Tranquility Base 326a1s

Tranquility Base

James Hold

Copyright 2020 James Roy Hold

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people is purely coincidental.

Opinions expressed herein should not be taken as those of the author.

TRANQUILITY BASE

"Someone said what's he gonna turn out like

And someone else said never mind"

— Deep Purple, "No One Came"

FORWARD

I knew all the people in this story. Not so much by the names I gave them or the circumstances in which I placed them, but they are grounded in reality. Like Dylan, "I had to rearrange their faces and give them all another name." Their lives were more or less what they were, as it is with all of us.

Some may consider Nancy a stereotype. I'm sorry but the one I knew did talk that way.

For what it's worth I own a Jaguar bass and Crate amp. You can make of it what you will.

JH

1

Michele liked to think she was honest with herself. It was everyone else she lied to.

2

Michele staggered into her apartment, feeling like an old woman, overcome with weakness and wondering how she had managed to make it home. A waning moon past its zenith looked down with cold indifference. It had been a long walk from Audrey's place yet she had not trusted herself to drive. Michele fumbled with her keys, succeeding only after much effort in getting the door open. It was dark inside the apartment but she did not bother with a light. The light hurt her eyes too much so it was as well she left it off. She dropped her guitar case where she stood and closed the door. The case blocked the way, leaving the door ajar. Michele did not notice or else she did not care. Her head hurt too much for her to bother. Feeling her way to a chair she dropped into it with a soft whimper. Tears fell from her cheeks as her cat, Dusty, jumped into her lap. "Hey, Tiger," she addressed it with some effort. "Hungry? Gimme a minute and I'll fix something." Dusty rubbed Michelle's face, purring loudly and kneading her with its paws. It was as if he were saying, "It's all right. Take all the time you need." The luminous hands of the clock dial showed ten minutes after midnight. It

meant today was Michele's 50th birthday. She had nothing to celebrate. Not with the headache she was having. She was not drunk or stoned. She did not do alcohol or drugs; never had. It was simply her head hurt something fierce. It had ever since the night at the roadhouse when... Dusty rubbed her face again. Michele laid a hand on his thick fur and petted it. She had bottle-fed him since he was a week old. To Dusty she was his mother. "All right, Tiger," she said again. "Give me a minute and I'll fix you something."

3

Some say dreams are a form of housecleaning, the mind's way of ridding itself of accumulated junk. If so, the mystery is how it all got there to begin with. For the longest time Michele had dreamed of being a musician and a songwriter. When it turned out she had no musical talent whatsoever, she took up the bass instead. That is a joke musicians like to toss around. She worked hard at it and over time became an accomplished player—as in anytime she played the right note it could be considered an accomplishment. She did not start out on the bass. Like most people attracted to rock-n-roll she began with the six-string guitar, a beautiful Telecaster model she found in a pawn shop. She thought was the finest looking instrument in the world, an absolute marvel in simplicity of design and overall coolness. She could never understand why people chose to play ugly guitars, in particular those hideous Gibson ES-335s. She could respect them as the guitar of choice of Chuck Berry, without whom rock-n-roll as we know it would not exist; still nothing about the way they looked appealed to her. What did attract her was Rick Nelson's guitarist James Burton, looking and sounding so cool with his blonde Tele. The instant she saw it she knew it was the guitar for her. But alas, as Michele found out, simply owning a Telecaster does not make you sound like James Burton—or Keith Richards, or Steve Cropper, or the Yardbirds,

or anyone else. It requires a bit of finger dexterity which Michele did not possess. Still she pressed on, although try as she would she never got the hang of it. Frustrated, she returned to the pawn shop, ready to give up. That was when the owner, also a musician, took pity on her. Knowing guitars were meant to be played and not hang on a rack, he showed her an Open D tuning where all she had to do was lay her one finger across a single dotted fret to bang out a major chord. This opened a new world to her. She was a firm believer that no rock-n-roll song required more than three chords and was further happy to find 50,000 of them used only G, C, and D. This served her well for a long time. Also, and this was especially pleasing, with this Open D tuning, all she had to do was to fret the top three strings (D-A-D) to play heavier stuff like "Sunshine of Your Love", "Godzilla", and "Smoke on the Water". All this she accomplished by trial and error, playing hours at a time until the demands of sleep overcame her. Then one day Michele ed the second part of her dream—how she also wanted to be a songwriter. But as her interest from the start lay in instrumental surf music, banging out three distorted chords, be it G-C-D or A-D-E, failed to satisfy her needs. This in the end drove her to tackle the bass; not the stupid upright jazz and hillbilly kind but a sleek Jaguar she came upon one day while out walking by that same pawn shop during her lunch break. To her surprise, she found the layout of four strings with the added space between them suited what her fingers were capable of doing. "Miserlou" could be played easily on bass strings. And so her road was set, and it was a road she walked until the very end.

4

Michele was a widow. She had been one a long time. She had Mr Dubya, POTUS 43, to thank for it, him and his illegal Iraq War. It left her age 22 with a year-old daughter and a cat. The cat, Rocky, managed to fend for himself. Michele and Robin, her daughter, were not so capable. She put on a brave front

by day for the sake of her daughter and cried herself to sleep every night. It wrecked her health and in the end child services placed Robin in foster care. It left just Michele and Rocky, and her husband Ron's dog tags. After a time they had to place Michele in a state-run care facility as well. That left Rocky on his own and she never knew what became of him. She cried for both at night. It wrecked her health still further. Over time she recovered to a degree, but the damage was done and she would be underweight from then on. One evening when no one was looking Michele got her hands on a steak knife. No one knew how. Or if they did they were not telling. They found her later in her room where she had carved a "W" on the wall and was stabbing it repeatedly, crying, cursing, and carrying on. It led to an extended stay. Over time she got better and earned her release. But the emotional scars remained. And her hatred for Mr Dubya never ceased.

5

1981 started out to be a good year. On January 20 Ronald Reagan was sworn in as fortieth President of the United States. Five minutes later, Iran released fiftytwo American hostages they had held for a year and three months. That same day Michele entered the world; a child fortunate to be born in a land of freedom and opportunity where opposing opinions were tolerated and with nothing to hold her back save the obstacles of her own choosing. That was the theory anyway. The Universe had other ideas. On June 12 Major League Baseball went on strike. The game was never the same after that. Players stopped wearing stirrup socks and let their pants hang down around their heels. They resembled baggy-pants bums, although extremely rich baggy-pants bums to be sure. August 1 saw the launching of MTV and the end of rock-n-roll music as we

know it. Musicianship was replaced with choreography, and imagination died as the stories were played out before your eyes. September 17 Ric Flair defeated Dusty Rhodes to win his first World Heavyweight Wrestling Championship in Kansas City. This was before "rasslin" deteriorated into "sports entertainment" and the action in the ring became secondary to steroids and a good catch phrase. February 9 Bill Haley died and December 28 Pat Sajak began hosting Wheel of Fortune. None of which had any impact on little Michele, secure in her mother's arms. It would be five years before the Universe put the screws to her.

6

In her post-institution days before ing a band, Michele spent her weekends visiting clubs. She went for the music, nothing more. She sipped ginger ale and listened to the musicians play rock-n-roll and old-time country. More than once some drugstore cowboy offered to buy her drinks thinking he could pick her up. She would have none of it. In her 40s she still could have done justice to a miniskirt. Wrecking her health in grief had a lot to do with it. But she never dressed up. She stuck to faded jeans. Michele loved rock-n-roll. It was all she had left, besides her cat Dusty, since losing everything else. Following her release from the mental facility she returned to the Big Easy to find her home had been looted, ransacked, and turned into a haven for bums and crackheads. She had been naïve enough to think others would respect her property while she was gone. But no such luck there. "Thank you, George," was all she could say, "for making all this possible." Nothing... nothing of her original possessions was left; not a photograph, not a piece of paper, not evens her husband Ron's dog tags. With nothing left, she

folded her tent and moved to Houston. New Orleans held nothing for her other than painful memories. The problem was the memories did not stay in Orleans. They followed her, COD, to Texas, and she found herself paying the bill every day. Rock-n-roll was all she had left. Alone in the club, she sat on her stool with one foot on the concrete floor, feeling the deep bass notes vibrate her sternum. It seemed the one thing telling her she was alive, and it was no wonder then she chose to take up the bass herself.

7

Michele was not into politics, understandable after what she had gone through. When a political campaigner knocked on her door her first thought was how ridiculous it was they had come all the way to the rear of the apartment complex just for her one vote. She considered giving them the names and address of her dead parents, saying she was certain they had voted in every election, although she could not have told him for which party. When the campaigner continued spilling his bilge she lost it. "Haven't you anything better to do? Read a book, mow your yard, do something useful, why don't you?" Somebody once remarked if politicians spent as much time doing to their wives what they did to the rest of the nation it would make everyone a lot happier. She slammed the door in his face and she was never bothered again.

8

Save for the one incident with the knife, Michele proved to be a model patient. She ed her four years in relative quiet, seldom talking, eating only as much as was necessary, sitting in the rec room when allowed, while earning an indoor tan and an aversion to sunlight. Some orderlies nicknamed her "the Vampire" because of this, but if she was a vampire she had the benefit of being a wellbehaved one. Music alone was the sole thing to draw a response from her. One day in the rec room the radio at the receptionist's desk was on, a country station playing "Pick Me Up on Your Way Down" and Michele tapped her foot in accompaniment to it. A doctor who happened to be making one of his infrequent visits took notice and suggested exposing her to more. Michele rejected classical and jazz outright. Country was all right. But in the words of Lou Reed "her life was saved by rockn-roll". From there on she showed signs of improvement. Four years later she was set free, hopelessly underweight and with a permanent blemish on her record to keep her from scoring a good job. This was, of course, not true; but such was her impression and no one told her otherwise. The best she ever got was file clerking assignments. Still she vowed to keep quiet and not make waves, never wanting to go back inside. Nor did she ever visit another doctor no matter how sick she got.

9

Young Michele's life was one of continuous punishment. God gave Moses a list of ten things either to do or not to do. The rest was pretty much open. Michele's aunt who had guardianship of her did not see it that way. A severe, hard-hearted, self-righteous tyrant, Aunt Edee raised Michele in an atmosphere of constant intimidation. Rather than "raise" it would be more accurate to say she

housed, fed, and harangued her. To her the ten items listed were just for starters. And what was not allowed was anything Aunt Edee did not approve of. Michele had no way of knowing what those forbidden things were until she did them. How could she when her aunt made them up as she went along? Auntie was the last of an antebellum aristocracy long faded, yet she maintained the facade, always pretending to be better off than she was. Her opinion on any subject was law. "It's in the Bible," Aunt Edee would always say. "You can read it for yourself." The irony of the statement was that Auntie's Bible was covered in seven layers of dust which had not been disturbed in the forty years since she last laid it on the mantle. When an independent thought found its way into the young girl's head Auntie would set her straight. "But Auntie," Michele would try pleading, "isn't independence what our ancestors fought for; the right to be ourselves and think our own thoughts?" To this her aunt snorted like a pig. Really it was more like a hippo since she boasted a very wide mouth. "We fought," she oinked, "for a way of life; a proper and decent way of life that doesn't tolerate hooliganism or talking back. A status quo where people know their place and stay there." Arguing was useless against her iron curtain defenses. "But Qoheleth himself said, 'Eat your bread with joy and drink your wine with a merry heart. Spare not the perfume and enjoy life'." "There, you see," Auntie would fire back. "That's exactly the kind of pagan thought I'm talking about."

10

There are remote places in the bayou parishes of Louisiana where time flows lazy as the stagnant waters encircling them, where mores and morals of the past cling to the banks like flotsam from a derelict vessel that others have abandoned. These are places where modern notions have not penetrated, and attitudes and opinions of a hundred years before still prevail. There streets and houses are old, and the minds of the citizens are as cobwebby as an old attic. It was poor Michele's misfortune to be raised in such an environment where matriarchy reigned supreme, authorities (eg: teachers) were not to be questioned, and children were expected to be seen and not heard. Perhaps in a more up-to-date setting, the things that happened to her would not have been allowed and the childhood scars inflicted on her might never have occurred. But that is a moot point. This was the world she grew up in, and it left its imprint on her. Whatever she might have done, or should have done, is unimportant. Such resources were unavailable to her in that parish, that school, and that house, and there is no point dwelling on what might have been.

