by Greg Trine
“This may have been a mistake, guys,” I said. We were backstage at Battle of the Bands. The fairgrounds stadium was packed. “No one is doing original songs. We’re going to get booed off the stage.”
“It’ll be fine,” Tuck said. “Just start in on ‘Templin Highway’ like we practiced. Don’t hold back. If they love us, we’ll go to the next song.”
I nodded. Sticking to the game plan seemed like a good idea. We were twelfth in a lineup of about fifteen bands. And every one of them that had gone on so far had absolutely rocked, except one. A band called Spastic Pajamas. Oddly enough, their front man wore a bow tie. They didn’t get booed off the stage, but the applause was pretty sporadic. And someone threw a tomato. Tough crowd.
Vern slung his bass over his shoulder and looked like he was about ready to throw up. “Two bands to go.”
Butterflies banged around inside me. Tuck twirled his drumsticks and pointed one of them at me. “Strong vocals, Elroy. If you’re tentative, we’re sunk.”
“Got it.” The crowd erupted in applause as the band onstage started in on an Aerosmith song. This was not Battle of the Bands; it was Battle of Who Could Cover Someone Else’s Song the Best. The Aerosmith song ended, and the band left the stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Pie Fight.”
“We’re up next,” Vern said. He was almost shaking. So was I.
“Fire up,” Tuck said. He grabbed the Skoal can from his back pocket and offered us a mint. Vern and I took two each.
Pie Fight played three cover songs and did a pretty good job of it. They’d be a tough act to follow.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our next band, Templin Highway.”
“That’s us,” Tuck said, holding out a fist to me. I smacked it with my own. “Remember, don’t hold back, Elroy. They’ll dig us if we’re confident.”
“I’m ready,” I told him. We climbed the stairs onto the stage and plugged in the guitar and bass. The amps and drums were provided, which made it easier to transition from band to band. Tuck banged his sticks together, tapping out the beat, and I went to the microphone. I looked out on the crowd and saw a familiar face. Sampson Teague was in the third row, along with a few of his Second Base Club cronies. No sign of Hairy Jerry.
“Good evening,” I said into the mike, “we’re Templin Highway,” which was kind of lame, since we’d already been introduced. Then I hit the first chord hard. A second later, Vern came in on bass, and Tuck was right there with us on percussion. So far so good. The intro was fairly long. I could see the faces in the crowd wondering, Is this a new version of a classic? Are they eventually going to hit that familiar melody? I knew what they were expecting. Too bad. I was sorry to disappoint, but not too sorry.
I began to sing:
Driving down the highway, Springsteen soundin’ good
Never comin’ back, don’t think I should
The facial expressions in the crowd began to change. People turned to one another. This isn’t a familiar classic. These guys have the gall to play something original.
It was the only game plan we had, and I was sticking to it. We played on as the audience began to fidget and look around.
Never comin’ back, I say. Never comin’ back
Halfway through the song, someone yelled, “Get off the stage!”
Vern and I exchanged a look, but we kept playing. Tuck kept going on drums.
Things never spoken, things never said
Wondering if it’s too late now—
Something whizzed by my head. Couldn’t tell what it was until a few seconds later, when something squishy and wet glanced off my guitar. A tomato, an overripe tomato.
“Get off the stage!”
Another projectile whizzed by. I didn’t stop singing. Nor did my band-mates stop playing. Instead, I changed the lyrics.
I’m quitting my job, quitting work
Whoever threw that tomato is the world’s biggest jerk
I scanned the audience and found the perp, who was winding up for another throw. I pointed to him and kept chanting the melody of the song, with the new lyrics:
You jerk, you jerk, you jeee-eeerk
I sidestepped his next throw and sang it again.
You jerk, you jerk, you assho-o-ole
Then I turned around, unplugged the guitar, and walked off the stage. Vern followed my lead. Tuck snapped his sticks over his thigh and chucked them into the crowd.
At the bottom of the stage stairs, Sampson Teague was standing there waiting for me. “Strange audience, Elroy. They just wanted to hear something familiar.”
