Chapter 15

Nothing eventful happened during the week after New Year's. I was determined to hand in my best term paper ever for American History, so I redoubled my efforts to do a totally thorough job. My little office space was stacked with eight books -- two encyclopedia volumes, four assorted books on the Civil War, and two on Abraham Lincoln. I'd written more than twice as many words as the assignment called for, but I thought I still kept it pretty interesting. I found the story of the aftermath of the war and the assassination of Lincoln to be even more fascinating.

As of Tuesday, I was now wearing the retainer that Dr. Morton had given me at the office. Despite his promises, I thought it was as uncomfortable as hell. I stared at myself in the mirror and winced again at the evil metallic ring circling the outside of my face.

"Shit," I said out loud. "I bet I could receive Radio Free Europe on this fucking thing."

My new stereo sounded great. I was listening to an 8-track tape of The Beatles' White Album, and I quietly hummed 'Bungalow Bill' to myself. Very catchy, I thought, but not quite good enough to be a hit. Yeesh -- that must be Yoko singing in the background. I shuddered.

"Wil!" my Dad yelled from the living room. "We're trying to watch the Orange Bowl down here! Can you keep it down, please?"

"OKAY!" I yelled back, turning it down a notch. The music didn't sound nearly as good at this volume, I thought.

I was starting to get used to wearing the retainer for 8 hours a day. It gave my jaw a dull ache, but was just barely tolerable, I decided. Thank god I didn't have to wear the thing to school. And it'd definitely be out for oral sex, I giggled. Shit. Ronnie.

I took off my glasses and rubbed my eyes, then sighed. I'd had very little sex since the Lannigan brothers had moved away a week ago. I felt a pang. If only I could see Sky. Even if I could talk him into it, he and his family were out of town until late tomorrow on some kind of boating trip to the Bahamas. I was pretty much alone until then.

I barely knew anybody else in school. I wouldn't consider any of the guys on the swim team close friends. Not that many of them wanted to associate with 13 year-olds, I thought, grumbling. There's got to be somebody I could hang out with, I thought.

Wait a minute. I leaned forward and reached behind the desk shelves for my secret stash of Playboys, and pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper. Good -- it was still there.

I re-read the note the cool rock singer had given me at the Christmas dance. "Call me," it said.

"Pete," I said out loud. "Pete Woods. What the hell."

I walked through my doorway over to the new hallway phone, and dialed the number.

A sleepy voice answered. "Hel... Hello?"

"Hi," I said, nervously. "Is this Pete?"

"You got him," he yawned. "The executive offices of Midnight Tunes Entertainment."

Some offices, I thought. "Hi, Pete. It's me, Wil."

There was a pause. "Who?" he asked.

"Wil Larson," I replied. More silence. Jesus, he wasn't making this easy, I thought.

"The guy from the Tampa Central High Christmas dance last week," I continued. "You, uh, told me I should call you sometime. So I guess I'm... calling."

He was silent for a few seconds. "Oh, yeah, yeah," he said, a tone of recognition entering his voice. "Wil. I remember now. You're the guy -- the guy with the vibe!"

I grinned. "I guess so," I laughed. "Anyway, you wanna... I dunno... hang out or something?"

"What time is it?" he asked, groggily.

"10:30."

"In the morning?" he groaned.

Jesus, what a grouch. "Yeah, in the morning," I said, irritated.

"Call me back in a couple of hours, man," he mumbled. "I'm really out of it at the moment."

"Okay, Pete," I said, hanging up the phone. What a flake, I thought, as I went back to my room. I sat down and returned to trying to analyze the conspiracy behind Lincoln's death.

Several hours later, I had had about enough of the retainer, and took it off and tossed it by my bed, rubbing my sore jaw. I looked up at the clock. Shit, I thought. 1:30PM! I forgot to call Pete again. Just as I started to make a dash for the phone, I heard a loud beep from our driveway. I ran downstairs and looked out the front window. There was a big Honda motorcycle in the driveway, ridden by what looked like a tough-looking guy with a black leather jacket. He took off his helmet, and a forest of long blond hair cascaded out over his shoulders. It was Pete.

