On The Road

By Greg Dixon

Howard got up from the bed and clicked on the television. A second later the screen jumped to life with mildly distorted flashes of colour and movement. The picture was tolerable. Howard had stayed in a great number of hotels where the cable signal seemed to have been divided and diminished by an endless branching daisy chain of Radio Shack signal splitters, so that the dim figures rendered on the screen were nothing but faded poltergeists forever doomed to an eternity of sitcom reruns.

Howard glanced at his watch. 8:05. Time for a smoke. He propped himself up against the headboard and took a cigarette from the open package lying on the arborite night table. His long dark fingers flicked a disposable lighter a few times before finally lighting the cigarette. He took a deep drag, then blew a cloud of smoke in front of him, further obscuring the gang on Happy Days.

The fifties music reminded him of his own musical roots. He recalled his high school pastime of getting together with friends to thrash out the latest hits by Bill Haley, Fats Domino, and Chuck Berry in an old dusty garage nearly thirty years ago. Then there were the years in bar bands playing cover versions of hits by Elvis, the Beatles, the Stones, and then hits by a host of newer bands. He looked past the television at his own reflection in the wide mirror stretching along the wall behind the desk. The man staring back had a tall thin body and long bony black face with bushy sideburns. 'Damn, I've grown to look like Chuck Berry', he thought.

Howard chuckled to himself as he remembered wild times in similar hotel rooms. Booze, drugs, and groupies—white girls looking for a piece of black ass. On further reflection he decided that maybe there hadn't really been all that many groupies. Mostly just booze, drugs, and delusions.

Most of the girls he remembered getting close to on the road were exotic dancers. A common barrier seemed to separate both dancers and musicians from the patrons. Both groups of people were 'entertainers', and the girls knew exactly what kind of after hours entertainment their admirers anticipated. It was usually much simpler just to hang out with the band.

Few of the bands he had played with over the years lasted more than a year. It was nearly impossible to assemble four or five competent musicians who had similar musical tastes and goals—and could stand each other for more than a week. All it took to sink a band was for one the members to decide that the money, which seldom amounted to much, was not enough motivation to play Top 40 Hits. A band is like a marriage of four or five people, and a marriage of two often proves to be too great a challenge. The wild days of partying and playing with bands were now just distant memories.

Howard again studied his reflection in the mirror. Was it just the light, or did he seem a paler shade of black than he used to be? For a moment he was struck by the absurd notion that somehow his skin had faded. Not enough blues? No, it must be the gray hairs imposing themselves on his scalp. He felt vaguely relieved by the gray hair hypothesis.

He looked at his watch again. 8:40. He was due to play his first set at nine. He leaned over to grab his faithful sidekick of twenty years, a maroon Fender Telecaster electric guitar. He paused when a photograph of his wife Joanna and their twelve year old daughter Lisa caught his eye. A deep pang of loneliness wrenched his heart when he realized he had not seen them for three months. He loved them very much. And he knew they loved him. They just lost patience with his perpetual travelling and moved back to Detroit. Joanna never did quite feel at home in British Columbia, anyway. Howard forgot for a moment where he was and looked out the window. Lots of green growth, so he wasn't in Cache Creek. Must be Kimberly.

The pain subsided as he quickly tuned his Telecaster. 'Man, the old axe feels good!' Over the years it had become an extension of his body, an old reliable friend. He put down the electric guitar and picked up another old friend, a somewhat battered old Martin acoustic guitar which he sometimes played on stage. A few deft turns of the tuning pegs and all of its strings were again harmonious. Howard knew he would never be a great guitarist, but he sure loved to play.

A hockey game was under way on a wall-mounted television at one end of the medium sized lounge. Howard strolled over to the slightly raised stage and turned on the stage microphone, guitar amplifier, and electronic rhythm section. The stage seemed cramped, yet he could remember squeezing four piece bands on stages that were not much larger. Howard looked around the room, observing that the maple panelling and warm lighting created a pleasant, almost cosy atmosphere. He saw a few members of the lounge staff sitting in a corner and waved hello. They smiled and waved back. This was the end of his second week of playing in the lounge and he had begun to know the bartender and waitresses fairly well. Howard thought it odd that, for the first time in two weeks, all of the off-duty staff were in the lounge as well as the people who were working that night.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," Howard's voice, warm and smooth like John Sebastian's, exuded through the loudspeakers. "I'm glad to be able to play a few of my favourite songs for you tonight. I'll begin with Looking For Love, recorded by Johnny Lee."

Howard stepped on a foot switch and began strumming simple chords to the synthesized rhythm section. With the first verse the room was filled with a magical silver toned voice that even caught the attention of the two fellows watching the hockey game. When the chorus rolled around, the words reminded Howard of a sentiment he had often felt in bars:

Lookin' for love in all the wrong places—
Lookin' for love in too many faces,
Searchin' their eyes for traces,
Of what I'm dreaming of.

He finished the song and continued with a series of country standards - The Gambler, Lucile, Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys, It's a Cheating Situation, You Were On My Mind - songs that Howard generally felt closer to than to most of the pop tunes he used to play in bar bands. Playing solo, he could play what he liked. His electronic partner never complained, though it did not always fully cooperate with some of the more obscure feels.