11

Michele was 48 when she formed a band with Stick and Audrey. Although she certainly did not look her age, and Audrey and Stick took her to be 10 years younger. Audrey told her she was blessed. Michele was not so sure. Stick asked if she had a decaying painting in her attic. Rather than inquire when Stick had read Dorian Gray, Michele shrugged it off, said it was a product of her childhood. Rather it was her lack of one. Denied any opportunity at being young there was not much point growing old either.

12

The Red Badge of Courage was required reading in high school. Michele did not care for it. Her teacher hinted she was "too slow" to understand it. Her aunt attributed it to "stubborn independence". Either way it furthered her reputation as "difficult". Because the story itself was not long the publisher padded the book out with some of Crane's poems. The one to strike her most was:

A man said to the universe: "Sir, I exist!" "However," replied the universe, "The fact has not created in me A sense of obligation."

Michele wanted to discuss it in class but her teacher refused, saying it expressed pagan thoughts. Michele could not understand how a man with pagan thoughts nonetheless was required reading when it came to the subject of war. Life was very confusing in those days. The Universe told Crane it felt no sense of obligation. The truth was it flat out did not give a hoot.

13

Michele never got over Ron's death. Only an idiot would have expected her to. It was one such idiot, her Aunt Edee, who had called social services to have her institutionalized. Michele was orphaned at age five and her aunt took her in. "Took her in" being the operative words. The kind and loving face she showed to the public did a 180 once the doors were closed, and the next twelve years were a living Hell. Michele never learned what "Edee" was short for, but over time she came to believe it meant "Evil Demon." As a child Michele was forced to pray the rosary every night. Not just a Hail Mary or two but the whole five decades. It was mind-numbingly boring and she tended to doze off, resulting in slaps to the head and lectures about how she was destined for Hell if she did not give up her independent ways. Here was another thing she could not understand. Unlike many followers of the Catholic faith she actually read the Bible. Not all of it. Leviticus and Numbers were snooze fests and the Acts of the Apostles bogged in repetition. But she knew more of the Good Book than her aunt did and it was her opinion God did not work this way. But kids are not allowed to argue. They have to suck it up and go on. It was hard being a Catholic back then; more so when it was not by choice. Often it was confusing. For instance, back in those younger days Michele was taught to pray for the end of the Soviet Union and its evil doings. Then one day the Russian leaders decided to dissolve the union and everyone rejoiced. It took maybe five minutes for all the wars to break out. It turned out those neighboring factions hated each other and it was the Soviet military presence that maintained peace. It was something nobody bothered to tell anyone. The USSR was "evil" and that was that. Without the Soviet army, the freed nations and ethnic groups fell to fighting among themselves over religious differences, much like the

Catholics and Protestants in Ireland, except on a larger and more intense scale. None of this bothered Michele. She figured if stupid people wanted to fight among themselves, let them. Her attitude changed though when she saw a news broadcast saying the last surviving animal in the Sarajevo Zoo had died. All the animals perished because the caretakers could not reach them. If they stuck their heads into the open, the warring parties would fire on them. And so the animals suffered cruel and horrible deaths, locked in cages with no food or water. Michele never learned what this last animal was. It was hard to recognize, it being skin and bones, a jackal, hyena, or dingo perhaps. It laid its poor body down and perished while stupid religious zealots fired bullets and shells in defense of their loving and all-merciful god. The image of the poor creature never left her and for the next several years Michele offered prayers for its poor soul hoping in another world it would sit in judgement over the bastards who condemned it to a horrible death over some petty squabble it had no involvement with. It was a short time after this she came across Lord Dunsany's Unhappy Far-Off Things. It was about after World War 1. Dunsany painted a poignant picture of desolation and ruin come to towns, houses, roads, and gardens after shelling attacks by big guns. It was about people too, but not primarily. It focused on a downfall of civilization and places haunted "not by mere ghosts from all those thousands of graves and half-buried bodies and sepulchral shellholes; haunted by things huger and more disastrous; haunted by wailing ambitions, under the stars or moon, drifting across the rubbish which once was villages strewing the lonely plain; the lost ambitions of two Emperors and a Sultan wailing from wind to wind and whimpering for dominion of the world." And with neither caring who or what suffered in the process. Nothing had changed since Dunsany's time, other than now Michele got to see it up close and hear political and religious leaders tell her it was a just and noble undertaking. It was to such a "just and noble" cause that she had lost Ron, sent away to fight in a war his country had no business fighting. Ron and Michele would have had no problem with a legitimate war where the safety of the nation was at stake. The War of 2003 was nothing of the kind. The plot for the Twin Towers attack

originated in Saudi Arabia, but since the Saudi dictator was a US ally, Mr Dubya could not go after them. Instead he made up a bogus "weapons of mass destruction" charge and set his sights on Iraq to get back at their dictator for the humiliation he had caused POTUS 41 in the earlier Gulf War stare down. And Ron, driving a tanker, had been blown to pieces when it hit an IED. Dunsany told a tearful tale of man's stupidity and the innocent things falling victim in its wake. All the while she read it, Michele ed the poor animal in the Sarajevo Zoo and poured out her hatred on those heartless bastards who claim to fight for religion, but in reality were fueled by nothing but hatred for anyone outside their group. The loss of her husband at the hands of Mr Dubya did nothing to change her opinion. Some might say she did not have her facts straight. And perhaps they were right. Michele was not a student of history. All she knew was she and a lot of others, on both sides, had lost loved ones because two stupid men did not know how to settle their differences in an intelligent and civilized manner. Their egos would not allow it. And because of them, men and animals suffered. Michele hoped someday all those who waged war would say hello to her aunt as they burned in the fiery pits of Hell.

14

Then along came Dusty. Michele counted herself fortunate to have a downstairs corner apartment at the rear of the complex. While some might have been concerned for safety, she found it ideal for practicing her bass without disturbing her neighbors. The apartment had a small patio out back, little more than a square of concrete someone had dumped as an afterthought. Michele liked to sit there evenings and watch the stars. One summer's eve a stray cat showed up and took a drink of water dripping from a downspout. Michele felt sorry for it, and ing her

dear departed Rocky, set out a pan to catch the water so the cat could drink from it. She put out some food scraps for it as well. The cat stayed and Michele took to feeding it each evening. Still the feral stray never warmed to her. It had seen too much cruelty at the hands of others to trust anyone ever again. Michele was able to sit within a few feet of it and talk to it about this, that, and the other. But that was as far as it went. Come November the cat showed up with a litter of five kittens. Michele set out an old plastic garbage can for them to stay in. She stuffed it with towels and a blanket. For a week Mama Cat seemed okay with it. Then one night Michele saw her take one of the kittens and carry it out of the nest. Michele did not understand this about mother cats, how they had but so much milk to feed their litter and sometimes one had to be sacrificed for the good of all. She picked the tiny kitten up and returned it to the nest. Mama Cat removed it again. Michele returned it once more. Finally Mama Cat took the kitten and placed it at Michele's feet as if to say, "You want it, you keep it." Michele took it in and fed it watered down milk from an eyedropper. She wrapped it in a blanket and let it sleep on her breast. The next day she bought kitten milk and a baby bottle from the pet store. The little kitten drank greedily, reaching for the bottle and digging its tiny claws into Michele's fingers as she held it out to him. She continued bottle feeding him longer than was necessary, but both had a need for each other and neither wanted to relinquish that desire. If for no other reason than she had called her first cat Rocky after Duane Johnson, she called this one Dusty, for the American Dream, Dusty Rhodes. It was the ugliest kitten she had ever seen. Its black-tipped gray fur stood up in spikes so that it looked more like a round wire brush than any sort of feline. Mama Cat and her kittens did well also until some callous jerk called animal control to pick them up. This happened while Michele was at work and she did not find out until she got back. She chalked it down to just another in a long line of losses. When Dusty was four months old Michele decided he could use a bath. He emerged from it a different animal. The ugly black-tipped fur turned to a thick, rough gray. Stripes appeared and she gave it the additional nicknamed of Tiger. Suddenly it was a beautiful creature; or handsome as it was a male.

"Well, Tiger," she told it, rubbing its fur as it kneaded her chest. "If you can change then maybe so can I."

15

Michele answered the knock at her door to see a college-age kid standing outside. He was somewhat shaggy, and dressed in plaid. "Oh, uh, hi... ma'am." He faltered, trying to peer around her into the apartment. "Can I help you?" she asked. "I was, um, wondering if your son was around." "My son? What's this about?" "I'm sorry." The kid had a nice smile. "It's just I'm in a bit of a bind and..." "I happen to live here alone." Michele bit her lip knowing she should not have said that. "Oh?" The kid seemed surprised. "You wouldn't know anyone around here who plays a bass. I was jogging by the other day and heard one." "It was me." "Really? An old..." "Yes," Michele finished it for him. "An old lady like me plays bass. Tries to anyway." "Aw, gee, I didn't mean old old. In fact you look nice for your age." Again Michele asked what he wanted.

"It's like this. I'm a kinda-sorta part-time musician and I got this big amplifier." "Are you bragging?" "I have to move back home and I've no way to take it with me. I was looking to unload it." "Sorry. I already have an amp." "Yeah. I see." He peeked past her shoulder. "Little Peavy model. Okay for practice but no punch to it. Look, I got this Crate 120 what'll blast your walls down. And I gotta get rid of it. A pawn shop might give me seventy-five. The head alone is worth three times as much. And the speaker cabinet's got..." In the end Michele bought it for $200. It was every penny she had. Still it was a marvel. Three and a half feet tall, two channels, just the volume dial on one could, as the kid promised, blast the walls down. If Joshua had this sucker at Jericho he could have done without those stupid trumpets. Best of all it had a built-in reverb; an essential if one wanted to play surf tunes. She had no idea what to do with the thing, but my, did it ever look bitchin'. And it made her feel like somebody.

16

Michele over the years accumulated eight CDs. An import version of A Hard Day's Night without the crappy George Martin orchestrations, Jimi Hendrix's Band of Gypsies, the four disc Nuggets collection, and a two disc anthology of surf classics. All were thrift store discards. All were gold. With no one to teach her, Michele practiced her bass along to the tunes. It was a slow process but it was not as if she had anything better to do. Dusty listened without criticizing, voicing objections only when she hit an egregiously bad note, which was often at first. She practiced hours each night, from the time she

got home until going to bed, pausing long enough to feed Dusty and scratch his ears. Her fingertips grew sore and her hands ached, but as the months ed she became so-so, eventually advancing to adequate. Because her apartment was at the very end of the complex nobody complained about the noise. The little Peavy amp she had started out with was not capable of much volume anyhow. She never got to a point where she could play without watching her fingers on the fretboard. She once heard the same thing about Frank Zappa although she had never seen him perform so she could not know for sure. Regardless it did not matter since she had no intention of appearing in public. This was but an outlet, a way of venting her frustrations, and more often than not she banged randomly on the thing, letting it scream and shout because she had never been allowed to. Once as a child she had become especially upset with her pig-headed aunt and went to the park where she let out a scream so loud the squirrels fled in terror. A policeman dragged her back home accusing her of disturbing the peace. Her aunt punished her with no supper that day or the next. It taught her a valuable lesson in keeping her mouth shut.

