Red Dirt Rocker (16 page)

Sweden is beautiful, bright and green. As we leave our hotel room later that day to go sightseeing, the lights, TV, and everything else that you would turn off before you leave your room shuts down automatically when the door locks behind us. Dad and I are impressed by their innovative energy conservation ideas. I can already sense the trip has been good for Dad, who’s never been more than one state away from Oklahoma. He’s all smiles. He looks several years younger as we talk about all that is interesting in this city.
A city that’s a world away from our country community.

We explore the town of Stockholm, which is filled with quaint shops and interesting, old architecture. There are also a lot of beautiful fair-haired girls in the city. Several of them remind me of Sophie. I suspect that she must have Swedish relatives in her family tree somewhere.

I also spot a girl who reminds me of Heather. She’s a spoiled American tourist who’s clearly agitated by the communication barrier as she tries to order lunch—a very pretty girl with a very ugly attitude.

Jake, Randy, Cody, and I decide it's time to try the local cuisine. We have absolutely no idea what we’re ordering off the menu. When our meals arrive, we still don’t have a clue what we’re about to eat. Dad’s the lucky one—he scores chicken. I’m not so fortunate—I get pork. Not pork chops, or pork ribs. It’s a gelatinous blob of pork knuckle that doesn’t stop jiggling for at least five seconds after the waitress sets it on the table in front of me.

The other boys get pickled herring, covered in a white sauce, and a slab of raw, pink salmon on the side. We feel like we’re on
Fear Factor
as we dare each other to take bites of the mystery meals.

Our attitude is that if life hands you lemons, you make lemonade. Then you go to the Swedish McDonalds and eat real food!

My
bandmates
and I step into the best joke ever as we step off the trolley. Randy points out a street sign that reads, "
Ut
Fart." Apparently, "Fart" translates to "speed" in English! The signs are at each entrance and exit of the parking garages. We have a field day with this. We snap pictures of all of us pointing and laughing. Cody has the best pose. He backs up to the sign and puts his finger to his lips like, “
oopsie
.”

Mama sent her arsenal of cameras and camcorders with Dad and made him take a sacred oath to capture as much of the trip as he could.

Dad and I find the perfect souvenir shop, and buy Mama and Megan each a small, ceramic, red-suited gnome. The chubby, snow-bearded, elf-like statues are everywhere. Our two little quaint elves will soon have a new home in a flower garden in Cow-Town Oklahoma.

After an exhausting day of sightseeing, we settle back into our hotel rooms. I’m
Jonesin
’ for my BlackBerry, but since cell phones would cost an arm and a leg to use from
Sweden,
I set up my laptop and webcam so we can talk to Mama and Megan courtesy of the hotel’s Wi-Fi. It’s so comforting to see their faces as they sit around our big oak kitchen table back home. Our dog, Stella, even licks the camera.

After saying goodnight to Mama and Megan, I go to Sophie's Facebook page and ask her to get on her webcam so we can chat. Sophie and I stay on our computers for over three hours, talking. Dad unknowingly walks by the webcam sporting his new gnome-printed boxer shorts. Sophie and I laugh until we cry.

It’s so ironic that it took my leaving the country for Sophie and me to learn so much about each other. The internet is a wonderful thing.

Dad says it’s time for bed, and starts giving me the old, “When I was young” speech. He explains that he and Mama managed to meet, date and even get married, all without the benefit of cell phones or computers. “Mama even lived way out in the boondocks—twenty miles out on bad dirt road.” He declares with a sense of pride that he snagged her like a prize coon.

Dad can’t help but laugh when I ask him if he had to track her. “Look for broken twigs and Appaloosa hoof prints, did
ya
?” I tease.

“No sir. I had a land line and an old Ford pickup truck—worked just fine!” Dad says. I still can’t imagine functioning socially on a day-to-day basis without the benefit of texting or Facebook—never ever!

I beg Dad for another twenty minutes, and me and Sophie’s marathon conversation continues. We find out we have a lot in common—from music, to family life, to religious beliefs. Sophie isn’t into the party scene either. She’s not a
goody-two-shoes
; she’s just a good girl, and I’m so glad we’ve gotten to know each other better.

T
he big day is finally here. My band and I will be sharing the stage tonight with the one and only rock legends, KISS. I think our dads and Jake’s Uncle Walt are almost as nervous as the boys and I are as we make our way to the Olympic Stadium in Stockholm.

This is the venue that housed the 1912 Olympic Games and now, my band, Cellar Door Is Gone, is going to open for KISS in this historic structure. We’re in awe. I’m overcome by a sudden, heavy feeling in my stomach that quickly turns into burning nausea. I have an immediate desire to chug Pepto-Bismol. All the excitement and apprehension are actually good feelings, though. I know that I’m about to do something bigger than I’ve ever done in my life, and so does my gut. Reality has hit home big time.

The boys and I make our way to our modest dressing room once the doors of the stadium are opened. Rabid Swedish rock fans swarm in, and race for the prime real estate at the front of the gigantic stage. Once again we have to pinch ourselves to make sure we’re not dreaming. This time, I pinch Jake!