"Hey!" I yelled, as I opened the door. "How'd you find me?" I asked.

Pete grinned. "I just looked up your vibe in the directory, man," he laughed.

What?, I thought. "You could've just called, you know," I replied.

"This seemed easier," he said, hopping up the porch steps. "There were only two Larson residences near Tampa Central listed in the phone book, and I just took a chance that this one was it."

Pretty lucky guess, I thought.

"And it wasn't a guess," he said, making me jump. "I just kinda drove down the street and just knew. I can't always count on it, but sometimes, I get a feeling about these things. Ya know?"

He looked me right in the eye. Holy shit, I thought, my heart pounding. This guy really was better-looking than Sky. Even better than I remembered how he looked at the dance.

"Hey -- I didn't know you wore glasses," he said.

I remembered that he'd only seen me at the dance, where Sky had made me take them off.

I nodded. "Yeah, I know," I said. "They suck. But I'm getting contact lenses in a week or so."

He nodded. "Very cool," he said. "Your eyes are much too beautiful to cover up, man."

This was making me very uncomfortable. "L-l-let's go inside, OK?" I stammered.

"Actually, I was thinkin' maybe you'd wanna, y' know, come over to my place," he said. "I could show you my organ."

I caught my breath.

"It's a Hammond B-3. Classic rock sound," he continued. "You've heard it a million times on every hit on the radio, but probably never saw one before."

"Gee, I'd like to, uh, Pete, but my parents..." I started.

"They're not here, right?" he asked.

I nodded. "Yeah. They took my sister out to lunch."

"Look," he said. "It's not even two o'clock. I live over in Madeira Beach, a couple of miles down the road from St. Petersburg. We can go over there and jam awhile, and I'll have you back by six -- seven at the latest. Scout's honor."

Well, they'd probably be gone at least that long, I thought. "Okay," I said finally, "but let me at least leave them a note."

"Groovy," he said.

I found a note pad just inside the door, scribbled down my explanation, grabbed my jacket, and jumped into a pair of sneakers. I closed the door and stuck the note in the jam. We walked down to the Honda in the driveway.

"You ever been on a bike before?" he asked.

"Just my Rollfast over there," I said, indicating my two-wheeler chained to the side of the house.

"This one's a little bit faster," he laughed, as he casually tossed me a spare helmet. "Honda CB450. 0 to 60 in four seconds. Totally cool."

I stared at the cycle, which looked enormous. "Is it... is it safe?" I asked, hesitatingly.

"Sure," he said. "Unless you fall off while it's movin'."

I blanched.

"C'mon, man," he laughed. "Hop on. We don't have all day."

I nodded and put the helmet on. "Where do I put my feet?" I asked.

"On this rail down here, just above the exhaust," he replied, revving up the engine. "Just hold onto me, and stay close."

I hopped on behind him and held on. The back of his jacket felt warm on my chest.

"Here we go!" he yelled, and we were off.

The ride was exhilarating. We crossed the Courtney Campbell Causeway in record time, zipping in and out of the lanes like lightning.

"Isn't this illegal?" I yelled, trying to be heard over the roar of the wind in my face.

"No!" he yelled back. "It's called 'lane-sharing.' Guys on bikes don't have to follow the rules," he said, laughing.

Between the excitement of the trip and the closeness of our bodies, I started feeling a strange tingling between my legs, pressed up tight against Pete. I prayed it was just the vibration and heat of the engine. Immediately, I felt a familiar throb. Shit, I thought. I hope he doesn't notice.

Fifteen minutes later, we arrived at his place. It was a modest duplex, probably from the 1930s, with an ivy-covered gate at the front. A large motel was next door, and a big brick wall separated the two properties. At least his house was right on the beach, I thought.

"It ain't much, but it's home," he said, as we walked down the path. "The gear's in here," he said, indicating the garage.

