Out of Tune

It was at precisely 9:13 pm on Christmas Eve that Mr Jones, of Memphis, Tennessee, learnt just how sharp his plectrum is, having cut with it a four-inch wound in his thigh.

“I wonder why Fender makes them with such a sharp edge,” he said out loud, as trickles of blood flowed down his thigh, forming an ever-expanding crimson pool on his leather couch.

“Huh, and I wonder who will wash this here!”

Mr Jones pulled the guitar belt over his head and got off the couch to rather bleed elsewhere. He was just putting the instrument back on the wall when his cell phone vibrated.

It was on the kitchen table, and he needed to limp over the entire living room to pick it up, smearing his fluffy carpet with blood drops in the process.

“Hi, Mum.”

“Hi, Hon, Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas to you, too, Mom,” he squeezed the words through the throbbing pain in his leg.

“How are you doing? Are you still strumming on that new guitar?”

“Yeah, Mum, I’m still at it,” he said, suppressing the tears of pain.

“Are you okay? You sound a bit… strained.”

“I'm alright, Ma,” I whispered in agony. “I'm only bleeding.”

“What do you mean, you’re bleeding?”

***

It was 9:28 pm when the two bulky men in orange ER coats, Fleetwood and Mac, broke down the doors of Mr Jones' flat, and found him lying in a pool of blood on his fluffy carpet. He was fingerpicking Dylan’s “It’s Alright, Ma, I’m only Bleeding”, and softly humming to it.

“God,” said Fleetwood, “He’s so out of tune!”

“Yup, he sounds as though an elephant farted into his ear” agreed Mac as he took the guitar from Mr Jones.

Mr Jones knew something was happening, but couldn't tell what it was as they tied a bandage above his wound, then laid him on the stretcher. He also knew something was off as they shoved his stretcher into the back of the van, but couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

But he could bet his life he was missing something. Something important.

And he got thoroughly confused by the siren's howl as the van started, swerving so wildly that it would have sent him flying if he hadn’t been tied.

Mr Jones’ perplexity increased even more when they pulled him onto the ramp in front of a large stone building at 9:53 pm. He was so shocked that he didn't even notice an extensive sign reading “St Presley Hospital for tone-deafness and musical disorders” they pushed him past.

The men in white coats exchanged glances at his dumbfounded expression as they stitched his wound. It was on the tip of his tongue, so close yet still elusive. What was he missing?

Only when he was placed in a chair did it hit him what it was — his Fender wasn’t on him anymore, but he couldn't remember taking it off.

“What?” he asked the man in a white coat behind a desk, sure the latter had said something.

“How?” said the man.

“What?”

“How?”

This time, the doctor pointed at the bloody bandage on Mr Jones’ thigh.

Mr Jones understood.

“With Fender’s limited edition 357 celluloid plectrum,” he announced proudly.

The man typed something into his computer.

“And why?”

“What?”

“Why?”

Once again, the doctor pointed at the wound.

Once again, Mr Jones understood.

“It Ain’t Me, Babe.”

“What?”

Glad that confusion went both ways, Mr Jones explained: “Dylan’s ‘It Ain’t Me, Babe’.”

“Oh, the hand-voice mismatch?”

“No, I've learnt to sync it perfectly. But when I showed it to my partner, he said I was out of tune and left me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the doctor, without a trace of sympathy. “And were you out of tune? Did you check that with a tuner?”

“I did,” Mr Jones said reluctantly.

“And what did it say?” the man asked unnecessarily.

“That I was, that I was—” Mr. Jones’ voice dropped,” out of tune!”

The man returned to his computer, his hands flying across the keyboard as though fingerpicking ACDC’s ‘Thunderstruck’.

At 10:53 pm, Mr Jones was brought into a two-bedded room in his underwear, holding nothing but a pyjama set.

Fleetwood handed him a fistful of pills and a plastic cup of water. When Mr Jones swallowed them, Fleetwood told him to stick out his tongue, checking that he hadn’t hidden any in his mouth.

Then he locked him in, wishing him a good night.

