He continued turning now, traveling slightly upward toward the top.
He moved his back foot out toward the edge to set up for the glide.
His foot slipped.
He tried to pull it back but the laws of physics had been broken. The nose of his board turned violently to the right, pointing straight at the sky, while his body continued forward. He floated off the board and began skipping down the face like a pebble skipping across a stream.
Finally he was launched forward into the void.
He became airborne, and he twisted his body into a diving position. His goal now was to hit the bottom of the wave and knife backward under the beast. He knew that wasn’t going to happen. The wave was way too thick. He would go down and then be sucked up over the falls of a seventy-foot Jaws giant and be buried, driven to the bottom.
His last thought before he entered the water was of his mother. He remembered the way she smiled.
She was flying through a green cathedral. The wave had broken and she was inside the tube. Although calling it a tube didn’t do it justice. It was a moving, living cavern. The noise, the life of the thing, was beyond description. She didn’t realize that she was screaming. She pointed the board at daylight, crouched down, and willed herself to go faster and then faster still.
When she shot out into the sunlight and saw Laird on the Jet Ski up on the shoulder, she felt weightless. She turned into an angel. She was transcendent. She raised her arms high over her head and yelled a kind of prayer to the sky. She felt like she had seen God, had touched God, and in some deeply human way she had become godlike.
Clarence was being torn apart. Immense forces pulled at his arms and legs, threatening to rip them off. The turbulence rendered him insignificant.
He tried to maintain a tuck position but it was impossible. He was being forced down and battered by tons of violently churning water.
He focused on his breath. He tried to remember everything he’d learned in training for this moment, but the panic was right there telling him it was hopeless and that he had no chance of survival. The panic told him to let go, to surrender and breathe in the sea.
But he found his center, the quiet place that both Eckhart and Laird had described, and he parked his mind. He took his being away from his body. His consciousness was calm and safe and still. What happened to his body would happen, but his soul would be unharmed no matter what.
Dave Kalama drove through the soupy foam close to panic himself.
Another megawave was building behind him and he knew that Clarence would not survive two hold-downs.
Then he spotted him.
Clarence had popped to the surface twenty yards closer to shore.
Dave raced toward him, expertly sliding the water sled into the Big Man’s arms. Clarence grabbed it and Dave accelerated, charging out of the pit to the safety of the shoulder as the wave behind feathered and broke like doomsday on the reef.
She was sitting there astride her board next to Laird on his Jet Ski. Everything out here, the water, the sky, the air, had a unique quality. It all felt hyperreal.
“I’m fine,” he said, answering the obvious unasked question.
“We did it,” she said. For the first time that day he noticed that her bathing suit was red.
“No, you did it,” he said. “I’m going back out.”
On the plane again, headed east, they were quiet. He allowed himself a tumbler of whiskey and he enjoyed every sip.
She mostly smiled. There was little to say.
Finally he spoke. “As good as it gets,” he said.
“You sure?” she asked, smiling crookedly with one eyebrow arched.
“Oh, no,” he said. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“Okay, suit yourself,” she said, sitting back.
He took another sip and felt the whiskey warm his throat. The horn didn’t like it when he drank. The sugar in the alcohol made its valves sticky. The shoulders fell off the reeds.
“What is it?” he finally asked.
She turned in her seat and looked at him across the aisle. She looked like a little girl.
“Ski jumping,” she said.
He said nothing for a long time. She kept watching him.
“Ridiculous,” he said.
“Absurd, really,” she said.
“Impossible,” he said.
“I know that,” she said. “The idea itself is stupid. Just like the notion that the two of us could surf big waves in Hawaii is stupid. It’s a far-fetched fantasy. Couldn’t happen. Not in a million years.”
“That’s right,” said Clarence.
“Technically, what I have in mind is called ski flying,” she said.
“Ski flying,” he said.
“Right,” she said.
“Sounds dangerous,” he said.
“Oh, it is,” she said. “The odds are very good that we’ll get seriously hurt or killed trying to do it. But it looks so pretty.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Pretty.”
They traveled through the sky in a metal tube going almost six hundred miles an hour for a few minutes before he spoke again.
“What the fuck,” he said. “Let’s do it.”
She smiled at him. He looked at her and smiled back. Billion-watt smiles. World changers.
When she spoke it was soft, as if she hadn’t intended it to be audible.
“Big Man,” she said.
Backstage
Don
I walked over to George Travis, who was standing backstage at one of the concerts looking like a guy who had nothing on his mind. George always looks like that. In fact he must have a lot on his mind, since he’s in charge of everything connected to the business of touring. The phrase Let’s get this show on the road! is where George begins. He does everything to make that happen. If you’ve ever taken a trip with your family, you know how complicated traveling with a group can become. Imagine traveling with a group like Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band. Most people wouldn’t last very long. George Travis is not most people.
Think about it for a minute or two, or just until your head explodes. You’ve got a crew of about two hundred people, lighting people, sound, video, security, hair, makeup, instrument techs, assistants, managers, friends of managers, haulers of heavy things, chefs, doctors, etc. First you have to hire most of them.
