How We Deal With Gravity(2)
Calling Ray Abbot was really my only option when the label dropped the band. Ray’s taken me in most of my life. He taught me my first chord and gave me my first Gibson for my sixteenth birthday. He’s the reason I love rock & roll and the blues. Ray put me—scared shitless—on a stage in front of a mic and a drunk-ass crowd of locals when I was ten, maybe eleven. Changed my life.
I still remember climbing up to sit on the stools in the back of his bar after school while my mom finished her shift. When I called, Ray told me she quit again after she started dating the new guy. But her locker’s still there, along with all her shirts and her apron. He even made a joke about how he doesn’t peel off the “Barb” sticker from her nametag anymore because he knows he’ll just be printing a new one out in a few months.
Thank God for Ray Abbot. I swear, with the amount of times Barb Street walked off the job during a shift, if it weren’t for that man and his forgiving nature, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have had food on my plate when I was a kid.
I didn’t tell my mom I was coming home. She would baby me, tell me it was the band’s fault, and that I needed to find someone new. I’ve been with the guys for years, and she still doesn’t know their names. I’ll call her in a few days, when I have something to say—when I can tell her I’m hitting the road again and getting the hell out of Arizona.
Ray’s bar looks exactly the same. You would never believe the talent that’s passed through this joint by looking at it from the gravel parking lot out front. The metal sign that reads Dusty’s is banged up and crooked, and the spotlight that shines on the marquee is dim. I don’t even know why Ray bothers to put up the names and show times—there’s no way a car passing by out here in the desert would be able to read it. Hell, I’m standing seven feet out, and I can’t make out a goddamned word!
The people come anyway. Ray could post on that sign out front that the world was ending, and he’d still have a full house by 8 p.m. on a Friday. It’s because the music is that good, and you can count on it. It’s simple—if you’re a hack, Ray won’t put you on.
There’s a new band jamming tonight. I scope them out when I walk in and slide through the crowd lining the tables in the back. They’re pretty tight. A country band…a little bluegrass maybe? I like their sound.
“Well, are you just going to stand there, numbnuts?” I hear the gruff voice say from behind me. Ray bumps into my arm with his elbow, hard enough to knock me off balance.
“Hey, old man, just cuz my ma quit, don’t go thinking I’m picking up her shifts. You can bus your own tables,” I joke back, following him into the kitchen.
Ray dumps the bin of dirty glasses into the sink, and nods to a couple of the guys working in the back before drying off his hands on the towel tossed over his shoulder. He settles his gaze on me with a tough-guy sigh, but I know he’s just giving me shit. He lets it go on for a couple of seconds before he starts laughing and pulling me in for a hug.
“Damn, Mason. How long’s it been?” he asks.
“Five years, Ray. Five years,” I say, both sad that I haven’t come to visit, and dejected that I’m right back where I started.
“Wow, man. That long, huh?” Ray says, nudging me to follow him to the back office. Just like the rest of the bar, Ray’s office looks like time stood still. The layer of dust on all of the framed photos is thick, and I zero in on the one of him with me right away.
Five years—five years ago I took a picture with Ray on that stage, celebrating my big break. Some f*ckin’ break. The boys and me have played nothing but shit-small towns and tiny venues without as much as a month or two off in between, and I don’t even have an album to show for it—at least, nothing anyone’s playing.
“So, label bailed, huh?” Ray says, kicking his feet up onto his desk and gesturing for me to take a seat on the old sofa.
“Yeah, it was time, though. They weren’t doing anything for us,” I say, falling deep into the worn cushions.
“Hmmmm,” Ray says, chewing at the inside of his cheek, and twisting at the end of his graying mustache.
“Oh, come on, Ray…you know we’re good. You know it!” I start to protest, leaning forward, ready to stand on my feet. Fuck this, I didn’t come here to get a lecture. I called Ray because I thought he would understand. He’s the one who pushed me to fight for this, and he’s half the reason I want it so damned bad. If he’s going to tell me I can’t make it now…
“Sit your ass down, hot head,” he halts me. I roll my eyes at him, but I sit back, giving him the respect he deserves. However, I’m not opposed to walking right out of here and slamming his door in his face if he starts to get high and mighty.
Ray leans forward and reaches into his desk drawer, digging through piles of notebooks and papers before finally coming up with a giant envelop full of clippings. He unfolds the top and dumps six or seven newspaper articles on his desk, spreading them out like a winning poker hand. I keep my eyes on him the entire time—I don’t dare look down at the papers, because I know what they are, and I hate that he’s read them.
“Let’s just take a look, shall we?” he says, pulling his glasses from his front pocket just to be melodramatic. This is going to be way more painful than I thought. I should have known—Ray doesn’t lecture. He doesn’t need to. He can put you in your place in an instant just by pulling at the threads of your skeletons and weaknesses.