Her Wild Oats (7 page)

There was no way Oats was going to confess that he wished Hoagy was riding the bus instead of Dickie Jaspers, so he shared the first thing that came into his head.

“Once Hoagy took me and my folks to see Fast Freddy Blouster perform down in San Francisco. I loved that guy! He had the most amazing band I’d ever heard, all dressed up in black tuxedos. Those guys never slid out of their groove, even for a second. Fast Freddy wore a dark red jacket and a bolo tie; he was a tall, skinny dude with a white mustache who moved slow ’cause he was old, but boy could he play guitar. My favorite part was the horn section with the guys doing steps all in a row, playing horn lines and punching in little fills. Wouldn’t it be cool if human beings were born with horn sections to let you know what was important in your life? Like, if you got an ‘A’ on a paper, or met a girl who was going to go steady with you or something, the horn section would go ‘tat a tooo-wah’ to let you know, ‘hey pal, this is an important part of your life. Pay attention.’

“That was also the night Hoagy taught us how to yell ‘Without no pants on!’ after the first two lines of a twelve-bar blues.” Oats laughed, enjoying the memory. “Hoagy told me there’s a long history about this joke that goes way back to Louis Prima and some other guys in New Orleans about a hundred years ago.”

“He’s still doing that one, eh?” Bobby Lee smiled. “Some things never do change. Hey, are you feeling ready for the show tonight? Got any questions or anything? I’ve been busy doing paperwork since we pulled out this morning.”

Oats shook his head no, finding it hard to believe it had only been that morning…he felt like they’d been on the road for a long time and they hadn’t even played the first gig yet—home seemed like more than a day’s distance away.

While Pete and Bus Driver Dave worked out where to find the band bus entrance to the Gilroy Garlic Festival, Oats heard Dickie Jaspers say something in a too-loud whisper about if “the chew-toy could play with the big dogs” or not. Talk about wishing for Hoagy on lead guitar; he’d never wished for anything so hard in his life.

A huge man at the gate checked the band’s name on a sheet and waved the bus through into a dirt parking lot. There was a tent area set up and a big white cardboard sign that said “Bobby Lee Crenshaw” taped to the top of one of the tents, marking the band’s backstage territory. There was also a real buffet table with chicken and pasta salad, instead of just hot dogs and chips. Plus a cooler filled with beer and a full bar, too. Dickie Jaspers headed straight in that direction while everyone else looked around for the bathroom, which of course turned out to be a row of Porta-Potties.

“Got your laminate, Oats? They won’t let you onstage without it,” Pete Rawley said. “It’s a little different on the big stage, you know.” Oats showed him the laminated all-access pass that he’d stuffed into his pocket; Pete untangled the string it was clipped to and hung it around the boy’s neck like a necklace. Then he wandered off with Gary G. to talk to the house sound guy.

Oats was left to himself after that. As late as they were, it turned out that sound check was running later. The guys were in the dressing-room tent tuning up and he decided to take a walk over to the other end of the backstage area to see whatever there was to see.

He didn’t get very far before someone blocked his way. He looked up to see Dickie Jaspers blocking his way, holding two big plastic cups of beer and flashing a thin smile.

“Sorry, pip-squeak,” he snorted. “I didn’t see you there.” Then he loped off, but not before letting a little of his beer foam fall into Oats’ hair.

“That was mean,” Oats heard a female voice say. He looked up and saw a girl wearing a marching band uniform and carrying a sparkly baton. “Hi,” she continued, “my name’s Melody. What’s your name? I haven’t seen you around here before. Who’s the jerk, and why did he dump beer on your head?”

Melody seemed like a girl with a lot of questions. She was also a girl with huge brown eyes, and long curly hair even redder than Oats’. Not only that, she also had freckles—sprinkled across the front of her nose in a really cute way. The sun was glinting off the sequins on her marching-band jacket, and she looked bright and sparkly.

“Where are you from?” she asked. “How old are you? What’s that on your shirt?” She pointed at a spot on Oats’ shirt and as he looked down, she pulled her finger up and pinched his nose.

“Gotcha!” she giggled.

“Um,” Oats said brilliantly, “I’m Otis Ray. People call me Oats. I’m thirteen, and I’m here with one of the bands.”

“Why did that guy dump beer on your head?”

