Anthem

by Deborah Wiles

  The guitars set the tune in place, then gave it over to the drums. Norman instinctively stopped and let Steve have the floor. Steve played some measures and handed it back to Norman. A friendly competition ensued where they traded licks and saw who could make the most noise. The guitar players loved it and started trading off the bass line.

  Dennis came out from behind his piano, as he didn’t have a part to play in “Wipe Out,” and stood next to Molly. He grabbed her hand and, before she could yank it away in surprise, he twirled her around with his arm over his head and began dancing with her. Her surprise turned to laughter as she began to dance with Dennis, her one-hour boyfriend. The kids clapped and danced, and Norman yelled, “Yeah!”

  Whether that was for her, or for the thrill of the experience, she didn’t know. She grabbed the hands of a couple of kids and twirled them around, and soon all the kids were twirling each other while the guitars played their 12-bar blues licks and the drums beat it out with each other.

  Back and forth they went with the cymbals, from ride to crash and back again, waving the same arm right to left to right again, wildly, then with both hands to the toms, the snares, the cymbals again, their legs pumping the pedals for the bass drums and hi-hats. Rather like driving a school bus, it occurred to Molly as she caught Norman’s performance out of the corner of her eye.

  A kid with flaming red hair yelled, “Do the Funky Chicken!” and the groupies, boys and girls alike, obeyed. Bwack-bwack-bwack! Molly laughed so hard she doubled over, doing the Funky Chicken to “Wipe Out” with a pile of third graders.

  “Wrapping it up!” shouted Steve. Norman and Steve played in tandem to the big finish, and as they all crash-landed on the same clamorous note, Norman leaped from his stool and raised both arms over his head like a football umpire holding drumsticks pointed to heaven and yelled, “Score!”

  For one night, he was part of a real band and Molly was a real groupie.

  Steve, laughing, grabbed a handful of clean cloths from the rag box next to a workbench. He threw one to Norman and they began mopping up. It was a hot June night, made hotter by the physical exertion.

  “That’s hard work!” said Norman, euphoric.

  “That was great, Norman!” said Molly with true admiration.

  Steve agreed. “Not bad,” he told Norman. “Not bad at all. What did you say your name was again?”

  “Florsheim.”

  They all laughed, and Norman laughed with them.

  “I need a name,” he confessed, drummer to drummer. “I don’t like Norman.”

  “Norman Mailer,” said Matt right away. “He’s a writer — know him? He’s a friend of my dad’s. They served together in the Pacific in World War II. He just published a book about the war. My dad has a signed copy.”

  “World War II?”

  “No, the war now,” said Matt.

  “That’s a conflict,” said Steve. “We haven’t formally declared war on Vietnam.”

  “That’s stupid!” said Matt, who grabbed one of Steve’s rags and dried the sweat from his forehead. “We’re at war! Soldiers are dying!”

  “You’re just arguing because you have to register for the draft in September,” said Steve. “You’re an old man now, Matt.”

  “You’re right behind me in a couple of years, Steve, so get ready!”

  “I can’t even drive yet,” said Dave, as if that might protect him.

  “Robb is still missing,” said Dennis in a quiet voice. He explained for Molly. “He went MIA six months ago, somewhere in a jungle 8,782 miles away.” He sat back at his piano. He didn’t smile.

  “Robb?” said Norman, just as softly, and with hesitation.

  “My older brother,” said Dennis. He noodled a few notes with one hand on the piano and said, “Are we done for the night?”

  Molly thought, I should fall in love with Dennis for that. But her heart knew better. It wasn’t ready for boyfriends or love. Her heart had only one trajectory on the horizon right now and she had just been reminded of it. It beat in a steady rhythm: Barry, Barry, Barry.

  OKIE FROM MUSKOGEE

  Written by Merle Haggard and Eddie Burris

  Performed by Merle Haggard and the Strangers

  Recorded Live at the Civic Center, Muskogee, Oklahoma, 1969

  Drummer: Eddie Burris

  The bus had a new oil line, shocks, brakes, and windshield wipers, all courtesy of Elvis Presley’s hundred-dollar donation. But they had lost two days to repairs. In order to make enough room for spare oil, and for comfort, Norman had left four more seats with the mechanics, who were already sitting in them by the time he and Molly rumbled off the lot, with Kyle raising a hand in good-bye.

