Long Way Gone (11 page)

Dad pressed his palm to my forehead. “What's he look like?”

I pointed, somewhat irritated. “He looks like that guy right there.”

“Okay, but describe him for me.”

“You can't see him?”

“I just want to make sure we're talking about the same guy.”

“Blue jeans. Flip-flops. White shirt. Blond hair. Ponytail. Ring on his finger.”

Dad said, “How big is he?”

I sized him up. “Bigger than Big-Big.”

“Does he scare you?”

“Yes.”

“Does he look like he wants to hurt you?”

“No.”

“When did he get here?”

“He walked in during the storm. Soon as I started playing.”

“What's he do when you stop playing?”

“Sits down.”

“What's he doing right this second?”

“He's whittling with his pocketknife, letting the shavings fall at his feet.”

Dad smiled, picked me up off the bench, and carried me to the truck. It was almost two a.m. I put my head on his shoulder and spoke through closed eyes. “But, Dad, we can't just leave him.”

Dad laughed. “Son, he's not going anywhere. Guys like him . . . they never leave.”

Over time, Mr. Slocumb's cows grew fat and healthy, his hay grew tall and green, and with some encouragement from my dad, he turned the Falls into a public outdoor venue. With the help of an architect and engineer out of Colorado Springs and a loan from a Denver bank, Mr. Slocumb built Colorado's finest outdoor amphitheater, with seating for five thousand. The stage backed up against the cliffs, using the acoustics of the stone walls to project outward—which it did with relative perfection. He brought in sound engineers from LA and New York who captured and broadcast performers' voices while not blasting out those in attendance. He constructed bathrooms to serve the masses, a restaurant and concession to feed the hungry, and he learned how to drain his fields and pour enough asphalt so parking was never muddy.

Word spread, and when finished, Mr. Slocumb had created a venue sought after by performers and producers because of what they
called the purity of the sound. Add to that a private airport ten minutes south that allowed performers to jet in and out, and an audience willing to drive from Fort Collins, Denver, Aspen, Vail, Breckenridge, Steamboat, Salida, Littleton, Telluride, Ouray, the Springs, Silverton, and Montrose, and Mr. Slocumb found himself in the center of a world where music was valued.

He had just one problem—not enough seating. Shows were routinely sold out. By the time I turned eighteen, we'd held over a hundred services at the Falls, and Mr. Slocumb had helped park cars at every single one. And each summer, Dad and Big-Big baptized hundreds of people in the pool beneath the waterfall.

Including Mr. Slocumb.

I
n the weeks that followed the storm, I heard several nicknames aimed at me. “The kid who stopped the storm.” “The kid who played in the rain.” “The boy with the girl's voice.” I had become something of an onstage oddity. People started coming to see me, and that meant I had both admirers and critics.

One evening after a service, I was cleaning up trash when five kids surrounded me. Started poking at me. Shoving me around. Next thing I knew, the ringleader, who was a head taller and wore a nose ring, jumped me from behind and was doing a pretty good job of feeding me a mud pie. I was having trouble breathing with all that mud in my nose and mouth. I was also having trouble calling for help. They were all laughing and taking turns kicking my legs and side while nose-ring boy controlled my head by my hair.

Next thing I knew a shadow appeared, and nose-ring boy suddenly levitated off the ground. I rolled over as the other four kids scattered like bees while my bullying friend hung suspended from the crane that was Big-Big's arm. A blood vessel had popped out on Big-Big's temple and was throbbing in rhythm with his heart. I sat up, spat the mud and blood out of my mouth, and wiped my face with my shirtsleeve.

Big-Big looked down at me. “You okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

Big-Big raised the boy higher. “You sure?”

I nodded. He turned, set the boy down, and said, “Git!”

The boy disappeared out among the cars where his friends were cackling and calling Big-Big names. Big-Big lifted me and dusted me off. The vein was still pulsating on his temple.

“I tol' your dad I'd look out for you.” He wiped my face with his handkerchief. “Looks like I'm not doing too good at my job.”

