The roadies, Chaz and Terry, set the guitar cases on the front of the stage. Randy unstrapped his bass and knelt to grab a rag to wipe off the neck. A ruddy red face under a tussled mass of damp black curls appeared over the lid, staring angrily and clutching a petite blond in a headlock as if she might scamper through the nearest exit at the first opportunity. The drunk spouted, “My girlfriend thinks you’re cute!”
Randy smiled, shook his head, and held up one finger, “Hold that thought.”
He looked across the room to Charlie, the gentle giant, who was packing up the PA board for the night and cocked his head. Chaz worked as a roadie because he loved the music, the travel, the smorgasbord of drugs, and the girls. Hauling heavy equipment around, installing ten-thousand watts of amplifiers, and running the mixing board was easy, but he was also an incredible pen and ink artist and possessed an IQ-approaching genius. The huge guy lumbered over, transforming into his dumb-Southern-hick persona, “What’s doin’?”
“This guy’s girlfriend thinks I’m cute.”
Chaz looked down at the drunk, back to inspect Randy, then leaned into the guy’s face with a mocking grin, “I think he’s pretty cute too!”
The girl giggled, and the guy withered away without a word.
“Thanks!” said Randy.
“No problem, you can’t help it if you’re pretty.”
The bass player threw the rag after him and put his Gibson away. Before he could stand up, a tall, curvy blond in hip-huggers and a tight sweater sauntered over. Huge blue eyes glistened seductively as she pursed pouty lips into a mock kiss, “Got plans tonight?”
“Probably with you,” smiled the bass player.
Peachtree
By Rick Stiller
Fat Freddie dumped a large trunk out of the back of his parents’ Cadillac and dragged it up a ramp into the lobby between the twin towers. He pushed the chest through a parade of coeds striding into the south dorm and turned right to find the closest elevator. Fifteen flights up, he shoved the heavy case through the doors, which hammered closed three times before he cleared the car, and heaved it down the hallway to the corner suite, 1515.
The height of dorm luxury included a tiny sitting room sandwiched between two Spartan bedrooms, and a communal bath down the hall, but the view through large windows stretched from Bascom Hill to the Capitol Building at the center of the city, with the dark stripe of Lake Mendota slashing through a forest of autumn colors in the background.
His high school football buddies, Dave, Corey, and Billy jumped up to lend a hand.
Billy asked, “Got more stuff?”
“Yeah, there’s a bunch. I tried calling the number they gave us from downstairs, but all I got was a busy signal.”
“Phone’s dead,” said former defensive end, Dave Davison. His coal-black eyes glinted behind round wire-rimmed glasses, and a cockeyed grin curled his frothy mustache, “Floor chaperone said they’d have ‘em up and running by tonight so everyone can call home to whine to the folks about being homesick.”
“Especially those fools who are determined to get completely fucked-up for the first time ever, and don’t have mommy to hold their forehead over the toilet!” said Billy, Magic-Hands, Mintor, tall lanky wide-receiver with crinkly blue eyes under straight blond hair and an irrepressible stony smile.
“Yeah, right! My folks couldn’t wait to see me gone!” laughed Corey, Fleet-Feet, Timmons, a walking fireplug of a running-back with a shock of bright orange hair, who powered through defenses with abandon. “They’re already redecorating my room for ‘guests’, and they have no plans for me moving back home.”
“Yeah, get through school, and you’re on your own,” laughed Freddie.
“Hey, we won State together, and we’ll conquer this place, too,” said Dave.
Freddie’s mustache curled up around his flushed cheeks, “And, if I remember, we smoked the biggest spliff I’ve ever seen before the championship.”
“Anybody made any connections yet?” asked Billy.
“I just got here, man. I know nothing,” said Corey.
“We’ll see what comes around,” said Dave, “but I’m willing to bet that it’s not up to our standards.”
“We’re spoiled with your cousin’s smoke from Humbolt. The Hammer!”
Dave closed the door, “Maybe there’s an opportunity here.”
“Like what?” asked Corey.
“Like expanding our little trade to provide high-quality smoke for a larger consumer base.”
“Good thing you’re gonna be the Econ major,” said Freddie.
“Look, we just need to scale it up. Look around. Everyone’s a head around here. It’s a seller’s market,” said Dave. “We’re gonna make a fortune.”
“Everyone’s a stoner, including the jocks,” laughed Corey.
“Okay, suppose we buy into this. We’re all in, go for broke, make as much as we possibly can, and shut it down the day we graduate,” said Billy. “Madison is an island of hippies in a sea of Republicans, and your idea will only work inside this tiny city-state. Agreed?”
Everyone touched hands.
“Even here, we’ve gotta worry about cops and narcs,” added Corey.
Freddie leaned on the trunk and held up a finger, “The rules say we have to live in the dorms, but that doesn’t mean we can’t go out and rent a house too.”
“There you go!” said Billy. “And my brother’s still got a lease on a little house on the lake.”
“Takes care of that problem,” said Dave.
“I don’t think there’s anything after scheduling,” said Corey. “My brother said it’s a black hole where we get to spend all day standing in lines, usually the wrong lines.”
“My brother said this is pussy heaven,” said Dave. “We need to hit the bars tonight to scope out the talent.”
“Heck, just walking through the herd of chicks in the lobby downstairs is enough to drive any warm-blooded Wisconsin boy crazy,” said Corey.
Billy looked up at the smirk on Freddie’s pudgy face, “What’s with the trunk, man? D’you bring everything you own?”
“No, actually, I brought our first shipment. Teddy’s in from the coast to see Uncle Herman, who’s not doing so well, and fronted me some dope. We’ve got a week to unload a hundred pounds of primo weed. Think we can pull it off?”
