Red Dirt Rocker (5 page)

"
What
the
heck
!" Kyle wails as he sprints over to my defense. I grab my wrist. My heart skips a beat.
Okay, it's not broken
, I think, relieved, as I survey the movement in my joints.

Kyle grabs for my good hand and steadies me back onto my cleats. I glare at
D.J
. and Sam with clenched teeth, my jaw muscles pulsing with anger.

“
What were you thinking
? Why did you hit me, you
freakin
’ idiot?” I growl, holding my arm to my side. "How stupid can you be? I didn’t even see you coming, dude," I fume.

"Oh, Forrest.
Box didn’t mean to hurt
ya
. Can't
ya
take a joke?"
D.J
. sings out sarcastically. “Just let your boyfriend Kyle comfort you.”

"Not a funny joke!"
Having said that, Kyle then lunges at them, kicking up the orange clay so it drifts their way.

"It's all right, man. I'm okay, Kyle." I assure him as I try to collect my thoughts. I knot Kyle’s jersey between my fingers and pull him back. He’s acting like a frenzied-but-tethered pit bull.

The coaches blow the whistle signifying the end of practice. What I really want to do at this moment is to let Kyle go in for the kill, but quickly decide it’s not worth a fight, and I sure don’t want Kyle to get kicked off the team for punching Box or
D.J
. I have to convince Kyle to head back to the field house without popping one of them in the mouth first.

"Man, Forrest…
D.J.’s
a jealous jerk. We
shoulda
’ whipped
em
’ right there on the field," Kyle says, spitting angrily on the chalked sidelines.

"
Naw
.
I'm okay. I know
D.J
. dared Box to tackle me—we all know that Sam’s a few bricks shy of a load anyway. It did
kinda
freak me out when I fell on my wrist, though. My band would kill me if I couldn't play my guitar at the show tomorrow, and my dad would totally freak if I missed the game tonight," I reply, stretching my left arm out in front of me. I know I’m letting them off the hook, but as long as no major damage was done, I’m relieved.

I still fight to control my anger before it gets the best of me. Kyle chunks his cleats in his stale gym locker and slams it shut with a vibrating clang.

"Dang scum-
suckin
’ jerks!" he huffs. "They’d better watch their step, is all I have
ta
say.”

I shower quickly and leave the field house. I have a couple of hours before the game and need to clear my head. I have to keep my cool about the tackling incident because I don’t want Kyle to jeopardize his position on the team by fighting, but inside my blood is boiling. I have to leave quickly before I say or do something I might regret.

I was taught that fighting isn’t the way to solve my problems. I’m not a fighter, although out on the field, I sure wanted to take a piece out of
D.J
. For now, I take solace in the fact that
D.J
. will pay for his jealousy and ignorance someday. Life has a way of taking care of bullies, and
D.J
. is an insecure loser.

I jump in my pickup, gun the engine and head west on Highway 51-B. I turn on my stereo, roll the windows down, and let the sweet country air swirl into the cab and clear my head.

Focusing on the barbed wired fences that I’m driving alongside, I begin to think how they remind me of the rugged, barbed wire tattoos that I’ve seen on so many of my rock heroes. I’m not sure what God thinks of tattoos. I’ve always imagined that if I ever got one, it would be okay with the Man Upstairs, cause I would get my favorite Bible verse permanently inked on my skin: Philippians 4:13. "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me." A pair of rugged praying hands would make it just perfect, I envision.

Right now I need strength to be able to hold my temper, and not tear into
D.J
. I need to go to my practice place and play my guitar. Playing guitar is my form of meditation. It always helps me think calmly and clearly.

M
y favorite place in the whole countryside is our practice headquarters for the band—an old, weathered barn that has been faithfully sitting on Aunt Carmen’s acreage for over fifty years. The barn also houses her quarter horse, Mojo, five farm cats, a goat named
Gotcher
, (as in "got
yer
goat"), dozens of field mice, and even a wise old owl that takes shelter in the hay loft. It also stores all of my band's music gear.

Aunt Carmen's place is a country paradise, with just the right balance of boot-
scootin
' charm and modern luxuries. I often come here to ride Mojo and just chill.

There’s a swimming pool behind the large stone and brick house that a mother duck and her ducklings consider their own private, oversized bird bath. They have a large pond, but leftover corn bread thrown out the back door keeps the feathered friends coming back for more.

The inside of the house is warm and inviting. Aunt Carmen's kitchen has brick floors and a big, black potbelly stove. It looks like an antique, but it’s actually an induction oven. Great Grandma Nellie’s recipes have been handed down to Mama and Aunt Carmen. Grandma's old-fashioned fried chicken and apple pie are still the specialties of the house.

I start for the old red barn and hear Aunt Carmen’s voice echoing from the front porch. "Hey, Forrest, honey! Would
ya
please put Mojo out
ta
pasture before you boys start
yer
band practice? I
gotta
meatloaf in the oven—you’ll need
somethin
' ta eat before
yer
game tonight. Come on in after
yer
done
playin
,' sweetie!" she calls out with a thick southern drawl.