I ran a hand through my hair, pulled out a glob of rotten tomato, and flung it to the ground. “Yeah, whatever.” I turned to go around him when I heard—
“Elroy!” It was Juana Maria.
“Hey,” I said.
“That guy was a jerk. But . . . uh . . . you kind of rocked!” She pointed to my blue dress shirt. “And you look great.”
“I gotta go,” I told her. I’d just played in my first-ever rock concert and been hit by a vegetable for my efforts. I didn’t want to stay and chat. Not with Juana Maria, not with anyone. “I’ll see you later. I gotta go.”
The announcer was introducing the next group, a band called Bicycle Pump. Sampson and Juana Maria were still standing there, looking at me like they had more to say. I wasn’t in the mood to listen. “I have to go,” I told them.
Vern got the car, and we piled in.
“Shit!” I banged my head on the dashboard. Vern put a hand on my shoulder, but I shook it off. “Get me out of this place,” I said.
“Can you be a little more specific?”
“Take me home.”
We drove through the dark streets of Highmont Ridge. Tuck said, “Whose idea was it to start a rock band?” I could hear him cracking his knuckles, getting ready to inflict pain. “Was it yours, Elroy?”
“It was Vern’s,” I said.
Tuck cocked his fist like he was going to punch him. Instead, he patted him on the back. “It was a good idea, Vern. There are jerks out there. It was still a good idea.”
Vern shook his head. “That guy wasn’t a jerk.” He turned to me. “Tell him, Elroy.”
I didn’t feel like telling anything to anyone.
“Tell him, Elroy.”
“Tell him what? That he wasn’t a jerk?”
“Yes. He was an . . .” He gestured for me to finish.
“He was an assho-o-ole,” Tuck sang from the back seat. “You were awesome, though, Elroy. Got hit by a tomato and kept singing. Amazing.”
I didn’t feel amazing, or awesome. “Just take me home,” I said. “I’m going to take a shower and forget this whole thing.” That was the plan, anyway. But I knew no amount of soap and water would do the job. We’d just spent months creating what we thought was the perfect song. And they hated us.
“Forget this whole thing?” Tuck said. “You mean forget about being tomatoed, or forget that we’re in a rock-and-roll band? Am I the only one who wants to keep playing music?”
We didn’t answer right away.
Then Vern said, “I’m still in.”
He pulled to a stop in front of the Airstream, and I got out and grabbed my guitar. Tuck jumped into the front seat. “I’ll think about it,” I said. But I really didn’t want to think about anything. I wanted to go inside and shut the door and not think at all.
Tuck said, “We rocked, Elroy. We really did. We just have to find our venue.” He waved. “Take a shower. You have tomato on you. And remember . . .”
I turned. “Yes?”
“He was an assho-o-ole,” he sang as Vern stepped on the gas.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It was the longest shower in history. After I got all the dried tomato off my face, I stayed under the hot stream of water and thought it over. How badly did I want to play in a rock-and-roll band? I couldn’t decide. All I knew was that a hot shower was a pretty fabulous thing. That is, until Mom started banging on the door, re
minding me that we were on a septic tank and she didn’t want to have the thing pumped.
I got dressed and went into the living room and flopped on the couch, letting out a huge sigh. Mixed with a groan.
Mom wasn’t drilling me with the eyeball stare. In its place was something resembling compassion.
“They hated us, Mom,” I said.
“What happened?”
I told her about the concert and she listened the way moms are supposed to listen, with all necessary “ooh”s and “ah”s and “that’s too bads.” It felt good to get it all out, and to have a sympathetic ear listening.
“Vern and Tuck want to keep playing music,” I said.
“And you don’t?”
“I’m not sure.”
Mom nodded, the compassionate look still on her face. “Let me ask you something, Elroy. How did you feel about the band before you got onstage, when it was just you, Vern, and Tuck trying to come up with something?”
I knew where she was going with this, that it’s not always about the end product, it’s about the process. Only I didn’t want to hear it right now.
“Who cares?” I grumbled.
