Her Wild Oats (32 page)

“Hey,” she said weakly, “how’s everyone doing?”

“I need to ask you something,” said Bobby Lee; then stated his case.

Everyone waited expectantly while Sarah Jean looked at Oats, then back at Bobby Lee.

“That show wouldn’t be the same without Wild Oats Pixlie,” Sarah Jean said slowly, smiling. “Just make sure you stay safe out there, Oats. And you have to be back before school starts.” She turned to the others. “We’ll stay here and keep an eye on Pete, Kira, and Stephanie. After all, the big secret’s out and someone’s already dead. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Another Tequila Sunrise

24

Oats was the one who had misgivings about going back out on tour. Melody had started to get better, and everyone said his harp playing had a lot to do with her recovery. And after his terrifying afternoon careening around thinking he was being kidnapped, he thought some quality time with his mom might be nice. But everyone ganged up and said he should honor his commitment and carry on. That’s how the Pixlie-Carson family handled things: the show must go on.

So he left a few days later at the crack of dawn. Arizona stood next to Bus Driver Dave and checked each name off on her clipboard as they boarded the bus—something about that made Oats think of school trips to the planetarium and art museums. Finally everyone else was on board and he climbed up, leaving Eddie standing forlornly on the blacktop. He was acting casual, but Oats could tell that he wanted more than anything else in the world to be invited along. Oats whispered his request to Arizona, and she went over and had a quick conference with Bobby Lee, who in turn called Hoagy and Gary G. over and there was more whispering. Finally, Bobby Lee grinned and nodded a “yes” in her direction, just as Eddie was starting to walk away. She touched his arm and Oats bounded off the bus.

“Hey, dude!”

“Yo!” Eddie shouted back as he turned around. He was trying to react with a casual attitude, but the sun was glinting off some wetness under his eyes that it seemed best not to mention.

“Dude! Want to come along?”

Eddie stood still and just started grinning. Oats heard someone jump off the bus and come up from behind.

“Hey, man,” Gary G. said. “We’ll need to OK it with your parents first, but I could use an extra hand. There’d be no screwing around. We’ll put you to work.”

They’d all seen Eddie run pretty fast at school track meets, but never as fast as that morning. He was literally a blur as he dashed upstairs to stuff his things into his backpack, then ran out to join the band. Bobby Lee had barely enough time to call Greg’s cell phone and let him know what was up. Greg said that was cool; this would give him some nice father-son time with Hank Wilson while they waited for everyone to be ready to leave the hospital. They promised to check in with each other once a day, and the bus rolled out onto the highway.

“I hope you all realize what you’re in for,” Oats told the group. “This guy knows way too much about tractors, and he doesn’t know how to keep it to himself.”

“It couldn’t be worse than
Snakes on Elaine
,” cracked Billy. Oats was surprised—he’d had no idea that anyone else was bothered by Dickie’s constant porn-fest. “Aw, Dickie…” Billy continued, “I’m gonna miss that asshole—but not his taste in entertainment.”

“I don’t know,” Arizona said. “I think the character development was stellar on
Snakes on Elaine
. Kind of Shakespearian, really. Or so I’ve been told.”

“You know what we should do?” Willie added. “Let’s watch it one more time in Dickie’s memory. Then let’s put the DVD out on the road and melt it, or drive over it, or something.”

Willie Jones, the drummer, wasn’t generally known for his great ideas. But this time everyone was down with the plan. When Hoagy reminded the band that there were kids present, everyone agreed not to tell if he didn’t, and that seemed fine. So they gathered in the front part of the bus around the little table, and watched Elaine answer the door in her underpants one more time in Dickie’s memory. Eddie looked like he’d died and gone to heaven.

There was a lot Eddie didn’t know about road life, so Oats showed him the ropes. When the movie finished and everyone wandered away to do whatever it is people do on the bus, Eddie ejected the DVD and started to stash it in his bag. When Oats objected he shrugged and whispered, “Trust me.”

They spent the rest of the drive looking out the window and counting tractors and cows, while the other guys assumed their usual positions playing cards or strumming guitars. But Willie the drummer seemed to be at a loss without his pal Dickie, and he just sat quietly looking out the window. Finally, Oats invited him over to join them.

