Red Dirt Rocker

by Jody French

  I stand up and bear-hug Mama. I lift her off her feet. She screams for me to put her down. As I do, she spins me around like a drill sergeant.

  “All right, down the hall you go. G’night, babe. I'll see you bright and early."

  "You mean dark and early. Thanks for packing for us Mama…love you," I say tenderly.

  "You're welcome, son. Love you, too," she smiles. Teardrops well up and pool above Mama’s bottom lashes. She blinks and her tears make tiny falling rivers that wet her flushed cheeks. I don’t think they’re sad tears, though. More like “my baby’s growing up” tears. I sure love my Mama.

  I’m exhausted, but have so much on my mind, including worrying if I’ll be able to sleep. The trip is going to be so thrilling, but nerve-racking at the same time. I can feel the tension of knowing that I’m going to be a world away, almost literally, from my comfort zone. My life feels like a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle that’s been dumped out on the floor. I’m starting with the middle pieces, the ones where all the color and shape just blends together. Most kids my age are still working on the borders—the straight edges—the easy part.

  As confused as I am, I’m more suited to the challenge of starting in the center. I never wade into the frigid water at Baron Fork Creek in the springtime. I just bail right in. And I’m usually the first one of my buddies to take a dare, so I guess I’m pretty suited for this life. I’m ready to jump off the bluff, feet first, into the icy current without hesitation. I’m excited to start the puzzle from the inside out. It’s not always easy, but it’s more satisfying when the picture is complete.

  As I enter my room for the evening, I rub my tired eyes and look around. It can clearly be seen that my domain is a house divided. One side of my room is dedicated to the Coweta Tigers. On the shelves and walls are orange and black pennants dotted with tiger paws, gold plaques, trophies, and certificates from my athletic achievements over the years.

  The other side of my room is plastered with posters of rock legends. Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Pantera and, of course, Metallica, are a few of the bands displayed. I also have magazine cutouts of some of my favorite new bands: Needtobreathe, The Foo Fighters, and The Zac Brown Band, to name a few. They’re each a source of inspiration to me. They all influence my musical style and writing.

  My custom San Dimas guitar and my Boulder Creek acoustic hang securely on my bedroom wall. Betty is in the steadfast grip of a special hanger that looks like a giant silver hand jutting out of the wall from a square wooden block.

  I pull my Gibson gal down and strum her silver strings. The liquid metal sound fills my ears and puts me solely in the moment at hand. I begin to play the Coweta Tigers fight song. I’ve never played our school song on a guitar before. It sounds so puny compared to the Tiger marching band’s spirit-rousting version.

  My fingers settle still on the strings. My thoughts drift to Sophie. I’m going miss her next week. As I return my Gibson to its hanger, my BlackBerry alerts me to a text message. I can’t believe it—it’s from Sophie!

  Hey, Forrest! I just wanna wish ya luck in Sweden at your KISS show. Still can’t believe your gonna get to open for them. my dads freakin out! :) I know youll be amazing!! call me when ya get back—maybe we can hang out…OK? <3

  A feeling of warmth spreads through my chest. Sophie has signed off with a heart next to her name. I text her back, hesitating as I type so that I can search for the perfect words.

  thank u soooo much, Sophie…thanx for bein there for me…Im glad weve gotten to know each other better the past few weeks…see ya when I get back. Id love to hang! I'll call ya for sure! :) Forrest

  I push the send button on my phone and watch the tiny envelope icon rotate and disappear on my cell screen. I know in my heart that Sophie and I have both made it official—we’re falling for each other.

  I dread my next text. It’s to Heather. She’s not been around much, which leads me to suspect that that she’s hooking up with someone else. She won’t break up with me, though, because of all the media attention me and my band are getting. I know she’s using me. Right now, being with me gives her popularity points at school. I’m definitely going to end it with her as soon as I get back from Sweden. I begin to type:

  hey, Heather! just wanted to say gdnight. see ya when I get bk from Sweden. Hope ya have a good week. Forrest

  It takes several minutes, and the return text from Heather reads, Oh, hey! have a good time Forrest…YOU ROCK! : )

  "You rock?" I whisper to myself—how cliché—how Heather.

