A Night at Big Oaks
Chris DeWitt
A NIGHT AT BIG OAKS
1.
A hunter green Oldsmobile made its way east on slick state highways across the Texas-Louisiana line. At 15, Billy could’ve driven himself, if Dad was in a fine mood and let him borrow the family car. But his band’s first show called for a family affair.
In the otherwise expansive backseat, Billy sat squeezed, knees akimbo, between the window and a stack of drums, a couple guitars, and a tube amplifier on the floorboard. He sat behind his Mom, up front in the passenger seat, squinting into the breeze from the cracked window that let out the cigarette ash and smoke.
Dad still wore his work shirt, stained with dirt and oil, though he did pass his face and hands under the faucet before we loaded up.
“Should be a good crowd tonight,” he called back over the din of wind, road noise, and AM radio. “Rain brought in some cool weather.”
The road was a river through canyon walls formed by thick stands of pine trees. An opaque curtain of needles and rough bark rendered the young doe invisible until the moment she reached the road. As the Olds rounded a curve, the doe bolted. Her hooves skidded on the wet pavement. The driver swerved off the road and headlong into the pines.
2.
The hunter green Oldsmobile flew down the highway like a rifle shot. As the driver accelerated into each turn, Billy felt the crush of the load, a dovetail of drums, guitars, and other gear, in the weighted-down back seat.
All the windows were down, so even with the radio up full blast the honky-tonk was barely audible. Billy let his mind wander and his eyes blur. He became enveloped in the brown and green of the rushing pines outside his window, parched after a long dry summer.
“Should be a good crowd tonight,” he said to himself, imagining taking the stage for his first show at Big Oaks, a hallowed place he’d been dreaming of since he saw RC Cole there with his Dad last summer. He closed his eyes and he was on stage, surrounded by bright lights, amplified sound, and the sweet smell of tubes, sweat, and hot wires. A sharp flick of a lighter cut through the road noise and broke the spell.
“Don’t smoke that thing in here,” Mom snapped over the din. She crossed her arms and muttered, “Jackass knows it burns my eyes.”
Dad kept his eyes locked on the road as he took a long pull of his Pall Mall and let it fly out the window in a stream of grey smoke. The orange cherry settled into the dry grass on the roadside as the Olds passed out of view.
In the silence that followed, a young doe gingerly stepped out of the shadows, its ears perked and alert. As flames engulfed branches and smoke sucked the light from the sky, the deer slowly retreated to the pines.
3.
The green and chrome blur kicked up what was left of the afternoon’s summer rain. The driver, wearing mirror-lensed aviators and dingy blue coveralls, leaned one elbow outside the window and held the wheel loosely with an oil-stained hand at the noon position. He brought in the cigarette for a drag and managed to keep the exhaled smoke out of the car.
In the passenger seat was a woman with an elaborate updo and cat eye sunglasses. Her window was down only an inch or so to equalize the pressure and still keep her hair together. She glanced back at her boy in the backseat, squeezed between a stack of instruments and the side door, staring blankly out the window. She knew that stare.
“Should be a good crowd tonight, hon,” she said, smiling encouragement to the dough-faced buzz cut behind her. “Rain brought in some nice weather.”
Billy forced a smile. “Thanks, Mom.” He looked away and cracked his knuckles, his eyes burning. “It’s just our first show, though, so…” He trailed off as a doe inched out of the thick pine forest, such a fleeting glimpse Billy wasn’t sure if he’d really seen it. He craned his neck out the back window but it was gone.
Mom turned back to the windshield, grinning. “Y’all gonna make them girls swoon,” she said, reaching across the console and squeezing her husband’s knee. “Reminds me of our day, old man.”
The driver smiled and took a final pull from his cigarette. He rolled up the window when the smoke had cleared. The pines enveloping the eastbound road started to thin, casting long shadows over the Olds as it slowed and turned into a gravel driveway.
“Here we go, Billy Boy.” The man’s right shoulder dipped as he twisted around, his sunglasses dangling on the tip of his sharp nose. “Give em hell.”
Chris DeWitt is a writer, educator, and musician based in Austin, TX. His work draws on an itinerant youth and lifelong search for community. His work can be found in Suspect Press, Barren Magazine, Headline Poetry and Press, and at dorkmansion.com
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