Red Dirt Rocker (20 page)

"
Duuuuude
!” the rockers exclaim in unison. They high-five each other—Cody’s giant foam finger whacks Randy right in the eye.

The two groups of teens couldn’t have been more different, but as they sit together under the goal post and begin to talk, they’re all pleasantly surprised to see just how much they have in common. The boys share their Taco Bell, candy bars and sodas. The diverse group of teens swaps stories about their favorite music videos, rock bands and live concerts.

The glaring stadium lights snap off, and the moth army retreats, but the group of music enthusiasts stay and talk for over an hour. Jake even asks one of the girls, named Parker, out for the following Saturday night. She accepts with a blush. They decide on a concert and Taco Bell—a/k/a teen Nirvana.

T
he week after the State Championship game, the boys and I all pitch in and buy Coach Bryan a brand new black felt cowboy hat. I also give Coach a baseball cap with the words “ROCK IT BIG ORANGE!” blazed in flaming letters. Coach says he’ll wear it for the kick-off game next season if I’ll work on
writing a country song. I say it’s a deal, and he squeezes my hand in a vice grip as we shake on it.

Heather and
D.J
. have officially started dating. She gets to ride in his pimped out Honda every day, and he gives her at least one compliment every hour. Their favorite activity is to sit at the mall food court eating Chinese food as they make fun of all the “losers.” I was right. They are absolutely made for each other.

My band is set to leave for a two-week, East Coast radio tour, and we’re going to be cruising in style. The record label has rented a tour bus for us, complete with X-box, satellite and a full kitchen. Randy is stoked for the “meals on wheels.”

Kyle has been recruited by the Oklahoma Sooners. My dad is super excited, and purchased season tickets. When we’re not traveling with the band, we’ll be able to go watch Kyle play. I’m still going to miss my best bud, but I know he’ll always be just a phone call away.

Megan has secured the honor of Valedictorian of her senior class, and received a scholarship to The University of Oklahoma, as well. Mom and Dad are so proud of her, and yes, so am I. Megan’s also dating some “mystery dude.” She’s gone out with him a few times in the past couple of weeks on the down low. I’m protective of my sis and really want to meet the guy, but Megan seems particularly happy with him, so I’ll just have to wait and see.

Today is Thanksgiving. My family and I have always helped out with our local church, delivering Thanksgiving meals to the shut-ins, the elderly, and anyone else who is in need. This year is no exception. I’m in awe as I survey at least eight hundred meals in plastic Wal-Mart bags stacked along the walls, waiting to be delivered. The delectable smell of succulent turkey and warm pumpkin pie waft through the air. It makes my mouth water. There will be plenty to eat later this afternoon at Aunt Carmen’s, where my family will
gather for our massive Thanksgiving feast.

I’m busy organizing the meals to be delivered when I spot the same two gossiping hens I had encountered in the doughnut shop weeks earlier. They’re in rare form once again, shaking their heads and gossiping as though they’re in the Country Cuts Salon downtown. They stand pointing at Mrs. Walton and Mr. Franklin, the kind elderly couple who found companionship in each other after the deaths of their spouses.

I cross over to Mr. Franklin and his sweetheart and greet them.
"Happy Thanksgiving!”
I smile, taking Mrs. Walton's frail hand.

"Oh, Happy Thanksgiving to you, too!"
Mr. Franklin replies. "It's so good to see young people like you
helpin
’ out in the community. You’re a good egg, Forrest,” Mr. Franklin says in a shaky voice.

“I'm glad to do it. I know I've been really blessed, too," I tell him humbly.

"Oh, honey, don’t you know it," Mrs. Walton says, patting my hand gently.

I bid them "good day," and make my way back across the room. I’m feeling a little devilish right here in church, and just can’t resist the chance to stir up the two blue-haired gossiping hens.

"Ladies!
You look
beautiful
this morning…Happy Thanksgiving," I sing out boldly, mustering my most innocent smile.

The two women eye me up and down with shocked expressions and pull their shoulders back as though I might grab their pocketbooks and run.

"Uh…you, too," one of the plump women replies, cautiously.

"You ladies have a W-O-N-D-E-R-F-U-L holiday weekend," I call out, as though they’re hard of hearing.

"Well, thank you, honey!" her surprised gossip-passing partner gushes. The two skeptics nod in approval. I turn to wink at Mr. Franklin and Mrs. Walton. They send a warm, knowing smile back to me.

"Kill
em
' with kindness,” I whisper under my breath…as a matter of fact, I think that’ll be the name of my next song.

My family and I load over fifty Thanksgiving meals into our vehicles and hit the streets of our little town. I’m always saddened by the condition of some of the homes where we deliver the meals. Even as tiny as our community is, there are still streets that I never drive down—streets that are lined with dilapidated houses, containing people in need.

