of the sidewalk outside the Rusty Screw and wanted to scream with joy. No more sweaty weirdos or coked out-nutcases. A real, honest-to-goodness audience—a major gig for major money, dough that would last me a whole month in Seattle.
I practically skipped down the street and made my way to Frostholt Chapel. I didn’t have money for a hotel, so hopefully nobody would mind me crashing there. Small-town churches like that are always open and friendly, right? Perhaps, I’d finally found a crowd that suited me, one that really wanted to listen to more than just noise.
Frostholt Chapel was unlocked, if you can believe it. But I suppose small towns like this aren’t too worried about anybody breaking in. What is there to steal…toilet paper? Bibles? Communion wafers?
I settled my aching bones on one of the benches lined across the sanctuary and fell asleep. When you’re a travelling musician like me, you get used to hard sleeps. You wake up the next morning feeling worse than before, but you take the wins where you can find them; any sleep is better than no sleep.
That morning, I woke to the sound of voices chattering like distant TV noise. They were mumbling about me, the strange man sleeping in the pews. Sunlight rays poured through the tall windows and hit my face. I blinked open my eyes to see the tall, handsome Jimmy Stewart lookalike standing in front me. His face was young and old at the same time, like he’d stepped through a time machine. He wore a clean white shirt and his cheeks were baby-smooth.
‘You’re…the musician. Right?’
I coughed and shook my arms awake. ‘Yeah, what’s up?’
‘Randy Hicks.’ He held out his hand, either to shake mine or pull me out of my slumber. ‘I’m the pastor. Welcome to Brumark.’
‘Joe Stark,’ I said, shaking his hand. ‘When’s it start?’
‘Everyone’s coming in at around 7:30.’
I shook my head like a wet dog. ‘What time is it?’
‘It’s 9 o’clock.’
‘But—hold on. You mean 7:30 pm?’
Randy nodded, hands on hips. ‘Don’t ask me. They wanted a late wedding. Who am I to judge? I’m just here to say the magic words and get it over with.’
I sat up, wiped the gunk out of my eyes, and said, ‘You don’t know ‘em?’
‘Nobody does. Said they liked the church and felt it was perfect for their special day.’
Looking around at the quaint sanctuary, now fully lit by the morning sun, I said, ‘Yeah, it’s real cute.’
A wedding that starts at 7:30? The sun would be down by then. Whoever these folks were, they were asking for a wild night, especially if drinks were involved.
And there were drinks, alright; the caterers came in an hour later and set up the tables while I tuned my guitar. Near the back of the sanctuary, they lined endless bottles of red wine and placed innumerable glasses across the pews.
The bottles were a hazy green, and inside them the liquid was dark.
Too dark, it seemed. But wine always looks black inside the bottle, doesn’t it?
The usual suspects filtered in throughout the day—more catering crew, the wedding planner, Pastor Randy, and a smattering of friends—but no bride or groom.
‘Where they at?’ I finally asked Pastor Randy.
‘No idea,’ he said, as he helped roll out red carpet between the aisles.
‘No way!’ somebody shouted. ‘Joey?’
I turned to see a young woman in a tight yellow skirt hobbling toward me from the lobby. ‘Joe Stark?’
Though evening approached and dimmed the sanctuary, I saw her face clearly. It was Linda Hartford—my high school sweetheart. ‘Small world, my God. It’s a small world,’ she said.
She hugged me without permission, like I was just as excited to reunite, but I wasn’t. Linda broke my goddamn heart when I was seventeen by sleeping around with four other guys at once, all football players. The glitzy blonde hugging me now was the subject of too many songs to count, and I don’t even think she knew. But I’m a polite guy at the end of the day—scruffy and broke, but polite.
‘Hey, Linda, who’re you here for?’
‘The bride! Clarissa was a coworker of mine at the agency for years, before the company shuttered. You remember?’
I had shut out everything regarding Linda years ago. I had no idea what she was talking about, but I played along. ‘Yeah! Yeah, that’s right.’
That moment, seeing somebody I used to know and hate, shocked me into realising just what the hell was going on. Here I was, in a place I’d never been, about to play music for people I didn’t know, participating in the most sacred and important night of their lives. And of course, Linda Hartford had to be here—of all people.
$2,500. The number swirled around in the back of my head like a fading dream. Just push through, play the songs, smile and wave, get the money and run.
‘I love your songs, by the way.’
‘Oh, thanks,’ I said, scratching my beard and looking anywhere but her face.
