Leonard reclined in the lawn chair, a folder with nylon striped webbing, beneath an elderly and sprawling oak, his rangy frame sprawling in limbs and angles. The day had long since past, and with it half the night as well. He ran his tired, bare feet through the thick grass beneath them, and remembered summer evenings doing the same in front of his parents’ home after a long day in the hay fields. Cool, soft grass to tired feet. Earthing, grounding, the dirt hippies he knew called it.
His back and shoulder ached from slinging the old slab-body P-bass he’d swore at—and off—thirty years ago. It was a bit of a beast, but first loves can be that way.
Godric ambled down the steps, pausing on the lowest to sample the night air, a veritable stew of epic proportion to his canine mind. He raised his brindle muzzle, drank in the essence of county fairs as they are in every rural county, blinking in pleasure, pure doggy crack. Then, taking the last step out of the fifth wheel RV, he made his way to the young man seated across from Leonard, perched atop a wooden picnic table, benches attached. Sniffed bare legs below tan cargo shorts.
“Is he—o.k. with strangers?”. Nervous.
“He only bites lawyers and promoters.” Leonard eyed the youth. “Journalists are too bitter for him.” A square muzzle shoved itself under his arm, head resting on his lap. “I guess you’re safe tonight, he likes you.” The writer uncoiled, feeling awkward. He was here to interview an icon more than twice his age, and the first thing he had to do was get past his fear of pitbulls. Tentatively, he stroked the head of the brute, who then began to climb in his lap.
Leonard laughed, a weary and honest sound, chronically tired voice calling Godric off. The dog came to him, laid at his feet.
“Michael Collins, Righteous Rocker magazine.” They shook over Godric, who raised his head, settled. “Mind if I tape?” Michael asked, setting out a recorder. “Long as you don’t mind I do as well.” Leonard set another out.
Michael smiled. “Not at all. Veteran move.”
Leonard ran his hands through shaggy hair, produced a cowboy hat, pulled it down tight and mock-tucked his chin, one hand up on non-existent fence. “Open the gate, let’s ride.”
“Dad rock.” Michael threw a grenade. Leonard grinned. “I like you, kid. Old enough to drink?” He fished a long-neck from the cooler next to the chair and handed it to his interviewer. Another for himself. “Dad rock? O.k.”
A pause as both cracked tops and drank the cold carbonation and blessed fermentation.
“Proof God loves all men and wants them to be happy,” Leonard invoked. “I guess Dad rock was followed by mom jeans. Dad rock, arena rock, it was just. . . everything was getting so big, and fast. Too fast.”
“How so?”
“The A&R money got so big, bands were getting snapped up before they were seasoned. Mature. Sober. It was not a time of sobriety, nationally or culturally.”
Leonard leaned forward now, warming. He’d lectured a few semesters locally at a community college. Dr. Rockster indeed.
“Fair enough. Who do say the Kings of the genre were?”. He hoped for some juice.
“Man, Kings.. .that’s tough. I’ll throw names. Grand Funk Railroad. Stones. Foghat. Nazareth. BTO. Thin Lizzy. Aerosmith. Foreigner. Foreigner! And Van Halen, of course, although they kinda bridge. Ed was somethin’.” Paused now, and Leonard looked out at the stars in the night sky. They howled back at him with amplifier feedback and tinnitis.
“Isn’t this arena rock?” asked Michael, leaning back to adjust his DMW t-shirt, grabbing the bottom corners below the logo just enough not like the BMW logo to have have through lawsuits three times. The fourth time had resulted in compromise, putting DMW’s mascot on the hood of a Beemer, as this shirt depicted.
“Man, what that cost you? Lawsuit-era shirt, nice score.” Reclined, ice fishing with one long arm, Yarded out two more. “Barley pop?”. Smiled. Tops crack. Leonard hooks his cap on a thumb, holds his elbow up and snaps his finger. The cap spins off into the night.
“Two drink minimum, two drink maximum. We go later, it’s cafe au lait pour moi. You keep me interested, if you want, you ride with me to the next gig and we keep rolling tape.”
Michael laughed. “Ones and zeros, Dad.” A little too loose and unprofessional.
“You’re grounded. Where were we?”. Leonard didn’t mind. Preferred things loose.
“I have no—um, arena rock. Let’s go back to there. Do you consider DMW an arena rock band?” Michael sighed mentally, thankful this veteran road warrior was allowing him to control the interview. He knew DLR would destroyed him tonight. Dave obliterated veterans for his own entertainment.
