Ghost Tour (ch.24)

September 28, 1998

No laptop. No internet. No tour journal.

Reid continued to write in his mind. If he could’ve gone online, his next post would’ve started something like this:

It turns out there are multiple ghosts. Each of us seems to have our own.

Some of us are haunted by dreams of success. Some by unrealized potential. Some by previous mistakes. All of us haunted by ghosts we didn’t ask for, who jumped on the bus just because we were heading to the right place at the right time.

Seems the dustbowl drifter finally made it to California and disappeared in Los Angeles, turning us into dust in the process. Now we too are ghosts, scattered to the winds.

The force that holds protons and neutrons together is stronger than gravity. What is the force that holds a band together?

As the sun rose over eastern New Mexico, Kenny pulled down his visor to fight the glare while Reid sat scheming with a road atlas. The bus was only going as far as Amarillo.

“How much further is Austin?” he asked Kenny.

“You thinking of goin down there?”

“Don’t know exactly.”

Kenny could quote the distance down to the last mile marker, but that wouldn’t answer the real question.

“Texas is a big state,” he said.

Keeping this kid from going further off the rails was becoming a full-time job.

# # #

Roncho hired a sizable van to get everyone from JFK back up to Clinton. He dropped Liz and Jordan off at their respective houses before humping the equipment back to the practice space with Subs and Rex.

Alone in his kitchen, Jordan stood on the sagging, worn linoleum and assessed the situation. The household disarray had not magically righted itself in his absence.

Had he really imagined he was only ducking back for essentials then jetting back to live with Lila Parker? Was that ever a possibility?

A crumpled aluminum tray in the fridge preserved a few cheese puffs Kristina had made for him before the tour. He ate one. Weird. They still tasted sorta good.

He’d gone ahead and bought a cellphone in Los Angeles. Lila was the only number programmed so far. Again he tried, again no answer. This time he didn’t leave a message.

He ate another cheese puff and reached for the old leather phone book waiting on his kitchen table. This wasn’t a call he wanted to make, but he needed to make it, if he was going to save his band.

# # #

Roncho checked back into the Clinton Holiday Inn. He got Subs and Rex a double so they could rest, then set up shop at a hotel desk in a single overlooking the swimming pool.

He still had a series of reservations he needed to cancel across the American south. His cellphone rang before he could begin. It was Kristina. She hadn’t spoken with Reid in several days and assumed they were on their way to their next show.

“We’re in Clinton, actually. They cancelled the second half of the tour.”

“Wait, you’re in Clinton—is Reid home?”

“To be honest, I don’t know exactly…I suspect he’s on his way to Texas…”

The reservations would have to wait. He’d have to deal with the lost sheep first.

# # #

Liz’s housemate, Jane, got Liz a brand new pair of fuzzy socks as a homecoming present. They felt so good sliding along the polished wooden floors.

Liz had called from Los Angeles, explaining why she’d be coming home early. Based on their conversation, Jane had something else for Liz besides the slippers.

“Tell me what you think,” she said, holding up the poster she’d made on her computer, for cello lessons.

“You have surprisingly good design skills.”

“I used a template,” Jane said. “I can hang it in the student center, you’ll have more students than you’ll know what to do with.”

Liz’s Fender Precision was propped in the corner next to her cello. Liz pictured both instruments within their respective cases, wondering which would win out. Then the kitchen phone rang. It was Roncho.

“I just talked to Kristina,” he said. “She’s not totally freaking out, but…”

“You want me to talk with her.”

“I have about thirty-five other fires that need putting out,” he said.

She copied down the address, then pulled her motorcycle boots back on over her new fuzzy socks.

# # #

The flight from LA to Tokyo was 12 hours. Benzedrine’s tour manager put Corey next to Billy Somerville, in the seat originally reserved for Aiden Dunlop.

This was the first time Corey’d flown business class. The stewardess brought him a mimosa before they even took off.

Billy, who wasn’t saying much, finally spoke up.

“Everyone thinks listen to the drummer,” Billy told Corey without looking at him, “but the drummer listens to the bass player, you got it?”

