Her Wild Oats (14 page)

“Pardon me, ma’am, if we have not been properly introduced. I’m Dickie Jaspers, and I’m playing lead guitar on Bobby Lee Crenshaw’s ‘Hell Bent and Whiskey Bound’ tour. Our band had a little personnel setback, and it looks like we’ll be hanging out here for at least a few days. That’s our bus back over there in the motel parking lot. I’d be much obliged to give you a tour; I bet you’ve never been on a real band bus before.”

Here was a chance to try out her new persona, to see if she was believable as the cash-register clerk at Murphy’s Corned Beef ’n’ Cabbage Emporium.

“That would be nice,” she smiled.

*

“So what’s with your lead guitar player?” she asked Oats a few hours later, as he unloaded stacks of cheesy-cracker packets from a big cardboard box and arranged them on shelves. Oats had not had to succumb to an apron or a name tag, but he’d been given a “Murphy’s” T-shirt to wear while he worked.

“What do you mean?” Oats asked carefully.

“Well, he’s interesting,” she said, “but seems a little weird…”

How did a person explain about Dickie Jaspers? The first impulse, of course, was to be honest—to tell her that Dickie was a total asshole who harassed him at every opportunity and made things more difficult and unpleasant for everyone in the band. But how would that make Oats look? Like someone who couldn’t play with the big boys, or take the lumps of being on the road, or worse—it would make him look like a big baby tattle-tale.

“Well,” Oats answered slowly, “he’s a great picker…” and thankfully, he was interrupted by the sound of a barking dog coming from Arizona’s apron pocket.

“Kira,” he heard her say, “how are you, sweetie?” She began speaking softly into the phone, head turned away.

Saved by the bark, Oats went back to shelving cheesy crackers.

*

The door opened with a blast of hot midday outside air, and Bobby Lee Crenshaw came into the gift shop.

“Hey, Oats,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you. Rascal said you might be in here.”

“What’s up?” Oats had a feeling the news would not be great.

“Well, Pete’s a little more stable, but he can’t leave the hospital just yet. I’m going to call a band meeting at supper time. We’ll be staying here a few more days, but we got to haul out in time to get to that Fourth of July gig in Bakersfield—the one where Patty Loveless is headlining. That’s an important one to the record label, and to me too. I used to be in her touring band, and she pulled a few strings to get me on the bill.”

“What’s happening on the tour manager front?”

“Still looking,” Bobby Lee sighed. “But I’m not giving up. It’s hard to find anyone good after the season starts, not to mention—well, you know.”

He didn’t have to say, “not to mention someone on the parental-approved list who doesn’t mind rooming with a thirteen-year-old.” So, really all there was to do was wait and see.

Arizona ended her call and seemed like she was about to join the conversation, but she was interrupted by another iPhone ditty, this time a festive mambo. She looked at the display screen and made a funny face as Bobby Lee walked off into the dining room.

“’Scuse me a minute,” she whispered. Then her voice seemed to transform itself—it must have gone down a whole octave in pitch.

“Arizona speaking,” she said in a businesslike tone. She was quiet a minute, as a whiny screech blasted out of the phone’s speaker into her ear.

“Hold on, Mr. Lathrop, let’s see if we can’t figure this out together.”

The faint, whiny noise continued while she wrote a couple of things down on a little pad.

“I know…I know,” she said calmly. “But if you’ll pardon me for saying so, it doesn’t sound like a deal-breaker.”

The noise on the other end grew a touch louder.

“How about this? Why not counter with a revision that includes the issue in question, but also adds something for our side, a little sweetening that you wouldn’t mind giving up if it came to that. Then you have play, without losing face. If they get theirs, you get yours. You see what I mean?”

There was more screeching, but a little slower at a lower volume.

“Sure, that would work.” She cradled the phone between her shoulder and her ear while she rang up a purchase for a family of four standing in front of her counter. They were all wearing NASCAR T-shirts except for one of the kids, a boy about Oats’ age who wore a Weird Al “Bad Hair Day” tank top under a Hawaiian shirt. Arizona smiled at the family as she handed them their bag of goodies, all the while listening carefully to the person on the phone and jotting things down on her pad.