Dad appeared over my shoulder, and we three stood there quietly. Big-Big's face took on a dull, muted complexion, like someone who'd known the darker side of people.

He said, “Peg, that boy ain't gon' leave you alone. Bullies never do. They don' fight fair. That's why he brought his friends.” He knelt and looked across at me. “Prison be the same way. Nex' time he approach you, you bes' punch him hard as you can right in the teeth 'fore he ever say a word. Jes' close his mouth. And don' jes' punch him once. You punch him 'til you can't punch no mo'. That be the only way to shut all five of them up.” Big-Big looked at Dad, then back at me.

Dad nodded.

I pointed at the stage. “What about all that ‘turn the other cheek' stuff?”

Dad's eyes narrowed. “When someone's trying to control you, you come out swinging. And keep swinging. Bible never said be a doormat.” He looked down at me. “I'm not telling you to look for it. I'm telling you not to run. Stand your ground.”

The following week Dad pulled me aside. He extended his hand, and in his palm he held a man's silver ring. Chunky. Had an oak tree engraved on it. He'd wrapped a pipe cleaner around the shank to make it fit a smaller finger. He said, “Put it on. Right hand.”

I slid it on.

Dad looked at me square. “Now don't take it off.”

“Yes, sir.”

That week at school, nose-ring boy cornered me in the cafeteria. He pushed me down, stole my lunch money, and started cackling like
a hyena as his buddies surrounded him and cheered. Then he started dancing around in a circle and kicking me.

Big-Big and my father were nowhere to be found. I climbed up off the floor, and the boys pushed me around like a pinball. Finally I squared up to nose-ring, who outweighed me by about fifty pounds. He opened his mouth to say something, but I never gave him a chance to get the words out. I hit him as quick and as hard as I could. And because I was scared, I didn't hit him just once.

When the cafeteria attendant pulled me off him, the other hyenas had vamoosed, and the boy's nose was sitting sideways on his face where it looked like a red balloon had exploded. The cafeteria attendant gripped my arm real tight, digging in her fingernails, and shook me. She was screaming pretty loud. “What do you think you're doing!”

I didn't bother answering her, but reached across the space between us and ripped the nose ring out of the boy's nose, tearing the skin between his nostrils. She jerked me around by my collar and marched me to the principal's office, where they called my dad.

I sat in that office, staring at the bloody ring on my right hand, wondering. Shortly, the bully who had pushed me down appeared with his dad. He was pressing a bag of ice to his face, whining, “It hurts!”

My dad appeared a few minutes later, and the principal took us all back. He said, “Mr. O'Connor, I'm suspending your boy three days for fighting. He'll get zeroes in all his classes. I figured you'd want to know so you could discipline him as well.”

Dad smiled. “Thank you.” He turned to me. “What happened?”

I looked at the kid. “He pushed me down, took my lunch money, and started kicking me. His buddies helped.”

The kid spoke around the bag of ice. “Thash not true.”

I pointed at his right front pocket. “Two dollars.”

The principal said, “Is that true? Did you take his two dollars?”

The kid's voice rose. “No.”

The principal motioned. “You mind emptying your pocket, son?”

The kid's father interrupted. “You can't expect . . .”

The principal waited while the kid emptied two crumpled dollar bills onto his desk. Then he said, “I'm suspending both of you. I won't have this kind of behavior. Do I make myself clear?”

Dad put his hand gently around my neck, resting it on my shoulders. He turned to the kid's father. “Let me make it clear for you. I fully expect that if this ever happens again, my son is going to jump up on your boy like a spider monkey. Further, he has my permission.”

The principal started to protest, but Dad raised his hand. “Now, since he's got a few days off school, we're going to eat a cheeseburger, then we're going to get some ice cream, then we're going fishing. Might even take in a movie. Do I make myself clear?” He guided me toward the door.

The principal called after us, “And you call yourself a God-fearing man! A preacher!”

Dad turned and nodded. “I do. And I've never used the word
doormat
in conjunction with that description.”

Halfway through my second cheeseburger I said, “Dad?”

He looked at me over his burger. “Yep.”

