by David James
But fate had a different plan. While BAMFing our way through the Hoosier state, I got a phone call. Steve had died. Wow. This guy had been a huge part of my life, but he was the kind of guy who could find the party people in a Tibetan monastery, then proceed to push the festivities to the brink of disaster. The edge was never more than a whisker away. He was also a major factor in the trials and tribulations of my relationship with William. We had been, after all, a band.
As I drove silently, my mind was jumbling crazy mixed emotions revolving around the way I left the situation with Steve and the sense of finality about it. Could things have been different? I’ll never know.
After some quiet reflection and internal debate, I decided that I should, no, I needed to go to the service. No doubt William would be there too.
Veronica had her own issues with Steve. He had an ongoing difficulty with substance abuse and, as is often the case with addicts, the truth. That caused several conflicts between them. I did my best to overlook his shortcomings, because he was a really good drummer and business is business, but in the end, Veronica was right. Steve’s destructive chaos broke up the band, ended our friendship, and finally took his life. She didn’t want to go to the memorial, but relented, as a favor to me.
When we walked into the service, I saw William for the first time in over ten years. I was more than a little nervous, but my fear melted away as soon as he reached out to greet me.
“Hey man, good to see you. How’s it going? Don’t give me that handshake crap, c’mere.”
Hugs were required with William. He was the same old character. If he felt any tension, he sure didn’t let it show. Within a few minutes we were right back to our old selves. It turned out neither of us harbored any hard feelings.
Once we’d caught up, exchanged pictures of the kids, and reminisced about Steve, I mentioned that I had been a little anxious about seeing him. William shot that right down.
“David, when we get to our age, it’s just not worth worrying about crap like that anymore.”
Truer words could not be spoken. We have years of friendship and good times to look back on. Why dwell on the rough patches?
I think the ability to overlook differences is an invaluable part of getting a little older. After putting a few decades behind us, hopefully we’ve learned to let bygones be bygones, and not manufacture troubles. We can look for reasons to be petty, get all “Why haven’t you kept in touch more?” or “I’ll never forgive you for . . .” or we can be thrilled to see an old buddy and overlook the conflicts. Fortunately, William and I chose the latter.
We fell right back in with all of our truly dear friends in Nashville because all of our shared experiences, good and bad, have formed lasting relationships. From those mutual histories, we recall and retell events, and even embellish them into tall tales. That way, “Remember that time we . . .?” invariably ends up in guffaws of crazy laughter.
My old comrades-in-arms and I tend to gravitate to war stories from the road. For Veronica and her compadres, the conversations usually wind up recollecting zany antics involving kids and the times they scared the bejesus out of their parents.
Sure, now it’s okay to laugh about the crazy night when Decibel destroyed her tibia falling from a playhouse, since she is perfectly ambulatory twenty years later. But at the time, our friend Anna, who was babysitting and had no way to contact us because we were attending a pre–cell-phone-era wedding, didn’t find the situation terribly amusing. The kind of fear she felt when dealing with a crisis like that, and the relief we all felt once it was over, really cemented our friendship.
And we managed to find a comical upside. We got to watch a four-year-old crab-scoot around on her butt in a radiation-green, hip-to-toe cast for several weeks. Now that’s entertainment.
15
The Plan Is No Plans
From Nashville, the next stop on our long-overdue-for-a-visit list would be Veronica’s dad and his wife. I never really knew what to call my father-in-law until we had kids of our own. The problem was solved by The Piglet dubbing him G-pa Larry. Back when we still lived in good ole Music City, G-pa and his lovely bride, Kathleen, became Veronica’s nearest kinfolk when they pulled a reverse Beverly Hillbillies move from Los Angeles to the hills of Arkansas. One too many relentless rush hours led them to choose a new life raising horses on a tranquil patch of land tucked away in the serenity of the Ozark Mountains.
In keeping with our secondary directive of finding diversions along our way, we were happy to note that our route would take us right through Memphis, home of the King.