‘Two thousand streams on Spotify, that’s crazy!’
‘Linda, that’s nothing.’ I stepped backward an inch or so.
She stepped closer. ‘Something is better than nothing!’
‘Well, I guess you take the wins when you can,’ I said, but feeling like I’d lost something and didn’t know what.
7:00 pm arrived with sparkling dresses, clean-pressed tuxedos, and many glasses of that dark, red wine. Chitter, chatter, and yelps. Laughs, guffaws, snorts, coughs, and polite conversation. Old buddies and new friends. Finally, the groom bounded in through the lobby, shaking hands and flashing pearly white teeth. His black hair was slicked back in a 1940s vintage cut, and his cheekbones jutted out of his face as if it were a canyon with peaks and valleys.
I watched as he played up the arriving guests, joking around and keeping the spirits high. A young kid tried to take a selfie with him, but the groom shoved him away and said, ‘No, no. No phones tonight. Live in the moment!’
After a lot of absentminded handshakes and hellos, he came to me and shook my hand. ‘You’re the guy, right?’
‘Yes sir,’ I said and tried to flash a half-hearted smile. I sealed my lips quick, though. My teeth hadn’t been brushed in several days. ‘We spoke on the phone.’
‘Damn right we did! Thank you so much, man. And it’s Joe Stark, right?’
I let go of his hand, not realising that we’d been shaking for that long. ‘How’d you know?’
‘Linda told me! I had no idea we had a real celebrity here.’
‘I’m not a—’
‘You know any Mt. Joy or Bon Iver? You know, folksy stuff?’
‘Well, I’m a folk musician, that’s my thing, but I don’t know any—’
‘Fantastic!’ He grabbed my shoulders and shook me like I was a dog toy. ‘Go ahead and set up, begin playing something nice and soft, no singing just yet. After the kiss and the cheering and all that, you can play something with lyrics, whatever you like, as long as it’s got that indie-folk flavour. No offense, but I hate that shit. I’m doing it for my wife, okay? Whole reason we’re even in this weird town is because it reminded her of Twilight and she wants the music to fit the vibe.’
I wanted to laugh, joke around, become pals, but he interrupted me again with: ‘I’ll get you the money when it’s over, by the end of the night, I promise.’
‘But—’
‘Just play. Go! Have fun!’
When he walked away and schmoozed with more guests, including Linda Hartford (who gave him those familiar, desperate puppy-dog eyes), I registered what put me off about him the moment he arrived. I thought about it as we shook hands; I noticed it even more when his sharp eyes looked into mine with feverish excitement.
He was ghostly pale, like a walking corpse.
Before everything went to hell, there was a moment when I finally felt like the dominos of my life were falling into place. It’s the same feeling you get star-gazing in a country field, where the sky seems impossibly enormous but somehow private, like it’s just you, the vastness of space, and nothing else. I was finger-picking some chords and melodies, most of it improvised. My fingers moved on their own, like music poured out of me from some unknown cavern in my soul. Maybe it was Linda Hartford drudging up pushed-down memories of love—flashes of lips kissing and arms touching, secrets shared and hearts thumping. Or, maybe I’d finally found the right audience. Because they weren’t really paying attention to me; it wasn’t about me. It was about the bride and groom, who were nameless to me but loved by everyone in attendance.
Earlier, Pastor Randy Hicks seemed like this was another day on the job, like he didn’t really care. But man, he was good at his job. He spoke the words with such reverence, solemnity, and gravitas, you’d swear he’d known those folks his whole life.
The faces in the crowd watched with abundant glee, gripping their wine glasses and toasting when Pastor Randy announced: ‘You may kiss the bride.’
Cheers, whoops, and an ‘Atta boy!’ bounced through the sanctuary. Outside, darkness bathed Brumark, but inside the church, warm lights sparkled and glowed.
What a special night I wandered into.
But there was still the dark red of the wine, Linda’s ecstatic hug, the groom’s pale face…it all hung over me, encroaching upon the music with a slipped finger, a missed note, a bad strum.
And now, I noticed something else. On the tall windows adorning each side of the sanctuary, I saw the reflections of the strung-up lights and the guests standing together. My eyes trailed across the reflection until it came to a hazy image of the stage, where I saw Pastor Randy’s smiling face.
But I did not see the bride or the groom. In the reflection, the stage was empty.
My heart started beating faster, throwing my rhythm off even more.
It’s just a weird trick of the light, I thought. Bad night of sleep messing with your vision.