“Is today why you gave me this ring?”

He stacked a pickle onto his cheeseburger. “Yes.”

I nodded and eyed the ring. “Dad?”

Dad sipped his root beer. “Yes?”

“Thank you.”

By the time I turned nine I'd gotten used to the blond guy and his friends showing up at Dad's services. I didn't know if other people saw them or not, but no one else mentioned them, and I didn't want to open my mouth and act the fool. I decided they were sort of like a rainbow. Not something you saw every day and you could only see from just the right angle.

One day when Dad and I were closing up after a service, he found me sitting at the piano. He said, “Time for bed, big guy.”

I pointed. “What do I do about Blondie?”

“Back again, huh?”

I shook my head. “Never leaves.”

He tapped his ear. “He's come to hear you.”

“But, Dad . . .”

Blondie had started bringing friends. At first, it was just one or two. But lately the numbers had grown. More like a crowd.

“They're everywhere.”

He laughed. “They must really like the way you sing.”

I wasn't quite sure Dad was getting the picture. What I was seeing wasn't puppy dogs and lollipops. And to me they were as real as the piano. “Dad, this guy could turn Big-Big inside out. He's no joke.”

“Is he angry?”

I considered this. “I don't think he's angry, but I do think he's at war.”

“Do the others look like him?”

“Pretty close.”

“Can you hear anything?”

I nodded.

“What do you hear?”

“I hear . . . singing.”

“Can you hear the words?”

I nodded and spoke quietly, knowing they could hear me. “Yes, sir.”

Dad laughed, reached into his satchel, and handed me a little black notebook and a pen. He said, “Then maybe you should write down their songs.”

I've been writing them down ever since.

D
ad was rather intense about my musical training. While he took care of the bluegrass, Big-Big schooled me on the blues. Big-Big grew up in Memphis, literally walking up and down Beale Street, so he knew a thing or two about Delta blues. One of the highlights of his younger life was that he'd actually heard Robert Johnson, and he vehemently maintained that Mr. Johnson did not sell his soul to the devil. “Couldn't have. Anybody that plays like that ain't owned by no devil.”

But Dad felt one primary piece was missing. And that piece was the dreaded classical. Mozart. Bach. Beethoven. I hated it. And I hated all those white-wigged paintings.

For my tenth birthday, he gave me two presents. The first one I didn't want: Miss Vermetha Hagle. Miss Hagle was a BV local who had played thirty years with the philharmonic something-or-other. Dad paid her to give me lessons for four excruciating hours every Wednesday.

Having a cavity filled was more appealing. She was horrible. Her lessons were horrible. Her bedside manner was horrible. Her breath was horrible. And she sat like there was a pole shoved six feet up her backside. She'd never married and I could understand why.

But no matter how I pleaded, no matter how I feigned sickness, no matter what manner of excuse I dreamed up, Dad wouldn't budge. Gibraltar. He said, “You can't break the rules until you learn what they are.”

“But why can't I just learn from you and Big-Big?”

“ 'Cause you already know more than me and Big put together. Now,
I don't expect you to like it, but I do expect you to learn it. And I expect you to learn it really well.”

I suffered nearly eight years under that horrible woman with her yellow teeth, beady little eyes, and ruler, with which she constantly smacked the backs of my hands. But those lessons were one of the best things my dad ever did for me. And if I bumped into that woman on the street today, I'd kiss her on the mouth.

The second thing my dad gave me for my tenth birthday was a guitar of my own. Given the amount of time I was spending playing his guitar, he knew I'd caught the bug. Playing guitar was no passing fancy. The problem he bumped into was that for me, Jimmy had become the guitar by which all others were judged.

The guitar Dad gave me had nylon strings, so when he handed it to me, I think my face betrayed my concern. He quickly explained, “Guitars have voices. Like people. A nylon string guitar, if played right, can be more expressive than a steel string. More emotive. I know you love Jimmy, but you have more range than Jimmy can keep up with. This one can keep up.”