“Well. . .it’s unavoidable, isn’t it? Corporate label aside—I won’t accept that ‘corporate rock’ label without the commensurate bennies.” He sighed and stretched out lengthwise, unwinding all six foot eight of himself and feeling every ache in his bones at this late hour, pulled off the hat to tousle his hair and repositioned it, set low on his brow as if fighting the setting sun, pulled on a pair of non-descript, worn cowboy boots and motioned Michael to join him. “I gotta move these long bones, brother,” and patted Michael’s shoulder with one strong hand, gave a squeeze and let go. Michael felt pulled deeper into the orbit. Hard not to, he had that thing. Not that lead singer thing, something quieter.
Godric fell in leashless, though Leonard had stuffed one half in his back pocket. He stopped here and there to sniff and mark, trot to catch up. Masses of muscle bounced, flexed as he alternately paced and explored. Passing other bumper-hitchs, fifth wheels, motor homes and coaches in the lot, Michael asked Leonard why he wasn’t traveling in a coach or with the rest of the band.
“We lived it; the van life, but four guys in an old Econoline. Sometimes we’d laugh so hard, the absurdly brutal conditions. No room for drama, ego…and we had it.” He smiled, shook his head. “It’s a wonder, ya know. None of us ended up buried, roadside." He continued, “We thought we died, that first tour we finally flew. Hotels. Beds. Showers! Leave it, ya’ole pirate.” That last to Godric, who had found stranded leftovers. His recorder bounced along in a chest pocket of his flannel, flowing open over a a black tank of the band that had opened for them.
Leonard followed his eyes. “Good kids, hard-workers. A little old-school. Anything I can pay forward.”
“Anybody do that for you?” Michael asked.
“Yeah, they did. Great compliment. Steven and Joe—”
“Thee Steven and Joe? Toxic Twins?”
“Yeah, busted drunk and disorderly in Texas. Handlers bailed them out, the cops were cool about it, really.”
“How so?”
Some rock mag photographer promised the cops something, I don’t know what—restaged the arrest, and there were, cover. Not us, us on Steven and Joe’s back, up against a patrol car, hands on hood.”
“Rolling Stone? I didn’t know that.” Michael finished his beer, tossed the bottle in a passing trash can.”
“Only time we were ever on that big billboard. Still got us a few thousand saleswise. Big bump for the little band that could.”
They approached a closed gate manned by a tired security guard in a rumpled white uniform shirt and black Proppers.
“Sorry, sir, we’re closed for the night.” Hector on his shirt. Boilerplate. Then, looking up, “Leonard, my man, I heard you guys! Great show, you were en fuego, holmes.” They hugged, chest and backslap, shook armwrestler-style. Ink from sleeves over hands, up his neck.
“Thank you, tall cotton comin’ from you.” Earnest. “How’s ‘Lupe and lil Benedetto?”
“Lupe’s embarazada,” he said, miming an arc well in front of his round belly, “and Benedetto’s mucho gordo, I tell you, he’s a little butterball.” He beamed proudly. “You gonna load out?” he gestured a thumb over his shoulder toward the venue Leonard had recently played. “Nooo, el periodista interviewing an old dinossaur, thought we’d walk the barns.” Hector was rubbing the inside of Godric’s left ear. Godric was doggy-blissed. “They all got one,” Hector to Michael’s unasked question.
“Madre de Mio, I almost forgot. Lupe sent tamales for you.”
“Padre tax?” Leonard from under the brim of his hat, all mischief and white teeth.
“Busss-ted!” they laughed and hugged again, and Hector sent them off with a plastic grocery bag of what Michael guessed was foil-wrapped contraband, culinary-style.
“Where are we going, and how do you know—Hector, is it?—and what more of pay-it-forward with the shirts?”. Shotgun, wanting it all before he forgot, feeling a rock star road trip coming up.
Leonard’s professionally white smile blew halogen under cobalt-blue eyes.
“That’s the spirit, Grasshopper! Get it outa your head, we can always rewind.”
Michael a took a breath, nodded. Coach.
“Debbie Harry saw the pic of the guys, did a cameo on Miami Vice—”
“TV show? Tubbs and Crockett, all that?”
“Yeah. Sportin’ a pruned version of our shirt, lookin’ like. . .Hector would say en fuego, they shot her dancing with David Bowie, playing a drug dealer, and there we were on network TV, back when that was a big deal.”
“Did you ever get a chance to thank her?”
“Did. Pictures didn’t do her justice. Pretty lady.”
“And?”
