I punched up the first message.
Hey, Zach, it’s Glenn. Glenn Taylor. Listen, we’re in kind of a bind and I was hoping maybe you could help us out. We have a gig tonight and Nate is … well, let’s just say he’s in no condition to play. Let’s see … it’s about seven o’clock now and we go on at nine. His drums are already at the gig, so you wouldn’t have to bring yours. So if you wouldn’t mind, please give me a call back at this number when you get my message. I’d really like to work with you, but I’ve got to get a drummer for tonight one way or another, so I’m going to keep looking. Take care, man.…
Beeeeep …
Hey, Zach. It’s Glenn again. It’s eight-fifteen and I’ve found someone who’s available to do the gig, so I’m going with him. Thanks anyway. Take care.
Holy crap.… When I was at the movies watching the fictional life of some fictional guy in some fictional band, living in a totally fictional world, I could have been getting ready to do a real gig with one of the best real bands in the area.
For a drummer I sure had lousy timing.
So I left Glenn a message saying I was sorry I missed him and I hoped we could get together to play sometime, and then I went home to sulk. At least, that was the plan. My dad had other ideas.…
“Where were you?” he asked as soon as I walked in the door.
“The movies.”
“You need to let me know where you’re going if you go out at night. You know that. Anyway, someone called and I wasn’t sure where you were, so I gave him your cell number.”
“Thanks. It was a guy named Glenn. They needed a drummer tonight.”
“That’s what he said. So what happened?”
I sure wasn’t about to tell him that their regular drummer was too drunk or drugged to make the gig. That groove would definitely not be smooth.… “Not sure, but it doesn’t really matter. I had my phone off in the movie, so I missed his call.”
“I know your phone was off, because I tried to call you, too. More than once.” He took in a deep breath, then slowly let it out. “Look, Zach. I know it’s been hard since your friends found another drummer. And to tell the truth, I think that stinks. But school’s almost out and you have to do something.”
“I know.”
“Good, because you start at Johnson’s Yard Supply on Saturday. At seven a.m.”
Boom … Sometimes the biggest bombs don’t make any noise falling. “But Dad, I never even talked to him. I haven’t filled out an application or anything.”
“I know. But Jerry called me over the weekend and asked if you were still interested. One of his guys quit and he needs someone right away.”
No doubt he could tell from my expression that I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of working at a yard-supply place all summer.
“Hey, you should be glad—I told him you had finals and couldn’t start until Saturday.”
I just hung my head. “Great …”
“Look, I know this isn’t exactly how you planned to spend your summer, but opportunities like this don’t just fall into your lap every day. Think of the money you’ll make. You could save for a car, or maybe college, or—”
“Dad,” I interrupted. “I appreciate you trying to get me a job. Really.” And that wasn’t complete fiction. I did. In a theoretical way. Sort of. “And yeah, I could use the money. But I would rather make it by playing music than hauling sacks of fertilizer out to old ladies’ cars.” By like a thousand times.
“Well, like it or not, I don’t think the first option’s available to you right now. And you’re not doing nothing all summer. So be ready to start at Johnson’s first thing Saturday morning.”
Maybe it was a good thing I didn’t hook up with Shannon after all, because there was no getting around it—I was quickly going from Zach Ryan, Rock Drummer to Zach Ryan, Manure Boy.
8
“Should I Stay or Should I Go?”
Bzzzzzzzzzzz! God, already? I rolled over and looked at my alarm clock: 6:00. As in a.m. On a Saturday. On the first day of summer vacation. That’s just wrong.…
The last few days of school had gone by fast. Nothing but study-test-study-rinse-repeat. And with the way things were, it wasn’t like I even cared about summer. I hummed a bastardized version of that K’s Choice song, “Something’s Wrong.” If you can’t look forward to summer … something’s wrong. If your whole world is a bummer … something’s wrong.