But Fleetwood’s wish remained unfulfilled, because Mr Jones’ roommate snored so loudly he barely got any sleep at all that night.

***

“Up!” yelled Fleetwood at 7:00 am on Christmas morning, entering their room. “Change your sheets and make your beds.”

He threw the spare sheets onto the floor and went to wake up patients in other rooms.

Mr Jones was struggling to put a cover on his duvet, so his roommate helped him. He also showed him how to make a proper bed.

“I’m Jon,” said Mr Jones, sitting on top of his neatly folded duvet.

“Me too,” said the other, offering him his hand, “Elton John.”

Mr Jones knew that Sir Elton John was well over 80, while the man opposite him — though unusually similar to young Elton — was in his twenties. But he didn’t mention it, not to upset him.

“And where are you from, Elton?”

“I was made in England.”

“Oh,” said Mr Jones, surprised by such an answer. “And why are you here?”

“To look in the mirror and stare at myself,” said Elton, “and wonder if that's really me on the shelf.”

He pointed at the mirror above the bathroom sink, reminding Mr Jones how much he needed to pee — he hadn't been to the toilet for more than twelve hours. He rushed to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

When he returned, Mac was there, a frown on his face.

“Jones, you’re gonna have to do better than that,” he pointed at the cavity in Mr Jones’ duvet where his butt had been.

Mr Jones stared at him incredulously.

“Come on, fix it!”

Mr Jones straightened his duvet.

“There you go, see how nice you can do if you only try.”

“That’s why I’m still standing,” said Elton, slapping himself on the butt.

“Shut up, John,” snapped Mac, “I wasn't talking to you.”

“Breakfast!” Fleetwood’s shout echoed through the hall.

As he stepped into the hall, Mr Jones looked up at a large drum-shaped clock, with drumsticks for its hands. It read precisely 8 am.

Tired-looking patients emerged from their rooms, and Mr Jones soon found himself swept into a crowd moving up the hall.

Someone behind him began to sing loudly.

Wake up, you sleepy heads

Put on some clothes, shake up your bed

Put another log on the fire for me

I've made some breakfast and coffee

All the nightmares came today

And it looks as though they're here to stay

Mr Jones turned around, but couldn’t see the singer. As far as Mr Jones’ hearing went, the song was in tune, and he wondered what the singer was hospitalized for.

The minimalistic, sterile mess hall held ten tables, each with four peanut butter sandwiches. As patients took their places, Mr Jones recognized many familiar faces.

Just like his roommate, many patients looked like young versions of rock legends. He recognized Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, John Lennon, Mick Jagger, and Billy Joel, to name a few.

The singer from the hall must have been the David Bowie lookalike sitting at the table next to his.

However, most patients were no-names like himself, probably tone-deaf like— as his toner claimed for him.

Bruce Springsteen rose at the crown of the room and announced to everyone: “Everybody, have a hungry heart!”

“You too, Boss!” came from the crowd in unison.

The Boss sat back down.

Everyone started to eat their dry sandwiches in silence, Mr Jones’ tongue wrestling with peanut butter sticking to his gums.

“I get bun for breakfast in the morning,” exclaimed Elton loudly. “I get bun for dinner time and tea.”

“But what's the sense of changing horses in midstream?” said the Dylan lookalike.

Mr Jones wondered whether he, like his roommate, had rechristened himself after his idol.

His suspicion was confirmed when Mac yelled, “Shut up, Dylan.”

Elton let out a loud fart, setting off a wave of giggles around the room.

“Idiot wind,” muttered Dylan under his breath.

“You are all idiots,” Mac growled and left the room.

“Don’t go!” yelled Dylan after him. “You're gonna make me lonesome when you go.”

Everyone stifled their giggles, afraid of Mac’s return and retaliation, but the nurse didn't come back.

“The sunshine bores the daylight out of me,” said Mick Jagger. He walked to the window and dropped the shades.

“Hey, Jagger, don’t let the sun go down on me,” Elton called out.

“Kick me like you kicked before, I can't even feel the pain no more.” Mick teased him, miming masturbation — a gesture undermined by his limp penis.