“You do. You’re just not willing to admit it. Yet.”
Yet. That was the operative word. I’d told Vern and Tuck I’d think about it, and I would. Just not now.
My phone vibrated and I grabbed it. A text from Vern.
road trip eastern sierra.
picking up tuck
will come get u.
I looked at the phone in my hand. I’d been so focused on Battle of the Bands that I’d forgotten about our spring break trip.
“What is it?” Mom asked.
“Vern. Coming by to get me. Remember I told you about going camping in the Eastern Sierra?”
“Not really.” She crossed her arms. She was no longer in ooh-and-aah mode.
“We never celebrated Vern’s new car properly. It’s kind of a combination road trip/camping trip.”
“He’s coming over now?” She pointed out the window. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“Best time to drive through the desert.”
The more I talked about it, the more I realized that I needed this trip. After all that had happened at the fairgrounds, getting out of town for a few days would be perfect.
But Mom didn’t look happy.
“Is it okay if I go?” I asked.
“It’s the middle of the night!” she said again.
A few minutes later, we heard the Trap rumbling up Casitas Pass. Mom opened the door, and Vern and Tuck stepped inside.
“Trust me,” Vern said. “You don’t want to drive through the Mojave Desert during the daytime with no air conditioning.” This was his explanation for leaving at night.
Mom said she wouldn’t want to drive anywhere, at any time, in Vern’s machine. She couldn’t bring herself to call it a car. It was just some kind of thing that made a lot of noise. It had four wheels and an engine, but it didn’t qualify as an automobile. I could see her point. But the Trap got us places, and it didn’t break down. Yet.
I turned to Tuck. “Did you bring the tent poles this time?”
“Hell, yes.” He shot my mom a look. “Make that ‘Heck, yes.’ ”
I’d never told my mom about Templin Highway and the Night of Gas. It was our private memory, and one that I was trying hard to forget. “What about food, lantern, stove?”
“We’ll get food in Bishop. We have the rest.”
“So all you need is my sweet presence? Is that what you’re saying?”
Vern and Tuck looked at each other but said nothing. I went to the hall closet and pulled down my sleeping bag and duffle, tossed in some clothes, and zipped it up.
Mom didn’t exactly say I could go. Then again, she didn’t say I couldn’t, and that was good enough for me. A nonnegative was a positive. I really needed this, and maybe she understood.
To my surprise, Tuck took the back seat. I was ready to fight for the front, but he climbed into the back with no argument.
“To the man who took a tomato in the face and kept on singing. Elroy, I award you shotgun for the duration of the trip.”
Actually, I took a tomato on my guitar. The splatter is what hit my face.
I stood there looking at the front seat as if it had been booby-trapped. And I was no booby. I ran my hand over the seat just to be sure it wasn’t rigged.
“Have a seat, Elroy. You’re the man.”
I climbed in, and Vern fired up the car and we pulled away from the Airstream. Mom was standing in the doorway with her fingers in her ears, shaking her head. I smiled and waved. The Trap might be a piece of crap, but it was our piece of crap.
“The Eastern Sierra or bust,” Vern yelled.
“Let’s not talk about girls right now,” I said.
Vern looked at me. “Excuse me?”
“You said ‘bust.’ I just thought this trip should be all about us. A real guy trip, you know?”
“I didn’t say ‘Eastern Sierra or breast.’ I said ‘bust.’ ”
“Exactly.” We all laughed. It felt good to be on the road. I couldn’t explain it, but there was something about leaving Highmont Ridge that had me excited. I didn’t want to think about Templin Highway (the band) or the incident at the fairgrounds. I just wanted to get out of town and hang with the boys.
We took the 126 east, and Vern turned on the stereo and cranked it way up so we could hear it over the considerable roar of the engine.
“You really need to get that muffler,” I yelled.
“One of these days.”
We drove on, shooting past Santa Paula and Fillmore. No one spoke for maybe an hour. Vern turned onto the 5 south, and then the 14 north, toward Mojave.
After a while, I turned down the music. “I never answered your question, Tuck,” I said.