“I honestly don’t know. He’s the lead guitar player in the band I’m with. Have you ever heard of Bobby Lee Crenshaw? I’m his harmonica player.”

“Really?” she asked. “You’re playing on the big stage, then?”

“Yeah, and I think we have sound check in a minute. When are you playing?”

“I don’t play anything. I twirl with the Angels of the Lamb Drum and Bugle Corps, high-school level even though I’m only in middle school. I’m really good.”

“And you’re modest too, I see.” Oats was proud of himself for coming up with something halfway clever, instead of being dumbstruck and thinking of a good line six hours later.

“Well, I’m the only one in town who can twirl a flaming baton without setting her uniform on fire, so I’m basically just honest.”

“Oats!” Peter Rawley ran toward them, short of breath and red in the face. “Oats, there you are. We’ve been looking all over. It’s time for sound check,” he shouted.

“I gotta go—maybe I’ll see you around later?” Oats ran after Pete—the last thing he wanted was to miss his first sound check. It wasn’t until he was getting his harps out onstage that he realized he hadn’t asked Melody for her phone number, didn’t know her last name, even. Sheesh, what an idiot a guy can be sometimes.

*

They were all onstage, finally ready to run the first tune for sound check, when Oats’ new cell phone rang. He ignored it, too busy trying to remember the parts and watching Bobby Lee for cues. But Bobby Lee had been a sideman for so long, taking direction and waiting for someone to nod his way to take a solo or start a song or whatever, that he wasn’t looking so sure of himself as a bandleader. “Tentative” was the word that came into Oats’ head. Even a thirteen-year-old could tell that the only way to get anyone’s respect was to act forceful even if you didn’t feel that way. Oats hoped that Bobby Lee’s band members liked him enough to cover until he got more confident.

They started with the first track of the new CD, “Party Time Gal,” an up-tempo rocker with easy one-four-five changes and a fast shuffle beat. Because he was nervous Bobby Lee counted it off too fast, and everyone raced through trying to keep up. He finished the second chorus and nodded his head in Oats’ direction, meaning he was supposed to duplicate the great harp solo on the CD, or try to come close anyway. Unfortunately, Dickie Jaspers was also standing on the same side of the stage and he thought Bobby Lee was nodding at him, and they both ended up starting solos at the same time, playing over each other. Oats backed off right away—and Bobby Lee looked confused, then kind of concerned. But with a mean lead guitar player glaring down at him, Oats figured he had taken the safest course of action.

The band had just about finished the one song and tested microphone levels when the sound guy yelled that time was up. Bobby Lee shook his head, looking really frustrated. Oats’ new cell phone rang again; it was his mom, Sarah Jean.

“’Lo,” he whispered into the phone.

“Baby!” she yelled loud enough for the whole stadium to hear her through the phone. “How’s it going? I already miss you so much.”

“OK, I guess. Listen, we’re in sound check…” If anyone understood about sound check, it should have been Sarah Jean, but she was in mom mode and not musician mode. So Oats had to stand there on the edge of that huge stage, watching the roadies set everything up for the gig, listening to his mother go on and on about pretty much nothing, while the rest of the band drifted off to explore the garlic festival, get some dinner, whatever it is that grown-up people in bands do before a show. The garlic smell had taken over every molecule of air hours earlier, and it made him think of his dad’s special garlic bread, which he always made when the family had spaghetti. Oats suddenly realized he was starving.

“…so Hank Wilson said, ‘Monkey, monkey, boat’ and everyone just cracked up,” Sarah Jean shouted into the phone. “Oats, were you listening to me? Don’t you think that’s a hilarious story?”

“Um, yeah. Yeah, but I gotta go.”

“OK, sweetheart, break a leg. Call me tonight before bed.”

“I will. Listen, I have to play soon, and I have to get my dinner. Bye.” He clicked the phone shut and turned it off, then went to find some garlic bread, or garlic ice cream or something. If there’s one thing you can count on at the Gilroy Garlic Festival, it’s garlic.

He wandered over toward the backstage tent a few minutes later, with a huge plate of garlic fries and a cherry Coke. The guys in the band seemed to be having a tense discussion, with Pete Rawley trying to keep things polite. Oats was too far away to hear what they were saying, but the body language sure was interesting.