I followed close behind him and adjusted my jeans, hoping my partial hard-on wasn't too noticeable. Behind the hinged garage door was a drum set, a couple of guitars, and a microphone stand. A banner on the wall had a psychedelic logo for "The Midnite Toonz." A beat-up wooden organ cabinet was nearby, with a sign on the back warning 'Property of the Bay Vista Baptist Church'.

"That was my Dad's," he said, pointing at the sign. "He used to be the minister over there."

"Used to be?" I asked.

"Yeah," he nodded. "He died a few months ago."

"Sorry," I said, embarrassed.

"Don't be," he said. "I don't believe in death. He's just gone on to another dimension, y' know?"

"You mean heaven," I replied.

He shook his head. "I don't believe in heaven or hell, either, man. I think we just... keep goin'. Either in this place, or somewhere else. Maybe eventually, we become part of something bigger."

This was getting too strange, I thought.

Pete took off his leather jacket. He was wearing a gray tank-top. I tried not to stare at his body, but I could see he was almost as muscular as Sky.

"Hey," he said, changing the subject, "speaking of something bigger, I see you enjoyed the ride over." He looked down and grinned at me.

I winced and readjusted my pants again. "Sorry. It's nothing personal," I muttered.

"Don't be," he said, grinning. "I consider that a compliment." He fired up the organ and hit a few keys. It whined for a few seconds, then a beautiful chord came out of its speakers.

"Hey," I said. "That sounds great!"

Pete smiled. "Come over here and let me show you some stuff," he said. "There's a lot I can teach you."

For the next couple of hours, I played Pete the basic chords I knew from my grandmother. I didn't know how the keystops and tabs worked on the top part of the organ, but Pete knew enough to make some adjustments. By the end of the afternoon, we were picking through some tunes pretty well, with him on guitar and me on keyboards. He had a special speaker called a "Leslie" that swirled the organ sound all around the garage.

"Real psychedelic, man," he said. "Groovy."

I nodded.

"The organ's one of the great instruments in rock music goin'. You know The Doors?" he asked.

"Sure," I nodded. "'Light My Fire,' 'People Are Strange,' 'Love Me Two Times,'" I said, rattling off their last few hits.

Pete picked up an acoustic guitar and started idly strumming. "Hello, I love you, won't you tell me your name," he sang.

"Yeah, that's a good one, too," I grinned.

He nodded and put down the guitar, then sat next to me at the organ. "You ever listen to the words in that song?" he asked, quietly.

I felt a little uncomfortable. "Yeah, I guess," I replied, looking down at the keys. "Well, maybe not real closely."

Pete thought for a moment. "Jim Morrison's a genius, you know," he said, seriously.

"My parents say the same thing about me," I said, laughing.

He grinned. "Yeah. I picked up that you were book-smart," he said. "But Morrison's smart on a cosmic level, y' dig?"

I was confused. "But it's just a song," I began.

"Listen to what it says. Have you ever heard of love at first sight?" he asked. Pete gazed at me, his long blond hair flowing over his bare shoulders.

I felt beads of sweat all over me. Despite the winter temperature, the garage felt a little warm.

"I nev... never really thought about it much," I stammered. Shit. Now I was starting to sound like Rick Lannigan.

"Do you believe in it?" he asked. "Love at first sight?"

I thought for a moment. I knew how I felt with Sky, but that was something that started slowly and then just snowballed over the years. On the other hand, Ronnie and I had hit it off pretty quickly, but I think he loved me more than... well, more than I liked him.

"Maybe. Sorta. Shit... I dunno," I said, finally.

Pete gave me a long look. "I do, Wil. And it's never happened to me before, until very recently." He was sitting uncomfortably close to me.

My throat felt dry. I started to speak, then choked.

"Lemme get you somethin' to drink," he said, jumping off the bench.

We downed a couple of Cokes in his tiny kitchen. While sitting at the little dinette, I tried steering the subject over to music. I didn't like the personal direction our earlier conversation had been headed towards.

