Her Wild Oats (8 page)

“Great solo,” he said, as he lifted his hand in a fist-bump. The other guys echoed his congratulations with nods and smiles and pats on the back, but Dickie Jaspers stood smirking, a few feet away. As they walked toward their tent Oats blushed as he heard Melody, in the front row, whistle and scream and clap long after everyone else had stopped.

*

Oats had heard his parents and their friends talk about “road fever” but never really understood what they meant until he tried to wind down after getting all wound up for a set that turned out to be six songs long. They’d traveled all day to get there, had the sound check and the band fight and then went onstage to play for a half-empty stadium and before anyone could say “boo” (or “yay”) it was over. What to do with all that pent-up energy has been the biggest problem for musicians on the road ever since they invented roads.

While everyone else cleaned off their fret boards and packed up their gear, Dickie leaned his guitar against the back of the stage and went off to find a drink. Oats was surprised that no one seemed all that interested in sticking around to see Gretchen Wilson, the headliner. But apparently there were still many miles to go before they stopped for the night and Bobby Lee was anxious to get on the road.

Pete Rawley went off to look for Dickie, while Oats sat in the grass behind the dressing-room tent to wait. He started playing a soft little riff to pass the time, when suddenly he heard someone clapping and looked up to see Melody, the girl in the marching band uniform. She plunked herself down on the grass.

“Keep going,” she said. “That was nice.”

He felt himself blush again, but he kept playing.

“What do you call that song?” she asked.

“I don’t know, I just made it up right now.”

“Well, I think you should call it something.”

“OK, how about if I call it ‘Melody’ after you?”

She smiled so big and wide that it looked like her face was going to crack open.

Oats knew he was supposed to do something next, maybe kiss her, but he had no idea where to start so they sat there on the grass smiling goofy smiles at each other.

“Yo, Oats!” Pete ran over from the direction of the bus. “We’re ready to roll.”

“I gotta go,” Oats told Melody.

“Hey, here’s my number.” She thrust a little piece of paper into his hand. “Call or text me. In the meantime, don’t forget about my song.”

Oats got up to follow the others onto the bus. As they pulled out of the dirt parking lot, he saw her smiling and waving, and he opened the window and waved back. This gesture wasn’t lost on certain eagle-eyed bandmates.

“Who’s the shorty?”

“Check it out. The kid has a groupie.”

“What’s that uniform all about? She a cheerleader or something?”

“Tell her she can leave her hat on.”

No doubt that train of thought would have chugged along for quite some time, if not for the fact that—just as Melody ran out of sight toward her marching-band group and Bus Driver Dave gunned the engine—there was a loud noise and the bus lurched to one side and ground to a stop.

“Shit, man!” Gary shouted. “I think we’ve got a flat.”

So everyone got back off the bus except Dickie, while Bus Driver Dave and Gary G. changed the tire. Oats was pressed into service holding the flashlight. He sat on the dusty ground trying to keep one hand steady on the light while swatting mosquitoes away with the other. In the distance he heard the crowd roar as Gretchen Wilson took the stage. Suddenly it was an effort to keep his eyes open.

“All right boys,” Pete announced a few minutes later, “everyone back on the bus and we’d better step on it.” Oats was so tired he could think about nothing but getting to his bunk.

Pete caught Oats’ eye and mouthed the phrase “What, and quit showbiz?”

“All present and accounted for,” Pete reported to no one in particular as he heaved himself onto the shotgun seat next to Bus Driver Dave.

Everyone settled into what would become their regular nighttime positions. Willie and Rascal broke out a deck of cards at the little table up near the front of the bus. Jeremy, the pedal-steel player, talked softly on his cell phone. It turned out that he called home every night after the gig to talk to his wife and kids before they went to bed. Bobby Lee hunched over a stack of papers. As bandleader, it was his job to make the set lists and write the musical arrangements while his brother Billy talked quietly with Gary G. They were both techno-geeks who carried on a never-ending conversation about equalizers and Pro-Tools and how to get their laptop wireless interfaces to work. But Dickie Jaspers, lead guitar, was not at his usual place hogging the DVD player with a porn video. He hadn’t come outside when the tire needed fixing and the curtain of his bunk was closed so Oats figured he was asleep until an odd groaning sound rose from behind the curtain in that direction. It sounded like a man in a great deal of pain.