This alone would take a lifetime, because all of them have to be the best at what they do. You can’t find these folks in the Yellow Pages. You get to know them through experience.
George started as a trucker, moving stage equipment and stages themselves from one venue to the next. Over the years he rose through the ranks and became the boss. Along the way he met and remembered key people. The real pros, the players who can get this done and get it done right the first time without asking stupid questions. He found people who anticipated. People who could suss out a situation and have a maximum amount of effect with a minimum amount of effort, which creates time to do other things. It is a huge job. George did the Pope’s tour. He is the man.
Once you’ve assembled and hired all those people, and you’ve purchased or rented all the equipment you’ll need, and you’ve got the trucks and the planes and the hotel rooms, you put this behemoth into motion. The entire circus moves every two to three days. It moves across the country and around the world. And it has to move smoothly and on time. Bruce and the band have to walk out onstage in Paris Tuesday night at eight o’clock and everything has to be in place and ready for them. Just like it was backstage and at the hotel and on the plane.
But George gets it done without sweating. He doesn’t yell or scream; he inspires. Everybody wants to be at his or her very best for him. He moves all this stuff and all these people and all these egos, and he does it with grace and style. Like in the Pogues song, George Travis is so cool he could’ve put out Vietnam.
“How’s it going, George?” I said.
“Fine,” he said with that little smile of his that seems t
o say, What’ve you got for me? Bring it on.
“You busy?” I asked. The question was meant to be absurd. It was twenty minutes before showtime.
“Not really,” he said.
“I need you to confirm a story for me,” I said.
“Uh-oh,” he said. “This could be trouble.”
“No, it’s nothing dangerous or illegal,” I said. “Clarence told me a story about his right eyeball, and I want to know if it really happened or if he’s just fucking with me.”
“Houston,” George said. “We were in another city, maybe Dallas, and Clarence started having trouble with the vision in his right eye. It was after the show. He described what he was seeing as a curtain coming down over his eye. It sounded serious, and I knew there was a hospital in Houston that specialized in eyes, so I put him in a car and drove him there.”
Let’s pause for a moment and think about what George said and how he said it. With very little information he went directly to the story with no wasted words. He recognized that Clarence’s symptoms were serious. He didn’t try to treat him. He knew there was a hospital in Houston that specialized in eyes, and he drove Clarence there himself. George is a very good person to travel with.
“So we’re in the hospital, it’s maybe two o’clock in the morning, and this guy in a suit walks by and recognizes Clarence. Turns out the guy is one of the leading eye surgeons in the world, and just happened to be there after giving a speech to a bunch of doctors. He stops and asks Clarence what was going on, and Clarence described his symptoms.
“ ‘How’s your tolerance for pain?’ he asks Clarence.
“ ‘Pretty good,’ says Clarence.
“ ‘Okay,’ the doctor says, ‘let’s take a look.’
“And then,” George says, “he puts what looks like a finger condom on his little finger and inserts it into the corner of Clarence’s right eye and pops out his eyeball.”
“That’s what Clarence told me, but I thought he was bullshitting,” I said.
“He wasn’t,” said George. “He looks in the back of the eye and says, ‘Yeah, I can fix that. Check him into the hospital and I’ll come back at nine and make this as good as new,’ and then he pops the eye back into the socket and leaves. It was the damndest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Sure enough, he’s there at nine, fixes Clarence’s eye, and he doesn’t even miss a show. Amazing.”
Everyone who works with George has a George story. Wayne Lebeaux has my favorite.
Wayne was the traveling secretary for the Boston Celtics for eighteen years, and he was looking to do the same thing in the world of traveling shows. George was an old friend, and Wayne decided to call him and basically ask for a job. George lives on a remote farm in Massachusetts, and when he’s not running a traveling circus he does things like plow a field with an ox. This is true. His life at home is the opposite of his work life. His desire to simplify his home life extends to his telephone.
It doesn’t ring.
It doesn’t ring because George disabled the ringer.
If he wants to talk to somebody he calls them. Otherwise the phone doesn’t ring. Ever.
Wayne didn’t know this when he called.
George picked up the phone in his house to make a call and did not hear a dial tone.
He pressed a few buttons attempting to make his call and heard Wayne say, “George?”
Wayne got the job. He spent years as road manager for Bruce and the band, Bruce as a solo artist, Ringo Starr, and whoever else George agrees to bless with his expertise. When Terry Magovern passed away, Wayne did his best to fill in for him and is currently Bruce’s right-hand man.
If you ever find yourself backstage at a Bruce concert a few minutes before showtime, when tensions are running the highest and the anxiety can actually be seen on people’s faces and the crowd is growing in volume and anticipation and everybody’s eyes are darting around and their movements get quicker and their responses a little louder and a lot more clipped, look around for the calmest person you can find. Look for the guy who seems to have nothing to do and looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Cross over to him and say hello to George Travis. If you’re backstage he’ll already know who you are.
The Legend of Clarence and Annie at Fenway, Boston, 2004
This is another one of my hospital dreams. I had lots of them in the fall of 2008. To escape the pain I took these incredible flights of fancy. Still, almost everything I say in this one is true. —C.C.