I almost stopped playing when I saw them kiss. It was passionate, for sure, but there was no better word for it than erotic. If they hadn’t stopped, they would have torn each other’s clothes off. The way the bride inched her mouth ever closer down the groom’s neck—it was like foreplay. But the attendees ate it up, hollering and whistling. Maybe these were some kinky folks, I don’t know. It was weird, no doubt, but like the pastor said, who was I to judge?
So, I kept playing through the ceremony. I expected the bride and groom to walk down the aisle, more cheering and more tears, but instead the groom turned to the crowd and said, ‘Thank you all so much for being here. Clarissa and I want you to know how much we love and appreciate every single one of you, even those we’ve just met.’
He glanced at me. I smiled.
‘This is the greatest night of our lives already, and we’ve only just begun.’
A sheepish grin spread across the bride’s face, like she was holding back a dirty joke.
‘Now, we drink!’
Everyone raised their glasses, then sipped in unison.
‘Drink! Drink! Drink!’ the groom shouted. His white teeth gleamed and his black hair glistened. He gave me another look and a nod before they walked down the aisle toward the lobby. I nodded back and began playing songs, whatever I could think of.
In truth, I don’t remember much of what I played. It was all a blur.
Because by the end of the third song, the screaming had begun.
First, it was Linda Hartford. It had to be her, of course. Her presence loomed over me the whole night, and it was only fitting she would be the first to participate in the grisly game. Bride and groom walked briskly hand-in-hand toward her. Linda was downing her glass of wine when the groom yanked her wrist and pulled it away.
For a moment, her eyes bulged like a pug. Then, she screamed.
Out of the groom’s mouth arose sharp teeth. Even that far back, near the corner of the sanctuary, I saw those oral weapons clear as day. They slid out of his mouth like filed-down popsicle sticks—two front teeth reaching over his bottom lip. The black inside of his mouth contrasted with the paleness of his gaunt face.
When the biting began, Linda’s scream stopped abruptly, and her eyes relaxed. The sound reminded me of the time I tried chewing ten sticks of gum at once. Slosh…slosh…slosh. Blood trailed down Linda’s neck, and it looked so much like that wine, so much so that I wanted to close my eyes and pray I’d wake up from that hard bench again, only to find this was some terrible nightmare, that it wasn’t real.
But it was real. My ex-girlfriend’s neck was shining red, and the groom—a man I’d just met only moments ago—was chewing on her like she was tough steak.
I stopped playing and in the resulting silence, I expected more screams, more terror.
But there wasn’t any screaming at all. In fact, there were more cheers, more laughter.
‘Drink! Drink! Drink!’ the crowd shouted together. ‘Drink! Drink! Drink!’
A dissonant twang of strings echoed from my guitar falling to the floor.
The bride swivelled to me and flashed another dastardly smile. ‘Keep playing! The fun is just getting started!’ Now, sharp popsicle-stick teeth were elongating out her mouth too, and she bent over to the other side of Linda’s neck and joined her husband in the feasting.
I looked at Pastor Randy; his mouth gaped open and his eyes looked dead, as if he were to pass out at any second. ‘Call the police, man!’ I said.
He didn’t look back. He didn’t hear me, like he was trapped in some liminal space, in his own nightmare.
The groom gurgled Linda’s blood, swallowed, and said, ‘Now, now, don’t ruin our special night! Drink! Drink! Drink!’
The chants continued, louder and louder, until it was like the buzz of flies or the white noise of a dead radio channel blaring through old speakers. ‘DRINK! DRINK! DRINK! DRINK!’
Pastor Randy fell to his knees and covered his ears. ‘I—I—I can’t do blood. Blood, violence. I can’t do it. It’s too much!’ He jumped up from the floor and wailed like he’d seen a ghost. ‘It’s too much! It’s so much blood!’
His feet pounded against the red carpet as he slipped through the aisles and to the lobby, a whoosh of air flying past me. He screamed the whole way out. Beyond the church, I still heard his cries floating through the night air.
I was ready to join him, but I saw my guitar and quickly picked it up. I couldn’t leave her behind; she’d been with me longer than anyone, longer than Linda Hartford.
‘Keep playing! Come on!’ the bride said, blood dripping from her mouth. ‘More! More!’
Then, the crowds began to chant another word. ‘Play! Play! Play!’
In between those shouts, there was more, ‘Drink! Drink! Drink!’
‘Drink! Play! Drink! Play!’
