Her Wild Oats (13 page)

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“I’ll say, ma’am. But you can also sell me one of those cans of tobacco,” he said, leering at her. Oats was ready to rip his ear off with his teeth if he got out of line in any way. The woman blushed.

“Of course, would you like anything else?”

“I’ll tell you what I’d like if you’ll give me about six hours,” he answered. He brushed the side of her cheek with his index finger. “Such a pretty lady. Hey, guys, lookee here at this pretty pretty lady,” he said, as the rest of the band gathered around the counter. She was about to come back with what Oats hoped would be a smart-ass retort to put him in his place, when her apron started to tango, and she pulled out the latest model iPhone and answered it.

“Excuse me, sorry…” she said to Dickie as she turned to take her call while ringing up his purchase at the same time. He wrote something on a piece of paper and slipped it across the counter. She picked it up and nodded at him with an absent-minded smile as she listened to whoever had called her.

Saved by the bell,
Oats thought.

“Hold on just a minute, OK?” she said into the phone. By this time, Bobby Lee had appeared and handed her the breakfast check and a wad of cash. She counted the money, clicked a couple of mysterious keys on the cash register, and offered change, which he waved away. She smiled her thanks, and as the group left the restaurant Oats heard her say, “Mr. Lathrop, my notes on the Roberts option should be sitting in your inbox, but I’m thinking if you get Ephron attached and then go to Herb with a package…” She held the phone a little away from her ear for a few seconds while the person on the other end said something. “See? I told you it was right there. Hit me back if you need anything else,” Oats heard her say as she clicked the “end” icon.

He stood watching her in awe. She looked up and smiled.

“Cool phone,” was all Oats could think of to say.

“Thanks. I hate it sometimes, but it does all kinds of tricks. Hey, nice to almost meet you. Have a good trip.” She turned away to help another customer, and Oats had no choice but to follow his bandmates out the door and over to the motel, to check into their rooms and sit around worrying about Pete.

Sleeping arrangements on this tour had been worked out ahead of time and were always the same, two guys to a room. Rascal and Jeremy seemed to be lifelong roommates; they were both kind of low-key and had families back home, so that worked great. Bobby Lee always got the best room, which he shared with his brother Billy, and Bus Driver Dave bunked with Gary G. because their sleep schedules were different from everyone else’s. Dave had to sleep a lot during the day so he could drive the bus all night, and Gary didn’t seem to sleep much at all. That left Willie, the wild-man drummer, to room with Dickie Jaspers, and that seemed to work out OK too. They were the most hell-raising of everyone, most likely to stay up late partying. Pete, as we all know, had roomed with Oats.

In the past when the band arrived at their hotel or motel, Pete had made a big show of acting as though he was tour manager for the Rolling Stones arriving at the Four Seasons or something. He would go check everyone in and hand each band member his room number and key as they got off the bus. Then the bags would appear in their rooms about a half hour later, as if by magic. On the Lollipopalooza tours, everyone was responsible for his or her own stuff, so these little luxuries seemed very big-time. Even the old pros were happy about it, since they played a lot of low-budget gigs.

But without Pete everyone stood around until Bus Driver Dave opened the side panel of the luggage compartment. Each band member found his own bags and lugged them into the little reception desk area, where they stood around waiting while Bobby Lee figured out how to pay for everyone’s room and distribute the keys.

After some quiet discussion Oats was put on a rollaway bed in Gary and Dave’s room. Since they weren’t going anywhere for a day or two they could sleep on a normal schedule and it wouldn’t be a problem for them to share.

Bobby Lee took Billy with him and they went down the road to rent a car so they could all go back and forth to visit Pete in the hospital. Gary went off with Jeremy and Rascal to help them figure out some new effects settings. Willie and Dickie went off wherever it is that hell-raisers go off to, though it was hard to figure out what they would find to do in the middle of nowhere. Dave disappeared into the tiny bathroom to take a shower, so Oats threw his bags on his cot and decided to wander around looking for something to do.