"So how does your band practice here?" I asked. "Doesn't it piss-off your neighbors?"

Pete laughed. "Naaa," he replied. "I own both sides of the duplex. The other side is empty right now. I might rent it out over the summer if I need the dough. Otherwise, I kinda like my privacy."

I nodded and took a sip of my Coke.

"So," he said, leaning closer. "You were sayin' before that you liked the 'White Album.'"

I nodded. "Yeah, I love it," I sighed. "It's an amazing record. It's got so many musical styles, so many different kinds of things going on... it's incredible."

"The Beatles are fallin' apart, man," he said, casually.

"No!" I said, surprising myself with my anger. "That's impossible."

"I give 'em a year, maybe 18 months at best," he said, confidently. "Can't you hear it in the music, man? They're all over the place. They're no longer a group. They're just four guys, each playin' their own shit! They're not really together any more."

I shook my head. "I think they'll be together forever," I said, with absolute certainty.

Pete smiled sadly. "Nothin' lasts forever, Wil," he said. "Except maybe our spirits."

Here we go again, I thought. I'd had about enough of this. "There's no scientific basis for that crap, Pete," I said, rolling my eyes.

He laughed. "That's the boy genius talkin'," he replied. "That's not what your heart tells you." He pulled his chair closer to mine until we were less than a foot apart. "I know more about your heart than you do, Wil," he said, quietly.

I took another swig from my can and looked down at the table.

"You know about vibrations?" he asked.

I nodded. "You mean good vibrations, like..." I sang a few lines from the Beach Boys song.

"Yeah," he said, seriously. "Sometimes I feel 'em... sometimes I can actually see them, like an aura. I've seen yours, Wil."

I grinned. "I remember your note."

"Oh, that," he laughed. "Well, I wanted to make sure I got your attention. You and your girlfriend were really goin' at it on the golf course that night."

I winced. "She's not really my girlfriend. I'm... we're... we're not exactly together."

"Yeah," he said, nodding. "I figured that. You're more into that other guy. What's his name?"

Sky, I thought, my heart pounding. This was getting too scary.

"Listen, uh, Pete... I gotta go," I said, standing up. "It's been fun, and maybe we can, I dunno, play together again sometime."

Pete looked up at me. "Some things are meant to be, Wil," he said, softly.

I felt a shiver. "Yeah," I said, glancing at the clock, "and I was meant to be home in about 20 minutes."

"Let's go, then." He grabbed his keys and his helmet and we walked out to his motorcycle.

"Wait," he said, suddenly. "Lemme give you something." He took off back into the house, while I sat on the back of the 'cycle, struggling to get the spare helmet on my head. He came back after a minute, holding a canvas bag, which he opened up for me.

"I want you to listen to these," he said. "You got a stereo?"

I nodded. "Just got a new system for Christmas from my folks."

"Groovy," he said. "Check these out." Inside were copies of The Doors' Hard Rock Hotel and Strange Days albums, along with The Beach Boys' Friends and Pet Sounds. "You own any of these already?" he asked, as he put on his leather jacket.

I shook my head.

"They're gonna blow your mind, man," he said, excitedly. "The next time I see you, I want you to tell me what you think about 'em. But don't just listen to 'em -- I want you to feel 'em."

I nodded, and he fired up the engine and we sped off. Pete didn't say much on the way home. Once, we hit a bump and I squeezed him tighter, fearful of falling off. He turned to me and grinned, then patted my hand. About 15 minutes later, we finally pulled up in my driveway, and I could see the living room lights were already on and my parent's car was in the carport. I hopped off the back, took off my helmet and tied it to the seat-post.

"Thanks for a cool afternoon, Pete," I said, starting for the porch, with the bag of records under my arm. "And the music."

"Wait up, Wil," he called. He caught up with me and stood on the front step. "Listen, I... I don't want to rush you into anything."

"With the band, you mean," I replied, trying not to look at him directly.

