by Eric Shoars
Pictured on the page are four figures - two boys and two girls - in a band. I’m behind the drums triumphantly raising drumsticks in the air. Todd is standing in the foreground to my right playing guitar. Lori is near the drummer’s left standing behind a keyboard. Laurie is in the foreground with a guitar.
Laurie’s arm extends over my shoulder almost touching the paper itself. “What is tell?”
At the top of the drawing in all capital letters are the T, E, L, and L. Each letter has a period behind it. I have been waiting for this question most of all. “It’s the name of the band as an acronym - T.E.L.L. It’s us. Todd, Eric, Laurie, and Lori.”
“The name is catchy,” Todd thinks aloud. Laurie nods in agreement adding, “I don’t know, though. Seems like a long shot.”
My mind brings me back to the present, Laurie’s 4th grade assessment echoing in my head. It does seem like a long shot even more at this juncture as thoughts come back to the now.
Maybe sentimentality is getting the better of me. Or regret. When you’re 9, 19, 29 or even 39 you have so much time ahead of you so many things to do so many possibilities.
Fifty, though, is a different ballgame. Not that 50 is death but there feels a certain finality about more years being behind you than lie ahead; and there remains unfinished business. So much unfinished business and a race against time to tie up the loose ends before you run out of time, opportunity, or health.
This piece of unfinished business seems destined to remain unfinished which probably is why the gears keep grinding in an effort for a solution that remains elusive. How can a nine-year-old boy’s fantasy become a reality at the age of 49? Impossible. Isn’t it?
What about my bandmates, their interest in this rock and roll fantasy, and their whereabouts? Laurie, no, Laurel as she prefers to be called now, graduated with me so I can find her.
Lori and Todd? Lori moved away after 5th grade and Todd after 8th. I hadn’t seen or heard from them since then. They could be anywhere in the country now.
The gears in my brain are spinning as fast as a centrifuge. More information, more variables flood my mind with still no solution, no resolution on the horizon. There is only one thing I can do and that is mentally run toward the impossible and see what happens.
I can’t sing or play an instrument but is it too late to teach this old dog some new tricks? Is that impossible? No.
Where are my bandmates? Laurel is in Ames. Todd and Lori are who knows where but in our internet age nearly anyone who has even a tiny digital footprint can be located. Would it be impossible to find them? No. Challenging but not impossible.
Then there’s the idea itself. Would Laurel, Todd, and Lori be interested in reviving T.E.L.L.? Would they embrace the implausibility of reviving the dream of getting the band together?
Gears start to slow down. Clarity is coming. Implausible is a long way from impossible. Getting the band back together becomes an extremely intriguing thought as I consider implausible. A long shot is a better than no shot. Long shot or not, why does a band get back together including a band that never was one in the first place? Why do they go on tour?
KISS, REO Speedwagon, .38 Special, and Van Halen – to name four - have all gotten back together in recent years and done reunion tours. My thought path comes to a screeching halt at an answer stumbled upon. What if T.E.L.L got back together for a reunion tour?
But how can a band that never was have a reunion tour? What if the reunion isn’t about the band but about a reunion of four people who had a Once Upon A Time but never had An Ever After?
What if?
Then something I once read on the wall at a Caribou coffee shop pops into my head. One of the lines in their mission statement is: “It’s where What If meets Why Not?” Why not? Why the hell not? Impossible becomes implausible. What if has become Why not. Could this actually happen?
The gears in my brain kick into solution mode and start working. The rest is just details. There’s the matter of songs, venues, interviews, websites, promotion, all the rest of the things a band needs. This is the digital age, for crying out loud. What can’t be accomplished with the tools provided by the World Wide Web? That stuff is just marketing and that is all about storytelling.
And if there’s one thing I love, it’s a good story...especially when I’m the one telling it.
