Radio stations across the country all said the same thing, and the one coming through from Wichita was no exception.
“Still plenty of time left in the day if you wanna see Daddy’s Girl live in Kansas City,” the DJ raved. “They’ll be shaking up the Hurricane tonight. I’m telling you now, folks, this may be your last chance to see ’em in such an intimate venue. Starting in May, they’ll be playing the big houses, as they open for The Cars all summer long. They’re the next big thing, I promise you! Everybody’s talking about ’em. Rolling Stone is talking about ’em. Check out the latest issue. Check ’em out, up close and personal, at KC’s Hurricane tonight. It’s not that far a drive, boys and girls. Here they are now with their new single, ‘Radio Kisses.’ It’s Daddy’s Girl.”
Billy Cherry kept a hand on the steering wheel as he lowered the volume. “Two more weeks, guys, and we’re out of this shitty van. We’ll get a nice big tour bus. With a driver. We’ll play to thousands every night, all summer, with The Cars. I can’t wait. These radio jocks, the magazines … they’re preaching the word, doing all the work for us. All we gotta do is show up and play.”
Keeping his eye on the road, the guitarist passed his joint to his childhood friend and Daddy’s Girl’s bassist, Solomon Scott. Solomon drew a lungful of smoke.
“Yeah,” he said, exhaling. “You know what I can’t wait for? Skimming on those Cars groupies. Seriously, man. It’s gonna be a nightly smorgasbord. All you can eat.”
Billy and Solomon laughed at the quip, but not everyone in the van shared their humor.
“Hey, Sol,” Billy said, meeting his friend’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “I don’t think Howie finds you funny.”
Solomon leaned forward, offering Howie the smoke. “How, c’mon, man. You’re the drummer for the hottest new band of 1982; Rolling Stone says so. Enjoy the ride, man. Fortune has opened her legs to you. Get fucking.”
Howie eyed the joint with annoyance. “No, thank you. Is that all you think about, Sol? Getting laid?”
“When I’m not thinking about music? Absolutely! What else is there?”
“I don’t know. How about financial stability,”—he pointed to the joint, now back in Billy’s hand—“good physical health? True love?”
Billy feared where Howie might be steering the conversation. “God. Who let the geezer into the van?”
Sol leaned forward again. “You mean, who let the geezer into the band? Your question offends me, Howie Benton. I do believe in true love. I truly love rock ‘n’ roll and pussy. Do not doubt me, sir. Billy, pass that over.”
“How long of a break do we have before this arena tour starts?” Howie asked. “A week and a half?”
“Roundabouts,” Billy said. “Two more weeks of club dates, then yeah, about a week and a half off. Why?”
Howie sighed and Billy knew exactly what he was about to say.
“Guys, I think I’m gonna try to get Ashley back.”
Billy and Solomon groaned.
“Howie, come on,” Billy said. “Didn’t she make things clear enough for you? Ashley gave you an ultimatum: her or the band. Mind you, the band she spent a decade supporting in every way possible. But once a contract was signed and she realized this was more than some weekend fantasy, boom, gone; out the fucking door she went. A decade, Howie, and she didn’t know how serious we were about this band? How much it meant to us? C’mon, man! You know what that tells me? That deep down, she either, A: never believed we, including you, ever had what it took to succeed; or B: never wanted us to succeed. Fuck that, man. Fuck her. How long’s it been? Seven or eight months? Eight? It’s time to move on, bro, and enjoy our success. Your success.”
Solomon patted Howie on the shoulder.
“Billy’s right. Look at Chad, here.” He pointed to the band’s new keyboardist, passed out in the seat next to him. “He’s been with us as long as you’ve been single, and you know what? I don’t even miss Rich, man. Rich who? Sure, Rich was with us from the beginning, but he ran as soon as shit got real, didn’t he? Personally, I prefer the new guy. He puts out more.”
Howie shook his head. “Rich’s wife was pregnant. What would you have done?”
“Did you see this beast last night in Tulsa?” Solomon asked, pretending not to have heard Howie. “Those two little Okie chicks he ran off with? Rodeo shirts knotted in front, cowgirl jeans with the pocketless asses.”