Elton got up, his hands curled into fists.

But before he could move toward Mick, someone put a hand on his shoulder.

It was John Lennon.

“One thing he can't hide is he’s crippled inside,” he whispered into Elton’s ear. “He's just a jealous guy. Play this cool.”

“Well, you know that it’s a fool who plays it cool,” Paul McCartney chimed in, hoping a fistfight might liven up his dull morning.

“You’re putting out fire with gasoline,” Bowie told him, curling his lip.

“Yeah, how do you sleep, Paul?” said John, giving him a disdainful look, before turning back to Elton. “Imagine all the people living life in peace.”

“And you should start with the man in the mirror,” Michael Jackson joined in, “asking him to change his ways.”

“Yeah, man, what's so funny about peace, love, and understanding?” Elvis Costello yelled at Jagger. He lifted the shades halfway so that Jagger stayed in the shade, while Elton was bathed in sunlight.

“Here comes the Sun,” rejoiced George Harrison.

Noticing that the winds have changed, Paul placed his hand on Elton's other shoulder and whispered: “Yeah, just let it be, man.”

The whole room let out a sigh of relief as Elton returned to his seat.

“Prick,” Lennon muttered to McCartney, as they returned to their shitty sandwiches.

This time, Mr Jones knew what was happening — everyone was speaking using only the lyrics of their idols — but he didn’t know why.

However, he wasn't planning to stay long enough to find out. When Fleetwood gave him the pills at 9:00 am, he spit them out, pushed his way past the nurse, and locked him in. He rushed toward the gate he’d been brought through, but it was locked. He then tried the window, but it could be opened only slightly by tilting.

As he dashed toward the fire escape, he felt a sharp prick in his neck. He turned around, and the last thing he saw before blacking out was Mac holding a big syringe.

***

Mr Jones lay sedated in his bed all through the morning group therapy at 10 am, the gym session at 11 am, lunch at noon, the afternoon group therapy at 1 pm, and regained consciousness only at 1:34 pm, with just enough time for his dizziness to wear off until the therapy at 2 pm.

Still unstable on his knees, he was dragged by Mac into the room marked by a metal nameplate reading Johanna Chambers, MD. He was placed on the couch, where Billy Joel, Elton John, Mick Jagger, and Bob Dylan were already seated.

Opposite them, behind an ivory desk, sat a conspicuously tall woman with long blonde hair and hardly any breasts. She smiled at Mac as he left the room, ignoring Mr Jones’ presence altogether.

“So, Mr Joel,” she said as the door slammed shut. “How are we today?”

“I'm in love with an uptown girl,” Joel chimed merriily, “who's been living in her uptown world.”

“Me again?” she asked, feigning surprise.

“Honey, I love you just the way you are,” he said, pressing his palms together in a pleading gesture.

“I'm not a honey to you. To you, I’m Dr Chambers.”

“You're always a woman to me.”

“Thank you very much, Mr Joel,” she said, scrawling on her notepad. “We’ll double your therapy. You can go back to your room.”

“These visions of Johanna kept him up till the dawn.”

“Do not speak unless spoken to, Dylan,” she said through gritted teeth.

When Billy left, she turned to Elton.

“Mr John, how are we today?”

“My dearest doctor Chambers, I've lived my life like a candle in the wind, never knowing who to cling to till the rain set in.”

The tone of his voice was as if he were reciting Shakespeare.

“And the rain set in yesterday,” he continued dramatically. “And I was like, ‘ I think I'm gonna kill myself, cause a little suicide’. But someone saved my life tonight.”

He broke down in tears.

“Was that someone perhaps— a Sugar Bear?” asked Dr Chambers in a bored voice.

“Yes,” he gasped, nonplussed, “but how could you possibly know that?

“Because you told me the same story yesterday and 31 days before that. Your memories are really failing you, dear Elton. We’ll also double your dosage of mnesiacs. You can go!”

“He not busy being born is busy dying,” said Dylan as Elton left.

“Dylan, this is your final warning!” she snapped at him.

“And how are you, Mr Jagger?”

