Pilgrimages

 Well, Wynonna canceled, I guess. Which was fine. The casino still let us play. Four hours across Iowa, which is like driving in a Thomas Hart Benton mural, or a David Spear painting, if either had been microdosing psilocybin. Our well imploded, so I had to go by myself. The Buick is the right kind of car for that landscape, and Siri took me on the back roads—green hills and corn and blue blue skies. Amish women with nestled kids on carriages, driving briskly and competently on the shoulders, shocks of red blonde hair on the kids under their bright straw hats, the color of sorghum, clipping along. Thought about Wiz, my old boss, who once belonged to them, and who hated them with every fiber of his being, but gave it up, and just thrilled to the sight. What a world. Tried to picture Wiz as a kid in a little straw hat, and found it was surprisingly easy to do.

Surprised the rest of the band by arriving early. The casino is this surprising complex, well-ordered. If Iowa ran the casino industry, this is what it would be. Kind of wholesome. Workers coming off their shift, overheard snatches of conversation: “Well, they gave him a little bit of power and now he’s getting ahead of himself. Brad is not MY direct report.” Shook my head. Everywhere somebody has a Brad.  

A lovely older man in a sport coat greeted us. His name was Martin. He reminded me of Michael Caine, if Michael Caine had grown up in Iowa. He had this air of genial reassurance that I’ve found in very successful CEO’s, crime bosses, and concierges at the best hotels—he was a pleasant MX missile.  He could handle any situation—big or small. What a gift, right? My husband has a little bit of that. He just sails into situations, gets everyone calm, gets the best price…Papa’s here. We can all relax.

Our band leader, who has never (until now!) played a gig sober, made the mistake of asking him how strict the casino’s policy ACTUALLY was on alcohol for the band—“Come on, Martin—it’s not that strict, right? I mean, I could get a cocktail—would that be cool?”  I tried to catch Teech’s eye—-warn him—-no luck. Alcoholics are always delusional.  

“Well,” Martin said, kindly, “the management’s very strict on that, and they do check surveillance after to make sure rules weren’t broken—of course…what you do in your room is none of my business.  Just don’t nail the furniture to the ceiling.”

“They check it after? You shitting me?”

“Oh, yes…” Martin nodded. “Strict.”

“That’s crazy, dude. I don’t know how you deal with that.” Teech shakes his head. “Ok, well, cool.”

Martin stuck around, watched our sound check. Grinned broadly.

“You work hard up there.” He said. Which is what people always say to me, because I’m not very good at this, but I’m friendly and nice, and they want to be kind.

“Did someone actually nail the furniture to the ceiling?” I asked.

“Yes, they did. Now what’s the situation about your room? I heard you reserved and paid for your own? We need to fix that.” He walked me over to the desk and had the charge erased. Of course, Martin is actually the owner of the casino.

The gig went off without a hitch. Amazingly, the Billies are pretty tight when they’re not…tight. Haha. I never drink. You can’t play the violin drunk.  Well, you can, I guess, but not very well and I need every edge I can muster A teeny group of fans showed up. Who knew? Wearing band t-shirts! Telling each other stories.  Talking about the Roadkill Orchestra. A lady with an oxygen tank and a walker got up and shook her booty to “Hell Has Come.” Rat pulled a clunker on a key change on the bass in one of our new songs, but, we were seriously almost error free. Our lead guitarist arrived fresh from fighting fires out west, bristling with prana.  Jay arrived at gig time. We messed with the electric curtains in the room, made love, had a good dinner after. I made sure to tip extravagantly.

Driving home, we stopped in the little town next to the casino, which is where James T. Kirk will be born in two hundred years, and paid our respects.

AND I decided to swing by Fairfield on my way home, to visit the Maharishi University, which was sort of like a cross between Moberly Community College and Sewanee, but with less money. I don’t know what I was expecting. I walked around in the Iowa summer heat.  The campus is very diverse—students of all nationalities—all carrying little clear green lunch pails. Lots of smiling (well, I should hope so). Effusive greetings on the path—“Hello!  How are you?” It felt like a place that the Tick might have attended before he became a superhero.  I dropped by the Palace of Peace, took off my shoes, stood in the foyer. To my right I could hear a meditation instruction class in progress.  A girl started talking about the disturbing dreams she’d been having over the past week about past traumas, and I felt that I shouldn’t be listening to this, that it wasn’t meant for my ears. No one knew I’d walked in. I put my shoes back on and left. Meditated for 20 minutes on a bench on the grounds. Then drove towards home.

On the way back home, I stopped by 504 Vine in Macon, which was the house my great grandmother and my grandmother grew up in. It’s falling into ruin. I walked into the back yard toward the railroad tracks, where my great grandmother would practice her violin, because it drove everyone in the house crazy. She ended up first chair for the St. Louis symphony—the first woman to sit with them. She married a doctor at 44, had a baby (my grandmother) and developed crippling RA during the pregnancy, which ended her playing forever. The porch is gone, but I know where she used to sit, because I have her journals, and she describes the corner exactly.  I left a peach on it, to feed her hungry ghost. And mine. Or any others who might be drifting around that lawn, or sitting on that porch, in the late summer twilight.

Oh, one hour today.