“There must be wiggle-room on something, Mr. Lathrop,” she continued. “How about producer credits or world rights—something like that?” She was silent for a minute or so. “See? I knew you’d think of something. That’s exactly what you should do. If you want to fax over the P&Ls I’d be happy to take a second look right after my shift—um, after my shiftless cousin gets back from the cemetery. Yeah, I will. OK, bye for now.”

She closed up her phone and placed it back in her pocket, looking down at some invisible thing on the counter, but Oats could see she was blushing.

“Whoa,” she said. “I almost blew it.”

“Blew what? Who were you talking to? Nothing you said made any sense.”

“That was my boss…”

“What do you mean? Mr. K. is your boss,” Oats reminded her.

“Actually,” she said, “I have another boss—a real boss—um, somewhere else. This job is kind of a temporary thing, but Mr. K. doesn’t have any idea. Please don’t tell him anything about what you heard, OK? I don’t want to blow my cover.”

“OK,” Oats agreed. So what if nothing she’d said had made any actual sense. He wondered if she might be a spy or something, because she’d been talking in a kind of code and she seemed so upset. But it didn’t matter. What was important was that they had their own special two-person secret, and he would have kept any secret in the world for her.

*

Arizona caught herself actually feeling cheerful as she punched out at the end of her shift. It had been fun chatting with Oats; what a quirky, funny kid he was! She glanced over in his direction as she logged off and turned Johnny Cashregister over to the girl on the next shift. Oats was chatting with a customer, trying to help with a bubble-gum purchase, and she decided to run over to her room and freshen up without interrupting the moment.

On her way out the door she picked up the local paper to see if there was anything fun going on nearby. Maybe a movie or a little live music would be a nice way to pass the time. As she walked across the Murphy’s parking lot toward her motel room, lost in the entertainment page of the paper, she was startled by a long, low wolf whistle. She looked up to see Dickie Jaspers leaning against the side of the “Hell Bent and Whiskey Bound” tour bus, smoking a cigarette.

“Hey, pretty lady,” he drawled. “Where you headed?”

Arizona was flustered, suddenly aware that she hadn’t fixed her hair or makeup in many hours and she was wearing a really stupid-looking green uniform.

“Uh, hi…” she managed.

“Mind if I walk along with you?” Dickie asked, as he sauntered over and put his arm around her shoulder. “It’s been so lonely out here, waiting for the loveliest woman in town to walk by.”

“Well, while you’re waiting for her I suppose you can walk along with me.”

Dickie laughed heartily as his arm slid down toward Arizona’s waist. “Beautiful, modest, and funny too,” he whispered, “the woman of my dreams.” His breath smelled like beer and cigarettes, she couldn’t help but notice as he leaned in toward her face. But then there was nothing much else for a stranded musician to do here.

“Say, how about that tour of our bus?” he asked. “After all, I promised.” And not being sure why in the world, she nodded her acceptance.

Dickie pulled a black lanyard out of his pocket. There was a clip on the end that held his laminated “All Access” stage pass and a couple of keys—one to the door of the motel room he shared with Willie, the other to the bus. He opened the bus door with a dramatic flourish, and bowed from the waist.

“After you, Princess.”

Arizona could feel his eyes checking out her ass as she climbed onto the tour bus. She found herself wishing her behind was encased in a pair of tight jeans instead of green polyester, but Dickie didn’t seem to mind in the least. She could smell his beer-cigarette breath, feel it on the back of her neck, as he followed her a little too closely up the stairs and into the bus.

“Three hundred eighty-two square feet of prime rock and roll real estate at your service, ma’am,” he said. “What would you like to see first?”

“I want the grand tour, of course,” she laughed.

Dickie led her over to the driver’s seat. “This is where the driver sits. That would be Bus Driver Dave. And Pete, the tour manager, usually rides shotgun so he can give confusing-as-shit directions and get Dave lost. A gig isn’t a gig for this band unless we’re late for sound check.”

“Gertrude could help with that,” Arizona heard herself say out loud.

“Who’s Gertrude?”

“Oh, just a friend of mine with a great sense of direction.”

“If she’s anywhere near as pretty as you she’d be more than welcome,” said Dickie. “Now, ma’am, let me show you our gourmet, state-of-the-art kitchen.” Dickie waved grandly toward a microwave oven bolted to a shelf on the wall, over a folding table with bench-like seats on either side.

