Scoring In Knoxville

Scoring in Knoxville Kenny Lyon I knew Doug would be a pain in the ass if I didn't find him some pot. He's like a bitchy old housewife with her favorite soap opera canceled if he has to go a day without getting stoned. And with four people living out of a mini-van you don't need excess attitude. You get plenty of that from all around, opening a string of one-nighters with long drives between and not enough tour support to pay for even cheap hotels, let alone a bus or much of a crew. Our crew was Doug. He was the only non-bandmember in the rented Aerostar, our single roadie, was Doug, and while Doug is a wonderful human being, he has quite a few idiosyncrasies. For instance, he doesn't like to drive at night. Or at all, if he hasn't got pot to smoke. The band is a relatively egalitarian little society; no one likes to tell anyone else what to do if they can help it. And if Doug didn't want to drive, roadie or not, we wouldn't make him. At least not for awhile. He was fine when he had pot, driving with his knee, rolling joints with one hand and using the other to find speed-metal on the radio. When this was going on or anyone who wasn't exactly sober was behind the wheel I would curl up in back, surrounded by all the old blankets, sleeping bags, duffel bags, coats and other soft stuff I could find, awaiting the inevitable screeches and twisting metal, sirens and hospital lights. (You can always gauge if someone is too drunk to drive by how offended they get if you suggest that might be the case. The more out of it they are the more indignation and insistence that they're fine and you should mind your own business.) The way I understand odds, every day without a crash increased the probability of one that very night, driving from Chicago to Cincinnati, for instance, after a show good enoughor bad enoughto get booze flowing. So, as the tour progressed I became more and more nervous whenever I wasn't driving myself. Rock and roll tours do that anyway, what with drinking, bad food, cramped quarters, drugs (yes or no), audiences (good or bad), and calls home (she's waiting or she isn't, she's calm or she's manic, I'm a hero or I'm an asshole). On top of all this I did not need Doug ragging about having no pot. Now everyone smokes pot and everyone will smoke pot if any is around, as long as it's around, until it's gone. (Well, me about one time out of three. I'm paranoid enough already.) But only Doug is what I would call a marijuana addict. The other guys are just hung up on sensation in general. Which may be worsecombined as it is in their cases with zero willpowerbut lacks the specificity that afflicts Doug. He has a problem. A supply problem. I understand that; I'm the same. With me it's caffeine: once a day within an hour of getting up or I'm a headache-ridden basket-case. But it's a lot easier to score a cup of coffee at 5am in Tulsa than a sack of green bud. Or even dry, brown Mexican weed, which relates more closely to the kind of coffee you get in Tulsa anytime, anyway. But Knoxville? Knoxville is a college town. There are students, there are punk bands, there are coffee shops, there are hippies. There is weed. There has to be. It even grows wild by the side of the road in Tennessee, I'm told. But we didn't spend much time on rural roads and didn't have any for leisurely pursuits like agriculture or making friends down at the local record store. We were on the road. The rest of us were getting coffee and beereven if it was Denny's and Budweiserno doubt about that. Doug needed pot. Doug is friendly. But he has an unusual manner. He talks funny. Or so it seems until you get to know him. His speech is halting and full of slangboth the kind that anyone his age might use and another as unique as Basque and as indecipherable to an outsider. The first came from growing up in front of the TV,

on both sides of the MTV divide; from loving rock and roll and partying, from high school. From being one of the kids who won the local radio station Angus Young look-a-like contest, getting on stage at the end of an ACDC show to do that Angus strut. The rest came from his home; from being hard of hearing since birth. From a few years spinning on speedhis hometown drug of choice. And also from a particular genius, a spark of creativity indefinable as anything but that. Genius. When we'd get far enough from California that all the pot would be gone or that last, lonely joint could be seen forming itself in the bottom of the baggy, I would advise Doug to get friendly with the local crews. He spent more time with them than us, setting up and tearing down; he had the opportunity. I knew from experience that stagehands, loaders, soundmen, and lighting riggers were the ones to hook up with for a local connection. Doug earnestly and methodically went about the task. At first his luck was bad. It wasn't that he was too subtle; Doug does subtle the way a rhinoceros does subtle. It was usually either his directness or his syntax, something like; “Could maybe find greenbud? C'mon... all right, five bucks, you snappleback-eyesore-neck. Sell me out for a nickel bag.” Luckily this confused everyone equally, be they narcotics agent, dealer, or professor of linguistics. And he got better. We worked with him on it. The tour started in Chicago and most of the pot went on the drive out from Sacramento. As we chased spring south from Michigan the supply side was lagging. By Knoxville the situation was serious. Finishing loading our van at the end of the show, Doug pulled me aside and pointed out a quasimodolike figure high in the lighting trusses. Which was really high: the venue was an outdoor amphitheater on the exposition grounds. “Might have some bud. Don't know for sure. Can talk to him, Chief?” Sure, I could talk to him. I waited until the last light came down and introduced myself to Pat, who was short and round with longish hair and a thick drawl. Pat was taciturn but friendly enough. I breached the subject carefully; he said yeah, give him a few minutes and we'd drive out to his place. He needed a ride anyway. “I was kinda wonderin' what that road-eye o' yourn was gettin' at. He slow, or he just talk funny or what?” I was thinking, you're not exactly Orson Wells yourself, but I said, “Just talks funny.” Pat nodded and walked back to the rest of the lighting crew, pulled a beer out of a dirty cooler, and started talking. Now I was thinking, I hope this is on the level. Scoring dope may seem as off the level an enterprise as most Americans can imagine, but there is actually a stricter code of ethics in pot transactions than in nearly any “legitimate” wholesale or retail business. I hoped that Patof whose character I had yet to form an opinionwasn't setting up something nasty with his friends. After all, a traveling band is an easy mark, knowing no one and having to keep moving. That said, there must be leftover Woodstockgeneration respect for the occupation because rip-offs are rare. The other two bandmembers went off in search of women, so it was just me and Doug when Pat sidled back over, beer and lunch-box in hand. “Y'all ready?” We climbed into the van and took off, me driving and Pat guiding. He directed us south, out of town. As we drove he gave a running commentary about the Civil War (he called it The War Between The

