My friend Slacker called to remind me that, as per usual, I would be the one to decide the entertainment for the weekend. Slack always deferred his vote in any matter requiring thinking processes. His real name is Jeff, but the last time he was called that by anyone other than his mother or teachers was back around fourth grade. Even his old man calls him Slack. We all call him Slacker because of his laid-back approach to anything and everything--school, work, his parents, even girls. Slack one had a date with Shannon Collins. Somehow he could just not bring himself to leave my home in the middle of Star Wars. I realize it's his favorite movie, but he could've at least called and said he'd be late. Instead, we stayed up and watched the whole trilogy. Personally, though, there's no way I'd skip out on Shannon Collins.
"I'm waiting, Al. What's on the agenda for the evening?"
I figured I'd stick to the tried and true. "What say we do the usual?"
"Nah," answered Slacker. "I think we should do something fresh, exciting, dangerous!" That actually was the usual response from Slack. He always wanted me to come up with some exciting idea, but somehow we managed to find ourselves at Biff's Billiards every weekend. We had a neat arrangement whereby he'd bring the vodka or schnapps and I'd bring the o.j. We'd get hammered out back, before going in for some really wild pool.
"Besides," Slack continued. "We're seniors now, man. It's time we start finding some college women! Unfortunately, the beers at the Revolting Cocks concert cleaned out the wallet. And, I forgot to tell you, but my father found my fake I.D."
"Perhaps you'll learn from this," I intoned, a la Slack's mother. "You should really spend your time in a more productive manner than hanging out at the arcade. You could put more effort into your classes. Maybe a job would motivate you--"
"Hey, man. I don't make fun of-- well, I guess I do make fun of your mom. But you know how sensitive I am about my family. If you're going to mock someone, there are plenty of people in your family you can knock."
Slack was certainly correct in that my family has quite a varied assortment of characters. My aunt Ruth likes to send me every article in the newspaper that mentions Notre Dame, except of course if it mentions they lost some sporting competition, in the hopes that I'll go there next year. So far I'm unconvinced. It's not so bad that my mother prepares bodies for showings at the Melbourne Funeral Home over in Greensburg. What is so bad is that she will only talk about her work over dinner. My father appears the most normal in the family to outsiders, but we all think he is the weirdest. He doesn't talk! In my family, it is just not normal to only speak when spoken to. My father, however, has mastered this. Of course, the cast of my family's unique personalities would not be complete without telling of myself.
It's my last year at Taylorsville High School and, contrary to my aunt's beliefs, I do not plan on continuing onto higher education. Me and Slack plan on forming a rock group. I have been practicing singing (in the shower, though, so my folks don't suspect anything). I've put aside five dollars a week for the past two months from my busboy job at the Denny's over on State Road 46. In another two months, I'll be able to buy a guitar. The cool thing about that is that I can practice all I want without my parents knowing: I can't afford the amplifier for another eight months. But that was my intent for the future.
"What to do tonight, Slack? Now that you've lost your I.D., what should we be up to?" I asked the question, knowing I'd have to come up with the answer myself. I had never needed an I.D. myself. When Slack perused the shelves of our Indiana liquor stores, he was generally quite protective of his beloved New Jersey driver's license. I guess it was inexcusable, though, to think he would always be careful with it. He seemed so proud of it, though.
While he waited for me to be inspired with a wonderful way to bide our time, Slack related the story of how his father "found" his I.D. "Remember last Tuesday, Al, when I told you I had to pick up my brother at the library? I was driving by the Shop N' Go on the way and there's this new sign in the window that says something about 'Mad Mondays: Save fifteen percent on all beer'!"
"But it was Tuesday, Slack."
"I'm getting to that. Don't jump ahead. Anyways, I stop and pick up a twelve of MGD and as I'm setting it on the counter, I think to myself, 'Whoa. It's not Monday.' But as I'm already at the counter, I figure it's like a sign, so I go ahead and buy it. I got so toasted, I actually showed my dad my I.D. He was cool and stuff, though. He said I could have it back when I turn twenty-one."
That was definitely Slacker.
"Hey, Slack! I just remembered something that made my day when I overheard it in math today. What say we take an adventure?"
"Road trip! Count me in."
I could always count on Slack to agree thoughtlessly to my ideas. Just as long as I drive and pay for gas, he has no qualm being, as he liked to be called, "Radio attendent, first class."
"I overheard Archie Neuhe in trig class today say that the brother of a friend of his cousin saw Kim Deal at a mall. Can you imagine running into Kim Deal at a record store?"
Kim Deal, former bassist with alternative rock superstars the Pixies, and currently singer/guitarist with the Breeders, was the consummate rock star, as far as I was concerned. Slack was not nearly as moved by her efforts as myself, but he was still appreciative of the music.