Despite his dismissive attitude, Arizona could tell that Dickie was proud of the tour bus, that he considered it luxurious and fun. She supposed it was, from the point of view of a group of touring musicians in an up-and-coming band, but she couldn’t help comparing this bus with trailers she’d seen on movie sets, like those used by the stars of
Fang!
and
Fang II: Dental Revenge
. So she had to act a little, to pretend to be more impressed than she was, as he showed her the bunks (leering as he opened the curtain to his own), the storage areas, the DVD and CD player that comprised the “entertainment center,” and the clever storage racks that held everyone’s luggage and instrument cases. Then there was the bathroom, efficient, tiny, and smelly—and at last the door to the small private sleeping area in the back, reserved for Bobby Lee Crenshaw.

It was a small space, and he led her inside and closed the door behind them. She found herself allowing him to take her arm and lead her over to the little bed.

Once again, Dickie leaned over and brushed Arizona’s cheek with his finger. “You are such a beautiful lady,” he whispered. “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

Normally a line like that would have made Arizona gag, or at least laugh. But there was something about Dickie, his cheekbones, his bad-boy scar, his midnight-barroom breath, and (let’s face it) his totally inappropriate enthusiasm that she found charming, even though he was the kind of guy she’d avoided back home…well, certainly since marrying Jerry. Right now, in this parking lot off of Highway Five in the middle of Central California’s version of nowhere, perfumed with exhaust fumes and cow dung, she was anywhere but home.

*

“Hey, baby,” Stephanie whispered as she nuzzled Jerry’s ear. “I could use a pit stop, how about you?”

It hadn’t taken her long to clear the decks, pack a bag with a few changes of sexy lingerie, and meet him in the parking lot of the Denny’s near her office. She’d told her boss she had to go to a funeral and told her boyfriend she had to bust ass at the office, knowing neither was likely to check up on her.

“Sure, we’ll pull off at the next exit. The sign says ‘Murphy’s Corned Beef ’n’ Cabbage Emporium—five miles.’ We can get a snack, too.” A few minutes later, he pulled off the freeway and into Murphy’s parking lot under the leering neon leprechaun.

“Your wish, madame, is my command.”

*

Oats looked over in the direction of Johnny Cashregister and was surprised to see another woman behind the counter.

“Where’s Arizona?”

“She clocked out, oh, about five minutes ago.”

“Well, I guess I’m off too, then,” Oats said. “See you later.”

He walked out the front door, wondering why Arizona hadn’t waited before ending her shift, trying to talk himself out of feeling hurt, and nearly collided with a slick-looking couple headed inside.

“’Scuse me,” he mumbled; then wandered over toward the motel. With Arizona nowhere in sight, he thought he’d see what was up with Bobby Lee.

If Pete hadn’t had his stroke, each band member would have been given a day sheet including the day’s itinerary and everyone else’s room number, but no one had thought to do that, and Oats realized he didn’t know what room Bobby Lee was in. He stopped down at the office to find out.

There was a pimply-faced teenager sitting behind the front desk, playing a game on his cell phone.

“Hi,” Oats said.

“Pow! Gotcha!” the kid yelled at his phone-game. “Take that, sucker!”

“Um, excuse me?”

Reluctantly, “Yeah, can I help you?”

“Um, I’m looking for one of my bandmates. Can you tell me what room Mr. Crenshaw is in?”

“Yeah, right, like you’re in a band with Bobby Lee Crenshaw. I’ll believe that when my hair turns green.”

“Well, it’s true. If you’ll just look on the list…”

“Don’t matter. I’m not at liberty to give out guests’ room numbers.”

“Oh, come on, I work with the guy.”

“Sorry, house rules.”

“Listen, if you can’t give me his number, can you ring his room?”

“Sorry, there’s a ‘do not disturb’ on his phone,” the kid said, turning back to his game.

“Look…I’m in the guy’s band. I really am. That’s our tour bus over there in the parking lot.”

“Prove it.”

“OK…” Oats pulled his All Access laminate, with his copy of the bus key attached, out of his pocket. “This is my backstage pass.”

“Oh yeah? How do I know you didn’t make that yourself at Kinko’s?”

“Because who would bother to do that?”

“Prove that’s your bus,” the kid said.

“OK, come with me.” To Oats’ surprise, the guy put his game down, got up, and walked around from behind the counter. He followed Oats across the parking lot and watched as he jammed his key into the lock and opened the bus door.