I studied it. The body was smaller, which made it easier to play, but the neck was wider and strings thicker. A bit of a trade-off. I ran my fingers across the strings and tried to hide the fact that my heart was hurt that he'd not given me Jimmy. But playing that guitar, I understood what he was talking about. I didn't have to push as hard to get as much sound out of it, which helped given my smaller hands and fingers. I named him Half Pint.

Puberty brought some changes to my voice. Most were good. I grew in volume, power, control, yet oddly enough retained the ability to reach high notes while also extending the ability to sing lower. Note I said
lower
, not low. Dad sang low. I sang above him. Over the next couple of years, Dad and Big-Big turned the music over to me, and as I came into my own,
the crowds grew. A lot. Pretty soon, more people were coming to see me than to hear him. Though Dad tried to protect me from that knowledge, I knew it.

And that wasn't always good.

Our schedule never changed. Depending on the distance, we were out on Thursday or Friday morning, back Sunday night or Monday. About once every two months, we were gone a whole week to ten days. I grew used to the road, and there were few parts of Utah, Wyoming, Nebraska, Kansas, Texas, New Mexico, and Colorado that I'd not seen. While Dad knew where he was going and could get there with his eyes closed, he left a lot of the navigation to me.

This meant that I learned to read a map, and with so much highway time I read a lot of them. I found them rather interesting. This drove my ninth-grade geography teacher nuts, as I missed most of the first quarter but still made straight As. She was further incensed when I didn't miss a single question on the final, including both extra credit questions.

Dad worked with my teachers, who were more than mildly irritated by my constant absences, but they couldn't argue with my work or work ethic. Dad cracked the whip, and while he and Big-Big shared the driving, I studied.

Sort of.

While Dad and Big-Big sat up front, Jimmy and I stretched across the backseat of the truck cab. There were twelve-hour days when I played nonstop. There were four-day weekends when I played for forty hours. Dad and Big-Big would find old gospel or bluegrass stations on the AM radio, and I'd play along. As the months and years ticked by, I got to where I could hear the first few notes of a song and know what key it was in and usually where it was going. My ear grew so in tune that I could play back music in my mind, slow it down, and hear individual notes and chords on a guitar. Dad would hear me in the backseat picking out a rather complicated tune, and he'd say, “Okay, now play it on Half Pint.” So I'd switch guitars and play the same song on nylon strings. I didn't know it at the time, but Dad was challenging me to express and
emphasize different emotions with the same tune. He was teaching me to speak a new language. The language of guitar.

As my musical ability grew, so did my interest in and imitation of those who played it. Dad was careful to steer me away from rock-and-roll, declaring that everything I needed to know could be gleaned from bluegrass, blues, and classical. And, of course, hymns. He said, “You learn those four, and everybody in rock-and-roll will want to be you, and not the other way around.”

I would not describe my dad as rigid about much of anything save one thing: listening to the Grand Ole Opry on the AM radio stations that broadcast at night as we drove cross-country. If he was driving, and they were broadcasting, he was listening. I heard a lot of country music. Many of the best guitar players the world knew came out of bluegrass, and most of them played the Opry. This meant I was introduced to some of the best and most well-known licks on a nightly basis. The songs were not difficult to learn. Ninety-nine percent of them were just three or four chords, a bridge, and a chorus. I could hear a tune, and my fingers would dig it out—match the notes. Dad and Big-Big would shake their heads and just look at each other.

One would comment, “That ain't fair.”

The other would respond, “No, it is not, but it sure is fun to watch.”

Thursday nights were Dad's favorite because they showcased their best. Dad never missed. Like, never. We set our drive-time schedule around what he called Ryman Radio. Some of the biggest names in the business came out to play on Thursdays, and some shows were two or even three hours long. When a particularly great player would light up the stage singing some harmony or playing something only a few can play, Dad would turn up the volume and slap the dashboard.

“Think of all the greats who have stood where that boy is standing. Monroe. Scruggs. Williams. Cash. The King.” Several times, after a particularly good show, he would click off the radio, nod knowingly, and glance in the rearview. “You'll play the Ryman one day.”

Big-Big would nod in agreement. “That's right.”

