Gerald Barkley Rocks

GERALD BARKLEY ROCKS

KYLE A. MASSA

© Kyle A. Massa, 2018. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be duplicated or distributed in any form or by any means without expressed written consent from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, locations, businesses, and events have been invented by the author or are fictitiously used. Any resemblance to actual events or actual persons, alive or deceased, is coincidental.

Cover designed by Nathan Rumsey.

This cover uses Huntress font via permissions of a Standard License purchased from StereoType on 11/8/18.

Vellum flower icon Created with Vellum

TRACK LISTING

Side I

1. The World’s Gone Red

2. Mortal Man Blues

3. Gift to the Universe

(A Hidden Track)

Side II

4. Sing Us a Song (But Not That One)

5. Love is for Strangers

6. Janine

7. May I Have Another?

(Another Hidden Track)

Side III

8. The World's Gone Red, Part Two

9. Interplanetary Freeway

(Yet Another Hidden Track)

Side IV

10. Call Me When We're Dead

11. Cue the Music

12. An Exceptional Boy

13. Janine, Part Two

14. Gerald Barkley Rocks

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Kyle A. Massa

One Last Thing…

SIDE ONE

TRACK 1

THE WORLD’S GONE RED

"M r. Barkley, said the doctor. I’m afraid I have less-than-good news."

Is it a heart condition? asked Gerald Barkley. Or just a flesh-eating virus?

He sat on a stiff metal table in an off-white room. A fluorescent light flickered above. The doctor, a short man sporting a comb-over, had been glaring at the malfunctioning fixture throughout the exam. Presently, however, he looked only at Barkley.

Neither. The doctor chuckled uncertainly, then fiddled with his chart. "The blood work shows signs of sanguis culpatus. S.C. Now, mind you, we’ll have to send the results elsewhere for confirmation. But the preliminary findings indicate this is the case. It would go a long way toward explaining the blood."

The blood. He meant the blood Barkley had been coughing up in his sleep every night for the past few weeks, and now sometimes during the day. Can I still work?

The doctor flipped through his charts. Hmm. You’re a policeman, yes?

Homicide detective.

Well. Hmm. The doctor’s eyes flicked toward the light, then back down. Things are complicated by stress. And I’m guessing your job is quite stressful.

Overnight shifts, Barkley thought. Crime scenes. Interrogations. Dead bodies. Dealing with the general detritus of Los Angeles. And blood. Plenty of that.

Somewhat stressful, Barkley admitted. But I’m retiring in a few days.

The doctor’s mouth curled downward. Stress and S.C. do not play nice together. Take your last days easy, if you would.

Why? Could it kill me or something?

The chances of that happening are slim. The doctor smiled, as if a smile might make everything better.

But it’s not out of the question.

I don’t lie to my patients, Mr. Barkley. Which was kind of a weird thing to say since doctors aren’t ever supposed to lie to their patients. But we’re fortunate. We caught it early. Early is good. Early means we can begin an aggressive regimen. I’d suggest we start today, if you’re ready.

We. The plural pronoun. As if this doctor would experience the illness along with him. Why the blood?

Yes. That. The doctor flipped through sheets on his clipboard, tore one off, handed it to Barkley. It was filled with words and diagrams he didn’t understand. Think of S.C. like a stranger with a poor sense of direction; It sends your blood to the wrong places. In some cases, it’s expelled through the nearest orifice. Hence, coughing blood. You might also notice some in your stool, or when you urinate. Such episodes are exacerbated by increased blood flow, which is in turn caused by stress. Do you sleep on your side?

Not usually.

If you did, you might find blood on your pillow now and then. From your ear.

Wonderful. Barkley noticed a yellow sign on the wall with 10 cartoon faces on it. The leftmost face grinned happily, had the number one printed beneath it. The rightmost face bawled inconsolably, had a 10 underneath. The chart’s title: "How much does it hurt?"

Funny question. What’s the next step?

Well— Someone knocked on the door. The doctor sighed. Excuse me. He opened it a crack, poked his head out.

Someone outside the door said, I’m sorry, doctor.

The doctor said, I’m with a patient.

The someone outside the door said, So sorry. One of the interns is getting coffee.

The doctor said, Tall mocha latte swirl. Non-fat. No whipped cream.

Someone: Any sugar?

Doctor: Oh, maybe just a little.

He shut the door, turned back to Barkley. Sorry. Something important came up. Where were we?

Next steps.

Ah. Good memory.

The doctor went on to explain their (he used the plural pronoun here as well) course of treatment. It involved monthly check-ins, constant blood work, vigilant monitoring of progress or lack thereof, and pills. Many, many pills. He pointed to the multi-syllabled drug names on his clipboard.

The beginnings of a novel, Barkley observed.

You’ll take these three times daily, these once. This one every other day, this one every other week. This one is a minor blood thinner, should prevent some of the leaking. Take twice daily as prescribed on the bottle. He smiled. I know we can beat this, Gerald.

If you say so, Barkley thought. Will these cure me?

A cure. The doctor breathed in, breathed out. Strictly speaking, there is no cure. You’ll have S.C. for the rest of your life. But many patients find it doesn’t affect their day-to-day functioning overmuch.

Except when it’s fatal.

"It’s fatal only rarely. Death occurs in the instance of a massive flare up, usually brought on by stress. I’ll say that again. Ahem. Stress. In which case some patients might expire due to blood loss. But that’s rare. The disease is rare enough on its own."

What kind of odds?

We’re not a casino, Gerald. The doctor chuckled. But if I had to put a number to it? Ninety-five percent of patients go on to live long, happy lives after being diagnosed with S.C. And we caught it early. I’d say your odds are quite strong.

It was funny—all Barkley got from that was a five percent chance this disease would kill him. Which sounded like a hell of a lot, considering it was his life at stake.

The doctor paused for a moment, then tried another smile. He dug into his pocket, pulled something out. Candy?

He held a lollipop. The lollipop was a vibrant shade of red.

Barkley left the room with a bundle of papers, including a dozen or so separate prescriptions. He stuffed them under his arm and thumbed the button for the elevator. He coughed, peered at his palm.

No blood. Yet the words five and percent echoed through his mind. The elevator doors opened. He stepped inside.

A song filled the space, not a cheap elevator jingle, but actual music. Barkley knew it instantly—Black Cat Waltz’s Gift to the Universe, the title track from the album of the same name. Barkley listened to all their songs when he was young. He and Roxy used to go to every Waltz show they could, before they had Janine. They owned every record, knew every lyric. Used to, anyway.

"With a voice like this, sang Julian Strange, Waltz’s eccentric lead singer, I must be a gift to the universe." The joke was that Strange really wasn’t that good of a singer—technically speaking, anyway. But what he lacked in raw talent, he made up with sheer enthusiasm. And sometimes a spot of humor.

Barkley’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He pressed it to his ear. A loud male voice said, They’re taking bets around the office about your cause of death. My money’s on spontaneous combustion.

It was Detective Nicks on the other end. Nicks was a prankster, the precinct’s Puck, known for crank calling fellow detectives at all hours of the night. Barkley liked him, though sometimes he could do without the jokes.

Not dead yet. Just a five percent chance, give or take. Sorry. Blood work took longer than anticipated.

If it made Gerald Barkley late for his shift, I knew it had to be something bad. His voice softened when he said the next part. But not too bad, is it?

I’m fine. Just some tests.

The elevator stopped and the doors slid