Veronica and I were married on Elvis’s birthday. We’re not freaks—it was a coincidence. I didn’t even realize what we’d done until I woke up in a champagne haze on our wedding night with the TV still blaring, half-opened an eye, and saw thousands of fans worshiping outside the gates at the temple of Elvis, Graceland. With a coincidence like that, it seems like we should have made our own pilgrimage to the rock ’n’ roll mecca at some point, maybe for an anniversary or something, but we never did. That was about to change.
The tacky opulence was overwhelming the moment we walked through Graceland’s front door.
“This is fantastic,” I whispered to Veronica, trying to stay beyond the earshot of the King’s Loyal Subjects. “It looks like Liberace decorated the inside of I Dream of Jeannie’s bottle.”
Veronica dubbed the living room pure Gone with the Wind, and I reckoned that E would have liked that description. But as we moved down the hall, into the heart of the King’s lair, the feel of the house shifted from syrupy Southern comfort to sixties Hillbilly Cat. Bright colors, stripes, polka dots, and checkers. This was groovy, baby.
In the mod-styled TV room, done up in stark yellow and black with mirrored ceilings, all I could think was shooting gallery. The recorded tour guide in our headphones didn’t mention it, but it’s not a very well-kept secret that whenever something displeasing came on one of the three televisions, Elvis would fire off a few rounds into the offending tube. Rumor has it that Robert Goulet’s face took quite a few slugs.
“Why would they cover up the stray bullet holes? That’s what I was looking forward to seeing the most.”
Did I say that out loud?
We were starting to get glares from the Loyal Subjects. That wasn’t likely to get any better, since Veronica was about to go completely over the edge. Tears were trickling down her face from trying to keep her laughter at bay. She has an affinity for tacky, and Graceland was her mother lode.
“Good God! Look at the ceiling!” We had entered the Jungle Room.
The King had gone completely green-shag-carpet native from top to bottom in this tropical abomination. We were speechless at first, but then the proper description came to me.
“Tiki Tacky.” Which came out funny to us, but by this time everything struck us as hilarious. I had to repeat it, several times.
A few of the slightly-less-Loyal Subjects had started staying pretty close to us, and even laughing along, so I started singing “Rock-a-Hula Baby” as we walked outside. They seemed to like it, even tried to sing along, but it threw the True Loyal Subjects off a bit. I could see them wondering, How could a blasphemer like him know the words?
It could have turned ugly—torches and pitchforks ugly—so before the True Loyal Subjects formed an angry mob, we slipped away from the crowd and moseyed across the street to where the King’s transportation was on display. The “Flying Graceland” that Elvis named Lisa Marie, after his daughter, was a state-of-the-art long-range jumbo jet in its day. Just a few minor modifications, like gold-plated sinks, fixtures, and seat belts, plus a conference room and a giant bedroom suite made the plane fit for a . . .
“Hey honey, know what size that bed is? King-sized.” No doubt I was the first clown to come up with that gem.
“Look David, it’s Little Elvis.” Veronica nudged me in the ribs as we walked down the steps from the plane.
A little guy about five years old
, decked out in full Elvis-in-Vegas rhinestone-studded-jumpsuit regalia and carrying a little purple suitcase, was headed up the ramp for a trip on the Lisa Marie.
Somewhere in the deep, dark recesses of my brain I heard him say, “Thank you, thank you very much.”
Crossing the Mississippi River into Arkansas, Veronica blurted out, “Humpback all your whales and win a free trip to Arkansas!”
She couldn’t help it. Nearly two decades ago, on this very spot, an eight-year-old Decibel proudly proclaimed that nugget of indescribable wisdom from the backseat of The Whore of Babylon. At full volume. This sort of incomprehensible declaration was commonplace for Decibel. Trips were loud and weird like that with our brood.
Veronica was buried deep in a map. “Hey, we’re pretty close to Hot Springs. Maybe we should stop.”
