100 Ghost Stories Counting Down To Halloween 2025. #3. Slow Mark.

I needed the job because I couldn't live off of tips in the honey jar.

Busking wasn't my idea; it was Slow Mark's genius plan to get us noticed by some big-time record producer who would appreciate our interpretations of the blues. We got a lot of talk from so-called experts on the slide guitar, who made big promises but had no follow-through—besides, busking on a sidewalk in Waikiki? Perhaps a major record producer would notice us and offer us a record deal with a label. Right.

I also couldn't afford to get kicked out of another transient boarding house, so I got a job. I mean, living off of nothing and the kindness of strangers wasn't the way to go, and a woman will give you her heart and a place to lay your weary head for only so long before she begins to realize you've become a pile of laundry that needs to be washed out. 

Slinging Greek sandwiches in a kiosk wasn't bad work. There was never a shortage of customers, and aside from my regular pay, a tip jar next to the cash register was divided up at the end of the shift. One night, a couple of loudmouth idiots decided to try to shake me for a free meal. They claimed somebody cooked the gyros rare, and the fries were soggy. I took a bite from both and said, "It's perfectly fine."

The shorter, more pudgy asshole made a big scene, screaming that he was going to kick my ass.

"Go for it," my response was up in his face.

When the asshole realized I was serious, he backed down, and he and his idiot friend took off. 

Since I ate it, I put my money in the cash register to pay for the gyro sandwich and fries. The owner saw the whole thing.

"Cash," he said. "I'm gonna move you to the main store. You're too good for this kiosk. I'll have my nephew work here at this one."

"That's nice of you, Mr. Z. Thank you," I said.

"Nice nothing," he retorted. "You showed me your management style, so I'm promoting you to the main store. Go there first thing tomorrow, ten in the morning, ok?"

Management style? Hardly. Playing the blues isn't just about the music; it's also about living life. You encounter many people who engage in gossip, but also those you wouldn't care to meet in a dark alley. Your life is cut and dry if you can navigate between the two. That's how I live mine.

One day, the line at the main store was right out the door, and we were smashed. I assured everyone that as long as they kept their heads down and focused on the job, they'd be fine, and they were. As the line got shorter, I saw Slow Mark at the end, bidding his time until it came to his turn. 

"Slow Mark," I said. "How's the busking coming along?"

"Fuck you, Cash," he grunted while removing a 38 special from his waistband. Shoving a plastic bag into my chest, he made his demand. "Put it all in there, everything. Money, coins, everything! That's a long line you had, so I know the till is full! Hurry up!"

I turned the cash drawer over and dumped everything into the plastic bag. 

Slow Mark snatched it from my hands and walked off, calm as you please. He paused for a second and came back. 

"I'm sorry, Cash, I was sure we could have made it; we just needed to be discovered. Even if it was busking in Waikiki, you never know who's walking by."

"You're right, Mark," I said, just so he'd leave.

"Don't agree like you're condescending to me, Cash." he was on a slow boil now. "You always do that, like you're better than everybody else."

I put my hands up. "You had a good plan. Yours just didn't pan out, that's all. It is what it is."

"I'm gonna walk away now, Cash. Please refrain from saying anything that might upset me. Just keep your mouth shut, don't say anything." Even with all the money in his plastic bag, Slow Mark seemed deflated, like he was beyond the end of his rope. 

This wasn't what he wanted his life to be; yet, here he was, at the end of desperation. I watched him walk off through the parking lot until he crossed at Atkinson, and then he was out of sight. Unfortunately, my fellow staff members, who witnessed the entire robbery, told Mr. Z that my conversation with Slow Mark sounded like we were friends, which raised suspicions that Mark and I were in on a plan to rob the restaurant. Mr. Z was nice enough not to have me arrested, but he did fire me. It wasn't all bad; after having to turn in my apron and name tag, Mr. Z gave me a plate of food and a drink to take with me.

"Call this number," Mr. Z said, giving me a business card. "You're a good employee, but because of the circumstances of the robbery, my hands were tied, and it's just business. I have to protect myself. This is Loyo, my nephew. He owns Zurries, and the house band just lost their lead guitarist. The band plays four times a night, and the pay is great. I heard you say you play, so call this number, alright?"

"I don't know what to say, Mr. Z," I was stunned. "Thank you."

"There's nothing to say, just call the number," he insists.

