No Way Back Today

by Eric Shoars

  After playing along with a few songs – that’s being kind – YouTube and the television go dark as I focus on my drum playing only. My beats are far from perfect but they’re a start. Still having some challenges in my mastery of the drums. The coordination from head to hands isn’t perfect but perfect isn’t required.

  Nick agreed when I asked him to be my paid instructor. I insisted on paying him. His time and expertise are worth the money and it’ll give him some extra cash to put toward college. His tutelage of me begins Tuesday.

  I’ve been practicing for over two hours before I know it. Tempering my expectations on the new-to-me drum set has helped my overall experience. There is no frustration at the many mistakes, fits and starts, to my striking. Pausing after the latest mistake, it occurs to me that it might be time to call it a day. Sticks are returned to a cloth pouch mounted on one of the cymbal legs like a pistol being returned to a holster.

  A spontaneous urge to sing overtakes me. Spinning the stool around brings me in front of the audio entertainment unit. I pluck a Charlie Daniels greatest hits CD out of the rack and then go to the turntable/CD combination. The CD goes in the slot and the advance button is pressed to track 7. Drinkin’ My Baby Goodbye. The first notes play then Mr. Daniels and I begin our duet.

  “Sittin’ on a barstool, actin’ like a durn fool, that’s what I’m a doin’ today...I’m sittin’ here drinkin’ trying to keep myself from thinkin’ I’m boozin’ my troubles away...” I belt out.

  I match Mr. Daniels note for note with volume and joy for the next three-plus minutes. I’ve never been in the position of the person being portrayed in the song but you couldn’t tell it by my singing. The last few notes fade away. My shoulders slump and a few long, slow breaths help me slow my heart rate. A satisfied smirk forms. That was fun.

  “Holy crap,” my oldest daughter exclaims, “that was fierce!” A wave of self-consciousness reddens my cheeks in a way that appears I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t have upon realizing there are two more people in my makeshift practice studio.

  Hitting stop then eject on the CD player brings the disc out and is returned to its case and placed in the rack. Both my daughters have left their positions on the staircase so now my drums are the only thing separating us. Looks that convey, we have so many questions are all over their faces.

  “What the heck?” Ashley asks as she sweeps a few curls from her face, her eyes running over the drums. “When did you get these?”

  “How long have you been able to sing like that?” Nicole inquires.

  “Hi, girls,” I greet. “Got the drums today off the Facebook Stuff For Sale page,” in answer to Ashley’s question and then, “I’ve always been able to sing along with artists like Charlie Daniels, Jim Croce, and George Strait. Singing on my own has been problematic. How much did you hear?” I reply turning the questioning back on the girls.

  Nicole smiles. “We heard nearly the whole thing. You were excellent.” Coming from Nicole that is quite a compliment. She was part of Honors Choir all through high school. This girl can sing. “If you get this band thing going, you should sing harmony and let the others sing melody. You need someone to follow so you have a guide on range and pitch. It’s the reason you can sing along with certain artists because they’re in your natural vocal range and you can mimic their delivery.”

  “You got drums on Facebook? On Facebook.” Ashley’s astonishment is in full view. “You are serious about this reunion. You’re actually doing this.” Her attitude is not one of discouragement or disapproval but of recognizing the inevitability of what has been set in motion.

  My mouth opens to answer but the voice heard is not my own. “Come on up for supper you three!” The voice is Julie’s. It is family supper night.

  Nicole and Ashley are reassured all of their questions will be answered as I rise and move around the drums. My hands make motions to guide them upstairs. Single file, Ashely first, we go up the stairs and enter the kitchen. The smell of Julie’s skillet meat loaf fills the room.

  “Everybody wash up and get back here,” Julie tells us. The girls head for the bathroom while I take a shortcut and use the kitchen sink.

  Soon we are all at our places at the round, glass-top table. The only thing missing is the entrée as the Caesar salad and breadsticks are already on the table. Julie approaches us with the skillet. A triangle spatula is underneath the first piece of meatloaf that will be claimed.