Knowing of my affections for Miss Deal and her abilities with the guitar, Slack knew how I wanted to spend my Friday night. "What are we waiting for, Al? Let's go find you your Pixie."
When I informed him where the mall was located, though, Slack was less than receptive. "Dayton? Isn't that in Ohio? I don't know, Al. Sounds like it could be dangerous."
"Oh, come on. It's not that far over the border. What better way do you have to spend the evening?"
"Yeah, but Ohio?" Slack remained unconvinced. "What if the cows trample us?"
I had to promise him that we would not be trampled to death by a roving pack of mad bovines. He finally relented when I reminded him that we were much closer to Hicksville than anyone in Ohio.
"Oh yeah," he said.
He was sitting on his front porch when I arrived in my rusting '81 Pontiac T1000. What a piece of work. Two thousand pounds of scrap-metal held together by three rolls of duct tape and a quart of elbow grease. Slack laughed as he hopped in the car. "The Chevette From Hell rides again."
As we turned on to new State Route 3 heading north, I pushed the car up to 54 miles per hour. It's kind of neat, being able to know what speed you're going without looking at the speedometer. Actually, I had better be able to tell the speed, as the speedometer increased exponentially while the car's speed increased arithmetically. But my car could only go fifty-four before it would shake vigorously and parts would fly off. As we turned onto 70 East, we were on the edge of losing the side-view mirror: pushing fifty-five. It was mine, though, and that's all that mattered.
Slacker was still kind of iffy on the whole Ohio thing. "I think we're hunting in the wrong place, man. She's probably on tour or something. Why would Kim Deal be hanging with a bunch of cows, anyway?"
"I don't understand the problem. You didn't have this problem when we went to Cincinnati for the Pixies show. What's the deal? And about Kim Deal. She doesn't now, nor has she ever, nor will she ever hang with cows. Don't talk about the woman I love that way. And I don't think she's planning on touring until Summer. I heard something about her doing the Lollapalooza tour."
Slack apologized for his indiscretions regarding Kim and cows, but shared my excitement regarding a possible Summer tour.
"Ohio: Welcome to the Heart of it all." It was rather dark out, but Slack was able to read the dim white letters on the blue sign as we passed underneath, before adding his own personal commentary. "It's not too late to turn back, Al."
"But we're having so much fun."
I figured a little driving music would put him at ease. Reaching under my seat, I pulled out the worn black cassette case and passed it to him. "What tape do you want to listen to?"
"I would say it's getting too dark to read these but I have them memorized." Slack ran his finger along to the third one from the top. "Since you are in hot pursuit of Kim Deal, we'll play some 'Here Comes Your Man.'"
"I was hoping you'd say that. Kim will surely be in hot pursuit of me when she sees these wheels!" We laughed at the possibility of anyone, let alone Kim Deal, finding any interest in my T1000.
When we got to the mall, it was a few minutes after eight. We still had almost an hour to look for our favorite Pixie, but the parking lot was relatively empty. "Hey, Slack. What kind of car do you think she drives?"
"Probably a Rolls Royce. All those big star types drive limousines. I think it's part of their contracts."
"You're wrong, man. She isn't going to take a limousine to the store when she goes on a beer run. I bet she has a Porsche." We drove around the parking lot a few times looking for a Rolls Royce or a Porsche or any car that had the mark of being driven by Kim Deal.
No luck. The few cars left in the lot seemed to scream to us. "We are not driven by Kim Deal. Come back some other time to see Kim's Rolls Royce."
Disappointment crept in as it became more apparent that we would not see her. "Don't worry about it, Al." Slacker tried to console me. "Our trip won't be all for nought. We could check out the record stores."
I parked the car and we walked in. Not a very fancy place. There were some rather large plants near the entrance, but this was just a typical mall.
"Are you sure Archie said this mall? Maybe it was another one. I mean, I'm sure she doesn't just hang out at one mall. I guess you and I hang out at one mall, but Taylorsville is a bit smaller than Dayton."
"It was this mall, alright. He said she was spotted leaving a National Record Mart. There it is."
We stared wide-eyed at the store entrance for a minute, neither of us wanting to ruin the moment. We had made it. This was the place where Kim Deal, former bassist for the Pixies, was seen coming out of by Archie Neuhe's cousin Heather's friend Stacy's brother Bob.
Wow.
Slack broke the silence. "Let's check it out."
We walked carefully around, inspecting the various sections. Somehow we were drawn to the alternative rock section, perhaps by the unseen, but still felt, aura of Kim Deal.
I picked up the Breeders disc "Last Splash." Kim's picture graced the back of the box. "Slack, this is Kim Deal today. See how happy she is. I think it was wrong for us to try and find her. Finding her could totally disrupt her life. Maybe she'll be composing a song in her head and we'll come along, whooping and hollaring "It's Kim Deal!" and she'll just lose the beat. We could be the downfall of the next Breeders album. I think we should go before we destroy her career."
