Independence Hall

by Roland Smith

  The dog had a broad flat head, pointed ears, a cropped tail, dusty gray fur, one brown eye, and one really weird blue eye that looked like it could see right through me. When the dog finished snapping up the last pitiful flake he looked up at me and gave me a doggy grin. He was missing several teeth. I saw he had a tag dangling from his collar. I bent down to see who he was and where he was from…

  “Mornin’.”

  I snapped back up.

  Standing in front of me was an old man with a long gray beard and matching hair braided halfway down his back. He had pale eyes, either light blue or gray (It was hard to tell in the early morning light). He was thin, tan, and wrinkled (like a desert tortoise that had misplaced his shell).

  “Hope Croc didn’t startle you,” the man said with a slight southern drawl.

  “No,” I lied, then squatted down and patted Croc’s head to make it look good. “Croc, huh?” I said. “Doesn’t seem like he’d eat you.”

  “Short for Crockett, not the reptile.”

  I looked up and down the road expecting to see a car or truck parked nearby, but there was no sign of one.

  “Where’d you come from?” I asked.

  “The name’s Boone,” he said sticking his hand out, ignoring my question.

  I gave him a milky handshake. “Q,” I said.

  “Like in cue ball?”

  “No, like in the letter Q.”

  He grinned. “Short for Quinn, Quentin, Quartermaster—”

  “Quartermaster?” I said.

  “A character in the James Bond novels,” Boone said. “Also known as Q.”

  “My real name is Quest,” I said, knowing he would never guess it. My dad named me. (When I got older Mom offered to have my name legally changed, but by then I had gotten used to it).

  Boone looked at the coach for a second or two then said, “Kind of an odd place to park a seven-hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar rig.”

  “Seven-hundred-fifty-thousand dollars?” I thought Buddy had been exaggerating.

  “Could be worth more,” Boone said. “Depends on how tricked out it is inside.”

  Maybe it was because I hadn’t gotten much sleep, or maybe it was because I was starving. But it wasn’t until that moment that an alarm went off in my head. What were Boone and Croc doing out in the middle of nowhere at the crack of dawn with no visible means of transportation except their six legs?

  Boone must have either heard the alarm in my head or saw the alarm in my face. “Problem?” he asked.

  “You mean with the…uh…rig?”

  “Yeah.”

  I shrugged. “Not that I know of.”

  Boone got down on his back and wiggled underneath the coach until just his scuffed cowboy boots stuck out. Croc walked over to my cereal bowl and started licking it.

  “My pack’s around back,” Boone said. “Go fetch it.”

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Fixin’ your rig.”

  What was I going to do? Grab him by his cowboy boots and yank him out from under the coach? A burglar doesn’t usually offer to fix your house before he robs it. I went around back and found the pack leaning against the Rover. Next to it was a smaller daypack, a sleeping bag rolled out on the gravel shoulder, a little propane stove, a James Bond 007 novel (I guess that’s where he came up with Quartermaster), and a mug of coffee steaming in the cool desert air.

  I hefted the big backpack—which had to weigh at least seventy-five pounds—onto my shoulder and lugged it around the side of the coach.

  Boone’s cowboy boots were still sticking out from under the coach. Croc was lying down with the empty bowl between his front paws, looking disappointed.

  “Why don’t you go out and catch a rabbit?” I suggested. “We’ll split it.”

  “What?” Boone asked.

  “Nothing.” I set the backpack down.

  “There’s a toolkit in the front pocket,” Boone said.

  I found the kit and pulled it out, but hesitated before sliding it under the coach. “Maybe I should get my mom or Rog…uh…my dad.”

  “Unless they’re mechanics,” Boone said, “they ain’t gonna be much help. Your folks didn’t pull over because they were tired. They broke down.”

  “Can you fix it?”

  “Not unless you slide me them tools.”

  I was saved from making a decision by the coach door opening. Mom stepped out first, followed by Roger, then Angela—all of them looking as if they had been awake about four seconds.

  “What’s going on out here?” Mom asked.

  “What time is it?” Roger asked.