“What question was that again?”
“If you’re the only ones who want to keep making music. The answer is no, you and Vern are not the only ones. I’m still in. No cover songs, though. Original songs only.”
“Or bust?” Vern asked.
“Or bust,” I told him.
Vern held up a palm and I slapped it. Then I turned around and banged fists with Tuck.
“But right now I think sleeping is in order.” I checked that the passenger door was locked and leaned my head against it.
“I concur,” Tuck said, flopping down in the back. “You got the wheel, Vern?”
“I do. You guys sleep tight. I’ll wake you if I get tired.”
I fell into some sort of half-sleep, where the music and the sound of the engine melded into my dreams. At some level I knew I was in the Trap, but, then again, I didn’t. Hours clicked by . . . or maybe it was just minutes. In my head I kept getting tomatoed while playing the music coming from Vern’s stereo.
Then, suddenly, my eyes were wide open. Vern was yelling, “Oh my God! Oh my God!”
I sat up, blinking at the highway in front of me. “What is it?”
Tuck popped up in the back seat. “What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know if I should tell you.”
“What is it?” I said again.
“Tell us, Vern,” Tuck said.
“I just woke up,” Vern said.
There was a pause as Tuck and I took this in; then Tuck said, “Pull over, Vern.”
“I’m fine, really. It was only a little catnap.”
“A little catnap at sixty-five miles an hour?”
Vern looked at me and nodded. “The man does have a point.” He pulled to the side of the highway and got out. I grabbed my cell phone and checked the time—two-forty-six. We were still twenty minutes away from Mojave.
“Coffee break at the next stop,” I said. “If you want to drive, Tuck, I’ll stay up with you.”
“I’m okay now,” Vern said. “I can drive. Really.”
“No!” Tuck and I said together.
And so, technically, I didn’t get shotgun for the d
uration of the trip. It was a combination of driver’s seat and shotgun. Vern would get another chance to drive later, when the sun was up and shining. Meanwhile, Tuck and I took over in two-hour shifts.
After stopping in Mojave for gas and coffee, we hit a long stretch of highway that went on and on. Somewhere to our left, the mountains began to rise as we headed north. While Tuck drove, I got out a map and clicked on the overhead light. “Where exactly are we going?” I asked.
“Eastern Sierra,” Tuck said.
“I know, but where? The Eastern Sierra is a pretty big place.” The Sierras ran for hundreds of miles. Anywhere from Lone Pine to Lake Tahoe would qualify as the eastern side. I looked up and saw Tuck leaning toward me, staring at the map. “Eyes on the road, big guy.”
I folded up the map and put it away so as not to tempt the driver. Vern had already taken a nap while at the wheel. I didn’t want to die.
“Mammoth,” Tuck said finally. “Some of the best fishing in the western United States.”
I nodded. “Sounds good.” I turned up the stereo to drown out Vern’s snoring, and we drove on. Two hours later, we stopped in Lone Pine for a combination pee-and-switch-drivers break. Vern didn’t wake up. I grabbed a soda to keep the caffeine surging, then got behind the wheel, and we drove on. Tuck sat in the passenger seat and stayed up to make sure I did. We shot past the small towns of Independence and Big Pine. The sky was turning from black to gray. Sometime later, I realized I didn’t need headlights anymore. I also noticed Vern was sitting up in the back seat, the contours of my duffle embedded in his face.
“You’re an attractive man, Vern Zuckman.”
“Where are we?”
“Five minutes south of Bishop.”
We got supplies in Bishop, population four thousand and about the same elevation. Then the highway began to climb as we shot past Rock Creek, Crowley Lake, and Convict, the terrain changing from high-desert cactus to pine trees and log cabins. An hour later, we were cruising the streets of Mammoth Lakes. The elevation had doubled, and patches of snow lined the road. I was pretty sure Vern would wake up with a snowball in his sleeping bag before the trip was over, payback for falling asleep at the wheel.
We drove up to the ski slopes, where it was still open for business, then down the back side of the mountain, Tuck pointing the way.