***
Hours following sunrise I’m sitting at the kitchen table contemplating over oatmeal. Slept like the proverbial infant once my brain had put forth a satisfactory solution. I managed to get five hours sleep before the sunlight squeezed between the curtain and the window frame nudging my eyes open.
A sea of glistening white blankets everything as I gaze out the sliding glass patio door and into the backyard. Minnesota winters are cold, yes, but between the snow on the ground and frost covering the empty tree branches, they are a thing of beauty. Somehow the answers I seek lie somewhere between my oatmeal and the snow outside. My quiet contemplation does not go unnoticed.
“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” Julie, the light of my life, asks. She checks on the pot of coffee brewing as she passes by my place at the table. Julie is rocking her baby blue winter robe which covers a figure that shouldn’t be covered. Ever. Her curly brown hair looks barely disturbed as though she hadn’t moved all night which is in sharp contrast to my hair that is going every which way imaginable. Her hazel eyes are clear. My baby blues not so much.
“My morning with Aniko’s students,” I answer. “Didn’t sleep well for most of last night as my mind was unsettled.”
“Unsettled?” Julie repeats, pouring herself a cup of coffee then pouring one for me placing it next to my bowl. “Why? I thought you said your talk went well yesterday.”
“The morning went amazingly well. Glad I did it. One of the stories I told involved my rock and roll band dream and how it never came to pass. My brain wouldn’t let it go and wouldn’t let me sleep till I had figured out why it bothered me so and what I’m going to do about it.”
“Do about it?” Julie questions me, leaning back against the counter while bringing the cup to her lips.
“Yeah. It occurred to me that it’s been 40 years since I first had the rock and roll dream with Todd, Laurel, and Lori. And I’m hurtling headlong toward 50 and feeling like I have some unfinished business.”
“Unfinished business?” Julie repeats before her second sip. A feeling of annoyance at her repeating the last part of my sentences begins to rise within me.
Looking her in the eyes with my most serious face, letting my spoon rest in the bowl in front of me, I say it aloud for the first time: “Boo, I want to get the band back together. I want Todd, Laurel, Lori, and me to do a little reunion tour. Just a few dates.”
There. I said it. Out loud. It’s a real thing now.
Julie’s eyes narrow. She holds back, wondering if I’m pranking her, bracing for a punchline or a Bazinga or something. The room remains silent. Then a verbal game of Ping Pong ensues.
“You want to get a band together that was never actually a band?” is her opening query.
“Yes.”
“You don’t sing or play an instrument.”
“No, I do not.”
“Do you know where the other three people are?”
“Laurel, yes. Todd and Lori, no.”
“Do you think they remember they were part of this band or have any interest in pursuing this now?
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“And you say this is a reunion tour? For a band that never existed? For a band that has no songs, no albums, never played together?”
“The reunion isn’t about the band; it’s about the four of us. The rest can be overcome. We’ll be a sensation.”
The gears in Julie’s noggin are grinding as the questions that came to me last night are coming to her now. I sense she’s trying to figure out how to
ask these questions in a way that doesn’t come across as unsupportive or that she thinks I’ve lost my mind. She takes a deep breath and asks, “What if I said you could build a baseball field in the backyard instead? Would that help?” Julie takes another sip.
My eyes narrow no longer able to hold back the annoyance that has been working its way to the surface. “No,” comes out flatly accompanied by a slow, determined head shake. “I know how this sounds...”
“Do you?” Julie leans in toward me. “Because I don’t think you do.”
I throw my hands up in exasperation. “Okay, sure. Maybe this is a mid-life crisis. Maybe this is crazy. But maybe it’s so left field-off the wall-ridiculous that it just might happen. How do I know this isn’t something the other three would jump at if they had the chance?”
Julie walks toward me and pulls the chair opposite me away from the table. A small squeak comes up as the feet of the back chair legs are dragged against the linoleum. She sets her coffee cup on the glass top table and sits down.
She studies me. Part of her remains on alert that the other shoe is about to drop and I’m going to spring a “just kidding” on her. I let the silence stand as a testament to the seriousness of my intent. Minutes pass.