“Hot Springs is no big deal; I played there a few times.” I actually didn’t dislike Hot Springs per se, but I was trying to keep us on course. “What do you want to go there for?”
“To take in the healing waters.”
“Take in healing waters?” Was she serious? “But your dad’s expecting us. It’s out of our way.”
“Wait, really? Out of our way? We don’t have a way these days, do we? What about the-plan-is-no-plans and all that jazz?”
Right then I realized that the idea of having a way or a plan had not left my cranium completely. Hot Springs seemed to be highlighting a fundamental difference in our styles of travel. I wanted to move forward, see things, and move on to the next place. Get where we were going. Veronica wanted to take everything in, explore, and even stay a while if something struck her fancy.
I think my method stems from years of having a set itinerary on tour. Ride the bus, eat, set up, eat, clean up, play the show, tear down, pack up, eat, ride the bus. Next day, same thing, like the movie Groundhog Day. Spur-of-the-moment changes or hanging out an extra day somewhere were not options. There was always another show to get to or a mad dash to Nashville to spend a few blissful days at home.
This was not the first time that these differences had caused some friction. Our conflicting styles had run up against each other in Europe too, and this time wouldn’t be the last. It wasn’t the end of the world or anything, but we both needed to give a little. I figured I should be a little more willing to move toward her position, because of the fact that we didn’t have to be anywhere at any given time. It made sense for me to cool my jets a good bit. That, and I’m such a swell guy.
“I guess we could check it out,” I offered. “Maybe it’s better than I remember.”
In reality, all I really remembered was the inside of a tour bus and a stage in some theater, or horse track, or something. Surely Hot Springs had more to offer than that.
“It’s not like we have to get the kids back for school. Why don’t you call your dad and tell him we’re going to be a day or two later?”
Veronica’s dad is one of the most laid-back people I know, and was one of the few family members actively encouraging our new lifestyle, so I knew that wouldn’t be a problem.
Guiding BAMF through bumper-to-bumper traffic, we inched our way onto Hot Springs’ famed Bathhouse Row. These grand old spas were built over the thermal springs back in the 1800s, and folks from far and wide came to partake in the perceived therapeutic properties of the 140-plus-degree healing waters. They still do.
The Fordyce Bathhouse lodges the headquarters of Hot Springs National Park and a museum that captures the grandeur of a bygone era. With a handy map from the front desk, we followed the self-guided tour. The first floor featured locker rooms, bathtubs, and showers, and ended up in a giant public bath complete with cheesy, Greek god–style statues and a stained glass ceiling. It was all very Victorian.
But upstairs, things took a turn for the macabre. Back in the day, some “doctor” decided that healing water alone just wasn’t good enough. Nope, tools—scary tools—were invented to supplement the therapeutic powers of the springs. We had entered what looked like a Frankenstein movie torture chamber. Though we were mortified by the collection, we just had to look.
“Good God, that one has an electric plug!” came flying out of my mouth.
Our fellow tourists looked over, unsure if they really wanted to witness the quasi-medical monstrosity I had spotted. There was a smattering of nervous laughter as their eyes found the offending instrument, but real horror was the overriding emotion of the moment.
I didn’t even want to think about what a foot-long glass tube with a 120-volt cord sticking out the back would be used for, especially in such close proximity to so much water.
I felt myself moving away, a strictly reflexive action. My body’s neuromuscular systems were instinctively reacting to prevent any unwanted insertions, but Veronica stood frozen by fear, curiosity, or maybe astonishment.
She had to be a little scared; we all were. But what I found waiting for us next, in the Women’s Hydrotherapy Room, was really going to strike some terror into her. The contraption confronting me looked like it should be on top of a fire engine.
“Oh honey, come over and see this thing,” I called out in my most amicable, singsong tone.
Wow, I’m mean.
She rounded the corner and let out a panicky little squeak when she came face-to-face with a Volkswagen Beetle–sized box containing several firehose-like nozzles protruding from one side, and a bevy of levers, knobs, pedals, valves, gauges, and dials on the other.