  “Where are we?” Angela asked.

  I answered their questions in order. “There’s a guy trying to fix the coach. 6:20. I think we’re in Nevada.”

  Boone slid out from underneath the coach, looked up at the sleepy newcomers, and grinned.

  “Mornin’ Blaze,” he said.

  Winnemucca

  The coach had broken down during the night and rather than wake us, Roger and Mom decided to pull off the road and figure out what to do after they got some sleep.

  Boone managed to fix the problem with a paper clip and a strip of duct tape. “Should be enough to get the rig to a garage in Winnemucca,” he said. “But you’re gonna have to baby the rig along or it’ll bust again.”

  Mom asked Boone if he would do the “babying” and he cheerfully agreed to drive.

  A couple of hours later we were sitting in a café across the street from a garage in Winnemucca, Nevada. We had invited Boone to breakfast, but he passed. He wanted to keep an eye on the mechanic and make sure he fixed the problem correctly.

  “Who is this Boone guy?” Roger asked.

  “He might be the oldest roadie on earth,” Mom answered. “His name is Tyrone Boone, but everyone calls him Boone. I haven’t seen him since Q was born. He’s been touring with bands off and on since the seventies. He toured with my old band for eight months.”

  “What does he play?” Angela asked as the waitress set plates of fruit in front her and Roger.

  Mom jumped in before I could answer. “He’s not a musician,” she explained. “A roadie is someone who sets up equipment before a show, breaks it down afterward, then hauls it to the next gig. It’s hard work with no glory and it doesn’t pay much. Most roadies do it for two or three years for the adventure then find real jobs.”

  “Boone’s been doing this for thirty years?” I asked. “How old is he?”

  “I’m not sure he’s still a roadie,” Mom answered. “And I’m not sure how old he is.” She looked out the front door where Croc was lying. “It’s odd because Boone doesn’t look like he’s aged a day in thirteen years, and what’s even stranger is that he had a dog just like Croc when he toured with us. Same name, same age, same missing teeth, same weird blue eye.”

  “That can’t be the same dog,” Roger said, following her gaze.

  “Of course not,” Mom said. “But I swear he looks exactly like the old Croc.”

  “What did Boone say to you, Q?” Roger asked.

  I was mesmerized for a moment by a waitress walking by with a platter of sizzling bacon, fried eggs, and crisp hash browns.

  “Q?” Mom said.

  “Oh…uh…not much.” I picked up my spoon and scooped up a glob of blue yogurt the same color as the toothpaste I’d brushed my teeth with that morning. “He crawled underneath the coach and asked me to get his tools.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Roger said. “Our name isn’t on our coach. Why would he fix our coach without finding out who we were first?”

  Mom picked at a chunk of watermelon with her fork. “There aren’t too many coaches like ours on the road,” she said. “And most of them are hauling around musicians.”

  “I still don’t get it,” Roger said.

  “Boone has been around for a long time,” Mom continued. “If there were musicians inside, even if he didn’t know them, they would probably know him—at least by reputation. H
e’s kind of a legend. The guy can fix anything. When he was touring with us he was always being flown off in private jets to fix shows that were having technical problems. At least that’s what he said.”

  “What do you mean?” Angela asked.

  “Oh nothing,” Mom said. “There are always wild rumors flying around on tours. Some of the roadies thought he worked for the government, and some thought he was on the run.” Mom laughed. “There were even some who thought he was a spy.”

  “You’re kidding?” I said.

  “Just crazy rumors,” Mom said, smiling. “He is a little odd though. Whenever he flew off to fix a show he’d always come back by car, bus, or train, never by airplane. Boone is terrified of flying.”

  “I didn’t see any railway tracks where we broke down,” Roger pointed out. “And it sure wasn’t a bus stop. How did he arrive outside our coach in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere?”

  They all looked at me. I shrugged. “He was just there when I stepped outside. He had his sleeping bag rolled out behind the rig with a spy novel sitting next to it.”

  “James Bond?” Mom asked.

  “Yeah. How’d you know?”

