by Greg Jolley
Headlights entered the garage and sprayed the drummer in sideways light. He jumped up from his set and ran into the house, yelling, “Dad’s home!” and dashed across the family room and went out the front door in the backdrop. The hood of the car came to a stop halfway inside the garage.
A man in a suit and hat climbed out of the car, stomped across the garage, and entered the house, calling out, “Damned kids!” He looked around the front room gazing at the musicians, his hands on his hips in an angry posture. He crossed the room and disappeared into the bedroom hall.
There was confused applause as expected.
Uncle Tim stepped back into the wings and looked backstage. Stage crewmembers were holding up the back half of the automobile display. The drummer appeared behind them, jogging and grinning. When he reentered the garage and the stage lights, he swung his head back and forth clearly pleased with his sneakiness. He sat back down at his drum kit.
Sej began the first melody line of ‘Rio’. The band joined in.
Uncle Tim was shoulder-bumped and turned. Israel was grinning, standing beside him in a 1950s business suit and fedora.
“Am I now famous?” Israel shouted and laughed.
Uncle Tim grinned to his friend and didn’t try to speak as the music was too loud.
Center stage behind the couch, Karen and Jen Clair were close together facing each other and playing. Kendal strolled to them finger picking an acoustic guitar. The bass player sang the first verse. The drummer moved to the percussion set and played vibes, conga, and the hanging glass bottles and plates. The volume lowered, and the audience and band begin a mutual sway within the calypso-flavored music.
“Nice?” Israel yelled to Uncle Tim, standing at his shoulder.
Uncle Tim vigorously grinned and nodded. He turned and listened to his daughter and her friends play.
The band was achieving a wide sound of crisp and complex colors and melody in between the lyrics of escape to a sun-washed wonderland. The audience response was loud and adoring.
Without a pause, Wyde transitioned to the introduction of ‘Loan me a Dime’, the renowned blues song. They began an exploratory workout looking both challenged and happy.
Uncle Tim looked all the way across the family room set. In the opposite wing, Paula Tue was dancing and smiling with her eyes closed.
She opened her eyes and gazed at Uncle Tim across the stage. She extended her hand and beckoned with a finger.
He raised his arms, embracing the stage between them and tilted his head. She frowned. He did too.
She turned her attention to the musicians, with her arms and hips joining the song. She was dancing alone among six stagehands. Her dark hair was swinging, and she was swaying from side to side. Her hand extended to one of crewmembers, and he joined her.
Uncle Tim watched the dance in the backsplash of light from the stage. The guy was much taller than Paula Tue and looking pleased. He was a handsome man even with the shaggy short hair and four-day beard. The dancers kept a dinner plate distance between them and exchanged laughter and smiles. The guy had tools or something hanging from his neck, and he pushed his shoulder bag to his back as he danced.
Israel elbow bumped Uncle Tim in the ribs. He turn and followed Israel’s hand and eyes to the top of the stage backdrop. Above the family room ceiling, a dark blue sky was filling with shining stars and a merry full moon.
Wyde closed the song with slowing melodic wandering.
When they finished, the lights dimmed. The bass player reclined on the couch beside Kendal in the gray glow from the television. Karen sat back down at the kitchen table and started to eat from a bowl of cereal. The car backed from the garage as the big curtain closed. Listening to the waves of applause, Uncle Tim smiled at the quirkiness of Paula Tue’s design. He aimed the smile to her in the opposite wing and frowned. She and her tall and handsome dancing partner were gone.
During intermission, the men in the band remained on stage. When the curtain opened, they were in the kitchen wearing aprons and mittens and serving dinner to Karen and Jen Clair at the table. This wasn’t scripted or planned, and there was a good amount of confusion and bumping into one another before they all were seated at the table. The audience was pleased and confused, most expecting music and others enjoying Wyde’s pantomime of eating very fast, laughing, and chatting.