My heart was ready to crawl out of my chest, playing to the beat of its own drum. Thud-thud-thud. ‘Shut up! Shut the fuck up!’
Everyone was drinking and yelping and laughing, tilting their heads back and pouring the dark liquid down their throats like motor oil.
‘Shut up!’ I said again.
My feet carried me toward the lobby doors. I wasn’t even thinking at that point, only reacting. Before I could make my way through, two men arrived to shut the doors. They stood in front of it like bouncers at a strip club, shaking their heads with vicious grins.
Other guys wouldn’t admit this, but I have to tell you: I was crying now, damn near sobbing. I wiped the tears from my cheeks. I couldn’t even tell you why I was crying. Maybe it was fear, maybe it was seeing my first true love covered in blood, maybe it was being trapped in a room full of strangers chanting like we were playing some kind of sick sports game.
Whatever it was, it made me never want to pick up a guitar again.
Just when I’d finally found the right gig and the perfect audience, it all came crashing down. The weight of everything—those bizarre glances, white teeth, pale faces, that red wine, that invisible bride and groom in the window—it battered my soul into submission until I was on my knees begging for it to stop.
‘Please! Please, let me go! I don’t need the money, man! I don’t! I’m gone! I won’t say anything!’
Two warm hands grasped my shoulders.
I heard the groom’s voice, buzzing and deep. ‘Please, just drink.’
In front of me, the bride’s white legs danced gracefully under her dress. I looked up and saw her horrible grin and the wine glass she held, full of blood.
‘Drink,’ she said, softly now, like it was a secret. ‘Drink and play more.’
It could have been Linda’s blood; it could have been anybody’s blood. And I could smell it now. It’s exactly what you think: rusted metal and wet pennies. The bride held the glass closer and closer to my mouth until it seemed I had no choice but to take it.
My hands shook. A splash of blood spilled out of the glass and slid down my hand.
And now we’re here, and you’re definitely wondering why I stuck around.
You see, I don’t really want to sip the glass. I mean, who would? But I see the doors close, I hear the chanting of the wedding guests, and I can’t help but feel there’s a reward at the end of it. $2,500 bucks, that was for sure. But something else too…the murmuring of the crowd, the smiles and cheers and guffaws.
It all clicks into place when the bride says, ‘Sip, and be merry. Play, and live long. Drink, and be full.’
Once again, from the crowd: ‘DRINK! DRINK! DRINK!’
I sip the blood, and it snakes down my throat and into my chest, tasting exactly how it smells. I cough like I’ve inhaled smoke or downed a shot of whiskey. When I drop the glass, I hear the wedding guests cheer.
And now I’m crying again, even harder than I did the first time. I’m crying because this is the loudest cheer I’ve ever got in my life. I’m crying because no audience has ever stood to their feet or clapped like this before. I’m crying because maybe, just maybe, I was right this whole time, from the start: this is the perfect audience. Better than those stoners and bums, better than the random coin tosses and weightless compliments, better than two thousand streams on Spotify.
‘Keep playing for us, Joe,’ the groom says with a wicked smile. ‘The night has only just begun. The sun doesn’t come up for several hours.’
I wipe the warm blood sticking to my beard like red honey and say, ‘Will I still get paid?’
The groom kneels down in front of me, puts a hand on my cheek, and says, ‘Buddy, you’ve already been paid. You’ll be playing with us for a long, long time.’
He picks up the glass, puts it back in my hand, and nods like I know exactly what he means. And maybe I do. Maybe I’ve found the golden ticket right here, in this foggy forest town in the middle of nowhere. Screw Seattle.
This was the first wedding gig of my life and perhaps the last one.
The groom helps me up from the ground and turns me around to face the crowd again.
A stranger hands me my guitar, pulling the strap over my head and onto my shoulder.
‘Play! Play! Play!’ the crowd cheers.
So, I play a song. A song about Linda Hartford.
And I see her face, pale and bloody, staring at me from the crowd.
I see her smiling, more blood drip-drip-dripping from her neck.
When I finish the song, I think about how good she might taste, sweeter than the best wine.
My loyal listeners clap, whistle, and shout. ‘Drink! Drink! Drink!’
I join their chanting now, stepping toward Linda. I recognise the look in her eyes from the night we first made love under a star-laden sky—when it seemed all there was in the world was her smile, the vastness of space, and nothing else.
I take a bite of her neck and suck the blood.
It doesn’t taste as good as I’d hoped.
But, like I always say, you take the wins when you can find them.
