Her Wild Oats (20 page)

The kid was another story. Gary had had misgivings at first, but Oats had turned out to be the real deal. He took care of his own instruments, carried his own bags, never left anything behind on stage, never asked for any extras at all. Gary G. was surprised to feel some sadness that this would be Oats’ last day on the tour. In fact, the whole band seemed a little down and Gary wondered if Oats’ departure might be causing the general malaise. Of course, there was Pete to worry about, too.

Gary pulled out the Thomas Guide and a faxed sheet of directions to the Bakersfield County Fairgrounds. As usual, the directions bore little resemblance to anything Gary could find on the map. There must be a rule about gig directions or something; it seemed like the people who told you how to get to these places were giving directions from another solar system.

So Gary found himself assuming yet another one of Pete’s duties, arguing with Bus Driver Dave about how to get to the Kern County Fair & Fairgrounds in Bakersfield.

“So, you said you’re from Southern California; what are you doing in these parts?” Sarah Jean sat at the small fold-out table in the front of the bus, trying to make small talk with Arizona.

“You know, I’m not sure myself. I just needed to get away for a while and ended up working in the gift shop at Murphy’s. That’s where I met these guys, and your fabulous kid.”

“Really? How long have you been there?”

“Sometimes it seems like forever,” Arizona said cryptically.

“Well, my son sure seems to have a crush on you,” Sarah Jean said quietly. “I imagine you couldn’t help but notice.”

Arizona was about to answer when a funny chirping sound erupted from her jacket pocket.

“Sorry, excuse me one sec.”

Sarah Jean smiled and nodded, as Arizona spoke softly into her iPhone.

“Yes, Mr. Lathrop, what’s up?”

“You’re right,” she said calmly after a brief pause. “But I think there might be another way to look at this, one that doesn’t involve the back-end points.”

Sarah Jean heard a whiny screech on the other end of the phone.

“Remember when I suggested you counter with a revision that includes the issue in question, but also adds something for our side? How did they respond to your counteroffer?”

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

“Well, that’s great. So now you just have this one hurdle. Remember that they want this as much as you do, and you can make it a win-win for everyone, you really can. How did they respond to producer credits and world rights—I’m trying to remember which you offered? That was your idea, and I thought it was brilliant.” She was silent for a minute or so. “Yeah, I will. No problem. OK, bye for now.”

Sarah Jean, overhearing only one end of the conversation, couldn’t figure out how a young woman who worked behind the gift shop counter at Murphy’s could have such a quick brain for negotiating what sounded like high-level entertainment deals, not to mention bullshitting nurses in perfect Spanish. Sarah Jean decided to find out more about the mysterious Arizona.

*

That bus ride to Bakersfield was one of the best on the whole tour. Oats kept thinking of new stuff to show Eddie and Hank Wilson, like the microwave and refrigerator and bathroom shelves. Dickie was snoring away in his bunk, so they even had access to the DVD player. Eddie had a copy of
Snakes on a Plane
in his backpack so they popped it in, and soon almost everyone in the band was watching it, too. Luckily the parental unit was busy up front talking to Arizona, so she didn’t notice—or at least chose to ignore—the fact that they were watching what she would undoubtedly refer to as garbage. Just at the part where the snake comes out of the bathroom toilet and bites the guy’s dick, a commotion erupted from the driver’s seat up front—Gary G. and Bus Driver Dave in a heated argument over directions.

*

“I told you to turn left, man. Look, it’s right here on the map.”

“The fax says go straight, dude,” Dave said.

“Go straight onto a dirt road, yeah, right. You’re gonna end up getting stuck with no place to turn this monster around.”

By this time everyone on the bus was listening to the argument. The two guys kept bickering while the road grew smaller and bumpier, more and more difficult for a big bus to negotiate. Dave kept mumbling stuff about the backstage entrance and Gary G. was sputtering about the map.

“Hold on a minute, I have an idea.” Arizona jumped out of her seat and rummaged through her huge black bag. “Here, try this.” She took a portable GPS out of her purse and plugged one end into the power source on the dashboard. There were a couple of little beeps and a mechanical female voice said, “Make the first available left turn.”

“OK,” Arizona continued. “Will someone give me the coordinates of the place we’re going? Address, intersection, anything?” Gary grabbed the fax and read her the information, which she entered into the machine. After a minute or two of silence there was a little beep, and the mechanical voice said to turn around and then go right.

“Look,” Arizona said with a smile. “We’re less than five miles from our destination, and according to this we’ll be there in about ten minutes—right on schedule.”

“Whoa, cool!” Hank Wilson went running up to the front of the bus to check out the GPS.

“I’ve never seen one that vintage,” said know-it-all Eddie. “But how come you don’t use the one on your iPhone?”

