A half-hour later we rounded a long curve at the top of another steep grade, and suddenly Mt. Shasta burst into view, rising straight up from the plateau surrounding its base. The sight of the massive mountain startled me, adding to my sudden feeling of gloom. The upper slopes of the mountain were still white from last winter’s snow, and the 14,000-foot peak disappeared into clouds swirling around its top.
After passing through the town of Mt. Shasta situated near the base of the mountain, I picked up a weak radio station coming from somewhere north of us. Country-western—Conway Twitty, I guessed—but it would have to do for now. With the scenery spreading out in the desertlike sameness of the high plateau, Yogi slumped down into his seat and closed his eyes. The view of Mt. Shasta still dominated the reflection in my side mirrors, and I heard Yogi begin to snore.
I took one last look at the mountain in my mirror. I had been too young to join them at the time, but Kevin and my father had climbed to the mountain’s top the summer before Kevin was drafted. The memory jolted me. Had that been the last time I’d been happy, that summer? I know it was the last time for my father. My mom? Who knows? She had always been uptight and critical, but Kevin had at least kept her human. When Kevin left us—with my dad still arguing that he could get a conscientious objector deferment, and my mom still holding firm that it would be an unbearable embarrassment to the family—I didn’t realize that the thread holding us together was about to snap.
Yogi took the wheel in Ashland, shortly after we passed into Oregon. I sagged down into the ripped passenger seat and tried to sleep, but the possibility of dozing off was way behind me, somewhere back on the other side of Mt. Shasta. Instead, my closed eyes found the image of Dad and Kevin, spilling into the house with their hiking gear and boots, laughing, triumphant. They had made it to the top. Kevin, I remembered, had flung his duffel bag to the floor and swept Mom into a swirling hug. She pushed him away, interested only in examining the gaping rip at the knee of Kevin’s jeans. Kevin ignored her and found me, putting me into a headlock while telling me how he’d get me up the mountain the next year—carry me himself, if he had to.
Nearly four months later, Kevin had stood in virtually the same spot in the living room, his possessions in the same ragged duffel bag, telling me how he’d be back real soon to get me to the top of the mountain. I watched him move to the door to say goodbye to Mom and Dad. Dad, looking uncertain, reached out to shake Kevin’s hand, but Mom shoved between them, concerned about a small stain on the leg of Kevin’s khakis. Watching her dab at it furiously with a wet cloth, my brain had imploded, all notions of what love and family meant collapsing inward. Kevin was on his way to boot camp and the swamp of Vietnam, but Mom was more worried about how his clothes looked. That’s when it started, or when it ended, or maybe both.
Even now, as that image of her trying to clean the spot from Kevin’s pants danced across the back of my eyelids, the memory caused every vein in my head to contract.
Opening my eyes, I glanced into the side mirror. I knew the mountain was behind us, way too far back to see, but somehow I saw the white outline of Mt. Shasta etched into the glass. I shifted my gaze back to the road ahead of us.
6
TRAVELING ALONG Washington’s Highway 101, now two days out of Creedly, with Rob dozing beside me in the passenger seat of the van, I followed the station wagon between the misty beginnings of the Olympic Range on our left and the open water of Hood Canal on our right. As we moved north with Olympia and the long miles of I-5 behind us, the sunlight weakened and the air cooled. I tried to recall Nita’s face, but it seemed like years since she had turned at my van and walked back to the party. I wondered what she saw in me, if she’d seen anything at all....
The closer we got to Puente Harbor, the more I fretted and worried. This was the part of my personality that I’d come by naturally. The anxiety, the depression, the burning in the pit of my stomach—it was all mine. One of the great things about Townshend, as I’d found out in that Creem piece, was that he went through the same thing. The problem for both of us was in thinking too much, analyzing, dissecting, then dismembering and ripping at every memory, good and bad. The problem was this compulsion for meaning, the notion that every action, every creation, hell, every breath must contain truth. Unfortunately life, in all its fractured, trivial detail, didn’t work out that way; and so when our memories smothered us, our intentions degenerated, our creations failed, they had to be taken apart and then destroyed. Why did Townshend smash his guitar after every show? Why did he fight Daltrey onstage? Was it all just show? No, I figured that it had to be Townshend’s overwhelming urge to destroy what he saw as his imperfect creation. And what did I have? For me, all the fury shot straight back at myself and the voices ricocheting around my head....
