Red Dirt Rocker

by Jody French

  Frank clears his throat dramatically one last time and pauses for what seems like an eternity. “Believe it or not, my young dudes, we are traveling to Stockholm, Sweden…to open for the one and only legends of rock, KISS!” He exhales and begins to clap.

  There is a collective gasp in the barn and then looks of shock and disbelief all around. KISS is one of my band’s rock heroes. Several of our moms and dads had seen KISS in concert back in the day, and they are as thrilled as we are.

  The boys and I bound from our seats and snazzy-dressing Frank becomes a victim of a Cellar Door Is Gone takedown. We throw our arms around our manager and give him our classic, extreme group hug, which knocks us all backward over a hay bale.

  Frank gets back onto his feet and begins picking straw from his brand new Ed Hardy t-shirt imprinted with a ferocious, fang bearing tiger. “Congrats, young rockers! We’ll be leaving a week from Thursday. You rock stars will have to miss a couple of days of school, so let your teachers know.” This news brings even bigger smiles to Jake, Randy and Cody’s faces.

  “An MTV camera crew will be coming along to film the whole trip. You can each bring one parent as your chaperone, so let me know who’s going and we’ll shoot the passport info through on the fast track. We’ll get the airline tickets, as well. All right—this is how we roll, baby!” Frank spouts as he shoots index finger pistols at us.

  My celebration experiences a hiccup when I suddenly remember that if my football team wins their game this Friday, we’ll be vying for the State Championship. My elation turns to confusion, and when my eyes connect with Dad’s, I know he’s thinking the same thing. Dad sits quietly, nervously tapping his fingers on his Levis. He has a blank look of apathy on his face. I suck a deep breath of oxygen in and replay the words in my head that Mama always tells me when I am worried. She says, “Just remember the old song, 'One Day at a Time, Sweet Jesus,' and change it to ‘one hour at a time’—anything can be managed that way.” So I guess hour to hour, Sweet Jesus it is.

  The next morning at school, the news of my band’s trip to Sweden to open for KISS is already spreading like wildfire. It’s another head-spinning day. I feel like I’m in a bubble floating as a spectator away from reality. There have been so many changes.

  I haven’t been spending much time with Heather. She’s started driving herself into school for the past couple of weeks. I’ve started going in thirty minutes early to put in extra time on my geometry. We still eat lunch together most days with mutual friends, and meet at our lockers after sixth hour. Each and every time I try to talk to Heather about a break up, she just won’t have it. She pouts. Her green eyes become liquid with tears and she says how much she likes me. Even though I don’t believe her sincerity, I’m soft-hearted, and am not ready to go to drama city. I decide to put the confrontation off until next week. I’ll make the break official after Sweden for sure.

  In the meantime, I can’t get the image of Sophie, her blonde hair, blue eyes and room-lighting smile, off my mind.

  I hope I see Sophie today on my way to the field house sixth hour. She’s the band director’s aid. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of her through the small rectangular window in Mr. Brandt’s band room door as I pass by on my way to football.

  Today I’m feeling brave. I peek in the door and see Sophie sitting at the piano. She’s playing a soft, hypnotic melody. I stand for just a moment getting lost in the piece with her. I sure don’t want to appear to be a creeper, so I crack the creaky band room door open further. She is all alone.

  "Hey, Forrest!" Sophie senses the door opening, stops playing and greets me cheerfully. I grin widely as I enter, casually surveying the room. It’s filled with shiny brass instruments, bongos, drums, xylophones, bells, and black, mottled music stands.

  She smiles back and gushes enthusiastically, "I heard about your trip to Sweden. Wow, Forrest!! You’re opening for KISS!"

  Her friendly face is all lit up. "I also heard "Rocket" on the radio this morning. The song is soooo catchy! It’s really great. I know you’ve got to be beyond excited,” she adds.

  I’m listening to her voice, but find myself distracted by the fragrance of her orangey-vanilla perfume.

  “Oh…oh, man, you know it! I can't believe how things are takin’ off for us. It's just kinda freakin’ me out. Sometimes I don’t know whether I’m comin’ or goin’,” I reply. “How’ve you been, Sophie?”

