Red Dirt Rocker (3 page)

"Yeah, yeah.
I saw it yesterday.” I say without interest. “I like my truck. I can go
muddin
’ on the back roads, and haul hay for my Aunt Carmen in this baby," I respond, as I pat the warm, slightly cracked leather dashboard affectionately.

"Whatever," Heather dismisses. She grabs me by the arm and cuddles into my sore ribs like a purring kitten. "Can you
pleeease
turn the music down a little bit?" she asks, rubbing her temples, I believe, in an attempt to fake a headache.

"That's twice already this morning," I mumble.

"What, babe?" Heather asks, as she surveys her perfect manicure. Each fingernail is embossed with a tiny orange and black tiger paw. I wonder how girls think of these things.

"Oh,
nothin
.’
“Your hair looks nice," I compliment.

Heather smiles and kisses me on the cheek. Her good mood returns with my flattering words. "You’re a living doll, Forrest," she beams as she pulls my rearview mirror down to her eye level. She strokes her perfectly straightened, highlighted hair and reapplies her powder.

I reach up to wipe her finger smudges off my mirror. Sometimes I think Heather bases her good days and bad days on how many compliments she gets. This was compliment number two, if you count the honk she got from the farmer in the one ton truck earlier, and it wasn’t even 8:30 a.m. yet—her day is probably shaping up nicely already.

I make a right onto Broadway. It’s the second day of October and most of the small, worn houses that line the street are already decorated in the Halloween spirit. Hay bales, pumpkins and strung up spider webs make for creepy, quaint curb appeal.

My brakes squeal slightly as I come to a stop in front of Sticky Buns Doughnut Shop. Heather has to have her morning cappuccino. As I enter the small coffee and sugar scented shop, I hear two elderly women whispering rather loudly. I wonder why they’re bothering to whisper at all, since everyone within a twenty foot radius can hear them—the donut shop is probably only a hundred square feet altogether.

The two women have strategically positioned themselves at a table directly by the door so that no one can escape their fastidious inspection. A black velvet painting of a tabby cat with huge, green, exaggerated eyes hangs above them.

They continue to cluck away and their conversation unfortunately drifts along with me as I make my way to the orange and gold chipped linoleum counter.

"Oh, Thelma, I
knooow
!
Ruth Walton has not been widowed for more than eight months and she is
already
holding hands with John Franklin in church at Sunday service!" one of the ladies clucks. Her wrinkled, thin, painted-on ruby lips are pursed together as though she has just sucked on a sour lemon slice.

"It's just
scandalous
!” The other blue-haired patron of the pastry shop agrees. She turns up her nose and shakes her head under hair that is piled high in a perfectly pinned, bluish silver bun.

Well, I happen to know Ruth Walton, and wish the two women would mind their own business. Mrs. Walton lost her husband to a long bout with cancer almost a year ago. She found a companion in John Franklin, who’s an elder in my church. He’d also been widowed years earlier. They’re both very sweet, kind-hearted souls who deserve continued happiness.

I purchase a sugar-free vanilla cappuccino and two maple bars and try to make a clean getaway from the two gossiping hens. As I pull on the door to exit the shop, the dangling brass cowbell that is wired to the top of the door clanks loudly above me. It draws attention to my departure and I know instinctively, as the two women eye me carefully up and down, that I’ll be their next topic of conversation.

My long, shaggy, Peter Frampton-
ish
hair is certainly not the norm for our small, conservative town. I don’t know why I look back. Maybe I’m just hoping that I really do fit in, that it’s just my imagination and the two ladies are back to sipping their coffee and nibbling at their apple fritters, but as I glance back over my shoulder, I notice one of the women pointing at my wallet chain. I’m sure the two busy-bodies think I whip it around in gang fights, but the heavy metal chain really has a valid use—it keeps my wallet from being stolen in a crowd by anchoring it securely in my back pocket—great for concerts.

The tips of my ears begin to warm and tingle, and are doing the proverbial burning from gossip, as I jump back into my truck. I hand Heather the steaming, frothy drink and fire up the engine. She’s changed the dial to a country station while I was inside. The radio is playing a song by Miranda Lambert called, “Famous in a Small Town." It’s a clever country tune that tells the story of gossip in a little town and how it can make some of its town folk "famous" in a not-so-good way.

T
he halls of Coweta High School are buzzing with the festive mood that game day always
brings
. Tiger spirit is thick in the air. Orange and black butcher paper banners with big white shoe polish letters are hung, declaring, “The Tigers are
gonna
leash the Bulldogs!”

I find it kind of odd that
me
and my fellow football players are treated like heroes in both our school and community. We’re warriors of our small town, with many fans pinning their hopes and dreams on the promise of a winning season. Depending on the prestige of our position on the football team, we might score anything from on-the-house burgers and fries from the local Snack Shack to free tokens for car washes at the Country Suds Car Wash. It’s awesome, though—I'm always lucky enough to end up with a full stomach and a clean, shiny truck.

