Looking Out Plane Windows (For Things That Are Not There)

Chapter 8: "Road Trippin' to Los Angeles"

(2011 - Early Summer)

The drive down to Los Angeles six years ago was a sidewinding affair: me and Jerry Kilbourne swapping tall tales and laughing, steam rising up from mirages on Highway 5, and the shit smell of cattle before the grapevine.

Jerry pinched a joint between his fingers. We'd been passing a few back and forth on our way down. The weed did wonders. Jerry's manic mood let up. He had taken off his corduroy jacket to reveal a healthy potbelly testing the limits of his T-shirt. "When you reach my age, Xavier, you've just gotta learn to let it go!" He pointed down at his belly with both hands. I was about to lean over and grab the steering wheel, but he kept the car chugging along straight by pressing his knee against it.

"That's the great thing about getting old, though Xave: you just stop caring about some things. Not that I cared about much to begin with - ha!" He honked the horn to congratulate himself on his own wisecrack. "The picture starts to get a little clearer. Things aren't as muddled around in your mind. You start to really understand what matters to you. And you realize that's what will keep you going. And sometimes you just need to know what will keep you going."

He peered at me from the sides of his shades. I was half-asleep, curled up against the passenger side door, but I gave a faint nod to let him know I'd heard him from atop the soap box. "Want to finish this off?" He shoved the stub of the joint under my nose.

I waved him off. He took one last hit and then stabbed the joint out in a cup holder.

"Well, you're probably wanting to know more about me, I imagine," Jerry said, without a hint of presumption. "I admire your willingness to jump into the unknown, but I mean, you got to get a real sense of what and who you're dealing with here, Xavier."

I perked up. I hadn't thought to ask about Jerry's past beyond managing the Bloody Plungers and temporarily resurrecting Molasses Johnston's career.

Kilbourne continued, "And since I have your undivided attention for the next four hours or so, let's get into it! Time for an education on the life of a music mogul in the making!"

"I just finished finals, Jerry. The last thing I want to do is listen to a lecture," I said, in the faint hope of disuading him. Four hours of Jerry Kilbourne waxing poetic didn't sound bearable at the moment, however enthralling.

"Ho ho, Mr. Academia. I'm giving you a lesson in the real world. You know, the one you can't read your way through? The rough and tumble and rigamarole. The 'Are you the driver or the roadkill?' question. That kind of stuff, you know?" He pulled his shades down so I could see his eyes.

"No, I don't know." Though, I was secretly impressed by his use of the word 'rigamarole.'

"Consider this your introductory course before the real classes begin. I'll ease you into it now, because once we're down there, there's no easing anything." He kept his chihuahua eyes glued to me. They were pulsing with purpose and a seriousness that gave me a chill. Then he cracked a yellow, saw-toothed smile, showing off his severe underbite.

The car started to veer, until the yellow lines split the jalopy in half. A semi-truck appeared on the horizon, barreling toward us. Jerry kept his hands steady on the wheel. The car stayed its course, straddling the lanes heading north and south. "You ever play chicken, Xavier?"

"No," I answered. The calm on his face sent a shiver down my spine.

"Lesson number one: the music industry is a glorified, glittering, gold-lacquered game of chicken. Know when to bluff. Know when to fold. Know when to plough through."

The semi-truck grew larger on the horizon. I could start to make out the silhouette of the driver in the cab. The truck let out a long, deep horn. The only thought in my mind flashed in all caps like a Times Square billboard: MOVE OVER NOW! MOVE OVER NOW, IDIOT!