The Cow Ate My Homework

22. Back in the FFA Barn, Minus the Eaten Homework

I think writing out the lyrics of a song you've never heard can't really do it justice. I hope. Because when I write them alone, without any melody at all, without any of the musical arrangement Sarah and I worked so hard on, the whole thing seems kind of lame, in comparison to how good it sounds out loud.

We set out to write our "Country Cliché" song as a gentle mockery of the tropes we hear over and over again in country music that we do love but also sometimes roll our eyes at. Yet, we wanted it to have meaning. And it was very hard for us nail down exactly what that meaning was, to figure out how to make it resonate and evoke emotion and make people say, "Ah, yeah, I know exactly what they're talking about. I both love and hate those things." We wrote the first two verses and the chorus, and then we said shoot, this is not as good as we want.

But this third verse that I came up with during my all-nighter really puts it over the edge, I think.

As the two of us chase down the bus that is taking all of Sarah's wardrobe and toiletries toward Nashville, I sing her the third verse I came up with:

"Of all the clichés that turn out badly, I was lucky enough to fall madly, in love with my best friend, the girl of my dreams. Sometimes clichés aren't quite what they seem..."

"I freaking love it," she tells me, her voice high-pitched with excitement.

"Should we sing it tomorrow night?" I ask, smug at what I've done and how much more excited she's about to be.

"What's tomorrow night?

"I booked us as entertainment for the post-ceremony party at school. Of course that's assuming Rodney can start work for my parents—"

"Huh?"

"We've got a lot to catch up on."

She is stuck on the news about our gig. "We're actually gonna perform?"

"It's no wild kegger country party song party, but I think it might be more our style anyway."

She smiles another huge smile and throws her arms around me.

#

If this were a movie, the song we wrote would carry us over into a final scene of us playing at the post-ceremony party. But let's be honest, there are still a few more fairly significant lose ends that need tying up here first.

Mom and Dad totally scoff at the idea of hiring Rodney when I bring it up to them a short while later. But I get a hold of Rodney and convince him to come over right away so we can get all of this figured out stat.

Rodney grumbles and scowls as I bring him around the corner into the milking parlor to meet them. None of this bodes well. I try to dismiss the worries that this is about to explode into a disaster of epic proportions.

Really, I tell myself, there's absolutely no reason to worry that an hour from now I'll be giving a statement to police, or that part of our farm will literally be up in flames. Instead, I put on an optimistic face that doesn't give anyone a reason to deny me or let me down.

Mom is just taking off the last four milking machines for the night, and Dad is washing his boots after finishing what he's able to do of the clean-up work for the evening. Mom barely even glances at Rodney, but she greets him with, "Do you know how to work?"

He is offended at this. "I can do this work."

Dad shoots him an annoyed glance. "It's not easy work."

I feel like I need to cut in and smooth things over before this goes any further south than this pattern of clipped, back-and-forth sentences about work. So I add a more positive work-centric statement: "Rodney's done hay and construction work." Both hay and construction work suck, as my parents well know. Hay and construction are hard and not for the faint of heart.

Predictably, both of my parents soften a smidge. They look at one another and have one of their silent conversations. My dad's face says well that's something. My mom's face says maybe. My dad's face says we've got nothing to lose. My mom's face says f-word I hate this.

She turns to Rodney. "Do you even want to work here? Or are you just trying to help out Caleb?"

Rodney laughs curtly. "I don't wanna help him. I need a job."

Now both parents are eyeing him warily. "Are you two friends?" my dad asks.

I will grant that I was purposely vague in telling them what my relationship with Rodney is, so this is a valid question.

Before Rodney can let out another rude curt laugh, I say, "We're becoming friends. Right? Now that this is all working out for both of us, don't you think our, uh, friendship is just getting stronger and stronger?"

He pauses. He looks like he can't decide whether to blow this whole thing up right here and now or to laugh and give me a noogie. He settles for a middle of the road response. "Sure." And he spits out a thing of tobacco juice.

My mom cringes. "Oh hell no. If you're gonna work for us and hang out here for any amount of time, no chewing."

This might piss him off, but before saying what he seems to be thinking of saying, he considers. "I've been trying to quite. Lip cancer runs in my family."

My dad says, "Good. Consider this job your incentive to quit."

I hurry to ask, "So we're agreed? He can start right away?"

My mom puts a damper on my enthusiasm with, "On a trial basis."

"Tomorrow night?" I ask.

He rolls his eyes. "I sure ain't got anything else to do, now that I'm not graduating."

"So that's a yes? I can play the party with Sarah?"

None of them look thrilled about this. But they're all on board. I am set.

#

There, now we can get to that musical segue I was talking about.

The official school graduation afterparty is set up in the FFA barn of all places. Fitting, considering that this is where my week of hell began.

A big dance floor has been set up, along with a very small stage just big enough for Sarah and me and our instruments.

Some of the students still wear caps and gowns as the two of us rock out. This crowd is surprisingly receptive and into us, considering our lack of popularity all through high school. I chalk it up to the good spirits of having just graduated, perhaps some sneaked-in booze, and hopefully our pure, raw talent as musicians.

I play guitar and use my looper pedal, while Sarah plays keyboard. And it sounds like we have a full band. I sing the final chorus of our "Country Clichés" song as Sarah harmonizes, "Green grass blowing, trucks and dirt roads. We all know how that old song goes. The one that doesn't mention those smells that aren't quite heaven, no it only talks about a perfect day. Is it all a lie? What if I never really liked my mom's pie? It's okay, it's okay. It's a love hate kinda thing with the country song cliché."

The song ends on some musical solos, and our classmates cheer.

And then, the two of us segue just like we planned into a totally rocking cover of the 90's classic, "Dreaming with My Eyes Open" by Clay Walker.

As we play on, I can't help but realize that that stupid steer is watching me from the pen off to the side, chewing his cud and practically winking at me. But I don't care.

I look at Sarah, and as she smiles back at me, I think I can find it in my heart to forgive the steer.

THE END