“And nothing. Chance meeting in the music world, son. Happens.” A sideways look from under the brim, like a major league pitcher looking back a runner.
“Fair enough. Destination?” They had been threading through the edge of the Midway, the trees and grass interspersed with corrals made of stout metal livestock panels, green, tagged with Powder River logo.
“Horse barns.”
Michael’s broad forehead wrinkled with raised eyebrows.
“Part owner thing.”
“Is there a story—? Wait! Hector.” Smoothing back his not-quite-corporate locks back.
“When we get down to the stall. Want to put my hands on horseflesh.”
A few more barns filled with bulls, steers, cow/calf pairs. Ribbons, pictures, names of animals, owners and clubs adorned overhead the crossties, open-ended affairs that left the animals in full view of the public, then the horse barns.
“Meet Smoke”. Leonard was rubbing the jaw of a grey mare who was sleepily appreciative of the attention. Her ears drooped and she rested her head on his shoulder. Leonard had rolled the door partially open and had moved to her chest, evidently a place not unlike Godric’s left ear.
“She’s. . .big.” El periodista ran his hands over her back. “Soft,” then, sniffing his hands, wrinkled his nose. “Stinky.”
‘That’s equine perfume.” Godric had found a half-eaten hotdog and completed the task. He looked satisfied. Smug. He licked a smear of ketchup and mustard of his muzzle and went in search of a chaser.
“I met Hector a handful of years back. He was fresh out the Army, he roadied for us for a while. Came here, met a girl, never got back on the bus, never looked back.” Leonard walked around Smoke slowly, running his hand down the length of her back and down her left hind leg. She obediently lifted the foot, leaned lazily on him. He gently manipulated her foot on the coffin joint and pastern, up to the fetlock. No heat, and she hadn’t pulled away. He gave her foot back and stood up.
“Everything o.k.?”, lowering himself onto a well-worn homemade tack box.
“Lot of heat in her lower leg, pastern down, she came up lame after western saddle reining comp. Seems better now. I’ll put on a wrap anyway.” Fished a rolled wrap out of an upright locker and began wrapping the leg in question.
“You know these people, how?” eyebrows raised. Michael is studying him, measuring. Taking in contradiction. Anachronism. Incongruity.
“After soundcheck, had time to kill, so I was down at the arena. Happened to be near when Jesse, the daughter, brought Smoke out, limping. Little girl cryin’ in her boots n’ chaps, and her folks didn’t sound like they could front a vet bill.”
“What was wrong?”
“SDFT tendon,” Leonard walked around the far side of the mare, stopping at her right rear leg. Bent and pointed, “See this ‘backward’ joint? That’s the hock. Think of it like an elbow. There’s a massive tendon that runs up the back of the leg from the ‘ankle’, or fetlock, over the ‘elbow’, or hock, and Smoke’s wasn’t great. Not horrible. Pretty hot, though.” He turned the mare around, who by now was nearly sleep-walking, and put her back in the stall, rolled the door shut, latched and locked it.
By now, Michael was black-eyed and stifling yawns and Godric was out cold, wimpering and wuffling, paws flipping.
“Squirrel. One day he’ll catch him. Ready for some coffee? Let’s move some.”
Back at the trailer, Godric gave up immediately and bedded down on a sofa. The ridge to the east of the tight valley they occupied was acquiring a thin, pale line.
Zombie hour had arrived, but the aging musician looked fresh, better than he had at 2 a.m..
Leonard loaded up an aging Krups espresso machine with coffee grounds.
“What’ll ya have? Espresso, cap, latte…?”
“That a 963?”
“Barista much, Mikee?”
“Got me through college.”
“Where?” Steam, and foam frothing in a stainless pitcher. Michael felt a wave of nostalgia suddenly. All-nighters, beer and coffee, crazy conversations. Felt like university, minus the RV and aging rock legend.
Surreal. That’s why he’d taken the job.
“University of Iowa for my M.F.A.. It was either that or journalism at U.W. in Seattle. I didn’t think that city and I would get along, and it seemed like most journalism had become creative. Anyway,” sipping coffee as Leonard set it down, joined him at the fold-out table, “the horse, then I think some rack time, then I’ve got more if the offer’s still open.” Leonard measured him, appraising. Nodded.
“I overheard enough, and wanted to help. I introduced myself and said I wanted to help if I could. Covered the vet bill and any subsequent treatment in exchange for the privilege of buying that mare’s baby after she’s bred to a stud I have use of.”
“You’ve got horses now?” Michael finds himself unsurprised.
