C h a p t e r  O n e

"Duncan!" yelled Michael from the driver's side window of our Ford Econoline van. "We're waiting!" Although he couldn't see me in the tall grass, he knew damn well what I was up to. "Get your ass over here now, or we're leaving without you. And it's a long goddamn walk from Madison to the farmhouse!"
    They were all sitting in the van while I fondled a beautiful young woman in a lush Wisconsin field. With so many stars in the moonless night sky, it seemed like she and I were huddled together under a giant star-bearing tree. There couldn't have been a more perfect evening for lovers.
    "Thirty seconds til we're outta here!" It sounded like he was using a megaphone. "Last warning, shithead!"
    "Don't go just yet," my new friend said, pulling me closer.
    Her plea held my insides as firmly as her hands gripped my body. I was dizzy with decisions. This was not going to be easy. I felt like an Apollo astronaut just one rung of the ladder away from the wondrous lunar landscape—but Houston was calling me back home.
    "Time's up, Duncan!" Michael was unavoidable. Since he had done it before, I knew they would drive off without me.
    When I tried to pull away, the touch of her skin drew me back. My mouth was on hers. "I've... got... to... go."
    Nibbling my lip, she softly replied, "Stay with me a little longer."
    I could hear the van's engine revving. Lifting myself up on one elbow, I looked toward the parking lot and then back at her. The sound of the gearshift grinding from Park to Drive told me they were about to leave. I quickly stood up.
    "I think we'll be back at the end of next month," I said, brushing the grass from the front of my shirt. "If you call the club, they'll know the dates."
    Still lying down, she put both hands behind her head like a pillow. Her blouse remained open.
    I tried to sound sincere while briskly zipping up my pants. "Maybe we can get together then."
    She slowly sat up, pulled her blouse closed and began buttoning it.
    I knelt down for a last kiss good-night, but she turned and all I got was cold cheek. Standing back up, I said, "Well... it was nice meeting you."
    She didn't say anything.
    "So I'll look for you next time we're here. Okay?"
    No reaction.
   Leaving her in that grassy field, tucking my shirt in along the way, I ran to the passenger side of the van. It was already moving when I jumped in and slid the side door shut.
    Michael was sitting behind the wheel—quietly seething. For such a frail intellectual, he certainly had balls. When I first joined the band in the spring of 1972, his rigid personality caught me off guard. After touring with him for over two years now, and living in the same house more than half that time, I'd learned to simply ignore him when he was angry. Confrontation, while trying to justify a position in conflict with his, rarely worked. Right now, not saying a word would be the best thing I could do.
    Pharaoh was sitting up front in the passenger seat. His long red pony tail fell across his shoulder as he turned around to pass me his little silver pot pipe. "Care for a hit?"
    My mind was whirling, not yet settled. "No... thanks... I'm alright." I may have been in the van, but it felt like part of me was still lying out on that field. Her delicate scent, still on me, had me pleasantly distracted.
    "We should learn some more Bob Marley tunes," Pharaoh said, taking a toke. "I have a feeling that reggae thing's gonna catch on."
    "Huh? Sure... fine by me." I was mad at myself for not getting her phone number—or even her name, for that matter.
    As we pulled out of the parking lot, I could see her shadowed outline standing in the field some twenty yards away. I squinted through the dark, but couldn't tell what she was doing—she was either waving or giving me the finger.

***
After traveling in silence for a short distance, Jodi leaned forward and turned toward me. "There's a line in your new song I really like, Duncan."
    Relieved the subject was music rather than my being late, I acknowledged the song. "'In Between?' Oh yeah, which line?"
    "Actually, it's the last two in the bridge," she said. "'From the pool she wandered in one night. Could something wrong become something right?' Those two."
    "Well, does it?" Blam asked. Our drummer's real name was Bennett Barker, but we always used his nickname. He was in the back seat between Jodi and me.
    "Does it what?" I asked.
    "Does it become something right?"
    "It could go either way, actually. The rest of the lyrics are about a woman who's got it made, but considers risking everything for a guy not really up to her standards. It's like—"
    "Like she's something special," Pharaoh suggested, "but he's just the guitar player in a band."
    "Real funny," I said, knowing his guitar player reference was pointed at me. "I was going to say it's like an unresolved mystery. That's why the last line in the chorus is a question: 'Will they meet in between?'"
    "The lyric hints at them getting together," Jodi said, "but I'm not so sure. I think she'd know better."
    "Yeah, I suppose," I agreed. "In the real world, the poor schmuck probably ends up alone and confused."
    Blam reached forward and jiggled the driver's seat. "Hey, Michael. How come we don't play more of Duncan's songs?"
    "Not again," Michael hissed. "We've gone over this too many times to count." Blam should have known better than to bring up an old argument, especially while Michael was angry. Without taking his eyes off the road, Michael restated his point. "The reason we're always working, unlike most bands, is because we play the songs that club owners want us to play. It's plain and simple: we're not an original act, we're a cover band. Our job is to give them what they want, and they want songs they're familiar with. Even so, we've got eight of Duncan's tunes on the goddamn list. Isn't that enough?"
    "I just like them, that's all." Blam was a kind-hearted guy, but far from the highest leaf on the tree. His styled black hair hung neatly to his shoulders, his shirt was open to his navel, exposing a proud, muscular chest. Twisting one end of his mustache, he added, "Sorry for asking."
    Michael was right, we were a hardworking cover band. During a typical month we rarely had fewer than fifteen bookings on our calendar, but twenty was more common. Our travels took us around most of the states in the Midwest, sometimes doing two shows on the same day. It didn't bother us how many miles we logged, or how many motel desk clerks knew us by our first names. We loved being musicians—even if that meant playing other people's music.