  Kyle had borrowed Phyllis’s van for an hour on Wednesday so he and Norman and Molly could go to the lumber store and buy a gallon of paint and some brushes, and more plywood. They had the lumber man cut the plywood to Molly’s measurements and now the back of the bus was roomy enough for Molly’s taste, and the CHARLESTON COUNTY SCHOOLS sign was completely obliterated by a fat white rectangle.

  “You should paint something over it,” Kyle had said, and so Molly borrowed some paint cans from the mechanics on Thursday morning and painted a flower garden on each side of the bus.

  “It’s a hippie bus!” Kyle declared.

  “Hardly,” answered Norman.

  “You should paint the whole thing!” said Kyle.

  Molly liked the idea. But they had no time to waste now; they would have to press ahead like they were on fire. They’d been gone for almost a week. She took the paint cans back to the mechanics. “Keep ’em,” they said. “Fair trade.”

  They entered Oklahoma and found only country music stations on the radio. Molly plugged into her transistor radio but had no better luck. She abandoned it for the bus radio. They listened to Johnny Cash sing “A Boy Named Sue.”

  “Who would really name a boy ‘Sue’?” Molly said.

  “Easiest drums ever,” said Norman. “Bass-snare-hi-hat, same pattern, over and over. But then, country music is all about the guitars.”

  Interstate 40 was under construction so often and the traffic was so snarled, they got onto the less-traveled side roads that led them out of their way and into Muskogee. As they passed the sparkling new civic center, they saw posters:

  MUSKOGEE CIVIC CENTER

  IN PERSON TONIGHT

  ONE SHOW ONLY 8 P.M.

  COUNTRY SHINDIG NO. 3

  MERLE HAGGARD AND THE STRANGERS

  HEAR MERLE

  SING HIS NEW

  CAPITOL RECORD

  — HIT —

  OKIE FROM MUSKOGEE

  “Another silly song,” said Molly. ”But I like it.” She thought of band practice and its silliness. “Did you see those kids doing the funky chicken to ‘Wipe Out’?”

  “I saw you making funky chicken eyes at Dennis.”

  “I was not!”

  “You were.” Norman turned off the radio. “He’s way too old for you, Molly.”

  “I’m fourteen! He’s only sixteen. He told me he just got his driver’s license.”

  “That’s too old,” said Norman. “I’m responsible for you out here, and I can’t do my job if you’re flirting with piano players!”

  “He was flirting with me! And I’m responsible for myself, thank you.”

  “You don’t understand, Molly. Guys that age …”

  “You’re that age,” Molly reminded him.

  “I’m a year older. And I’m different.”

  “I’ll say.”

  They rode in silence toward Oklahoma City. Molly tried to decide if she’d hurt Norman’s feelings. “You’re a good drummer,” she finally said.

  “I’m not that good,” Norman replied.

  Neither of them turned on the radio while the miles melted away under the bus. “Have you ever had a girlfriend, Norman?”

  Norman shifted into fifth gear and surprised Molly. “If you want to get a girlfriend — and this is something Dennis kno
ws — you either have to be an athlete or a lifeguard or be in a band. That’s one reason I wanted to be in a band this summer. Nobody wants to date a high school marching band geek named Norman.”

  “That’s why?”

  “And I like the music. Do we need gas?”

  “Not yet. I don’t think.”

  “Do the math. See if we can make it to Oklahoma City. Use eight miles per gallon for the bus, although that’s ambitious. Use seven. We’ve got a sixty-gallon tank. We don’t want to get below twenty gallons.” The thought of Buddy and his midnight gas station gave Norman a shiver. “And I don’t want to drive at night.”

  Molly figured with a pencil, a ruler, and Aunt Pam’s poodled notepad. “We can make it,” she said.

  They found a Phillips 66 service station in Yukon, Oklahoma. Four American flags flew out front from various poles. A sign told them they were crossing the Chisholm Trail. “Yippee Ti Yi Yo!” sang Molly. Norman answered with “Git along, little dogies!” and they both laughed.

