Out of the Wilderness

think?"

  "They were good. I?"

  "Looked like a bunch of silly girls!" Bob cut Gil off. "Did you see their hair?"

  "Did you see the way the girls came unglued?" Larry turned toward Bob.

  "Elvis was doing that to girls years ago. Before him it was Sinatra and before him?"

  "How do you know that? That's before your time."

  Gil sighed as he unstrapped his bass and set it down before leaving the room for a glass of water. He knew he might as well take a break. When his band mates talked music, little if any music was played.

  "Cause my Dad and Mom told me about it."

  "And how big are Elvis and Sinatra now?"

  "Pretty damn big. Anybody that does music and movies both is big."

  "That's my point. These guys are the next big thing. I hear they're already working on a movie."

  "No way."

  "Check it out. I was at a bar when those guys came on the TV. Even some black chicks were digging them."

  "When's the last time some foreign band made it big here?"

  "Uhh?"

  "That's right. Name one. Ain't no way they're going to be bigger than Elvis or even the Beach Boys."

  "I don't know, man."

  "Just a flash in the pan. All the girls will get tired of them after a few months and they'll just be a bunch of has-beens. Dumb asses can't even spell. Don't they know that beetle is spelled B-E-E-T-L-E?"

  "Come on, they did that on purpose. They're saying that they're cool like beatniks, that they're part of the beat generation."

  Bob took a long swig of his cola. "Probably trying to copy the name of Buddy Holly's band, the Crickets. Maybe they spell beetles with an 'a' in England. I don't know."

  "All I'm saying is that our shot at doing records is probably over."

  "No way. We're getting tighter all the time. We have a sound like no one else. All we need to do is to cover the right sound or start writing our own songs and get the right engineer to record us. We'll be bigger than those foreigner dopes!"

  Gil reentered the room and sat down.

  "What'd you think, Gil?"

  Gil stared at Larry. This was the first time in the two years they had played together that Larry had asked his opinion about anything.

  "There will probably be a lot of people trying to copy them. Just like a lot of people copied Elvis and Little Richard."

  "Damn right. Pretty soon there'll be boatloads of bands from England over here. We're finished unless we sell out and copy them."

  "And I ain't going to paint myself white," laughed Larry. "Doubt Gil will either."

  "What do you mean?" Bob choked on the soda he was swallowing.

  "Well, it's like this. Somebody original like Little Richard comes along and before you know it Elvis rips him off. Then Pat Boone does covers of Little Richard's songs, makes it nice so all the crackers will listen to it and buy it. That's just what these English dudes are doing! All those high pitched wails they did - pure Little Richard."

  "So you're saying that only a white band is going to make it?"

  "That right," Larry grinned.

  Bob hated it when Larry grinned because it usually meant that he had made a point that was true. "Well, I tried playing with white guys. They were so worried about their girlfriends and homework and playing sports that they didn't' want to practice. We sounded terrible."

  "You saying Gil and I sound good?"

  "Yeah. Whole lot better than those other clowns."

  "Really?" It was Larry's turn to be surprised. This was the first time in a year of playing with Bob that any appreciation toward his band mates had come from the guitarist.

  "Why don't we try practicing a little?" Gil pleaded.

  Larry stared at the floor. "You all know my Gram, right?"

  "Oh, oh." Bob knew something important, some kind of pronouncement was about to be made. Larry's grandma or "Grams" was a Bible believing, God fearing, praying kind of 82-year-old who loved Jesus and let everyone know it. Larry only mentioned her when he was dead certain about something.

  "Anyway, when I got home from the bar last Sunday night she asked me if I'd seen the Ed Sullivan show and what I thought of the Beatles. When I told her they were just a bunch of crackers in suits, she let into me."

  Bob doubled over with laughter. "Wish I could've seen that. Remember the time she caught us smoking pot at your place? She just about?"

  "Yeah, yeah. We know," Gil sighed. Bob never tired of telling that story again and again.

  "Anyway," Larry continued. "She said that they would be bigger than Elvis."

  "No! Never!" Bob's face turned red.

  "That's not all. She said, 'Looks like the third time's a charm for those English. We might have beat the tar out of them in the wars of 1776 and 1812, but when they invade us this time with their music instead of their guns, they're going to beat the tar out of us.' It was like someone kicked me in the stomach when she said that. I knew it was all over but the crying."