Howard finished the drink he was having with the staff and got up to play his third set. By then the number of listeners had grown to about forty. Howard continued to render versions of songs by Tom T. Hall, Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings. Songs about cheating, heartaches, loneliness and love. Songs that seemed to ring true for Howard. Songs that seemed directly transmitted from his heart to the audience with the physical means, the guitar and sound system, nearly transparent in spite of sometimes sloppy guitar work and the overly mechanical Rhythm Ace.

Almost to a person the audience sat and listened pensively, content to let the music gently revive their own private memories. Almost everyone clapped in appreciation after each song, and occasionally someone would call out a request. Near the end of the set, Howard traded the Telecaster for the Martin and introduced a song he found very special.

"Some of you may have had the pleasure of seeing a burly Maritimer at one of the folk festivals, the late Stan Rogers — God Bless his soul. The next song I will play is one of his songs that always manages to touch me deeply. Although most of you have probably never heard the tune, and the folk style may sound a little different from the music I usually play, I hope you will enjoy Forty-five Years."

Howard fingerpicked an introduction with a quick stream of notes that blended to create a slow ballad feel, then voiced the first verse:

Where the earth shows its bones
Of wind, broken stones
And the sea and sky are warm,
I'm caught out of time
My blood sings with wine
And I'm running naked in the sun.
There's God in the trees
I'm weak in the knees
And the sky is a painful blue,
I'd like to look around
But honey, all I see is you.

He filled another bar with fingerpicking and began the second verse:

Now the summer city lights
Glow soft in the night
Do you think that the air is clear?
And I'm sitting with friends
Where forty-five cents
Will buy another glass of beer.
He's got something to say
But I'm so far away
That I don't know who I'm talkin' to,
'Cause you just walked in the door
And honey, all I see is you.

Howard looked out into the small crowd while he picked another brief guitar break and got the feeling that many were listening closely. A bar later he was into the chorus:

And I just want to hold you closer
Than I've ever held anyone before.
You say you've been twice a wife
And you're through with life
Ah but honey, what the hell's it for?
After twenty-three years you'd think I could find
A way to let you know somehow,
That I want to see your smiling face
Forty-five years from now.

He suddenly remembered Joanna and wished she were with him. He also felt the void that was left by the tragic airplane fire that took the life of Stan Rogers.

So alone in the lights
On stage every night
I've been reaching out to find a friend,
Who knows all the words
Sings so she's heard
And knows how all the stories end.
Maybe after the show
She'll ask me to go
Home with her for a drink or two,
Now her smile lights her eyes
But honey, all I see is you.

Howard recalled some of his unfaithful moments over the years and it struck him that he was now much less inclined to sleep around on the road, although any such activity could scarcely be construed as cheating any longer. He repeated the chorus again, took a brief instrumental break, then repeated the chorus a third time. He slowed down smoothly as he delivered the last lines:

Yes I want to see your smiling face
Forty-five years from now.

Howard looked up and noticed that an attractive young woman with long black hair sitting at a near table had tears in her eyes. He paused for a moment to survey the silent room until Sally, a slightly plump waitress with shoulder length wavy blonde hair broke the silence.

"Hey! Lighten up, Howard. Play On the Road Again."

"Okay Sally, love to play Willie Nelson."

Howard quickly picked up his electric guitar again and began playing. He sang through a few verses before being surprised by a completely unexpected event. Mel, the balding, middleaged bartender, came out of the back room with a large birthday cake crowded with nearly four dozen burning candles. The writing on the top of the cake said "Happy Birthday Howard."

Howard stopped playing instantly and was beside himself with Joy. Mel and the girls began singing Happy Birthday and were soon joined by everyone in the lounge.

"Oh man, that's beautiful!" Howard declared.

Mel took the microphone and presented the cake to Howard, giving a speech that he had obviously rehearsed once or twice.

"Howard. We, the staff of The Maple Room, have learned that tomorrow is your birthday. We appreciate that it must be very lonely for you to be playing in strange and perhaps faceless towns for weeks and months away from home. This must be especially true on your birthday, so we hope to at least brighten your day with a few candles. We have all loved the music you have provided for the last two weeks, have enjoyed your company, and sincerely hope you return to play for us again." Mel pointed to the outside edge of the cake: "signed Jill, Sally, Sue, Rhonda, and Mel."

"Man, this is the happiest day of my life," Howard announced, positively beaming with delight. "I'll remember this, I'll remember you people forever, each and every one of you. God Bless you all."

Mel held the cake up for Howard to blow out the candles. A few unyielding candles withstood the wind for a few seconds, then flickered their last. Howard took the cake and held it out towards his friends. "And I'll make sure everyone gets a piece of cake."

He placed the cake on top of a speaker cabinet, but not without getting a fair amount of icing on his hands, which he did not realize until he attempted to resume playing his guitar. He quickly found a rag and hastily rubbed the icing from his hands and the strings of his guitar.

"Where was I now...oh yeah." He picked up the tune almost exactly at the place he had stopped:

The life I love is playing music for my friends
I can hardly wait to be on the road again....

Howard glanced over to the far corner of the room. The television had been turned off.