  I can’t believe it, but my palms are actually sweating. I can play in front of hundreds—shoot, thousands—of people and keep my cool, but put me alone in a room with Sophie and I begin to sweat, stutter and generally just fall all over myself.

  “I've been good,” Sophie says with downcast eyes, making me feel as though this isn’t exactly the truth. “I hope you don’t think I'm stuck up when I don't speak to you in the halls sometimes. It’s just…Heather’s usually around and I don't think she likes me much. You two make a really cute couple…she’s so pretty.” Sophie replies with a bit of hesitation.

  I’m certain that Heather would add Sophie’s compliment to her “daily list” if she had heard it.

  "No way Sophie…I know you better than that. Yeah, Heather’s pretty and popular…but I don't know," I stammer. She's just not very nice," I blurt out. "I’ve been trying to break up with her—for sure gonna call it quits after I get back from Sweden.”

  As I explain in muttering fashion, an acoustic guitar sitting in the corner of the band room catches my eye. I had actually been working on a song that I’ve written with Sophie as my inspiration. I started writing it the night after the Metallica concert.

  "I just can’t thank you enough for the amazing seats you got us at the concert. You mind?" I ask, as I cross to pick up the glossy black Ibanez resting in a guitar stand.

  "Be my guest," Sophie says, not knowing exactly what to expect.

  I can see that she’s picked up a pair of nicked drumsticks from the top of the piano and begins fidgeting with them.

  Could she be nervous, too? I wonder to myself. I try to keep my cool. "This is a song I've been working on. It's really different from what I usually play," I explain as I strum the first chords. Do not sing off key, I mentally order myself as I begin the song.

  There’s a girl in my eyes

  And she’s lookin’ my way

  I feel so close to her on a windy day

  This girl I’ve fallen for is a light in my dark world

  Her smile carries me away

  Her smile carries me awaaay

  I sing from my heart as I continue the soft, heartfelt ballad that I’ve secretly named "Sophie's Song." I can see Sophie blush slightly as I finish the last line in my song. I strum the last note, letting it ring out invisibly and soft as it dissolves in the air. Ending with a sheepish grin, I glance in her direction.

  Sophie is smiling, too. I can spot that hopeful smile of hers from twenty lockers away in the hall. It always makes my heart beat a little faster.

  I stroll back across the room and replace the guitar gingerly in the stand. I suddenly become very self-conscious. I hope I look cool in my skinny jeans and Pac Sun tee. I really hope Sophie liked the song.

  “Forrest…oh my gosh! That was amazing!” Sophie exclaims. “You should definitely record that one!” she says earnestly. Her eyes are clear and truthful.

  Whew…she liked it! I think with relief. Gosh, her eyes are so beautiful!

  “I’ll pray for you guys to have a safe trip.” Sophie continues thoughtfully.

  The more time I spend with Sophie, the more I can see the beauty inside her heart. She’s truly a special girl—one-of-a-kind for sure.

  “Thanks, Sopie." I return. "I’m glad you liked it. Well, I'd better get to football. I dread the thought of talkin’ to Coach. If we win on Friday, we’re gonna be in the State Championship game, and I'll be halfway across the world in Sweden.," I reply quietly. “I’ve been really confused lately…a lot of decisions to make."

  It’s all a little overwhelming—knowing that I
’d have to disappoint Heather, no matter how snide she’s been, by choosing Sophie, but most of all my dad by choosing my music over football.

  "Just follow your heart, Forrest. It'll all be okay," Sophie says quietly in a comforting tone.

  It’s so refreshing that her words are totally sincere, and are about me, not her. That’s something I never get from Heather. Just follow my heart…I think my heart has just officially chosen Sophie.

  “Good luck at your football game. I’ll be rooting you guys on,” Sophie adds, clasping her hands together just like Mama does when she gives me words of encouragement. I decide, on the spur of the moment, to lean in and give Sophie a quick hug goodbye. She feels so little in my arms. She feels like the one little thing I’m missing in my life.

  I’m walking on air as I make my way to the field house. I notice three tiny, darting sparrows on the sidewalk pecking at a handful of discarded neon-orange Cheetos. I hear the afternoon breeze rattling the leaves of the cottonwoods. Everything just seems brighter and more real. I look up at the sky. I feel as though I’m moving right along with the ethereal clouds above, and all I’m thinking is, Her smile really does carry me away!