  Norman’s laughter was more a groan. Last summer, that was the theme song on the Appalachian Trail, a cry of encouragement led by Pam and echoed by Janice, and begrudgingly followed by Norman and Molly. They had learned every verse.

  “And look, there’s our first cowboy hat,” said Molly.

  As the attendant put close to forty gallons of gas in the tank, a brown-haired kid with a ten-gallon hat cocked back on his head sat on a bench outside, under the overhang apron, and picked on a guitar with three strings. It was almost as big as he was.

  “Nice tune,” Norman said.

  “Thanks,” said the kid, without looking up or stopping. “I’m workin’ it up.”

  “Yeah? What’s it called?”

  “‘Mama Tried.’ It’s a song by Merle Haggard. You know it?”

  Norman shook his head. “Nope.”

  “Hey!” Molly appeared with a bag of ice in her arms. “We just saw he’s playing in Muskogee tonight!”

  “Yeah.” The kid stopped playing and looked at them with bright blue eyes. “I can’t go. Are you going?”

  “We’re going the opposite direction,” said Norman. “You like country music?”

  “It’s the best!” said the kid. “And Merle’s the best, too. Did you know, he’s been to prison!”

  “Not exactly my definition of the best,” said Molly.

  “That’s what the song is about — listen! I’ll sing it!”

  “Not again!” said the attendant. He was cleaning the bus windshield, stretching to reach as much of it as he could. “Play something else!”

  “Aw, Mr. Jackson! I’ve just about got it!”

  “Fine, fine,” said Mr. Jackson. He beat his squeegee against the bucket.

  The kid had a new audience and he knew how to capture it. He sang “Mama Tried” to Molly and Norman — it was short — and they clapped wildly.

  Molly picked up her ice. “That’s a strange song,” she said.

  “You’re good!” said Norman.

  “Not as good as Merle,” said the boy. “He lives in Bakersfield, California, where the best music is, and I’m going to go there one day and meet him. I’m gonna be a star, too!”

  “You are?” said Norman. He smiled for the first time since they’d left Little Rock that morning.

  “How old are you?” asked Molly.

  “I’m seven,” said the boy in a serious and commanding voice.

  “All right, Troyal, Mr. Famous Star,” said the attendant. “Run on home now. It’s lunchtime.”

  “Yessir,” said the boy. He lifted a hand to Molly and Norman. “See ya on stage!” He walked away with his guitar strap across his chest so the guitar rode his back.

  The attendant took their money, studied Molly’s artwork on the side of the bus, and looked at Norman sideways.

  “Y’all ain’t hippies, are ya?”

  “Nossir,” said Norman.

  “Well, you don’t dress like hippies,” said the man, looking Norman up and down in his road uniform.

  “We’re not hippies,” Norman assured him.

  “I sell American flags,” said the man, like this was a test. “I think you need one.”

  “We do!” said Molly in her brightest voice. They bought a flag.

  “Good,” said the man. “Those hippies are tearing up this country.”

  “Yessir,” said Norman. His heart was beating harder than it needed to. “Thanks for the gas. Sir.”

  “Thanks for the business,” said the man.

  Molly dumped the ice into the ice chest, and they were on their way.

  “We forgot the grocery store!” she realized.

  “We’re on Route 66,” said Norman. “There will be plenty to eat. There’s Rick’s Donuts right over there, across from the bowling alley. Will that do for now?”

  American flags flew from the donut shop, the bowling alley, and the auto parts store.

  “Okay,” said Molly. “But we need to stock up. It’s over a thousand miles between here and Los Angeles and your Hal Blaine guy. Then we head north to San Francisco. That’s another four hundred miles. We’ve been on the road for five days and we’re only in Oklahoma.”

  “We’re almost in Texas.”

  “So far, we have traveled one thousand two hundred and seventeen miles. If it takes us another week to go that many more miles, we’re going to have to put Barry on a plane home. We’d better hurry.”

  “I thought you were going to tell him to run.”

  “I’m having second thoughts.”

  “Right,” said Norman.

