The Debonairs: Small Town Stars (Book 1)

The Beginning

We were sitting on the bus vibrating in the dark as the streetlamps passed behind us flashing us with dim beams every several seconds.  Patrick was in my arms asleep, his gentle snoring causing me to smile and luring my hand to caress his face and sideburns.  He grinned unconsciously as I did that, and beside him on the seat, Cletus turned to watch us. 

Driving up front was John; I could hear him softly humming a tune to keep himself awake, and next to him fingering our threadbare map was Tony.  John was eighteen, but had a baby face. He would often get asked if he was skipping school or if he was old enough to buy cigarettes.  He had dirty blond hair that dipped down to his shoulders and effeminate high cheekbones that made him appear very endearing. Tony, his best friend, was his exact opposite physically.  He had broad shoulders and a muscular build that fit well with his fuzzy eyebrows and strong features. 

Tony was the tough guy of the group, the kind who had two extremes: he was either very up or very down, and when he was down he was liable to catch a temper.  John was always the one to talk him out of a fight, a funny sight since he looked more like a little brother than an equal friend.  Tony was the oldest at nineteen but could have passed for thirty with a ruddy complexion and perennial stubble on his jaw. He was always being asked if he was married, much to our collective amusement.  But he was pleased to look so mature.  He was the one we sent in to buy all our beer.  If anyone tried to card him, he curled his lips, shook his fists and acted offended.  He had the quickest wit around and would launch into a diatribe about kids losing respect for their elders, and he always came out on top.  He had a way of turning the tables on anyone.  He could even pull one over on John from time to time, which was quite an achievement.

I was still awake but I can't remember why.  Usually once Patrick passed out, I was right behind him.  That night perhaps I was a little worried.  The boys had just played one of the worst venues imaginable, the Lost in Knoxville.  It only stayed open for seven months, but in that short amount of time it had enraged half the working bands in the region.  The main problem with the Lost, if you could get past the broken glass on the stage and the overwhelming stench of urine, was that the owner, Paul Gotchin, was absolutely unreasonable.  We had pulled into town in time for a quick dinner across the street then made it for sound-check at four o'clock.  Paul was nowhere in sight and the place was deserted.  He didn't turn up until eleven-thirty to unlock the door, made no apology, and was high on a homemade hallucinogenic.

"Who, I mean who, does this guy think he is?" John had whispered to me as we carried the equipment inside.  I raised my eyebrows at him and remained silent.

But that was merely the beginning of our troubles.  The local opening act was absent and when we asked Paul about it, he said he thought we were bringing someone.  Tony almost took a swing at him right there, but John smartly distracted him somehow.  Then Paul accused us of dragging him up to work for nothing.  There truly was not a soul in sight for our audience.

"I'm not paying you one nickel," Paul harassed, pounding his fist on the bar.  "What kind of band are you lame kids anyway?  Didn't you even put some flyers up?"

"Flyers!?" Tony shouted, his face very disgusted.  "We don't even live here!  We thought you had this figured out!"

Before a fight could erupt, thankfully some teenagers tumbled into the club and started ordering sodas.  I made a headcount and once nine kids had turned up, Paul shoved us on stage and said, "You're here so you might as well play.  Then get out!"

The boys did a wild and hectic set, finishing in about twenty-five minutes, then packed up for the ride into Atlanta for the next night's gig.  As we were leaving in a huff, two of the teenagers mocked John asking if he usually sang like a dying cat or if that was only a special for the night.  Tony clocked one of them right in the ear and they ran out cursing.  Somehow, Cletus, Patrick and I all remained calm enough to herd John and Tony into the bus and convince them the night was not worth quarreling over.