“This one’s been with me through thick and thin. I just can’t abandon an old friend.”

“What else does it do?” Gary G. asked Arizona.

“Oh, it gives massages, makes coffee, blow-dries your hair… Ladies and gentlemen”—she pointed to the little machine with a spokesmodel flourish—“meet Gertrude. She may be a little long in the tooth, but she knows her stuff. And hey, while I’m at it…” She reached a hand into her huge bag and pulled out another surprise—a tired-looking gray teddy bear with crusted yellow residue around its mouth.

“Here!” She tossed the stuffed toy to Oats. “This is Madison. I’ve had him ever since I can remember. You can’t keep him, but you can borrow him for good luck tonight.”

Oats smiled his thanks, grateful that Dickie was nowhere in sight.

Sure enough, with Gertrude’s help they got to the gig early for sound check, which might have been a first. A teenager with a pass that said “Festival Crew” led the band to their backstage area, nicer than most. Instead of a tent there was a dressing room with mirrors and a place to hang stage clothes. There was even a real bathroom instead of a row of porta-potties.

Oats, Eddie, and Hank Wilson were about to go check out the midway when a pretty blonde lady opened the door and took a flying leap into Bobby Lee’s arms. He gave her a big hug, then turned around and introduced them to the headliner, Patty Loveless.

To Oats, Patty Loveless mostly looked old, like around fifty. But wow, she looked great for her age, really for any age. She was dressed in a cool, spangled outfit with a lot of fringe and high-heeled western-style boots, but it wasn’t the clothes that made her look so good—it was her. Her eyes were twinkly blue and looked right at you when she was talking to you, and she looked like she might have a trick or two up her sleeve, too.

Bobby Lee was delighted to see her, everyone could tell.

“Hey, Patty, thanks again for getting us on the gig,” he said, giving her another big hug. “I know you pulled a string or two and it means a lot.”

She winked and said, “Well heck, if I’d known I was going to lose my best rhythm guitar player I might’ve had second thoughts about that.” But she smiled up at him. “I love your new CD. You all did a phenomenal job. I especially like that ‘Not if I See You First’; that’s a great song. You know I’m happy to help out any way I can.”

Bobby Lee swept his arm back in a grand gesture intended to include everyone in the room. “Hey, I’d like you to meet my band. Guys and gals, this is Patty Loveless, the best boss I’ve ever had. Patty, I think you know my brother Billy—he plays keyboards and accordion. This here is Willie, the drummer, and Rascal Roscoe on bass.”

“I know Rascal from around Nashville,” she said. “It’s mighty nice to see you again. And hey, Jeremy, we have to stop meeting like this, eh?”

Jeremy blushed. “How’d those tracks come out?” he asked.

“Just gorgeous, kind sir. Y’all should know that Jeremy laid down the most exquisite pedal steel parts in a recording session with me a month or so ago—right before this tour started, wasn’t it?”

“Pretty much, ma’am. I’m glad everything worked out.”

“And of course I know Gary G., too. But that leaves a few unaccounted for,” the star said as she looked around the dressing room.

Arizona walked over and shook her hand.

“Hello, I’m Arizona Rosenblatt, along for the ride.”

“Pleased to meet you, Arizona. Now…” She stood back and took them all in, then said, “That’s a mighty fine-looking band you got there, all right. Then she stared at Oats and Sarah Jean, standing next to each other. “I’ll bet this is your family, right?” she said, winking at Bobby Lee. Then she looked straight at them. “I’ve heard a lot about you two.”

“I would profoundly doubt that,” Oats answered. “I am Otis Ray Pixlie, and I play blues harp in Bobby Lee’s band. This is my mother, Sarah Jean Pixlie…”

“Oh my, yes, of course! I know who you are.”

“You actually met once before, about eleven or twelve years back at Konokti,” Bobby Lee said softly.

“That was a great show,” Sarah Jean said, looking a little pale.

“And I’ve seen you, of course, at some of the Patsy shows. I just love your style. Word was that you pulled back quite a bit to raise your family, so I just assumed…” Patty Loveless nodded her head in Bobby Lee’s direction. He was suddenly looking very busy tuning his guitar.

“Hey, Oats, wanna go get some garlic fries?” Eddie asked.

“Sure; it was great meeting you, Miss Loveless.”

“I’ll be watching you out there,” she said. “I usually go back to my room after sound check, but I can’t miss seeing Bobby Lee front his own band. It’s about time.”

Oats knew there was a greasy pile of garlic fries with his name on them and he was hungry.

“Lead the way,” he said, as the two boys left the dressing room.

“Hold up! Wait for me!” Hank Wilson came running after them.

Of course.