“We’re playing count the tractors,” he explained. “The first one who spots a tractor yells ‘Beaver’ and gets a point.”

“Double points if you know what kind it is,” Eddie added. Of course, he was the only one who ever knew stuff like that so it wasn’t fair, but what could you do? Willie’s face lit up.

“You mean, like if you see a 1943 Farmall M and can identify it, you get extra credit?”

“Yeah!”

“All right, I’m in. Hey—Beaver! Ford 8 N at three o’clock!”

“Whoa, good one.”

Eddie and Willie were off and running, and Oats kind of drifted away. It turned out Willie had grown up on a farm and had learned to drive a tractor when he was just a kid. Oats looked over at one point and they were poring through one of Eddie’s magazines, all else forgotten. Once in a while one or the other exclaimed over a gorgeous 1936 John Deere B or a pristine LAIM Case. Oats was left to count cows by himself.

Arizona was up in the front riding shotgun with Maditrude, and as a result the band actually got to the venue early and breezed through their sound check. Oats called his mom to check in. She reported that Hank Wilson was reading story books to Melody; Stephanie was still out of it but the doctors said there were definite signs of improvement. Pete, who had nearly been forgotten in all of the upset over the accident, had taken advantage of the peace and quiet to make some real progress, cruising around the hall with the help of a walker. Good news all around.

Oats stashed his gear backstage, and he and Eddie decided to go for a walk around the fairgrounds. By this time he’d seen so many hospitality areas that this one didn’t seem all that thrilling, so they went to check out the action on the midway and find the scariest ride. Running for the Vertigo, Eddie nearly tripped on a paper bag. He picked it up and they looked inside to find an unopened bottle of something Oats recognized (thanks to Dickie, Major Booty, and Lonesome Al) as very expensive tequila.

“Whoa, check this out. Want to try just a little?” Eddie asked.

Oats knew it was probably a bad idea, but how could he say no to his best friend? And after all the stuff he’d been through in the last few days, he somehow let himself decide it would be OK to drink tequila right before a gig.

“OK, but just a little. I have to play.”

“We need some limes and salt,” Eddie said authoritatively.

They walked through the area where farmers showed off their prize tomatoes, pumpkins, and pies. Eddie used his big flirty eyes to get a couple of limes from a woman running a fruit stand. Then they grabbed a few salt packets from the burger stand, and they were in business.

In a quiet spot behind the Tilt-a-whirl trailer, the boys looked at their odd assortment of items.

“What do we do now?” Oats asked.

“I think you put the salt on the lime…or maybe you put the lime in the tequila. But then, what happens to the salt?”

“No, I think you bite the lime and then you drink the tequila and then you lick some salt.”

They tried various techniques, but none were sensible or satisfying. They finally ended up finding some cups and dispensing with the lime and salt altogether. It was just too complicated.

The sun started to set as Oats leaned back against the trailer. It felt great to be there with his best friend, letting all the worries and heartache go away, letting his mind go blank for a few minutes. He took another deep swallow and closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of the last rays of sun on his face.

He didn’t remember much after that. They’d only had what seemed like a tiny bit of tequila, but between the sun and the fact that they’d managed to skip dinner, the booze went straight to Oats’ head. He did remember getting backstage in plenty of time for the show. And he also remembered Hoagy giving him a funny look as he walked past him to his place on the bandstand. He was thirsty and a little woozy, and he signaled to Eddie to bring him a soda. Eddie walked up to the side of the stage and handed Oats a paper cup with a straw sticking out of its lid. He took a big sip, and it turned out to be pineapple juice with a very generous helping of tequila mixed in. Eddie gave his pal a thumbs-up when he saw his surprised smile, and disappeared into the crowd.

From what everyone said later, the first half of the set went fine. To this day, Oats doesn’t remember that much about it. But then Bobby Lee walked up to the mic and made a little speech about this young man on the tour, and it was time for him to step up front and do the “Loser Blues.”