  We’re victorious—we win our football game tonight. My brain was not in the game, and I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I missed several important tackles, but thanks to our lightning-fast safety saving the day, my mistakes were not game-changers. My team is chugging like a freight train that can’t be stopped, but I feel like I’m just a passenger along for the ride. The Coweta Tigers will be playing for the State Championship. My team, and the entire town, is ecstatic—but I feel indifferent.

  My head swims in confusion. This is the big game I’ve dreamed of playing from the first time I set my cleats on the field for little league, and I'm going to miss it. I can't believe it. I don’t want to let my teammates down, but I just can’t pass up the opportunity of a lifetime with my band in Sweden. Luckily, the Tigers’ lineup is deep. There are strong backup players waiting in the ranks.

  The hardest part is dealing with my dad's disappointment. He’s been giving me the silent treatment. The quieter my dad is, the more upset he is. After the game, Dad just gives me a firm look, a pat on the shoulder pad, and walks away. It’s breaking my heart. I’m so torn. I can’t remember a time when Dad and I were on the outs.

  The following day, I still participate in football practice. As the final whistle blows, I jog off the field and head for the showers. I pause at the sight of the sun setting over the west bleachers. The sunset is blazing orange and purple. The oak trees in the distance look like they’re sketched in black ink across the canvas of the evening sky.

  I love sunrises and sunsets; they always inspire me. I stand gazing up as the fiery globe appears to be igniting the metallic bleachers and decide that my next song will have a sunset in it. My band and I will be leaving for Sweden tomorrow.

  It suddenly hits me that this might be the last sunset I’ll see from the fifty-yard line. I feel lonely and sad.

  Inside the locker room, Coach's favorite Toby Keith song, “Made in America,” is blaring on a dusty, circa 1990’s boom box. The twangy, boot-scootin’ tune elevates my mood. I hear Coach Bryan yell my name over the music.

  "Hey, Forrest…ya ever think a cuttin' a country album?" Coach Bryan asks. His hick accent lays thick as biscuit gravy on his words. He spits a black, liquid stream of chewing tobacco juice into an empty Gatorade bottle.

  "If I do, Coach, you will definitely be my inspiration!" I holler back, shaking my head.

  "Ahhh, son, ya know, country music’s where it's at," Coach says with absolute conviction. Coach crosses the room and places his well-worn black felt cowboy hat on my head. He pats me firmly on the back with his huge, callused hands. Coach is like a bear that doesn’t know its own strength.

  I squint my eyes shut and jolt forward a step, which prompts me to begin riding a fake bucking horse all the way to my locker. I swing an imaginary rope over my head, grab my Joe’s Tire Shop ball cap and throw Coach back his cowboy hat like a Frisbee.

  "It fits me pretty good, Coach, but I'd better let you keep it. You’ll need it after the big game Friday. I’m not sure if the Swedes are ready for a cowboy from Coweta just yet!" I laugh.

  "Hey, Forrest. Ya know we're all really proud a ya, bud. Knock em' dead, son! We're gonna miss ya on the field, but we’re glad yer followin’ yer dreams,” Coach Bryan says, with genuine sincerity.

  "Thanks, Coach. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all you’ve done for me." I feel my heart grow heavy.

  “I know yer gonna see a lot more of this big ole world, Forrest,” Coach returns. His smile widens in approval, revealing bits of brown tobacco in his teeth. “I just wish you would’ve learnt to play country music.” He teases, as he slaps me on the back again. This time I brace myself and stand firm. I extend my hand and Coach shakes it firmly. The calluses on my hands from playing guitar are small compared to the calluses on Coach Bryan’s hands, which developed from years of daily farm labor. I respect Coach more than I can say.

  “KISS, huh? Well they ain’t no Toby Keith, but I guess they’ll do, son!”

  On my way out of the locker room, I can hear the shrill sound of hair clippers buzzing. The trainer wielding shears turns to me as he shaves a no-neck lineman’s hair down to a faint shadow of stubble.

  "Hey, Forrest, come have a seat. I'll give ya a buzz cut!” he says, patting the back of the rusty metal folding chair.