Dad, Mama, Megan, and I pull up to a small, brick duplex. A scruffy, wire haired, mixed breed pup yaps loudly on the other side of the crooked fence as my family and I file down the cracked sidewalk. My heart sinks. I spot a miniature, rusting pink bicycle with a flat tire and broken handlebars propped up against the crumbling brick wall.

"Somebody's going to get a new bike from Santa," Mama whispers. I know she and Dad will purchase a new bike and leave it on their porch Christmas day. I feel much better about the situation.

The doorbell is out of order, so I step up and knock three times at the door of the apartment located on the left of the complex.

"Who is it?" a gruff voice questions.

"Um…um…it's your Thanksgiving meals, sir," I stutter. I hear the metal scraping sound of the door chain sliding. The door creaks open slowly, reminding me of the scary movies from Red Box that Megan and I love to watch together. We aren’t sure what is going to greet us from the other side.

"Hey, there!"
I say officially. “We have four meals for your family," I continue.

As I hand them over, the recipient of the Thanksgiving dinners points at me.

"
Duuuude
!
You're the lead singer of Cellar Door Is Gone!” he says in amazement.

"Yes…yeah, I am," I affirm, nodding my head.

"Hey, Junior…
get
out here, man. The lead singer of Cellar Door Is Gone is here, man!" the long-haired rocker yells over his shoulder. He flicks his lit cigarette onto the ground and stomps it out with Jesus sandals that are sandwiched over white crew socks.

I shake his hand and then Junior appears from the back of the tiny, dark apartment.

"I'm Justin Thomas, but everyone calls me
J.T
., and this here's Junior. We're brothers. Man, it is
soooo
cool to meet
ya
!” he says, shouting once again over his shoulder, this time for his wife to come join them.

"I can't believe it! We follow
ya
’ in the paper and have
yer
CD," Junior continues.
“You
dudes’r
great!”

"Well, thanks, man! It’s great to meet you all," I reply, nodding my head. The brothers accept the meals with a heartfelt thank you, and hand them back to Junior's wife, Tiffany.

"Dude, how was it
openin
’
fer
KISS…when are y'all
goin
' on tour again?"
J.T
.
inquires
, rolling both questions together quickly.

"Oh, man, KISS was amazing!" I begin. I’m stoked for the conversation and the avid rockers hang on my every word. "We’ve got plans to go on a radio tour for a couple of weeks before Christmas, and our management’s
workin
' on a tour after the first of the year. We’re
sooo
ready to go," I explain with excitement that is contracted by the two enthusiastic fans.

"Man, that’s just awesome, dude! Hey….can we get a pic with
ya
?" Junior asks.

"Sure, man…no problem. Do
ya
have a camera?" I inquire, stepping back onto the uneven sidewalk.

"Hey Tiff, hand me baby girl's little camera!" Junior calls out. He hands my mom a hot pink Barbie disposable camera.

"Okay," Junior instructs. "Just push this do-dad to take the picture. Then this here disc on the back,
with the
jaggedy
edge, will take
ya
to the next one," he continues. Junior backs up and puts his arm around my shoulder. Mama knows how to use every camera known to man and gets tickled at his tutorial.

"All right.
On three…say 'ROCK ON!'" Mama chimes as she holds up the camera.

J.T
. suddenly spies Megan standing behind Dad. "Hey, young lady, aren't
ya
Forrest's sister?" He asks pointing in her direction.

"Yep, I sure am," Megan answers proudly.

"Well, by dang, then
yer
famous, too. Come get in the pic, girl!"
J.T
. calls out, motioning her over.

Megan bounds over and takes her place in the lineup. I’m grateful for his giving special treatment to Megan, and for the smiles that our visit brings to their faces. I take it all in—the radiant fall morning, the yipping Heinz 57 dog barking at the fence, and the plastic quacking sound of Mama advancing the film on the Barbie camera. It’s all heartwarming.

I think about how the pictures are going to turn out—me smiling, Megan giggling,
J.T.'s
mullet blowing in the breeze, and Junior's eyes closed, while grinning from ear to ear.

As Mama snaps the last picture, we hear a honk from the street. Kyle sees us and waves enthusiastically, as he pulls his pickup truck parallel to the curb.

"Hey, man!” I greet him. I begin to make my way back down the sidewalk, but my journey is interrupted by Megan, who almost knocks me over as she comes darting by me in a flash.

I stop dead in my tracks, trying to figure out where the fire is. I haven’t seen Megan move this fast since Dad chased her around with a mousetrap, complete with deceased mouse.

My
jaw goes slack as I witness my sister run to the driver side window of the truck and kiss
my best friend. Yes—Megan kissed Kyle!

“Are you KIDDING
meee
!
" I gasp.
"REALLY?”