  “This skillet meatloaf is ah-mazing!” Nicole exclaims, grabbing the spatula and removing the first piece as soon as Julie places the skillet on the hot pad in the center of the table.

  “Thank you,” Julie says, “but you could have waited a minute before pouncing on it.” She chuckles at her oldest daughter’s enthusiasm. Ashley takes the spatula when Nicole offers it to her and removes piece two. Pieces three and four are taken by yours truly and my wife in turn. Nicole’s assessment is spot-on. This meatloaf is indeed ah-mazing.

  “I can’t believe you’re eating meat, Ash,” I observe. “Aren’t you a Presbyterian these days?”

  Ashley fires an annoyed glare in my direction. “Pescatarian,” she corrects. “It’s okay for me to cheat once in a while…especially for this meatloaf.”

  Julie and Nicole shake their heads at my teasing of Ashley’s eating habits. She’ll probably outlive us all. My mood is upbeat and exchanges like this lift my spirits even more.

  “So you saw your dad’s new toy, huh?” Julie asks.

  “Yeah, it was a shock,” Ashley answers, taking advantage of Nicole’s mouth full of food. “I didn’t realize Dad was so urgent about his band idea. But it’s dope.” She cuts off another piece of her portion and takes a bite.

  “How exciting will it be when he pulls this off?” Julie adds.

  My arms are flailing overhead. “Hello? I’m right here.” The ladies are talking like they’re the only ones at the table.

  “Girls, did you hear that?” Julie asks her eyes darting around the room as her head follows where her eyes are tracing. Picking up on her cue, Nicole and Ashley begin looking around the room.

  “Yes,” Nicole answers. “It’s a disembodied yet familiar voice. Where do you think it’s coming from?”

  “Probably where all strange noises come from,” Ashley chimes in. “Nicole’s butt.”

  “Hey!” Nicole protests, looking across the table at her sister.

  “How droll,” I assert. “You’re all comedians. You’ll be relieved to know I am not in Nicole’s butt.”

  Julie snorts and the laughter begins anew. Family suppers are the best.

  “Dad was singing when Nicole and I went downstairs,” Ashley says between bites. “We haven’t heard him actually play the drums yet.”

  “Yeah, Mom, he didn’t suck,” Nicole adds.

  “There’s more news too,” Julie shares. “He found Lori and is Facebook friends with her.”

  Both girls stop mid-chew, eyebrows raised. Nicole quickly finishes the bite. “Seriously? You found her?”

  My head bobs. “Sure did. Broke down and asked one of my old classmates for some help. She was able to provide a given first and middle name. That did the trick. Sent Lori a friend request on Facebook and a week ago she accepted it. Though now she goes by Lorelei.”

  “So, Laurie and Lori are now Laurel and Lorelei?” Ashley asks, still chewing. “And Onions At A Crime Scene is happening?”

  Setting my fork down and leaning back against my chair it seems I’m about to excuse myself from the table. Instead, it is me using the momentary pause to collect my thoughts. “Not yet. But certainly a step forward. Can’t have a reunion without all the original members.”

  “Now what?” Nicole wonders. “You guys all buds again?”

  “If only it were that easy,” I reply. “I’ve mainly been sharing things with each friend that are of interest to them and are safe
. Small steps.”

  “You know, you can take some salad too,” Julie abruptly reminds us. “The main course doesn’t have to be eaten before moving on to the next. You all need your greens.”

  My little Presbyterian takes her cue and snags a heaping helping of salad with the plastic tongs. Nicole follows by taking just enough to say she took some. I take a serving size that is a compromise between what my daughters have taken. Julie is satisfied and, before she can say anymore, the three of us each quickly grab a breadstick.

  “It’s all about a methodical, step-by-step approach,” I continue. “It’s been so long for us since we were part of each other’s lives that dropping a bomb like ‘hey, we’re going to be a band’ has to be put on ice until we re-establish relationships. No matter what I do this is going to be a surprise when I share the master plan with them.”