***
After making a few turns, we were on the county road that would take us to the highway. There weren't any streetlights this far out of town so, without a moon to assist, only the van's high beams illuminated our way through the darkness. I was hoping to relax and settle in for the long drive home, but no such luck.
    "What's with you, Duncan?" Michael said. There was a harsh, judgmental tone to his voice.
    "Please, don't start something," I said.
    "Me?! You already have! You didn't help us tear down the PA, or pack up any cords or anything. Instead, you just grabbed your amp and guitar and vanished."
    "I loaded them into the trailer." I knew it was a thin defense as soon as I'd said it.
    "Oh, please. Give me a fucking break. After the rest of us finished packing everything else, we had to spend time looking for you. A friend of that girl you were with saw you both tromp into that field. You're lucky she told us or we would've left your ass behind."
    "You almost did anyway."
    "Listen, I could give a shit how many times a night you get laid, but I'm talking about something else, alright? Like the fact that four other people are tired and want to get back home before daybreak. We could be halfway there by now if it weren't for your insatiable appetite for women."
    Michael was exaggerating—at least about being halfway home. But I had to admit, he wasn't all wrong. Ever since the fourth grade, when I ogled through the pages of a Playboy magazine my father had inadvertently left in the bathroom, I'd been in love with—and distracted by—the female form.
    "I said I'm sorry."
    "You're not a solo act, Duncan. You're one part of a five-piece band. That's something you tend to forget whenever your little head's doing the thinking."
    "It won't happen again. I promise." Although I'd said it, I wasn't sure it was a promise I could keep.
    Under his breath, Michael grumbled, "That pretty smile's going to get you in trouble someday."
    Knowing Michael's lecture on band compassion had finally come to an end, I tapped Pharaoh on the shoulder. "Hey, is there anything left in your pipe?"

***
Even though we all liked to travel, we also enjoyed the solitude of our farmhouse. Especially after a long road trip.
    A year ago last summer Michael had gotten the idea that we should move in together. Although he was met with resistance at first, it only made sense. When he pointed out how much money we would save by renting one big house instead of five separate apartments in the city, we packed up and moved to the country. Rent on the place he'd found was only $150 per month split between the five of us—a big savings until last winter's brutal cold and relentless snowfall turned the countryside into a frozen wasteland. Our house—sitting out in the unprotected open—was like a 3000 square-foot block of ice. It seemed every penny we made went toward heating oil for the drafty old place. After that experience, we had learned to appreciate the hot, muggy, cheap Wisconsin summers.
    The house was located on a county road about 25 miles southwest of a medium-sized town called Wausau. A brick two-story built in 1897, it had five bedrooms and two full baths. There was a covered porch along the driveway side that was great for relaxing. We used the large living room as our rehearsal space, and spent a lot of time in the den and the kitchen. The house sat on hundreds of acres—some farmed, some wild—that bumped up against hundreds of other acres owned by our neighbor—a farmer we'd never met because he and his family lived about three miles down the road.
    The farmhouse was a quiet, secluded place, perfect for anyone with a passion for privacy. If you preferred the hustle and bustle of the big city, its silence might eventually drive you crazy. As a bar band constantly surrounded by noise, we found the place to be a tranquil refuge from the road. Since the day we'd moved in, it had affectionately been known as Green Acres.

