by Greg Trine
I thought about this, then looked at Vern and shook my head. “Nah. Tuck would be in double digits immediately, and you and I would still be in the same boat.”
“True. Tuck has it going on, and he does it without being an asshole.”
“Exactly.”
Vern pulled to a stop in front of the Airstream and I got out. “See you tomorrow.”
I went inside, dropped my books on the couch, grabbed my guitar, and began picking a random tune, going over the events of the day.
The phone rang, and I answered it. “Hello?”
“Turn on Channel Seven.” It was Vern.
“What’s on Channel Seven?”
“You gotta see it. Turn it on.” He paused. “You there yet?”
“Hold on.” I turned on the TV and scrolled down to seven. It was some kind of rock concert, an ancient group that had been big in the sixties. A bunch of old guys, but they could rock. The cameras flashed on the audience. The ones near the stage were mostly women. They were going wild and tossing something at the performers.
“What’s that they’re throwing?” I asked.
“Underwear. Are you seeing this? They’re throwing their underwear!” Vern was more excited than I’d seen him in a while. Actually, I was hearing him.
“Wow.”
“I know. It’s like the ultimate Second Base Club.”
I watched the mayhem continue. Women of all ages were throwing their underwear at these geezers, just because they made music. The world just wasn’t fair—that’s all there was to it. I was no geezer. I could do twelve pull-ups. I had pecs and abs, for crying out loud. I beat a varsity wrestler from Aquinas. This was—
Vern’s words banged around in my head. A rock-and-roll band, the ultimate Second Base Club.
“You play guitar, right, Elroy?”
“I do.”
“I could get a bass.” Vern paused. “Do you know anyone who can play drums?”
“I saw a drum kit in Tuck’s garage.”
“Perfect!”
Yeah, it was perfect. If geezers could do it, so could we.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
On Saturday, we headed over to South Coast Music, the largest guitar store in the Tri-Counties. They had tons of basses. Vern and I browsed, not really knowing what we were looking for, although you-get-what-you-pay-for was always a good rule of thumb to fall back on. And the price range was huge.
“Might have to break the piggy bank on this one,” I told Vern, fingering some of the price tags. “You got a price in mind?”
“Four hundred.”
I whistled. First his car stereo, now the bass guitar. Either he had saved every dime he earned at Perry’s Pretzels or—
Vern flashed his dad’s credit card.
I must have had that where’d-you-get-the-dough look.
“As long as I take lessons, the old man will foot the bill.”
“In that case”—I started flipping price tags—“check out this baby. . . . Eleven hundred. No, wait. Here’s one for fifteen.”
He shook his head. “Four hundred’s my limit.”
“Doesn’t he know it’s for a good cause?”
“Guess not. And I can’t exactly tell him.” Vern strapped on a bass and plucked a string. Then he started in on “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”
“Impressed?”
“Kind of. Can you play for real?”
“No. That’s why I need lessons.”
A salesman stood nearby, giving us a hard look. He had on a dress shirt and tie, hair past his shoulders. Obviously, this was just a day job.
“I’ll take it,” Vern said.
The hard look vanished.
We went to the counter, and Vern paid and asked about lessons. A flyer on the counter caught my attention:
BATTLE OF THE BANDS
Highmont Ridge Fairgrounds
April 7
1st place — $500
I elbowed Vern and pointed to the flyer. “We should enter,” I said. “If we win—”
“We’ll get nailed with underwear?”
“Exactly.”
We drove directly from the guitar store to Tuck’s house. I was hoping the drum kit I’d seen in his garage had been doing more than collecting dust. Tuck was out front mowing the lawn when we pulled up. He had his shirt off, and I couldn’t help noticing—he had better pecs than me! Damn.
“Gentlemen.” He shut off the engine and wiped his face with the shirt tied around his waist.
“We’re starting a rock-and-roll band,” I said.
“To meet girls,” Vern added.