  “Where are you in that master plan?” Julie asks finally getting an opportunity to pose a query.

  “Things are proceeding beyond my best hopes. It’s not going to be all sunshine and roses,” and at this moment I’m not sure if I’m trying to caution them or me regarding the difficulties that lie ahead. “But the victories to this point are worth celebrating.”

  Ashley jumps in before I can continue. “What’s next?”

  “What’s giving you the most trouble?” Julie adds to Ashley’s question, taking another fork full of salad off her plate.

  “The money. The other aspects I’m trying to figure out are just details and logistics. Not worried about that. But I just can’t figure out the money.” My right hand rubs my forehead.

  “Ah, don’t worry about it,” Nicole reassures. “You’re too clever not to figure it out.” She picks up her soda can and takes a swig. “My dad’s going to be a rock star...just like my energy drink.”

  My fork drops, bounces off the plate, hops the glass top table, and hits the floor with a clang.

  “Rockstar.” I repeat. “That’s it!”

  Three perplexed faces stare at me. “Rockstar! Don’t you see it? Rockstar Energy Drink sponsors concert tours all the time. I’m going to write a proposal asking Rockstar to sponsor the Onions At A Crime Scene reunion tour! This is perfect. It solves all the problems.”

  “I love you,” Julie says, “but you’re out of your mind.” She calmly takes another bite of salad.

  Perhaps. But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Springing a Leek

  March 24, 2018

  I’ve been the next best thing to perpetual motion since Nicole’s accidental inspiration for me finding a corporate sponsor of the tour. A proposal has been crafted and submitted to the sponsorship division of Rockstar Energy Drink. It might be a long shot but I’ll take any shot at this point.

  Nick’s tutoring of my burgeoning drum skills has been going well. My playing is steadily improving. It’s certainly not at concert level but being performance ready is not such a far-fetched idea.

  Julie has been incredibly patient and supportive through this process. Any spare time I’ve had away from work has been spent working the plan and I’ve spent a lot of time working the plan; a plan that goes next level today.

  After months of Facebook sharing and communicating it’s time for us to see each other in person. I extended invitations to my once and future bandmates for the first stage of physically reuniting the four of us: Coffee dates. Laurel and Todd have get-togethers with me today while Lorelei’s chat is scheduled for tomorrow. I’m meeting each individually in his or her Iowa town - Ames, Boone, and Pella.

  The weekend’s coffee commiserating comes with plenty of risk. Every step, plan, strategy, and action has depended on my willingness to undertake it. I’m heading into a phase where everything I’ve put together can collapse. If even one of the three people I’m attempting to reunite says no, it will be the big no. This next piece will either build on everything done to this point or blow the whole damn thing to smithereens.

  My watch reads 10:03. My first coffee date of the day is three minutes behind schedule. Laurel should be here literally any moment.

  My cover story is that I am passing through the area and wanting to get together for coffee. Laurel said she’d love to meet and indicated this morning would work best while Todd informed me this afternoon at 4 would be his preference.

  I’m seated in the middle of what I’m assuming is the usual Saturday morning coffee crowd. The table is nestled in the corner of Morning Bell Coffee. This vantage point gives me a clear view of the door so it is impossible to miss anyone who enters.

  The smell permeating Morning Bell now isn’t the coffee itself but the freshly-ground beans. That, in and of itself, is worth being here. Laurel has made a praiseworthy choice not just because of the smell but also because this is not a chain coffee place. I don’t have a problem with chains but they can be found at home. When I’m traveling I like to get a taste of local flavor whether that’s coffee or food.

  The place is packed with a laid back crowd. The table closest to me has a few moms who are catching up while their daughters are at dance. On the other side of me are a table full of college students clad in the burnt cardinal and gold of Iowa State. All are working on their tablets, their silence intermittently interrupted when someone has a flash of inspiration and a conversation burst occurs.