***
The two-hour drive from the club back home went by quickly. Michael pulled into our gravel driveway and shut off the engine. A single bulb above the kitchen door illuminated the side porch. So the house didn't look deserted at night—even though most of the time it was—we always left the light on.
    "Alright people," Pharaoh said, "the plane has landed. Don't forget all your crap in the overhead bins, and please tip the stewardess."
    After everyone got out of the van, Michael unlocked the equipment trailer we pulled behind it. Jodi quickly found her duffel bag, then walked up the porch steps and inside the house—the kitchen lights came on. Unless it was cold outside, we usually left most of the gear in the trailer until morning. Pharaoh snagged his bass, I got my guitar, we all grabbed our bags and that was that. After Michael'd put the padlock back in place, everyone followed Jodi inside.
    "I'm going to bed," Blam said, heading straight through the kitchen toward the stairs. "Catch you in the morning."
    "It is morning," Jodi said.
    "Hey, it's dark out, isn't it?"
    "So?"
    "So, as far as I'm concerned it's still night. When I open my eyes and it's light outside, then it's morning." Who could argue with logic like that? Blam gave a short wave and headed upstairs to his room.
    "That was a fun trip, boys," Jodi said, taking a seat at the kitchen table. "The last two nights at The Octopus were my favorite. What a fabulous place."
    The owners of The Octopus—the club we'd just come from—had bought up a big plot of land on the far west side of Madison. To the east was city, and to the west lay nothing but miles of country field. On that land they'd built a brand new place from the ground up. Aside from the immense neon octopus that hung distendedly above the front entrance, the outside wasn't much to look at—all the money had been spent decorating the club's spacious interior. Our band was hired for their grand opening nine months back. It was a wild bash that included giant outdoor search lights crisscrossing the night sky, a cavalcade of local celebrities, and a live simulcast on Madison's hottest FM rock station. We'd played there one weekend a month ever since.
    "They didn't miss a trick," I said. "I dig how that huge dance floor's a few feet lower than the rest of the place."
    "Yeah," Pharaoh said, "It's cool how everybody can lean against the railings and watch."     "It's become the hippest club on the circuit," Jodi said. "Great stage, great lights, and it's always packed. I love it!"
    She was right. At this level of the music game there was an abundance of sleazy dives all along the road. The Octopus was different. Places like that were as rare as malnourished bouncers.
    "I'm going to bed," Michael said, uninterested in the conversation. He thumbed through his date book as he walked out of the kitchen. Without looking back, he said, "In case anyone wants to know, we're playing there again on the twenty-first and twenty-second of next month." His voice was muffled as he disappeared up the stairs.
    Jodi released her thick blonde hair from the rubber band that restrained it. Shaking it loose, she said, "I am so looking forward to a few days off. I'm going to read Gone With The Wind and take several baths. That's my entire agenda."
    "I started that book way back in the eleventh grade," Pharaoh said.
    "Oh, yeah? How'd you like it?" she asked.
    "Still haven't finished."

***
Although it was almost 4:30 on Sunday morning, Pharaoh, Jodi and I stayed up a bit longer reminiscing about the week past. After several days on the road, there were always a few good stories to tell. Like the one about the guy at The Dangle Lounge in Green Bay. He had been dancing and drinking all night long when something possessed him to jump up on the bar and give the crowd a show. Unfortunately for him, he was too loaded to notice that the ceiling fans hung at eye level—when you're standing on the bar, anyway—and got clunked in the head by a rapidly spinning blade. The whole room gasped as he fell hard to the floor, knocking over a couple of bar stools on his way down. We just kept right on playing. Sprawled faced down on the dirty floor, it looked like he was dead to the world. After lying there for several seconds, he suddenly popped up on his feet, seemingly clueless of his mishap, and continued to dance as if he hadn't missed a beat. He wore a pickled drunk's grin and a thin red welt across his forehead.
    The very next night, at one of our favorite clubs in Rockford called Poindexter's, a couple of girls came in and started dancing together. One of them was tall, fit, and dressed in skin-tight, low-cut, black spandex pants. She had on black stiletto heels and a yellow tube top that revealed a flat, tiny waist. We'd all seen plenty of flashy women before, but none who danced the way she did. While grinding nice and slow to a particularly sultry song we were playing, she bent forward and took a hold of her right ankle. She stayed in that position for a moment, then gracefully straightened back up and proceeded to lift her right leg completely over her head—she didn't stop until her toes pointed directly at the ceiling above her. With her hand still holding her ankle, and her leg fully extended, she began a slow, erotic pirouette to the beat of the music. When she leaned her head back, her long black hair reached the arch of her back. As we brought the song to an end, she lowered her stiletto smoothly to the ground and then strolled seductively off the dance floor. Reaching her table, she picked up her Piña Colada and sipped on the straw like she was sucking on a popsicle.
    "You guys were completely mesmerized," Jodi laughed. "Your tongues were hanging out and you were drooling all over yourselves. It was pitiful."
    "Well, I'm not so sure about the drooling part," Pharaoh said.
    "Anyway, most dancers can do that." Jodi stood up from the table, casually bent forward and grasped her right ankle. After lifting her foot all the way over her head, both legs formed a straight line from the tips of her toes pointing at the ceiling to the bottom of her left foot planted firmly on the floor. "So what's the big deal?" She did one quick spin and then brought her leg back down. After picking up her duffel bag, she gave us each a kiss on the forehead. "I'm going to bed. Goodnight boys."
    Besides being one of the band's singers, Jodi was also a trained dancer. We had all seen her do plenty of amazing things on stage, but her impromptu performance just now left us both speechless.
    Pharaoh finally spoke up. "Show's over. I'm hitting the sack."
    "Sounds good to me."
    Having just finished seven days on the road, we were all looking forward to a few days off. With nothing on the schedule until a short three-day trip starting this Thursday, my only plan was to catch up on some reading, running and songwriting. By Thursday, knowing this crew, everyone would be anxious to get back on the road.