Tuck put his shirt on and walked over. “A rock-and-roll band to meet girls. Okay, I can see the logic. But I already told you how to meet girls—just be friendly.”
“We need more help,” I said. “Haven’t you noticed? Rock and roll might give us a boost.”
“I have noticed,” Tuck said. “You do need a little extra something.” He gestured to his garage, which had the door up. “Why don’t we step into my office.”
We followed him into the garage. The drum kit sat in the corner. I checked it for dust and rust. I didn’t see any. “You play the drums?” I asked.
He nodded, grabbing some folding chairs for us to sit on. “Been playing off and on for years.”
Vern looked at me and smiled. “Perfect. I just bought a bass, and Elroy will play guitar.”
“A three-man band?” Tuck asked.
“It’ll work,” I told him. “We don’t need a keyboard player.”
Tuck was slowly coming around, but I could tell he needed a little more to make him commit. After all, meeting girls was not an issue for him. He was wired for confidence. I told him about Battle of the Bands, about playing at the fairgrounds, about the five-hundred-dollar prize. Vern added the bit about the geezers pelted with feminine underwear.
“Panties,” Tuck said. “Guys wear underwear; girls wear panties. Learn the terminology.”
“Okay, panties.” It sounded better, for some reason.
“Besides, those geezers are called the Rolling Stones. Heard of them? They’re kind of famous.”
“They may be famous, but they’re butt-ugly.” I lifted my shirt and pointed to my stomach. “Check this out, Tuck. I have abs and I’m being ignored.”
“So what do we call ourselves?” Tuck asked. “Tuck’s Band has a nice ring to it.”
We tossed about a few names, but nothing stuck. I wasn’t worried. The main thing was that Tuck was willing to join us. We had no idea if we could make music, but at least we were willing to try.
That night, I Googled band names. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to them. Let’s face it, The Beatles is a pretty crappy name. It was their music that made them stand out. They could have called themselves Smelly Socks. Wouldn’t have mattered. They would still have taken the world by storm.
I kept researching band names. In the old days there were a lot of bands named for animals and bugs—Animals, Monkees, Crickets. Bands named for cities—Chicago, Boston—or countries—America. Even states—Kansas. Or just plain weird stuff, like Toad the Wet Sprocket, or Hootie and the Blowfish, Death Cab for Cutie, Red Jumpsuit Apparatus. Like I said, no rhyme or reason. It was the band members that mattered. It was about the music they made.
On Monday morning, the three of us met up in the quad to talk it over. I brought my list. They brought theirs. Just like the band names I’d Googled, our suggestions were all over the place: Atomic Slugs, Hubcap Transition, Unibrow, Kneecap Repairmen, Yellow Snow. Nothing clicked.
“I still say The Mayfield Boys sounds awesome.”
Vern and I shot him down.
We kept going. The Dingbats, Dipstick, Rustic Door Knob, Hot Dogs with Mustard. It was more than a brainstorm, it was a tornado. We considered everything.
“How about The Kitchen Sink?” I offered.
“The Lawnmowers?” Tuck asked.
And then Vern said it. “We could called ourselves Templin Highway.”
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br /> We all stopped and looked at one another.
“Templin Highway?” I repeated. “You mean like Templin Highway and the Night of Gas?”
“I’m still trying to forget that experience,” Tuck said.
But the more we thought about it, the more we talked it over, the more we realized Vern had come up with the perfect name. Templin Highway. It grew on us quickly. We knew we couldn’t call ourselves anything else. Our band had a name. It was time to start practicing.
I went home and tried my hand at writing a song.
Look at my biceps
Ain’t they pumpin’
Does it make you feel like jumpin’
My bones?
Well, Marvin Gaye came right out and said “Let’s Get It On.” Isn’t that just another way of saying, “Please, jump my bones at your earliest convenience?” But maybe it would be better to be less direct. I started again.
