concert tours across the country, he felt most comfortable in New England.
When he crossed the Tappan Zee Bridge he headed north to the narrow, winding Merritt Parkway. The Saab was equipped with low profile tires that permitted him to take the turns easily at high speeds. He came off the curves, downshifted and cranked up the RPMs with impunity, smiling smugly at the better recognized brands, idling at the roadside, a cop at the window. He did his speed thing to Hartford until it was time to exit and turn onto the less challenging Route 84. Two hours and four interstates later he exited at his childhood hometown, Chillingham.
The house was a small three-bedroom ranch on a slab in a large development of similar designs. After his mother died he decided to keep it. In part, he held on because he couldnât face the task of sifting through her things before putting it up for sale, but he also thought he might one day use the house as a retreat. As it turned out, he thought, turning into the driveway, that one day was now. He parked in front of the single cargarage, glancing up at his old rusted rim and backboard. He would shoot a few hoops in the coming days.
Chillingham was a small town situated close to the New Hampshire border and next door to the one-time industrial city of Liston. Local realtors hyped it as upscale, but Jimmy knew better, having seen real upscale communities through his concert tours. Nevertheless, he loved the town because for a time he had many friends and good memories. That time was junior high school when he grew out of his baby fat, discovered girls, sports and a modicum of freedom. He came into his own between the ages of thirteen and fourteen, achieving some successes playing sports. Like any kid who enjoyed some triumphs too soon, his head swelled. He underachieved in school and took a cocky attitude that brought warnings from his teachers. One call too many to his mother changed the direction of his life and, over the next four years, stole all happiness from his days.
The house was dark and cool. He set his bags down in the living room, turned on a light and adjusted the thermostat. A stereo console stood against the wall, nice for its day when it could pull in Bruce Bradley and Dick Summer on WBZ from Boston or play the Stones on scratch proof vinyl. The kitchen and dining room were small with furnishings past their prime. The bedrooms were even smaller with a single bathroom serving all. His old room was the smallest, but he never cared. The Gibson stood against the wall in the corner where it had been since he took his talent from Cambridge to New York. Dust was everywhere. Tomorrow he would get started cleaning the place and settle in for as long as it took for the answers to unfold.
He spent the first few days pursuing his physical conditioning each morning and making the old house habitable in the afternoon. He was woefully out of shape and he knew it would take weeks to see some improvement. He had already changed his diet while recuperating in New York, but that was mostly eating out. Now, he intended to buy his food and cook at home. He no longer cared to sit alone in restaurants.
He used the Chillingham High School track, running three miles at an increasing pace. In time, he intended to expand the distance. His target was the spring. By then, he wanted to be in the best shape of his life. Sit-ups, push-ups and an assortment other exercises were done at home. These, too, would be gradually expanded so he would be strong for the personal goal he set before he fled New York.
Avoiding alcohol was hard. Bourbon, vodka, tequila and most of all, scotch, had been a part of his waking moments for a long time. He missed it, especially at night. Being removed from his fast paced New York lifestyle helped. He wasnât on a stage three nights a week and clubbing on the other four like a month ago. The routine of three shots between sets and a dozen after the show didnât present
When he crossed the Tappan Zee Bridge he headed north to the narrow, winding Merritt Parkway. The Saab was equipped with low profile tires that permitted him to take the turns easily at high speeds. He came off the curves, downshifted and cranked up the RPMs with impunity, smiling smugly at the better recognized brands, idling at the roadside, a cop at the window. He did his speed thing to Hartford until it was time to exit and turn onto the less challenging Route 84. Two hours and four interstates later he exited at his childhood hometown, Chillingham.
The house was a small three-bedroom ranch on a slab in a large development of similar designs. After his mother died he decided to keep it. In part, he held on because he couldnât face the task of sifting through her things before putting it up for sale, but he also thought he might one day use the house as a retreat. As it turned out, he thought, turning into the driveway, that one day was now. He parked in front of the single cargarage, glancing up at his old rusted rim and backboard. He would shoot a few hoops in the coming days.
Chillingham was a small town situated close to the New Hampshire border and next door to the one-time industrial city of Liston. Local realtors hyped it as upscale, but Jimmy knew better, having seen real upscale communities through his concert tours. Nevertheless, he loved the town because for a time he had many friends and good memories. That time was junior high school when he grew out of his baby fat, discovered girls, sports and a modicum of freedom. He came into his own between the ages of thirteen and fourteen, achieving some successes playing sports. Like any kid who enjoyed some triumphs too soon, his head swelled. He underachieved in school and took a cocky attitude that brought warnings from his teachers. One call too many to his mother changed the direction of his life and, over the next four years, stole all happiness from his days.
The house was dark and cool. He set his bags down in the living room, turned on a light and adjusted the thermostat. A stereo console stood against the wall, nice for its day when it could pull in Bruce Bradley and Dick Summer on WBZ from Boston or play the Stones on scratch proof vinyl. The kitchen and dining room were small with furnishings past their prime. The bedrooms were even smaller with a single bathroom serving all. His old room was the smallest, but he never cared. The Gibson stood against the wall in the corner where it had been since he took his talent from Cambridge to New York. Dust was everywhere. Tomorrow he would get started cleaning the place and settle in for as long as it took for the answers to unfold.
He spent the first few days pursuing his physical conditioning each morning and making the old house habitable in the afternoon. He was woefully out of shape and he knew it would take weeks to see some improvement. He had already changed his diet while recuperating in New York, but that was mostly eating out. Now, he intended to buy his food and cook at home. He no longer cared to sit alone in restaurants.
He used the Chillingham High School track, running three miles at an increasing pace. In time, he intended to expand the distance. His target was the spring. By then, he wanted to be in the best shape of his life. Sit-ups, push-ups and an assortment other exercises were done at home. These, too, would be gradually expanded so he would be strong for the personal goal he set before he fled New York.
Avoiding alcohol was hard. Bourbon, vodka, tequila and most of all, scotch, had been a part of his waking moments for a long time. He missed it, especially at night. Being removed from his fast paced New York lifestyle helped. He wasnât on a stage three nights a week and clubbing on the other four like a month ago. The routine of three shots between sets and a dozen after the show didnât present
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