  "What are you saying?" Bob jumped up and rushed to Larry. "You quitting?"

  "It's been a good ride, Bob. But I ain't no white boy. The writing's on the wall. Grow out your hair, dress up like those English boys and you'll make it."

  "Look, I'll let you play more of that jazz stuff," Bob stammered. "We'll make it work."

  "Larry learned back and looked at the ceiling. "Wish you had said that before, man."

  "Why?"

  "Cause when my Grams saw how down I was about those English cats taking over, she got on the phone and got me a job."

  "You?" Gil and Bob looked at each other as they gasped the word in unison before continuing the chorus. "A job?" Neither one could picture Larry ever doing anything for a living other than playing drums.

  "Yeah. I'm going to be a session drummer at some small studio. She kept calling the owner until he finally gave me an audition."

  "When do you start?" Bob whistled.

  "Monday."

  The room grew so still that the only sounds came from the traffic in the freeway two blocks away. Bob and Gil saw their dreams fading fast. Both had seen and played with enough drummers to know that Larry was the best of all of them. Dave gulped twice, once because now he'd have to find another job or face his father's demands that he do so and twice because he could feel Sam's disappointment. After a few moments, Gil broke the silence.

  "Well, I guess that explains the dream I had last night!"

  "Probably just too much of your mom's good cooking." Larry tried to bring some levity back into this room."

  "No. This dream was too real."

  "Tell us," Dave tugged at his brother's arm.

  "It was so strange. Me and Bob and Larry were sitting down in a field somewhere talking. Then Larry got up and left. The way he said goodbye it seemed like he wouldn't be coming back. Then Bob and I got up, shook hands and walked away. I woke up sweating. When I went back to sleep I dreamed that Bob and I were running through the woods and someone was trying to kill us. When I woke up that time my bed was soaked."

  "Man, you must have been sweating bullets."

  "Probably all that hot sauce you ate." Bob tried to laugh.

  "No. I peed in my bed."

  "What?"

  "The dream was so real I peed in my bed." Gil's honesty broke the tensions as one by one each of the five began to laugh, with Gil taking the lead.

  "I didn't know you still wet the bed!" Bob barked. "Little too much tequila last night?"

  Gil shrugged. "That's the first time I remember ever wetting my bed."

  The room again fell silent. Finally, Larry motioned to Dave and Sam. "Load my drums into my car and I'll give you both a buck apiece."

  "All right." The two attacked the drums. A dollar would buy a comic, soda, candy bar and pack of baseball cards - all for 10 minutes of work.

  5

  The rest of the school year passed quickly. Gram's words proved true as one British group after another hit the charts. Surf music quickly faded and
the blooming folk music scene took a backseat to the sounds from across the ocean. The last day of school was especially sweet for Sam. Sister opened up her desk drawer and handed back a treasure trove of items confiscated throughout the year - squirt guns, yo-yos, tops - even Sam's offensive transistor radio that had broadcast the Yankees versus the Dodgers into the classroom during the last World Series.

  But even better, Sam felt his first hormone induced rush when one of his classmates began to do the twist in celebration of the long summer ahead. She was not beautiful, but the way she moved her hips seemed to bring Sam's blood to a boil. The resulting high was even better than the second-hand marijuana smoke Sam had inhaled at Dave's house.

  But before any feelings toward her could blossom the following school year, Sam's dad received orders for his next assignment which was six states away. To celebrate their friendship, despite the soon coming move, Dave talked Sam into going to the beach for the day.

  "I don't know, it's sort of far."

  "We can take the bus. Come on."

  "How much will it cost?"

  "Fifty cents round trip on the bus. It's cheaper for kids, you know."

  "Okay."

  "Meet me at the bus stop on Artesia Boulevard at 8 tomorrow morning. Bring your skateboard."

  "Skateboard?" Taking skateboards to the beach made no sense to Sam. But because Dave was street smart Sam didn't question his best friend. With both boys' boards being homemade out of scraps of lumber from a building site, maybe the boards would float and Sam could at long last experience the waves that he had heard the Beach Boys, Jan and Dean, the Surfaris, Dick Dale and others interpret through songs hundreds of times on the radio.

  Sam's thoughts drifted back to the girl who had twisted her way into his memory on the last day of school. "Maybe Pam will be there