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States) battlefield we were passing through. I still couldn't suss him out, but he was sardonic and well informed, no matter where his sympathies lay regarding that long ago conflict in his neighborhood. As Pat pointed out points of historical interest, I noticed that we had left the city behind; suburbs had given way to woods. Nervousness crept into me like Grant's soldiers crawling on their bellies up to the southern lines. Nothing in Pat's demeanor was really ominous or threateningit wasn't his fault he sounded like he just stepped out of Deliverance—so I drove on, trying to approach the situation as harmless, a necessary evil. Doug would never even consider it. He was on the trail of his life's blood. Finally we wound our way off the main road, through some side streets and pulled up in a shady neighborhood of small, older wood-frame houses. “This 'un here. Jus' pull in front. Don' like my drive blocked.” Doesn't like his driveway blocked? Expecting late night deliveries, perhaps? And then it happened. As I slammed the van door, a huge, white-haired three-legged beast tore out from the side of the house. As it lumbered towards me looking like a cross between a collie and a hippopotamus, I debated whether to jump back in the van (and look like a fool) or stand my ground trying not to give off that scent of fear you always hear about (and maybe die like one). I stayed. And as it got closer the monster became a bright and cheerful dog right before my eyes. Affectionate, well-groomedjust like any other beloved family pet with three legs. It only had three legs. The handicap didn't seem to slow it down, though. As we crossed the lawn to Pat's front door, the dog licking my hand, I said, “Nice dog.” Pat nodded. Then I asked, “What happened to it?” And he answered, “Wooden listen 'a me.” I thought, uh-oh. Stop right here. We have a sick one. I looked at Doug. He hadn't heard or didn't care. I looked at Pat. He was ahead of me now, unlocking the massive wooden door that belied the small house. Then going in, followed by Doug. Now there was just me and the dog. I looked at the dog, heroically standing on three legs. I touched its stump. It licked my hand. We went in together. As the ponderous door swung shut behind me I noticed a rifle above the mantelpiece and Civil War paraphernalia on the walls. In the corner was a gun safe; hanging from the ceiling a Confederate flag. Pat pointed to a ratty plaid sofa in front of the fireplace and told us to have a seat. Doug sat down. As I went to sit next to him, the dog got in my way; there was a moment of clumsiness during which I heard, “Git!” The dog lumbered off to another room. “Listens now.” This was too much. “What do you...” But he cut me off. “I gotta make a call 'fore it gits too late. Hang on a minit.” And he disappeared. I turned to Doug and whispered, “Hey, whatta about this guy? Did you hear what he said about that dog?” As I said, Doug is hard of hearing. He practically screamed back, “Nahhh. He's cool, man. What about the dog?” I grabbed his shoulder. “Shut up, you idiot. The dog—didn't you see the dog?” “What about the dog?”

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“It has three fucking legs, that's what, and when I asked about...” Pat was back. He was carrying the biggest handgun I had ever seen in my life. This was it, I thought, the demented troll is going to do it. He's going to kill us. Pat held up the gun. He sighted down its long barrel at me. I found once and for all that I have evolved, unfortunately, past flight or fight. I sat frozen. The moment hung in the air, tangible and everlasting, fat with terror and portent. I didn't move. I couldn’t. Every cell screamed. Doug had been trying to kill me with his driving for months and now he’d done it with his jones, his stupid habit. Finally I heard a clicking sound. Smiling, Pat lowered the gunwhich I could now see was an antique. “Thought ya'll might like to see this 'ere. Come from the battlefield. Found it myself.” He handed me the pistol. “Got lucky. My buddy's got one bag left, but I gotta hurry. Ya'll just sit right here and I'll be back.” And he was gone again, the door swinging shut behind him. “Did you see that?” Doug took the gun. “Huh? No. Lemme. Sick. It's an old one, right, maybe from that war he was talking about?” “Not just that, I mean everything... the dog. Yo, pooch, yo.” I heard nothing from the back of the house so I ran to the window. Pat was walking up onto the porch next door, followed by the dog. It was no use trying to explain. Doug was already fiddling with the dials of an old television, probably looking for sports scores or a porno channel. He was just re-discovering Life Before Cable when Pat came back, holding a baggy of pot and carrying four unlabeled, over-sized bottles. He threw the pot to Doug, who abandoned his channel search to hungrily examine the new score. The dog was nowhere to be seen. Pat sat down on the couch, saying, "That's sixty-five." Then turning his attention to me, he directed mine to the bottles. "Brewed it myself, over next door in my buddy's garage. This 'un here's porter, these 'uns'er ale, lager, and stout. Thought ya'll boys might wanna try it out. You know, y'all didn't sound half bad tonight." “Yeah, thanks.” The bottles looked like they might have come from the battlefield as well. “Hey, when you were talking about your dog, you know, his leg, you said...” “She. She wooden listen. Right. Told her to stay but she wooden. Ran right down 'neath a truck. Cost me a fortune to fix 'er up. Nice old dog, though.” Doug drove that night. The pot was decent and lasted a week, but it was three before anyone had the nerve to try Pat's beer. Those four old bottles had been commanding the cooler, sloshing around the bottom as hundreds of others came and went. Finally on a long run through a dry county we fished them out. All four tasted the same.

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