  “Because he got all of us hooked on Ian Fleming’s 007 novels when he was on tour with us. That’s probably where the spy rumor got started.” Mom smiled. “ On his Majesty’s Secret Service, License To Kill… I couldn’t get enough of…”

  She looked at Roger and her smiled faded. Roger had a rather sour look on his face. Angela also looked uncomfortable. It seemed like a strange reaction to some old spy novels.

  “What’s the…” I started, but Mom cut me off with one of her looks.

  “It was years ago,” she said. “Boone’s a good guy.”

  “I guess we should be grateful he showed up when he did regardless of how he got there,” Roger said, recovering from whatever had bothered him.

  At that moment Tyrone Boone came into the café and walked over to our table. Croc remained outside, staring through the window, drooling. I wondered if they had doggie bags for yogurt.

  “The mechanic knows what he’s doin’,” Boone said. “Should have you back on the road in under an hour.”

  “We really appreciate your help, Boone,” Roger said. “Now why don’t you join us and have some breakfast?”

  “Appreciate the offer,” Boone said. “But I need to get goin’.”

  “Where are you going?” Mom asked.

  Boone shrugged.

  “Are you still doing the roadie thing?”

  “Off and on,” he said. “By the way. I caught your new album.” He gave Mom and Roger an admiring grin. “It’s outstanding. Not a bad track on it. I think Match is going to have a good run.”

  “Thanks,” Roger said. “You saved us out there on the road. I feel like we should pay you, or—”

  “Forget it,” Boone said.

  “How did you end up in the middle of the desert?” Mom asked.

  Boone looked a little sheepish and glanced away.

  “What’s going on, Boone?” she asked suspiciously.

  After a pause, Boone said, “Buddy T.”

  Roger laughed. “I should have guessed.”

  “I’m real sorry,” Boone said. “He had me lined up to be your driver if he could talk you into takin’ one on. Guess he couldn’t get you to agree, which was fine with me. I don’t blame you for wantin’ to spend time with your kids on your own.”

  “So, what happened?” Mom asked.

  “He called me up last night and told me he’d hired some kid to follow you across the country. You know, just to make sure things were okay. He asked me to ride along. ‘Just in case,’ as he put it—thinkin’ that somewhere down the road you might have a problem and take me on to help since we knew each other.”

  “That guy just doesn’t give up!” Roger said.

  “I didn’t feel right about doggin’ you,” Boone continued, looking a little hangdog himself. “But you know how it is. I couldn’t afford to turn Buddy down. This is a small business and Buddy has a lot of clout. Getting hooked up with a tour has been hard for me the past few years. They’re lookin’ for young studs that can jack around heavy amps, lights, and stage props.

  “Anyway, we were about a half hour behind you when you broke down. When we caught up, all the lights were out, so I thought I’d just hang out ’til morning to see if you needed help.”

  “What about the kid?” Roger asked.

  “I sent him back last night. I told him that if Buddy called he should tell him we lost you. The kid was happy to go. He’s a young guitar player who Buddy’s trying to give a leg up in the biz. He was happy to get back to his gal in San Fran.”

  “Now what are you going to do?”

  “I’ll go over and make sure everything’s okay with the coach. There are a lot of components on those things, but you shouldn’t have any more problems. Then I’ll hitch a ride back to the city.” He gave us a shy grin. “No hard feelin’s?”

  “Not from us,” Mom said. “But Buddy’s not going to be happy with you or the guitar player.”

  Boone shrugged. “Buddy’s never happy, but don’t be too hard on him. He’s just doing his job and he takes it seriously.”

  “A little too seriously,” Roger said, then added, “You’ve obviously had a lot of experience driving these coaches.”

  “Couple million miles.”

  “Will you do me another favor?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Don’t take off until we get over there. We’ve been checked out on everything, but I still have some questions. Do you think you can stick around to answer a few more?”

  “No problem.”

  Boone walked out of the café. Croc continued to stare at us through the window.

  “What will happen to him?” Roger asked Mom.

  “I suspect that Buddy promised him a position on our tour if he managed to hook up with us and get us to Philly,” she said. “I guess he’ll head back to San Francisco and see if he can hire on with another tour.”

