Chapter Eight
Brian was sitting on the engine hood of a maroon SUV when I got off the bus. He was eating a Snickers bar and reading a book - The Hobbit - which he was so engrossed in that he didn't hear me approaching until I was directly in front of him. He looked up in surprise, dog-eared the corner of the book. "Hallo," he said through a mouthful of caramel, chocolate, nougat, and peanuts. He jumped down off the SUV. "How was the ride?" he asked.
I didn't want to tell him I'd sat next to the same fat lady with the yippy-yappy dog again (evidently she was a regular on those stops) and that some guy had attempted to light up a cigarette, making the driver go ballistic and me choke from smoke being blown practically in my face. So instead, I said, "It was good."
"I hate public transportation," Brian muttered. He clicked an automated key and the SUV beeped and blinked its lights at us as it unlocked. He climbed inside and I followed suit. When he stuck his key in the ignition, the radio started up and this loud country song blasted through the speakers. He scrambled to hit the volume. "Sorry," he said sheepishly. "I forgot I had it up so loud."
He started driving back to the house and I stared out the window at the semi-familiar road that led to the Littrell's might-as-well-call-it-a-mansion-instead-of-a house. The country song played quietly in the background and I felt like I might've recognized the beat, but not really. More in the way you know you've heard a song before.
"So you like country music," I commented after about half the ride had passed in silence.
Brian nodded, "Yep, I'm a country boy through and through." He beamed.
A real country boy wouldn't be wearing hot pink sneakers, I thought, remembering the footwear that had donned Brian's feet when he'd been sitting on the hood of the car. I refrained myself from saying so, though.
"Is your band country?" I asked.
Brian snorted. "What?"
"The Backstreet Boys? Do they sing country music?"
Brian looked over at me like I had four or five heads and big fireworks coming out of my ears or something. "Uhh yeah, no."
"Oh. Sorry."
Brian shook his head as he turned forward, like he was clearing it of my question. I felt stupid and wished I'd listened to some of the clips of the Backstreet Boys songs that had popped up on the web when I Googled them. Maybe if I had, I wouldn't have asked such a stupid ass question.
"We sing Pop/R&B," he said, "Like dance music I guess. Typical boyband stuff." He paused, hesitated, and evidently decided that the following wouldn't be too conceited sounding: "So what rock have you been living under that you haven't heard of the Backstreet Boys?"
"Trust me," I said, "Somedays I don't even know my own name, not to mention know who the popular musicians are these days."
"Okay... yeah... Right." He seemed like he thought I was mental. Which I kind of was.
When we got to the house and had driven up the long tree-lined driveway to the circular end of it, he parked his SUV behind Leighanne's blue Volvo and got out. "C'mon inside," Brian said, "Leighanne made food and stuff." I followd Brian up the walk and inside the huge foyer. On the floor by the door was a pair of kid's sneakers and a sweatshirt. "Wifey!" Brian yelled.
"Husband?" Leighanne's voice carried from the direction of the kitchen. Methodical, repeatitive piano music drifted through the house. Plink, plink, plink, plink, plunk. And it would start over again.
Brian disappeared toward the kitchen, but I stood kind of stupified in the foyer, listening to the music. I realized I could identify the notes. My mind couldn't quite wrap around the idea of what the notes were called, but something inside me kind of connected to the music. Instinctively, I drifted towards it, walking the opposite way from where Brian had gone off to.
Plink, plink, plink, plink, plunk.
Walking through the house, I saw a lot of family pictures up on the walls. Brian, Leighanne, and their son seemed to smile out at me from every spare wall space there was. If it wasn't their three faces it was either a piece of impressionist art or a religious painting. I rounded a corner and found myself in a huge parlor all decorated in mahogany wood and dark green wall paper. Books lined shelves, and large windows like ones you might see in a church streamed light in. In the center of the room was a seating set - two big plush chairs, a coffee table, and a couch. Off to the left was a baby grand piano, a metronome on the top waved and the nine-year-old I'd seen at Little Red Hen was perched on the stool, his fingers on the keys, creating the plinks and plunks that I'd followed to the room.
I leaned against the door way and watched him.
Plink, plink, plink, plink, plunk.
He was staring at his fingers, making sure he hit the right keys.
He turned around, blinked in surprise at seeing me there, and said - in a voice very much like his father's, "Who are you?"
"Sorry, my name is Ben. I'm here to help your dad paint the trailer purple."
He stared at me.
"I heard you practicing," I said, gesturing at the piano. "Have you been playing long?"
He turned back to the piano, "Yeah. I guess. I'd rather play a guitar but my mom says piano should be the first instrument a kid learns to play." He paused. "Why aren't you outside painting if you're here to paint, Ben?"
Suddenly Brian came up behind me. "There you are," he said. He looked over at his son. "Baylee, you're sounding good."
"Thanks dad." Baylee turned back to the piano and continued on with the plink-plunks.