“Little place in Oregon. West of the Cascades. A little gem in the Umpqua Valley. That mare’s a Kieger herd Mustang. I know just the man for her.”
“Now, about that offer,” he said, grinning.
“Yeah?”
“You run a thirteen speed?”.
Michael woke to mid-morning sun through the windows. The smell of bacon, eggs, and coffee stirred his senses. He made his way to the bathroom, got himself sorted out, then back to the dining area where he was met by a cup of coffee handed by hands not Leonard’s.
“Not a groupie,” she said as she went back to cooking.
“I, uh—”
“It was all over your face. Over well? You look like an ‘over well’ kinda guy.”
“Sure” then “What does an ‘over well’ guy look like?” Coffee was bliss after a short night.
“Like someone who doesn’t like to get his hands dirty,'“ she answered amicably.
“Ouch. First blood. Where’s—”.
“Grandpa Leo’s out for a run with Cap’n Jack.”
“Grandp—”
“No relation, he’s just my Grandpa.” Matter-of-fact. She dished hashbrowns and turned to push the plate to him.
Everything on his plate looked perfect.
At that moment Leonard and Godric made their entrance, equally panting.
“Michael, Kyra, Kyra, Michael” he got out by way of introduction, about one word per breath, then made his way back to change, dripping.
Kyra dashed out, “Plate for grandpa Leo on the stove” over her shoulder and she was gone like a forceful spring storm, brunette ponytail bouncing to the quick pace she had set.
Michael stood a moment, looking to the path each had taken in opposing directions, then down at the eyes laser-locked on his plate. A rope of drool landed on Michael’s bare foot. He sighed, then the two of them went down the stairs and out front of the RV for breakfast in mid-morning sun.
“What did you think of my cook?”, as Leonard joined him. Godric’s head swiveled back and forth, suddenly at the Wimbleton of breakfast-begging.
Michael looked to Leonard over a forkful of breakfast bliss, raised his eyebrows and smiled.
“Yeah, she is that.” Grinned and then bowed and crossed himself, said a quick prayer and dug in.
Breakfast wrapped, it was time to pull up stakes and roll. Leonard walked the inside, securing loose items while Michael did dishes. Then the pop-outs were cranked in on electric motors as were the awnings. Electric, water and sewage were all disconnected. Lawn chairs folded and stowed, last walk-around, then they loaded in the white tractor hooked to the trailer, a plain white semi tractor with four doors rather than a sleeper and a bench seat where the bunk would have been. Not For Hire was painted along the bottom edge of both front doors, and 80,000 GVW. Michael took shotgun, Godric stood between the two on a custom dog-box covered in non-skid material. Kyra piled in the back row at the last moment, backpack over one shoulder.
“Don’t mind me. Carry on.” Fished out earbuds and her phone.
“Leonard, where’s next stop? Editor wants to know. He says there’s liability, I think he talked to legal.”
“They on now?”. Out the gate, and a flagger’s waving them onto the on-ramp for I-5 South.
“On mute.”
“Sandpoint, Idaho. We’ll be there this evening.”
Michael relayed the info and ended the call.
They wound their way through the city limits quickly and broke free, the speed limit jumped. Leonard fell in line with an empty train of triples snaking it’s way through truck traffic slowed by the roller coaster sets of hills.
“My wiki is pretty solid,” Leonard volunteered. “Our fans do a great job at that.”
“Thanks. Yeah, I don’t want to take up your time covering boilerplate stuff.”
Silence, but for road noise. Kyra began singing along with her phone. Michael was taken aback. She sang like she cooked. Leonard reached back, tapped her knee.
“Want to work on that one?”
She paired her phone with the stereo. Fleetwood Mac came on, Rhiannon. Leonard sang the backing parts. Michael, for his part, tried not to stare.
“Not bad, huh?” Leonard said, when they were done, a little Buffalo sneaking through. “Jaime does a great job with the Buckingham parts. Not cookie-cutter, but he’s got that range. Makes it his own.” Jaime, the Brian Johnson of the band, having replaced Thomas Randall on his untimely demise. Old history, and well-worn.
“Old man still has some surprises.” Shot Michael a quick grin.
“Kyra”
“Yeah?” Eyebrows arched. Pops was flexing now.
“Seven Bridges Road.”
Michael checked the batteries on his recorder. This ought to be special.
Looked over to see Kyra’s enigmatic smile. Godric busked for ear scratches. Summer smells of drying grass and pennyroyal mingled with blackberry blossom and clover flowers wafted through the window. Leonard at the wheel.
Then she sang.
‘
Scary doggie!!