As I make my way down the rowdy hallway, I give three high fives and receive two good luck nods from my fellow Coweta Tigers teammates. I come to a stop when I reach my locker and take a long breath. Unfortunately, I have a bottom locker this year and have to do
squats
every time I need to open it. Squats are okay in football, but not cool in a busy hallway.

As I dig through the disorganized mess inside, Kyle sneaks up on me from behind, giving me a hard shove on the rear that knocks me off balance. I fall face-first into a mass of notebooks and loose-leaf papers.

"
Duuuude
!"
I yell. My voice echoes as I pry my head from the rectangular metal box. With wide eyes, I turn to see my evil buddy holding his stomach. He’s having a great laugh at my expense.

"Who’d
ya
think gave you the love tap…old Mrs. Smith maybe?" Kyle asks, cackling. Mrs. Smith teaches history. She’s fifty-two years old and is unfortunately taken—married for the past thirty-four years, to be exact.

I don’t skip a beat. "No! I thought it was your
mama
, Kyle!" I retort sarcastically.

"
Ohhhh
, that’s
sooo
wrong!” Kyle moans with a tone of defeat. He grabs his chest as though he’s been physically wounded. The score is now one to zip. Victory is mine for the battle of the wits this morning.

"Hey,
ya
’ ready for the game tonight?"
Kyle asks as he helps me retrieve the notebooks and crumbled papers that had shot out of my crammed locker like birthday confetti.

"Yeah, but Coach has been
killin
’ us. I’m still
gimpin
’ from practice yesterday," I complain as I stretch and rub the back of my stiff neck.

"Man, I know…but it’ll all be worth it when we thump the Bulldogs tonight," Kyle agrees. His sympathy is short-lived, however, and he punches me squarely on my aching shoulder. “Try not to be such a girl! See
ya
at lunch, dude!” my best friend adds with an ornery grin as he hands me a handful of papers imprinted with dusty tennis shoe prints.

Kyle and I are off to class. We join the herd as we dive into the swiftly moving river of students, accompanied by the sound of clanging orange-lacquered lockers.

Besides playing football, my other passion is jamming in a
rad
, teen rock band called Cellar Door Is Gone. We play classic rock, along with our original stuff, loud and tight. My first hour at school is with my
bandmates
. I get such a kick out of them. They are
total
dudes.

I dodge a whole fleet of white paper airplanes as I walk through the door of Mrs. Smith’s classroom. I’m glad I scored her as a teacher this year. She smells like tea roses and reminds me of my Nana. Everyone likes her because she doesn’t give homework and never refuses a bathroom pass.

I’m enveloped by the stuffy, floral-scented air as I greet the boys in my band with our secret handshake and fist bump. I spot Jake, our cool-as-a-breeze lead guitarist, at Mrs. Smith's desk, working on a hall pass, even though the tardy bell hasn’t even rung yet.

"Hey Forrest, did
ya
get the show scheduled for Saturday in Tulsa?" asks our drummer, Cody. Cody is quiet and unassuming. He’s got a shy smile that throws people off. His sandpaper sense of humor is dry—his random one-liners always crack me up.

“Yep, I sure did. We go on at nine o’clock…we can take the gear in my truck. My aunt’s driving, too, so if any of you wants a girlfriend to go, she's welcome to ride with her,” I offer.

"What girlfriends?" Randy, our band’s bass player whines. “
Duuude
, you’re the only one with a girlfriend right now,” he continues, as he carefully folds his past due English homework into the shape of a fighter jet.

“What about the hot chick you said you’ve been
talkin
’ to for the past two weeks?” I inquire with a wink in Cody’s direction.

“On-line girlfriends don’t count, man,” Cody teases.

“Hey, I’m
gonna
meet her someday…I can’t help it if she lives in Canada!” Randy responds
defensively.

“
Ummm
…any ideas on how you’re magically
gonna
become six feet two with abs of steel…not too smart sending ‘cyber-girl’ a picture of the captain of the basketball team, Einstein,” Cody continues.

“Hey! I’m
startin
’ a workout routine.” Randy defends earnestly as he launches his stealthy folded airplane at Cody, nailing him right in the nose. He immediately regrets the decision. “Oh, shoot, give that back, dude. I have to turn that in next hour,” Randy pleads in vain.

As Randy tries to retrieve his homework from Cody, who’s holding the half-finished book report/Boeing 747 above his head out of his reach, I begin to think how awesome it would be to have a girlfriend who would actually come hear me play. I know Heather won’t be coming to my show. She attended one of our concerts a week after she and I started dating, but complained that it just wasn't her cup of tea—the music was too loud. I told her I understood, but deep down I wish she liked the same music as me.

"Dang, I'm hungry," Randy grumbles, rubbing his chubby stomach. “I'm
gonna
get a bathroom pass and hit the vending machines by the teacher’s lounge. You losers want anything?" he asks as he checks his Hot Topic hoodie pocket for loose change. He finds fifty cents in dimes and nickels, and begins scraping lint-covered, green spearmint gum off of one of the coins.