17

Michele always tried to keep an even temper. As a child she accepted her Fate in her Aunt's custody, realizing she could do nothing about it. Upon her release from the institution she knew she now had a permanent record and any outbursts or commotions could cause her to be sent back. Again that may or may not have been the case, but it was the impression they had left her with and so she kept a lid on it and did her job as quietly as possible, like a 98 pound weakling on the beach, taking whatever sand life kicked in her face. It was not as though she liked it but at the same time she felt powerless to stop it. Still there were things that tempted to drive her up the wall. One day she had an idea for an improvement at work and approached her

supervisor with it. The supervisor, a smug and lazy tyrant, without looking up said, "You can't." "Why?" Michele had the temerity to ask. "You just can't!" And so it went. As a child she had accepted authority figures answering her "Why's" with "Because I said so." She knew it to mean they were ignorant dictators with no idea what they were doing but, again, as a child there was nothing she could do about it. Now in adulthood, "Because I said so" was replaced with "You just can't." The meaning was the same. "I don't know, and because it doesn't affect me I don't care." "Why can't we put our folders on a cart and take them to the file room rather than making dozens of trips back and forth?" "You can't." "Why can't we use the back stairs since they're closer to the parking garage?" "Because you can't." "Why don't they tell us if we're going to work the holiday sooner instead of waiting till the last minute?" "Because they just can't." Everything from road repairs to remodeling to wars and taxes. Why? You just can't. Ron might not have been able to do anything about it but he would have given her a shoulder to cry on when frustration set in. But Ron was scattered to the wind, obliterated in an explosion where not even enough dust remained to fill an urn. And Dusty, dear sweet Dusty, did not have shoulders to begin with.

18

Alongside Can't sits its cousin, Don't. Michele, thinking she might improve her skills, took one actual music lesson. She paid for an hour; stayed 10 minutes. The music teacher said, "You don't strum chords on a bass." "Why not?" Michele asked, showing her how easy it was to play a standard G chord with just four strings. "You just don't," the teacher replied, and Michele never went back. And she kept on strumming whenever she felt the song called for it.

19

Michele's first public performance was at a church talent show. St Thomas Aquinas held an annual all-day celebration commemorating the founding of the church and the evening event culminated in a talent show where otherwise unsung of the congregation could do their thing. Of course Michele had to audition for her spot, but other than that nobody else knew what to expect when she walked on stage with her Jaguar bass and did a medley of surf songs, starting with "California Sun" and going from there into "Walk Don't Run" and "The Hearse". The audience response was mild, not knowing what to make of it since other performers concentrated on lip-syncing oldies or doing spirituals. Playing with the volume knob on 10 may have had something to do with it also. It was afterward she was approached by Audrey.

"You were wonderful," she gushed. Audrey always gushed. "Just what this place needs to shake it up." "I'm afraid the only shaking was people moving their heads side to side in disapproval," Michele smiled back. "Here, let me help you." Michele was loading her amp into her car and having a rough time of it. "I saw you once at one of the Saturday services. I had no idea you played." "It's just for fun," Michele assured her. "Nothing serious." Michele recalled now seeing Audrey play piano at Saturday evening mass. She had an energetic style; so much so it drew disapproving looks from the rest of the attendees. "Guilty as charged," Audrey itted. "They fired me for rocking it up too much. I thought worship was meant to be fun but the music director felt otherwise. He wanted every mass to sound like a funeral. The last straw was when I showed up with my electric keyboard. I hate acoustic pianos. I mean, this is the Twenty-First Century, right? But I guess some people don't own calendars when it comes to some things." She sighed. Audrey was a year or two older than Michele. She was healthy and looked fine, although she did carry a few extra pounds. Too much sitting on a piano stool can affect one's figure. Audrey was married with two kids, both gone off on their own. Without her church work she felt a hole in her life. "You wouldn't like to get together sometime and maybe fool around a bit?" Audrey ventured. "Gosh I don't know," Michele responded with a sly smirk. Cynicism had lent her a sense of humor that was dry to the point of arid, although she rarely found opportunity to employ it. So when Audrey said, "fool around," Michele could not help but reply: "I mean, I'm a widow but I'm still straight." "I meant music," Audrey clarified, although she got the joke. "Rock-n-roll." "Oh, sure," Michele accepted. "I'd like that fine."

20

Audrey was quite adept at the keyboard. She was never going to compete with Keith Emerson or Rick Wakeman but all the same she could hold her own. Playing alongside Audrey forced Michele to get better. They started out getting together once a week. It grew to two and soon three times a week. Audrey's husband put his foot down on anything more than that. It turned out he liked spending time with his wife as well. They discovered right away they shared a ionate love of music from the 1960s and an overpowering obsession for surf music. Playing surf presented a challenge at first, but with so many of the songs using the top three strings Michele was able to cover them while Audrey supplied the missing parts with clever adjustments of her keyboard's piano settings. She could also double horn and guitar parts on "normal" rock numbers. Audrey adhered to the organ and piano voicings. She did not care for synthesizers and Michele echoed her sentiments. Audrey's favorite band had been Pink Floyd before they went moog. She stopped listening to them after Meddle.

21

One night at home Michele was doodling with the bass riff of "The Ballad of John and Yoko". She played it several times in different positions then out of nowhere hit on a line reminiscent of "Tequila". It was not great but still Michele felt she had something. She went on tweaking it during the days. Then one night Audrey's husband had guests over so she brought her keyboard to Michele's place. Michele showed her the new number and Audrey tossed in a few ideas. Then Michele suggested Audrey play a continuous G chord on Michele's telecaster. Audrey did not know how to play a guitar but with an Open

D tuning all she had to do was lay one finger across the fifth fret. After a couple of hours it came together and they had their first original composition. "Wow," Audrey gushed. She always gushed when she was excited. "JaggerRichard look out." "Actually we stole it from Lennon-McCartney," Michele corrected her. "So let 'em sue. What are you going to call it?" "Me?" "It's your song. All I did was offer a few suggestions." "Gosh, I don't know. It's mostly a bass number. And it has a laid back feel." She thought a moment, plucking strings at random. "How about 'Tranquility Bass'?" "Great!" Audrey gushed. "I love it." Then: "B-A-S-S or B-A-S-E?" Michele gave it some further thought. "S-S," she decided. "We'll call the band S-E." "Whoa, girl," Audrey gushed. "The band?" "Well..." Michele reasoned, "as long as we have a tune we should get up a band to play it." "I dunno," Audrey half-laughed. "Do you think we could?" "Why not? We won't get rich or famous. But it'd be fun playing weddings and birthday parties. What do you think?" "I think it'd be great." Audrey did not gush however. "But we'll need to learn a lot more songs." Not to mention, if they were going to be a band they would have to find a drummer.

22

Audrey placed an ad in the church bulletin: "Lady drummer wanted." The next evening Stick knocked at her door. "This lady drummer... What's she wanted for: murder or embezzlement?" She carried a snare drum under her arm. "I have a full kit in my van." She pointed to the beat-up thing by the curb. It looked like a reject from a Partridge Family episode. "I'll bring the rest of it in if I decide to ." One would think it natural for a drummer to be named Stick. In this case the name came first. Stick—Michele never knew her by any other name—was a weirdo. Skinnier than it seemed possible, buck teeth, round glasses on a nonexistent nose, and a spiky shag mullet that looked like her skull exploded. But could she ever play. Unimaginable stores of energy. All she wanted was a chance. The church choir gave her one audition and turned her down flat. It was how she found Michele and Audrey. Like Doug Clifford with Creedence Clearwater Revival, she loved to lay it on, but understood when to hold back. Her skinny arms laid out machine gun beats which would have made Keith Moon proud. Music-wise she contributed a lot of titles, such as "The Norman Bates Bread and Breakfast", but could never flesh them out into complete songs. She was a collaborator and a contributor but never a star. And she fit in well with what they were doing. They never asked her age and she never volunteered it, but one could tell from her face she was on the far side of forty. Three middle-aged (some might say old) women rockers; that was Tranquility Base. And that, uh-huh uh-huh, was how they liked it.

23

When you work in a three-piece band you are going to get plenty of opportunities to do your thing. Providing one of the is not some spotlight hog who treats the others as sidemen. Tranquility Base had no such problem. The brunt of the work fell on Audrey as her keyboard provided the essential portion of each song, but she did not look on this as making herself the featured player. Michele and Audrey shared vocal duties, Stick kicking in now and then for a chorus, and Michele got her share of star time on songs like "Midnight Confessions" and "Mississippi Queen". Her somewhat defective pawn shop fuzz box lent extra bite to the latter. Their spotlight number was a three-fifths version of Rare Earth's "Get Ready". The original Rare Earth had five and each took an extended solo on their twenty-five plus minute version of the Temptation's song. Without a guitarist or sax player they could do fifteen or sixteen minutes at best, although there were nights Stick would get carried away and it could run past thirty. The lack of a guitar bugged them at first. Female guitarists playing amped up rock-n-roll were hard to come by; more so when, in their cloistered world, a church setting was all they had to draw from. Most women, if they played at all, used it for acoustic accompaniment while singing sappy ballads. All three Tranquility Base loathed acoustic music. It was why they had formed the band to begin with. It turned out Stick had a cousin who played, but she proved to be even weirder than the drummer herself. Cousin Flange played few actual notes, concentrating instead on effects. There was, for certain, a place for such things in rock-n-roll but Tranquility Base was not it. Nor did they want to audition a male guitarist. Their focus from the start had been to perform as a female ensemble. And if three was all they had, then they would milk that threesome for all it was worth.

24

Some are born unhappy, some achieve unhappiness, and some have unhappiness thrust upon them. Michele could not recall a single happy moment in her life before meeting Ron. Granted there had been her daughter Robin, but upon leaving the mental hospital she found she could not much about the child. The doctors had given her a lot of injections that first year which may have had something to do with it. Whatever the case, her attention fixated on Ron, and she could not recall any happy moments after his death. Well, other than Dusty. He was one thing that could make her smile. Along with playing her bass. Even news of her aunt's ing brought no pleasure, although she completely approved of it. "I just want to be happy," is what Michele would say when Tranquility Base took a break from rehearsing. "Happiness and a little dignity." Stick, downing her third triple cappuccino, agreed. "It says in the Constitution everyone's got a right to happiness." "Hadn't you better ease up on that stuff?" Michele meant the coffee. Stick's hands were shaking like castanets. "No way, Shell," Stick shook her head. "This is what calms me down." Michele shrugged. "Whatever makes you happy." And she meant it. It was not often Stick took things seriously. More often she told jokes of her own making. Few if any made sense. "Hey, Shell. Why are there only three people in a July trio?" "I don't know." "Because Independence Day fell on the fourth." Audrey, feeling Michele needed rescuing, ed the conversation.

"It says in the Declaration of Independence you've the right to pursue happiness. Pursuing and getting are two different things." "Remind me to take you along next time I'm in the woods." Stick drained her cup. "If there's a forest fire you can throw a wet blanket on it." Audrey smiled, the mother in her taking charge. She took Stick's empty coffee cup and laid a hand on hers. "God gives blessings," she quoted some long dead source. "Happiness is up to us." Stick rolled her eyes. She had heard the same thing a thousand times before, always from people better off than her. So had Michelle. Then Stick sneezed and Audrey said, "Bless you." "Thanks," the drummer girl wiped her nose with her shirt. "You don't know how happy that makes me feel."

25

When people come together to form a band, one of the first things they do is decide upon the songs that will comprise their set list. It was a matter of a) do I like it? b) do I know it? and c) can I play it? with C more important than A or B. One could always fake what they did not know, and if you knew how to play it, it did not much matter if you liked it or not.

Some songs were no-brainers. There was always surf music. This was a given. And there was a plethora of three-chord 60s classics to pick from. Not to mention those horn driven hits from the Stax label. It was not so much a matter of what to play but choosing what to leave out. They could practice only so many songs in a single night. There were disagreements though, one of which threatened to split the band before it got underway. It was this: Stick refused to play anything by Creedence Clearwater Revival. It was not as though she did not like the group itself. She had been a huge fan before they broke up; which is to say before John Fogerty broke them up. The thing was Stick could not stand Fogerty himself. She considered him an enormous fathead who blamed everyone but himself for whatever stupid mistakes he made in his life. Stick had a narrow view when it came to things like that. Her opinion was you made your own bed and lied in it. And the CCR guitarist, in her opinion, did an awful lot of lying. Stick took special issue with his claim the other of the group did not know anything and he had to teach them everything. This to her was total baloney. Actually it was total something else, but with Audrey's husband in the next room Stick did not want to risk using a stronger term where he might hear it. That Doug Clifford was an excellent drummer was demonstrated in "I Heard it through the Grapevine". Stick acknowledged Fogerty wrote some good songs, but he also had a fair number of clunkers, and it was clear (to her anyway) he was his own biggest fan. Now had Audrey or Michele wished to argue, they could have pointed out how being a jerk was nothing new to the music business; how in fact 99.9 percent of all rock stars were despicable fatheads. It was what was needed to get to the top and stay there. And one could still ire a song without liking the person who performed it. But Stick was adamant, and because Tranquility Base was founded as a democracy the others gave in. No CCR songs were mentioned again, although both Audrey and Michele had so wanted to do "Have You Ever Seen the Rain". There are times when you must compromise, more so when you are at an early

stage of the game. The higher up one gets the less compromise is necessary. But Tranquility Base was still new to it all. And being new, they opted for friendship over politics. Michele had no problem with this. Her entire life had been one of giving in to others. Still, looking back on her past, Michele wondered what her life would have been like had more people felt the same way about being friendly.