“You really want to do this?” she asks breaking the non-verbal stalemate.
“I do.”
“Are you going to leave your company?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. Our lives don’t change. We still do what we do but, in the meantime, I’m going to pursue this in my free time. Getting T.E.L.L. back together isn’t going to happen overnight and neither is the rest of it. It’ll be like a hobby - like woodworking or gardening or putting puzzles together. That’s all.”
Julie sighs. I can’t tell if she’s disappointed this isn’t a joke or concerned her husband has separated from reality. “Rock and roll band, huh?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” Julie tells me. “If you’re going to do this, now’s the time to do it. Our girls are grown and on their own, your parents are gone, and we’re stable. If you feel this strongly about putting your band together, you should do it…with two conditions.”
I sit straight up in my chair, in front of my oatmeal that has long since gone cold. “Anything. What?”
“No groupies. And do change the name of the band. It does nothing for me.” Julie gets up, takes her coffee with her, and leaves me with a room temperature cup of coffee and a bowl of cold oatmeal.
And I couldn’t be happier.
***
January 19, 2018
The house is mine tonight. Bixby – my faithful little Cairn Terrier – is curled up on his pillow a couple feet behind my chair. His is the only other heartbeat under this roof. Julie is off with her friends Becky and Emily for their monthly topless pillow fight. Or - as they call it - Ladies Night. The three take turns hosting each other once a month. It’s a night filled with rich food, a few bottles of wine, giggles, and the aforementioned topless pillow fight. That’s my belief anyway. Tonight Becky is hosting so I have the evening to myself until I am called to go pick up my bride when she’s ready to come home. Since she’s drinking, I’m driving.
I’m at my desk ensconced in front of my 19-inch monitor. The two wall sconce lights provide the only illumination. I could turn on my track lighting but I’m feeling much more comfortable in dimly-lit surroundings given my task at hand. The search to track down my three bandmates begins now. No reunion can occur till I find them.
I’m feeling like a film-noir detective trying to track down some long-lost relative or missing spouse...someone out of a Humphrey Bogart movie or Mickey Spillane novel. That’s why the half-light seems the way to go as my skulking begins behind the keyboard.
My fingers lace and I crack my knuckles shaking them out before deploying them to the keyboard. Momentum is a key so let’s start with easy and work toward difficult. Chrome comes up on my computer as the exploration begins with a trip to America’s News Source - otherwise known as Facebook. Once logged in, I bring up the group where my classmates virtually gather to organize our class reunions. It takes only a few moments of scrolling to find Laurel. I click on her name to bring forth her profile. Laurel Connor’s life appears before me. She and her husband Seth, who graduated a year after Laurel and I did, have three sons - Christopher, Colin, and Cole.
Laurel lives just outside Des Moines or about three hours from me down I-35. She’s a financial advisor. The years have been kind to Laurel. Her hair is still the sandy blonde it always has been. Her face shows that Laurel has taken care of herself. Not a wrinkle to be found. She’s put on a couple of pounds but, hell, who hasn’t? We’re almost 50 and our metabolisms aren’t what they used to be.
My scrolling pauses at her interests. A smile parts my lips when I see Laurel plays guitar. A key part of the band getting together is that we keep the members who can’t play a musical instrument to one. I add Laurel as a friend before I get so caught up in my search that I forget to do so.
That’s one.
Todd Kane is next up. It becomes very clear very quickly that he will not be easily located here. At this moment I can’t pinpoint his footprint on Facebook. Logging out I go back to Google and type in Todd Kane Iowa. A page full of options appears in the proverbial blink. Scanning the options, I single out the one who appears to be my former best friend. Clicking on it brings another smile to my face. The age, middle name, parents are all a match. It is my Todd Kane. He is in Boone, Iowa, and owns an implement dealership. Of course he does. His love of tractors makes it a natural path for someone who collected toy tractors as a kid. His tractor collection is just larger in size than the ones he kept on the shelves in his room back in the day.
