Through the Desert with the Stones

It was 1986 when Greg Taylor decided life was limited in small town. After all, he had thoroughly blasted it with Led Zeppelin back in the 70s, and there just wasn’t much more to do. He had the hair – check, mastered the guitar – check, saved some money….well ok, not saved any real money, but he had $350 and that would at least get him there. Jobs should be plentiful, right?

So with a feeling of both exuberance and a tinge of sadness – he went down to finally announce to his grandmother Denice his intentions.

“You know Gran, I think I’m ready now,” said Greg.

“Oh are you sure?” she asked staring at his walnut-stained hands. He had been earning money by sanding and refinishing her furniture when she decided that painted furniture was so 1950s and it was time to get real again in the 1980s with Walnut Stain #253.

“What?” asked Greg, looking at his fingers. “It’s like, all over me and a few shirts too.”

Grandmother Denice smiled. She never intended to make this easy for him. Really, he had no business in California. She knew what went on there, she had spent time examining that Robert Plant poster in his room, the one with the shirt open. She knew that lifestyle was no way to live.

“I have some oil that might take it off,” she said. “It’s made by Nivea.”

“I don’t want to smell funny,” said Greg thinking he sure didn’t want to spend his last few days in town smelling nice and fragrant like Gran.

“Now what will you do out there?” asked his grandmother for the umpteenth time.

Greg took a deep breath and smiled. “I’ll go out and get a job, I bet they have people who are building out there. It’ll be fine,” he said.

“But you don’t know anyone, not a soul,” she said.

“It’s ok, other people have done it, it works out,” said Greg.

“That music…it’s so….loud,” said Gran.

Greg laughed. Gran was no Motley Crue fan, more like Elvis, early Elvis, throw in some Bobby Darin.

“It’s supposed to be,” he said.

Gran vs. Greg. First the hair: cut it…cut it…cut it.

His uncle Troy, cowboy hat and all, summed it up standing in his white shirt in the hot sun: “When in Rome, do like the Romans!”

Ha Ha, who cared, it was only a small simile. How could he possibly explain to Gran that he hadn’t been the same since Eddie played the Cotton Bowl?

“Don’t worry Gran,” he smiled and touched her shoulder.

She smiled back, after all, he was handsome and tough.

“You whoo!” said a voice.

They turned to see Camille Winson coming up the walkway.

“Mrs. Foster, I was just coming by to see how you were feeling,” said Camille.

Gran cast a look at Greg. He looked back. They both knew what Camille was You Whooing about.

“Oh hi Greg,” Camille said.

“Good to see you,” he responded.

“Oh hello Camille, I’m doing fine,” said Gran. “You have really done enough, I so appreciate you.”

“Well if you ever need any help…” said Camille.

“But of course, I’d sure call you. You are such a pretty girl…” said Gran. Camille smiled.

“Yes,” said Gran. “Pretty girl, pretty teeth, pretty mouth…” with too much emphasis on those last syllables.

Greg felt his face freeze. He knew what Gran was doing, she had a mean streak. Camille wasn’t pretty at all. She had a mouth like a horse.

“Uh Gran, yeah, Camille, we appreciate it, you are really a big help.”

“You know Greg here is packing up, gonna leave me,” said Gran.

“Oh really?” Camille turned to him.

“Well, I’ve had it planned, like forever,” said Greg.

“Where are you going?” asked Camille.

“To California,” said Greg.

“That’s a long way,” said Camille. “Who ya goin’ with?”

“Ummm, I don’t know, maybe just me,” said Greg.

“Oh wow.”

“How do you feel about that Mrs. Foster?”

At that moment, Greg was super proud of Gran. She stood there, blue eyes sparkling, standing on the porch, looking over the crepe myrtles, the brick wall behind her with the square  “No-Place-Like-Home” plaque. She resembled a tall, elegant statue with a taste for satire.

“Well Camille, it’s okay, whatever Greg wants; he should try it. A lot of people like California, you know…” said Gran.

Oh, the things you think about in the middle of the desert, thought Greg driving along in his 1964 Thunderbird. The car had been a graduation gift from his grandparents. He had taken it to college for a brief few months. Drove it around all over the place and had a blast before he flunked out by joining a rock band, of course. The Welcome to California sign was just ahead of him, that’s when he heard it…the “click, click, click of a head gasket gone wrong.

Looking on the dashboard, Greg was stunned …No! No! He got out of the car, it was running hot. He had made it to Ludlow California. The tape deck was blaring, “Back in the USSR…” The T-bird was adamant, she needed water. Greg looked around, it wasn’t the California he was aiming for. Cactus, sand, low scrub brush, more sand for miles. No rock n roll. No leopard pants. No Sunset Strip. There was only one thing to do, shoulder up the two guitars, grab the water bottle and walk to town….

He opened the car door and heard the sound of another car. Great! He thought and began waving his hands. Coming toward him he could make out three men. They definitely had him scoped out in their line of vision. Help was coming, whaddya know, Greg thought to himself.

The small truck with three men pulled in front of the T-bird and they got out.

“Hey,” said Greg. One man walked up to him and just looked at him, the other two walked toward the car.

“Yeah,” said Greg, feeling a bit uneasy, but oh well, not every place is Texas. “I think it’s the….it’s running hot.”

The man in front of him was tall, he had mousy brown hair and a handlebar mustache. He said nothing but looked at Greg when he talked. Greg looked back at the other two who were slowly walking around the car looking it over.

“Umm, well I sure appreciate you guys stopping,” said Greg. He was starting to sound like a Stemmson now, but he wasn’t going to sound afraid.

The mustache man said nothing but looked right at Greg. Out of the corner of his eye, Greg watched the other two men, one of them had kicked a back tire on the T-bird and stood back to look at it. This was bad, he thought, who are they, what do they want?