Later, when fans trail out, burnt orange shoulders slump. Cocky strut evident earlier now nonexistent. OU now Mayor of Truckville, evidently.
During the last set of the day, we have our biggest crowd. Michele sings "Sweet Dreams," "Crazy." Amazing how Patsy Cline songs draw them in.
Don't expect the Lucky Pierres to cover "Your Flag Decal Won't Get You Into Heaven Anymore" with that backdrop.
Missing from this Lucky Pierres photo: a man by the name of "Tiny."
Related Content
More About
"It's no use trying to challenge people," Frank says afterward in a tone both disappointed and resigned. "They only want to hear what they've heard already."
We talk about playing family festivals, VFW halls. I suggest one of us learns to guess ages/weights between sets. Frank nods sagely.
Sunday, 10-14-01. A family wanders through tent: father, mother, youngsters. I recognize wife/mother. Briefly dated her in college. Face without expression as she watches band play. Unclear whether she recognizes me. Part of me hopes not.
Appearance brings unwelcome reevaluation of whole life. First started playing in local bands years ago, dreamed of making mark on world. Still dream from time to time, though potential size of said mark shrinks, as does personal corner of world. What delusion keeps me going: playing nightclubs and truck tents to paltry audiences? Riding around in vans with no seats in the back?
Smell of burnt rubber. Thick cloud of blue smoke. Dodge has "taken life by the horns," vanquished another competitor.
Later, a tornado watch is announced. The giant Dodge Ram head balloon is deflated. A wise precaution. Would be bad PR to allow Ram symbol to break free of moorings and roll away, crushing all in path.
Saturday, 10-20-01. Final weekend, first set. Man stands among back benches, listening intently. Later he takes Kim aside, tells him he is a caterer from L.A. and wants to fly the band out for parties. Celebrities involved. Money not issue. Writes down Kim's number.
Kim informs the band. Wry look exchanged. Philip suggests going immediately to "BMW convertible tent" to select van replacement.
Tiny's still guessing ages and weights. Today, every guess correct. Guesses young woman's weight--143--to exact pound. She walks away scowling, talking of "body density." Another woman angry when her over-40 age is precisely guessed. Blames it on "old-looking" husband standing alongside.
Tiny is unfazed by customer grousing. On penultimate fair day, generating return business obviously not a priority. He sticks $2 in apron with wad of other crumpled bills and continues patter.
Third set. Large family stops by, fills two whole benches. Mom departs with food order, returning shortly with a corndog bouquet. Each corndog has been dressed to order: mustards, ketchups, mustard and ketchups, dries. Mom carefully distributes the corndogs to offspring. The last to go is a "dry" for the middle son. Mom pauses, seeing it streaked with a bit of mustard, apparently rubbed off in transit from mate. Mom removes the offending streak with a lightning-fast lick.
The son, having witnessed mustard removal, accepts corndog without protest, but an odd look crosses his face: Resignation of existential nature. Acceptance of life as off-kilter, unjust, yet understanding of self as piece in a vast cosmic puzzle.
Look stays with me for the remainder of the evening.
Sunday, 10-21-01. Good-byes are said, wishes well. Security guards, Dodge Gals, Chevy band, etc. Turns out to be big day for dancing. It starts with two women, a mother and daughter, I suspect--one 85, the other, maybe 65. Others slowly join them. Married couple. Boyfriend, girlfriend. Father and, one by one, each of his three daughters. Dancing starts outside the tent on the walkway, too, and during a string of original songs, no less. Gratifying.
Afterward, with mates and families, we take last trip onto midway, share last portions of funnel cake, stuffed jalapeños. Air is crisp with autumn. Buy tickets for Texas Star, filling a car of our own. Perfect timing: sun sets behind the city skyline between orbits, and the lights on the wheel spokes blink on.
On the way back to van, everyone is silent, at ease. All seem to be thinking the same thing: the last ride, the last set. It doesn't take much, really, and you're content.
"Those golf shirts, though," someone finally says.
Right, right. They would have ruined it.
