Red Dirt Rocker (12 page)

I
t’s
two weeks since my band and I performed at the Dallas Cowboys' half-time show, and another exciting opportunity is apparently sailing our way. Frank called in on speakerphone with some incredible news: the boys and I will be heading to the Big Apple on Tuesday to play a showcase at MTV for bigwigs in the music industry! We feel like we’re on a wild, winding head rush of a rollercoaster ride with season tickets to the amusement park.

Jake, Randy and Cody are stoked that we’ll have to miss a couple more days of school. I, on the other hand, really do like school and have mixed feelings about missing my classes. I’m the black sheep of the rock-and-roll flock. In stark contrast to
the rocker image, I have a 4.0 average, and usually try to hide the fact that I’m in the National Honor Society for students. I enjoy socializing with my friends and, of course, I love playing high school football.

Now that I’ve got my eye on a cutie in the marching band, I find myself liking school even more. I build my days around seeing Sophie in the halls between classes. Just a glimpse of her friendly face can put me in a good mood for the entire afternoon.

Heather, however, has worn my nerves paper thin. I continue trying to find the right opportunity to break up with her. I’ve been so consumed with the band and the whirlwind we’re in, I just can’t face the drama that I know will ensue. Heather is in groupie girl heaven. She isn’t about to be pushed out of the spotlight, either. She flirts with all the football players…heck, all the wrestlers and the entire baseball team as well, but is agitated if I even say hello to any female, especially Sophie. Heather ignores no opportunity to intentionally belittle her in front of me.

Today is no different. I cringe when I hear Heather’s voice coming from behind us, as Sophie and I stand making small talk about my trip to New York City.
Here it comes.
I know Sophie’s in for public humiliation.

"Oh,
Sweeeeetie
," Heather says, so anyone yards away can hear as she sidles up to me coolly. "You
must
be lost. The
band
room is that way, dear!" She points and steps between Sophie and me.

Heather gives me a peck on the cheek, leaving a greasy, bubble gum-scented lip gloss imprint on my face that I immediately wipe off with the back of my hand.

"Now, Forrest, be sure to call me the minute you get to New York," Heather orders, "and bring me back a t-shirt, too, sweetie pie," she continues, with a southern bell tone. Her words are coated with the same artificial sweetener that coats her intention.

By the look in Sophie’s eyes I can tell she feels inferior to Heather. She lowers her eyes and walks away. I want to run after her, but Heather grabs my arm.

"In a small size, okay?" she continues, as she bats her long, mascara-coated eyelashes at me. I used to see the future in her emerald green eyes, but now they just seem as cold as a snake to me.

"Whatever, Heather…sure," I return as I wipe my cheek one more time to remove the final residue of her superficial kiss. I look to the end of the hall as Sophie looks back at me. Just before she disappears around the corner, she gives me an innocent glance, shrugs her shoulders and lifts her hand in a comforting gesture. It’s almost as if she feels sorry for me. She’s such a sweetheart who doesn’t deserve to be treated rudely by anyone, especially Heather.

At football practice this afternoon, I have a heart-to-heart talk with Coach Bryan. I have to let him know that I’ll be missing two days of practice. I promise to double-time my workouts when I return
to make up for my absence. Coach knows I’m good for it, and says that he has a feeling he’s about to lose a linebacker to the cause of rock-n-roll.

The next morning, I can hardly pry my eyes open and roll out of bed. Mama and I are awake at 4:30 a.m. in order to be at the Tulsa airport by 6:00. I always pictured the life of a rock star as staying up playing all night and sleeping till noon every day. That was not the case.

"These are not rocker-friendly hours, dude…I’m a musician, not a paperboy,” I wine, yawning weakly. Mama and I drive through the nearly deserted streets. She agrees, and returns the contagious, open-mouthed oxygen intake as we make a stop at Quick Trip to pick up Red Bull roadies. Last week I tried to drink a cup of Dad’s black coffee for a pick-me-up, but it tasted like hot liquid mud. Thank the Lord for Red Bull.

Our flight is uneventful. We have an hour layover in Chicago. We eat deep-dish pizza at the airport, and then fly on into the big city. The boys, our families and I are met outside the terminal by a polite gentleman dressed in khakis and a blue, button-down shirt, who ushers us into a white, unmarked passenger van. This was the exact vehicle that Mama always told me to be leery of when I was younger. She calls them “Lester the molester” vans.

As we near the downtown area of New York City, I can see it’s like a whole new world. I feel like a clueless, country mouse—a little town hick in a massive, bustling city. The boys and I are in total awe of the zipping, yellow taxi cabs and droves of pedestrians that plough their way down the crowded city streets. I can’t help but wonder how many people have been waylaid by the unforgiving taxis as they honk impatiently and graze the hips of stragglers, yakking on their cell phones, in the busy intersections.

I start feeling surprisingly intoxicated by the city's metropolitan buzz, and its vibrant rhythm. It’s so different from my serene, slow-paced, red dirt town back in Oklahoma.

Our group bounds out of the van into a bleak parking lot and we make our way down the east side of the towering Waldorf Hotel. I round the corner and am blitzed by the neon lights of Times Square. I’ve seen it on TV. Every year we watch Dick Clark’s New Year’s Eve countdown to watch the ball drop, but seeing it live and in person is unbelievable.

I can’t believe my eyes. It’s like looking through a giant, constantly changing kaleidoscope. The brilliant colors and lights flash and move in precise order, hurling advertisements in my face. I think about Dad’s obsession of turning lights off at our house and wonder just how outrageous New York City’s electric bill must be each month.

