Buddy Holly is Alive and Well on Ganymede by Bradley Denton (my reading book .txt) 📕

topless bars that lined the southernmost mile of Topeka Boulevard. We drank more beer at those places (two of which we were thrown out of because I tried to join the girls onstage) and tipped lavishly, and when our cash was gone, we went in search of female companions to help us with our remaining four cases. We didn’t find any. But we were men, we bellowed. We could drink them all ourselves.

I was sick twice that night that I remember, and probably more times that I don’t. My friends went home before dawn, and I called them all pussies. Sometime after the sun was well up, I awoke in the Dart on the edge of a country road. My eyes had been rubbed with handfuls of sand, my tongue was a lump of dry cotton, and my stomach was bubbling into my throat. Sections of my skull were pulling apart. The Dart was full of empty and half-empty Coors cans, and beer slimed the seats, the floor, the dash, and the steering wheel. The stench was unbelievable.

I rolled down the window and got my head outside before heaving, but I had emptied myself in the night. The strength I had gained over the summer had drained away, leaving chewed gelatin in place of muscle.

It took me awhile to figure out that I was only a few miles from home. I didn’t remember getting there, but was glad that I had. A few miles was as far as I would be able to drive.

I managed to park in the driveway, and then, stooped over because of the agony in my head, I went around to the back door in hopes of avoiding Mother. But I had to go through the kitchen, and she was eating lunch.

“Would you like a sandwich?” she asked.

It made me furious. Just once, I wanted her to act like a real parent. Just once, I wanted to hear the I-sacrificed-to-raise-you-and-now-look-at-what-you’ve-done speech that everyone I knew had gotten on such occasions. The only speech I had ever gotten was the don’t-get-anyone-pregnant one.

“What’s the matter with you?” I yelled. “I got drunk! I’m underage, and I went to topless bars! I stayed out twenty-four hours! Weren’t you afraid that I was dead?”

“No,” she said. “My friends and I held a seance last night. We contacted Elvis, and he told us that you were drinking, but that you would be fine. He said that you would sleep in your car on a country road close to home and that no one would bother you. I asked to talk to Buddy, but Elvis said he didn’t see him anywhere.”

I went into the bathroom and locked the door behind me. The next day I left for K-State.

I didn’t come back until Friday, October 21.

I went to two morning classes that day, and then I read a newspaper during my lunch break. Afterward, I got into the Dart and headed for home. In so doing, I skipped a Calculus exam and failed to turn in a U.S. History essay.

The newspaper had told me that the night before, a plane had crashed near Gillsburg, Mississippi. Three members of Lynyrd Skynyrd, including Ronnie Van Zant, had been killed. Ronnie had sung “Free Bird” for the last time on earth. His next concert would be in the Spirit Land.

If they had died any other way, I might have stayed in Manhattan. I would have mourned, but I would have taken my exam and turned in the essay. But they had been in a small plane, flying from one gig to another. And three of them had died.

I had been home for two hours when Mother returned from work. She didn’t ask why I was there. What she said was, “I’m glad you’re here, Buddy.” I let it pass.

We didn’t sit in the backyard that night. The musicians who had just passed on had not been like Elvis, who had believed in his own immortality. They would not have waited a day before leaving.

When the weekend was over, I went back to K-State and finished the semester, although I received a C in History and a D in Calculus for an eighteenth birthday present. I even started the spring ‘78 semester, but Fate had decreed that I was destined for something other than a Bachelor’s degree. I came home at spring break and didn’t go back. By April, I had a job as a salesman at a stereo shop in Topeka.

Mother was delighted that I was home, so I warned her that it would only be until I could afford my own apartment. She said that was fine. Infrequently, but often enough to irritate me, she called me by the name of a dead man.

In June, I went to an ophthalmologist and ordered contact lenses. When they arrived, I put my glasses away in a drawer.

I fell asleep on Pete’s couch again, so I didn’t leave on Sunday night as I was supposed to. When I awoke, it was Monday morning, and I told myself that it had been better to stay at the Holdens’ and blow my travel strategy than it would have been to fall asleep at sixty miles per hour. I was rationalizing, but because of the way things were about to happen, I was right. For the wrong reasons.

Mike and Laura were in the dining room arguing with Pete about going to school. “Nobody’ll be there today,” Mike said. “There’s a world crisis in progress, Dad.”

“No school closings have been announced on the radio,” Pete said.

“So where’s the bus?” Laura asked. “It’s twenty minutes late.”

“Take the Dart,” Pete said.

I got up from the couch and staggered toward them. “You have a Dart?”

“Behind the garage,” Pete said.

“It’s junk,” Mike added.

“But it runs,” Laura said. She and Mike went out through the kitchen.

“Mother and I used to have a Dart,” I said.

Pete looked at me quizzically. “You feel okay?”

