32. Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Two
Laredo
Betty : Stuck at Driftwood. Please cover the pantry collection with Ricco for me.
I reread the text from Betty two hours ago. My fingers scrolling through my last three follow up texts, the first one an hour ago.
We’re halfway through the event. Everything is going well here. Hope it’s the same for you at Driftwood.
No response and my follow up thirty minutes later.
We’re wrapping up - two bins full. Ricco even did a sneak sing-along with some donors. Check TikTok when you get a chance. Everything is under control here. Let me know your ETA.
The beeps of the pickup truck backing up to collect the bins pull my attention away from the phone. Still no reply to my message, my concern rising with each passing minute, with each unanswered text.
Despite this, I pound out another one.
I’ll head back to the pantry to help unload. Hope to see you there. If not, I’ll swing by Driftwood. I’ve cleared my schedule. Call me.
“Still nothing?” Ricco looks up from signing a t-shirt of a teenaged boy with stars in his eyes. Ricco’s influence spans generations. Everyone from seniors to tweens knows him. Watching him interact with all the people has been eye-opening for me. He almost never talks about music unless they bring it up. Which they always do.
I capture his gaze and shake my head. Radio silence. Half of me wants to rush over to Driftwood to investigate, but I don’t. I know how much the pantry means to Betty. She wouldn’t miss this event unless something critical occurred. I just wish she’d call or text me to let me know she’s ok.
I seal the top of the bin, give it two heavy frustrated pounds of my fists and wave to the volunteer from the warehouse. I turn in time to see Ricco taking a selfie with the remaining members of our volunteer group. An eclectic group of volunteers consisting of a farmer, an accountant, a middle grade schoolteacher and a stay-at-home dad. Ricco’s appeal reaches far and wide. “Room temperature lemon water,” he jokes with them, sharing the beverage of choice to protect his voice prior to a concert. “I don’t want to hear any excuses at our sing-along. Don’t worry about getting the lyrics right, just have fun.”
Ricco beams contentment and joy. Last night when I got back to my hotel room alone after the most incredible date of my life, I couldn’t sleep. I began reading Ricco’s memoir. I was familiar with the highlights of his career, but reading in depth the number of times he was knocked down early in his career speaks to the ability of positive thinking and perseverance.
Hugs and laughs fill the air, a perfect distraction to balance the concern and tension I feel thinking about Driftwood.
Ricco waves bye to the group and sticks his hands into his rear pocket. I expect him to bolt. I’m sure there are a hundred places a legend like him would rather be, especially with the music festival now in full blast. He strolls in my direction as if he has all the time in the world. “So where were we?”
I feel my brow rise. In between collections, Ricco had been adding color commentary to some of the stories in the book. But more interesting, he was sharing with me, a fellow musician, stories that didn’t make the book.
My chuckle relaxes me. “New Years Eve, 1999.” I provide the bookmarked memory and wait for him to pick up the happy memory.
“Right. Chicago.” He reaches me and continues strolling down the boardwalk. He’s going to join me back at the warehouse to help with unloading. I fall in, matching him stride for stride. “It’s before your time, but 1999 was a big deal. There’s a reason Prince warned everyone to party like it’s 1999.” A happy memory must swirl in his head as a chuckle escapes.
“I was still a struggling artist, yet to have a breakout hit even though I probably had five albums out at that point in my career. But I had somehow made enough connections to be invited. They had slotted me onto the program as a ten-minute safety plug- enough time for two songs if I played fast.” His eyes glaze over, and I feel myself traveling back in time with him. A safety plug is an artist that fills in on a program if someone drops out or is running late. Event organizers invented schedule fillers back in the seventies when artists were free spirits who ignored clocks and chased their next high over a curtain call. “I was still a struggling nobody but had finally gotten a song in the top one hundred. Rose all the way to number ninety-one before disappearing forever.”
He brushes it off as if it’s nothing. A top one hundred song is a big deal, still is. It means you are officially a Billboard top artist.
“The top of the ticket were all-stars, artists selling out arenas and playing American Bandstand. Tickets sold for two hundred dollars a pop. That’s like a million dollars in today’s money, or something like that. I’m no math major.” He chuckles, and I’m just as clueless. “My chances were looking good. The two safety plug acts ahead of me had already performed. The headliners were triple booked all over town, racing from venue to venue all in the name of making bank. I didn’t have to be good at math to know the odds were in my favor.”
I watch as people pass us, some performing double takes when they recognize Ricco. He gives them a wave but keeps walking. “It was finally my turn. Journey was on stage killing it. However, the next band, the Misfits, had missed their check in time. Only four of their five band mates were present. To this day, I do not know what happened to their fifth.”
I am transfixed by him, hanging onto every single word he utters.
“The coordinator approaches. Tells me Journey had already done an extra song and it would cost him three grand if they did a second encore. He was giving me my shot.”
“You must have been juiced?” By this point in his career, Ricco had already experienced decades of futility. He had a song on the chart and a sold-out arena full of future fans to impress. It was his time to shine.