I put the disc back in it place and turned to go, but Slack stopped me. "You're wrong, Al. I think it is now necessary that we find her. You're doubting Kim's need for a strong base of fans. The constant abuse she probably takes from her fans is probably like therapy. She needs us to find her and try to disrupt her life. That's what keeps her a normal rock star."
Slack's explanation made sense to me, but it was still time to go. The cashier's voice told us there were five minutes left, although his eyes seems to say "I hope they leave soon" and "I could sure go for a cheeseburger."
We bowed our heads upon leaving Kim Deal's National Record Mart forever. Slack had to use the john so while I waited, I perused the big blue phonebooks that hung limply from the payphones outside the restrooms.
While waiting for Slack, it occurred to me that Kim Deal's number might be listed. Slack appeared as I flipped through the D's. "Deacon...Deagall..Deagan...Deaks. Here's the Deals, but there's two K. Deals listed. What do you think, Slack?"
"Your call, man. I'm just in charge of the radio."
"I just have one quarter. I guess we'll have to pick one. Wish me luck."
I quickly dialed the first of the two K. Deals.
"What's happening, Al? Is anyone answering?"
"Shhhhh. There's no answer. Wait, I'm getting an answering machine."
"Hi! This is Kelley, and no, Kim Deal does not live here. I'm not home at the moment, but if you want to leave me a message, leave your name and number, and the time and day that you called, and I'll try to get back to you as soon as possible. Thanks. BEEP."
I hung up the phone. "No dice, Slack. Her name was Kelley."
"Maybe you're right, Al. We just don't seem to have the force on our side today."
Solemnly, we walked back to the car. I started the engine and was backing up when Slack nearly scared me to death.
"Wait!" he shouted before opening the door and running out.
"What the hell are you doing?" I yelled to noone at all, as he was already at the mall entrance.
He was back in two minutes and handed me a page from the phone book.
"What's this for?" I inquired as I noticed all the names starting with D. The thought suddenly struck me. The address for the second K. Deal could be Kim's.
"Slack, you're a genius!"
We pulled into the 76 Station off the freeway and asked for directions to Caribou Road. The attendent did not seem too knowledgeable in the ways of rock and roll, but we placed all of our trust in him. The little man with the pinstriped shirt and the red face said to go down Main about three miles, take a right at Cecilia Ave, take that to the fork in the road, follow the left road another couple miles, until Velouria Lane appears on the right, and take that all the way to the end, which will be Caribou Road.
I would find my Kim Deal yet.
We only got lost four times. Each time we devoted ourselves religiously to the instructions of new gas station attendents even though they could not fully comprehend our mecca. Seventy-Six turned into SuperAmerica, which in turn turned into Lou's Gas Mart.
Eventually we found ourselves at the end of Velouria, looking east and west at Caribou Road.
"There it is, Slack! Number 900." We stared at the two storied lime house, wondering just what we would find at the house of K. Deal. This had to be the house. We could not have come all this way in vain.
"Shall we, Al?"
"I believe we shall, Slack."
After parking the car, we made our way up the front steps. I'll admit, I was nervous the first time I stood on K. Deal's front stoop.
"Um, Slack?"
"Yes, Al."
"Do you know whether it's proper etiquette to knock or ring when at a home you suspect to belong to a famous rock star whom you've never met before, even though it could be just a regular person's house?"
"Can't help you with that one, Al."
"Just wondering."
We decided finally that it would be more appropriate to ring the bell. Knocking on someone's door is a personal thing, sometimes requiring one to open a screen door. We decided it would be best to ring the bell, since we had never even sent fan mail to Kim (as we had never known her address before, since we had never driven to the bathroom at the Dayton mall before).
After a quick depression of the bell, Slack turned to go. "Noone's here. Let's go."
"Slack. We came to see Kim Deal. Let's at least wait and see if she's here before we scurry off."
Slack and I were both holding our breath as the door swung open. I think we were relieved in a way when we were greeted not by Kim Deal, but by a young man with greasy hair. He was wearing a green flannel shirt and appeared about twenty years old.
"Can I help you?" he inquired, then belched, his lips showering the stench of alcohol upon us.
I spoke. "Um. Is Kim Home?"
"She ran to the mall," he answered flatly. Even though he seemed in a happy mood, I was surprised when he offered me a can of beer.
"No thanks," I answered, noticing the strange label on the can. Slack's old man would have a fit if he found out we accepted something un-american. "Buy American," he always told us. "Even with beer."
The drunken lad shrugged off my refusal, implying an answer of "Suit yourself."