Bobby Lee rushed over and pulled open Dickie’s curtain and there was Dickie, lying on his bunk with his underwear around his ankles and a woman wearing nothing but pink shiny panties, her head bobbing up and down in his lap.

“What the fuck!” Dickie shouted. “Can’t a guy have any privacy around here?”

The woman shrieked and sat up so abruptly that she hit her head on the top of the bunk. She tried to cover her boobs with her hands but Oats couldn’t help but notice they were pretty big boobs and her little hands didn’t cover much.

“What the hell are you thinking?” Bobby Lee shouted.

“I told you I didn’t sign up for no fucking kindergarten, Bobby.”

Meanwhile the woman searched frantically for more clothes to put on, and all Oats could look at was her boobs flopping around as she did so. This was the first time he had ever seen a topless woman in person instead of in a photo or video. She was a little chubby in a really nice, curvy way. Everything about her seemed round and soft, including her face and her hairdo. Oats forced himself to stop being mesmerized, pulled an old Lollipopalooza T-shirt out of his duffel bag, and handed it to her. She pulled it over her head and held her hand out to shake.

“Thanks,” she said in a throaty whisper.

“No problem.” His voice was strangely husky.

It was too late to turn back, and Bobby Lee was too much of a gentleman to kick her off the bus in the middle of nowhere. In a brief, whispered conference with Pete, the decision was made to let the woman stay on the bus until the next scheduled stop, when Pete would make arrangements to get her back home to Gilroy. From the sound of things, this would wipe out the meager profit the band had earned from the gig they’d just done at the Garlic Festival.

Oats couldn’t wait to call Eddie and tell him he’d actually seen a topless woman giving a guy a blow job from three feet away—he would never believe it! All in all, it had been an extremely educational day.

Southern Exposure

7

Stephanie opened her eyes slowly, indulged in a long, luxurious full-body stretch, and reached for the little clock on the bedside table. Six-fifteen…they’d have to get up now if they wanted to make it back to town in time for work. Time had a way of playing tricks during these stolen adventures; yesterday, driving down the coast road, the night had stretched out endlessly before them, offering a lifetime of possibility. Now it would be a mad dash for showers, gas station, breakfast, and goodbyes. She didn’t know how much longer she could stand the sweet torture of the secret world they had created. A part of her wished that Jerry would summon the courage to leave his wife and that she herself could find a way to end things with Jeff, her ambivalent live-in boyfriend. Jerry kept shushing her when she tried to bring this up.

“This will all happen in its time,” he would say. “This was meant to be. But right now, with all the work pressures at home, I can’t rock the boat. I can’t leave her during post-production!”

Stephanie knew that there would always be something—pre-production or post-production or production itself—keeping Arizona stressed and busy, but what could she say?

She wanted to maintain this intensity, this joy they had—but she wasn’t sure how. For now, she had no choice but to trust her instincts and keep both Jerry and Jesus close to her heart.

Stephanie thought of herself as an honorable and compassionate person. She didn’t go around stealing other women’s husbands, as a general rule. But there was something so compelling about this amazing connection with Jerry—life was too short and real love too hard to find. She had to hope that all her prayer and efforts would lead to some magic shift of the universe where everything came out right.

Stephanie slid out of bed and walked over to the window, her glorious curves silhouetted against the light, her short blonde hair a tousled mess. Jerry didn’t seem any closer to actually waking up.

“Hey, babe,” she called softly across the room. “Rise and shine.”

“Mmmmffff,” Jerry answered as he rolled over and went back to sleep.

Stephanie climbed back into bed, buried her head under the covers, and proceeded to wake her lover up the best way she knew how.

*

Arizona glanced at her watch and was startled to see that it was only 7:00 AM. She could get on the road, kick ass, and be in San Francisco in time for lunch…or get on the road, kick ass, and be settled into a charming wine country inn by late afternoon. So why not just do it? Another question, though, might be why? Why move, when she was so tired? Why expend the energy it would take to open the heavy restaurant door and trudge across the parking lot to her car? The enormous effort needed to remember which side of her car the gas tank opening was on, to slide a credit card into the slot and pump her own gas…climbing Mount Everest would be just as easy. Why not just stay here, soothed by a nonstop blast of air-conditioning and the smell of fried meat, enjoying the funny green ambience and an endless array of fascinating gift shop items? All the sadness of the last few months came crashing down at once, an anvil on her head. Forget driving to San Francisco or the wine country—Arizona wasn’t sure she could make it as far as the front door without curling up in a little weeping ball on the floor. What would be the harm if she stayed here for a few hours? There was nowhere she needed to be.