He grabbed his “A” harp and went outside to the concrete steps leading down to the parking lot. There was an ice machine making a soft humming electrical sound a few feet away, and it turned out it was pretty close to an “E” note. He started playing cross harp along with the droning sound of the ice machine, making up his own little tune. It had been a pretty confusing morning what with trying to figure out what to do about Melody and Jesus, Pete getting sick, Bobby Lee announcing he might get fired through no fault of his own, and the beautiful cash-register woman.

If he’d been home, he would have distracted himself by hanging out with Eddie or picking a fight with Hank Wilson. But here, alone on the road, the only way to deal with all the crashing-in feelings was with music. It felt good to sit there on the concrete steps, lost in playing his tune and watching the morning fog get burned away by the sun.

He was startled by a sudden percussion solo—someone had come along to get ice and it rattled into one of those little plastic buckets. It was the cash-register woman from the gift shop!

“Hey, fancy meeting you here,” she said. “Mind if I sit down a spell and join you?”

“Um…”

“I’ll take that as a yes. I just have a few minutes—I’m on my coffee break. Say, do you like M&Ms?”

“Who doesn’t?” Though actually Oats had had pretty limited exposure to stuff like M&Ms until this tour.

“OK, then I’m gonna share a little secret with you. I learned this from one of the girls on the night shift; it’s a great pick-me-up.” She set her little bucket of ice down on the step and walked over to a vending machine placed next to the ice buckets. Fumbling in her purse, she pulled out some coins and, with a very serious look of concentration, pushed some buttons. She came back with a can of Diet Dr Pepper and a bag of M&Ms. “Not exactly organic,” she said.

“Oh, that’s OK!” Oats exclaimed, as she poured about half the Dr. Pepper over the ice, then sprinkled the M&Ms on top.

“Now comes the hard part,” she said. “You have to let this sit in the sun for four and a half minutes, no more, no less.”

“What’s hard about that?”

“Not eating the candy beforehand, silly. It’s an exercise in discipline.” She put the plastic bucket down on the pavement, slightly away from the shadow cast by the stairwell. “Now I have four and a half minutes to learn your whole life story. Let’s start with names, OK? Mine’s Arizona.”

“How come your name tag says ‘Millie’?”

“It’s a long story, and kind of a fabulous one, but it’s not yours or mine, is it? I’m more interested in you. What’s your name?”

“Otis Ray Pixlie, but most people call me ‘Oats.’ How’d you get the name Arizona, anyway?”

“I was born on a Greyhound bus just as they crossed the state line, or so the story goes. My parents were hippies.”

“No kidding! My grandma was a hippie. I wonder if they knew each other.” Oats realized how idiotic that sounded the second it came out of his mouth, but what could he do? Luckily, Arizona thought he was making a wry joke.

“You’re funny, you know that? Hey, are you staying in this luxury palace, too?”

“Yeah, we were just supposed to be stopping for breakfast but our tour manager got sick and we had to get rooms for a day or two.”

“Welcome to Shangri-La,” she said. “I’m kind of stuck here myself for a while.” She was quiet for a minute or two, and her pretty eyes seemed to be looking far off into the distance. “Only problem is, I’m not quite sure why. I just can’t seem to get up and leave, so I figured I’d make myself useful. That must sound weird, I guess.”

“I think being useful is way better than sitting around.” He would have said anything to get her to keep talking.

A little beeping sound came from her pocket. “Ooh, four and a half minutes are up. Let’s have our treat.” From somewhere in that magical apron pocket two plastic spoons appeared. She mushed the ice, melted M&Ms, and Dr Pepper together into kind of a chunky smoothie, dipped in one of the spoons, and aimed it for his mouth. “Open wide,” she said, smiling.

He did. It was the most amazing mix of flavor and texture and something else, too. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth for another bite.

“Hey, I have an idea. Maybe you can help me out in the gift shop. I could tell the manager that you’re my nephew from Phoenix or something.”

“Sure,” Oats said. “As long as I don’t have to wear a badge that says my name is Millie.”

Arizona giggled. He wanted to spend the whole rest of his life saying things that would make her laugh.

They sat there on the concrete steps, eating sugary mush, talking and laughing. It was a simple moment of two people getting acquainted, and it was the most complicated and bluesy, too. Because, let’s face it, in those few minutes Oats had fallen head over heels in love.