  I set my trusty Superman alarm clock for the unholy, donut-making hour of 5:30 a.m. and nestle into my cozy, soft blankets. Mama washed my sheets today. They smell fresh, like Aunt Carmen’s meadow in the springtime. My fuzzy fleece blanket crackles and sparks tiny purple static electricity lights as I pull the warm cover up over my cold ears. I’m so grateful for the things my mom and dad do for me. My eyelids become heavy. My soul feels content. I whisper a prayer for a safe trip, for my dad to have a good time, and for my teammates to have a great game.

  I slide my iPod off my night stand and put my ear buds in. Ray Charles’ lonely crooning lulls me to sleep. Tonight I dream of being on stage with KISS. We’re playing the blues—the stage is explosive, with Gene Simmons breathing orange, bellowing, volumes of fire. Randy and Heather are in the background having a pie-eating contest at the Coweta Fall Festival. My dream is completely random, and totally awesome.

  I’m always on time—on time to school, on time to football, on time to band practice, gigs, etc. I’m always on time to the airport as well. This isn’t the case for Jake, Randy and Cody. My bandmates, God love 'em, are chronic late arrivers, and this morning is no exception. Of course, they all overslept.

  I look up to see them making their way to the baggage check line. They resemble long-haired, brain-seeking zombies. Their pale faces are expressionless as they slowly shuffle their feet toward the airline attendant.

  "Dude, one of these days you guys are gonna miss the boat," I state in frustration. "Late, late, late! Duuudes, you guys are ALWAYS LATE!"

  "Hey, man, it's all good. We got an extra hour of sleep," Jake boasts.

  "I wonder if we'll ever have to take a boat." Cody ponders.

  Randy opens his mouth wide, expelling an exaggerated a.m. yawn. “Yeah dude, don’t be such a time warden, Forrest.” He pops the tab on his Diet Mountain Dew. It spews everywhere—I shake my head.

  After a vice grip hug and kiss, and then another hug, and another kiss, my dad and I say our goodbyes to Mama and Megan. Megan informs me that I have to know she loves me a lot because she got up at 5:30 in the morning to see me off. I banter back that the only reason she got up early was so she could go to Sticky Buns Donut Shop on the way home—and then I call her a fatty.

  “Bring me back somethin’ good!” she accepts my good natured insult with a grin.

  “And take lots and lots of pictures!” Mama adds. Her fingers are laced nervously together.

  As Dad and I step across the security check line, Mama raises her hand. She makes Aunt Carmen’s “rock” sign. She’s saying I love you in sign language. I sign “I love you” back. We turn and wave three more times before disappearing through the gate to board the plane.

  My chest tightens. I feel like I’m boarding a NASA shuttle for the moon. It’ll be a ten hour flight. Dad and I thought we were going to get to sit by each other, but he’s seated four rows up with the MTV film crew that’s accompanying us. Unfortunately, I’m stuck sitting next to a man named Buddy, who is a very large and obnoxious man. Buddy snorts as he laughs at all of his not-so-funny jokes, and smells like stale Cheez-Its.

  Luckily, seated on the other side of me is a very pretty young woman. She’s dressed comfy for the flight in black yoga pants, a pink t-shirt and grey ballet flats. Her name is Gretchen and she tells me that she’s returning home to Sweden after visiting some of her family in the U.S. I find her charming and very interesting, easy to make small talk with.

&
nbsp; Gretchen has actually heard of Cellar Door Is Gone in Sweden and knows our song, "Rocket." She’s thrilled to hear the story behind my band, and even has a cousin who’s actually going to the KISS concert in Stockholm.

  It truly is a small world after all, I think.

  During the tedious flight, Buddy keeps butting in on our conversation. He brags about being a “fine wine connoisseur,” but drinks beer most of the flight. Buddy thinks it is priceless comedy when he asks the flight attendant for a Hiney. "That’s short for Heineken,” he hee-haws. “Get it?” The stewardess rolls her cart and her eyes as she continues forward.

  I have to let Buddy squeeze by me every thirty minutes or so for a bathroom break, which becomes ever so annoying. Cody looks up from his Sky Mall catalogue as the brash comedian lumbers down the aisle for his fourth potty break. Buddy’s crack is half exposed, thanks to his oversized, stretchy elastic-waist pants.