The show promoter greets us with a shocked expression as we enter the “once again not green” green room.

"Are you guys the band from the States?” he asks, with hesitation. His coarse, bushy grey
eyebrows, that
look like they have a life of their own, raise with a skeptical arch.

I step up as the band’s spokesman, answering quickly and confidently.

“Yep—I mean—umm, yes sir we are.”

"You have
got
to be kidding me. How old are you boys?” the promoter asks with proper and pronounced accent. Aggravation is sketched all over his face.

"I’m sixteen, and the rest of the boys are fifteen," I say, throwing my head back toward my
bandmates
, who stand motionless.

"I do not know
what
the booking agent was thinking! We are going to have over thirty-thousand fans ready for a rock show. Can you boys handle that?” The promoter inquires.

"Oh…definitely.
We promise we won't let you down," I return. I stand with my shoulders and back straight, thinking that if I could add another inch to my height, it would add more credibility to our band.

"Okay, boys.
You will be meeting KISS in thirty minutes. You had better get a move on. I will have my assistant come get you for the meeting in the press room, okay?" The promoter informs us slowly and clearly as if we’re second graders.

“Remember, over thirty thousand fans, so be in top form," he instructs staunchly.

"We’ll be just fine," I assure him. Then I turn to my
bandmates
and echo, "just fine!" I speak with conviction, but inside, my stomach is doing back flips. I’m now officially a nervous wreck.

It’s finally
time
for our meeting with KISS—the most surreal moment of my life. Two days ago I was in Cow-Town, Oklahoma, population seven thousand. I was playing football and practicing with my band in a barn. Now I’m getting ready to meet one of the biggest acts in rock history. I’m minutes away from meeting the legendary Gene Simmons. I’m suddenly pale with apprehension about being face-to-face with the literally white-faced KISS!

Two muscle bound security guards escort us to
KISS’s
well-watched and very private dressing room. I realize that I’ve been holding my breath for at least a minute. I exhale and inhale deeply to calm myself, and they enter. The boys and I shake their hands with respect, as camera flashes pop. I step alongside Gene Simmons. My dad thankfully keeps his cool long enough to get a quick pic of me and my band with the super cool legends of rock.

KISS is truly larger than life. The killer platform boots they wear on stage have them towering at least twelve inches over us. My heart is pumping double-time as I let Gene Simmons know what an unbelievable honor it will be to be standing on the same stage as them. Our dads stand frozen in ecstatic shock. They have dumb-founded smiles plastered across their faces. The boys and I stand with the familiar rock grimaces on our faces as we pose with KISS in all their painted glory.

After the photo, Tommy Thayer shakes my hand again and gives me an ultra-cool wink, and Paul Stanley actually gives me one of his signed picks to add to my collection. I’m almost speechless, but manage to choke out a goofy laugh and a, “Thank you
sooo
much—you guys are freaking amazing!”

KISS is very gracious, but also very much in demand. The superstar group is quickly whisked out of the white green room to go back to the mystical place that only KISS goes.

“DUDE…WE JUST MET KISS!!!” the boys and I yell as we jump up and down in place with our arms around each other like giddy grade school girls. It’s unbelievable—the coolest experience of my life!

After the meet-and-greet, the
leery
promoter, and his bushy eyebrows, leads us to the back of the stage, giving us time to finish setting up our gear. I’m still in a star-struck haze as I hop up on a riser to get my set list. I’m not paying attention to my step. The next thing I know, I lose my footing and find myself falling through the thick, black velvet curtain that keeps us hidden from the audience. I’m now smack dab in the middle of the sprawling stage. I’m mortified and frozen solid.

The scene from
The Wizard of Oz
where Toto pulls back the long, veiled curtain, revealing the Great and Mighty
Oz,
pops into my head. Dude…I’m definitely not in Kansas—or Oklahoma, for that matter—anymore!

My feet are cemented to the floor as I gawk at the thousands of fans in the arena. In the midst of feeling like a fool, and wondering what my escape plan is going be, I hear one lone voice with a foreign accent yell, "Hey, it is
Forrrrest
!”

I instinctively wave as I scramble to get back behind the amps. I frantically muddle through the curtain fabric, eventually finding the escape hatch. As I jump up, the crowd goes nuts. I can’t believe my ears. They’re actually cheering!

"Are you okay?" Dad yells over the crowd noise. He grabs my arm and helps me back behind the stage.

"I almost
peed
my pants!" I wail, my voice shaking.

"You’re
gonna
be just fine. Sounds like they already know who you are!" Dad says, chuckling. His expression turns serious and honest. "Son, I’m so proud of you. This is far more exciting than any football game I’ve ever been to.” He continues, in a tone that's meant to keep me calm, “Forrest, you boys are
gonna
knock '
em
dead.
Deep breaths, son!”
My father’s warm smile and confident words give me much needed comfort. I suddenly feel confident and the feeling that I swallowed a brick begins to dissolve away.