“As odd as the day was, thank you,” I say, too exhausted to be embarrassed.
He dips his chin, his gaze dancing along my windblown hair before his eyes snap back to mine.
“Um…look, I fly home on Sunday, so if you are still willing to do an interview, I guess…well, you have my number.”
Another subtle dip of his chin gives me no inclination either way as I drink in his features. Knowing what the odds are, I’ll probably never see him again. In all honesty, I wouldn’t have blamed him if he dumped me roadside hours ago.
“It’s been…，” a laugh bursts from me, and his lips lift slightly in response. Something inside me mourns the fact I’ll never see Easton Crowne smile.
“Bye,” I whisper, shutting his truck door before walking through the lobby doors, fighting not to look back. I don’t hear his truck engine rev until I’m well past the reception desk.
Devils Haircut
Beck
Easton
Entering the front door, I hear music drifting throughout as I start the trek across our expansive sunken living room before stepping up into the kitchen. I find Mom dressed in her usual at ease attire—one of Dad’s tour T-shirts, baggy sweats, and a messy bun. Studying her while she dutifully stirs a pot, I can’t help but notice she seems smaller in frame than she used to.
“What are you cooking?”
Mom jumps a foot off the floor before turning to me, eyes wide, one palm flattened to her chest, a partially coated wooden spoon gripped in the other. “What the fucking scary stalker type of an approach was that?” She widens her eyes as I chuckle. “Seriously, son, why didn’t you announce yourself?”
“Because you’re blaring Beck while cooking…” I eye the pot and the clock on the stove behind it, “…spaghetti at midnight. Seriously, Mom?” Chest heaving, she snatches a remote from the counter and taps a button furiously, lowering the volume.
“I couldn’t sleep. You didn’t text.”
“This again,” I sigh, ripping off my hat and running a hand through my hair. “I’m moving out.”
“Not yet. I have to mentally prepare.”
“You said that six months ago. It’s about four years past time, two at the very least, don’t you think?”
“Says who?”
“Every other self-respecting twenty-two-year-old human with a set of testicles.”
“You’re safe here, and you’ll be on tour soon anyway, so it’s pointless to get a place now that will essentially be a storage unit. Save your money.”
“A tour?” I scoff. “That’s a bit premature.”
“Mark my words, you’ll be on the road by summer,” she says with surety.
“That’s a big if,” I remind her, knowing there may be some truth to her statement. While music distribution has changed substantially in the last fifteen years, making it far easier to release with the mere push of a button, the road aspect to perk ears to new sound remains the same. Especially if I don’t get the airplay or streaming results I hope for within the first few months. My hopes will most likely be dashed anyway, due to my hesitance to sell myself and my music by placating the media. Much like in my dad’s day—and the days before—if I want my music heard, I’ll have to pay dues by playing clubs and smaller stadiums to get the word out. Playing live still has the potential to have as much impact as it’s always had. It’s also a way to sharpen sound, bring bands closer on a personal level, and is considered by many musicians as a rite of passage.
Her prediction is still farfetched, considering I don’t exactly have a band—yet.
“Either way, you live here until we know. Deal?”
For my mother, it’s all about security, and I can’t say it hasn’t been needed over the years. A few months after I was born, a crazed fan broke into the infamous A-frame house my parents reunited at while we were home. Dad managed to get the disturbed woman outside until the police arrived. In an effort to protect me, they moved us into the security guarded, gated community where I’ve grown up. It was a wise decision on their part. My mother still remains bitter about the fact we had to move out of a house that meant so much to them both. I’ve heard the story dozens of times over the years of how their chance meeting at that open house solidified them together for good. To this day, each time my mother tells it, her eyes cloud with sentiment.
“Elliot Easton Crowne,” my mother prompts, breaking up my inner musings. “You will stay here until your tour is over, right?”