The whole room was tiled and waterproofed, so obviously the idea was to soak down the patient until whatever was afflicting her drowned or begged for mercy. Hey, I’d have been begging as soon as the good doctor touched that first knob.
If this was the stuff they showed to the public, I could scarcely imagine what was behind some of those locked doors. I wasn’t about to stick around to find out.
“Oh gee, look at the time, we ought to get going,” I muttered anxiously.
Veronica didn’t take much convincing. She beat me to the door.
With our mineral bath detour out of the way, we proceeded up into the hill country of the Ozarks. G-pa Larry bought the farm—no, not like that—when he moved to the outskirts of Mountain View, Arkansas, about twenty years ago to set up shop as a gentleman rancher. At the time, I gave the city slicker about six months before he and Kathleen were back in Southern California. I just couldn’t see how they would replace season tickets to the Dodgers and Lakers with Little League and high school hoops, or a night at the opera with bluegrass on the town square. Obviously I was way off.
As they settled in, Kathleen worked to establish the first local Girl Scout troop, animal shelter, and 4-H chapter, while G-pa became a fixture at sporting events, concerts, and community causes. They assimilated into the rural environment, even if they didn’t exactly fit the mold of your typical hillbillies. They’re more like old hillhippies, of which there are also quite a few scattered around the hills and hollows (that’s pronounced hollers ’round here, mind you).
We used to come up from Nashville every year, but because of our island relocation, we hadn’t been in this neck of the woods for quite a spell. We love it because this is one of those unique places in America that has fought to preserve its character in the face of the fast-food and Walmart invasion. While those do exist, they have not managed to vanquish the ma-and-pa cafés, craft shops, and antique stores.
In the Ozarks, antiques are interesting phenomena, a spectacular example of how one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. As a wise old G-pa once said, the redistribution of junk has become an integral cog in the mountain economy.
We weren’t in the market for any antiquities, trash, treasure, or otherwise, but we were happy to have a bit of time to stay in one place for a few days and reconnect with family. Veronica was experiencing complete comfort with being an adult kid visiting a parent’s home, or at least parked out by the barn, when a heapin’ helping of helicopter mom withdrawals hit her head-on.
16
Hel
icopter Mom, You Are Grounded
“A mother is only as happy as her saddest child.” A close friend’s grandmother used to say that. When I first heard it, all three of my children were young and safely in the nest, so I could totally relate.
It wasn’t until my first baby uttered her first cry that I fully understood what a heartstring was. Before that day in the hospital, the moment I first heard her tiny little voice wailing at the indignity of being taken from my womb, I was under the misguided illusion that somehow heartstrings were connected to joy and contentment. During my pregnancy I assumed that the first time I would feel their tug would be when my baby smiled at me.
That’s not the way mommies are wired. If they were, it could be months before the string that binds mother and child was connected heart to heart. Unless one of those funny little infant gassy smiles did the trick.
No, the heartstring is woven instantly, left intact even as the umbilical cord is cut and, though invisible, is formed from a substance stronger than mankind will ever conceive on its own. Even though this tie is born of emotional pain, the pain of separation, what is fashioned out of a first cry cannot be broken by any force, natural or supernatural.
That attachment allowed me to instantly forget the pain of childbirth. I wanted to snatch my crying child from the doctor’s hands because in that instant I knew, without a doubt, what my child needed. I alone held the secrets to my child’s safety and happiness.
Our generation raised children in a different manner than our predecessors. We tended to hover over our children. We had heard too many stories of molesters among us, poison in Halloween candy, and strangers waiting to coax our babies into their cars. Gone were the days of roving packs of neighborhood kids playing outside until the streetlights came on. No longer were mothers heard shouting from front porches to call their children in for dinner.
I don’t believe that dangers to children are a new phenomenon. They just became more exposed, out in the open—and we talked about them amongst ourselves and with our children. We chose not to sweep things under the rug as was done in my mother’s day.