Gripping the van’s steering wheel, I felt a wave of dizziness come over me, and I realized I’d been holding my breath. O.K., O.K.... just let go and keep breathing. That was my mantra, but it didn’t always work, just like Pete’s embrace of the teachings of Meher Baba, his silent Indian spiritual master, couldn’t keep him from sliding off into alcoholism and fighting with his bandmates. My personality being what it was, I’d gravitated toward uppers, the substance that pushed me furthest away from myself, toward where I would ultimately find the Real Me.
And lately I had something else. In my clearest moments I saw that the songs I was starting to write could do the same thing as the uppers. Like my pills, each song was an angry, bitter thing but also a perfect little gem of the self that resided within the Real Me, the part that might die if exposed to light. Blunt, brutal, nihilistic, they were about as close to the truth as I could get.
As I mulled all this over, I’d let the front right tire of the van drift onto the shoulder, kicking up gravel and dust. I pulled back onto the pavement but not before Rob jerked up.
“Hey, Daniel. You cool, man?”
“Just lost my concentration for a second.”
His body relaxed back into the seat. “Just checking.”
“Rob.”
“Yeah?” He rubbed his eyes before flexing his fingers on the ceiling of the cab.
“I’ve been thinking.” I cracked the window and lit a cigarette. The outside air temperature had cooled considerably since the last time I’d checked. “I’d like to play some of my songs—some of the new ones I’ve been working on—but I need you to back me up with the guys.”
Rob’s eyebrow went up. “You talking about the ones you showed us in practice awhile back? You want to play them this week?”
“Maybe. Yeah.”
“Didn’t the Denver dude say we should stick to covers?”
I glanced over at him. Rob wasn’t going to tell me what he really thought about the songs. “I think we could sneak in a few originals. We’re playing five sets. If we dropped one or two in, nobody’d notice.”
Rob tugged at the brim of his Stetson. “Maybe so, but you know Mick. He won’t want to sing’em. You heard him at practice. He was griping about them having no melody.”
“You agree with him?”
Rob shrugged.
I squinted through the rear window of the station wagon at Mick’s bobbing shaghead. Rob was right. The songs were more like high-speed rants, driven fast by distorted guitar chords and bashing drums. Mick had little room to sing the lyrics, which were admittedly pretty pissy. When I’d brought in one of them, a song called Thrill, a few weeks back, Mick had mumbled his way through the words, eventually declaring, “This is about your bloody life, idn’t it? ‘They killed my brother, they messed up my mother’ Who the shit cares?” Sam had pretty much the same opinion, telling me, “Nobody’s gonna understand this, Daniel. People wanna shake their butts, not get kicked in the head by some bitchy song.” Only Rob and Yogi had seemed interested, but they were willing to let the song go when the others protested. I felt the anger return when I recalled how quickly they had dismissed my song and the others I’d brought in earlier.
Rob su
ddenly grinned at me. “Maybe you should sing’em.”
“What?”
“You sang them in practice when you showed ’em to us.”
“No way,” I sputtered, my right hand suddenly at the dog tag beneath my shirt. The thought paralyzed me. I couldn’t even introduce a song without stuttering. “I’ve heard my voice on tape.”
Rob laughed. “You’re not that bad, man. C’mon. It’d be cool. You’d reduce the Mickster to playing tambourine.”
I eased off the accelerator. “Look, Rob, I’m not the lead singer, O.K.? I don’t have the voice. And I know I don’t have the looks.”
Rob shook his head. “You’ve gotta get off the speed, man. You’re getting paranoid. Your voice is fine. And I don’t know about your looks, but I don’t think you’d scare off small children. Why are you so freaked out about singing a couple of songs? Hell, even Townshend sings some of his. And how about the way he looks?”