“Zach … Zaaaaach … Are you up? Breakfast is ready!” It was my mom. How could someone be so cheerful at six in the morning? Well, if you weren’t going off to become Manure Boy, I guess I could see it.
I pulled on my jeans and a faded black Ramones T-shirt, laced up my kicks, and headed downstairs to the kitchen. There was my mom, scrambling eggs and burning toast.
“Wow. You don’t have to do all this. I could have grabbed a bowl of cereal.”
“I know. But it’s your first day of work, and I wanted you to get a good start.”
“Thanks. Is Dad up yet?”
On cue he walked into the kitchen. “Hey, big guy—how’s it going?”
“Fine.” I guess. I tried to act reasonably happy, because I knew he thought he’d done me a huge favor by getting me this stupid job. But what I really wanted was to go back to bed for three or four hours, then maybe get up and play my drums or go shoot some baskets or cruise downtown on my bike.
“You going like that?” he asked.
No, I’m changing into my suit and tie as soon as I’m finished eating. “Uh, yeah. Is there a problem?”
“Well, it just doesn’t seem like the best thing to wear on the first day of a new job. Don’t you have something else you can put on?”
“Dad, this is an entry-level, manual-labor-type gig. It’s okay. Really.”
“You never know where it can lead.…” God, like my dream is to be head manure boy or something. “And by the way, I need the truck this morning.”
Well, I was going to get my bicycle ride in after all. Oh, joy.…
Jerry Johnson was actually a pretty cool old guy. Even though he owned the place, he still took the time to show the new kid around. When we were done with a quick tour of the store and had made our way outside, he introduced me to the yard supervisor. “This is Chris,” he said. “He’ll get you squared away. Anything you need, you just let him know. I’m sure you’ll do great, Zach, and we’ll be seeing you around.”
I looked at Chris. He was a large guy, maybe in his late thirties. “Jerry seems like a nice guy to have as a boss,” I said.
Chris squinted at me. “Let’s get one thing straight right now. I’m your boss here.” He looked at me like I was a homeless guy who’d wandered into a fancy restaurant, then threw a shirt at me. It was a fluorescent turquoise polo shirt with JOHNSON’S YARD SUPPLY written over the pocket. Stunning. Well, at least they could find me in the dark.…
“You got any earrings? Tongue stud?” I just shook my head, half expecting him to check my teeth like I was a horse. “You work Thursdays through Mondays. And I know what you’re thinking, so forget about asking for a Saturday or a Sunday off. Ain’t gonna happen.” He pointed to a supply shed. “Okay, go change out of that stupid T-shirt and put your crap away, then hustle back here and I’ll put you to work.”
I shouldn’t have worried about carrying fertilizer out to customers’ cars. That sort of easy stuff must have gone to the higher-seniority yard boys. Yeah, that’s what they call us—yard boys. Even the older guys.
I spent most of the day unloading delivery trucks in a warehouse, and I swear, it must have been a hundred and twenty degrees in there. I got two ten-minute breaks and half an hour for lunch. Other than that, it was go-go-go. And even that might have been bearable, because I suppose you could look at it as getting in a good workout while you got paid.
But Chris seemed to think his mission in life was to make us miserable. Most of the other guys were pretty cool—one of them was even someone I knew from school. So we talked as we worked. Ab
out school, about girls, about music … whatever. Made the time go faster.
Apparently, Chris did not approve. He wandered by while we were working and said, “Can the chitchat! I’m paying you to work, not talk. That truck should have been unloaded by now!”
So after that we didn’t talk so much. But I saw a radio on a table next to the watercooler. “Anybody want some music?” I asked. A couple of the guys said yeah sure, so I turned it on and set it to the local rock station.