“You got it, Aunt Carmen. Thank you, Ma'am,” I call back to her. My mouth begins to water at the comforting thought of Aunt C’s savory tomato-sauce-topped meatloaf and the fluffy, buttery mashed potatoes that always accompany it.

I pry open the splintered barn door and, as usual, the skittish barn cats shoot out like supersonic fuzz balls over my Sketchers. They jet across the yard to the front porch of the main house. Mollie, the family dog, a chunky black Lab that is old and half blind, tries in vain to catch up to one of the wild kittens. It's not that Mollie would harm the feline—it would be more like she would lick it to death. There’s always a lot of good, old-fashioned hospitality at the farm.

"Come on, Mojo boy," I say as I pat the large beast on his meaty hindquarters. Dust bunnies fly up and swirl in the golden late afternoon sunlight. Mojo is a slick, red sorrel Quarter Horse gelding. I recall wanting to know what a gelding was several years ago, but when I got the answer, I wished I hadn't asked. Let’s just say poor Mojo won’t be making any Mojo Juniors!

"We
gotta
jam, old boy—you'll be better off in the pasture till sunset." I open the black
iron gate
that leads to 40 acres of fertile pasture land and a serene pond loaded with sunny perch. After unfastening the lead rope from Mojo's halter, I watch the liberated beast trot off. His head shakes proudly from side to side. Mojo's coarse, flowing mane flies, burning like flames being fed by the wind.

I smile and think to myself, as I watch the powerful animal pick up speed when he reaches the open field,
That's how I feel when I play my guitar—FREE!

I pull my well-worn guitar case from the back seat of my truck and make my way back to the musty, but weather-tight, barn. A bass amp, two Marshall
amps
, a
mic
stand and a gold chrome
Gretch
drum kit take up the north side of the building. This Jam Barn is the official practice headquarters for my band, Cellar Door Is Gone.

I open my leather guitar case that’s plastered with faded band stickers and pull out my other pride and joy, Betty, my Les Paul sweetheart. Betty is nestled securely against the tattered, red, crushed-velvet case lining. I slip my guitar strap, imprinted with smiling skulls with blue glowing eyes, around my neck. I take a deep breath. Exhaling, I begin my much needed escape.

As I reach down to plug in the cord that runs from my guitar to the amp, I’m grateful for the blank-slate feeling that washes over me. I begin to play a random melody. I think of nothing. I close my eyes and see a symphony of color. I let my calloused fingers strum the yielding metal strings. The confusion that has previously filled my head is replaced by feelings of peace and pure joy. My heart beats strong—I feel in control. No matter what has taken place during the day, or how discouraging life seems to be at the time, I can always count on the power of music to wash it all away. Nothing compares—not video games, not sports, not even girls. Music is my saving grace—music is my true love.

I drift into a song that my band and I had written earlier in the year called “Sweet Goodbye.” My band buds and I have been playing together for five years now. We got together at the ripe old age of eleven. Jake and I heard each other play during our fifth grade talent show. He and I had both started playing guitar at a very early age. Mama raised me on classic rock music, and Jake's family tree was full of southern country rebels who loved to rock, as well.

We needed a drummer and learned that Cody was taking lessons. He lived just a bike ride away. Cody thought he would have to beg his parents to let him move his drum set to Aunt Carmen’s barn, but that wasn’t the case. They were more than grateful for the peace and quiet.

We talked Randy into playing bass for us because he lived just one homestead over and wore awesome vintage concert t-shirts to school. He may have started with us because he lived close by and looked cool, but we kept him with us because he had incredible rhythm and could slap a bass.

Aunt Carmen says our band is as organic as the horse manure in her south forty. I think that means that it all came together in a very natural way. We decided on our band’s name after high speed winds forced me and the boys into the farm’s root cellar one stormy afternoon. We were practicing when Aunt Carmen came busting through the barn door. She had a sense of urgency on her face, and ordered us to follow her while maintaining a controlled panic.

As we ran across the farmyard, I noticed the sky had turned a sickly grey-green color. Hail the size of quarters began pelting us. I spotted Mollie trying to squeeze through the lattice under the front porch and sprinted to pick her up. Aunt Carmen screamed for me to let her be, but I just couldn’t. I grabbed Mollie, soaking my shirt with the
skunky
smell of wet dog, and jogged back to the shelter. I handed her down to the other boys as she grunted and groaned from arthritis. I then insisted that Aunt Carmen climb down the steep rickety steps before me.

As I held the door open for her, the hail stopped. It was as if someone had flipped a switch and blackness came. It became eerily calm. I started my descent down the cellar stairs. It was like a scene from a nightmare. I looked up to see the wicked side-winding twister that had emerged from the ominous squall line. The door
fell
shut with a sharp crack and we all huddled together in the darkness. The smell of garden onions and dusty potatoes was thick in the humid air.