"We thought we lost you," Brian laughed as he led me back to the kitchen. He took a detour, though, instead of going through the giant shutter-like door, and led me to the right to a dining room. Leighanne was just putting down three bowls on an already spread table, including sandwiches and tall glasses of water. "Hope you like chili," Brian said, "Although all other chilis will be ruined for you after this day. Leighanne's chili is the best chili known to man."
"Can't beat my mom's, but I'll definitely give it at least second place," I said instinctively, winking. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized what I said and froze, my mind replaying the words, trying to recall what in the hell would make me say it. My mom? My mom makes chili? Made chili?
The Littrells didn't even notice my sudden silence or lack of mental presence. Brian pointed to a seat, saying something about it being where Baylee usually sat but since he was making music I could sit there, and he leaped into his own chair and Leighanne sat down, too, and they each grabbed one of my hands and Brian said a prayer and I just sat there reeling over my own chili comment.
Even though I didn't remember what I had to compare it to (at least in my conscious mind), I had to admit that Leighanne's chili was quite possibly, exactly as Brian had said it was, the best chili known to man. I ate two bowls of it quite happily, and Leighanne was beaming as she cleared the dishes away after we'd completely finished. Brian pushed back his chair, "Gooood Loooord," he groaned, stretching his arms, "Maybe eating before working was a stupid thing to do."
"Husband," Leighanne's voice was a warning tone.
"I said maybe," Brian said, "Not that I wasn't going to get to work..." he looked at me and mouthed just not very hard work. Leighanne disappeared into the kitchen with the bowls, satisfied with Brian's response. He took a deep breath and stood up, "Well Ben, let's get a move on."
We walked back through the house, which still echoed with Baylee's plink-plunking, to the driveway where the trailer and all the paint cans still waited. We popped the lids off the paint and started doing the second coat on the Purple People Eater. Brian hummed while he worked, and I watched what I was doing, thinking about the chili and about Kim. After awhile, Brian stepped back to admire our work. The purple looked a lot more purple now that the second coat was drying on it and the black layer underneath was effecting the shade less. "I kind of liked it better before," Brian commented.
We continued working on it until the whole trailer was the same shade and drying in the sun. Brian put the lid on the purple can he was working on. "I have no earthly clue what in the hell we're gonna do with the rest of this God-forsaken shade," he said as he pushed the lid down tight.
"Maybe she could paint the living room," I said.
"Oh Lord," Brian groaned, "Don't give her any ideas."
I laughed and hoisted twice as many paint cans into my hands as Brian could and we walked back to the garage to put the paint away. I pushed the cans onto shelves that lined the garage and Brian dusted off his palms. "Well," he said, "I leave Monday on tour, so maybe we could finish this up Saturday? Give it all day Sunday to dry before I have to drive it on down to Orlando."
"Orlando?"
"Yeah. You know. Florida."
"Yeah I know Orlando." For some reason I felt like I did. I made a mental note to Google Orlando later, as well as actually listen to some of the Backstreet Boys music. Since I was apprently employed by one of them and everything I might as well know what the hell they sounded like. I knew they weren't country now at least.
"So Saturday?" Brian asked.
"Sure, Saturday."
He nodded. "I'll be right back, just gonna let Leighanne know we're headed back to the bus depot." Brian went inside and I wandered back out the garage door we'd come in from to the driveway where the Purple People Eater gleamed in the sun like a giant eyesore. I walked over to Brian's SUV and leaned against the door, looking around the property. It was a calm day, the clouds floated by gently, there was a slight nip in the air but it felt good after the work we'd done.
The Littrell's mansion-house was really a nice place, all blonde and grey bricks and a lot of greenery and trees around. It was as I was standing there, looking at their house and yard and enjoying the air that I spotted a horse shoe mounted onto the door of the garage. It was strangely out of place, given the decor that the rest of the yard and house had. I hadn't noticed it before because Brian had the door opened already but since I'd shut it behind me I now saw it and I stared at it. I walked across the driveway, glancing at the door and not seeing Brian coming out, and got a closer look at it.
It was just a horseshoe. Brown from age, hanging on a nail. I touched it.
"That belonged to my uncle," Brian's voice came from behind me.
I turned around. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. He had horses."
I dropped my hand from the horseshoe. "You like horses?"
"Eh they're okay. My cousin's the horse freak, not me so much. My brother too. Harold." Brian led the way back to the SUV, and I followed him. We got in and Brian drove across town to the bus station. "So we'll see ya Saturday then, Brad?"
"It's Ben," I corrected him, "And yeah, Saturday."
"Sorry Ben," Brian answered, "You just don't look like a Ben to me is all."
"No? What do I look like to you?"
He shook his head, "Something... but not a Ben. I'll let you know when I figure out what I think you look like."
"Sure thing." He drove off and I wandered up to the platform to wait for the bus that would take me back to Atlanta.
After Self by Pengi