  In my day our tablet was an Etch-A-Sketch and we liked it that way! The old man rant in my head elicits an involuntary guffaw which earns me some irritated looks from the group of kids over my disruption. “Sorry,” I apologize, “random thought amused me.” The students smile, nod at me, and go back to work. All is well again.

  Continuing my scan of the room, there are a couple of middle-aged men – okay, they’re my age, but sometimes I forget I am that age, cut me some slack – deep in conversation at a smaller, round table.

  Seated to their right are some college kids who appear to be in the middle of some Biblical discussion. I’m only able to pick out a word here and there at this distance. The rest of the patrons seem to be gathered here for the same reason as me – Saturday conversation catch-up with friends.

  Wonder how many other people in here are trying to re-form a rock band that never existed? My right foot taps anxiously. Has Laurel changed her mind? Tummy tickles intensify to the point of near nausea.

  Come on, Laurel, where are you?

  Laurel and I graduated together though we were never as close of friends after fifth grade. For some reason sixth grade seems to be the point where friendships diverge. Laurel grew into the smart, pretty, popular girl while I grew into the smart, quirky guy who kept to himself. Our social circles did not intersect.

  It was seventh grade when Laurel started coming into her own and it did not go unnoticed. I had the biggest crush on Laurel. She – nor anyone else – ever knew and I never did anything about it.

  That same year the song “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic” by The Police came out. I am reminded of Laurel to this day when I hear that tune. Funny the power that music has on us.

  The bell atop the door rings as a familiar person walks in and makes her way toward me. Tummy tickles evaporate replaced by a child-like glee. She’s here! The years have been kind. Her hair shows no shades of gray. It’s the sandy blonde it always has been. Her skin is nearly flawless; her figure is still rockin’. She’s wearing leggings with a turquoise blue dress over them, a little black sweater accompanies it. Tall, black boots and a little black purse on her shoulder complete the look.

  Be cool, Eric. Be cool.

  I stand and smile at Laurel. She returns the smile and opens her arms as she approaches me. We embrace and my body relaxes. It is such a relief to see her and to know that the dream lives another day or at least another few hours.

  “Hey, Laurel, so good to see you,” I greet.

  “Good to see you too,” she responds. “I’m so happ
y it worked out for us to get together.”

  “Please, sit,” I invite then pull out a chair for Laurel. “What can I get you?”

  “A cappuccino would be terrific. Thank you,” she replies. The first few bars of that old Police tune spontaneously come from the speakers in my brain. I smile as I make my way to the counter, order Laurel’s drink, pause briefly, pick up the cup, and then return to our table.

  “Here you go,” I announce carefully setting the drink in front of her. I fight the urge just to blurt out the real reason for our meeting. Tiny hands in my brain push those thoughts into a tiny closet in the far corner and shut the door. Today is about quality time with an old friend.

  “How is that brave new world known as 50?” is my opening question. Admittedly, it’s a potentially dangerous topic – women and their age – for any conversation. Caution thrown to the wind, it’s where we begin.

  “Oof,” Laurel responds with an accompanying widening of the eyes. “It’s okay but very emotional. I thought turning 30 was tough – which it was – but turning 50 was tougher for a whole host of reasons. Different ones. It’s been all right so far.”

  Laurel pauses to take a drink of her cappuccino. “Of course, I’m only a few weeks in so that could change.” She chuckles at her own cautious pessimism. Laurel is the first of the four of us to turn 50. I’m neither excited nor dreading the big five-oh but am wondering how I got to it so quickly. My mind and body feel a lot younger than that.

  “Think about when we were young,” I say. “People who were 50 were old. Look at us. Who would look at us and think you’re 50 and I’m about to be?”

  “We would,” say four voices in unison from the table full of college kids.

  Laurel turns and gives them the disapproving mom look while I nearly fall off my chair laughing. The four are all smiling so there was no malice just a little generational teasing.