The last song was ‘Mountain Jam’, which opened with a timbale rolling reminiscent of the heavy clanking of railroad cars. Midway through the third bridge, Karen was waving aggressively to the side of the stage. The instrument tech appeared carrying her big white Gretsch electric. She put it on and handed away her violin and bow. Initially, her playing was muted, exploring the low and dark ranges, adding a little distortion to the song’s beck-and-call exchange. When she raised her volume, it partially buried the other instruments. The variant flavors of the playing by the members of Wyde were lost, and replaced by a large and heavy single sound.
The colorful and melodic song was treated with density and increased volume. After an eight-minute stomp on the melodies, the drummer went into a solo—also nearly eight minutes long. There were some boos from the audience. If the band heard these, they looked unconcerned. Wyde moved lazily about the kitchen and family room while the drummer did a workout in the garage.
The bass joined the drumming, and they sketched the upcoming melody slowly, ponderously, darkening the mood. There were rude calls from the audience, which began to glance to the exits. Some members of the press departed. Those that remained were drawn in, vicariously watching the loud, intentional train wreck.
Sej was the first to nudge the song toward a clarity when he handed off his lap slide and began to play sparkling melodic piano. Liking the change, Kendal swapped his low-dialed Les Paul for a brighter set Stratocaster. He moved down to mid-range notes which also lightened the musical density. The bass player walked away from Karen, who was playing with her head down, her hair swinging. Hearing the band begin to lighten the sound, she raised her dark glasses to the audience and stared.
A tech walked to her carrying her violin and bow in his left hand and her silver dobro in the other. He offered both.
Karen ignored the suggested change. Her feet were stomping the stage planks in cadence with the notes she was striking. She let up on the five-note melody that she was repeating and looked to the amp and board tech. She shouted and gestured. The words couldn’t be heard, but the guy clearly understood. Her sound thickened and within her fixation on the low notes, the overall song grew mean. She ignored the pianist and the guitarist and played straight at the drummer and the bass player. They responded and the song took on the resemblance of a city crumbling above a chaotic earthquake.
The audience began to thin, departing in snaking queues. Many who remained appeared to do so for the spectacle instead of the music. The sound was obscenely loud—more like a droning scream of a dinosaur stampede than music. Uncle Tim put his hands over his ears, something he had never done.
Kendal stopped playing. He watched his bandmates and tried to appreciate where Karen, the drummer, and the bass player were going. Sej was staring over his shoulder. He stopped playing, got up, and left the stage. Jen Clair was shaking her head as she circled around the backside of the breakfast table, handing a tech her guitar before also departing.
Israel was looking equally confused and seriously pissed. Kendal joined him, pointing, and when Israel took a step into the stage lights, he was restrained by two stage crewmembers. He stared at the guys and yelled. They gently but firmly drew him back into the shadows.
Uncle Tim stared into the wall of sound that his daughter, and what remained of the band, were filling the auditorium with. To his right, the lamps along the auditorium wall were warming and the exits were clogging. To his left, Israel was yelling and gesturing to the rigging that controlled the curtain.
The bass player stepped in front of Karen, lowered, and weaved in an attempt to catch her eyes. She swung away, stomping and playing
. The curtain drew across the stage.
The small audience that remained was in uproar; some cheering Karen, others calling for her to leave, to stop. The press was equally divided.
With the curtain drawn, the song came to a stumbling clumsy end. Uncle Tim walked out onto the stage, entering the bedlam among the crews, Israel, and musicians in the family room. He crossed to Karen who was alone with her guitar tech. The tech was gently lifting the big white Gretsch from her after unplugging it.
The next morning’s sun reflected off the roof of the RV parked along the far side of the hotel. Israel exited the lobby door held open by a woman dressed in all black save a gold badge on her hip. He was carrying a messy stack of papers in one arm. He crossed through cool early shadows to the bright light of the parking lot, squinting as a metallic sunray careened off the RV and struck the side of his face. He walked past the band’s bus and the equipment truck, knocked on the RV door, opened it, and climbed in not waiting for a greeting.
