FOREGONE CONCLUSION
FOREGONE CONCLUSION
By John Thomas Tuft
Trace Boston was a rising star in the music world. He wrote and sang a combination of The National type of song mixed with a bit of Taylor Swift and Tim McGraw vibes. His scratchy baritone voice charmed listeners and his good looks helped him to rise quickly in the ranks of songwriter/performers outside the realm of pop music. His shy smile as he sang of long-lost loves and broken dreams made them all seem bearable to his listeners. He graduated from bars to gyms to festivals to auditoriums. Some said that he would be the next Bruce Springsteen, filling arenas and stadiums around the world. That for him, stratospheric fame was a foregone conclusion.
Trace grew up in the south, raised by a single mother who used that exquisite southern term, “Don’t be ugly” as her talisman for her son in dealing with others in life. And he tried. A lesser known southernism his momma taught, “if the cabbage ain’t a stinkin’, don’t go a drinkin’!” was a guide to the matters of the heart and finding true love. Trace took all this to heart as he ventured into the big world of inner feelings as he went through the trials and tribulations of growing up. If it is true that when we look in the mirror we see who we think we are, what we want to see, but when we look at ourselves in a photograph we see us as the world sees us, then Trace was a winner in both senses. That he would be a sought after prize by members of the opposite sex was a foregone conclusion.
Trace fell in love with music at an early age and he fell in love with Melody at age 16. The sun rose and set on her. They talked about their dreams and ambitions. They explored their hopes and dreams. And their bodies, as lovers do. By the time they were 18 and talking about the future, they knew that they were destined to be together. Trace wrote songs for Melody; about her, about their love, about promising her the stars, about how she gave him strength to rise. Melody’s aspirations were to go to college, then law school, and then be an attorney for environmental issues. Maybe in the government to try and make a difference. Trace’s aspirations were to go as far as his music would take him. Worthy goals for both. Their future together seemed to be a foregone conclusion.
Some say that life itself is about choosing our addiction. That they are either healthy or unhealthy choices of what we addict ourselves to: Drugs or drama; alcohol or altruism; adrenaline or amnesia; partying or praying; abuse or absolution; doldrums or danger; monsters or mountaintops; greatness or gratitude. And on and on. Trace and Melody talked of marrying, raising a family, going through life together with a love that is strong. Melody chose stability. Trace chose stardom. And they set off to achieve those goals. When their dreams diverged they faced a wrenching reality. Melody asked Trace to always come home to her, no matter what. On that night, which happened to be March 15, Trace looked her in the eyes, held her hand, and whispered that he could not promise that. That his home is in the music and that mistress would come first. It seemed to be a foregone conclusion.
Life is painful. There is no way around that fact. None. Melody’s heart was shattered. Into small, jagged pieces that found new ways to hurt as time went on. Time does not heal but it does offer a balm eventually. Her pain receded to a corner of her heart as she moved on. Trace, however, could not bear this kind of pain. Each piece of his broken heart became a song. Songs that resonated with those who heard them. Trace basked in their adulation. He smiled and sang. And sang some more. The applause drowned out the pain. Until he was alone. Then the pain returned, and he sought ways to drown it out. With people who told him how great he was. How inspiring his music was. That drinking this and popping that would help keep the good vibe going. And to please remember them when he reached the pinnacle that seemed to be a foregone conclusion.
Trace took a long time to find what his life was really about. Audiences love broken human being stories. Just don’t show them the side effects. One night when he was partying with hangers-on, debating who was the better songwriter, Bob Dylan or Paul Simon, he first felt the sharp pain in his gut. Testing revealed cancer eating away at his bones. Trace did not tell anyone but carried on. In the time of reflection, he wrote his masterpiece. A song called The Ides of March. A song about a Ceasar. Who forsakes the love of his life. But rather than being stabbed in the back by betrayers, this Ceasar instead takes the knife and plunges it into his own heart outside the door of his long, lost lover. The song took off like a rocket on all playlists and streamers. That it would win song of the year at the Grammys was a foregone conclusion.
The celebration of the song was scheduled for the evening of March 15. All the glitterati of the music world were there. But not Trace. When they announced the winner no one came forth. Trace was no where to be found. Outside a quiet house on a suburban street sat an old pick-up truck in the darkness. Trace had found Melody’s address and sat there in a cold sweat from the medications. Slowly he eased out of the cab with his guitar and sat on the tailgate. Bent over against the hard pain he sang his song. He played his life. A shadow appeared behind the curtains at the front of the house as he sang. And as he finished singing, the shadow moved from the window. As Treat lay down in the bed of the truck, he heard the sound of the front door unlocking, the knob turning, and the creaking of the door. He hoped against hope, in his pain, that what happened next would be…a foregone conclusion.
Words are magic and writers are wizards.