  "Oh, no thanks, dude. I'm good. Maybe I'll catch ya’ when I get back." I kindly decline, as I shake my long, shaggy hair and replace my ball cap.

  As I leave the locker room, I raise my hands over my head and jump up to smack the "Tiger Pride" sign that hangs above the heavy metal door. The sharp, cold evening air hits me square in the face. I inhale deeply. I turn back towards the dark, abandoned football field and yell at the top of my lungs, "GO TIGERS!!!” My voice echoes back in agreement twice, and then dies in the lonely black shadows.

  I arrive back home to a packing frenzy. Mama’s bluesy Eric Clapton CD mingles with the mechanical sloshing sound of the washing machine’s agitator. She has on her favorite old-as-the-hills Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt, and just as aged, faded, holey jeans. A glass of amber wine sparkles on the kitchen counter under the chandelier light.

  “Wine…all right!” I tease. I raise the crystal glass to my lips and pretend to partake.

  “Yeah, right.” Mama huffs with an exhausted sigh. She takes the glass from my hand, swirls the liquid contents, takes a sip and then continues in her zone. Mama runs between the dryer, the ironing board and the suitcases as she gathers things for my trip to Sweden. As much as Mama wants to go, Dad will be the one who travels with me. I’m sure the glass of wine Mama has is intended to numb her disappointment.

  The other boys are bringing their fathers as well, except for Jake. He’ll be chaperoned by his favorite uncle. It’s going to be a guy’s trip. I wish Mama could go with us, too. I hug her tight and tell her she’ll be my date if I ever get to go to The Grammys. I’m hoping the adventure will help take Dad’s mind off of the football game. I hope it’ll help take my mind off it, as well.

  Mama’s blonde braid snakes over her shoulder. She looks like a mad scientist as she measures out three-ounce bottles of shampoo, conditioner and, most importantly, my hair gel. We can only take three-ounce size liquids on the plane because of airline regulations, and I need extra gel because of my thick hair. Mama prides herself on finding the products that are just right for keeping my curls in check.

  She laughs when she notices that she’s packing more accessories for me than she would have packed for herself. Laid out on my bed are: four wrist bands (ranging from black leather, to metal, to terry cloth), three necklaces, two wallet chains, two leather silver-studded belts with heavy duty buckles, and last but not least, a blue and white knit scarf. I have to promise Mama that I’ll wear it to keep the cold air from giving me a frog in the throat. I hate to break a prom
ise to her, but know I won’t wear it. I figure I can give it to snappy-dressing Frank to accessorize with. I can’t imagine what the X-ray technician will think as my luggage sets off the metal detectors.

  “Rock stars have to carry a lot of baggage—I hope that suitcases are the only kind of 'baggage' you’ll ever have in your life,” Mama says, proud of her analogy.

  I grab two Double Stuf Oreos and sit at the kitchen table as Mama rolls the last suitcase into the dining room.

  “Can I help?" I ask, as I unscrew the chocolate cookie sandwich and scrape the thick, sweet white icing off with my front teeth.

  "That's okay, honey. Just about got it whipped," Mama replies with a sing-song sigh of relief. She lays her hands on my shoulders and kneads my aching muscles. "I love you, bub. I’m so glad that your dad gets to go with you to Sweden. You know I wish I could be there, too, but I’m sure you and your father are going to have the time of your lives.

  “I know you feel as though Dad doesn’t care about your music, but he’s excited—Dad just wants the best for you…truth be told, he’s really nervous for you, "she explains.

  "I know, Mama. I just can't help feeling that he's really disappointed with me for missing the football game. We’ve been working toward that game for all these years. I know it's Dad’s dream," I voice quietly.

  "Sweetie, we just want you to follow your dreams. Your dreams are our dreams. We’re with you one hundred percent, whether you’re a football player, a musician, a mechanic—whatever. Dad and I are so proud of the young man you’ve become and all that you’re going to do. We love you so much," Mama assures as she wipes back a curl that had fallen in front of my tired eyes. “Now, go get ready for bed. We’ve gotta get you and Daddy to the airport by six thirty a.m.—I know, not rocker-friendly hours. I already bought the Red Bull," she chimes, slightly pleased with herself for her contribution of remembering every last detail of the packing process.