The DJ was yakking away but then he actually got my attention. “… so get your original songs in muy pronto, guys, because the entry deadline for this year’s annual Wild 107 Best in the Rockin’ West compilation CD is the middle of July. That’s when the area’s very best local bands get a big boost in the butt, but remember—only the best make the cut. Last year we had over a hundred entries for twelve spots. So get your act together and submit. MP3 … CD … YouTube … I don’t care if it’s by carrier pigeon, just get your tunes in here by July fifteenth! This is Dandy Don Davis, saying stand by for a smokin’ new song by local faves Refuge. But first …”
I was just starting to think how cool it would be if I were still in the Sock Monkeys, because I’d made recordings of a few of our originals, and some of them were actually pretty killer songs. But then I realized that they’d probably just redo them with Josh and submit them. Great. Just then Chris came back to check on us and had a freakin’ cow. He stomped over to the radio and ripped the plug out of the wall.
“This ain’t a damn party!” he yelled. “We got work to do—I need that stuff unloaded … now!” He put his fists on his hips and glared. “If you guys would rather screw off than work, I got a whole list of people who’d love to have your jobs.” He turned and stormed off.
I looked at the guy next to me—he was one of the older workers who’d been there a few years. “Sorry, didn’t mean to get anyone in trouble.”
He kinda smiled. “Not the first time. And I reckon it won’t be the last.”
“You know,” I said, “I just met him today, but Jerry seems like a pretty nice guy. And he’s the owner, right?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Good guy, no doubt about it.”
“Then how did a jerk like Chris get to be a supervisor?”
The guy looked at me funny. “Uh … he’s Jerry’s son.” He looked around at the other guys and sighed. “Well, I guess we’d better get going.…” So we got back on the chain gang. No talking, no music, no nothing. And we probably got less work done during the next hour than any other time that day.
While we were unloading the next truck, my phone vibrated—someone was texting. I looked around before I checked it, just in case Chris was somewhere nearby—how sad is that? Anyway, it was Kimber.
You got a minute?
Chris was nowhere in sight, so I replied. Only for you, lil sis. What’s up?
Want to talk later. Face to face. No big. Buy me coffee? ☺
OK. *$ @ 7?
Great. See you tonight.
See you.
After that it was back to the thrill of unloading more trucks for the rest of the afternoon. We’d been sweating away for quite a while when Chris walked in. “Hey, everybody—listen up! We’ve got another delivery coming tonight, so I need two guys to stay late.”
The place went graveyard. Was he kidding? It was Saturday night.
When no one spoke up, he looked at me. “Okay, then, it’s the noob and Trent. You’re the lowest guys.”
I thought about meeting Kimber at Starbucks. And I’d definitely need a shower first or I’d knock people over when I walked in the door. “Uh, how late are you talking about?” I asked. “I’ve got plans …”
“You work until the truck is unloaded, so how late is up to you. And I don’t want to hear about your—”
Just then my phone went off, and I don’t mean it silently vibrated because someone was texting. My ringtone at the moment was the intro to “Can’t Stop,” by the Chili Peppers, and it cranked through several bars of pounding sixteenth notes. Duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh …
Chris’s eyes bugged out and his big fat head whipped around, trying to see where the sound was coming from. “Turn that garbage off!”
Oh, crap. I took out my phone to silence it, but out of habit I glanced at it to see who was calling. G. Taylor. And Chris was still raging away, only by now he’d figured out that it was my phone that was making the hideous noise. “Didn’t you hear me?” he bellowed. “I said turn that off, right now. Now …!”
I’d been planning to do exactly that. I swear. But I guess my hands had a life of their own. I answered it and punched up the speaker.
“Hey, Glenn, what’s up?” I said casually.
“Hey, Zach. To make a long story short, Nate is out and we’re auditioning for another drummer. I heard you were between gigs, so I thought I’d ask if you were interested.”
I figured I’d better cut this short, because Chris was turning red in front of my eyes. “Yes, I sure am.”
“Great. Are you free tomorrow, around noon?”
Whoa … Suddenly I felt like the guy in that stupid movie, only this wasn’t some film, this was real life, right here in front of me. It was like I was weighing my options, one in each hand: How do I see myself? As a yard boy, or a rock drummer? Yard boy …? Or rock drummer …? It was no freakin’ contest. I looked right at Chris as I spoke to Glenn. “I’m totally free; noon would work great for me.”