26

The song list grew and grew. Chris Montez "Let's Dance" seemed a natural for Audrey's keyboard, as did "Time of the Season". The bassline was easily mastered. "Party Doll" was a joy to sing. Like all songs in their repertoire they did not bother changing genders. "Little GTO" came off well, Michele playing the acoustic solo competently enough on her fuzzed-up bass. A surprise number was a little-known 1910 Fruitgum Company number called "The Train". The song was light years away from being "bubble gum" and all three enjoyed it. It was after one particularly good run through Stick voiced her approval, saying the band was finally starting to "devo". When pressed as to what she meant, the drummer girl explained: "Devo. Verb: to whip into shape." It caused Michele to wonder if Stick was a school teacher in private life. She hoped not. Michele had no respect for teachers. But then she had plenty of reason not to.

27

Somedays when she had nothing better to do Michele would browse the shelves of the local library, not so much checking out books but seeing what memories they conjured. She had gotten out of the habit of reading while institutionalized but she could still recall good and/or bad times certain books brought back. Eons ago when in high school Michele's class had to read "Turn of the Screw". When asked to report on it all she could think to say was, "The woman's crazy." It earned her a poor grade and a deep dislike for Henry James. The prejudice stayed with her to the present day because she could not stand his work. He was boring, long-winded, tedious, and took forever to say what any competent author could in a single sentence. If people thought Lovecraft was needlessly wordy then Michele challenged them to tackle this stuff. The stories were supposed to be scary, but Michele lacked the patience to wade through endless streams of over-detailed prose (he could take two or three paragraphs just to have someone get up and close a door) to get to the good stuff. Because of this she skimmed through much of it and possibly that is what caused her to miss the "scary" parts. Whatever the case, the man had his fans, but Michele was not one of them. Thornton Wilder was another of those "great writers" who the world at large (and Michele's high school English teacher in particular) told her she was supposed to like (not just like but fall down and worship) because he was "so good". After which she had to endure public humiliation and chastising when she told the teacher Our Town did not strike her the same way. Michele thought the "message" was heavy-handed, ham-fisted, exaggerated, obvious, cloying, sappy, and reeked of sentiment. The problem was she did not know those words back then so she simply said, "It's stupid." Another bad grade and a note for her aunt saying her niece would never amount to anything. And looking back perhaps she had not. But she was an avid reader then. (She read all of Avid's books and by her senior year had moved on to Fervid. Oh how she loved those Greek classics!) She even tried a few of Wilder's other books; all eliciting the same response. But while this smug and stupid teacher berated her for not going wild over Wilder, she was at the same time checking out Hemingway, Lovecraft, Burroughs, E. F. Benson, M. R. James, Asimov, Edith Hamilton, C. S. Lewis, G. K. Chesterton, Wilkie Collins, and a ton of others from the library, and before it

was over had read more on her own than was contained between the covers of her English instructor's required reading list. A famous Hollywood producer once said, "If you want to deliver messages, call Western Union." Michele wished she had known this when she gave her Our Town review. It was seven words longer than what she came up with. Young Michele's English instructor taught her many things, the main one being to despise the "classics" as something for snobs to hide behind while putting on airs of superiority. It was not though like she could have expressed it that way at the time. Again such words were not taught back then; and even if they had, she would not have been permitted to use them. Michele hated school. They should have taught her to read and write and then left her on her own. It was an attitude she carried into her adult life, the idea of give (or take) what you need and then leave me the hell alone. Although, again, she would never have gotten away with saying it.

28

One evening after a sweaty rehearsal Michele ran a hand through her hair, noting it was overdue for a trimming. The nurses at the Louisiana state care facility had cut her hair short, more for their convenience than hers, and by the time she got out she was so accustomed to it she keep it that way. She grew it out a little, a bit fuller, but it stayed short enough to frame her face and give emphasis to her cheekbones. Her "wash and wear hair" she called it. In any case it needed cutting. Audrey said she knew just the person for her since it was her opinion most stylists did not know how to do short hair to where it looked good. This was how Michele met Nancy.

Nancy and her husband had emigrated from Thailand. He had a job which kept him away most of the time. Nancy stayed home and took care of their two middle school children. Nancy soon grew bored so, since she had been a hair dresser before marrying, her husband bought her a chair, applied for a license, and set her up in a home styling business. Business was word-of-mouth and Nancy would work or not as the mood struck her. The next day was Saturday and Nancy agreed to see her. Nancy turned out to be a treasure. She knew what she was doing and when she was done Michele had never looked better. "You very pretty," Nancy told her, doing a final comb through. Michele knew she was saying it to be kind, and perhaps to keep a customer. Michele could see herself in a mirror and knew the score. Her features were too sharp to be considered pretty. But she appreciated it all the same. "You're very cute yourself," Michele returned the compliment. In Nancy's case it was true. She was 10 years younger than Michele and cute as a button. Not beautiful, and not pretty; but very cute. She was white as milk, fineboned, almost delicate, and always wore dresses. The hems came to her knees and Michele saw she did not wear hose. Not many women did anymore, some for better, others for worse. But Nancy had smooth legs and they looked particularly nice without them. It came as a shock to Michele she would think such a thing. Not that there was anything wrong with it, but it just seemed odd such thoughts would waken in her. She was straight—although forcedly celibate thanks to Mr Dubya—and Nancy was married with two kids. All the same she felt strange stirrings when Nancy bent close as she fixed her hair. It was almost as if... "It's been 27 years since I had man," she blurted out of nowhere. "27 years since..." "I'd like to help," Nancy smiled with unexpected humor. It was the same sort of smirk Michele had first given Audrey when joking on a similar subject. "But my husband has little enough time for me as is."

29

Young Michele's independent spirit often landed her in hot water. And if it was not boiling hot, it was warm enough to make her turn red. People who choose to follow their own path can make stupid mistakes at times. It is all part of the learning process. Take her experience with Edgar Allan Poe for example and his story "The Tell-Tale Heart". The story, as she told it to Audrey and Stick during a rehearsal break, was this: "The first time I read it I kept asking who 'Tell-Tale' is? Was it the name of the victim? I read it again and again and could not find where the name was given. If The Pickwick Papers had a guy named Pickwick, then 'The Tell-tale Heart' must have a guy named Tell-Tale." She paused a moment, then made with a rueful smile. "Oh, the innocence of youth. Not to mention the embarrassment when someone took me aside and explained what the word meant." "Aw, don't kick yourself," Stick said over a sip of coffee. "I made mistakes as well." Stick seldom talked about herself so they knew this would be interesting. "I thought it was about a man with ultra-sensitive hearing, like Superman, and the victim was some supernatural being since his heart did not die. I had to give an oral review before my English class and never got to finish it because my teacher managed to pick her jaw up off the floor and shouted for me to stop. She believed I was making fun of the story. If grades lower than 'F' had existed, I would for sure have gotten one." Audrey, always one to see the silver side of every cloud, said, "Then consider yourself fortunate it happened before reading The Hatchback of Notre Dame (where's the car?) or The Three Musketeers (they had candy bars back then?)." Sometimes people have to learn by experience. Poe was an early teacher on the

thorny path to adulthood.

30

With the playlist taking shape Audrey brought up the idea of a "group look". A band needs a look was her opinion. Michele and Stick did not care although it did seem a "woman thing" to do. "What'd you have in mind?" Stick asked, full of suspicion. "Nothing matching I hope," Michele tossed in. There was never a chance of that since no two women want to wear the same outfit. "No," Audrey said. "Not matching, but common." "Such as?" "Well, we all like surf music, so I thought if we wore island shirts..." "You mean buy three shirts and swap them before each performance?" "Or borrow them from my husband. He has tons of them; he's crazy about the things. We could wear a different one for each gig." "Assuming we ever get a gig," Stick put in. "Wouldn't Steve's shirts be kinda big on us?" Michele asked. "I thought it'd add to our 'cuteness' factor. We could wear them unbuttoned..." "And show off our boobs?" Stick looked shocked. "We'd wear t-shirts under them, silly. We're still church women, ."

"I just wanted to make sure you ed." Michele had an idea. "Why not wear shorts as well. I mean Stick already does so you and I should too. It'll give us a 'common' look as you call it but still different." Michele would never have suggested it if she had known what it would lead to.

31

The island shirts did give them a distinct look. It was as though bands had not worn them before, but this was three church women, all approaching 50, and it lent them a style no one expected. Steve's shirts were large and Michele and Stick had to pin the sleeves to keep them from interfering with their playing. He was also tall and the things hung down like miniskirts. It reminded them of those movies where the woman hops into bed with a man and puts on his oversized shirt afterward. "Not like I expect either of you to jump into bed with my Steve," Audrey joked. "He has a difficult enough time meeting my expectations." Audrey at times had a tendency to lord her marital status over the others. "Ow!" cried Stick. "I just stabbed myself on a pin!" "Oh, God," Audrey cried. "Don't bleed! You've little enough as it is!" When the laughter subsided she said, "You know, there's no reason we should pin these things back. Steve's got enough shirts that he could stand to lose a few. I like the long and baggy look but the sleeves are a problem. I say we have someone tailor them so they fit." "I can't sew a stitch," Stick protested. "Neither can I," Audrey itted. "And I wouldn't want Michele to risk her

finger-tips. My hairdresser friend Nancy does seamstress work on the side. I'm sure she'd do it for us."

32

Stick voiced objection at first to calling their trio Tranquility Base. She felt Sticks & Shells sounded better. "Shell" was what she called Michele. Michele pointed out her proposed name did not include Audrey. Stick's name for Audrey was "Awed". Stick thought things over while doing a "Wipe Out" drum solo. The others waited while she played the thing several times. When finally she finished she looked at them and said, "I guess Tranquility Base will be all right." Another thing Stick did was tell Shell she should wear shorter shorts than the rest. Her reasons were threefold: a) Michele was the only one standing which, like it or not, made her their front man b) She had the nicest legs of the bunch even if they were on the bony side c) All bands need a sex symbol. Michele laughed. "Me? A sex symbol? I'm a 49-year-old woman." She had not once in her life worn hot pants or daisy dukes and did not intend to start now. "Like the Fleetwood Mac song: 'I can't sing, I ain't pretty, and my legs are thin'." Although she could sing, good enough for rock-n-roll anyway, and looked pleasant enough when she smiled. "Let's face it," she went on, expressing herself like never before, "none of us has

what it takes to turn heads. Audrey has a pretty face but, no offense, she's on the chubby side—" "My husband likes me this way," Awed threw in, a trifle miffed. "He likes potatoes with his steak." She was not so much chubby, but she had chunky thighs. "While Stick," Michele went on, "is... well..." "Willowy, lean, and possessing a unique look," Stick finished, pushing back her glasses and ever so much resembling a female version of Dana Carvey from the Wayne's World movies. "Right," Michele grinned. "And the only knockers are on the front door." She felt she had made her point but then Audrey said, "I agree with Stick. Like it or not, you are our focal point and you should try to look as nice as possible." She waited a moment before adding: "I could lend you some lipstick if you'd like." Michele shrugged her bony shoulders, considering that the appropriate reply. Shell suspected it was Awed's way of getting back at the woman for calling her chubby.

33

Michele married Ron immediately upon graduating high school, a June bride. She was 17, no better or worse looking than any other girl of the time, albeit on the thin side. One would never grow fat on what her aunt fed her, although the woman herself had done a creditable job of rounding out her own form. Apparently gluttony was a sin which only applied to others. "There'll be no sweets for you, young lady," she said. "Sugar leads to tooth decay and I'm not paying dental bills."

