Red Dirt Rocker

by Jody French

  As I play and sing, I become distracted by a tiny barn mouse that’s scurried out from under a hay bale. I sit for a second, watching the tiny, dusty grey rodent nibble on a piece of Mojo’s molasses coated sweet feed that has spilled out onto the barn floor.

  I think to myself, What a simple life the barn mouse must live—no school, no cell phones, no computers, no girlfriends, no chores…might be nice.

  The mouse darts back under the hay bale and my daydream is interrupted as a motley crew bursts through the barn door. It’s my bandmates.

  "I found some hitchhikers on the road!" my sister Megan announces as she heads the pack.

  "Dude! Were you really hitching?" I question, shaking my head. (I find myself shaking my head at my bandmates quite often.)

  "Yeah, we were hangin’ at my house after school and didn't wanna wait for a ride, so we just hit the open road. Ya know, when you're carrying a guitar case, people think you're legit," Jake boasts cooly.

  "Well, looks to me like my sister was the only one that thought you looked legit. You guys are insane." I chuckle. “You’re lucky a serial killer didn’t pick you up.”

  "I'm outta here, guys," Megan waves. "And no more stickin' your thumbs out," she lectures, pointing her motherly index finger at the boys.

  Jake, Randy and Cody thank Megan for the ride. She exits the barn, leaving the scent of her Cotton Candy Bath and Body Works spray behind.

  "Man, she smells righteous! Just like sugar cookies," Randy mumbles with a dreamy expression floating across his round baby-face.

  “Yeah, your sister’s hot!” Jake declares, and Cody nods heavily in agreement.

  “Oh Lord, pleeease do not ever say that in my presence again!” I beg with my hands over my ears.

  “Sorry man, but if the skirt fits…” Cody adds dryly.

  “Oh forget it, guys,” I concede as I approach the mic stand with my head dropped in denial. “Let’s just play!”

  I wait for Cody’s cue to start the first song. He always clicks his drumsticks four times to begin our jam session, but only silence fills the large barn. All the boys hesitate, standing motionless at their designated jamming stations. I survey the stoic expressions on their faces and I can tell they have something on their minds. The boys never do “serious.”

  Jake is the first to pipe up. “Hey, Forrest, we heard in sixth hour that ya got hurt, or maybe broke your arm in football practice today.” He begins with concern.

  “No, no, not broken. My wrist is just a little bit sprained. D.J. had his brain-dead sidekick Box tackle me without pads on when I wasn’t ready for it,” I explain, hoping to squelch their worries.

  “Man, Forrest, you need to be careful. Ya know that D.J. has it in for ya. He freakin’ loves Heather. He’s been jealous of you guys since the first day of school,” Jake continues as he reaches down to connect his frayed and duct-taped guitar cord.

  “Yeah, Forrest. What if you break your arm or somethin’ and can’t play your guitar? We really wish you’d quit football,” Cody adds, as he instinctively twirls his sticks.

  “It’ll be all right, guys. Don’t worry about a thing. Besides, my dad would disown me if I quit the team now. We’re havin’ a winning season. It looks like we might actually have a chance for the playoffs. It’ll all work out,” I assure them. The only problem is, I’m not even quite convinced myself.

  “Okay, man…if you say so, dude. Yeah, it’ll all work out. Just be careful, man,” Jake finishes, putting an end to the serious discussion.

  After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, Randy mumbles. “Hey, Forrest, ya know what?”

  “What?” I respond cautiously.

  “Chicken butt!” Randy answers matter-of-factly. “Ya know why?” He questions with a smile.

  “Chicken thigh!” I grin widely, thankful for Randy’s random joke.

  Jake and Randy raise their guitars to their hips. “Let’s rock this mother!” Cody exclaims, as he cracks his wooden sticks four times and crashes his cymbals.

  We light right into our original song, "Rocket." It’s a totally catchy hard rock tune that some would affectionately refer to as an “ear worm,” a song in which the chorus gets stuck in your head and you can’t help but hum it all day long once you've heard it. This is maddening to some, but magic to record labels.

  As our music reverberates off the dry, splintered barn walls, it’s very apparent to me that my buds and I were born to make music—music that will stick in people’s heads for a long, long time.

