by Eric Shoars
When Julie and I were first married there were about four dozen boxes of stuff up here and four boxes were Julie’s. She would pitch a fit if she had seen all those boxes of stuff. No fit pitching necessary now. Over the past few years, I have been able to get over my pack rat tendencies and divest myself of the clutter. Now only one dozen boxes remain and four are still Julie’s.
Bix sniffs around the attic on the trail of who knows what. The trail takes Bix in the opposite direction of me as I make a beeline for the box I seek. It is a box full of childhood memories, of photographs, school assignments, all of the mementos my mom saved that are now mine to safeguard.
I pull the top off one particular cardboard box, my fingers work through it like I’m flipping through a file cabinet. My School Years book presents itself. A spiral bound testimony of all that was worth remembering from each year of my K-12 life, grade by grade.
My photos, report cards, noteworthy assignments, accomplishments, friendships, and my vital stats for every grade stare up at me. I set the book aside briefly while I replace the top on the box and put it back where I found it.
I call out to Bix to come with me as it’s time to go back downstairs having found what I need. He turns on a dime and trots over to me, on my heel as we make our way down the steps and back to my office. I plop down in my high-back chair and lean back slightly. Bix stands dutifully next to me awaiting further instructions. “It’s okay, Bix. Go back to your pillow.” Bix turns around and corkscrews himself onto his pillow once more.
My page flipping through the book stops at the page pocket holding my fourth grade memories. I pull out my report card which not only holds my grades but also my class photo and a few pieces of paper. I set the papers aside while I gaze upon the photo. There’s my class section assembled on the risers with Mrs. Johnson standing on the floor on the right side of the photograph. I always thought she was old but as I look upon her now, she wasn’t any older then than I am now.
I tear four small pieces of tape from the tape dispenser on the desk, rolling each into a circle and put them on the back four corners of the photo. I’ll find a frame for it eventually but, for now, I tack it to the wall behind and over my computer monitor.
My attention turns back to the papers I had set aside. I sift through them scrutinizing each one not knowing what I’m looking for…that is until I hit the motherlode with the last piece of paper in the pile. I’m as giddy as a kid Christmas morning who got the one present he wanted. I look at the paper that is creased in four sections and I’m beaming. I gently set it on the desk and smooth it out.
I’ll be damned.
Honestly, I forgot I had it. In my hands is the picture I drew and colored. Four figures playing musical instruments in a band. Two boys and two girls…two guitars, a keyboard, and drums. A word with four letters each punctuated with periods headlines the top of the page. T.E.L.L. - Todd, Eric, Laurel, and Lori.
This is a sign. It’s a sign! It’s going to happen. This reunion is happening. I take the paper and jog out of the room, Bixby hot on my heels as I head to Julie’s craft room. Throwing her supply closet open, I rifle through it till I find an unused document frame that will allow my drawing to fit without having to trim it. It slides in and fits perfectly. I go back to my office having grabbed a hammer and nail from the kitchen tool drawer and hang the picture on the wall. Bixby watches curiously.
I take two steps back to admire my handiwork. It’s all in front of me now...the fourth grade photo and the drawing that started it all. Carefully stuffing the unneeded documents in my School Years book, I file it on the book shelf against the wall behind me.
Time to find Lori.
My phone buzzes just as my fingers are about to begin a Google search. A text from Julie. Topless pillow fight is breaking up. Time to go bring my bride home.
Locating Lori will be delayed just a bit longer.
This is so happening.
CHAPTER TWO
Chive Talkin’
January 26, 2018
My frustration level has increased steadily in the week since the search for my missing band mates began. Laurel accepted my friend request four days ago. Todd’s friend request acceptance has been pending for two days.
The disquiet filling me is centered on who I haven’t found - Lori. She is a ghost. It would be understandable if this were happening 20 years ago before the internet made finding people ridiculously - and scarily - easy. My frustration stems from the fact I’ve done everything I know how to do using every resource I can think of; minus shouting out across social media that I’m looking for Lori or hiring a private investigator to track her down. Social media isn’t an option - yet - because this little endeavor is going to require some subtlety and finesse. Social media is many things but subtle it’s not. Private investigator? Creepy on all levels. But what are my other options? Lori is the linchpin. She must be found if this reunion has any chance of happening.
I rise from my chair and start bouncing like I’m a boxer in the corner between rounds of a prizefight. Shake out the bad juju. Loosen up. Let ideas flow. Look at the easily-solved issues and let momentum build. Also important to this reunion tour happening are the details including songs, venues, website, social media pages, radio interviews, not to mention the fact I still don’t play drums. Little things.
I sit down again satisfied the bouncing around my office has sufficiently purged the negative energy. I pull up a different browser hoping it will yield different results. The surfing, admittedly, is a bit aimless at first. My fingers start idling just tapping on the keys without pressing them trying to determine what their next course of action is. Restlessness sets in. I turn and look out the window again. Something is missing. There is something I’m not seeing.
My head rests against the back of the chair which puts my eyes on the woodgrain of the ceiling above me. The mind begins whirling with thoughts that are about everything except the missing band member.