“Pink and yellow roses embroidered across those asses. Mmmm,” Billy added, making a show of biting his fist.
“Hell, yeah. Take a lesson from our new brother, Chad,” Solomon said and smacked Chad on the rump.
Chad uttered an incoherent groan and turned in his seat.
“Those two cowgirls? Could have been you, Howie. I’m sure Chad would have been more than happy to share.”
Billy nodded. “Here’s another way to look at your situation, bro. We’re poised for the big time. The whole world is screaming our name: Daddy’s Girl! Daddy’s Girl! No one can fuck it up now but us. You know how many rock stars wind up marrying models or actresses? That chick you liked from Nancy Drew and BJ and the Bear, Janet Louise Johnson? You could meet her. After this summer, that’s a real possibility.”
The Wichita station faded into squalls of broken static. Billy spun the dial, but surrounded by the rolling Flint Hills of Kansas, the radio picked up nothing.
“Hey, Sol. Grab me a tape. We need some tunes.”
“Sure thing. Whatchya feeling?”
“The Police. No, some Joe Jackson.”
“Joe Jackson, the man says. Which one? We’ve got three.”
“Is that a real question? Look Sharp!”
Solomon handed the cassette to Billy, who popped the tape into the player. The scattershot guitar of “One More Time” filled the van; Solomon and Billy howled and bobbed their heads to the beat.
Howie lowered the volume. “So, I think I’ve got a surefire way to win Ashley back. Wanna hear my plan?”
Billy gave him a disdainful smile. “No. I do not want to hear your plan, How, because your plan is worthless.”
He cranked the volume to the fine line between loud and incomprehensible and turned his attention toward the endless tidal waves of grass-covered hills. He couldn’t look at Howie. He was disgusted with How’s day-in/day-out whining about Ashley. He was also disgusted with himself for treating his friend so horribly.
Screw it, Billy told himself. Howie needed to hear how he felt. The band was bigger than any chick, and he was damned if he would let one pull away Howie like one had done to Rich.
Watching the green hills pass by calmed him, and the effects of the marijuana took hold. He cracked the window to get some fresh air, nodding his head to the music and becoming one with every beat, note, and vibration. He was Billy Cherry, he was music, he was rock ‘n’ roll.
A loud bang sounded from beneath the van, and a thousand springs recoiled through his right arm as the steering wheel ripped from his hands. Even as he flailed for the steering wheel, he knew his wrist had broken. He managed to find purchase with his left hand as the van veered off the road.
The vehicle careened into the ditch, shot up and out the other side, and the world ended.
Birds singing. The sun’s warmth. Blood-orange cream soda glow flooding his vision.
Billy opened his eyes and looked around. He sat on the highway’s shoulder, legs splayed out, leaning backward on his hands. He tried to comprehend the scene—the van wrapped around a big cottonwood so tight the tree reached the third row of seating.
Gravel crunched from behind. He turned to see Howie approaching along the shoulder in full-on panic mode, his searching arms outstretched, chin quivering.
Ah shit, Billy thought. He rose to his feet and moved to intercept his friend.
“Breathe, Howie. You’re okay.”
“Wh—what? What happened?”
“We wrecked the van, How. But,”—he noticed Solomon walking toward them—“but we’re all right, man. See? Here com
es Sol now.”
Solomon kept looking around as he came nearer. He wore a white blazer over a turtleneck, and his hair was perfect. Solomon Scott: The New Shining Star of New Wave. That’s what Rolling Stone had called him.
Even after a tour van accident, he looks every inch the part, Billy thought. He’ll either leave us behind or lead us to the goldmine.
“Jesus, what the hell?” Sol asked. “I can’t remember anything except I was searching for a tape to play and then I’m standing in the road. You okay there, Howie?”
“I don’t know. How the hell did we escape?”
The three men looked at each other and then at the van, with its now compacted front end and brand new tree-antenna sprouting from the roof.
“We were obviously thrown clear,” Billy said. “What’s important is we’re fine.”