The interior was dark. He tapped the light switch and saw Uncle Tim reclined and sleeping in his desk chair. Israel frowned when he said, “Good morning.”
Uncle Tim stirred and woke, looking about, getting his bearings. He replied to Israel without seeing him.
“Sure. What time is it?”
“Early.”
Uncle Tim straightened his clothing and stretched his jaw open wide.
“Let’s play a game,” Israel said.
“Israel, let’s make espressos first.”
“No time. You in?”
“Sure ... What game we playing?”
“Where’s Karen?”
“Sure as hell, she’s not on Wyde’s bus.”
“Ha-ha. So?”
“In her bunk,” he pumped his thumb to the rear of the bus.
“Okay. New game.”
“Israel ...”
“Where’s the big boy?”
“Brian?”
“Duh.”
“Check the hotel pool? Just kidding.”
“I had someone look, yes. No floating big boy.”
“He’s back at the office. Remember, I drove him to the airport?”
“Right. See him get on the plane?”
Uncle Tim studied Israel’s sad, cranky face.
The RV door opened and their driver climbed aboard and took the helm. He was talking to the other vehicles on his cell. Israel stepped into the galley to fill the coffee maker with ground espresso.
“My apology,” Israel said, “I’m stressed. I want caffeine.”
Uncle Tim looked down at the sketches and notes spread out on his desk. He organized them into rough stacks and put them away.
The RV rolled away from the hotel and into the morning that was hangover-quiet. Israel took one last glance back at the hotel. Rows of car roofs passed, all in alignment, looking alike and asleep. At the end corner of the lot, the mast of a sailboat minus canvas rose up over the automobile roofs. Seeing it gave Israel another opportunity for a perplexed frown.
“Timothy?” Israel asked, shaking the confusion away.
“Timothy?”
“Okay. How about Tim?”
“I like Uncle Tim.”
Israel ignored his good friend. “How about Timmy?”
“Israel?”
“Got it. Tim-ey!”
Uncle Tim shook his head, “No,” pretending to be sad.
Israel chuckled, sounding a bit forced.
“Tim-ey is fine. But it’s gotta be said quietly.”
Israel ignored him and repeated all the louder, “Tim-ey!”
Uncle Tim couldn’t help but grin.
“Now, the next topic. No. Wait …”
“Yes?”
“Tim-ey!”
They broke into laughter and relaxed a bit.
The RV turned up onto the highway entrance. Israel balanced himself with a hand on the counter, gazing at the coffee machine. He spoke to the device:
“That smells wonderful. Hurry, please, Mr. Coffee.”
Both men watched the glass carafe fill.
“My turn,” Uncle Tim said, “New game.”
“Right. Yes. Okay.”
“Where’s Karen’s career?”
Israel frowned at the pace of the slow-pouring dark coffee.
“I’m of two minds. I don’t understand what she did last night, but I admire the courage. She went exploring. I think she was going somewhere, searching, maybe breaking things to break through? Look, I can’t talk artistic. I don’t know that language.”
Uncle Tim watched Israel’s struggle to collect his thoughts and release the carafe from the coffee machine.
“The other mind is pleased. Excited, even. The Time magazine piece has given her a real lift. Doors are opening. We’re getting a lot of invites. At their expense. A random night of odd—especially at some sleepy beach campus—doesn’t help, but I’ve gone through what was written overnight. There are pans, anger, and fans who are blogging breathless worry and confusion; but they are the same folks who wet themselves when she changes to a new model of violin. Sure, a number of ticket buyers left the concert early, and a good number stayed and enjoyed. There is chatter—that artistic talk I can’t do—about her exploring and wandering away from the safe and the sure.”
“Oh.”
“Oh?” Israel mimicked. “Thanks for that exacting and articulate response.”
“Well ...”
Israel turned to his good friend. Uncle Tim looked sad.
Israel shouted, “Tim-ey!” And got a laugh out of his friend.