Ron too was an average guy with nothing to single him out. They had met in their freshman year. Some jocks were teasing her and Ron came to her rescue. They were inseparable ever since. Both good Catholics, each could have worn white when they married. Instead Michele wore a pleated skirt and Ron a plain sweater. Michele's aunt did not attend. Michele had not asked her. When she announced her intention to marry, the woman's sole comment was, "I hope you don't plan to stay here." Message received, loud and clear. Ron entered the military upon graduating. He saw it as an opportunity to get ahead; learn a skill, go to college on the GI Bill, give Michele a better life than she had now. Five years later he was dead. The better life never materialized. Michele fell apart and her aunt saw to it she was institutionalized. Custody of Robin went to her aunt. The aunt put the 3-year-old in foster care and later approved her adoption. Michele never learned any of this until after she got out. Nor did she ever see her daughter again. Michele spent four years in state care, during which time her aunt never once visited. Not a card or letter or Christmas gift was sent. The aunt was happy to be rid of her. She regarded Michele as an ungrateful troublemaker whose stubborn independent spirit had brought about her own destruction. Aunt Edee did not believe in casting pearls before swine. It was a shame the woman never looked in a mirror.

34

Looking back on her life, there are those who would judge Michele as weak. They would say she should have developed more self-respect and confidence. Such things are easy for one to say who had not been there; who never experienced what she had gone through; never walked a mile in her shoes.

Maybe she should have been stronger. But how can you be strong when you have been raised in an antebellum atmosphere of a century past, and had everything beaten out of you? Beaten both physically and mentally. How do you stand when you have spent your whole life being knocked down? How do you speak when from Day One you have been told to shut up? As young Michele learned from an early age, the problem with standing up for yourself is somebody needs to believe you. Or more accurately, they need to believe in you. Otherwise you are wasting your time. When she was in fifth grade, Michele found a five by seven notebook in the schoolyard. It was clean and unused; not a page was marked. She debated turning it into Lost and Found but decided to hang onto it instead. She took it home where, like any other twelve-year-old, she made a stab at keeping a diary, and hiding it under her mattress for safety. The entries were for the most part erratic and lacked detail. Her wicked aunt never allowed her to do anything so there was not a lot to record. Mostly it was a list of meals:

2-12 b. 1/2 cup milk, slice of toast l. cafeteria slop d. peas, carrots, glass of water

Other entries recounted her day's activities:

3-27 Sat in room, stared at wall.

It did not make for exciting reading until one day anger got the better of her and

she wrote:

5-15 I hate Aunt Edee. She's mean and stingy. I'm always hungry and she ignores me.

The next day her aunt was waiting when she got home. "So I'm mean and stingy, am I?" It angered Michele, this invasion of her privacy, and she stood up for herself. "That's my diary. You've no right to read it!" "And how else am I to know what an ungrateful child I'm raising?" "Ungrateful?" Michele lost it. "How am I supposed to be grateful when I'm starving? My clothes are rags and I'm never allowed out; there's no newspaper or radio; I've no friends—" Aunt Edee silenced Michele with a slap to the head. The little 65-pound urchin fell to the floor and hurt her wrist. Still she refused to cry and Aunt Edee waddled from the room on her cloven hooves, taking the diary with her. The next day the school nurse noticed Michele favoring her wrist. The nurse bandaged it, then called the aunt to ask about it. "The clumsy child fell on the stairs," was the explanation and the nurse had no reason to doubt it. Aunt Edee was, after all, a highly esteemed member of the community who hung out her flag every June 3 to celebrate Jeff Davis' birthday. This, to many, made her above reproach. Somehow the nurse in her examination missed the bump on Michele's head. It likely would not have mattered. It would have been her word against that of the demon aunt's. And as everyone knows, kids that fall down stairs often hit their heads as well.

35

"If tin whistles are made of tin what do they make fog horns out of?" — Lonnie Donegan

Stick suggested Michele add "Miserlou" to her surf medley. It fit in well before "The Hearse". There should always be something more before entering the hearse. Increased playing time honed Michele's skills to where she became, if not good, at least competent. Now for the first time in 20 years she was having fun. At the same time, she and Stick worked up a kind of stage patter between songs. It was silly to the extreme, the kind of thing Lonnie Donegan used to do. For instance: Stick: "Hey, Shell, why did King Tut need a tomb?" Michele: "Cos he was dead?" Stick: "No, I mean, why a tomb? Shouldn't one be enough?" Or: Stick: "Hey, Shell, what's red and goes ding-a-ling?" Michele: "I don't know. What is red and goes ding-a-ling?" Stick: "A red ding-a-ling."

Michele: No reaction other than a sour look. Stick: "Okay, then what's blue and goes ding-a-ling?" Michele: "Let me guess: would that be a blue ding-a-ling?" Stick: "Nope. They only come in red." Again, it was corny as hell, and Audrey did not think much of it, but Michele enjoyed it immensely. She was coming out of the "me-shell" she had cocooned herself in since Ron's death. Michele proposed they learn the Beach Boys "Fun Fun Fun". It was a stupid song, rhyming now, now, and now. But she did not care. It was what the title said: fun. And it was all that mattered. Her aunt would never have approved; not because it was rock-n-roll, but because it was fun. Michele did not care. Aunt Edee was long dead. Michele had not bothered to attend the funeral. It must have been a lonesome sight, just her aunt, the preacher, and the undertaker. And perhaps the luggage rack attached to the hearse. Despite what others said, Auntie always expected to take it with her. When informed of the woman's death, Michele paid her respects with a middlefinger salute aimed at the sky. Then on second thought, she pointed her fist downward figuring the bitch would have a better glimpse of it from there.

36

Nancy returned to the living room with the shirts she had hemmed and Michele tried one on to see how the new sleeve length felt. She had worn the shorts she had chosen for her stage look to see how it all went together. Nancy circled her, doing little things here and there. Out of the blue she said:

"You got nice legs. Should wear shorts shorter. Look good with outfit." "It's what Stick says, but I'm not doing it." "Why not?" "Because, Nancy, I'm closing in on 50. I'm too old to prance around in daisy dukes." "Don't be silly. It's show biz. Take off and I trim." It had been 27 years since anyone said something nice about her legs. She would have preferred it came from a man—no, she would have preferred it came from Ron. But seeing as that was not going to happen again in this life, Michele accepted the compliment. Even though it once again called up strange promptings inside her. She gave in, removed her shorts, and sat on the couch with a cushion in her lap. She felt genuinely weird. She was in another person's house sitting on their sofa in her panties. They were bikini briefs, by the way. As a kid she had to wash her Aunt's underwear and she swore to herself she would never wear granny panties no matter how old she got. All that aside, she hoped Nancy's husband or her kids would not walk in. There would be no way to live it down. Nancy returned with her shorts. "Here. Try on." Rather than hand them over, the little Thai woman held them for Michele to step in. Her arms and hands brushed Michele's thighs as Nancy pulled them up. "Nancy, I can do this myself." "Hush. Must see how fit. Try shirt." She did and... "Look nice. Very, very nice." Nancy's hands did some more adjusting until finally Michele had to push her

away; after which she burst into tears. "I'm sorry, Nancy," she sobbed, falling to the couch. "It's just..." It was just she had not been touched in nearly 30 years, and she was a female, and she still longed to be touched, but she had taken a vow to be faithful to Ron, and even though he was dead she meant to keep it. All this came pouring out along with the tears and Nancy took her in her arms and hugged her close. "It okay. Don't cry. Nancy not know why she do it either. Husband away so much. Nancy get lonesome. Never do this before. Not understand. You forgive? Please? Nancy not want lose friend." Michele looked up. "In a way I'm flattered. Still..." Then on an impulse she kissed her friend on the cheek and went to the door. The next Tranquility Base gig Michele wore her short-shorts and island shirt. No one who did not already know her would have guessed her age. Everyone, men and women alike, itted she looked nice when she smiled.

37

Robin. It was hard to say just where Michele's daughter fit in the picture. Truth was Michele had little memory of her. She had given birth to a baby girl during Ron's deployment and named her Robin, after Robin Trower, but it would be difficult to say she actually had her. Grief left her unable to cope with a baby following Ron's death until finally somebody called Child Protective Services and had the girl taken away. Somehow Michele's aunt got custody and put the baby up for adoption. The woman never offered an explanation why she did it. Nor could she tell Michele who had adopted her. The record was sealed and that was the end of

it. At the time it was for the best. Maybe. Still, Michele wished she might have had some say in it, at least to know Robin had gone to a good family and maybe send her a birthday card now and then. The girl would be almost thirty now. It would have been nice to know she was okay.

38

A few nights after her fitting, Michele touched herself while showering. It just happened. The last time she had pleasured herself was over 30 years ago as a young teen first exploring the changes her body was undergoing. The squeal of pleasure she let out sent her Aunt bursting into the room. Shocked beyond belief, the woman told her she was going to Hell. The young Michele could not understand how something that felt like Heaven could end in her going to Hell. Certainly God did not work this way. All the same she never did it again. Not until tonight, when it brought back feelings of what had lain dormant so many years. The squeal that escaped was the same as the one she first uttered at her aunt's house. And Michele smiled hoping her despicable aunt heard it from her own special place in Hell. Come night she lay in bed and, rather than cry, dreamed of herself in Ron's arms, protecting her, caressing her, and reminding her she was every inch a woman. But then the face changed and it wasn't Ron holding her but Nancy. Michele startled awake, a cold and embarrassing sweat drenching her body. "Oh, dear God," she asked herself. "What's happening to me?" Dusty, asleep by her side, offered no answer. All he did was purr and tell her to go back to sleep. Whatever she wanted to do was all right by him.

39

Michele was never sure if she was a cynic or a realist. She had been that way all her life. Ralph Waldo Emerson had a lot to do with it. In her high school days the rage was Henry David Thoreau and Walden Pond. It was a buzz word, people talking like experts whether they had read it or not. (Much like her aunt and her Bible.) Michele was one of those who had read it and, after doing so, could not understand how a clear-thinking mind like Emerson got eclipsed by a bum/hobo who spent less than a week in the woods yet had the gall to call himself a naturalist. If ever there was a disingenuous fathead who fashioned god in his own image, Thoreau was it. The original drugstore cowboy was Michele's opinion. Emerson's essay "Self-Reliance" boiled down to the need to avoid conformity and follow your instincts. In other words (paraphrasing), "God gave you a brain, so use it!" If people followed his advice political candidates on both sides would never get elected and TV stations would go off the air for lack of viewers. Emerson preached nonconformity: "Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist." Michele took it to heart, assuming it applied to women as well. But "nonconformity" today no longer means what it used to. When everyone dressed the same and shouted the same slogans it was not nonconformity; it was only Pavlovian slobbering to a different idea. And when people held up Thoreau as a great nonconformist, without taking a clear look at his life and the absolute nonsense of his Walden Pond experience, it degenerated into a complete joke. Michele read Emerson while in junior high and had embraced it ever since. It was one of those needed crutches which kept her from going crazy in a world of self-righteous aunts and smug-faced harridans who called themselves teachers. She vowed to be her own person and not accept things simply because others told her to. Every New Year's Eve, while others gathered in Times Square (and similar

places) getting drunk while waiting for a stupid ball to drop, Michele stayed home with Jimi Hendrix's Band of Gypsies, scatting along with Buddy Miles going, "Do-do-dodo-de-doody, da, da-dat dah..." And come 12:01 she felt she had not missed a thing.

40

It was that same New Year's evening Michele stumbled on an important realization. It happened while singing along with Buddy Miles. She was holding Dusty at the time, rocking in time to the music, and it seemed to her that he was purring along. That was when it hit her. "You know what?" She held Dusty out at arm's length to address him. "I do stand up for myself. People say I don't, but really I do. By following Emerson's example and separating from the pack, by not participating in meaningless pomp and ceremony that achieves nothing. It's true," she looked around the apartment, "we don't have much to show for it, but at the same time we're uncluttered and free to move anytime we want." Dusty was struggling, not liking being held that way, and Michele set him on the floor. "Of course we've nowhere to go," she itted, "and one place is as good as any other; but still we're not tied down. And yes, my job is crappy, but I'm not bothered with needless obligations. I've enough to get by—" Dusty nudged her. "We've enough to get by," she corrected herself, "and there's really nothing else we need."