“Were we thrown back here? Before the van smacked the tree?” Sol asked. “Because I was sitting next to the new guy, and—”
“Chad! Where’s Chad?”
They searched the roadside for Chad, taking turns calling his name and avoiding the area around the wreckage. Unable to locate him, they accepted the inevitable conclusion.
“One of us has to look, just to be sure,” Billy said.
Howie started to lose his shit again. “Not me! I can’t. I don’t want to see that.”
“Then don’t.” Billy turned to Sol. “I’ll look. Can you stay and keep him together?”
Apprehension amplified as he approached the rear of the van. He looked back to Howie and Sol, then made his way to the driver side door. What he saw was not what he had expected. Billy knew the scene wouldn’t be pretty. He knew he would find a body. But four? Well, that shit was too farfetched.
At least I still look good, he thought. Like Solomon, his hair was perfect; auburn and exquisitely feathered. His light freckles were more apparent than ever on his bloodless skin. If it wasn’t for his pallor and bluing lips, he could almost believe he was watching himself sleep. The other three bodies weren’t in such good condition. Especially Howie. Howie had been sitting directly behind the point of impact.
Sitting beside me and yakking about that damn girl for the millionth time, Billy remembered. That’s what he was doing.
The big tree had destroyed him, coming to rest between Solomon and Chad, who weren’t looking too pretty themselves.
“Billy?” Howie called.
Billy raised a hand. “Stay there. You guys don’t need to see this.”
“Is he in there?”
“Yeah, Howie, he’s here.”
“Oh fuck.”
“Damn, how are we gonna tell his family?” Sol asked.
“We’re not. I mean, somebody will. It just won’t be us.”
The van slipped from the tree, listing fast and heavy to the right. Billy jumped backward at the unexpected movement.
“Shit, Billy, you okay?” Howie asked.
“Fine as I can be.”
The shifting vehicle must have released some pinched hoses; trickling sounds emitted from beneath the van. Billy got on his hands and knees, searching for the source.
“Hey man, if that thing’s leaking fuel, you’d better get away before it goes up.”
No, Howie, Billy thought. Not leaking fuel, just leaking you.
He rose and returned to his bandmates. Howie eyed him with anticipation, but Solomon was preoccupied with the ground behind him.
“Is it bad?” Howie asked.
“Really bad. Guys, we need to talk. Sol, what’s up?”
Sol pointed to the asphalt. “See that?” The highway was littered with black rubber. “Blowout’s what got us, I’d say.”
“It got us, alright. All of us. Listen—I—well, we—”
“What? Spit it out, bro.”
“Chad’s not alone. We’re in there too.”
Sol gave him a look that said, Oh you poor, crazy fool. “No, buddy. We’re all standing right here. Did you hit your head, maybe?”
“Most likely. Sol, we’re here, but we’re also in the van. We’re dead, guys. Like, ghosts or … some shit.”
“Like hell we are. Billy, you just saw some rough stuff, but you’ve gotta listen to me, man. We are not dead. Chad is, but not us.”
A car traveled around the curve from the direction they had come. The driver had evidently seen the accident because the car barreled onto the shoulder.
“Sol, watch out!” Howie warned.
The car passed through and beyond Solomon, leaving him shaking where he stood, mouth hanging open. He looked at his guitarist with unmitigated understanding.
“Oh. We’re dead. Billy—we … Fuck! We’re dead!”
A muscular WHOOSH arose from behind Billy. He turned in time to see a fireball rolling through the branches of the cottonwood, igniting twigs and leaf buds along its path, sending the would-be rescuer scrambling. The van and the four dead men inside were fully engulfed.
“Goddamn it,” Billy groaned, his arms spread in exasperation. “There goes my open casket.”
The coroner arrived to collect the bodies. Billy Cherry wasn’t sure about his bandmates, but he was pissed.
“Either of you interested in seeing what you look like Kentucky-fried? I’m not. Ambulances will be leaving soon. There’s no need for them. They say Emporia. I’m gonna catch a ride; you guys coming with me?”
“What would we do there?” Howie asked.
“What would we do here?” Sol countered.
The three men approached the rear doors of the ambulance.