“I wouldn’t do it.” I’m confused by his words.
“You what?”
“It was a special night. That crowd had come to see their favorite artists. It was a once in a lifetime moment. It’s not like millennium come along that often.” He must read the confusion on my face. “Listen. Would I have loved to perform my songs on that stage that night? Absolutely. But the world is much bigger than me. I knew the kids in the Misfits. Good kids. They had a catchy song that took off like wildflowers on an open field after a windy spring. They had caught lighting in a bottle. They didn’t have the track record of the rest of the artists on the top of the ticket. I had been around long enough to already know the spotlight moves away from you quicker than you realize. They had all the markings of a one-hit wonder group. I didn’t know for sure, but my instinct screamed that if they missed this opportunity, they might not get another shot - not like that.”
“What about your shot? You had been at it for so long already. You had paid your dues.”
His head shake is definitive. “Being around and paying dues are two different things. I had wasted time, took my talents for granted and spent years going through the motions.”
It’s like looking in a mirror. His words, his early career. He could be talking about me.
“The lead singer of the Misfits was this kid Raven, purple and gold hair and a falsetto that will make your ears bleed. For some reason, girls lost their minds around him.” He laughs at the memory, “so I walked over the bass player, because here’s a tip, the bass player always has the pulse on the band. They are the true leaders. They set the tempo of the songs, and they watch from the back of the stage at everything going on.”
I think of Adam. How his eyes are always taking in everything. Whoever is singing lead, he is always in synch with them, anticipating their every move, making sure everyone looks good. How did I not see this all these years?
“I told him about them wanting me to take the stage. I told him I wouldn’t do it. He thought I was crazy. The clock was ticking, so we worked out a compromise. I told him I’d take the stage only if they joined me, performed their song, and let me play the tambourine.”
“Tambourine?” I hear the confusion in my voice. It’s not even a real instrument. It’s what you give to four-year-old to keep them entertained. “Why not play something a little sexier?”
He laughs, “you don’t get it. Tambourine means I’m here to have fun. I’m here to support you. I get to look cute and if I fall off the stage, nobody will notice. The spotlight never shines on the person playing the tambourine. This was their night. I just wanted to be on the stage to soak up a little of the overspill.”
“Wow,” is all I can utter. I fail to think of another artist who would do what he did. Then I do. Adam. He created a new sound for Ariel, and when she asked him to join her on the stage, he said it wasn’t needed. It was her moment to shine, alone.
We walk in silence for a beat before he continues. “I’m extremely lucky and grateful. Do you know what happened that night?”
It’s my turn to laugh as I recall learning about Y2K in my history class. “All the computers in the world stopped working at midnight?”
“Can you believe we really thought that was a possibility?” He laughs and waves a hand at me. “The bass player from Journey approached me at the after party. He said he saw what I did for the Misfits. Two days later, their agent contacted me to a meet and greet with reps from their label.”
“Is that how …” I try to align the timing with what I know of Ricco’s history and can’t connect the dots.
He shakes his head. “Nope. I still wasn’t ready. Another opportunity that I let slip through my fingers.” A quick head shake accompanied by a short smile lets me he has no remorse for the path he’s followed. He pushes his arms through his iconic denim jacket, his gaze lingering a signature with another memory attached. “Story for another day.”
Ricco is a music history encyclopedia, and I could spend all day flipping the pages. But I don’t have all day. With each passing moment, my concerns rise. I pull out my phone. Still nothing from Betty. When I look up, Ricco is staring at me.
“She trusts you,” he says, like it’s a declaration.
“Trusts?” I scratch my head, confused. All I want to know is that Betty is all right. Something feels off.
Ricco stuffs his hands deep into his back pocket, a tell that he’s about to drop a bit of deep knowledge. “Every year Betty organizes and runs the pantry drive. Has never missed a year as long as I can recall and remember I’m old.” His gruff laughs relax me. It’s hard not to feel relaxed when you are around Ricco. He’s seen it all and provides a perspective most people lack.
“It’s her baby,” he continues, and my ears perk up.
“What did you just say?”
He runs a hand through the gray hair on the top of his head. “It’s her baby. She watches over it, tends to it constantly and has watched it grow, year after year.” His eyes follow the path of a seagull that swoops low to the boardwalk before changing direction. “Every year it grows. The number of events, the amount collected. But it's still her baby. She’s never let anyone else be its babysitter before. That is until you?”
His words provide a comfort I hadn’t realized I needed. Betty and I are still learning each other: who we are, our likes, dislikes, what to say, how to say it. Trusting one another will be key to everything we are looking to build.
“I’d do everything I can to take care of anything she values.”
“Listen to your words,” Ricco says with his brows arched. “Now repeat them the next time you look in the mirror.”
He’s talking about me. He says he saw me at the festival last year. My reckless ways. This is his way of reminding me that Betty not only trusts me but values me and I need to do better.
For her I will.