“Let’s just drop it, Rob. I’m not singing them.”
“Whatever, man. It’s your call. They’re your songs.”
“Forget I brought it up.” What was I thinking? Of course Mick wouldn’t sing them. He didn’t do anything he didn’t want to do. My idea was an imperfect creation: Kill it quickly.
Rob settled back in his seat and returned the brim of the Stetson to its position over his eyes. I slipped a couple of cross-tops from the vial in my pocket and washed them down with a swallow of flat Coke. Twenty minutes later I felt better, but my quick surrender continued to eat at me. I knew from what I’d read that Pete Townshend would literally come to blows with Roger Daltry to get his way with the Who, as he did when he punched Daltry in the middle of a rehearsal for their Quadrophenia tour, but I wasn’t up to battling Mick. I needed him to front the band. Without him, we were going nowhere. I was going nowhere.
I suddenly felt the need to change the conversation I was having with myself, and the jolt from the pills made me want to talk out loud. I looked across at Rob, who seemed way too relaxed for his own good. Maybe it was because he was away from Candi. For two days, he hadn’t said a word about her, which had got me wondering about what was going on with them. I’d seen him sneak off to a phone booth outside a café near Portland the night before, but he hadn’t stayed in it long enough to have a conversation.
At least on the surface, Rob and Candi seemed like a perfect match, kind of like a smarter version of Rod Stewart and Britt Ekland, but I was beginning to seriously worry that eventually Candi was going to play Yoko to Rob’s John, as Mick had jokingly suggested a few nights earlier. And I wasn’t sure who would win if Rob’s choice ultimately came down to the band or Candi. But maybe I was worrying needlessly. And, anyhow, who knew what Rob was thinking? Would Rob even tell his best friend, who I liked to think was me, if something major was about to go down in his private life?
I glanced at him again. “Hey, Rob.”
The Stetson slid back and he yawned. “Yeah?”
“So, what’s up with—” I stopped myself. The cross-tops had a sneaky way of loosening my tongue, of getting me to talk about stuff that was better left unsaid, and I knew Rob wouldn’t want to go where I wanted to take the conversation. He was already pretty touchy about Candi, and in my amphetamine-altered state, I figured the best I could do would be to piss him off. I lit another cigarette and slipped the match into the ash tray.
Rob pushed himself upright. “Yeah? What’s up with what?”
“Nothing, man. It’s not important.”
Rob squinted at me, but I avoided his eyes. “You got something on your mind?” he asked. “You still thinking about your songs? I really think you should try singing them.”
“No, it’s not that.” I took a drag on the cigarette to better focus my thoughts and decided that I shouldn’t be afraid to ask Rob a simple question. “I was just wondering what was going on with you and Candi.”
“With Candi? What do you mean?” Rob’s voice had suddenly gone flat.
I glanced at him and then back at the road ahead of me. “I dunno. It’s just that I’ve been getting the impression that things aren’t too cool between you guys right now. Like maybe Candi’s been giving you a lot of grief about going on this trip.” I gave him another quick glance. “But if it’s none of my business, just tell me to shut up.”
Rob tugged at his hair, and his eyes rotated from me to the passing scenery. “Look, Daniel,” he said into the glass of the window, “I’ll be honest with you. Candi doesn’t think the band’s going anywhere, that we’re just wasting our time. She just basically thinks it’s a dead end for me.”
I willed my pulse to slow and proceeded carefully. “So what do you think?”
His face turned back toward me. “Shit, I don’t know. I’m just processing it, man. But I still like playing, if that’s what you mean.” He started to say something else but stopped.
“That’s cool,” I said, nodding. “But, look, I think Candi’s wrong. I really think this gig’s gonna lead to bigger things. But I feel for you. Girlfriends ... shit.” I shook my head.
“It’s no big deal,” he said, shrugging, but the strain on his face told me how badly he was being squeezed by Candi. And I still sensed that he was holding something back, not telling me everything about his problems with her.
Seeing Sam’s station wagon slow to round a corner, I downshifted. We were now veering west along the top of the Olympic Peninsula. “I think we’re getting close to Puente Harbor. Fifty miles, maybe.”