I saw you the other day
Wish I knew how to make you stay
Wanted to call you up on the phone
Wanted to tell you to jump my bones
At your earliest convenience
At your earliest conveeeeenience!
Crap! I did it again. I had to find a way to keep bone jumping out of the song. The folks at Battle of the Bands might not like it. Maybe I should stay off the girl subject altogether. I looked at my life for inspiration. It didn’t help. My life was all about girls. Becoming a tutor was all about girls. My job at Ernesto’s was all about girls. So was wrestling. And now I was in a band for the same reason. Okay, maybe my life wasn’t the best place for inspiration. Or maybe I just had to focus on romance instead of sex.
I crumpled up the piece of paper where I’d written the two bone-jumping songs and began again. I kept the beginning of the last song and went from there.
I saw you the other day
Didn’t know how to make you stay
Especially when you stiff-armed me
I knew you just wanted to get away
Because I’m a geek
I’m a geeee-eeek!
That wasn’t the half of it. I was also a shitty songwriter.
I threw the song away and went outside behind the trailer to my oak tree. I jumped up and grabbed the branch where I did my pull-ups. This time I just hung there, feeling the rough bark dig into my hands. I hung on for a long time, thinking. I didn’t do a single pull-up. Then I went back inside, put on my running shoes, and took off into the hills behind the Airstream.
The trail led up into the canyon. We usually ended wrestling practice with a two-mile run around the track. Running in the canyon felt better. I followed the trail for about a mile, spooking lizards and rabbits, and a few unseen creatures hiding in the grass. After a while, the trail gave way to a creek bed littered with boulders. I slowed down a bit to avoid twisting an ankle. The creek bed eventually became a dry waterfall, and I pressed on, climbing the thing as if it was part of my workout.
At the top of the waterfall, I stopped and took in the view. Highmont Ridge spread out before me, and beyond it the blue waters of the Pacific. Right then the words came to me.
Highmont Ridge is the place to be
Along the coast on the Pacific Sea
Where the weather’s fine, all year long
And the girls are finer, but don’t get me wrong
’Cause I’m a man who’s on a journey
And I need more than a Ping-Pong tourney
To make me discover what I can be
Here in Highmont, on the Pacific Sea
Well, at least I didn’t mention bone jumping. Battle of the Bands was on April 7. I had until then to become a better songwriter.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“You’re in a band?” Juana Maria searched my face to see if I was lying.
“I’m in a band,” I said.
“Really?”
The dinner rush was over, and we were catching our breath. I was hoping for no late-night eaters. But you never knew. People craved tacos at all hours.
“Yep,” I told her. “Want my autograph?”
“What’s the band called?”
The front door swung open, and in walked Jerry from the Second Base Club. He was with a few other guys I’d seen lingering around the locker room, all members of the secret Ping-Pong organization.
“Three for dinner?” I said, forcing cheerfulness into my voice, faking a smile.
It took Jerry a while to recognize me, what with my fluffy Mexican shirt and all. When he did, his eyes bored into me. I returned the stare. “Would you like a booth?” I asked, again cheerfully.
Another group walked through the open door. Juana Maria grabbed three menus, gestured for Jerry and his friends to follow her, and led them to the far end of the restaurant. I seated the next group.
“What was that all about?” she asked a little later.
“What was what about?”
“Those three guys. They looked at you like you just killed their mother.”
“You really want to know?” I asked. Part of me didn’t want to tell her—Vern, Tuck, and I were the only ones who knew about the Second Base Club—but part of me did. I can’t explain it. Juana Maria had a way of getting things out of me.
“Kind of,” she said.
Before I could stop myself, my mouth fell open and started talking. “There’s this secret society at my school. They call themselves the Second Base Club. A bunch of jocks who keep score of their sexual exploits.”
She let out a small gasp, like she didn’t believe her ears. “Are you serious?”
I nodded. “I kind of eavesdropped a few times. Anyway, one of the three that you just seated seems to have it in for me. I think he suspects that I know.”
