The Sadies
Darker Circles
While driving under and through a Roman aqueduct on the city’s main scenic strip, I ride shotgun with my main contact guy Tito behind the wheel.
“I’m really glad you’re able to take this job, Vilar,” says Tito as he cruises his Opel through the afternoon traffic. “I know when you get this done, it’s gonna be a beautiful thing.”
“Well, thank you for getting me here,” I reply to him. I take out a USB drive, hold it out towards the stereo and ask, “You don’t mind, do you?”
“You go ahead, Vilar. The road is all yours,” he answers.
I plug my USB drive into the car’s stereo and load the Sadies’ new long-player Darker Circles onto it. The swirling reverberation of opener “Another Year Again” blasts into this furnace afternoon with its tubular amp rattle. The sizzling heat from passing palm trees and national monuments assimilates itself onto the song and the narrative. I tap my foot on the car’s floor. I know this is good. I take a glance out my side window and notice a legless man pull his belongings up the street on a kiddie sleigh. I close my eyes. Not all sights are pretty.
“Do you think scoundrels like us ever make it to heaven, Vilar?” Tito asks.
“I think scoundrels like us only make it to the gates… to eventually set it all on fire,” I respond.
“Yeah bro, I hear you. You speak the truth,” Tito confides.
We drive a bit more until we reach my hotel. Tito passes my bag as I exit the car and says, “Rest up first, Vilar. By the time you get to the bullfighting arena, we’ll have everything in place. Have yourself a pastry, enjoy the fight, do your thing, and then we’ll take care of the rest. Always a pleasure, sir. Ciao.” Tito drives off.
I go into the hotel lobby and to an adjacent side bar. I approach the bartender, an old-timer with a mop of hair recently dyed jet-black, and ask for a shot of brandy. I lounge for a bit and notice the locals. After a passing while, a beardo and his hipster girlfriend enter the vicinity. She’s loud and obnoxious, and he carries her shopping bags. I make a move to leave. On my way out, we inadvertently cross eyes with each other.
I reach my hotel room and enter inside. I pull up the blinds, open the balcony doors, and turn the bath taps on. I prepare for a shave. My cell phone goes off. I go to check the incoming message and read it—Sorry, I can’t go on with you anymore. I hope you understand. I stop, cogitate for a second, and then go to my duffel bag to get my Sadies CD. I take it out, slip it into the DVD player, turn the television on, and select the track “The Quiet One.”
I return to the sink and continue my shave. I lather my face first, pull my long blade out, line its sharp edge up and against my peppered bristle, and begin scraping. One stroke, two stroke… shit. I nicked myself. A blood droplet plunges into the sink water. The drop elongates and unfolds in the basin while keeping in time with the song’s dour vocal melody. I stop. I really stop. I pull a towel out and wipe the excess lather off. I go to the balcony, look out to the bullfighting arena off in the distance, and notice my hands shake. Only three hours till showtime… damn.
Hours later I arrive at the arena. With a ticket in hand and my hair dyed freshly red and my face clean-shaven, I make my way towards the entrance. Stealthily, I make it through the metal detection booth and pass the security gate—I’m finally in. I search for a food kiosk and find one. I head towards the vendor and ask for um bolo de natas, por favor, he hands me a pastry and napkin. I hand him some change and head towards general seating.
Upon entering I fix my eyes onto the bull ring, the circle of death. The stands run jammed with mobs of attendees, all here for a blood fix. If you want blood, you got it at the right place, I say to myself. Inside the circle, the matador arrives. Gleaming in his decorative golden suit, he’s here to play. I slip my ear buds on and look at my napkin—every precise coordinate on where I got to be, drawn and according to plan. I click to the Sadies track “Cut Corners” on my MP3 player, and the bull enters the ring.
I make my way through the arena’s architectural bowels to where I finally have to perform. All the while I’m thinking—Will this be the last one? Will I be able to make it out if I execute? Is she ever gonna call me again? Am I gonna fuck this up?
I reach my assigned point and block off my inner circular thoughts. I immediately get to work. I pull a wooden plank out from the floorboard and remove a shrouded parcel. I unwrap its black cover while the matador down in the ring draws his red veil out. I assemble my shooter piece by piece, place it into position, and then gaze into its telescopic sight. I move my shooter randomly through the arena’s crowd until I spot the couple that I saw earlier at the hotel. I sharpen my aim. Then I pull my shooter away and towards the executive stand, and place its aim on my target—El Presidente da Repùblica. He sits next to his wife, the First Lady. I place one slug in the chamber and cock it back. I hold my breath. All remaining now is me, my shooter, and scorching guitar solos from The Sadies’ brothers in arms, Travis and Dallas Good.
In the meantime, down at the ring the bull makes its charge. With the animal bearing down in the matador’s path, the matador stays in his stance until he diligently steps to his side, sweeps his veil back, lets the animal run up and against his exposed torso, draws his spear out, and finally thrusts a beauty stab into the animal’s flesh. The bull loses its footing, buckles under its weight, and collapses to the dirt. The ring stains red and the grandstand erupts into jubilation.
The executive stand erupts too, except El Presidente da Repùblica remains still. He sits motionless and inexpressive in his own chair. The First Lady looks down, removes the empty drinking glass from his hand, and places it in her purse. She salutes the matador.
Back in my hole, I place my shooter onto its side, open its chamber, and remove the slug. Now I know who set the contact up, and I also know I was only the back-up plan. I detach my shooter, wrap it up in its blanket, and place it back under the floorboard. I find my way through the structural maze and back into the arena’s main atrium. Then I casually exit the premises and eventually flag a taxi down. I enter inside.
“Aeroporto da Portela,” I tell the driver.
“Today you are my favorite passenger… hehe,” says the cab driver as he turns his radio on to the Sadies track “Whispering Circles,” an appropriate exit tune to today’s escapades.
“Really? Why is that?” I ask him.
“Because you are the last passenger I will take in my cab today. To me, you represent my freedom… hehe, ” replies the cab driver.
“Yeah, well after today you’ll probably have a lot more of it,” I respond, as I observe an array of sirening vehicles whipping past us in opposing traffic.
“Yeah man, after I drop you, I will be free. I may not have much to come home to. I may not drive another passenger ever again, but after you… I will be a free man. At least for today… hehe,” chuckles the taxi driver.
“Well…” I conclude while watching an airplane depart into the city’s skyline, the Sadies’ twang providing the nightfall’s curtain. “As soon as I leave your cab, I believe this will make two of us.”
(Outside Music, www.thesadies.net) Rob Vilar