The band dream isn’t the four of us playing in a garage. The band, at its foundation, is a business. Shouldn’t I have a business plan then? If I put a business plan together that contains the elements I’m looking for, but in a professional manner, perhaps they’ll truly consider my idea.
Dreams need money too. How is the band being funded? Am I asking them for money? Are they being expected to buy anything? Are we playing for free? I’ve been focused on all the art aspects but have neglected to account for the Benjamins. Hmm.
The upside is I know how to put all those aspects together in one document. Bad news is that now I have another elusive thing to find. Funding. My face scrunches up at the thought of the task which is a clue it’s time to focus on a less imposing aspect. What can I get accomplished at this moment? Finding a songwriter, that’s what.
My body straightens up in the chair as my fingers have purpose again. They key in the URL for Fiverr, a freelancer website. Services on the site start at five dollars with thousands of freelancers peddling their services. In the search field goes song writing.
Dozens of options appear before me. The sifting begins as each seller gets their profile read and samples studied. It is tedious. A promising prospective songwriter named Lisbeth from England appears on my screen. I compose a note with details as to what I’m looking for in getting a project completed and ask if she’d be interested in taking it on. It’s approaching 6 p.m. here which means it’s about Midnight in England. Send button is hit and the message begins its journey through cyberspace. I ponder what the first song should be about when creaking from the door behind me interrupts contemplation.
Julie walks into my office and takes the two steps down from the kitchen to my office with a large manila envelope in her hand. “This was in the mailbox for you,” she says, extending her right hand. “It’s from Aniko.”
“Thanks, boo,” I reply, accepting the envelope. Julie returns to the kitchen as I open the
envelope and examine the contents. There seems to be a bunch of index cards or something like them inside. I dump the contents onto my desk. It’s a big pile of construction paper cut to the size of index cards. Grabbing a few at random it is immediately clear what these are - thank you notes from Aniko’s students.
That’s Ani all right. My sister is all about proper manners so she had her students write thank you notes to me for coming in and guest lecturing. Reading them brings a smile to my face, each smile different based on the thank you.
Some smiles are from amusement at the sentiment of a few summed up by the phrase Thanks for not sucking and getting us out of a day of homework. Other smiles are from students who were genuinely moved and shared how it applied to a situation they have gone or are going through. Some smiles were from aspiring writers or artists who don’t always get positive reinforcement and were inspired by a story or two I shared.
One thank you causes my eyes to bug out and jaw to drop like some Saturday morning cartoon character. The construction paper is a black rectangle. Glued on it is a smaller white piece of paper with a drawing of Batman playing the drums. Written on it is simply, “To Eric. Good for one free drum lesson. From Nick”.
The story of my rock and roll dream going down in flames had moved this young man to offer me a free drum lesson. I’m so excited I’m bouncing in an entirely different manner than I was earlier. All I had to do is pick a date and I’m playing the drums, baby.
This band thing? Totally happening.
***
Tonight is the mandatory Saturday night family meal. Even though our daughters Nicole and Ashley live in the same city as us they live on their own and have their own lives. Which means, like Julie and me, life is pulling them in eight different directions which can make it difficult to stay in touch beyond text. Julie and I made a pact with them that as long as we live close by we would get together one Saturday night each month for supper and games as a family. The four of us have kept that pact faithfully.
Supper is always simple. Tonight it’s burger night. For us, it’s not about the food; it’s about sharing a meal and catching up. Tonight Julie has a stack of burgers she’s seasoned and prepared in a cast iron skillet piled in a pyramid on a ceramic plate. Like an assembly line after it are the tomatoes, lettuce, red onions, pickles, ketchup, and spicy mustard.
We line up...Nicole first, Ashley second, yours truly, and then Julie. I’m the only one who likes onions so I pile a generous helping on my burger before adding pickles and mustard. No tomatoes and ketchup, thank you.
The four of us are seated and the conversation begins. I am content to eat and listen, joyful at the spirited exchange among the three women about the TV show America’s Got Talent. My reality show involves a scoreboard so I am less interested in the content of their discussion as I am that they are here with me and how wonderful it is.
Nicole, 27, is the older of the two girls by 14 months. Her skin is flawless, a gift from her mother who she resembles. Her green eyes light up when she laughs which tends to happen at someone else’s expense. A natural ginger, Nicole’s shoulder-length hair is currently lavender. At times, it’s fire engine red, other times it could be platinum blonde, black, or back to the natural. She does online hair and makeup tutorials on YouTube and hopes to make it her primary source of income.
She and I bonded over WWE and our taste in music. Each year the WWE makes a tour stop in a nearby city and we make the hour-long trek for father-daughter date night to cheer and boo and spend some quality time together. We also talk of our love of Disturbed, Five Finger Death Punch, and Foo Fighters. It gives me “at least you’re relevant” credibility.