Dickie Jaspers looked pretty pissed off. Bobby Lee said something. Dickie scowled and stalked out of the tent, with Pete close behind.

Bobby Lee followed them both a few seconds later. Meanwhile, Willie, Rascal, Billy, and Jeremy sat still on their folding chairs, whispering to each other. Oats wondered if the fight had been about Dickie being pissed off that Bobby Lee invited a kid on the tour, but he didn’t know how to ask as he approached and made his presence known.

“Hey, guys, anyone want some garlic fries?” He held out his plate of greasy food for sharing.

“Mmmm, looks good but I’m watching my cholesterol,” Willie the drummer answered.

“No thanks, I’m a vegan,” Jeremy the pedal-steel guy said politely.

“I’ll try one.” Rascal the bass player took one fry out of the soggy pile and chewed it slowly. “Garlicky.” He smiled.

“Never have been much a one for garlic,” said Billy, shrugging and holding up his hand like a cop stopping traffic. “They sure look good, though.”

In the kids’ backstage area, those fries would have been gone in two seconds.

So Oats sat in the corner eating all the fries by himself, sipping on his Coke and waiting for the show to start. After a while Bobby Lee came into the tent and sat down too. He explained that they were going to be the first band, for a half-hour set. He said not to take it personally if it seemed as though people didn’t care so much; that they still had to do their best. Of course he would do his best, Oats thought, feeling a little hurt. He was a professional.

Finally it was five minutes before downbeat, and no one had seen any sign of Dickie Jaspers. Just when it looked liked he wasn’t going to show, he came loping up, smiling as though nothing had happened. Bobby Lee shot him a weird look; Dickie shrugged and picked up his guitar. Bobby Lee waited until the band was onstage and the announcer had said his name and then he bounced out wearing a spangled jacket and a brand-new cowboy hat and a big friendly smile. He launched the band into the first song, counting it off a little too slow this time.

The audience reaction was hard to gauge. It seemed like the people who really listened—the ones who weren’t just there early to get their seats or meet friends or whatever—liked them. The others pretty much ignored the set as they popped their beer cans and opened their picnic baskets and called out to friends they were meeting up with. Oats had always been headliner on the Lollipopalooza tours, so this was another thing he’d have to get used to. They sure were adding up.

*

Bobby Lee had designed the set so that each sideman would get a featured solo, and Oats’ star turn was on the single, “Not if I See You First,” a fantasy revenge song evoking early Sun Records Johnny Cash. You could tell that Bobby Lee really loved singing it, especially when Rascal kicked off the tune with his percolating boom-bum-bum-bum-boom bass line, and the audience perked up for the first time that night.

So you found yourself a man who fulfills your plan

To make a damn fool outta me

He can take you to the moon in a hot-air balloon

He can even make a deaf man see

Well, I’ll tell you this—you better pray his fist

Is strong enough to make mine burst

’Cause before you skipped town you said, “See you around”

But not if I see you first

If I see you first you’re gonna stay with your man forever

Together underneath the grass

You better hide your ass, ’cause if I see you first—

I’m gonna see you last

Oats walked up to his microphone and waited for the cue, and when he heard Bobby Lee say, “And on blues harp, ‘Wild Oats’ Pixlie,” he happened to spot a glittery marching-band hat in the first row and big brown eyes smiling up, and that made him want to nail it to the wall.

Oats wailed on that solo and the crowd, such as it was, went wild. People love to hear a kick-ass song and see a kid kicking ass. They even kept stomping and yelling while Bobby Lee sang the next part.

I wanna see you bleed, I wanna see you need

Me to call off my Gypsy curse

You wanna see me cry—you wanna see July?

Well, not if I see you first

If I see you first, you better run like a burnin’ dog

Who set the fire station up in flames

You better change your name ’cause if I see you first

You’ll have yourself to blame

The audience stomped and yelled until the song ended. It was clear that Oats’ moment had been the highlight of the set.

Except for “Not if I See You First” the band never really hit a groove before it was time to make way for the next act, who would make way for Gretchen Wilson, who Oats imagined was still sitting in the Jacuzzi in her hotel room. Oats could have gone on playing for another two hours. As they left the stage to polite applause, Bobby Lee walked down the rickety wooden steps right behind Oats.