  “Looks more like he’s a connoisseur of sweat pants,” Cody comments casually, before going back to making out his airline catalogue Christmas list.

  The sarcastic comment isn’t lost on Gretchen and me and we giggle groggily. We’re all very relieved when Buddy finally passes out, five hours into the flight—that is until he starts snoring.

  I put my headphones on to block out the nasal- knocking sound of Buddy sawing logs. The song, “Slow Ride,” by Fog Hat, is cued up. I shift in my seat. My rear end is numb. I cover my upper body with the minute blue square of sterile cloth that is the airline blanket. I’m on a “slow ride” to Sweden.

  After two long naps, three meals, eight water bottles, two cranberry juices, and three in-flight movies, the plane touches down with a landing fit for balancing eggs. I bid my new international friend, Gretchen, goodbye, and autograph a cocktail napkin per her request.

  Buddy even wishes me luck. He says he’ll Google me, and snorts one last belly laugh, accidentally shooting a salted peanut out of his mouth. I’m so glad the flight is over. We’re finally at our international destination.

  Sweden is beautiful, bright and green. As we leave our hotel room later that day to go sightseeing, the lights, TV, and everything else that you would turn off before you leave your room shuts down automatically when the door locks behind us. Dad and I are impressed by their innovative energy conservation ideas. I can already sense the trip has been good for Dad, who’s never been more than one state away from Oklahoma. He’s all smiles. He looks several years younger as we talk about all that is interesting in this city. A city that’s a world away from our country community.

  We explore the town of Stockholm, which is filled with quaint shops and interesting, old architecture. There are also a lot of beautiful fair-haired girls in the city. Several of them remind me of Sophie. I suspect that she must have Swedish relatives in her family tree somewhere.

  I also spot a girl who reminds me of Heather. She’s a spoiled American tourist who’s clearly agitated by the communication barrier as she tries to order lunch—a very pretty girl with a very ugly attitude.

  Jake, Randy, Cody, and I decide it's time to try the local cuisine. We have absolutely no idea what we’re ordering off the menu. When our meals arrive, we still don’t have a clue what we’re about to eat. Dad’s the lucky one—he scores chicken. I’m not so fortunate—I get pork. Not pork chops, or pork ribs. It’s a gelatinous blob of pork knuckle that doesn’t stop jiggling for at least five seconds after the waitress sets it on the table in front of me.

  The other boys get pickled herring, covered in a white sauce, and a slab of raw, pink salmon on the side. We feel like we’re on Fear Factor as we dare each other to take bites of the mystery meals.

  Our attitude is that if life hands you lemons, you make lemonade. Then you go to the Swedish McDonalds and eat real food!

  My bandmates and I step into the best joke ever as we step off the trolley. Randy points out a street sign that reads, "Ut Fart." Apparently, "Fart" translates to "speed" in English! The signs are at each entrance and exit of the parking garages. We have a field day with this. We snap pictures of all of us pointing and laughing. Cody has the best pose. He backs up to the sign and puts his finger to his lips like, “oopsie.”

  Mama sent her arsenal of cameras and camcorders with Dad and made him take a sacred oath to capture as much of the trip as he could.

  Dad and I find the perfect souvenir shop, and buy Mama and Megan each a small, ceramic, red-suited gnome. The chubby, snow-bearded, elf-like statues are everywhere. Our two little quaint elves will soon have a new home in a flower garden in Cow-Town Oklahoma.

  After an exhausting day of sightseeing, we settle back into our hotel rooms. I’m Jonesin’ for my BlackBerry, but since cell phones would cost an arm and a leg to use from Sweden, I set up my laptop and webcam so we can talk to Mama and Megan courtesy of the hotel’s Wi-Fi. It’s so comforting to see their faces as they sit around our big oak kitchen table back home. Our dog, Stella, even licks the camera.

  After saying goodnight to Mama and Megan, I go to Sophie's Facebook page and ask her to get on her webcam so we can chat. Sophie and I stay on our computers for over three hours, talking. Dad unknowingly walks by the webcam sporting his new gnome-printed boxer shorts. Sophie and I laugh until we cry.

  It’s so ironic that it took my leaving the country for Sophie and me to learn so much about each other. The internet is a wonderful thing.

