Her Wild Oats (9 page)

On the fourth day out the band drove to Pittsburg, California, to play at an outdoor rodeo—a rare opportunity to perform as a headline act, rather than opening for a bigger star. Actually, they were not only the headlining act; they were the only act, booked for a nice amount of money to play two full sets.

Everyone was excited about playing for more than a half hour to more than a half-empty venue, and Bobby Lee arranged for each band member to have a moment in the spotlight with a featured song. Oats was going to do “Juke” by Little Walter, because it had been his show-off tune ever since he could remember. But one night on the bus, in a rare moment when Dickie hadn’t commandeered the DVD player, Billy put on a version of “Orange Blossom Special” performed by harmonica-wizard Charley McCoy on an old Nashville TV show, and Oats couldn’t get that tune out of his head.

“Orange Blossom Special” was meant to be a fiddle tune but Oats had heard pedal-steel players show off on it too. He found Jeremy lounging on his bunk reading a thick, worn paperback copy of
Dune
.

“Hey, sorry to bother you, but do you know ‘Orange Blossom Special’?”

“Yup.”

“Uh…what would you think of doing it with me in the show? I was thinking it’d be fun to use a ‘circle of harps’ where I’d switch back and forth playing cross harp in two keys—you know, like Norton Buffalo on Bonnie Raitt’s version of ‘Runaway.’ It’s cool to watch someone do that live.”

“Sure. You got a download?”

“Not yet…but I just saw this DVD of Billy’s. It’s awesome; the song goes back and forth between the keys of C and F, and Charlie McCoy switches between his F and B-flat harps. Mostly he’s playing cross harp, and most of it is on his F. Meanwhile, the steel player kicks major ass on the fills, almost making it a duet, so I was hoping…”

“Next stop, let’s find a Starbucks and we can download to my laptop. It’ll be fun.” These were more words than Oats had ever heard Jeremy say at one time.

They found the Starbucks and the download, and Jeremy was happy to help Oats practice the tune; both agreed that “Orange Blossom Special” would fit better with the band’s “ride-’em-cowboy” ambience than “Juke.” Oats threw it in the hat for his solo tune, and spent every minute of the next few days practicing so he wouldn’t screw it up. He was determined to ace it onstage.

The tour bus rolled into the rodeo in Pittsburg, where it turned out that instead of playing in an amphitheatre or even a real stage, there was the band’s backline, drums and amps and everything, all set up on the top of a flatbed truck. There was no real dressing-room area, and not even a good way to get up and down off the flatbed without either jumping or hoisting yourself, or climbing a rickety little ladder. Bobby Lee’s smiling, spangled entrance from the wings was not going to work. There weren’t any wings to come out from. To add insult to injury, there were no snacks or drinks provided. Dickie Jaspers was fit to be tied when he figured out he was going to have to buy his own beer. Not to mention that the whole place, being a rodeo, smelled like horse dung.

They all scrambled up the rickety ladder and started their set with Bobby Lee front and center. The sound guy had placed a music stand at each spot; Oats didn’t usually use a stand, but he took it as a sign that it might not be a bad idea to scribble down some notes, since Bobby Lee had decided to change the set order—alternating the songs in the regular set with all of the new showcase tunes, plus some standards and a couple of new things he’d been working on. There was a lot to remember.

They started with “Party Time Gal” and then launched into “Honky Tonk Blues” by Hank Williams. Jeremy Farren took his star turn on “Steel Guitar Rag.” Bobby Lee did another one from the album, and then Rascal sang Toby Keith’s “Maintenance Man” in his rich, low voice. Oats noticed his pages of notes blowing around on the music stand. He stuck his big chromatic harp on the stand to anchor them down, but the wind was rising, coming in over the hills, and the papers rustled around so much you could hear them in the stage mix.

Finally, it was time for “Orange Blossom Special.” Bobby Lee gave Oats a nice introduction, and he stepped up to the mic and started to play his intro.

That was when the wind really started blowing. Oats’ pages of notes flew off his music stand, along with the harp he’d put there to hold them down. Of course the harp had to land on Dickie’s rack of effects pedals, and he just stood there glowering.

What could Oats do? Nothing but try to remember everything he could about Charley McCoy in that video, and do what he would have done—which was keep the show going. Oats looked over at Jeremy, who winked and played the fills. Then he came in with an amazing high harmonic part, a harmony to the lead line, and Oats began to relax into the song.