“Yeah, just watch out for the narcs, and we’ll be fine,” said Corey.
“I believe we’ve just inaugurated a new venture, gentlemen,” said Dave, holding up a Coke can. “Here’s to brotherhood! All for one and one for all!”
Corey unrolled a huge poster of Jimi Hendrix, head thrown back, eyes pinched, lips twisted into a haunting grimace, wailing on a beat-up Stratocaster against a blaze of colored lights. “That’s from his performance at the Monterey Pop Festival this summer. He deserves a place of honor, like right between the windows, surrounded by Madison.”
“Right on!” laughed Billy, reaching to light up the stereo. “How ‘bout we start with ‘Purple Haze’?”
Freddy laughed, “I got a line on some of that too!”
~
The Nitty Gritty vibrated with pulsing bass and pounding drums, driving screaming guitar riffs around a soaring Hammond B3 organ as the freshman quartet stumbled up to the bar. Freddie leaned over to Billy, “These guys are really hot!”
“Yeah, signs say ‘Peachtree’ from Macon, Georgia. Southern Rock!”
“Not like what we’re used to,” added Corey. “This band’s got its own groove.”
“And the ladies seem to love it,” laughed Freddy, passing beers.
Dave scanned the bar. The crowd was groovin’, girls dancing on tables and writhing around the stage in rhythm to the band’s slow, heavy progression. The guitar player traded licks with a skinny barefoot flautist with a blond Afro, who danced and trilled like a lecherous leprechaun prancing through a sonic forest trailing a flock of fawning females in his wake…and everyone in the room was stoned. He leaned over to Billy, “Look at this scene, man. All these hippies want is great music and good dope, and they don’t care what’s behind the curtain.”
“Roger that,” laughed Billy. “Works better for us!”
The band finished the set and took a break. Freddie said, “We’ve gotta get to know these guys!” and rammed his girth through the crowd, like a center clearing a lane through the defensive line, without spilling a drop of his beer.
The stocky blond guitarist and scrawny bass player, with muttonchops and light brown waves cascading down his back, were just coming offstage, so he stuck out his hand, “They call me Fat Freddy. You guys are really hot. How’d you get all the way up here from Georgia?”
“Randy used to go to school here and made the connection. We’re skipping around the Midwest before we head back to Macon.”
He turned to the bass player, “You probably know a lot of people in this town.”
“Yeah, I used to run the record store and had a radio show.”
“I’d like to get to know you guys better, so here’s a little something to spike the creative juices,” he said, offering two perfectly cylindrical joints. “I’ll be back tomorrow to see how you like it.”
Danny said, “Thanks, man. We never have enough good dope.”
“Well, there’s more where that came from,” smiled Freddy. “I’ll definitely catch your show.”
“Cool,” said Danny, wandering through a cloud of blue smog for a breath of fresh air out back.
Randy followed, collecting three kisses and two crotch grabs from inebriated girls along the way, and fled into the relative quiet of the alley. He lit a Lark and leaned against the wall, “What’d you make of that?”
Danny lit one of the joints, “Different than the usual townies trying to latch onto the band. Once he understood that you know this town, the guy made a point of connecting. He wants something. Why don’t you find out what?”
The lean bass player toked and wheezed, “He wants my contacts so he can start his own little network, but there’s no harm in hearing what the man has to say.”
“Quit Bogarting that thing, man! You’ve got a fag in each hand!” laughed Danny, grabbing the joint. “This is pretty good shit.”
“Yeah, I don’t need any more if we’re going to stay connected through another set.”
Danny laughed, “We just need to hit that perfect groove, man, no more, no less. It’s about time, let’s go.”
The band powered through an hour-long set that heated the room into a sauna and finished with a long throbbing blues jam. The house lights had flashed for a while, but they were full on before the final chord faded, the band bowed, and the crowd cheered. Girls lurched off tables, and drunks staggered over chairs as the energy dissipated into a charged haze of cigarette smoke, soggy with the stench of sweat and stale beer.
The roadies, Chaz and Terry, set the guitar cases on the front of the stage. Randy unstrapped his bass and knelt to grab a rag to wipe off the neck. A ruddy red face under a tussled mass of damp black curls appeared over the lid, staring angrily and clutching a petite blond in a headlock as if she might scamper through the nearest exit at the first opportunity. The drunk spouted, “My girlfriend thinks you’re cute!”
Randy smiled, shook his head, and held up one finger, “Hold that thought.”
He looked across the room to Charlie, the gentle giant, who was packing up the PA board for the night and cocked his head. Chaz worked as a roadie because he loved the music, the travel, the smorgasbord of drugs, and the girls. Hauling heavy equipment around, installing ten-thousand watts of amplifiers, and running the mixing board was easy, but he was also an incredible pen and ink artist and possessed an IQ-approaching genius. The huge guy lumbered over, transforming into his dumb-Southern-hick persona, “What’s doin’?”
“This guy’s girlfriend thinks I’m cute.”
Chaz looked down at the drunk, back to inspect Randy, then leaned into the guy’s face with a mocking grin, “I think he’s pretty cute too!”
The girl giggled, and the guy withered away without a word.
“Thanks!” said Randy.
“No problem, you can’t help it if you’re pretty.”
The bass player threw the rag after him and put his Gibson away. Before he could stand up, a tall, curvy blond in hip-huggers and a tight sweater sauntered over. Huge blue eyes glistened seductively as she pursed pouty lips into a mock kiss, “Got plans tonight?”
“Probably with you,” smiled the bass player.