Ashley’s curly blonde hair and blue eyes fit in very nicely with the Scandinavians of Minnesota though neither Julie nor I are of its descent. She looks more like me than Julie. Ashley cares about her appearance but is not as concerned about makeup as her sister. She has stomach issues so she is much more conscious about what she puts in her body and taking care of it.
Ashley and I bonded over our food choices and how we workout. She and I are both runners having completed numerous half marathons. We geek out over a new pair of running shoes and over our personal best running times.
She works in the health care industry as a roving home health care aide. She can’t stand a job where it’s the same stuff day after day. Ashley likes stability but doesn’t do well with predictability. Her current job finds her helping a different person each week depending on the person’s needs. She loves the elderly and finds the stories they share about their lives a big perk to her work.
Both girls take after us in that we are natural homebodies and they can be. That doesn’t mean they don’t enjoy going out. Nicole loves going to concerts while Ashley prefers live music in smaller, more intimate settings. Nicole’s best friends are Jim, Jack, and Jose; Beam, Daniels, and Cuervo, respectively. It’s not that Ashley doesn’t drink but she is more subtle about it. Nicole is about as subtle as a nuclear warhead. They have a close relationship despite their definite differences.
I’m suddenly pulled out of my head when I hear my wife ask, “Has your dad mentioned his new project?” Both young women say no turning their eyes in my direction poised for me to share. All three women are now looking at me. The floor is mine.
“Well, it all started in fourth grade,” I begin.
“I thought all your stories started ‘back when I was in second grade’,” Ashley teases, referencing a long-standing family joke that every story I tell begins from something in second grade. I am famous for my incredibly long, detailed stories. Julie snorts, Nicole’s eyes light up, and I chuckle at the remark.
“Fair enough,” I concede adding, “but not this time.” I then convey the details of my rock and roll dreams to the girls and how they were crushed.
Nicole stiffens in her chair and her eyes flash red. “Is that Mr. Trampoline guy still alive? Cuz I’m going to punch him in the face!” Nicole has a short fuse and that is especially true when someone she cares about is mistreated.
“Mr. Tripolino is very much alive but is no longer a music teacher. I haven’t seen him since he left to take a job at another school district after I finished 7th grade. Regardless, no face punching is necessary. But thanks.”
Upon hearing my gentle stand down Nicole relaxes but adds, “He’s an asshole.”
No argument there. Picking up my story, I tell them about speaking to their Aunt Aniko’s English students and about being disturbed afterward. The disturbance came from the realization it has been 40 years since the dream and that the four members are turning 50 soon. It’s when the unveiling of the reunion tour idea occurs that the attentive faces turn into confused faces.
“Hang on,” Ashley picks up, “you want to organize a reunion tour for a band that never existed?”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t play drums or sing?” Nicole adds.
“Also true,” I confirm.
The next few moments I feel like I’m watching a tennis match as my head turns toward Ashley then Nicole as their alternating questions fire at me in rapid fashion.
“You don’t know where these people are?”
“I have found Laurel and Todd. Lori, not yet.”
“Are you going to be a cover band?”
“No. We’ll have original songs. I’m going to have a freelancer to write them,” I say.
“How is this a reunion tour when you were never a band to begin with?”
“The reunion is not about a band getting back together but the four friends reuniting,” I answer.
“Where are you going to practice? Where are you going to perform? How are you going to play drums?”
“Not sure. Working on it. I actually have an answer to that,” comes in rapid fire back at Nicole. “Whew!”
The girls pause for a moment allowing Julie to follow up on my last
response. “You have an answer to playing drums?”
Julie’s question allows my neck a respite as I look directly across the table at her. “In the manila envelope you gave me earlier were thank you notes from Aniko’s students. One of the thank you notes was in the form of a gift certificate for a free drum lesson.”
“Really...” Julie says not attempting to hide her skepticism.
“Really. I figure I’ll take the free lesson and maybe hire the student to give me lessons. If not, there are professionals here in town I could go to.”
Nicole, an accomplished singer, and Ashley, an avid guitar player, announce in unison, “It’s not that easy.”
Holding up my hands to pause their thought process from advancing any further I state, “No, it is not easy. But it’s simple. At this stage I’m looking to line up all the simple I can because there’s going to be a lot of complicated to overcome. But isn’t it worth taking a risk to see a dream through?”
The question hangs in the air for a few heartbeats and then the girls’ heads nod with Nicole’s, “Hell, yeah,” providing the punctuation mark. Julie and I smile.
“Hey, who’s in the mood for seconds?” I inquire as I rise and move around Ashley’s chair. She and Julie wave me off while Nicole gets up to follow me. Approaching the assembly line of meat, vegetables, and condiments, it is clear that the four of us left a bit of a mess in our initial wake.
What jumps out at me are the blotches of ketchup and bits of red onions co-mingled on the countertop. I’ve seen lots of dead bodies in pools of cinematic blood as a fan of shows like Criminal Minds and Law and Order. The ketchup and red onion carnage reminds me of it instantly.
“Good grief!” I exclaim. My utterance sounds so alarming that Nicole jumps to my side as Julie and Ashley spin from their positions to join me in front of the counter.