The wind blew harder, and Bobby Lee’s hat flew off his head and disappeared into the crowd. Oats just played louder, signaled Willie to speed up his train beat, and the band came to a crashing crescendo of noise as the song ended to a roar of applause. Bobby Lee called a break, and Gary G. cranked up a Hank, Jr. CD while Oats grabbed his harp case so he wouldn’t lose any more gear.

Oats thought he was going to get blown away himself, climbing down from the flatbed. Pete went off to see if he could find Bobby Lee’s hat, while everyone else hurried onto the bus, the only sheltered place in the vicinity that didn’t contain a horse, a cow, or a bunch of cowboys.

“Way to go, Oats!” Bobby Lee slapped him a high-five. “That ‘Orange Blossom Special’ was smoking.”

“Jeremy helped a lot, but thanks.”

“It was killer, man. OK, guys, listen up. For the next set…”

“You crazy, man? They ain’t gonna be no next set,” Dickie Jaspers shouted. “At least they ain’t gonna be a lead guitar. You see that wind? No way I’m going back out there.”

“I know it’s windy, but…”

“Ain’t no buts about it. Fuck this gig.”

“Maybe the wind will die down?” offered Billy. Everyone looked out the window of the bus. The wind, if anything, was getting stronger and stronger.

“Listen, you pinhead,” Bobby Lee said to Dickie, “you’ve been trying to screw things up ever since we got on the bus. I’m the band leader and if I say we’re playing…” None of them had ever seen Bobby Lee so mad. Dickie raised his fist, ready to take it outside, as both their voices escalated.

“I’m a little worried about my steel guitar,” Jeremy interrupted. “I think I’m going to go pull it off the stage.” He opened the bus door and walked, head down against the wind, back toward the flatbed. He grabbed his steel and almost stumbled pulling it down from the truck, but managed to get it on the ground. Then another gust of wind came off the mountains, and everyone watched, stunned, as the entire drum set got blown off the makeshift stage.

A couple of minutes later, Pete appeared.

“Well, guys, you want the good news or the bad news first?”

“Bad, I guess. Hit me, Pete,” said Bobby Lee.

“We don’t get paid if we don’t do a second set.”

“That’s crazy. The wind just blew the drums off the stage,” Bobby Lee said slowly. Oats could tell he hated agreeing with Dickie, but he had figured out which way the wind was blowing. “How can they get away with this?”

“Contract says they’re not responsible for ‘acts of God.’ Standard thing,” Pete sighed.

“Shit!” Bobby Lee was quiet for a minute. “OK, then, what’s the good news?”

“I found your hat,” said Pete, holding up a crumpled, battered piece of felt that had once been Bobby Lee’s stage hat.

The bus pulled out and Bobby Lee never got paid for that gig—the gig that was supposed to be one of the most lucrative on the tour. Not only that, the band lost a box of “Party Time Gal” T-shirts that had blown off the merchandise table.

Dickie Jaspers sulked for the next day and a half and Oats had a feeling it had as much to do with the fact that he got to do his solo song and Dickie didn’t, as the fight with Bobby Lee.

*

Unlike the Lollipopalooza tour where there was always some educational activity going on in between shows, Bobby Lee’s entourage didn’t seem to have a lot to do to occupy downtime. Bobby Lee was always pretty busy, but he made an effort to spend time with Oats. Mostly that amounted to taking walks around wherever the band was staying, or sharing some ice cream or a soda. Oats enjoyed these moments, but he still had a lot of time on his hands, left to his own devices when it came to amusement.

The guys settled into comfortable routines. Pete Rawley, the tour manager, spent a lot of time up front with the driver. He seemed to want to move as little as possible and Oats noticed that Pete seemed more worn out than usual, that his face got red whenever he had to run anywhere.

Fighting boredom was the tough part. The cool part was getting to play every night in a show that wasn’t a kids’ novelty act. Oats was treated like a regular sideman; nobody except for Bobby Lee went out of their way to amuse him, but no one told him what to do, when to go to bed, what he couldn’t watch or eat.