“I got the basic concept,” Corey said.

“Good. You remember that, this’ll work out fine.”

“Appreciate the guidance, bro.”

“That’s the way it is,” Billy said. “And I’m not your bro.”

# # #

The sign at the border read:

Drive Friendly — The Texas Way

Kenny always breathed a little freer crossing back into the Lone Star State. Almost home.

“When we get to Amarillo, I can’t go pulling into Elite with you still onboard, boss’ll have my ass.”

“It’s okay, I can find my way,” Reid said.

“I’m not dumping you, just gonna drop you off somewhere for a little lunch then come pick you up in my truck, okay?”

“You sure about that?”

“Sure I’m sure. You grab yourself a bite, then we’ll see what’s what.”

# # #

Liz doublechecked the address to make sure she had the right house, the place was huge.

She got a bad vibe the moment John answered the door. She didn’t know how Kristina was connected to him or what the deal was, but she was done dealing with skeezy guys.

“Come on in, Kristina’s in the kitchen,” he said. He most definitely appraised her form as she walked past.

She found Kristina at the Wolf stove, stirring some kind of bouillabaisse. Kristina hugged her, set the soup on simmer and her apron on a barstool.

“Come out back where we can talk.”

Outside, past an in-ground pool that was still under construction, was a little guest house. They sat on the convertible sofa where Kristina had been sleeping.

“Who is that guy?” Liz asked.

“His name’s John, I’ve been cooking for him and his wife. They have a lot of parties.”

“He’s creepy.”

“He’s okay,” Kristina said, in a tone that didn’t so much rule out creepiness as suggest she’d found a way to deal with him. “So where is Reid?”

“I don’t know, I was already at the airport. He just…I don’t know, I think he stayed on the bus.”

Kristina put her head down, started massaging her temples with both hands.

“I think I might’ve told him not to come home,” she said, trying to remember exactly what she’d said to him. However they’d left it, this wasn’t the desired result. “I was pissed at him for getting fucked up. And he was pissed at me for staying here.”

Liz had been pissed at Reid too. But if Reid knew Kristina was staying here, she started to suspect a trigger that had set him drinking again.

“How do you know these people, Kristina?”

“Look, it’s all on the level, and they’re letting me use the guest house…you know what Clinton’s like, you won’t live there yourself.”

She was right about that.

“Reid’s just being Reid, he’ll come home,” Liz said. “Come stay with me and Jane. We have an extra bedroom.”

# # #

Kenny pulled the bus into the lot at Elite and went into the construction trailer that functioned as their office. Danny, his boss, was friendly enough when he greeted him, but got straight to the point.

“You got someone riding with you on that bus?”

“Not since Los Angeles.”

“Cause I just got off the phone with Ron Wozniak, says he thought one of the band members stayed on the bus.”

Kenny shrugged, like playing dumb was what was called for.

“Think I woulda noticed something like that.”

Danny liked Kenny. He was one of his best drivers, so it didn’t so much matter what the truth was, so long as Kenny kept his story straight and kept the bus going in the right direction.

“Well, if you happen to see him, his girlfriend is looking for him. And so is his band.”

# # #

The lunch shift was ending. Brenda Anne had been counting her tips when the tour bus stopped out front just long enough to drop someone out by the phone booths, which wasn’t typical.

The guy came into the Westside Cafe looking lost. Messy hair, black jean jacket, wheeling a suitcase which he managed to bump into three chairs on his way to the counter.

“That your tour bus?” she asked.

“It was,” he said, taking a seat, pulling his suitcase to one side so no one would trip over it, though the place was near empty at this point.

“Need a menu?”

“Just an ice tea,” he said

“What kind?”

“What kind you got?”

Definitely not from Texas.

“You want it sweet or not?”

“Sweet.”

“Be right back.”

He looked around. Couple guys a few tables away smoking cigarettes stared him down. He didn’t hold their glare, but didn’t flinch either. He wouldn’t be hanging around too long. Hopefully.