Rob slumped back down and returned the brim of the Stetson to its position over his eyes. “Well, let me know when we’re there.”
I took that as my cue to let the conversation drop. We rode on in silence for another hour before the station wagon began to slow. I eased off the accelerator and looked ahead at a road sign: WELCOME TO PUENTE HARBOR—POPULATION 25,500.
“We’re here,” I announced.
Rob tipped his hat back and leaned forward. “About fucking time.”
7
WITH THE STATION WAGON now following behind us, we rolled into Puente Harbor on the highway running east to west through town along the waterfront. Rob cracked his side window, letting a strong breeze coming off the Strait of Juan de Fuca fill the van. I shivered and glanced at the grimy industrial port buildings off to our right and the weathered motels and littered lots to our left. My spirits dropped. Was this it, the rest of the world? Thankfully, my little cross-topped buddies kept my spirits from being completely smothered by the damp malaise thrown off by the town.
To my eyes, Puente Harbor looked vaguely familiar, like one of those tired, old fishing villages perched lonely above California’s north coast, only this town was bigger and messier. The community appeared working-class poor, and I wondered what kept it alive. It couldn’t be the rock ‘n’ roll scene. Maybe logging and commercial fishing. Maybe spending by tourists passing through on their way to the Olympics or Victoria. The thought crossed my mind that the town seemed like everything else in America these days, broken down, kept barely alive by dying industries. It was obsolete, just like all those out-of-date American-made cars being pushed aside by Japanese imports.
Rob’s head rotated from one side of the road to the other. “You sure Hendrix and Heart played here?”
“That’s what Astley said. At the Mai Tai Hotel.” I looked out across the harbor as the buildings gave way to open water. “What’s puente mean, anyhow? Do you know?”
“Sam said it means bridge in Spanish.” His eyes followed mine across the harbor.
“I don’t see one. Figures.” I turned my eyes back toward the town. “Man, this place looks grim.”
“Maybe it gets better when you get into the main part of town.” Rob sounded dubious. “You know where it is?”
“First Street. It’s gotta be somewhere to the left.”
We approached a major intersection with Washington Street, and I turned off the highway. Sam stayed right behind me. The late Monday afternoon traffic was light and few pe
ople were on the sidewalks. The street took us straight downtown, which was crowded with two-story brick and wood-sided buildings, including a hardware store, a hole-in-the-wall shoe repair business, a couple of coffee shops, a few glum-looking real estate offices, a Salvation Army store, and an old theater playing Rocky.
At the next intersection, I stopped at a red light and peered up at the cloudy hills rising from the backside of the downtown area. The highway and the main streets paralleling the highway ran across a narrow flat bordered on the south by rolling hills climbing toward the Olympic mountains and on the north by the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Most of the town’s houses appeared to be clustered along a patchwork of streets cut into the hills, rising higher and higher until the homes and streets disappeared into the evergreens. Reaching these neighborhoods apparently required driving up steep roads or climbing sets of concrete pedestrian stairs that I now saw rising between buildings along the cross streets.
“This is it,” Rob said, pointing at a street sign.
“What?”
“First Street, man.”
I guessed about the direction and turned right. Luck was still with me. Within three blocks we found the Mai Tai Hotel, an imposing old structure, redbrick and three stories high, sitting placidly at the base of a hill on a street of half-deserted shops and old flop-house hotels. With darkness coming on fast, I parked alongside the Mai Tai, and for a moment Rob and I sat silently in the van gazing up at the decaying pattern of brick and mortar rising into the gloom of Puente Harbor.
Hearing the voices of Sam, Mick, and Yogi spilling from the station wagon behind us, I swung out of the van and nearly bumped into a utility pole. Stapled to the pole was a poster announcing an upcoming concert at the county fairgrounds: A big red Valentine with the name HEART scrawled inside.
“Hey, Rob, check this out.”
He came around the van and looked at the poster. “Huh, that’s a weird coincidence. Too bad they’re playing the day we’re leaving. Might’ve been fun to go.”
Getting in Tune Page 6