He’s going to steal,” she said.
She and Clarence were in the first row of Monster Four. They had the two aisle seats but, like everyone else in the park, they were standing.
“You think?” asked Clarence.
“Oh, yeah. That’s why he’s here,” she said.
Dave Roberts stood on the bag at first. He was Beantown’s best and probably final hope. He needed to get into scoring position.
“It’s not like Rivera to be walking guys,” said Clarence.
Roberts stole second.
“If he scores and ties this thing, the building will fall down,” she said.
The hot dog guy came by.
“Want a dog?” asked Clarence.
“I’m a vegan, Clarence. You know that.”
“I think you should be allowed to eat anything that would eat you,” said Clarence.
“Would a pig eat you?” she asked.
“Only a really hungry pig,” said Clarence.
“Hey, you’re Clarence Clemons,” said the hot dog guy.
“How you doing, man?” said Clarence.
“I saw you guys in Hartford in seventy-eight,” the guy said.
“You were the guy in the hat, right?” said Clarence.
The guy laughed.
“You recognize her?” Clarence asked.
“Should I?” the guy said.
“Yeah,” said Clarence. “Ever hear of the Eurythmics?”
“No shit? Yeah, that’s her. Cool,” said the guy.
“C’mon, Mueller!” yelled Annie.
Mueller hit a single up the middle. Roberts scored from second. Fenway went batshit crazy.
Between innings, they sat.
“Was it better before there were chicks in the band?” she asked.
“Better? No,” he replied. “It’s different but everything evolves. Our new stuff is our best stuff. Always been that way.”
“Tough having men and women together in a band. Killed me and Dave.”
“Fleetwood Mac,” said Clarence.
She laughed. “A bloodbath,” she said.
“It’s just that in the early days it was just the guys, you know?” he said. “All for one and that shit. Drinking, getting laid, playing… it was like the ultimate boys’ club.”
“Dave and I were drunk with each other at the outset,” she said.
“Outset,” he repeated. “That’s like really English. The outset.”
“Scottish,” she said.
“Right,” he said. “I don’t think we’ve ever played up there. I don’t know why, but I don’t think we have.”
“Oh, you’ve got to see the Highlands before you die, Clarence. They’re so beautiful I’m hoping to see them after I die.”
A scoreless tenth and eleventh passed. The crowd screaming or cringing with each pitch.
The hot dog guy came back and got autographs for his daughter. He asked them to make the autographs out to “Hector.”
“Your daughter’s name is Hector?” asked Clarence.
“Yeah,” said the guy.
In the top of the twelfth Manny singled to left. Ortiz was at the plate, with Quantrill on the mound for New York.
“Can you imagine a future without Bruce?” she asked.
“I’ve had to from time to time,” he said. “It’s okay, but it’s not as good.”
“Do you think he feels the same way about you?”
“Yeah. I think he does,” he said.
“I loved you guys on the Born to Run c
over,” she said. “Everybody did. This black guy and this white guy playing together….”
“I’m on the back,” he said.
“What?”
“I’m not on the front of the cover. I’m on the back. I’m talking about the album as it came out. You’ve got to turn it over to see me. That’s how they printed it.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Huh,” she said.
Then David Ortiz clocked a two-and-one pitch into the bullpen for a walk-off home run.
“Big Papi,” he said.
“Red Sox,” she said.
“Same thing,” he said.
Los Angeles
Don
Los Angeles is always a weird place for the band. There are so many celebrities who are fans and so many agents and managers all seeking special treatment or, at least, an acknowledgment of their specialness that it gets… well, strange. In other words, the place is filled with jerks like me. One unique thing that I’ve witnessed is a noncelebrity fan knocking over actual celebrity fans to get closer to Clarence. I saw a hefty young woman holding a Born to Run album and a magic marker knock Matthew McConaughey into another time zone because he was standing between her and the Big Man.
The show-biz crush can be overwhelming. At Dodger Stadium in 2003, there were two aftershow parties, one in the traveling E Street lounge, and another, smaller one in the band’s tent compound. Tom Hanks was not in the E Street lounge.
Going backstage after the show is odd if you’re not actually personal friends with whatever performer you’ve just seen. After “Great show,” and/or “I saw you guys in Philly,” there’s not a whole lot to say. The only person I’ve ever seen backstage who looked like he belonged there, besides other musicians, was Chuck Zito of the Hells Angels. Chuck can go anywhere he wants to go and he’s at home. Another guy who came to the Temple of Soul and fit right in was another Chuck—Chuck Plotkin, the famous producer/engineer of so many Springsteen classics as well as tons of Bob Dylan tracks, and many others. His was a name I recognized from years of reading album credits, but I couldn’t remember ever seeing his face. He talked easily and almost instantly about mortality, one of Clarence’s favorite subjects. Chuck said when he turned sixty he could hear the clock ticking, so he and his wife bought a boat and took off, sailing through Polynesia for two years. Chuck became my new hero.
Big Man Page 20