  I’m revived and ready to go after the mini jam session. Playing guitar always helps to clear my head and ease my mind, and Jake, Randy and Cody never fail to make me laugh.

  I think about my bandmates and their very warranted concerns. I secretly wish I could channel Superman's powers as I continued to juggle my family time, social life, football, and my band. I don’t want to let anyone down. School…check, band practice…check. Now it’s time for football—hut-hut!

  I pull up to the field house and can see that Tiger Field is buzzing with activity. Hundreds of cars line the parking lot, and spill over into three acres of open field. The home stands are already packed with loyal fans. It’s Friday night and the high school football game is the place to be. There isn’t much else to do in town, so there’s always a standing-room-only crowd of loyal supporters.

  I take a deep breath and enter the testosterone-filled locker room. All of my teammates’ voices automatically lower a few octaves as we talk major smack about our chicken-livered opponents. We put on our armor and prepare for battle.

  I charge onto the dewy field with my fellow soldiers as the marching band fires up the fight song. The blast of the trumpets and the pounding of the drums is our war call.

  I look to the steel bleachers and find my family in their reserved seats just below the press box. It gives me strength and comfort to see them there and feel their support. I know come rain, shine, sleet or snow, they’ll always be there for me. Hearing their cheers gives me an extra push. Mom and Dad wave wildly at me as I jog onto the wet, green, glistening turf. I pause at the giant air brushed tiger head painted at the center of the fifty yard line, slap myself in the helmet then sprint to the sidelines.

  “Go get em,’ Fooreest…LET’S SEE SOME GOOD HITS!” Dad booms. He’s in his element, enthusiastically coaching from his seat every game. Mama said it gives him an adrenaline rush to watch me on the field. Anyone can tell that it’s the highlight of his blue collar, or should I say, “brown collar,” UPS work week.

  It’s kick-off time. The fans rally us on with clanking cowbells and homemade noise makers. Water bottles filled with gravel rattle the home stands. My team goes into attack mode.

  Our game is close at half time, but we pull ahead after the third quarter, with a final score of twenty-seven to seven. The coaches pull D.J. out and let me guide the Tigers for the last three minutes of the game, where I connect a forty-yard pass with Kyle for the last touchdown. I can tell from his expression that D.J. is always angered when I step in for him. Quarterback is his position, and he doesn’t want me calling the shots.

  My teammates and I celebrate the team's victory, but D.J. is busy sneering.

  The Tiger marching band plays “Go Big Orange” on repeat as Heather comes bounding up to me in front of the field house.

  "Forrest!" she squeals, jumping up and down. "You all won! Let's go celebrate, sweetie!"

  "Hey, Heather," I huff, still out of breath. I try to greet her with a warm, sweaty hug.

  "Eeewww!" she yells, pushing me away. "Go take a shower and I'll wait for you—you stink! There's a big party at D.J.'s house tonight. He even has an awesome hot tub," she quips, matter-of-factly.

  "Heather, to be honest,” I hesitate, “I’m dog tired and really just wanna go home, put some ice on my wrist, and maybe watch a movie. Does that sound ok?" I don’t have to wait for her answer. I already know what it’s going to be.

  "Now, Forrest, I am the head cheerleader. What would it loo
k like if I didn’t attend the after-party? Really, you need to think about that," Heather returns. She swirls her curly, glossy ponytail between her fingers, trying her best to look bright-eyed and innocent as the bossy words roll off her tongue.

  "Heather, why don't you go on to the party without me? I'll text ya in a bit. I'm not really up for a major celebration tonight," I reason.

  I sure don’t want to go to D.J.’s. I know what after-parties consist of—a keg, smoke, and a lot of my friends doing things that I know they wouldn’t normally do under sober circumstances. It just makes me feel awkward and uncomfortable. Being straight-edge means I make the decision not to drink or smoke. It seems ironic to me that these days, being a straight-up teen means you’re considered a rebel of sorts—the odd man out.

  I did go to one beer bust after our first game of the season. My buddy, Zane, talked me into driving him out to a cow pasture on Ben Lumpkin Road where they were having a kegger to celebrate the win. I became the “D.D.,” or designated driver. Well, within twenty minutes, the alarm was sounded. The cops were on their way! I helped snuff out the puny bonfire and the party was over. I led the pack, driving my Chevy like the Dukes of Hazzard, bumping and skidding through the field like a bat out of Hell.