"Yeah. Or with you and me," he said, quietly. "I know you got some things to work out, and I get the feelin' you just lost somebody."

Ronnie. I did miss him, but he wasn't that important to me, was he? I didn't answer, but instead walked up the steps, then stood at the door and turned back to him.

"I'll call you when I get a chance, Pete," I said.

"One last thing," he called, walking up beside me. "Listen, Wil, I... I know we just met and everything, but... I feel like I've known you all my life."

That makes one of us, I grumbled to myself.

"Can I give you some advice? Please?" he asked.

I nodded.

He hesitated. "You're... you're making a mistake with the person you think you're in love with now," he said, looking at me deeply.

Jesus, I thought. His eyes were an incredible shade of light blue. Enough to take my breath away.

"You mean Cynthia," I said, looking away.

"No," he said. "There's somebody else. One you've known for a long time."

I closed my eyes. Stop it, I thought.

"It can only end in tragedy," he said, sadly. "Major bad vibes. I'm sorry, Wil, but I'm never wrong about these things."

"I gotta go, Pete. G'night." I opened the door and stepped in.

"G'night, Wil. Don't forget what I said, man. And listen to the music!" he yelled, as he got back on his bike, gunned the engine, and rode off into the darkness.

"Who was that, dear?" called my mom, as I closed the door.

"Nobody, Mom!" I yelled, running up the stairs.

"William!" called my dad from the living room. "We don't want you hanging out with any motorcycle gang members!"

"Daaaaaad!" I whined from the landing. "He's a musician! He wants me to join his rock group over in St. Pete!"

"We'll talk about that later. Don't you have some homework to do?" he said.

I nodded and returned to my room. I hit the button on my stereo, lay down on my bed and let the White Album play on my tape deck. "It still sounds great to me," I said out loud. "The Beatles are much too successful to ever break up."

Try as I might, I couldn't get Pete's face out of my head. He was great-looking, sure, but... I dunno. Something about him scared me. Pete was spooky. It was as if he knew too much about me already. Despite his good looks, there had to be something wrong with him.

After dinner, I returned to the world of 1865, and lay on the living room couch, mulling over another book on Lincoln's assassination. I began to wish that I'd written my Civil War paper about John Wilkes Booth, instead. Around 9PM, the upstairs phone rang. "Wil," called my mother. "It's Ronnie Lannigan, long distance from Dallas! On your line!"

"Thanks, Mom!" I said, bounding up the stairs, and picked up the receiver. "Hello, Ron?"

"Howdy there, pardner," said an unfamiliar voice.

"Ron?" I whispered. "Is that you?"

Then I heard a familiar giggle. "I think I'm turning into a Texan, Wil!" he laughed.

"Hey, good for you!" I said, smiling.

"Things are great here, Wil," he said, excitedly. "We got horses and oil wells and fruit trees and all kinds of stuff. Uncle Bob's ranch house is practically as big as our old high school. It's like a MOVIE!"

"Sounds great, Ronnie," I said. Jesus, I was beginning to really miss the little guy. "I've thought about you a lot since you've been gone."

"Anyway, Wil," he continued breathlessly, "I just wanted you to know we're real happy here. You got our address, right?"

"Yeah," I said. "'Lannigan Ranch, 1400 Southwest Trail, Route 40, Plano, Texas, 75023.' Got it."

"Don't forget to write me, Wil," he said.

"I won't."

"And by the way," he whispered. "You should see some of the friends RJ's got! Sheee-it!" He laughed uncontrollably.

Suddenly, I felt like Ronnie was having too much fun. "Look, Ron, I kinda have to go, now."

"Me, too! So long, Wil!" he chirped, and hung up the phone.

I went in my room and lay on my bed. Shit. Ronnie was the biggest pest I'd ever known, but somehow... Dammit. Now there's something in my eye. He loved me -- at least he used to. But now I didn't have anybody.

I grabbed my other pillow and pulled it over my face, just to block out the world for a little while.
    
 

© 2001, John Francis