  “It’s his decision.”

  “Right.”

  “Right.”

  * * *

  There was not plenty to eat on this particular stretch of Route 66. The roads were long and desolate across the top of the Texas panhandle, nothing but broad vistas of flat, open range dotted with scrub grass and sagebrush. Mounds of tumbleweeds plastered themselves against the post-and-barbed-wire fences, with one occasionally topping the fence and rolling toward the road in the brisk wind that buffeted the bus.

  “Home, home on the range,” said Molly. “Wow.”

  “You’re not kidding,” said Norman. The radio picked up nothing but static. Molly began closing windows to keep down the dust.

  The day lasted forever. Norman became bleary-eyed staring at the road. They were rolling through the miles, but he wished he had listened to Molly and taken the time to find a grocery store. They left the construction on new Interstate 40 too soon in search of a better road, but what they found was heat and dust and hunger.

  “It’s so hot,” Molly complained. “And flat as a pancake. There’s nothing out here, not even trees! Maybe we should turn back.”

  “I don’t want to waste time going in the opposite direction,” said Norman. “Is there a way back to 66?”

  “We’ve already passed a cutoff to Amarillo,” said Molly. “We’re almost in New Mexico. There aren’t many roads out here.” She mopped at her neck with the cloth that Norman had used after “Wipe Out” in Little Rock and passed it up to him so he could do the same. “I wish we could install air-conditioning.”

  They finished the box of Rick’s Donuts and bought peanut butter crackers at one gas stop, pork rinds and potato chips at another. Molly repeatedly filled paper cups with water from the melting ice in the chest. She rubbed an ice cube on her arms and neck and used the melting cold water to wash her face. She wet the rag and put it on Norman’s neck. They rode that way in silence for a long time.

  The swirling dust gave them a spectacular sunset as they stopped for the night at a small mom-and-pop campground advertising itself as “The Gateway to New Mexico!” and “See the Grasslands!” with a pay phone for calling Janice and Pam, showers and toilets in crude bath houses, and a pole with one plug for electricity at their campsite, but no food in sight. No other campers, either.

  They dug through Aunt Pam’s many boxes and came up with a pair of jeans in Norman’s size at the bott
om of one box, along with a note from Pam: I know you don’t like dungarees, but these are Levi’s and they are tough, like you, and you might need them on the road. Happy Trails!

  There was also a box of Pop-Tarts, a can of tuna, three apples, and some sweet potatoes, which they wrapped in foil and stuck in the coals of a small fire. Norman ran an extension cord from his record player on the picnic table and they played all the records that Estelle had given them at Stax, as well as Wilson Pickett’s version of “Hey, Jude” from Rick at Muscle Shoals, and some records Norman had purchased at Moody’s Melody Shop in Little Rock with Kyle.

  When they had satisfied their hunger, they sat in lawn chairs and watched the night fold in around them. Softly, Molly began to sing the last verse of “Git Along, Little Dogies.”

  “Your mother was raised a-way down in Texas, where the jimson weed and the sandburs grow. We’ll fill you up on prickly pear and cholla until you are ready for Idaho!”

  Norman listened quietly with his head tilted to the star-studded sky. “Mom would have loved this,” he said in a homesick voice. He sang a few lines of “Don’t Fence Me In,” one of Pam’s nighttime around-the-fire anthems on last year’s trip.

  Molly watched him warble and felt great affection for the boy who had agreed to drive her across the country to find her brother. She licked her fingers and wished they had butter for the sweet potatoes. She tried to think of some way to tell Norman she liked him, that he was doing a great job.

  “Your mom is much more adventurous than mine,” she finally said. “Your mom inspires my mom.”

  “Yeah,” said Norman. She inspires me, too. He couldn’t say it. Boys didn’t talk that way. They didn’t say You inspire me or I love you. But he could see now, Pam’s positivity was a good thing. He needed it. And, just maybe, he had needed this trip. It wasn’t just the music. It was what the music did for him. It was growing him up. Something like that. Or maybe the driving and the landscape did that. Maybe having to put up with his cousin did that. He was too tired to figure it out, but he was different. He could tell.