  Zane had somehow managed to chug nine beers in less than thirty minutes and was already totally blitzed. As we high-tailed it out of the pasture, Zane let out a belch that registered on the Richter scale and began to mumble in a Captain Kirk-like voice.

  “Forressss…youuu…are…my besss friend. I been drinkin’…but I’m saaaafe. I’m t-o-t-a-l-l-y waaasted, dude. And…you’re drivin’ me tooo safety. I loooove ya, man!!!”

  I then had to pull over to let The Zane-anator upchuck in the ditch. Yep…good times!

  I don’t want to go hang out at D.J.'s house, and I know Heather is clued in to that. She’s beginning to show her true personality, which makes her suddenly not so attractive to me.

  "Okay, party pooper. I'll talk to ya later," Heather says, pouting. She glances behind her and suddenly decides to give me a big hug, sweat and all. I’m pretty sure her public display of affection is intended to make D.J. jealous. It works. The cranky quarterback rumbles by.

  “Get a room!” D.J. mutters sarcastically.

  I’m not too surprised when Heather doesn’t get offended by the remark. She just giggles and pushes me away quickly.

  "Tootles, Forrest. Text me later, doll! Hey, D.J, wait up!" she yells, dismissing me with a wave of her perfectly manicured hand.

  I really can care less where she goes or who she goes with at this point. I’m now just hoping to find the right time to break up with her. She is most definitely a beautiful girl, but her selfish attitude is wearing me thin.

  After my team’s rowdy, towel-popping victory celebration in the locker room, which adds two more raspberries to the three I already have from the game, I head home alone. Between my school day, band practice and the football game, I’m beyond exhausted and totally ignore my promise to text Heather. I figure she’s too busy partying it up in D.J.’s awesome hot tub, more than likely in her teeniest bikini, to even care.

  I put my headphones on and adjust my fat goose-down pillow under my sore neck. I’m exhausted and quickly drift off into a deep sleep as Death Cab for Cutie sings me a lullaby.

  The aroma of salty, smoked bacon and pancakes with maple syrup is my favorite thing to wake up to in the morning. To my delight, the warm, comforting, sweet and savory smells drift all the way down the hallway and into my room.

  Opening one eye, I decide that the promise of a mouth-watering meal and a tall glass of ice cold milk is worth opening them both at the same time.

  I stretch my arm up and rotate my wrist to make sure it’s still in working order. I have scabs on both elbows, my back hurts and my neck hurts—my whole body aches from the game last night, but my wrist is my only concern.

  I lift my arm toward the ceiling fan, roll my hand around, and breathe a sigh of relief. My arm is okay. I’ll be in top form for my band’s gig tonight.

  Mama knocks on my door and enters with an especially sweet smile on her face.

  “Mooorning, Mama,” I yawn weakly.

  "Hey, sleepyhead. It's already ten o'clock. Are ya’ ready to get up and have breakfast? I made your favorite—buttermilk pancakes and bacon," Mama says in a soft tone as she kisses me on the forehead, which is the only part of my body that isn’t in pain.

  She messes up my curls and tells me that I look just like a cherub in a Renaissance painting. “You’re my rock angel,” Mama declares lovingly.

  “Yes…I am an angel. That’s for sure,” I return teasingly. "Breakfast smells soooo good. Thanks, Mama. I'll be right there," I whisper lazily as I stretch my aching muscles and sing out my last long yawn in a tenor key.

  Mama’s expression suddenly turns serious. "Hey, sweetie…I need to let you know…umm…I got a call yesterday evening right before your ball game. It was from a guy that’ll be coming to your show tonight. His name is Dan Manning. He's with Diamond Records.

  “Dan’s coming to Tulsa to scout your band! He's heard all the hype, checked out your band's YouTube videos and is very excited to come hear you boys play tonight," Mama explains, her eyes open wide and fill with excitement. "I thought it might break your concentration if I told you right before your football game. I knew you'd need a good night’s sleep, so I figured that now was the best time to tell you." Mama laces her fingers together tightly and bites her bottom lip like she always does when she’s trying to contain her enthusiasm. I can tell she’s hoping I won’t be upset at her for withholding such pertinent information.