“Second Base Club?” Juana Maria made a face like she was about to puke. “What a bunch of losers.”
About an hour later, Jerry and his two cronies left, but Jerry made a point of grabbing a mint from the podium where I was standing and giving me another hard look. Then he walked away.
I couldn’t help myself. “Good luck playing Ping-Pong.” He didn’t turn around, so I added, “And good luck with the Second Base Club. Second place ain’t bad.”
He stopped and turned around. If looks could kill, I’d have been a goner.
“Do you have a death wish, Elroy?” Ernesto’s was finally empty, and Juana Maria and I were doing our end-of-the-night routine—filling salt and pepper shakers, wrapping silverware, sweeping the entry.
“Think I should have kept my mouth shut?”
“Yes, I do. Not all people are sane. You don’t know what he’s capable of.”
I hadn’t thought of that. I just couldn’t stand being stared at by a gonad named Jerry when I hadn’t done anything but show a little curiosity about a list posted in someone’s locker.
“You better watch your back.” Juana Maria gave me a worried look.
“Don’t tell me Juana Maria is concerned for Elroy’s safety.”
She shook her head, but the worried look didn’t budge. “I’m concerned with Elwood’s safety. Seriously, he looked kind of crazy to me. Plus, he’s what I’d call extra large.”
“Thanks,” I told her. He was extra large. And extra hairy. “I’ll be careful. I travel in groups. A murder can’t take place if everyone’s looking.”
Ernesto popped out of his office and gave us his “scoot” gesture. I grabbed my sweatshirt and walked Juana Maria to her car. The parking lot was empty, no lingering Second Base Club members. I did a quick scan, just in case they were lying in wait. The place was deserted.
Juana Maria chirped her car alarm, then stopped and faced me. “You never told me the name of your band.”
“Templin Highway.”
“Templin Highway?” she asked.
“It’s better than Rustic Door Knob or Hubcap Transition.”
“I don’t know. I kind of like Hubcap Transition.”
“Me too. That was my second choice.” I grabbed the handle and opene
d her car door. She gave me a smile, and I felt my face go hot. I was such a sucker for a hot girl’s smile, especially in close quarters.
“You polite guy, you,” she said as she stepped in.
“I try,” I told her. But the funny thing was, I wasn’t trying at all. I never tried with Juana Maria. She was the only girl who got to see the real Elroy.
She closed the car door and started the engine. I couldn’t help staring. Those dark eyes and hair were . . . And that smile. Wow.
She rolled down her window. “What is it?”
“Oops. Was I staring?” I could feel my facing growing hot again.
“Kind of.”
“It’s a compliment. Trust me.”
“I know.” She pulled away slowly and called back, “And I do.”
“Am I the only one who thinks this should be all about playing great music?” Tuck asked.
I looked at Vern. “What is he saying, Vern? Is he speaking English?”
“Not sure. Illogical English, maybe.”
I nodded. “Being in a band should be about the music? I never heard of such a thing.”
“You guys are pathetic,” Tuck said. He pulled the Skoal can from his back pocket and grabbed a mint.
We were in his garage for our first practice. Vern on bass, Tuck on drums, me on guitar. Everything was plugged in and ready to go. The problem was how to begin. And the bigger question regarding Battle of the Bands—should we cover old classics, or should we make up our own?
“I agree, Tuck,” I said finally. “It should be all about the music.”
Vern looked at me in horror. “What are you saying?”
“And,” I added, “the better we get at playing music, the better our chances in the girl department.”
“Whew!” Vern wiped a hand across his forehead. “You had me worried.”
“Right.” Tuck twirled a drumstick. “We focus on the music and all good things will come.” All good things came to him, anyway. “So what’s our first song?”
We kicked around a few ideas and decided in the end that if we were a band that was all about the music, then, do or die, we’d play original songs for Battle of the Bands. Now we just needed a song—or two.