Six months later, the pay at Zurries nightclub is excellent. Just like Mr. Z said. In fact, Mr. Z and his family stopped by often. It didn't occur to me that Loyo Zurrie, who owned the club and was Mr. Z's nephew, shared the same last name. It all made sense. One of those nights, in between sets, Mr. Z called me over to his booth for a short drink before I had to go back on. Loyo's wife and Mrs. Z sat in. Those two were the real bosses who operated from behind the scenes. 

"The guitar player before you," Loyo began. "He was good, but he always had his own thing going. He wanted to be discovered and famous, always inviting business people to the show so they could invest in him."

"That was fine," Mr. Z said. "A man has to carve out his path, but this one? He began using the band for his ventures without letting us know."

"That became a problem, so we had to cut him loose," Loyo said.

When the point they made landed, I couldn't believe it. "Please don't tell me that wasn't Mark Beneviedes?"

"The same," Mr. Z said, sitting up. "We didn't expect him to show up and try to rob our restaurant. The good part of this is that I knew you. I knew your character before I promoted you to the restaurant, so when the other workers told me the details of your conversation with Mark, it was clear that you weren't involved. Still, as I said, my hands were tied for the sake of my reputation as the owner."

"I have to say that I'm not disappointed in my uncle's recommendation to hire you," Loyo patted my shoulder. "You're always the first one here and the last to leave. The band loves you, too, if you don't already know. You're flexible and always willing to try out new ideas."

"I appreciate all of it," I nodded. "I do, but whatever happened to Mark?"

Mr. Z adjusted himself in his chair again. "He worked here, and we knew his address. We wouldn't press charges as long as he gave back the money, which he did. After that, we have no idea where he went or what happened to him."

  ~

We gave it our all that night, through all four sets. When I got home, I was wiped out. After a hot shower and a few minutes on the can, I went straight to the couch, turned on the TV, and fell asleep. At some point, I woke up in the middle of the night because I felt someone plop down on the other end of the couch. It jolted me awake, and I sat straight up, completely cognizant. Slow Mark sat there, staring at the screen. He looked like he hadn't slept in a few days. 

"What the fuck, are you doing? How'd you even get in?" I was pissed.

"I had no idea you worked at Z's place until I saw you at the register." By the look in his eyes, he appeared to be reliving that whole scenario. "I was pissed 'cause it felt like a betrayal, and I didn't want you holding anything over my head. I was wrong, Cash, and I fucked up."

"Of course, you fucked up," I practically spat the words out. 

"In more ways than you realize. I'm the one who took your place after you got kicked out of the band."

Slow Mark shook his head. He was mad at himself. "It shoulda have been you if it was going to be anyone."

"You broke into my place just to tell me that?" I raised my voice a little, but not so much that I'd wake everybody else on the floor.

"I'm sorry for being selfish," Slow Mark nodded. 'I'll probably end up in hell, but it'll be a while before I get there," he chuckled.

"What do you mean?" I was confused.

"I'm Slow Mark. It'll be a while," he laughed and slapped me on the leg. He got up and walked out the front door without opening it. He just dematerialized like a puff of smoke. 

The next thing I knew, I was waking up, and it was day. The clock says it's ten minutes after noon. Glancing at my phone on the nightstand, I see it's blown up with fifteen calls and at least twenty text messages.

"Slow Mark is dead," according to the text from Loyo. "Body found floating in the Ala Wai, gunshot through the head." The voice messages were the same, not only from Loyo but also from Mr. Z. 

Mark gave himself the nickname Slow Mark after Eric Clapton, who was known as Slowhand due to his distinctive guitar-playing style. He could have earned that moniker if he concentrated more on his guitar playing and less on his ambition to be famous. 

We'll never know. 

A year later, I was in a good financial position to move out of the transient boarding house and into a one-bedroom apartment in Makiki. I also got rid of my used Oldsmobile and bought one of the last big-bodied Impalas from the 90s. 

Wouldn't you know it? One night, a record producer is in the audience at the club, and he approaches Loyo and Mr. Z about a deal for the band. We're flying to Los Angeles in two days to finish the initial paperwork.

Mr. Z and Loyo are shrewd businessmen, meaning the band doesn't get taken for a ride, and everybody gets their fair share. When you're a true bluesman, you don't question how fate works; you just ride it out and see where it takes you.