*

The whole fairground was covered with red, white, and blue Fourth-of-July bunting. There were going to be fireworks at the end of the Patty Loveless set, but little firecrackers and fart-smelly cherry bombs were going off every which way by the middle of the afternoon. It was fun having some money to burn. Oats hadn’t had much of a chance to spend his hard-earned pay, and he decided the day would be his treat. He bought food for the three of them and after they ate they checked out the midway, where he bought them tickets for rides, too.

They were waiting on line for the tilt-a-wheel that turns you upside-down when Oats heard the unmistakable spangly sound of baton-twirler fringe slapping against bare legs—a sound he was getting used to identifying. Sure enough, there was Melody, flanked on each side by one of the girls from her bus, walking by holding hot dogs on sticks that were somehow made in red, white, and blue swirls, and giggling about something.

“Hey, Melody, hey! Fancy meeting you here.”

She swiveled around on one fringy high-heeled marching-band boot and, smiling, put one hand over her eyes.

“Hmmm,” she said. “I thought I heard something coming from over there. I wonder if it could be…” and she ran over and jumped right in front of the boys, “Otis Ray Pixlie. Hey, Oats, how ya doing? You met Ellie and Jeannie on the bus yesterday, I think. You gonna introduce me to your friends?”

“Hey, girls.” Hank Wilson held out his hand. “I’m Oats’ brother, Hank Wilson. I play drums.”

“This here’s my best friend, Eddie,” Oats added. “I think I’ve told you about him.” Both of Melody’s friends looked admiringly up at Eddie.

“What do you play?” the one called Ellie (or maybe it was Jeannie) asked.

“He plays tractor,” Hank Wilson piped up.

“What’s that?” asked Jeannie (if it wasn’t Ellie).

“He means that Eddie doesn’t play music. He’s great at a lot of other stuff, though,” Oats said quickly. “Plus he really knows a lot about tractors.”

“What are you guys eating?” Hank Wilson asked.

“Bananafranks, haven’t you ever tried one? They’re hot dogs with frozen banana swirls. We have them at our church all the time,” Ellie (or maybe it was Jeannie) said. She pointed in the direction of a dilapidated pushcart with an even more dilapidated-looking guy sitting beside it. He held a handwritten sign that said “Red, white, and blue Bananafranks! ‘Fourth of July’ Special.” On the ground next to him was an old, battery-operated boom box, blaring what could only be the Bananafranks jingle, in cheery three-part harmony, over and over again:

When you’re tired of eatin’ fruitless meat an’ meatless fruit stops being fun

Grab a big plate and masticate a Bananafrank sandwich on a buttery bun!

Let’s all give thanks for Bananafranks, two yummy foods in one!

“Is that guy for real?” Oats wondered. But Hank Wilson wanted to taste a Bananafrank, and Oats ended up buying a round for the whole gang. “That jingle sure sticks in your head, doesn’t it?”

“I think this must be an acquired taste.” Eddie rolled his eyes and discreetly stashed his treat in a nearby trash bin. “Maybe you could write another verse to that guy’s jingle.”

Oats thought a moment. He grinned; then sang:

When you’re sick to death of your crystal meth and you’re fresh out of elephant tranqs

It feels mighty fine to inject your spine with liquefied Bananafranks!

“Ooh, gross!” the girls all squealed as the boys laughed. Oats felt triumphant.

“We were about to go see the pig races. Wanna come along?” Melody asked.

Surprisingly, Eddie shrugged and said, “Sure.”

Hank Wilson shrugged, too. “What’s a pig race?”

That settled it. They walked off with the three girls to find the pig races. Oats noticed Jeannie sidling up to Eddie in a flirty way, and Ellie and Hank Wilson were just walking side by side not saying anything. For one thing, she was a whole head taller than he was and for another thing she was very interested in her Bananafrank. Hank Wilson didn’t seem to notice. He was busy checking out all the weird people walking around the midway. There were the usual fair-going family types wearing shorts and fanny packs, yelling at their kids and eating cotton candy and getting sunburned, and there were the packs of teenagers and flirty couples, guys with beer holders in their leather belts, and women with tattoos and sexy outfits, but the ones who were the most interesting were the people who looked like they lived there 24/7. If you looked close enough, anyone could see that the rides were really just metal structures on wheels. The scary funhouse, for example, could be folded in on itself to become a large trailer that could hook onto the back of something, or maybe even be driven on its own, much like a tour bus. The people who ran the rides were men, mostly, but there were a few women too. They all had hard leathery skin and pale eyes and seemed like they had stories to tell. For some reason Oats’ new song, “Loser Blues,” popped into his head. He imagined that if he could talk to some of these folks for a while he might be able to come up with some new verses.