I'd never dreamed that high. “You think?”

A long pause. Another glance. “And that'll only be the beginning.”

In between my sophomore and junior years, we were driving back from a weekend outside Taos, and Big-Big was teaching me a Robert Johnson lick. He said something about Johnson being one of the first recorded members of the 27 Club.

“The 27 Club? What's that?”

“Musicians, singers, and songwriters who all died at the age of twenty-seven.”

I thought he was talking about some type of disease. “What'd they die from?”

“Some were freak accidents, but most died from drugs or suicide.”

Dad scratched his head. “I've never understood that. Why would you leave a show to get high or drunk? Just what did these folks need to escape from? They're playing music. Where's the hard part in that?”

Dad's fame continued to grow. His face graced the cover of several regional magazines and newspapers. One headline read: “Sham or Surety? Barroom Picker Turns Tent Revivalist. Do the Blind See and Lame Walk, or Is It Smoke and Mirrors?”

Whatever people's opinion, whether skeptic or believer, attendance grew. A lot. Packed venues and standing room only became the norm. We received invites from churches and pastors from all over. Many just wanted to profit off my father, but Dad had two rules, which he never broke. First, he never sold tickets, because he didn't view himself as entertainment. “Just what exactly would we charge people? Why would I charge for what I have been freely given?” Second, he never took an offering. Never passed the plate or the hat or whatever. That raised a lot of eyebrows among critics, but Dad figured if you want to give, you will. He didn't need to twist your arm. As a result, folks didn't feel manipulated, and they trusted my dad.

And despite his no-offering policy, people did give. They'd seek Dad out and put a check or cash in his hand, and Dad would accept it. Gas cost money.

As it turned out, a lot of people did this. Dad bought two things with the influx of cash: a tour bus for us and an eighteen-wheeler that carried all the tents and chairs and piano and sound equipment. Then he began hiring drivers and crews to set up and take down the tents. They'd drive ahead, set up, and we'd arrive in time for the first service. This meant Dad and Big-Big were more rested, and as a result, their sermons were a bit longer.

As attendance grew, and the growing number of unexplainable happenings happened, what some newspapers called miracles and others called sleight of hand, so did the number of critics. Naysayers. Picketers would hold signs and shout, and a few even slashed tires. More often than not, we were labeled as a traveling medicine show and Dad the lead snake-oil salesman. Reporters and investigative journalists would plant crippled or blind folks. Dad could spot them a mile off.

But controversy brought attention, and that brought radio and television crews with trucks and tall antennas that broadcast across the West.

I asked him one day, “Doesn't that bother you?”

He laughed. “Not in the least bit.”

It was not uncommon for Dad to preach five times over a weekend, and by the time word spread among the locals, more than five thousand people would attend his final Sunday service. That meant that by my senior year in high school I was routinely playing before more than fifteen thousand people in a weekend. Sometimes more. I didn't realize it at the time, but that was a larger number than many of the big names in the record business.

My talent brought with it increased notoriety on many levels. One level, for which I was grateful, was with members of the opposite sex. In short, chicks dig guitar players. Girls would find me before a show, make small talk, or give me their number. “Call me.”

My dad was not overly protective, but he did shield me from the
record companies that came calling. One night he could sense the growing tension in me, so he sat next to me on my bunk.

“Coop, there are going to be a lot of people who tell you how great you are, and how they can make you greater. Put you on some pedestal from which you can never come down. Truth is they don't care a thing about you, they just want what you got. All they care about is what they can make off you. They look at you like a jumping chicken, and they're going to offer you lots of money to jump on their stage.

“Nothing wrong with making lots of money, and if ever a boy was born to stand on a stage, it may well be you. But if you start making money at the expense of why you do what you do, or why you were given this gift in the first place, then you need to ask yourself how badly you want that money. In the end, the cost might be more than you can pay.” He tapped me gently in the chest. “Robert Johnson wasn't the only man with a guitar to stand at a crossroad and talk with the devil. Every man with a guitar crosses that same street, and the conversation is always the same. So are the promises.”