Brenda Anne brought the ice tea in a twenty ounce tumbler. She could’ve dropped the check and been done with it, but there was something intriguing about the situation. He wasn’t her type, exactly, but she liked the mysterious stranger angle. If it was a romance novel, she’d have torn right through it.

“You some kind of musician?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“So where’s your instrument?”

He had to think about this.

“That’s an excellent question.”

Her perfume reminded him of something from high school but she was probably somewhere between that and his age. He tried to picture where she lived, maybe in a trailer or something. Maybe she had a kid, even, but she was in excellent shape from being on her feet all day, carrying heavy trays.

Taking a rag from her apron, she wiped at a little spot on the counter innocently enough, but it registered like a proxy for something a little more intimate. It bought her a moment to decide if she’d ask another question.

“Brenda Anne,” came a displeased male voice, “you finished up yet?”

She stopped wiping the counter and looked up like she’d been caught, even though she wasn’t doing anything.

“Just wrapping up,” she said, taking out her pad to write up the tea.

“I been waitin outside in my truck,” the guy said, stepping closer to get a better look at the stranger she’d been paying attention to.

“I’ll get my things,” Brenda Anne said.

The Texan perched himself on the next chair. With shoulders wide as if wearing football pads, he leaned into the stranger’s face. He actually said:

“You from around here?”

To which the stranger, without looking up, actually replied:

“Just passing through.”

The two smokers who’d been staring at him from a few tables away stood to their feet, their chairs scraping loudly against the floor. Maybe they started walking toward whatever may or may not have been unfolding.

“Scuse me fellas,” Kenny said, swooping in out of nowhere, “we’re just leaving.”

He dropped a ten on the counter, grabbed Reid’s suitcase, and hustled him out of the cafe and into his pick-up truck in the parking lot.

“I can’t leave you alone for ten minutes,” Kenny said to him.

It was a two-tone Ford F-150 that looked like it might actually be used for construction work. There was a country station playing. Kenny didn’t buckle up, so neither did Reid.

“Is there a bus station around here somewhere?” Reid asked.

“There’s a bus station,” Kenny said. “But first, I wanna show you something.”

# # #

It was most definitely not a fancy neighborhood, but it was well maintained. They pulled into the driveway of a decent-sized prefab. The mailbox said Walker, so Reid figured it was Kenny’s place.

Kenny scooped up some newspapers from the sidewalk.

“Told them to hold it, kids never remember.”

That was Reid’s first clue.

Kenny unlocked the front door, went in first and stepped over some menus that had been shoved under the door. It smelled like the house had been closed up a little while, but also like one of those Air Wick Solids purporting to be Country Breeze or some such thing.

“There’s some orange pop in the fridge, why don’t you grab us a couple,” Kenny said, sitting himself down on a squeaky La-Z-Boy.

The kitchen was right off the living room. Reid found the orange sodas in the refrigerator where Kenny said it would be, and not much else. That was his second clue.

“Take a good look around. Seriously, I want you to take a good look around.”

Reid started to get the point he suspected Kenny was trying to make. He wandered down the hall just far enough to look in the small master bedroom and see it hadn’t been slept in recently.

Back in the living room, there was still a wedding photo on top of the television, but that was pretty much the only remaining indication of what had been.

“So…did your wife move out?” he asked cautiously.

“Two years ago,” Kenny said.

Kenny popped open the orange soda and surveyed the place, like it was good to be home just the same.

Reid sat on the sofa, not knowing quite what to say.

“Roncho called my boss,” Kenny said.

“Does he know I’m here?”

“I didn’t tell him anything. But Roncho told him that the band’s looking for you, and so’s your girlfriend.”

Reid nodded. When he’d turned off the homing beacon, he sort of figured that worked both ways. He was surprised to learn he was missed.

The day before on the volcanic plains at Malpais belonged to eternity. But Kenny’s house, nice as it was to be invited in, reminded him that the rest of the world was filled with places that were the everyday centers of other people’s lives, but not his.

“My house is your house,” Kenny said. “But when you’re ready, I suggest you let me drive you over to Amarillo International. You need to get yourself back home.”

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