  “What are the chances of that happening?” Roger asked.

  “He might get some short gigs with small bands, but nothing long-term without Buddy putting in a good word for him.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Roger looked at me and Angela. “What do you two think of taking on another passenger?”

  “I like him,” I said.

  “I do too,” Angela added.

  Roger sighed. “What about that pit bull of his?”

  “It’s not a pit bull,” Angela said. “Boone told me Croc was a cross between a Blue Heeler and a Border Collie.”

  “Did he happen to tell you how old Croc was?” I asked.

  “I didn’t ask,” Angela said.

  I’d always wanted a dog, but I had a pup in mind, not a great-great-grandcanine.

  Roger looked out at Croc. “Do you think Boone will let us give him a bath?”

  I looked over at the ancient dog and wondered if Croc would let us give him a bath.

  East

  Croc did not like his bath, but he tolerated it as long as Angela and I slipped him bits of buttered toast as a reward for not biting us. We used the hose in back of the mechanic’s shop to do the job. After we finished Croc didn’t look much better, but at least he was reasonably clean.

  Aside from being an expert driver and mechanic, Boone was a walking (or driving) USA encyclopedia. We didn’t pass a single town he hadn’t been to before. Not only that, he appeared to know everything about these towns going back a hundred years or more. As we drove he would give us geographical and historical tidbits for our Web page assignment.

  When we passed through Cheyenne, Wyoming, he said, “If your parents’ band was on tour in the 1860s they’d be travelin’ in a private Union Pacific railroad coach called a Pullman—not a coach like this. Every act from New York stopped in Cheyenne to perform on their way to San Francisco. There were several small theaters in town and a good-sized opera hou
se. You ever heard of Lillie Langtry?”

  We hadn’t.

  “Lillie Langtry played in Cheyenne. She was the musical diva of her day. No one knew what Lillie would do next, but whatever it was, she did it in a big way and made sure everybody knew about it.”

  “How do you know all this stuff?” I asked.

  “Books,” he said. “Everything you need to know can be found in a book.”

  We didn’t write about Lillie Langtry specifically, but we did something for the Web page comparing how musicians made their living in the 1860s to how it works now.

  During the day we drove east on Interstate 80, stopping in small towns and tourist attractions in Utah, Wyoming, and Nebraska. At night we pulled into RV parks, hooked up the coach, and ate dinner—usually cooked by Roger. There was nothing wrong with the food, or Roger’s cooking—some of it even tasted good. But what I couldn’t figure out was how I could eat an entire plate heaped with food and afterward feel as if I hadn’t eaten anything at all.

  Roger and Mom hadn’t driven an hour since Boone joined us. They gave him a compartment to store his stuff and offered to let him sleep on the sofa bed inside, but he preferred to sleep outside with Croc. I joined them one of the nights, hoping Boone might have some meat stashed in that big backpack of his. He didn’t. He appeared to live on bottled water and air.

  About three quarters of the way across Nebraska I thought I would starve to death before we reached Philly.

  I was sitting next to Boone in the passenger seat, practicing some rope tricks (which I was pretty good at) when Boone pointed out a sign for a town called Grand Island. He turned to Mom and Roger who were working on a new song. “If I remember right,” Boone said. “There’s a decent farmer’s market in Grand Island. Good place to replenish our veggie supplies and stretch our legs.”

  Grand Island was not an island and it wasn’t exactly grand, but it turned out to be a great place to stretch our legs, or in my case my shrunken belly.

  I usually stuck with Boone and Croc while Roger, Mom, and Angela explored vegetable opportunities.

  Boone was dead serious about books and a lot smarter than he sounded. When he wasn’t driving he was reading, and not just spy novels. History, current affairs, philosophy, poetry, classics, self-help books, science…there didn’t seem to be a subject he wasn’t interested in, or a subject he didn’t know something about. His storage compartment under the coach was beginning to look like a small public library. He seemed to have a sixth sense about where to locate the biggest used bookstore in any given town. It was as if he could smell a collection of mildewed books. And Grand Island was no exception.