Playing the show also reinvigorated our creative ability. We devoted several hours a day to writing new material. A week into this regimen, Angela began to suggest a full band. I was skeptical and, deep down, knew I harbored a jealous need to keep her to myself, but Angela persisted. She spread the word in bars until we found another guitar player and drummer.
Since our apartment wasn’t large enough to accommodate everyone and the noise would be an issue with neighbors, Angela arranged for us all to meet at the new guitarist’s home. He owned a small plot of land ten miles outside of Lexington, with an old tobacco barn on the property. Even arriving at dusk, I could see that the barn looked ready to collapse. The wood was a feast for generations of termites and paint flecked off the walls until the weathered red resembled peeling scabs. Starlight leaked inside through small holes in the roof. I imagined colonies of bugs hidden in the leafy folds of tobacco hanging from the ceiling. It felt a wrong place to make art, but we’d learned to make do with what we had.
The new boys offered greetings too formal not to be rehearsed. One of them even called me “sir.” I smiled and let them ramble, but it made me wonder why my body left mundane moments impossible. Why doesn’t the shock wear off within an hour or so? In ways, they reminded me of the congregation from The Reverend’s church. The same stark eyes of men who’ve known too much poverty. Scars hidden in subtle places from childhood labor.
The drummer’s name was Lester, a rotund man with a nose like a hawkbill knife, who spent all practice cursing and sweating. Deep pools stained his shirt until it looked like a spigot leaked underneath. His lank hair dripped on the drums, splashing as he beat them with his chipped sticks. Gary, the guitar player, had long swizzle-stick legs. He chewed Beech-Nut tobacco, which discolored the corners of his blond whiskers, and spit between his shoes regardless of where he stood. The giant wad kept his left cheek perpetually packed like a squirrel’s.
We played well together, but I spent the session watching for some flirtation. For Angela to touch one of the men in a familiar way or laugh a bit too hard at one of Gary’s jokes. The fucker was always joking, breaking out little pieces of colloquial wit like “If I say a mouse can pull a house, hitch the little bastard up” and “If I tell you a rooster dips snuff, lift his Goddamned wing.” Lester didn’t concern me. Too shy and awkward. Gary, however, seemed to have a certain charm. I reminded myself that if Angela could find something worthy in me, perhaps any normal man could steal her away.
I hated coveting her like some possession, but no amount of self-disgust changed these feelings. I wanted some commitment between us even if all I could claim was a single night. There had been sweet words, but since she’d made no more advances, I thought it better to bury those urges deep in memory. Let it become a fragile thing for rare occasions alone.
We played for several hours before the new boys stepped into the field to share a joint. I watched them pass the glowing ember in the distance and wondered if they discussed ways to exclude me. Trusting them felt impossible.
“What’s the matter?” Angela asked. The heat in the barn made her sweat. The perspiration left wet curls in the curtains of her hair. “Didn’t you think we sounded good?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Gary’s pretty solid.”
“You’re better,” she said. “But he can hold his own.”
I didn’t understand it at the time, but my negativity was driving her away. There was a distance between us more than physical, a need for me to say something to make her understand how much I appreciated her, appreciated the way she’d uprooted to try to facilitate a dream with me. I felt these things intensely, just didn’t have the words to say them. I’d been trying to articulate my feelings through musical notes, but songs are too passive and open to interpretation. She might have been more apt to accept me sooner if I’d just seemed like less work. Eventually, the well of her understanding would run dry. A person can only cultivate patience so long.
Angela squeezed my hand.
“I don’t just want it for myself,” she said. “I want it for you, too. I want people to see what I see.”
She gave me a kiss that felt almost apologetic until I returned it. I closed my eyes, tried to transport us away from the barn to that day in the dugout with the rain pounding on the tin roof, but the smells of the field, the marijuana wafting on the air and the heat of the barn wouldn’t allow escape. Angela put hands on me. That was enough.
* * *
• • •
We toured all the nearby cities. Knoxville, Louisville, Columbus. Gary bought a 1984 Ford Econoline. The door had to be slammed repeatedly to stay shut and the interior smelled of vomit and stale cigarettes. I slept in the back while Gary and Lester took turns driving. Angela stayed in the rear with me, singing and guarding the Folgers can where we hid the band fund. All expenses were paid with its contents. We boys stayed road weary, but Angela maintained her radiance. The travel added blush to her cheeks and her conversations focused on our future. She felt certain we were one exceptional show away from stardom. All it takes is the right ear, she’d say. We had the talent, all we lacked was some luck.
I remained the pessimist. The venues were all late-night jukes where the alcoholic clientele appeared capable of sucking spilled drinks from the rag used to mop up the bar. We won the crowd over each night, but I still worried half of the audience only watched me. It was never as apparent as the woman crying during our first show. Still, I noticed certain glances, remarks whispered into ears obscured by cupped palms. I feared being a spectacle that would always mute the songs.
The band defended me on the few occasions where things went bad. A heckler in Bowling Green, Kentucky, stood by the stage, pantomiming my hunched posture and unsteady walk. As soon as he got within range, Gary mule-kicked him, busting the man’s nose flat across his right cheek. We had to eat our portion of profits from the door that evening. Another night, Angela made the bartender eject a man yelling from the back corner.
Men remained the only aggressors. Women seemed either completely heartbroken, looked on my body as if it were a walking expression of universal cruelty or watched me as though I were a wounded animal that needed protection, their pity so apparent it removed any shred of masculinity I’d been able to secure. If there was one positive in seeing this, it’s that I realized how singular a person Angela was. I knew she viewed me as an equal.
One night outside of Knoxville, Angela insisted we get our own room. I expected some argument from the others. It seemed an abuse of the band fund, only no one protested. That night in the motel transformed things. We didn’t officially cement our relationship status, but we emerged a couple in practice if not in name. We no longer slept apart, even shared a bed while Gary and Lester bunked on the floor when funds wouldn’t permit privacy. I spent the months waiting for things to implode. Whether by fate or self-fulfilling prophecy, it all came to a head over a year later in Memphis.