  Dad says it’s time for bed, and starts giving me the old, “When I was young” speech. He explains that he and Mama managed to meet, date and even get married, all without the benefit of cell phones or computers. “Mama even lived way out in the boondocks—twenty miles out on bad dirt road.” He declares with a sense of pride that he snagged her like a prize coon.

  Dad can’t help but laugh when I ask him if he had to track her. “Look for broken twigs and Appaloosa hoof prints, did ya?” I tease.

  “No sir. I had a land line and an old Ford pickup truck—worked just fine!” Dad says. I still can’t imagine functioning socially on a day-to-day basis without the benefit of texting or Facebook—never ever!

  I beg Dad for another twenty minutes, and me and Sophie’s marathon conversation continues. We find out we have a lot in common—from music, to family life, to religious beliefs. Sophie isn’t into the party scene either. She’s not a goody-two-shoes; she’s just a good girl, and I’m so glad we’ve gotten to know each other better.

  My Mac laptop is the bomb. It brought Sophie up close and personal to me from thousands of miles away. I can’t wait to get back to Coweta, Oklahoma to give her a non-virtual hug!

  The big day is finally here. My band and I will be sharing the stage tonight with the one and only rock legends, KISS. I think our dads and Jake’s Uncle Walt are almost as nervous as the boys and I are as we make our way to the Olympic Stadium in Stockholm.

  This is the venue that housed the 1912 Olympic Games and now, my band, Cellar Door Is Gone, is going to open for KISS in this historic structure. We’re in awe. I’m overcome by a sudden, heavy feeling in my stomach that quickly turns into burning nausea. I have an immediate desire to chug Pepto-Bismol. All the excitement and apprehension are actually good feelings, though. I know that I’m about to do something bigger than I’ve ever done in my life, and so does my gut. Reality has hit home big time.

  The boys and I make our way to our modest dressing room once the doors of the stadium are opened. Rabid Swedish rock fans swarm in, and race for the prime real estate at the front of the gigantic stage. Once again we have to pinch ourselves to make sure we’re not dreaming. This time, I pinch Jake!

  The show promoter greets us with a shocked expression as we enter the “once again not green” green room.

  "Are you guys the band from the States?” he asks, with hesitation. His coarse, bushy grey eyebrows, that look like they have a life of their own, raise with a skeptical arch.

  I step up as the band’s spokesman, answering quickly and confidently.

  “Yep—I mean—umm, yes sir we are
.”

  "You have got to be kidding me. How old are you boys?” the promoter asks with proper and pronounced accent. Aggravation is sketched all over his face.

  "I’m sixteen, and the rest of the boys are fifteen," I say, throwing my head back toward my bandmates, who stand motionless.

  "I do not know what the booking agent was thinking! We are going to have over thirty-thousand fans ready for a rock show. Can you boys handle that?” The promoter inquires.

  "Oh…definitely. We promise we won't let you down," I return. I stand with my shoulders and back straight, thinking that if I could add another inch to my height, it would add more credibility to our band.

  "Okay, boys. You will be meeting KISS in thirty minutes. You had better get a move on. I will have my assistant come get you for the meeting in the press room, okay?" The promoter informs us slowly and clearly as if we’re second graders.

  “Remember, over thirty thousand fans, so be in top form," he instructs staunchly.

  "We’ll be just fine," I assure him. Then I turn to my bandmates and echo, "just fine!" I speak with conviction, but inside, my stomach is doing back flips. I’m now officially a nervous wreck.

  It’s finally time for our meeting with KISS—the most surreal moment of my life. Two days ago I was in Cow-Town, Oklahoma, population seven thousand. I was playing football and practicing with my band in a barn. Now I’m getting ready to meet one of the biggest acts in rock history. I’m minutes away from meeting the legendary Gene Simmons. I’m suddenly pale with apprehension about being face-to-face with the literally white-faced KISS!

  Two muscle bound security guards escort us to KISS’s well-watched and very private dressing room. I realize that I’ve been holding my breath for at least a minute. I exhale and inhale deeply to calm myself, and they enter. The boys and I shake their hands with respect, as camera flashes pop. I step alongside Gene Simmons. My dad thankfully keeps his cool long enough to get a quick pic of me and my band with the super cool legends of rock.