Here’s what Oats did remember. He sang a couple of verses and then forgot the words to the third verse. Instead of just skipping to a verse he could remember, or taking a solo, or doing the first verse again, he stopped the band and asked them to hang on the “one” chord. And suddenly, inexplicably, it seemed crucially important to tell the crowd, ever increasing in anticipation of the night’s headlining act, his whole life story. He told about his parents lying to him about who his father was, he told about discovering the wonders of tequila with Eddie behind the tilt-a-whirl trailer. He looked over toward Gary G. at the mixing board and saw him signaling to Bobby Lee in this agitated way, while Arizona stood beside him looking horrified. And then came the worst part. He took the microphone in both hands, got down on one knee, confessed his undying love for Arizona, and begged her not to go home to her asshole husband. Into the microphone. In front of everyone. But especially, horribly, in front of her. Then he let the mic fall to the floor with a clunk, walked offstage to the nearest clear area, and threw up.

To add to the humiliation, Arizona was the first to appear as he lay in the dust puking while his bandmates finished the set. She put her cool hand on his forehead.

“Hey, Oats,” was all she said.

“No! Go away! I hate you.”

“OK, so you hate me. Now stop being a baby and talk to me.”

He tried to sit up, but it didn’t work. Another wave of nausea sent him leaning over and away from her.

“Have some water.” Arizona handed him a plastic bottle and he drank a little. “Listen,” she continued, “it’s not like we all didn’t already know that stuff—and I think that maybe except for the Patti Loveless set this was the most entertaining you guys have been on this tour—thanks to you.”

“Oh, great—I get drunk and stupid and you think it’s a good show? Do you know how much that totally sucks?”

“Look, Oats…you’ve been through a lot. We all have. Think about it. You found out some really hard stuff that would make anyone feel betrayed and angry. Then you were nearly abducted and there was the accident and you couldn’t even feel right about being mad. You had to go right to forgiving without passing go or getting two hundred dollars. And Dickie being dead on top of it all…” She stopped, then said, “You know what? I think that’s it. I think that’s the reason you got drunk and acted like an asshole.”

“What?”

“Think about it. Being a drunk moron was Dickie’s job. But he’s dead so he can’t do it anymore. You had to take over. Someone had to be the turd in the punch bowl.”

“You’re crazy.” But it was a funny idea, and he smiled just a little.

“No crazier’n you. Come here,” and Arizona took Oats in her arms for a great big hug. “Hey, it sounds like the band’s getting off stage. If I were you I’d eat this breath mint.” He gratefully took the Tic-Tac she offered, as Bobby Lee and Hoagy approached.

Bobbie Lee, calmer than anyone expected, said a bunch of predictable things about unacceptable behavior and this better not happen again and on probation and we’ll talk later—then he walked away with his brother Billy, the rest of the band, and Gary G. Hoagy put his guitar carefully away, then came back to where Oats was lying on the ground.

“Do you think he’ll fire me?”

“Nah, I doubt it,” Hoagy replied. “But you know, Oats, you don’t have to keep doing this tour if you don’t want to. At this point everyone would understand if you needed to take a break.”

“But…”

Eddie walked over, looking like a sheepdog with its tail between its legs. “Listen, I’m going to go tell them this was all my fault, OK?”

“No, don’t,” Oats said. But he felt like crying again. Then Hoagy spoke up.

“Hold on, boys. It’s not about blame. Well, maybe it is, some. But there might be another way to look at all this shit that got dumped on you. When I was younger than you are now, my dad left my mom and my little brothers. It wasn’t like a divorce where we got to see him on weekends. He just went out for some cigarettes and never came back. So my mom raised three boys all by herself and she did a damn fine job. But I missed having my pa around and I was angry at him too. And Eddie here tells me he lives mostly with his mama and his meemaw, while his dad works up in Alaska. Ain’t that right?”

“Yup,” Eddie said.

“The way I see it, yeah, it sucks that no one remembered to tell you about Bobby Lee and Sarah Jean’s little fling, and Greg not being your biological father and all. It wasn’t fair. But I would have killed to have one dad around when I was your age, and you have two! Two guys who love you and want you around and have things to teach you.”

“Yeah,” added Eddie. “Maybe that part isn’t so bad…”

“And just think, kiddo,” Hoagy added, “one dad has a great sense of rhythm and the other has great tone and they both have impeccable taste in women. A person like me might say you lucked out.”

Oats wasn’t sure he bought the whole package, but it was enough for the moment. He picked himself up off the ground, swallowed one more gulp of water, and walked off to the backstage tent to apologize to his boss for screwing up the gig.