Desserts and Bandits

It was 1986 when Greg Taylor decided life was limited in small town. After all, he had thoroughly blasted it with Led Zepplein back in the 70s, and there just wasn't much more to do. He had the hair – check, mastered the guitar – check, saved some money....well ok, not saved any real money, but he had $350 and that would at least get him there. Jobs should be plentiful, right?

So with a feeling of both exuberance and a tinge of sadness – he went down to finally announce to his grandmother, Denice, his intentions.

“You know Gran, I think I'm ready now,” said Greg.

“Oh are you sure?” she asked staring at his walnut-stained hands. He had been earning money by sanding and refinishing her furniture when she decided that painted furniture was so 1950s and it was time to get real again in the 1980s with Walnut Stain #253.

“What?” asked Greg, looking at his fingers. “It's like, all over me and a few shirts too.”

Grandmother Denice smiled. She never intended to make this easy for him. Really, he had no business in California. She knew what went on there, she had spent time examining that Robert Plant poster in his room, the one with the shirt open. She knew that lifestyle was no way to live.

“I have some oil that might take it off,” she said. “It's made by Nivea.”

“I don't want to smell funny,” said Greg thinking he sure didn't want to spend his last few days in town smelling nice and fragrant like Gran.

“Now what will you do out there?” asked his grandmother for the umpteenth time.

Greg took a deep breath and smiled. “I'll go out and get a job, I bet they have people who are building out there. It'll be fine,” he said.

“But you don't know anyone, not a soul,” she said.

“It's ok, other people have done it, it works out,” said Greg.

“That music...it's so....loud,” said Gran.

Greg laughed. Gran was no Motley Crue fan, more like Elvis, early Elvis, throw in some Bobby Darin.

“It's supposed to be,” he said.

Gran vs. Greg. First the hair: cut it...cut it...cut it.

His uncle Troy, cowboy hat and all,summed it up standing in his white shirt in the hot sun: “When in Rome, do like the Romans!”

Ha Ha, who cared, it was only a small simile. How could he possibly explain to Gran that he hadn't been the same since Eddie played the Cotton Bowl?

“Don't worry Gran,” he smiled and touched her shoulder.

She smiled back, after all he was handsome and tough.

“You whoo!” said a voice.

They turned to see Camille Winson coming up the walkway.

“Mrs. Foster, I was just coming by to see how ou were feeling,”said Camille.

Gran cast a look at Greg. He looked back. They both knew what Camille was You Whooing about.

“Oh hi Greg,” Camille said.

“Good to see you,” he responded.

“Oh hello Camille, I'm doing fine,” said Gran. “You have really done enough, I so appreciate you.”

“Well if you ever need any help...” said Camille.

“But of course, I'd sure call you. You are such a pretty girl...” said Gran.

Camille smiled.

“Yes,” said Gran. “Pretty girl, pretty teeth, pretty mouth...” with too much emphasis on those last syllables.

Greg felt his face freeze. He knew what Gran was doing, Camille wasn't pretty at

all. She had a mouth like a horse.

“Uh Gran, yeah, Camille, we appreciate it, you are really a big help.”

“You know Greg here is packing up, gonna leave me,” said Gran.

“Oh really?” Camille turned to him.

“Well, I've had it planned, like forever,” said Greg.

“Where are you going?” asked Camille.

“To California,” said Greg.

“That's a long way,” said Camille. “Who ya goin' with?”

“Ummm, I don't know, maybe just me,” said Greg.

“Oh wow.”

“How do you feel about that Ms. Taylor?”

At that moment, Greg was super proud of Gran. She looked at Camille, her blue eyes sparkling, standing on the porch, looking over the crepe myrtles, the brick wall behind her with the no-place-like-home plaque. She looked like a tall, elegant statue with a taste for satire.

“Well Camille, it's okay, whatever Greg wants; he should try it. A lot of people like California, you know...”

Oh the things you think about in the middle of the desert, thought Greg driving along in his 1964 Thunderbird. The car had been a graduation gift from his grandparents. He had taken it to college for a brief few months. Drove it around all over the place and had a blast before he flunked out by joining a rock band, of course. The Welcome to California sign was just ahead of him, that's when he heard it...the “click, click click of the head gasket gone wrong.

Looking on the dashboard, Greg was stunned ...No! No! He got out of the car, it was running hot. He had made it to Ludlow California. The tape deck was blaring, “Back in the USSR...” The T-bird was adamant, she needed water. Greg looked around, it wasn't the California he was aiming for. Cactus, sand, low scrub brush, more sand for miles. No rock. No leopard pants. No Sunset Strip. There was only one thing to do, shoulder up the two guitars, grab the water bottle and walk to town