“Here goes nothing, or everything,” Solomon said. He grabbed the handles and pulled. Nothing happened. “Fuck.”
He leaned his head against the doors and laughed slowly, barely audible. His laughter grew in volume, his entire body convulsing with each guffaw.
“Rolling Stone called me ‘the New Shining Star of New Wave,’” Sol said. “We never talked about that part of the article, but you guys read it, right?”
“We saw,” Billy said.
“Total bullshit, of course. We were a band, not a solo act. But they liked us, they thought we were the future. We were going to tour with The Cars and sell millions of albums. We’d make another killer record, maybe do our own tour. Now it’s all gone; there is no future. In a couple years, we’ll be forgotten, and our record will collect dust in thrift store bargain bins.”
“Or,” Howie said, “all the kids will wear black armbands and turn us into legends. The magazines eulogize us, and we sell millions more copies.”
This time they all laughed.
“At least our families will be set,” Sol said.
“Don’t forget about Rich,” Billy added. “We shared songwriting credits. Rich will own those now.”
“Lucky bastard,” Howie said, “with his hot wife and new family. We die and he’ll reap the we’re-into-them-now-that-they’re-dead benefits.”
They all agreed. Rich was the lucky one.
“Excuse me, Sol,” Billy said. “You mind if I try something?”
Solomon stepped aside. “Be my guest.”
Billy grabbed the door handles with both hands, placed a sneaker on the foot rail, and lifted himself off the ground.
“Well, that works. Here goes nothing.”
“Or everything,” Sol added.
“Or everything.”
Feet together on the foot rail, he readjusted his hands on the door handles, closed his eyes, and leaned forward. He encountered no resistance, and opening his eyes, found himself inside the ambulance. He stepped inside the rest of the way and turned. This time he only passed his head through to the outside.
“Come on in, guys. The air is cool and sterile.”
The ride to Emporia was quiet, each man lost in his own thoughts. Billy recalled the moments leading to the crash. Staring at the grass-covered hills, he had tried to ignore Howie’s constant talk about Ashley and had asked Sol to find a Joe Jackson tape to drown out How’s blathering. His last memory was Solomon asking which one,
and then … nothing. Maybe there was some kind of divine safeguard, a spiritual aegis protecting souls from traumatic memories of violent death.
Souls. Billy was an atheist who laughed at the idea of such a thing. Yet here they were, three lingering revenants hanging out inside an ambulance in the middle of fucking nowhere. If they were ghosts, then perhaps they did have souls, per se, or there was an unknown scientific explanation. Residual energies able to communicate with one another, wax nostalgic, and pass through walls. Maybe their brains fired final synapses, creating made-up information to provide a cushioned landing into death. Billy figured those would have sputtered out during the fire. Besides, the tree had exploded Howie like a June bug on a windshield, so that theory didn’t hold much water. Yet again, if all this was a mind-created memory cushion, then the fire never really happened.
Or did it happen? Billy had to accept he knew nothing or he would think himself through circles.
They exited the ambulance when it arrived at the hospital. A map of the city, with landmarks, hung on a wall in the main lobby. The Greyhound station was only a couple miles away; the walk there wouldn’t be too long. They could board a bus and ride to their hometown.
Leaving the lobby, they came across a bit of luck. As they passed an older couple in the waiting area, the husband rose, glancing at his watch.
“Lorraine, I’m heading to the bus station. Craig’s bus oughta be coming in anytime. Are you waiting here?”
“Yes. I’m staying,” Lorraine said. “I should get back to her room, soon.”
The man kissed his wife and left the hospital, unaware of the three specters following behind. He had barely moved the car from the parking lot when he activated the heater.
“Goddamn its cold,” he told himself.
The bus depot was empty. The three friends sat on a bench, away from the man who had unknowingly given them a ride. A bus arrived twenty minutes later. A few passengers and the driver exited and went into the depot. The marquee in front read, Kansas City.
A young college-aged kid approached the man from the hospital and embraced him, sobbing. Although invisible to the men, the bandmates were loath to encroach upon such a private moment. Leaving the building, they boarded the bus.
A Haunting of Words Page 6