That evening, shortly after midnight, Michele began a new year, not necessarily happy, but at least with a sense of contentment. She had a roof, she had her music, and there were no other responsibilities to wear her down. She sighed and made with one of her rare smiles as she rubbed Dusty's head. If only she had come to this realization twenty years earlier, that she was a survivor... and a fairly lucky one at that. The mood stayed with her all of one day. Then she had to go back to work and all the harsh and ugly realities of her existence came crashing down about her. But it was nice while it lasted.

41

"Mark your calendars," Audrey gushed. "The inaugural spring performance of Tranquility Base before a packed crowd of... What, 25, 30?" It took a year for the girls to land their first gig. It required some haggling on Audrey's part, calling in a favor from a Knights of Columbus member whose daughter she was giving piano lessons. The church was holding a festival honoring some saint and Audrey managed to talk the organizers into giving Tranquility Base an hour of stage time in the afternoon before the real crowd arrived. There would be no dancing. The floor was too crowded with booths and stalls to allow for it. But it was a chance all the same. Stick was downing cappuccinos by the bucket load. Her hands shook to where Michele wondered if she would be able to hold a drumstick. "Shouldn't you take it easy?" she asked. "It's okay," Stick told her. "I always do this before a gig." "Some sort of pre-show ritual?" "I dunno," Stick dropped a bombshell. "This is my first time."

"What?" Michele clutched her chest on the verge of fainting. "You own a kit to rival Alex Van Halen and you've never played in public?" Stick shrugged, made with a weak smile, and gulped her coffee. Michele was ready to walk out then and there. She was relying on Audrey's and Stick's experience to carry her through. Now she too was a mass of jitters. "Can I have a sip of that?" The band did not own a PA system. It was something they had not thought of. A DJ hired for the event told them they could use his set-up provided they did not blow the speakers. The group never did latch onto a PA system, not then, not ever. Audrey negotiated for the church to provide theirs at all future gigs. It was an important detail for a fledgling group. Not having a PA system meant they could not do a sound check. The DJ loaning his equipment forbade them altering his settings. None of this mattered in the end. The girls went on and played what was to become their standard opening of "Knock on Wood", "Sweet Soul Music", and "Let's Twist Again". They chose those songs to get people dancing. But as explained, the floor was too crowded and most of the people there milled about paying little attention. Still they soldiered through, Michele hitting about half her notes while Stick conquered her nervousness and drowned out the other two with cymbal crashes and sustained rides. It was anything but an auspicious debut, still a few people applauded when it was over—perhaps because it was over—and the girls chalked it down to "Everybody has to start somewhere." There was also the feeling of "I don't think we're ready yet."

42

In those early days while Michele lived with her Aunt Edee, there were never gifts, not at Christmas or on birthdays. "When the Wise Men visited Baby Jesus," Auntie said, "they gave gifts to Him; not to each other." Michele sighed. The Count of Monte Cristo at least received an annual flogging to mark his imprisonment. Not that she desired any more beatings than she already received. Still it must have meant something to Edmond Dantès to know someone ed. Such are the directions a young girl's thoughts can take when nothing else is at hand. Young Michele believed in God. Jesus too. She read her Bible. Loved Mark, hated Revelation. Catholic mass did not impress her. All you were allowed to do was repeat whatever the priest said. It was never fun. Or joyous. After her release from the state-run institution she attended a Protestant service and found it was pretty much the same. In the end she stuck with the Catholic Church out of habit. As a kid she held private worship services in her room, reading Psalms. Sometimes she prayed. She did not do it often because the thing she wanted most—for her aunt to drop dead—would have been labeled a sin. To ask anything for herself, she was told, would be covetous. So there was nothing to pray for. Her daily bread was provided—along with a few vegetables. Now and then she would get an egg. She was not allowed out much so there was nothing to tempt her. Still her aunt regarded her as sinful. One time when winter was frightfully cold she prayed for a new blanket and by a miracle her aunt bought herself new bedding and gave Michele her old stuff. It was fusty but warm. Michele ed it as the one and only prayer ever answered in that dreadful house. Michele seldom prayed after Ron's death. There did not seem to be any point. The one thing she wanted could never be granted. Today, 30 years later, she owned a nice blanket. She snatched it up the moment she saw it at the thrift store. It was not all that good a blanket. The edges were frayed and the original owner must have had sharp toenails for there were many rents at one end. Still, when she draped it over her shoulders it felt warm. And

seeing this, the store clerk took pity and let her have it for almost nothing. That same night she and Dusty said a rare prayer of thanks for the kind clerk. It seemed God was okay with her having blankets. She decided not to press her luck asking for anything else.

43

When the time came for Michele's next scheduled hair appointment she did not have enough money to pay. Her work shoes had fallen apart and the two pairs she picked up at the thrift store blew her budget. Michele called from a payphone to cancel but Nancy told her to drop by anyway. Michele arrived wearing the shorts Nancy had hemmed. "Nice," she said. "You got nice legs." "They're skinny legs," Michele told her. "And no butt to go with them." "They nice," Nancy overrode her objections and set about cutting Michele's hair. It is natural while getting a haircut for the stylist to lean close and bend over the head she is cutting. Had it been anyone else Michele would have taken no notice of it. Nancy was wearing a button down frock. When she leaned in Michele saw she had missed a button and glanced a brown nipple. It caused her to jump and Nancy could not prevent making a bad snip. "Sorry," Michele apologized. "My fault. I..." The little Thai housewife caught on. "No, no. Me sorry. In shower when you arrive. Must hurry. No time for underwear." To Michele's surprise, Nancy nonchalantly raised her skirt revealing the bare pookie beneath. "See?" She went on to say, "Husband like no hair," then

resumed cutting as though it were nothing. When she was done Nancy served cookies and lemonade. She talked about her kids in school and asked about the band. Michele nodded and answered best she could. The cookies were vanilla Oreos, two wafers with a cream filling. Michele looked at them and saw tiny vaginas. When she left Michele promised to pay double next time. Nancy laughed it off. "You come anytime," she took her arm and held it. "I like you. Free haircut whenever you need." For the next few evenings after, Michele dreamed of tiny bald pookies. Again Dusty had no answers.

44

Dwight Yoakum: "You wouldn't know it by my smile "But my recovery took a while" — song by Roger Miller

There is an adage about not counting chickens. When Michele added her age it left her nonplussed. If that statement made no sense it was at the very least a reflection of her state of mind. Although she could not anything about her life before becoming orphaned she assumed it must have been happy. Else how could she know the difference under her aunt's iron thumb?

Looking back Michele realized she had never once owned anything you could call new. Not then, not now. Clothes, shoes, even underwear came from thrift stores. Her car was not new. Her bass was not new. Her amplifier was not new. Her cooking utensils—one frying pan and one pot—were not new. Neither was her furniture—it came with the apartment—or her radio, her CD player, or anything else. Even the island shirt she wore at Tranquility Base gigs belonged to Audrey's husband. The closest thing to new she had was Dusty, and even he had belonged to someone else first. Her aunt was by nature loath to spend money on the child so everything she had was hand-me-down. She had two dresses she wore for school and around the house. Auntie did not believe in women wearing slacks. It made playing difficult when being scolded to sit and behave "like a proper young lady" lest someone see her underpants. She wore the dresses until she outgrew them, and often beyond the point. The school principal would send notes to her aunt saying, "Your girl's skirts are much too short for school policy. You need to do something immediately." Auntie would always reply: "It's the Devil in her that she insists on wearing such obscene outfits." Only then would Aunt Edee get off her fat ass and wallow to the Goodwill store, dragging little Michele with her. There she would snatch two dresses at random off the rack, never asking if Michele liked them. Life then was a living Hell. Michele looked with great anticipation to every gig and the little bit of extra money she would earn from them. With her 50th birthday closing in she made up her mind to buy something new. The problem was she had gone all her life with so little that it was hard to decide what the "something new" should be. She discussed the problem with Dusty while he sat on her lap. She decided he should have a nice collar. Love, she reasoned, should be about giving. Dusty had given her so much love she should give him something in return. She did not stop to think how Dusty would not be alive if not for the love dished out on him. There is another saying how you cannot love others without loving yourself first. Michele was not sure about that. She had loved Ron enough to go crazy after he had gone, and now she loved Dusty with everything inside her—all the while never thinking much of herself. Her evil demon aunt had done a fine job in seeing to that.

45

A couple of women from the secretarial pool were always trying to set Michele up on blind dates; dates which she continuously refused to accept. Her love and devotion to Ron, even after almost thirty years, was too strong to overcome. Finally she gave in, just to get them to stop. The women giggled and snickered among themselves and Michele wondered why. She was soon to find out. The man picked her up from work and took her to a diner. Michele had not had time to change clothes. She had nothing better to change into. So she went in her work attire, a plain knee-length dress with flat heels. It had been a long time since Michele last dated. She found she had not missed a thing. If she was wearing flat heels, then the man across from her turned out to be an even flatter one. He talked about himself all through the meal hoping to impress her. On that point he failed miserably. The food itself was cheap and lousy. She ate but a third of it. "Watching your figure," the man, Bill, leered. "Something I like in a woman." As if she cared. Out in the parking lot Bill invited her to his place. Michele said no. He made a grab for her and she scratched his face. He left her to find her own way back. "Sorry, Ron," she apologized as she walked to the parking garage where her own car waited. "I should have known better." One good thing came of it. It reminded her of the Beatles song with its catchy bass line and she set about learning it. Not all lessons have to be bad ones.

46

It was ridiculous from the start, three middle-age women, all in their late forties, starting a rock-n-roll band. It was the very ridiculousness of it which made them determined to pull it off. Tranquility Base kept plugging away with thrice weekly rehearsals. Things were coming together nicely, although not without snags. Stick added to Michele's surf medley by throwing in Sandy Nelson's "Teen Beat". They worked a long time on "You Keep Me Hangin' On" (Vanilla Fudge), no one wanting to give up. Stick handled the drum parts like an expert (Vinny Appice eat your heart out) and the organ was easy enough. Michele found the bass part at the end extremely difficult. She managed a ably half-assed version and they deemed it good enough. Tim Bogert could sleep well at night knowing no one was going to challenge his position as King of the Hill. "I Need You" had to be abandoned. Audrey did a heartfelt vocal but Michele kept breaking down, crying because it reminded her so much of Ron. The Four Seasons offered "Let's Hang On", a good opportunity for harmonizing not to mention a bad-assed distorted lead line Michele found easy to handle. Who songs simply could not be done. You cannot "see for miles" on a piano. It disappointed Stick to no end she would not be able to channel Keith Moon for those three minutes. They debated "Under My Thumb" deciding at last, hey it was a cool song so the heck with political correctness. Audrey happened to own a copy of the Who's cover version so Stick got to channel Keith after all. "From a Window" was a pretty song everyone liked and "Birthday" was a requisite if they expected to play parties. Audrey added extra reverb to her piano and the vibration lingered on the air long after the last note was struck.

Michele wanted to do "Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues". It was hardly a dance number but again, why not? It was slow and easy and she sang it honest and heartfelt, "looking just like a ghost".

47

Good, or maybe competent, as they might be, there are limits to what a keyboard-bass-drums line up can do. No matter how well Audrey covered guitar parts or Michele banged them out on crunchy distorted bass, the fact remained they could never do Neil Young. "Rockin' in the Free World" was beyond their ability. One cannot do justice to Neil Young on anything other than an overdriven Gibson. Many other songs fell into that category, as they were later to learn.