Each night he felt a little more musically confident. Bobby Lee was still working out whatever issues he had about being a band leader, but Oats got better at reading his cues, which weren’t always so clear. Oats learned to wait and see if Dickie was starting the solo. He’d hang on one note as though intending to build the drama until he figured out whether or not he was supposed to take the lead.

Then they’d pile onto the bus after the show and drive a ways before checking into a motel. Pete was Oats’ designated roommate by parental decree. As an honorary grandpa, he was supposed to act as babysitter and he probably intended to do just that, but the reality of the situation was a little different.

Pete would immediately start on his hair—he spent more time on his thick gray pompadour than anyone Oats had ever seen. Even his mom didn’t spend that much time on her long curls. Pete’s elaborate hair-care routine included a shampoo, conditioner, pat-down, leave-on conditioner, nourishing oil treatment, hydrating curl cream, and about forty-five minutes’ worth of styling. Then Pete would put something on the TV—they were both relieved to find that they liked many of the same shows—and almost immediately fall asleep, while Oats stayed up as late as he wanted to, roaming around the hotel checking stuff out. There were always vending machines where a guy could get the candy, chips, and soda forbidden at home. There were also arcade rooms with pinball and video games. Some places had swimming pools and Jacuzzis, and once Pete started snoring it was time for Oats to start exploring.

One night, while pounding on a candy machine that had eaten a dollar without dispensing any Butterfingers, he heard footsteps approaching from behind. Two hands covered his eyes and a squeaky little voice said “Guess who.” The hands seemed too small to be any of the guys in the band, and they were holding on too tight for Oats to see; he couldn’t figure it out until he reached back and felt some fringy material, the kind they use to decorate marching band uniforms.

“Melody?” He turned around and there she was, grinning her head off.

“You never called me back,” she said.

It was true. He had received a couple of text messages from her and not responded, intending to call her back, of course, but somehow the hours and days slipped by and he never got around to it.

All he could think of to say was, “I put in a dollar and this stupid machine wouldn’t give me my candy.” Anything to change the subject.

“I can fix that.” She grinned. “Stand back.” Melody took a running leap and kicked the side of the machine with one sharp heel of her white band uniform boot. Oats’ candy bar fell into the tray along with three little cellophane-wrapped packages of peanut-butter-and-cheese crackers and a Baby Ruth bar.

“Yummy, dinner,” he said as he started to scoop up all the stuff.

“Wait!” Melody grabbed the snacks away. “These don’t belong to you. You only paid for the one.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t share, silly,” Oats teased.

“No, we can’t take the stuff we didn’t pay for. It’s not right.” She placed the treats back in the little tray at the bottom of the machine. He couldn’t believe it.

“But,” he stammered, “the next person who comes along will just take them anyway. We can’t really put them back in.”

“I don’t care. It would still be stealing. Come with me, I want to show you something.”

What kind of girl can retrieve a Butterfinger with a jumping high kick, then refuse to take a couple of free bonus snacks? Oats was determined to find out, so he followed her outside some sliding glass doors to the area where they had a fenced-in swimming pool and Jacuzzi. She led him around a small storage unit behind the pool area, where there was a dirt path that led around to the back of a diner. Oats could smell greasy food cooking as they approached the restaurant, and realized he was hungry.

Melody stopped abruptly and he almost crashed right into her, thinking so hard about a bacon cheeseburger with fries. She knelt down and lifted up some branches of ivy running along the back of the building.

“Look,” she said softly.

“Where?”

“Over here…” She moved the ivy a little more and motioned for Oats to kneel down. There on the grass underneath was a mama cat nursing a litter of tiny kittens.

“They were just born,” she whispered. “I watched the whole thing. Look at that one, the smallest one. They call that one the runt.”

Sure enough, there was a teensy little white kitten with black spots around its face. It seemed like the other babies were trying to push it away but it kept snuggling back in trying to get at the mother cat’s milk. It was better than anything on the Discovery Channel, the real thing happening right in front of their eyes.

They sat there, watching the kittens nurse for a while. Then Oats had an inspired idea.

“Hey, wanna go in and get a burger? My treat,” he said.

“Sure! I missed dinner watching the kitties getting born.”

They walked into the diner and asked the hostess for a table for two. As luck would have it, she seated them next to a table where Dickie Jaspers, Willie Jones, and two women Oats had never seen before were sharing some buffalo wings and a pitcher of beer. From the sound of things, it wasn’t their first pitcher.