The Beautiful Truth

// 111

As I walked toward my destination, it became clear that even though the headliner had already closed out the show on the main stage, there was plenty more show out here on the campground.

The massive campground.

I had almost given up, having carefully counted the rows of expensive looking RVs before hanging a left between rows four and five. I quickly realized that Jason's estimation of 'half-way down' was about a zillion miles away.

OK, maybe 400 yards, give or take. I finally saw the RV with the OU flagpole. And then I shook my head as I approached the one with the giant horns hanging off the front.

As I got closer, I could hear someone playing a guitar. The riff sounded a little like a Tom Petty song, but then this incredibly rich, clear voice started singing.

Way back on a radio dial,
A fire got lit inside a bright-eyed child.
Every note just wrapped around his soul,
From steel guitars in Memphis,
All the way to rock and roll...

I caught myself tip-toeing and walking in a crouch as if I was somehow going to disrupt the airwaves and the song would stop. Rolling my eyes, I straightened up and turned the corner.

Oh, oh—I can hear 'em playin'
I can hear the ringin' of a beat up old guitar

Jason Mandrino's voice belted out with stereophonic clarity that gave me goosebumps. I blinked my wide eyes, seeing him across the small fire his friends had built with their charcoal grill. I was pretty sure I had my mouth open.

Jason Mandrino did one of the sexiest things any man with a guitar could ever do—as he continued the verse, he smiled, laughing a little while he sang—

Oh, oh—I can hear 'em singing
Keep on dreamin' even if it breaks your heart...

Holy hell. Why wasn't he performing on a stage? Why wasn't he recording in a studio somewhere in Nashville? No one I'd heard thus far during my bizzaro venture into country music coverage sounded that incredible.

Downtown is where I used to wander,
Old enough to get there, but too young to get inside.
I would stand out on the sidewalk,
Listen to the music playin' every Friday night...

Jesus, I got chills. And I was staring, but it was Mandrino. I didn't care. He didn't seem to mind.

When the song was over, he lifted the guitar over his head and crossed the way, toward me.

"Sawyer Fitzgerald, what in God's name are you doing here?" he exclaimed, smiling a twisted cowboy grin as he reached out for me. "Christ, you couldn't look more LA right now if you tried."

I laughed incredulously and hugged him. He towered over me—seemingly more than the last time I'd seen him. Can a guy grow inches in a matter of weeks? Maybe it was my lack of shoes? Whatever the reason, I felt tiny in his arms.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" I asked him, still overwhelmed, stepping back and tilting my head upward to look at him.

He gave me another twisted smile, but this one was more bashful than the first. "Everybody, this is Sawyer; Sawyer, this is everybody..."

Suddenly I realized there were seven or eight other guys around. I was so distracted by Jason that I hadn't noticed until now.

"Oh, this is your SF," one of the guys spoke up with an insinuating undertone, winking at me as he walked by.

I scoffed. "Your SF, huh?"

"I might've talked about you once or twice," Jason admitted.

Introductions were made, and I found a jar of Mandrino shine-wine and a place close to the fire. Jason wasn't the only one of his friends with musical talent. They passed around the guitar until well after midnight. At some point, Jason brought me a blanket. I was close to drifting off, leaned against him and warmed by the fire and my jar of shine.

"You're welcome to stay here," he whispered while somebody named Jay played Pink Houses.

I sighed. "Nah, I gotta get back to the hotel."

"One last song?" he asked.

I looked up at him and smiled. "Only if you're the one singing."

He smiled. "I think I know one more."

I laughed softly. He pushed himself up from the ground and reached out for the guitar, stepping over his friends' legs and taking a seat on the up-turned bucket that had become center-stage.

"OK, country's not all I know," he told me like I was the only person listening. "This one's for the SF I know."

Yeah, I guess I was about a stranger to him. Or maybe I was a stranger to myself. But, I watched as he tuned the instrument, smiling softly as he did so.

Again, one bar, and I knew the song. And knowing Jason, I would've bet everything I had that he picked the song for the opening line.

Maybe it didn't mean anything at all. Maybe he finally saw an opening—and this was him taking advantage.

The airy opening led to the first line, and I felt a strange ache; I realized that it wasn't a person I missed this time.

It was my music that I missed. All I needed was a well-timed Rogue Wave song.

Screw California, and friends that are never there.