The Feet of God

 37 - I GOT LUCKY

Trying as best I could, I stuck to the frigidly cold, gravel-lined edge of the road making slow time.  I trudged forward anyhow, making progress.  It crossed my mind that a slip of my footing on the treacherous path by the side of the road could cause me a header into the drainage ditch, and maybe a broken hip, or worse, then my mind began to race to other torturous endings and grim demises for a lonely traveler like myself, when from behind me came the uplifting roar of an approaching vehicle.

I’ve spent enough time on the road in situations like this to know it might be nothin’ more’n a fevered dream, or a county snowplow.  Yet again, it could be a trucker.  Sure it could.  Out here on a lane-and-a-half of icy asphalt at three o’clock in the morning, a trucker just heaven-sent to pick me up.  Maybe I was just being delusional, but keeping hope alive seemed like my best option.

The noise of the vehicle grew louder and louder as ghostly lights appeared through the foggy night air.  It was good to know at least one other soul besides myself was up and about in this wilderness.  I was encouraged to hear the sound of a downshifting engine.  As the vehicle grinded to a stop I could see it was an old school bus painted in rainbow colors that’d faded with age.  I could not believe my eyes when I saw what was painted on the side:

THE COWRIDGE CLAN

Bus doors opened, and even in the dim light I could see it was Freddy Cowridge himself sittin’ up at the wheel.  Fabulous Freddy was once a singing teen idol and major heartthrob of little girls and old perverts in the mid-70’s.  An older Freddy now looked down on me and smiled, a thousand tiny wrinkles lined his deep-tanned face.  I’ll be damned if he didn’t give me a big ol’ wink and a thumbs-up, just like he used to do on his old TV show when he’d sing “Get Lucky!”

“You’re…you’re….”  I stood pointing at the man who’d held the No. 3 slot in “Cutie I’d Give It Up For” in Tiger Top magazine for half of the decade that gave us disco.

“I know who I am,” he waved his hand for me to get in.  “Why don’t you get on the bus before I freeze my chichis off.”

I gladly accepted this warm invitation to step aboard, and I climbed up onto the second most famous family tour bus in the history of regular broadcast television.

From the back came a husky female voice, “Shut that door.  And keep it down.  We’re trying to sleep back here.”

Freddy glanced into the rear view mirror.  “Sure thing, Mom.”  Damn if he didn’t wink at me again as he shook my hand.  “Hi, I’m Dickie Bloomberg, but you probably know me best as Freddy Cowridge.”

“Thanks for stopping, Freddy, I mean Mr. Bloomberg...” I stammered while shaking his famous hand.

“Call me Freddy.  After more than thirty years it’s just easier that way.”  Then he glanced at the back of the bus again and whispered, “We’d better keep quiet.  Everyone else is trying to get some shuteye before our next gig.”

I squeezed down in the seat behind him, enjoying the heated bus ride.  “Are you guys really on tour?”

“You know it!”  Freddy shouted one of his trademark lines with a wink and a nod.

“Shhhhhh!” came the hiss from the back of the bus.

Freddy continued talkin’ more quietly, “Big Sandy to Big Piney to Smoot, two performances a night, one night apiece.  Tomorrow we headline in La Barge.  Wanna see our show?  I can comp ya.”

“You know it, Freddy.  Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”  I glanced behind me.  “Is all The Cowridge Clan really back there?”

Freddy gave me two thumbs-up and almost lost control of the bus on the slick road.  “Harriet Bonzel, who you know as Mom Cowridge, is back on tour with us.  She’s also celebrating because she just signed a two-year deal with Soakies Adult Undergarments.  She really uses them, too.  We joke and call her Watch-Where-You-Step Bonzel.  Willie Burns, a.k.a. Bobby Cowridge to most people, has joined us after a stint on the dinner theater circuit and trying to land a spot on a reality show.  Swinging over in the hammock is Twyla Willitts, the super-sexy Cherrie Cowridge with the skintight sweaters and her ninjas showing.  She’s out of Betty Ford, and could make the tour.  And last, that hotsy-totsy who beats her tambourine, Buffy Cowridge, completes The Cowridge Clan.  You bet!”

“Shuuuttthefuckkkkuuup!”

 “Freddy?” I asked real hushed.

“You bet,” he whispered back.

“What’s Buffy’s real name?”

“That’s funny,” he squinted through a pack of crow’s feet.  “I have no idea.”

What luck, here I was riding in The Cowridge Clan’s tour bus, sitting no less than two feet away from Fabulous Freddy.  How did something like this happen to me?  I stared into the rear view mirror that reflected the image of the former megastar of commercial pop rock.

Freddy caught me staring.  He shook his finger at me that wasn’t a thumbs-up and he gave me a smile and another wink.  (It occurred to me he may have developed neurological disorders with the passing of decades.)  “Hey, you know what?” he turned to me.  “This band is short one roadie.  Our regular guy was unavoidably detained after our last gig in Smoot.”

“What happened?”

Weaving fingers through his shaggy mop of hair (was it real, I wondered?) Freddy said, “I can’t really say.  It was something about a granddaughter of one of our fans, her being twelve and him being thirty-eight, that sorta thing.  It seemed pretty intense.  We always let Mom do the talking when the police are involved.”

From the back of the bus came a gruff, masculine voice, “If you two don’t shut the fuck up, the next cop Mom talks to will be hauling me away for shooting your loudmouth-asses, so shut your fuckin’ pie-holes and just drive this shitwagon.”

Freddy whispered, “That Bobby, he’s a real character.  So?  You want the job?”

“Serious?” I whispered back.

With that trademark thumbs-up gesture he mouthed his tagline, “You bet.”

“You can double-down on me, Freddy.”  After the shortest job interview on record, we shook hands to seal the deal.  I could hardly believe it; I’d just landed me a position in show business.  I figured we’d discuss salary, perks and benefits later.

As we continued down the road infinite blackness turned to subtle gray, the mountains became visible again against the horizon, and a pale pink light revealed snowcapped peaks.  It wasn’t long before we made it to La Barge.  Freddy drove to the parking lot at the La Barge Inn.  Squeaking brakes heralded our arrival, and the bus came to a jerking halt.

“Oh yay, yippie-fuckin’-ki-yay.”

It was Bobby, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.  He threw back his blanket and began digging around in the piles of clothes and blankets layin’ all over lookin’ for something.  He was pretty pissed till he found a pack of Lucky Strikes in a slipper.  I was surprised to see he was already full-dressed in the same outfit Freddy was wearing:  studded white hip-hugger bell bottoms, pink and white French-cut shirt, buckskin vest with tasseled fringes, culminating in rhinestone-encrusted white leather cowboy boots with silver spurs.

The younger Cowridge brother stepped up to the front of the bus and punched me in the arm.  “Come on, roadie, time to work.”  He jumped off the bus then looked back at me through hooded bloodshot eyes, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth.  “Light?”

As I climbed down Freddy laughed, “Don’t let Bobby intimidate you.  Remember, he has to exfoliate just like the rest of us.”

I looked over at Bobby.  “No, I don’t have a light on me,” I shrugged, “but will this do?”  I pulled out what was left of Ma’s gift of O Promise Me tucked in my boot.

Bobby cracked a smile.  “Yeah, you’ll do.”