My head shakes in wonder at my quick success in locating two of the three long-lost bandmates. A flash of memory reminds me of a comic book I read as a kid. In the story, a hero is trying to find someone and, at one point, holds up a phone book. The hero calls it the “world’s greatest tracking device”. If that was true 40 years ago, what would you call the Internet...the world’s greatest tracking device or the world’s greatest stalking device?
An emotional wave of filth flows over me making me feel more than a bit slimy about what I’m doing. Poking around other people’s lives, peering into their privacy, just seems wrong. Sure, it’s all out there online but does that make it right for me to be compiling it? It’s all public record - I get it - but am I a step or two away from being the bad guy in the next Lifetime movie?
A lone bark from Bixby jolts me out of my internal debate. I look at him. Something has disturbed him. I pause, cocking an ear. Then I hear it. A neighbor dog down the block is barking at something which led to Bix’ response. I tell Bix it’s okay. He looks up at me before corkscrewing himself back into a curled position on his bed. All is quiet once more.
Todd’s home address and phone number are before me on the screen. Google has become room service bringing what I need to my office. An option exists on the website allowing me to order a background report that would provide me with financial reports, arrest records, everything anyone would ever want to know about Todd. A shudder nearly topples me out of my chair.
Bix’s head pops up, his ears perked, wondering what I’ve sensed that he hasn’t. I shake any potential remaining shudders out of me and reassure Bix nothing is amiss. I’ve found where the line between searching and stalking is and this is it. No thanks. I’ll pass on the background report.
While my search for Todd is successful there are a lot of questions that remain unanswered: Is he married? Does he have kids? Does he still play bass guitar? I’ll find out eventually because I’m confident we’ll have an opportunity to talk face to face. Part of my curiosity also lies in the fact that I wonder why Todd stepped away from our friendship. We were close friends but when he moved
away that was the end of our friendship. I wrote a few letters but he never responded. More unfinished business, I guess.
The Google home screen pops into view again. I exhale. Laurel and Todd were quite simple to locate. Even though my emotion is running high with optimism and satisfaction, nagging doubt is not far in the background. Unlike the others locating Lori is going to be tough. What if I can’t find her? It has to be the four of us if any reunion is going to take place.
My left hand cups my mouth, dragging itself over my chin, stroking my five o’clock shadow. My brow furrows and the corners of my mouth turn down. My lips purse. I fidget in my chair. Hesitation isn’t my thing but it is at the moment. It’s all of us or none of us and suddenly I’m psyching myself out. I place my elbows on the desk and rest my chin on my hands. Paralysis has overcome me. Fear of failure slinks through me. A sigh comes out.
Doing my best Taylor Swift impression, I shake it off, jumping out of my chair and walking around my office, wiggling my arms as I move around. Bix, wondering about the suddenness of my movement, begins following me so he doesn’t miss out on any potential excitement. Gotta get out of this doubt funk.
Nothing is stirring on a Saturday night as I peer through the window looking out upon the neighborhood. Whatever had the attention of the neighbor’s dog is long gone. One advantage of living on the end of a dead-end street; no one comes down this street by accident. Quiet is the norm in this neighborhood. Looking out into the night I wonder what can I do to get myself back on track. Then the idea hits me.
I walk briskly out of my office, through the kitchen, and through the hallway until I come to the door that reveals the staircase taking me - and my faithful sidekick Bixby - up to the attic. Julie has never been up here. I’ve been keeper of all things stored here and most of the reason for that is to protect her sanity. Of the two of us I’m the sentimental one, the one who can’t stand to throw anything away. It’s a trait I picked up from my parents who grew up during the Great Depression and were married during World War II when there was no extra, when you didn’t throw anything away because you might be able to reuse it somehow. The word “re-purpose” is in vogue today but my parents’ generation invented it.