48

St Thomas Aquinas Church sat on several acres of land. The old church was closest to the road. The new building occupied the middle of the property. It had an enormous parking lot. At the farthest end was the pavilion. Small parties could rent it for a reasonable price. Alongside the pavilion, to the right as one entered, was a covered area with a long wooden table and a barbeque pit at the end. It was a cozy atmosphere and nary a weekend ed where somebody did not have it booked. Some friends of Audrey's celebrating their silver anniversary hired Tranquility Base to play. They ran through their usual repertoire to favorable response. The crowd so liked their back-to-back version of "Knock on Wood" followed by "Let's Twist Again" that they repeated it three times after each break. Audrey

and Stick played a rousing version of "Cotton-Eyed Joe" (Michele could not keep up with it toward the end) and everyone was having a good time. Michele and Audrey were happy to see Nancy and her husband in attendance and dedicated a song to them. Per agreement the band took a fifteen minute break each hour. It was 11:15 and they were on their final set. When they went back they would do their 15-20 minute "Get Ready" and then fill the remaining time with slow numbers. The atmosphere inside, while not crowded, was nonetheless stuffy. Michele stepped out to the barbeque area for some fresh air. The night wind was breezy and she had worked up a sweat playing. She was standing in the space between the barbeque pit and the wood table gazing at the stars. She had removed her island shirt and was fanning herself by pulling at her t-shirt when Nancy came out to talk to her. "We go soon. Can't stay. Wanted to tell I enjoy it." "Why, thank you. Coming from you makes it all the more special." Michele did not know what made her say it. Maybe it was because Nancy was backed against the table and looked so pretty in the moonlight but before either could prevent it Michele lifted the little Thai woman by the waist and set her on the table. Then both fell to kissing each other. Long dead feelings, a ionate desire for intimacy, came to the fore and Nancy reciprocated with equal fervor. Her skirt rode up exposing smooth thighs. Michele slid her fingers along them until she came to Nancy's panties. She had never touched another woman's pookie in her life. All the same her fingers knew by instinct what to do. Nancy uttered soft moans as Michele massaged the little mound through the fabric. Their lips locked while Nancy reached up to caress Michele's breast. Neither could control what they were doing. They abandoned themselves to the moment. Then: "Nancy?" Audrey came around the corner and stopped at the far end of the table. "Your husband's looking for you. He's ready to go and—"

Both women straightened, red with embarrassment. "What...?" "Oh!" Michele stammered. "I was just helping Nancy. She... had something in her eye and—" Nancy, too humiliated to speak, dashed from the pit area and disappeared into the parking lot. Michele looked on in shame-faced silence. Audrey studied her a moment, then said, "Break time's over. We need you back on stage." "Right," Michele fumbled. "Give me a minute. I'll be right there." Audrey continued giving her odd looks as she went back in. "Oh God," Michele wondered. "How much did she see? And why did I do it to begin with it?" A tear ran down her cheek as she composed herself. She blew her nose in her island shirt and left it outside. Back onstage, she played but a short solo on "Get Ready" leaving it for Stick to fill the gap.

49

Actually it was not true what Michele said about never having touched another girl's pookie. She was in high school the first time it happened. It was an innocent affair but the gym teacher who witnessed it blew the whole thing out of proportion. There was a Filipino girl in attendance. It was from her Michele got the term "pookie" for vagina. Michele thought it sounded less vulgar than the other words

floating around. She was a lovely girl with beautiful black hair and eyes. She was also quite shy about showering with the others. One day during class she twisted her ankle playing volleyball. The gym teacher, being a merciless drill sergeant type, told her to walk it off. By the time class was over the poor thing could hardly stand. Here was where Michele came in. Showering after class was a requirement. The drill sergeant watched to make sure everyone took theirs. When Michele finished hers she saw the Filipino girl sitting on the bench by her locker, not moving. She was still naked, as was Michele. "You better hurry," Michele told her. "The next bell will ring soon." That was when the girl looked up at Michele and asked, "Can you help me, please? I can't stand up." Michele was not sure what to do. The girl was dripping wet. She needed to be toweled off before she could dress. It was an uncomfortable situation for both; still the unfortunate girl needed help and there would be none coming from the sergeant. She was in the middle of helping the girl with her underwear when the sergeant turned the corner and saw them. Both were sent home and expelled for a week. Each had to write an essay confessing their sin and acknowledging what they did was wrong. The school was more understanding about it than her Aunt Edee. Where the principal put it down to teenage curiosity, Michele's aunt saw it as proof of the girl's evil nature. She placed her on bread and water for the duration of her punishment. The Filipino girl fared better. Her parents proved more understanding once they saw the condition of the poor thing's ankle. They threatened legal action against the school district. It was settled out of court, the girl transferring to another school, while the drill sergeant stayed on. Michele returned to class greeted by hoots and jeers and dirty looks from students and faculty alike. When the world has made up its mind about you, there is no real point trying to defend yourself.

50

It was about a month after the barbeque pit incident that Stick happened to remark: "Whazzup, Shell? You lettin' your hair grow?" "There isn't much I can do to stop it," was Michele's half-hearted reply. She had been avoiding Nancy since that time and was beginning to look punkishly shaggy. "She lost her Nancy," Audrey explained. "What?" Michele spun about to face her. "What did you say?" "I did too," Audrey went on. "She told me she doesn't want to cut hair anymore." "Oh." Michele hung her head. "Right." "I dunno," Audrey shrugged. "Maybe she still has something in her eye." She looked directly at Michele. "It's what you said last time, isn't it?" Michele said nothing. "She should see a doctor," Stick commented, "before it gets serious." "I hope she does," Audrey agreed. "She's a good stylist and I hate to lose her." "She's a good friend," Michele realized. "And I can't lose her."

51

"What happened to me last night That girl of mine, she loved me so right"

— the Swingin' Medallions

The song "Double Shot of My Baby's Love" was easy to both sing and play. Ridiculously simple, consisting of four chords, G-Em-C-D. A monkey could do it. And as stated before, Tranquility Base never bothered transposing genders in the lyrics. Which of a sudden caused Michele to struggle while playing it.

"What happened to me last night" out by the barbeque pit?

"Michele!" Audrey lost her patience after a fourth failed attempt. "What's wrong with you? It's a fun and easy frat number and now you can't keep up with it." "I'm sorry. I..." "Heck, you were the one who brought over your Nuggets album and insisted we do it." "I know, I know. I just..." Michele was not sure what she "just". She unhooked her guitar strap and set the instrument aside. "Something about it bothers me." Things had grown strained between the two since the last dance. Michele felt certain Audrey had seen more than she let on; things a good Catholic woman could not approve. Yet Audrey remained silent, instead becoming snappier and more critical over Michele's limitations. "Tell you what," Audrey suggested. "You just play, all right? Stick and I will do the vocal. Just play the root notes." She reached for a pad of paper and drew four lines. "I'll tab them for you." That was where Michele reached her limit. She knocked the pencil from

Audrey's hand, saying, "I know what they are. I'm not that stupid!" Then she went out to stand on the porch trying to collect herself. A moment later Stick ed her. "That was uncalled for." "I know. She had no right to..." "I mean both of you. Y'all better learn to get along or we might as well call it quits." Meanwhile, from inside, came Audrey's sweet voice and piano doing "Have You Ever Seen the Rain":

"Someone told me long ago There's a calm before the storm"

Stick listened quietly until the song was over, then: "I think I'll give in and let her do it." Stick turned to go back in. "Even if it is a Fogerty tune. He did write a few good ones, you know." Michele remained outside, crying, too embarrassed to go in and collect her instrument. After a few more minutes she went inside and ed in the chorus. They decided Audrey should do the song as a solo piece. They also agreed to drop "Double Shot." There was no point doing the number if all three were not in harmony with it.

52

With but a year's experience playing weddings and church socials, Tranquility Base was woefully unprepared for the drunken rowdiness of a redneck roadhouse. A scheduled act cancelled leaving the owner in a bind. He ed the girls from a wedding they had played. Audrey had given him her number, saying to call them sometime. He knew they would be out of place and the girls did as well. But he assured them this being a Wednesday night and the week before Christmas there would not be too large a crowd. Also the money was bigger than anything they had seen before. And Michele could certainly use it. She talked the others into taking it. Audrey's husband Steve flatly opposed the idea, saying he would be flying out of town on business that same night and did not want his wife going to such a place without him for an escort. But Audrey stood her ground telling him who knows what it might lead to. Playing to a secular crowd would be a chance to see how good they really were. And Michele needed the money. Steve finally gave in. He could put his foot down, but Audrey stomped harder.

53

Tranquility Base was new to the roadhouse scene. More like lambs to the slaughter. Accustomed to playing church settings, the unruliness of the patrons overwhelmed them. Still the bar crowd received them well enough although they spent more time hooting at their shorts than listening to the music. They were mournfully out of place. Still they did the best they could although it was clear no one was interested in a twenty-minute version of "Get Ready". Everything fell apart when a drunken lout—there is one in every crowd— interrupted their performance. "Free Bird!" Audrey, Stick, and Michelle exchanged smiles at this.

"Play Free Bird!" the drunk yelled again, more belligerent this time. He kept this up through the next three numbers, swaying on his feet, looking as though he might topple over any minute. Again, the women were not accustomed to this. Perhaps other bands with more experience knew what to do in such situations. They did not. At last Audrey took a moment to address him. "Um, sir, I'm not sure if you noticed but we're a three-piece band, keyboard, bass, and drums." "Yeah," Michelle threw in, growing brave now that Audrey was taking command. "Right." Audrey went on: "And, um, you can see we don't have a guitarist." "You tell 'em!" Michele added, thinking Audrey had things in control. "So, it's not like we're equipped to play songs like 'Free Bird' no matter how much we'd like to." Audrey's explanation made perfect sense and had she been addressing a fiveyear-old child the youngster might have seen her point. The stupid lout swaying before the stage was too drunk to see anything. "Play Free Bird!" he repeated, and pumping his fist in the air, led the crowd in a one-man chant of "Free Bird! Free Bird! Free Bird!" What to do? Michele, Audrey, and Stick exchanged confused shrugs and looked helplessly about, wondering if there was not a bouncer in the place who could escort the guy out. At last Audrey said, "Okay, Bubba; I'll see what I can do," and digging out her fake book which contained the melody, lyrics and chord changes for any number of tunes, did the best she could at replicating the slower section of "Free Bird," all the while hoping it would satisfy the drunk and he would go away. It did not. Nor did calling him "Bubba" set well.

54

Michele was looking over Audrey's shoulder, trying to follow along but hitting as few bass notes as possible. Stick was having no trouble. The girl could play anything. Michele hit an obviously bad note and the drunk lost his patience— what little he had of it. Rearing back, he threw the beer bottle in his hand at the stage—threw it with all the might of his intoxicated 230 pounds of lard. Threw it aimlessly, yet deliberately, straight at Michele's head. "That's not Free Bird," he yelled as he let it go.

55

It hit her with the speed of a fastball. People talk about seeing stars. It was not so with Michele. She saw flashes of purple and red like something erupting from a pool of water. It knocked her to the floor, harder than any blow her Evil Demon aunt ever dealt her, and she stayed there. It was four or five minutes before her vision returned. During which time the stupid drunk must have sobered enough to realize what he had done for she was later told he had run out the door and sped off in his pickup. No one claimed to know who he was—something Michele highly doubted—so nothing could be done about it. Audrey complained to the club owner but all he did was shrug and walk away, saying they should have known better than to antagonize the guy. So much for the spirit of Christmas and good will toward men. Oh well. It was their first and last roadhouse appearance. The skinny bassist soldiered on best she could but a constant buzzing in her head threw her timing off and she kept missing notes. It got to where Audrey told her to sit out a few numbers. She and Stick finished the set without her. Meanwhile Michele went to Stick's "Partridge Family" van and sat in the back, a kind of daze overtaking her where she was not exactly conscious of what went on but at the same time not ing

out or falling asleep. Audrey and Stick had to load her equipment for her and Stick drove her home. Michele kind of lost track of things after that until suddenly it was the next day and time to go to work. She found she had neglected Dusty the entire time. Apologizing profusely, she dished out an extra portion of pate before leaving. Except she never made it. The pain told her to sit a moment. So she did. And stayed that way.

56

"Beautiful dreamer wake unto me Starlight and dew drops are waiting for thee..."

