are …”
“Cyrus Owen.”
“Owen,” he repeated. “That sounds like a good strong Anglo-Saxon name. And Cyrus, let me guess, you are what, eighteen?”
“I just turned nineteen.”
“Yes, and wondering what the future holds. I remember well what that feels like, let me tell you.” He smiled kindly, noticing for the first time the deformed hand that rested in the boy’s lap. And in that moment Ronnie knew he had found his needy soul. He clapped him on the shoulder and said, “But never mind my boring story. Tell me this, Cyrus, have you ever thought you might like to be in show business?”
THEY STOPPED AT THE THREE LINKS HALL just long enough to fetch Cyrus’s gear and pile it in the trunk. (“Just there on that old bedspread, my dear boy.”) The moment they got back in the car, however, Cyrus started to have second thoughts. He had no idea where he was going. He had about ten bucks in his pocket. Worse, this guy could be a pervert for all he knew. As the car turned onto the eastbound freeway, he felt his spirits sink further. After a few minutes of deepening anxiety, he said, “What kind of show did you say it was again?”
“Well, I don’t think I ever said in so many words. Are you familiar with Jimmy Waters?”
Cyrus shook his head uncertainly.
“No, I thought not. Before your time, perhaps. What do you listen to, Cyrus, Jefferson Airplane? Grateful Dead? Rolling Stones?”
“Anything really. I like it all as long as it’s good.”
Ronnie laughed. “As long as it’s good, yes, I know what you mean. You like the music you like. Very well put. And you know, I’m sure Jimmy’s music will speak to you. The first time I heard it I was mesmerized. I tell you—and this is no exaggeration—when I heard his solo on the recording of ‘Don’t Look Back,’ my life was changed forever. Does that make sense to you?”
Cyrus looked out the side window at the nighttime scenery flashing by. He knew the song, of course. Who didn’t? A golden oldie, one of the countless crappy pop tunes that clogged the airwaves before the British Invasion. And although he wasn’t a fan of the music, he was excited by the prospect of playing with a recording star, even a faded one. This Ronnie Conger didn’t seem so bad, either. Cyrus had never met an adult who talked about music this way. He looked across the seat and said, “For me, it was the Animals, ‘House of the Rising Sun.’ I bought the single and played it a thousand times.Something about it, I don’t know, it scared me. It was like—and this is weird—but when I was a kid, I went camping with a friend and we heard wolves. Just plain scary, but good scary. Scary the way it was meant to be, like it’s a lesson or something.”
Ronnie laughed again, this time with real feeling. “Cyrus, my boy, you are a poet. That is exactly what I mean: music that is a lesson, a pure and sometimes frightening communication.” And with that he howled like a wolf.
Years later, Cyrus would marvel that he had driven off with Ronnie that way. How many young people hopped into strangers’ cars and were never seen again? How many people accepted the kindness of others and ended up shilling for Reverend Moon or L. Ron Hubbard, or getting caught in the nightmare of someone like Jim Jones? And while some might label the music business itself a kind of cult, demanding similar sacrifices, promising similar rewards, it never felt that way to Cyrus. All his life there’d been a place inside him he needed to reach, a power inside him he needed to tap, a story inside him he needed to learn. That night, as he cruised through the darkness in Ronnie’s Cadillac, he sensed for the first time that all those things might be possible.
THREE
I sabel sat on the sunporch nursing a coffee and staring vacantly across the front yard to the dirt road that ran past their farm. It was the first warm day of April, and the flies, stupid and fat and not long for this world, were swarming
“Cyrus Owen.”
“Owen,” he repeated. “That sounds like a good strong Anglo-Saxon name. And Cyrus, let me guess, you are what, eighteen?”
“I just turned nineteen.”
“Yes, and wondering what the future holds. I remember well what that feels like, let me tell you.” He smiled kindly, noticing for the first time the deformed hand that rested in the boy’s lap. And in that moment Ronnie knew he had found his needy soul. He clapped him on the shoulder and said, “But never mind my boring story. Tell me this, Cyrus, have you ever thought you might like to be in show business?”
THEY STOPPED AT THE THREE LINKS HALL just long enough to fetch Cyrus’s gear and pile it in the trunk. (“Just there on that old bedspread, my dear boy.”) The moment they got back in the car, however, Cyrus started to have second thoughts. He had no idea where he was going. He had about ten bucks in his pocket. Worse, this guy could be a pervert for all he knew. As the car turned onto the eastbound freeway, he felt his spirits sink further. After a few minutes of deepening anxiety, he said, “What kind of show did you say it was again?”
“Well, I don’t think I ever said in so many words. Are you familiar with Jimmy Waters?”
Cyrus shook his head uncertainly.
“No, I thought not. Before your time, perhaps. What do you listen to, Cyrus, Jefferson Airplane? Grateful Dead? Rolling Stones?”
“Anything really. I like it all as long as it’s good.”
Ronnie laughed. “As long as it’s good, yes, I know what you mean. You like the music you like. Very well put. And you know, I’m sure Jimmy’s music will speak to you. The first time I heard it I was mesmerized. I tell you—and this is no exaggeration—when I heard his solo on the recording of ‘Don’t Look Back,’ my life was changed forever. Does that make sense to you?”
Cyrus looked out the side window at the nighttime scenery flashing by. He knew the song, of course. Who didn’t? A golden oldie, one of the countless crappy pop tunes that clogged the airwaves before the British Invasion. And although he wasn’t a fan of the music, he was excited by the prospect of playing with a recording star, even a faded one. This Ronnie Conger didn’t seem so bad, either. Cyrus had never met an adult who talked about music this way. He looked across the seat and said, “For me, it was the Animals, ‘House of the Rising Sun.’ I bought the single and played it a thousand times.Something about it, I don’t know, it scared me. It was like—and this is weird—but when I was a kid, I went camping with a friend and we heard wolves. Just plain scary, but good scary. Scary the way it was meant to be, like it’s a lesson or something.”
Ronnie laughed again, this time with real feeling. “Cyrus, my boy, you are a poet. That is exactly what I mean: music that is a lesson, a pure and sometimes frightening communication.” And with that he howled like a wolf.
Years later, Cyrus would marvel that he had driven off with Ronnie that way. How many young people hopped into strangers’ cars and were never seen again? How many people accepted the kindness of others and ended up shilling for Reverend Moon or L. Ron Hubbard, or getting caught in the nightmare of someone like Jim Jones? And while some might label the music business itself a kind of cult, demanding similar sacrifices, promising similar rewards, it never felt that way to Cyrus. All his life there’d been a place inside him he needed to reach, a power inside him he needed to tap, a story inside him he needed to learn. That night, as he cruised through the darkness in Ronnie’s Cadillac, he sensed for the first time that all those things might be possible.
THREE
I sabel sat on the sunporch nursing a coffee and staring vacantly across the front yard to the dirt road that ran past their farm. It was the first warm day of April, and the flies, stupid and fat and not long for this world, were swarming
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