  “Seriously?” I question, in total shock. I suddenly bolt upright. “Dude! That’s awesome, Mom! I have to call the guys! They won’t believe it!” I feel thrilled and nervous at the same time—“thervous” is what Randy calls it. He says that’s how he feels before every Cellar Door Is Gone show.

  My heart begins to race. “What an amazing way to wake up!” My thoughts buzz. I suddenly turn completely ADHD. I take three deep, calming breaths, grab my BlackBerry and nervously push speed dial for Jake’s number. I blurt out the incredible news. Jake flips totally out, of course, and says he’ll call Randy and Cody.

  I grab my Mac and make the incredible announcement on my Facebook status. My page blows up. I get fifteen encouraging comments in less than three minutes.

  We make plans for my mom and me to meet the boys up at Cody’s house at 6:00 sharp. Evening rolls around and, true to form, Jake, Randy and Cody are running late. They tell me to go on ahead. The three incessantly tardy boys will ride with Cody’s mom and dad and meet us at the venue in Tulsa.

  I hear Cody holler from the bathroom that he’s having a bad hair day and is trying to fix it. I know better than that. Cody is famous for jumping out of the shower, running his fingers through his Justin Beiberish hair and voilá!

  “All right, guys. I’ll see ya there. Just slap a beanie on Codyman!” I yell, as I leap off the porch like a seven-year-old. I slide into the passenger seat of my truck. Mama is my chauffeur for the night. She still doesn’t trust my driving skills on the busy expressway and truthfully, neither do I.

  “To the club, James, chop-chop!” I order, with a bad British accent.

  “Excuse me, Rock Star?” Mama corrects.

  “Sorry…we can go now, Mom,” I grin and salute Mama. I can hardly contain my excitement. The boys and I will be opening for the main act at the historic Cain's Ballroom in downtown Tulsa. This is going to be our biggest show to date. My adrenaline is rushing through me like the Colorado River as we pull up to the grungy, graffiti-ridden back lot of the venue.

  I hustle inside to visit with Brad, the stage manager, who always gives me breaks on ticket prices and sometimes even autographed copies of band flyers when I go to concerts there. Just last month he scored me a poster from the one and only Ted Nugent. It was signed, “Good hunting Forrest—my fellow soldier of rock-n-roll!” It is the coolest.


  A full twenty minutes passes before the other guys finally arrive.

  “Better late than never!” Cody announces, as he and the heavy metal posse march across the wooden parquet floor. His hair is a cool, hot mess. It’s plastered vertically into a four-inch Mohawk. He’s also added bright red and purple stripes on the spikes.

  I shake my head at their tardiness, but love Cody’s hair. I forgive them for being late, and make a mental note to get them all watches next Christmas.

  “Wow! This is soooo rad,” Cody’s voice echoes, as he surveys the large stage.

  “Let’s get set up, guys,” I direct. The boys and I thank Brad, shake his hand like professionals, and get to work. Our families jump right in. They double as our roadies, helping us carry in the amps, guitars and drum set. Sometimes they get mistaken for the band members as they help lug equipment in. It always floors club owners when they realize Cellar Door Is Gone is made up of fifteen and sixteen-year-olds. They’re always very pleasantly surprised by the time we finish the first song of our original set list. We’ve been told many times that we sound like seasoned professionals. I take great pride in that.

  With the equipment in place, I make my way out the backstage door to grab my guitar case from my truck. I look around the quiet parking lot. I can’t hide my disappointment from Mama.

  “Dad said to tell you 'good luck.' His UPS route was slammed today,” she says and gives me a tight hug. We both know that Dad could have made it to the show if he had made an effort. It’s unspoken knowledge that he doesn’t quite support my dream of being a musician. I’m sure he thinks I should concentrate on more practical things—football, to be exact. Just last week, Mama tried to get him to wear one of my band’s t-shirts. Dad just said that it didn’t fit right, and opted for his Tigers football tee.

  I looked at the labels; they were the exact same size—Hanes large.

  Mama finishes hugging me and grabs my shoulders. “Now go kick butt!” she says firmly, clapping her hands together twice. I’m grateful for her support. She and Aunt Carmen always stand front and center at all my shows. Mama mans the camcorder; Aunt Carmen snaps pictures.