The sometimes tragic story of an American family told by a character as beautiful as she is shameless. She will show how things are often not what they appear and that the best of intentions can often go hopelessly awry.

UPHILL AGAINST the WIND

By D.W. PATTAN

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2012 D.W. Pattan
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4685-5778-7

Chapter One

"We came to hear you play, not talk" boomed my favorite voice from the back of the crowded hall.

I had frequently been arrested, sometimes even frightened, by his commanding voice, especially when it reached me unexpectedly. This time as it hit me I immediately felt my throat stiffen and the skin around my nipples begin to tightly gather.

I felt an overwhelming urge to go to him and show the crowd how I really felt about him. My mind clearly told me to go, but my body wouldn't respond. Instead of standing and hurrying towards him, as my brain told me to, I felt my hands press firmly down on the table in front of me and my knees press inexorably together. I don't think I could have stood if the room I was in was on fire.

In a mounting panic, my vision locked on Ray Griffin as my five male tablemates clumsily, hurried around and past me. The female companions of the men at my table were all looking past me toward the direction their dates were traveling. I felt too stupefied to look away from Ray.

Ray stood at the front of the stage that made up the south end of the auditorium. He was also obviously stunned at the interruption. His mouth was slightly open and his wireless microphone dangled in his right hand next to his right thigh. He looked abandoned.

I realized I hadn't been able to inhale for a time and I wondered whether Ray's lungs felt as warm and heavy as mine. Fortunately Ray Griffin was an experienced performer, this wasn't the first time he had dealt with an interruption of one of his shows. He was able to right himself more quickly than I could. When I saw a small smile crease his face, as he calmly placed his mike in his right jacket pocket, my diaphragm was able to somehow release and a rush of welcome air filled my lungs.

Shortly after securing his microphone in his jacket Ray deliberately and dramatically stomped his left foot harshly onto the portable stage. The reverberation of the stomp made it clear just how quiet the hall had become since my brother had interrupted the proceedings. In my peripheral vision I could see a number of heads swing their attention from the back of the room forward toward Ray when the bang from his sole reached them.

Ray's first stomp was followed by a second that was just as forceful. The second stomp was then followed by a crisp clapping of his hands. This whole sequence he then repeated a second time. BMM BMM TCHE—BMM BMM TCHE. The cadence, and its significance, was unmistakable to any member of Vasper Highs Class of 1978. By the third iteration half the room had joined in by banging their hands on their tabletops and clapping in time to Ray's rhythm. By the fourth stanza the entire auditorium was awash in the prelude to Queen's, "We Are the Champions". BMM BMM TCHE—BMM BMM TCHE.

I did not join in the tristich ritual but I did regain my faculties enough to turn my body to be able to gauge my brother's location. From my chair near the north—south walkway I had only to turn 30 degrees to have a clear view of Brock Gatlin making his way purposefully toward the front of the hall. His five teammates had surrounded him—all about an arms distance from his center—and they were proceeding as a group down the center walkway. It looked like a dignitary surrounded by security detail. The faces were all austere, their strides somehow in perfect unison.

There was 150 feet from the door where Brock entered to the front of the stage. The only time any of their expressions changed while they traversed that distance was when they came within 10 feet of our table. There Brock shot me the quickest of winks with his right eye.

Ray and the audience continued their percussive chant until the group reached the middle of the dance floor that fronted the stage. I couldn't believe how loud the psalm had become. In the enclosed setting we occupied the noise of each repetition seemed to accrete onto the previous one. There was nowhere for the noise to escape to so it seemed to multiply upon itself. If it continued for any length of time I knew it would give me a headache, probably one of my real bangers.

As the group of men neared the stage Ray brought his microphone to his face and roared into it WE WILL WE WILL ROCK YOU. He didn't complete the first chorus before many of the 400 plus crowd had joined in. The auditorium was quickly overwhelmed by the chant. At the front of the dance floor the teammates turned to face the crowd. All but Brock were grinning ear to ear.

This anthem had been abused and overused for more than two decades. I had come to loathe it for its ubiquity and had learned to tune it out when I heard it played. It seemed every sporting event I had seen or attended for a quarter century had assumed this tune was proper for them to use and that it fit their occasion. Somehow, the Vasper High School Class of 1978 knew, and did from the first time they had heard it, that the lyrics and the music had been written expressly for them, and specifically for their basketball team. Seeing these six boys together as the chorus thundered around them reminded me why twenty five years prior we were all convinced the song was ours and ours alone.

For the first time in years I was able to let the power and audacity of the number wash over me. This acapella rendition—instead of making me want to cover my ears and scream for it to end—made my whole body tingle and eventually made me want to chant along.

After a half dozen or so verses of the refrain Ray Griffin began to make his way towards his gleaming piano. Seeing this, out of the corner of his eye, Brock motioned his teammates back to our table. As Jim (Romeo) Phelan, Paul (Hoss) Hutton, Rick (Rico) Strong, Bill (Spider) Kenwick, and Chuck (Lefty) Gauthier moved north Brock (Cowboy) Gatlin moved towards the stairs to the stage. The group arrived back at the table as Ray sang the first stanza of "We Are the Champions". Each of them was blinking back tears.

The reunion had begun for me four months earlier, on April 1st. I received a call that day, on my private cell phone, from someone claiming to be Ray Griffin. The voice sounded familiar but I suspected the call to be some sort of April fools prank.

I had known Ray Griffin as a child. He had been a friend of my brothers and an acquaintance of mine. He had been to my house at least a dozen times when we were teenagers. We had had no contact though for over 20 years so I found it implausible he would be contacting me now.

He was 18 years old the last time I had spoken to him. He had left town without ceremony the day of his class's graduation from high school. Nine years later he had his first number one record. Platinum albums, Grammy Awards, movie soundtracks, and a Vegas hit show all neatly followed. Hardly a day could go by without one of his songs grabbing my attention. It was inconceivable in my mind that a girl stuck in Vasper would warrant a call from such a celebrity.

The call was no ruse. It was THE Ray Griffin. He was calling to enlist my help in an upcoming project.

Even after I convinced myself it really was him I was so dumbfounded by the call that I had trouble focusing on his words. My mind was swimming with questions and it made it hard for me to be an attentive listener. I wasn't a great audience in the best of circumstances, when caught off-guard like I was here my focus was anything but acute.

I knew he spoke of paying me for my time (more money than seemed reasonable). I vaguely understood...