I didn’t. Not only was I groggy, but I had slept with my contacts in, and my eyes felt like balls of vacuum-cleaner dirt. I shuffled past Pete, through the kitchen, and into the bathroom to try to revive myself. While there, I found my clean laundry folded on the sink counter, so I changed out of Pete’s coveralls.

When I emerged, Pete was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee. A radio on the table was murmuring to him.

“Guess I lost the advantage of driving at night,” I said.

Pete nodded. “Yeah, but I figured that if you were that tired, you weren’t in any shape to ride anyway. Daylight or not, though, you have to go now, because my friend Curt will be back.” He took a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and dropped it on the table. “I’ve refueled Peggy Sue and drawn a map of a route to Lubbock that ought to keep you clear of cops.”

“I’ll pay you for the gas.”

“Don’t be stupid. Just grab some breakfast and get going. Cereal’s in the cupboard, milk’s in the fridge.” I went to get the cereal, and Pete turned up the radio.

“—can only speculate on how the grave came to be disturbed,” the announcer said, “but the primary theory is that Oliver Vale came to Lubbock and exhumed the casket. No one, however, has any idea of how he could have done so, by himself, while the cemetery was being watched by police officers and several civilian volunteers. One officer was heard to say nothing of this earth could have done such a thing….”

I dashed back to the table.

“Once again, this morning’s top story,” the announcer said. “In Lubbock, Texas, the grave of Buddy Holly has been discovered open, and the casket is gone. No explanation is apparent, although Oliver Vale is believed to be in the city and is being searched for. We’ll have more details as they become available. Meanwhile, the space-based broadcast purporting to be of Holly is continuing to supersede all terrestrial video signals.” The announcer paused. “God help us.”

Pete turned the radio down to a murmur again. “Didn’t ride to Lubbock and back overnight, did you?” he asked.

I sat down heavily. “I was going there to see if Buddy had arisen, and now they tell me that he has. Besides which, they’re searching for me there….” I hadn’t thought beyond my destination, and now that the reason for that destination had been obliterated, I felt purposeless.

“So go home,” Pete said.

“What home? It’ll be picked to pieces by now.”

“You don’t know that. But even if it is, you still have to go back. Now that Lubbock is out, your home is your only link to what’s happening. Buddy’s been giving out your address and telling people to contact you there, so maybe it isn’t you that’s important, but the address. The place.”

Something in my brain went whang. “Mother’s dish,” I said.

“What’s that?”

I stood and began to pace. “The SkyVue satellite dish she bought in ‘83. In Volume VII of her diary, just before she died, she claimed that it helped her communicate with a weird ‘other world’ populated by the ghosts of ancient Atlanteans. She had done it before with seances, she said, but the dish was better. When she bought the thing, I thought she only wanted more channels. Should have known.”

Pete stood as well. “That’s it, then.”

I stared at him. “Pete, my mother was crazy.”

“So is the idea that Buddy Holly is performing on Ganymede. Look, I learned from your uncle that when the universe turns out to be insane, the wise man embraces insanity. Your mother’s claims for her satellite dish were crazy when the world was sane, but now they make as much sense as anything else. Maybe she really did communicate with another world through that dish. Maybe she put the idea of Buddy Holly into alien beings’ heads, or whatever they have instead of heads. Maybe that dish is a link to whoever’s responsible for mucking up television—and for pointing a finger at you.”

“If that’s the case,” I said, “then I don’t want to go back.”

“I’ll take the Kamikaze and go with you,” Pete said. “If the aliens come for you, we can outrun ‘em.”

That too was insane, and so it made perfect sense. I agreed to go home, as long as I could ride Peggy Sue while Pete followed in the Kamikaze. I couldn’t abandon the Ariel after all we’d been through, could I?

“We’ll be conspicuous in daylight, but we can’t wait until dark,” Pete said. “So let’s get going. I’ll leave Laura and Mike a note. They’re old enough to take care of themselves for a day or two, especially with Ringo for protection.”

“What about Gretchen?”

Pete shrugged. “I guess she’s old enough to take care of herself too. And I don’t think she needs any protection.”

We prepared to leave. I was in the Moonsuit and waiting for Pete in the living room when Ringo burst up the basement stairs and began barking furiously.

Pete came out of his bedroom with an olive-drab backpack slung over one shoulder. “What’s with the dog?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the barking. “Did you hit the button on your remote?”

I was sure that I hadn’t. “I put it back in its pocket before supper last night, and I haven’t touched it since.”

“Maybe you bumped it while you were pulling on your coveralls.” He headed toward the basement door. “I’ll enter a message for the kids on Laura’s computer. That’s the first place she’ll go when she gets home.” As Pete went downstairs, the Doberman, still barking, went with him. I followed.

Laura’s room was dominated by a long