The only thing waiting for Michele when she woke the morning after the roadhouse incident was a tremendous throbbing in her head. Todd Rundgren "pound(ing) on that drum like it was the boss's head" could not have raised a greater racket. On a scale of 1 to 10 this was a 25. She touched a finger to her temple and it felt like it was about to burst. The pain was such it made her cry. A sudden rush left her momentarily blind. It took many minutes to clear. A blurred glance at the alarm clock said it was after four. Which meant it was late afternoon. "Omigod," she jumped out of bed, "I slept the whole day." Meaning she had missed work without calling in. It also meant Dusty would be starving. The faithful animal lay beside her, not complaining. He was a good cat that way.

Jumping out of bed was not wise. She lost her balance and fell to the floor. Dusty jumped down to check on her. Michele grabbed her head. Her brain was on spin cycle. "I've got to call them so I don't get fired." There was a payphone by the mailboxes, perhaps the only one still in existence. It felt like it was a hundred miles away as Michele hugged the outside walls, trying to reach it without falling. A couple of people ed her, made rude gestures, and hurried on. Her boss was not in. Neither was her supervisor. Michele wondered why it was they left early on a Thursday. She finally got hold of the girl at the desk next to hers. Michele tried apologizing, saying she had an accident, and would be in tomorrow. "Tomorrow?" the girl repeated. "Today's Friday. We don't open again till Monday." Friday! She had slept two days instead of one. Surely she would lose her job for this. "You say you were out?" the deskmate wondered. "Funny. I didn't notice." Michele's heart sank to learn her presence in the office was so insignificant. "But hey," the girl laughed, "everyone ties one on now and then. I'll pencil in your timecard and no one will be the wiser." Michele muttered a listless "Thanks" and was about to hang up when: "By the way I saw Bill the other day." Bill was the jerk from her blind date. "I overheard him telling the guys what a wild night y'all had; how he got you back to his place and you were all over him. Honest, Shell, I'd never have suspected it of you." Neither would Michele.

When she dragged herself to work Monday, still suffering headaches and blurred vision, her coworkers giggled among themselves assuming she was hungover after a night of wild sex. In the eyes of her aunt, Michele had been an indecent and immoral pagan. With the help of her teachers she became known as difficult, headstrong, stupid, and underachieving. Her stay at the mental institution labeled her a loony. And now courtesy of Bill and Mr Free Bird, she had a reputation around the office as a drunken slut. "Thanks," she mumbled bitterly, addressing the powers that be as, incapable of driving, she rode the crowded metro bus to her apartment. "Thank you for making all this possible."

57

Michele missed the next three Tranquility Base rehearsals. Audrey and Stick understood. It was not like they had any gigs lined up anyway. Michele went about the next few weeks on autopilot. She rode the bus to work, did her job, went home, fed Dusty, went to bed, and woke up again. All the while she felt her head throbbing. Her vision blurred and she often lost her balance. People at work thought she was hung over and said nothing. It was none of their concern. Despite her problems, though, Michele refused to seek medical help. Part of it was because she could not think clearly. It is hard to string together coherent thoughts when one is in that much pain. And too, experiences in the past left her with an unreasonable fear that if she were to go to them they would put her back inside. And that was something to be avoided at all costs.

As it was, she would lay her fingers alongside the vein in front of her ear and feel it pulsating. She pictured it like the Great Red Spot on Jupiter. She wanted to take a knife to her head. Cut it open. Let the pressure inside come out. God damn the stupid drunk. All because she did not know how to play one stupid song. All this for nothing.

58

The phone rang. Audrey had given her a disposable wireless phone to keep in touch while she recovered. It pierced Michele's ears to where she wanted to scream. Dusty jumped down from her lap as she rose to answer it. "What?" "Michele?" "Yeah." "Michele, it's Audrey. Are you all right?" "I guess." "Listen, I hate to lay this on you but..." "Uh-huh?" "It's Nancy." "What about her?" Michele perked up from her daze. "What?" "Her husband came home from work and found her..."

Michele tuned out the rest. "She left a note saying..." Michele hung up, not wanting to hear more. "Oh, Dusty," she took the cat in her arms. "Not Nancy. Not her too. Haven't I lost enough without...?" The rest of it was drowned in tears. Tears and heartache, and an even worse headache. Dusty, knowing only his Mother was in pain, did his best to purr the hurt away.

59

Things between Michele and Audrey improved after Nancy's death. Michele was in no condition to attend the funeral but Audrey told her about it afterward. Nancy's husband was there with another woman. Whispers said it was his mistress. It gave Michele some comfort to think she was not the cause of her friend's suicide. It eased the ache in her heart, although the pain in her brain continued without letup.

60

Work grew increasingly difficult following the roadhouse incident. Michele made countless filing mistakes because of her blurred vision. She was weak also. Food did not go down well. Her lunch consisted of a large cup of chicken broth,

only the cup was too hot to hold in her bare hands, and she was shaking too much to use a spoon without spilling it. Desperation drove her to buy a candy bar from a vending machine. "You'd best be careful with that stuff," Bill, the creep, appearing from behind, poked her in the ribs. "Us stud muffins don't go in for fat women." It was all she could do to keep from ramming the candy bar down his throat as he walked away, laughing. Later that afternoon, toward quitting time, Creepy Bill once more ed through the filing department on his way to the main office. As he neared the door a metal stapler soared through the air, barely missing his head. It struck a metal cabinet behind him with a loud bang that caused everyone in the room to startle. Everyone, that is, but one. As Bill looked around, profoundly shaken by his narrow escape, at all the heads looking back at him—many of which ed looks of disappointment that the projectile had missed its target—he saw one head not staring up from her desk. Michele alone kept her eyes down, despite which one could still detect a tiny smile of pleasure on her face. It would be difficult to say if she meant to hit him or if it had been a deliberate miss to warn him off. Her hands were shaky, after all, and her vision was not what it ought to be. As it was, no one could testify to having seen her throw the stapler so it could have been someone else entirely. Only as Bill continued to stare, sweat pouring down his forehead—sweat that, save for a few inches distance, might easily have been blood—the middle-aged Michele, despite her headache, lifted her eyes his way and plainly mouthed the words, "Free Bird." Creepy Bill had no way of knowing what she meant by it, but all the same he never bothered her again. That evening as she spooned Dusty's food into his bowl, Michele bragged about how she had stood up for herself. "It felt so good," she told him. "I only wish I had done it years ago."

It did nothing to ease the throbbing in her head, but in its own way it gave her a comfort she needed even more, a band aid to her suffering ego and a long-lost feeling of self-respect.

61

Amazingly when she woke the next morning the headache was gone. Vanished entirely. She breezed through work and called Audrey to see if they could practice. "Great!" Audrey gushed. Audrey always gushed.

62

It had been a long time since Tranquility Base's last rehearsal. When at last they did meet, it did not go well. The euphoria of earlier quickly faded and Michele was soon out of it. Stick's cymbal crashes cut like knives, and for the first time ever she had to sit down to play. Her bass felt like an ironing board in her hands. They made a dozen attempts at "Knock on Wood", a song Michele should have handled with ease. This time she could not hit a single note, and the few she did were out of place. She could not even "Tranquility Bass", her very own composition. Michele smashed her instrument against her amp and that was it for the night. Stick left early, either frustrated or hurt over Michele's condition. Michele packed her bass and walked to the door, her steps slow and uncertain.

Audrey stopped her. Laying a hand on her forearm, she asked: "Have you seen a doctor?" "Doctor?" "Mr MD," she smiled, quoting the Rascals song, and then got serious. "Honest now, I'm worried about you. Stick is too but she's too embarrassed to say anything. You're going around like a zombie. It's not like you." "How do you know what I'm like?" Michele shot back, the pent anger of weeks bursting forth. "What do you or Stick know about me anyway? We met after a talent show. You knew nothing about me before then. You know nothing about Ron, or Robin, or my horrible aunt, or Dubya, or Rocky, or Nan—" Deep down she knew she should not be lashing out at her friend. At the same time there was no one else to lash at. The world, the universe had proved itself to be uncaring. The fleeting respites it offered were just that—fleeting. She had lived her life from the start trying to do the right thing, follow the rules, be kind to others, and what had it gotten her? A dead husband, an estranged daughter, a long lost cat, and an undeserved punishment because she did not know how to play a certain song. The universe was too big. She could not strike back at it. But right or wrong, she could at Audrey. "You want to knock on wood? Well knock on this!" She flashed a middle-digit salute. "Hey, hey," Audrey interrupted, no longer quite so gentle. "Slow down, all right. I'm just trying to help." "Or that stupid drunk," Michele went on as though Audrey had not said anything. "Or how my head hurts to where I just want to..." She stopped. It had grown to be too much. She had tried to be strong ever since her release. It was not working. It just was not working. "Aw, screw it," she said, grabbing her guitar case and shuffling out the door. "You and Stick go on without me. I don't care anymore. I just don't care."

63

A mind in pain can drift to all sorts of places. Walking home from Audrey's place, Michele saw many things flash before her. A few had been good: Ron, Dusty, the band. It seemed a meager thing to cling to, three good memories versus a plethora of bad. But then, at least she could count three. How many pleasant memories did that poor creature in the Sarajevo Zoo have as it lay dying? With stumbling steps she recalled reading a commentary on the Gospel of Luke. The writer had said a child is a bundle of possibilities and parents and teachers determine how or if those possibilities will be realized. The young Michele longed to demonstrate her possibilities to her elders. At the same time, she knew in advance the reaction it would receive. So she did not bother. She recalled the age again after she had married and had Robin. She had promised to do better by her. But then Ron went and got himself killed and everything fell apart after that. Perhaps, she itted, she shared in the blame. Maybe if she had gotten her act together, been tougher, more self-determined... Who knows? All about her, everywhere she looked, was failure: as a wife, a mother, a worker, and a friend. Her life boiled down to a 6 pound bass and a 15 pound cat—and she had failed them as well.

64

The drunk who hit her with a bottle had been an asshole. A stupid, stinking, drunken asshole. There was no glossing the fact. But then, who knows but maybe he was just another frustrated soul lashing out at a universe that wouldn't grant him a simple request. All he had wanted was to hear "Free Bird". Was that too much to ask? Just one song? The fact Tranquility Base was not capable of delivering it was not his fault. Matthew 20 says the last shall be first, and the first shall be last. This meant the rest were stuck in the middle with nowhere to go, up, down, or sideways. And the middle can get awful crowded. Was it too much to ask a favor now and then, a break from the humdrum sameness wearing you down day after day until you rolled over and call it quits? As everyone sooner or later learns, the universe does not care. We are just collections of atoms bumping into each other with no real purpose other than to create more atoms to do more bumping. If you can find happiness in that, then good for you. But when things go wrong day after day, year after year, you grow tired of it and you must lash out before going crazy. This did not excuse the asshole's behavior. Nothing could. But after lashing out at Audrey, Michele kind of understood his point. The bottle had not been aimed at her. She was just in the way, the wrong place at the wrong time. Just as Audrey was in the wrong place. And once it was done she did not feel any the better for it. It only hurt more. And more hurt was something Michele did not need. Not now, not ever.

65

Dusty laid a paw alongside Michele's face. Michele woke, not realizing she had drifted off. "Oh, right," she petted him. "I was going to fix you something to eat, wasn't I?" Dusty rubbed against her vigorously. He was not so much hungry as concerned. "Don't worry," she told him weakly. "Mama's not going anywhere. She's just tired is all." She cringed as another spasm racked her brain. "I have to stick around, don't I?" she spoke through the tears. "As much as I long to see Ron again I can't abandon you like I did Rocky. It wouldn't be fair." Michele was quiet a long time, staring into the darkness; a darkness not just in her apartment but everywhere around her. "But then things never were fair for us, were they?" It was the last thing she said before the final darkness overtook her. And Dusty, knowing his mother was gone, went out the open door to be swallowed by the cruel and heartless night, and face whatever Fate an uncaring Universe had to offer.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I published my first book in 2004. It became an immediate collector's item. At last count I had several hundred copies collecting dust in my attic. Critics everywhere said it belonged between Ernest Hemingway and Robert E Howard —on an alphabetical bookshelf.

I write stories that are mostly humorous. Occasionally I try my hand at something more serious. The results vary. My influences include Rocky & Bullwinkle, 50s sci-fi, and silver-age comics. You can find these books at finer bookstores everywhere.

You can also me at [email protected]

, books are cheap, but reviews are priceless.

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