Jake, Randy, Cody, and I are herded by our protective chaperones. We cautiously and curiously wander down Broadway. As we look down the street, there, standing in the center median, is a buff, very tan man playing his acoustic guitar in nothing but a straw cowboy hat, cowboy boots and
tighty-whities
! Our guide tells us he’s known as “The Naked Cowboy.”

I spot tourists trading dollar bills for a picture with the guitar wrangler. Of course, Mama has to capture this on film. I quickly snatch the camera from Mama and motion for her to pose with the under-dressed musician.

"
Blaaackmaaail
!”
I sing out as the flash blinks. Mama giggles as the Naked Cowboy gives her a big squeeze and collects her crumpled dollar bill.

"Man, if I would’ve known that this was all it took to make money out here, I would’ve thrown my jeans out of the van window." Cody says, barely audible over the honking cabbies.

"Yeah, and I would’ve brought Coach Bryan’s cowboy hat, dude!" I chime in.

If the Naked Cowboy had been standing on a corner in Coweta, it wouldn’t be a tourist attraction. We’d just assume he had too much to drink the night before and forgot where he parked his truck. In our first thirty minutes in New York, we already have a great story to take back home—and
pics
to prove it.

We have an hour and a half before we need to be in the MTV studio, so we all decide to do a little sightseeing. Our group crosses the jammed street on a wing and a prayer, and is confronted by the biggest Toys R Us store that any of us have ever seen. We have to check it out.

Mama and the other parents relish the fact that of all the exciting places to go in the city—The Empire State Building, The Statue of Liberty, etc
.—
Jake, Randy, Cody, and I want to go to a toy store. We’re still their little boys at heart.

But this fantasy store isn’t your typical mall shopping experience. It’s several stories high and accommodates an incredible, fully operational Ferris wheel that’s built right smack dab in the middle of the store.

Being a major superhero fan, the first thing that catches my eye as I enter the mega-store is Spider-Man in the flesh. Today I’m sporting my black, flat-bill Batman cap. I’m not sure if they’re on the same team, but I’m itching to get a pic with
Spidey
, anyway.

I approach the skulking superhero dressed in his iconic, blue and red stretchy suit. I nod and ask if I can get a picture with him. A store employee steps in and explains that she would have to take the picture, after which I’d have to purchase it at a store kiosk for ten dollars.

I decide against it—Mama and I are on a tight budget since
it’s
house payment week back home. Smiling, I hold out my hand to Spiderman as a friendly gesture. To my surprise, the masked man begins to speak. His high pitched and slightly nerdy voice is somewhat muffled by the vented
lycra
covering his mouth, and totally throws me off guard.

"
Dude
…I know you! You're Forrest from Cellar Door Is Gone! I play your song 'Rocket' on
Rock Band
all the time!" I can’t believe he actually knows of me or my music. Several of our songs have been placed in the game
Rock Band
, which lets video gamers step into the rock-and-roll lifestyle. They can sing, drum and play guitar along with their favorite bands.

Apparently, Spider-Man, whose real name is Carl, is a
Rock Band
fanatic!

"Hey, man. Let your mom take all the
pics
she wants,"
Spidey
Carl gushes, as he begins to pose with me. The pictures will be great. Spider-Man and I strike our most brutal rock stance and flash the rock sign together. A framed, three-by-five photo will definitely be placed next to my Superman alarm clock at home.

After the boys and I run wild in the toy store for almost an hour, shooting Nerf hoops and trying out the newest
Gears of War
X-Box video game, we’re ushered back together. Acting like ten year olds was fun, but now it’s time to rock. We cautiously step back into the street jam packed with the bustling pedestrians, and make our way back to the MTV studio.

The
TRL
staging room is filled with hipsters from the music and entertainment industry. I was raised on MTV music videos, and to be standing in the middle of their studio is totally surreal. Jake, Randy, Cody, and I feed off the catchy modern energy of the big city. Our four song set is in-your-face raw and exciting.

Cameras flash as the ultra-hip music execs bob their heads. A journalist from the
New York Post
takes notes, with a look of delighted disbelief on his face. The boys and I give another killer performance. We rock the MTV studio.

Frank rubs elbows with the P.R. officials and works on making connections for the band. My job, as front man, is to keep shaking hands. One official looking gentleman tells me that I had better put on my Ray Bans, because the future looks very bright. I do my best to hold my composure and a
perma
-smile for the next thirty minutes. I don’t want to seem like a country bumpkin. I try to act casual and relaxed like, “Yeah, I do this every day.” I manage to keep my cool on the outside, but inside I’m ready to jump out of my skin with excitement.

After the meet-and-greet, Jake, Randy, Cody, and I make our way back to the green room—this one is painted cherry red and has funky gold molding—for a catered lunch of authentic New York deli pastrami sandwiches, fruit and the best cheesecake any of us has ever eaten. Randy has two strawberry-drizzled pieces and gets a stomach ache.

The boys and I check out some of the photos hanging in the MTV hallways. We are thrilled to see how many famous musicians have played this same
TRL
stage. Justin Timberlake is a particular favorite of mine.

I feel like I have to pinch myself to make sure I’m not just dreaming. Actually Jake does pinch me to make sure it’s all real.

"Ouch!” I flinch, rubbing the sting out of my arm.

"Yep…it's real!" Jake confirms.

Our band is graciously allowed to loot the MTV store, courtesy of the channel's vice-president. Each of us leaves with three huge bags of swag—which is a fancy word for free stuff— ranging from clocks to hoodies, and t-shirts and pillows embossed with the MTV logo. Cody and I elbow each other. We wonder how in the world we’re going to get our treasures back, considering we can only have one carry-on bag individually, and our cheap suitcases are the size of a bread box.