Running Down the Road

11

Arizona went back to work after her break, feeling more cheerful than she had in weeks. A dazed, frozen Arizona had been roaming back and forth across the parking lot, clocking in and out, performing functionary duties, cursing out the cash register, and managing superficial relationships with co-workers. The frozen Arizona had rolled along on automatic pilot while the real thing hibernated in a cave of depression. The kid had wandered over and melted some of the ice, just like that.

She approached her manager, Burt Kresky, as he finished signing off on a delivery of sausage patties. Kresky was freckle-faced and balding, working hard on developing an impressive paunch and impossibly vain about his long, waxed mustache. Everyone called him Mr. K.

“Hey, Mr. K., got a minute?”

“What’s up, sweetheart?” Since all the Murphy’s female workers wore name tags that said “Millie,” he found that calling everyone “sweetheart” or “buddy” was easier than learning people’s names.

“Listen, my nephew is in town for a couple of days…” Arizona realized how silly that sounded. Other than her, and the people who’d been born and raised around Murphy’s, no one ever stayed around for a few days. There wasn’t even a real town to stay in. Still, she forged ahead.

“He’s on a tour with a band, but he’s only thirteen. I was wondering if it would be OK if he helped me out around the gift shop while they’re here.”

“Now sweetheart,” Mr. K. replied. “There are certain concerns that arise in a situation like this. Kids steal, you know, and what about insurance? Where are his parents?”

“Those are all valid concerns, of course,” Arizona said thoughtfully. “But section seventeen of employment code A33-B says that unless someone is being paid they aren’t subject to certain rules and regulations. He could be classified as a work-study student and you’re free and clear. I’ll sign off on his school stuff. It’s the only way I’d be able to spend any real time with him and it would mean a lot to me.”

“Well, you do have a point.” Mr. K. wasn’t about to admit that he hadn’t read section seventeen of employment code A33-B, which was a good thing because Arizona had just made it up. “I guess it’s all right, as long as he doesn’t need to be paid. Now, isn’t break over? Go on in and man your post, girl.”

Arizona did, with a huge smile on her face. It had been so long since she’d smiled that big and wide that it felt like her skin might crack.

*

“Hey, pretty lady, where does a guy have to go to have some fun around here?”

Arizona looked up from the inventory sheet she was working on, startled to see the handsome man from Otis Ray’s band leering at her. He had long, dirty-blond hair, a classically handsome face, and startling blue eyes with a whisper of crazy around the edges. Tall and thin, a pretty boy who’d been rode hard and put up wet, as her co-worker Helen would say, he leaned in just close enough so that she could smell the morning beer on his breath, just close enough to be sexy and inappropriate and make her heart jump. He was the kind of guy she’d gone crazy for in her single days, and it was a reaction that in recent years had been reserved for the movie stars she worked with at the studio. It was acceptable, even expected, for women in her position to go all gooey over Christian Bale or Denzel Washington; some of her single co-workers had even dated famous actors. But it was another thing for some grungy stranger to cause the pit of her stomach to turn over in this particular way.

“Hmmmm, let’s see,” she answered thoughtfully. “There’s a black tie gala tonight over at the Red Robin across the highway. It’s a benefit for AIDS research featuring Britney Spears as honorary co-chair. Then down the road apiece they’re having a touring exhibition of treasures from King Tut’s tomb, on loan from the Egyptian Museum in Cairo—that’d be in the parking lot behind the Burger King. But if you hang out in the bar of this very restaurant, you’re certain to run into Jack Black and Natalie Portman. They’re making a new film on location, and they come in almost every day, as she’s partial to the color green.”

“No shit,” the man drawled. “I didn’t know that, and I’m a huge fan. I have always wanted to meet Natalie Portman. You’re prettier, of course…” he recovered, remembering his manners. “What time of day do they usually come in?”

OK, so he wasn’t the brightest. He was still kind of sexy.

“Oh come on,” she giggled. “I was just yanking your chain. Truth is, if there’s any action around here, I’ve been unable to establish what it is or when and where it happens. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“I knew that,” he said quickly. “Say, maybe we could make some of our own fun. When do you get off work?”

“Not so fast, pal. I don’t even know your name.”