“Here are some of the good article titles: Very Pale Karen Shows Color; Our Darling Karen’s Got Edge; Out With the Old, Stomp In the New; Beauty and Her Beast.”
“I like those.”
“Want the bad ones?”
“No.”
“Back to the game then. Where is Karen’s career? I think we need to hold our collective breaths, see what direction she is heading, and how it effects Wyde. This concerns them too. I talked to some of the band last night. They’re mostly amused. So far.”
Israel poured two cups of espresso and set them on the galley table, and Uncle Tim joined him there. Israel’s cell rang. Uncle Tim turned to the window. Green countryside passed alongside the interstate.
Israel tapped his cell and raised it to his ear. During the next three minutes, Uncle Tim noted that Israel was doing more listening than talking, which was rare. Israel mouthed a series of ‘Oh?’ and ‘No’ and ended with “Yes, I’ll check and let you know.”
Israel pocketed his phone.
“Is it my game or yours?” he asked.
“Hmm.”
“Okay. It’s mine. Where’s Miss Tue?”
“Mistoo?”
“Timmy, c’mon. The stage designer you stared at all day yesterday.”
“Oh, Paula. Yes. Where is she?”
“That’s my question. Her staff is asking, too. I’m hoping you’ll tell me she’s still asleep. In your bed.”
Uncle Tim looked up at the light fixture. Israel sipped from his cup.
“Last time I saw her, she was dancing with some guy just off stage.”
“Some guy? Can you help me with that?”
“He looked familiar, but I don’t know from where or when. Tall. Good looking. A crewmember?”
“Why do you say crew?”
Uncle Tim squinted at the light above. “He had things—equipment—hanging from his neck. And a workbag. He has short hair and a beard.”
Israel joined Uncle Tim in examining the light above the table. “I’m not remembering any crew members like that. Wait. You said he was good looking. We don’t have any of those.”
“No?”
“And she danced with him. And now she’s gone?” Israel asked.
“I’ve no idea. They were dancing. She asked him to dance. That’s all I saw.”
“Was the hanging equipment cameras?”
The two men lowered their eyes to each another.
“Could’ve been.”
“Was it that Leonardo? The one who got the Time snap?”
“Maybe. But that guy’s hair is long, and he doesn’t have a beard.”
“Oh Timmy,” Israel shook his head slow.
“I thought the press weren’t allowed backstage.”
“Oh Timmy ...”
The RV hit a bump large enough to spill espresso on the table. A song being played with a slide on dobro strings wavered from behind a closed door. The two paused their conversation while Karen fingerpicked the steel resonating guitar. Both recognized the melody from the rehearsal sessions prior to the tour: Sonny Landreth’s ‘Congo Square’. Her touch was light and confident, and she was playing the song much slower than rehearsed.
Uncle Tim whispered, “Lovely.”
Israel whispered, “Beautiful.”
That afternoon’s motel was in the shadows of a tall eucalyptus right across the road from the coast. Wyde’s bus parked beside the RV where the entire gang was stretching, laughing, and chatting. Uncle Tim asked the driver what town they were in and was told, “Somewhere north of Santa Barbara. Nice to be near home, Mr. Danser?”
“Yes, and it’s Uncle Tim, please,” he gently reminded the driver.
Outside, a member of Israel’s team crossed the parking lot to the group and handed out room keys and they all headed off for showers, true beds, and the promise of room service. Their equipment trucks had gone on ahead to the next small city. Israel was on his cell listening to a reporter detail her concerns with the recent shows. He was giving her a lot of room by nodding and not interrupting. He was thinking about how best to smooth her when he saw Uncle Tim’s Expedition in the parking lot, noting the surfboards on the roof.
Israel and the reporter agreed to have a sit-down the following afternoon when they could talk face-to-face. He ended the call, turned to the RV, and paused. He changed his mind and started across to Brian.
The big guy was wearing his ever-present swimsuit, but Israel noted that at least it was a different one. The back door of the Expedition was open, and Brian was sorting through two tubs of wetsuits and surf supplies.