“Cool.”
“Thanks. Hey, I’ve gotta run. Can I call you later for the details?”
“Sure. See ya.”
I put my phone away and stripped off my dirty, stinky, sweat-soaked polo shirt. “Here,” I said to Chris. “You can give this to the next lucky bastard on your list.”
And I threw it in his face.
9
“A Little Less Conversation”
“You what?” Kimber couldn’t believe it.
Over coffee I told her all about the wonderfulness of my one-day career at Johnson’s Yard Supply. Okay, I skipped the part about the audition. I was dying to tell her, but I’d already been burned once by that. Plus, the last thing I needed was for Kyle—and Toby—to hear about it. But otherwise I hit the high points, and pretty soon we were both laughing at the whole thing.
“Plus,” I finished, “if I’d stayed there, I’d be unloading trucks until God knows how late, instead of hanging here with you.”
“Sounds like a horrible place to work. What do your parents think about all this?”
“I haven’t told them yet.”
Her eyes widened. “Uh … aren’t you a little concerned?”
I didn’t even want to think about what my dad’s reaction was going to be, so I switched gears. “How’d the Destination Imagination thing go?” I asked.
“Let’s see … Sacramento was really hot, the pool was closed at the motel, one of the girls on our team got food poisoning and we had to perform our skit without her, and we lost out to a couple of teams where most of the props had obviously been made by their parents.”
“But other than that?”
“Oh, other than that, it was great.” She laughed.
“So … what are Kyle and the band up to?” I tried to keep it casual, like I didn’t really care.
“Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” She looked serious all of a sudden, like she had some bad news. “They’ve been spending a lot of time recording.”
“I bet they’re trying to get on that Wild 107 “Best in the West” thing, huh?”
“I don’t know about that. All I know is, they’re spending a lot of time in the studio, making a record.”
“Making a full-length? In a studio?”
She nodded. “Remember Josh’s house?”
“You mean the royal estate?”
“Right. Well, Josh’s dad has a recording studio in one of those outbuildings that’s totally pro. It looks like something out of a magazine.”
“And Josh�
�s dad built all this just for him?”
“No, apparently he’s had it for quite a while. Kyle says Mr. Dicenza made his bucks as an entertainment lawyer in LA. I guess he’s pretty well connected in the industry—knows people at all the labels and stuff.”
Whoa … Talk about a lightbulb going on, big-time. I shook my head slowly. “You know, that connects a lot of dots.”
She grew quiet for a minute. “I feel awful even telling you about it, but I figured you’d hear it sooner or later.” She paused. “Look at it this way. At least you know it didn’t have anything to do with your playing.”
I nodded. “Thanks … I guess.”
“Well, just for the record, I think they’re jerks and this whole thing totally stinks.”
I was grateful for the support, but I didn’t really want to think about being sold down the river for thirty pieces of … well, whatever it is you get sold down the river for. So I changed the subject. “What does that taste like?”
“This?” She held up the white chocolate mocha I’d bought her. “I’m not sure yet. I’ll let you know when I figure it out.” Then she looked at me kinda funny. “So, what else is new with you?”
“Uh, not much,” I said, feeling a little guilty about not mentioning the audition.
“Hmm …” She paused. “I heard through the grapevine that you had a girlfriend.”
“Oh, really? And where did you hear this?”
“From Ginger, who got it from Kelli, who sits next to Maria in history.”
I nodded slowly, the light dawning. “Oh, Maria? Maria Delgado? The one who, like, speaks in questions?”
No laugh. Not even a smile. And my impersonation was right on, if I do say so myself. “Yeah, that Maria” was all she said.
“She sure has a big mouth,” I said. Okay, I was making her work for it, but can you really blame me? After all, I’ve been dealing with a real little sister most of my life.
“And …?” she said.
Road Rash Page 5