We must have looked so foolish. The two of us standing on the porch of this person we had never met before, never spoken with, not saying a word. But he had said this was Kim Deal's house! Of course, how many Kim Deals are there in the world? I tried so hard to think of something profound to say. And though I'm embarrassed to say it, I stood on Kim Deal's welcome mat and my mind was a blank. It really was not that intimidating of a welcome mat, but under the circumstances, I think my reaction was justified.
"What do you think, Slack? Should we go?"
"Listen, man. We came here for a reason. We won't be able to face those guys back at school if they find out we stood on Kim Deal's porch and just turned to go. I think we should wait."
Somewhere in the night, a garage door opened. A pair of lights flashed across the porch as a '78 Malibu pulled up the driveway. We watched in silence as the midnight blue car with a dented maroon fender diappeared into the garage. The garage door closed and with the exception of the small amount of light coming from inside the front door, Slack and I were bathed in absolute darkness.
From the back of the house I heard a voice. It was definitely her. The melody I heard was like flights of angels singing beautiful songs for my benefit alone. I looked over at Slack, wondering if he felt the power of this moment. I did not think he did, but I dared not speak.
"Hey, Kim. There's two guys at the front door, want to see you."
"Are they salesmen, Bro?"
"I don't think so," Bro answered her, before belching again. Turning to us, he inquired, "Are you salesmen?"
We shook our heads no, and I wondered just what fate befell salesmen who dared ring the bell at the Deal house.
Suddenly, the door opened further, revealing her presence. Her hair hung loosely over a marvelous green pullover, as she stood there in the most amazing faded blue jeans. We were blinded by her brilliance. Or perhaps it was the light from the now-revealed kitchen which pierced our eyes as we stood on the darkened porch. Slack and I fell to the ground, bowing our heads before the goddess of music. Yes, Slack could feel the moment, too.
When she spoke, every word was magnified. All background sound ceased to exist. We heard none of the cars that passed by on the street, nor the hum of the electric street lamps. We heard not the wind that whipped through the trees, nor the dog that howled in the night. All that mattered to our ears was Kim.
I knew that if my life were to end right then, it would have been a full life, when her voice sparkled through the air. She said, "What the fuck are you doing?"
It was pure magic.
I stood there, trying to think of a proper response. I was not real positive what had drawn me to the home of Kim Deal. Perhaps I was there to be prompted to greatness as a rock singer in my own right, to recieve the musical baton of inspiration from the only person that I could ever accept it from. Perhaps I was there to determine whether my rock goddess was indeed like the God that I learned about in the saturday morning church classes I attended all the way through seventh grade. Sister Anna Marie taught us that God was both fully divine and, in the form of Jesus, fully human. As Kim Deal stood in front of me in her human form, I could testify that she was indeed fully divine.
Although I kept these thoughts to myself, I did reply to her question. She might not have thought it an adequate answer, but I thought it more than explained what we were doing. I replied, "Believing."
We stood up, and Slack turned and walked down the steps. Before she could react, I gave Kim a quick peck on the cheek, turned around and followed Slack. As I was getting to the bottom of the steps, I thrilled to her voice sparkling through the night air yet again.
"Keep the faith, man."
As she said the words, I felt my knees start to buckle beneath me, but I managed to make it back to the car alright. As I put the car into drive, I thanked Slack for joining me on this most special day. I honked as we drove past her house, wondering if she would forever remember me and the brief time we shared. Probably not the same way I would remember her, but in love, you have to take risks.
Not wanting to soil the memories of our minutes with Kim Deal, we drove the whole way home in silence. In the time I had to reflect, I realized that there are two types of people in this world. On the one hand, there are those that just cannot comprehend the power and significance Rock N' Roll has to our earthly existence. And on the other hand, there are Slack and me.
....Believe it or not, I actually had the opportunity to give Kim Deal
this very story after a concert near Ohio State. She said, and I do quote,
"Thanks, I'll read it on the RV."
Of course, I attached the following "About the Author" note to it, so that she would be able to contact me, should she want to hear more of the continuing saga of Slack and Al. Sadly, she has never contacted me. That has not stopped me, however, from checking the liner notes of every album she records for a simple "And special thanks to that guy who wrote the story." I'll keep hoping...
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ryan Forsythe is currently a student at the Ohio State University, majoring in English and Psychology. Inspired by his neighbor Archana, who met Kim while working at the Amar India restaurant in the Dayton area, "The Quest for Kim" has been his crowning achievement as an author. As for the future, Mr. Forsythe would be thrilled to no end if Ms. Deal were to read his story.
If Kim does ever read this and would like to contact the author (which would also thrill him to no end), he can be reached by phone at 1-614-XXX-XXXX or in writing at Taylor Tower, 50 Curl Drive, Columbus Ohio, 43210. Of course, she should also feel free to stop by anytime.
© 2001 ryan@forsythe.to