“Of doctor, please help me, there's a pain in my heart,” said Jagger desperately. “I'm fumbling, and I know my car don't start.”

“Well, I could try and double your dosage of Viagra,” she said, consulting her notepad, “but your current dose is already high enough to make a grown elephant suffocate to death while jerking off with his trunk.”

She sat in silence for a while.

“Still, I’ll double it,” she concluded.

“Thank you, doctor. Please start me up, make this dead man cum.”

“The answer, my friend, is blow—”

“DYLAN, OUT!” Dr Chambers screamed at him.

“But I was only going to say blowing in the wind, and not… something else. You have a very, very dirty mind, doctor.”

“I said out,” she whispered threateningly.

“Alrigh’, alrigh’—”

When Dylan retreated, she turned to Mr Jones.

“And you're new here, right, Mr—”, she browsed through her papers, “Mr Jones?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Because you ripped your femoral artery with—” she raised her eyebrows, “a guitar pick?”

“Surprised me too, doctor,” Mr Jones chuckled. “It was all a coincidence, really, and I would like to go home.”

“I'm certain you would, and I'm certain you will— after at least three weeks of observation.”

“What?” cried Mr Jones. “This isn’t what I signed up for!”

“Well, you did,” she retorted calmly, “the moment you stuck that guitar pick into your leg. Please don't tell me it was a coincidence; it takes a lot of force to reach the femoral artery. And where the femoral artery is concerned, you should expect my fuckin’ moral artillery in response.”

Mr Jones felt like peanut butter had glued his tongue to his palate.

“You are obviously depressed,” she continued. “You’re singing out of tune, your fingerpicking is horrible, and your partner left you after years of a seemingly stable relationship.”

Mr Jones tried to stifle the sobs, but his body wouldn't listen; tears trickled down his cheeks.

She leaned forward. “You are 26; you have a whole life ahead of you, and none of those things is irreversible. Here, we can heal your depression, teach you to sing in tune, and even improve your fingerpicking, to match Dylan’s — the real Bob Dylan’s, not this schmuck’s. ”

He sniffed and brushed away the tears. “What's the deal with these impostors, anyway?”

Dr Chamber’s face sank. “That was done by a man who calls himself the Hypnotizer. Using his hypnotizing technique and psychedelic substances, he makes his victims believe they are whatever celebrity he wants brought back to life, and forces them to speak only in this artist's lyrics.

“Add to that plastic surgery, and he gets exactly what he wants — minus the talent, of course. The ward is full of them; every rock legend you meet is the Hypnotizer's work. Everyone, except Jagger.”

“What? That was the real Mick Jagger? Isn't he, like, 90?”

“Well, not all plastic surgery is done by the Hypnotizer… or involuntarily.”

“Wow.”

“But let’s get back to you, Mr Jones.” She slid a paper and a pen toward him. “Do you agree to be treated here for depression? The tuning is always optional.”

Mr Jones gulped. This time, he knew exactly what was happening and why.

Slowly, he scribbled his paragraph. JJ.

“Great,” Dr Chambers said, putting the paper back into her notepad. “I promise you you won't regret this.”

***

On Christmas afternoon at precisely 5:00 pm, Fleetwood handed Mr Jones two pills — blue and red. He made sure that Mr Jones, the spitter, swallowed the antidepressant pill properly and left the red one on his nightstand before leaving.

Mr Jones hesitated, struggling with his pride.

Taking the red pill was an act of shameful resignation; in Memphis, it was easy to admit that you had depression, but being tone-deaf was ignominious.

Yet, Mr Jones was by now past denial: three separate sources had confirmed he was tone-deaf. He had now reached a point where the pain surpassed the shame; his submarine had hit rock bottom and needed to lose ballast to resurface, and Shame was the first to be ditched before any progress could be made.

Mr Jones swallowed his pride and the Protunic pill simultaneously.

***

At 8 pm on Christmas evening, Mr Jones realized fake Elton John wasn’t kidding: they had buns for dinner. But they tasted far sweeter to Mr Jonest than the ones he had for breakfast.

They tasted of a new home.