Checking out the bizarre array of items offered in the gift shop, including an elaborate year-round Christmas section, Arizona decided to do a little early holiday shopping. Her parents, she was convinced, would adore a leprechaun-decorated soup tureen. The jolly little guy was three-dimensional, perched on top of the porcelain lid, and the soup ladle could be cleverly stored by hooking it to a ring attached to his belt. You couldn’t get much cleverer than that. Her brother would love the selection offered in the “beef jerky sampler” and no need to worry about buying that too soon with the expiration date two years hence. Her sister, an accomplished gourmet chef, would go crazy over the lacy green “Murphy’s Momma” apron. Arizona began filling a small shopping cart with gifts for everyone in her family. The prices seemed more than fair compared to Hollywood, and the offerings were truly unique. You’d never see any of this stuff on Rodeo Drive!

Arizona paid for her haul with a credit card, and somehow mustered the energy to walk outside and stash three large shopping bags filled with Murphy’s souvenirs into the trunk of her car. It felt strange, but kind of nice, to be outside in the hot summer air. She decided to take a little walk down the road toward what seemed to be an endless cow pasture, if her sense of smell was anywhere close to accurate.

The iPhone bark identifying Kira Brantley startled her.

“Hey, honey, what’s up?”

“What are you doing today?” Kira sounded just a tiny bit out of it. Perhaps she was just getting up…

“This is early for you. I’m out for a walk right now…”

“Want to go shopping? I need a new outfit for that thing.”

“What, the AIDS benefit? Didn’t we get you something last week?”

“Yeah, but I ate a cheeseburger last night and gained two pounds. I need something new. Can you come with me?”

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. I should have mentioned…I’m out of town at my uncle’s funeral.”

“Oh!” Kira sounded devastated to hear the news. “But…”

“Let me call the office and see if Gina can take you shopping.”

“No, no, that’s OK. Gina’s kind of a pill, she’s not sweet like you. Can you call the car service to take me to see Dr. Friedman? Maybe he can give me something for weight loss.”

“I can’t imagine that would work. You have to be really overweight to use diet pills. Why don’t you just go on a cleansing fast for a day or two? The AIDS benefit isn’t till next weekend, right?”

“Oh, it’s so much easier to ask Friedman.”

Arizona sighed and placed the phone back in her purse. As she stared at acres of grazing cows, Kira, Dr. Friedman, and Los Angeles seemed like another planet. There was really no rush to get home, or anywhere else, was there?

Maybe just one more night here would give her a chance to clear her head and figure some things out.

Or not.

*

Jerry dropped Stephanie off at Jews for Jesus headquarters and drove off toward his office. Two blocks away, he already missed her! He speed-dialed her cell phone number on speakerphone and she picked up on the first ring.

“Hi, baby,” she said in that low, breathy voice that made him crazy.

“I miss you already. I had such a great time last night.”

“Me too, baby.”

“Let’s do more of this. Let’s have dinner together tonight.”

“What about your wife?”

“She’s super busy right now; totally preoccupied with work. Meet me at the Ivy at seven.”

Stephanie accepted his invitation, said a little prayer of thanks, and called her boyfriend to tell him that, once again, she’d be working late and not to wait up. Too bad about Jeff. He really was a nice guy. She said a little prayer for him, too.

Runt of the Litter

8

The next week was a blur for Otis Ray, as the band drove from town to town, always a little late for sound check, played a too-short set to a half-empty audience, and moved on down the road. Though things got a little more comfortable every night, they never quite hit it right from a musical standpoint. The one exception, at every single gig, was Oats’ featured solo. People just ate it up—because he was a good player, but also because he was a kid. Not really fair to the others, who were all amazing pickers, but how could he not love being the one who inspired all the stomping and yelling? The guys in the band teased him in a good-natured way, doing things like touching his shoulder and pretending they’d burned their hands, or fanning him with their hats. All the guys, that is, except Dickie Jaspers, who wasn’t ever about to admit that a kid could add anything to the band. Bobby Lee did his best to run interference, but he couldn’t be there every minute and Dickie found plenty of quiet ways to get the point across. It didn’t help that the tour was plagued with problems that were beyond anyone’s control.