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 him explaining my involvement had to be absolutely covert.

I suspect my responses were nonsensical because he finally barked at me that if I couldn't guarantee my confidence he would need to seek help elsewhere.

His snap brought me into full focus and I heard clearly that he was hoping to attend and perform at the Class of '78 twenty five year reunion later that summer. He explained that the only way he would do so was if he could pull it off as an absolute surprise to those attending. If anyone suspected he might be coming he said he would back out. He detailed that he would be sneaking into the area in three days to discuss particulars of his plan with me. He gave me the address to a hotel, where he would be staying 20 miles south of town, and the date and time to meet him there. In the interim he advised me I was to contact my brother for more details and information and that I was to speak to nobody else about his call.

I had hung up wondering what had just happened. It took me a few minutes to digest the conversation I had just participated in and to convince myself I hadn't dreamt it. When I emerged from my haze I remembered I was supposed to contact my brother and that he would clear everything up. This forced me to decide whether my curiosity was more powerful than my ambivalence toward speaking to my sibling.

I knew Brock and Ray had remained in some contact over the years. I knew their friendship as kids, as curious as it was, had been special to both of them. I didn't know to what degree that friendship had persisted. I would soon enough find out this and a number of other things I wish I could have remained ignorant of.

I called Brock that afternoon. It was an unseasonably warm Wednesday and I knew he would be playing golf in his usual game. Brock detested phones on the golf course so I planned the call so that I would be able to leave a message and transfer the responsibility to him to have to contact me. I thought myself clever for arranging it this way.

He answered on the second ring. I was fully prepared to leave a curt voicemail message so I had to fumble around for a second to come up with an adequate response to his simple hello. Finally, the best I was able to muster was a matter of fact declaration that I was calling at Ray Griffin's request.

Our conversations had gotten more and more businesslike over the years. This was admittedly all my doing. I knew he would like nothing better than to have a pleasant conversation with me, even if only occasionally. I would not deign to give him that satisfaction. No matter how cordial or deferential my brother was toward me I felt an obligation to let him know he was an imposition.

On this day his voice wasn't businesslike. Grave was a better descriptor. He told me that we needed to meet that evening and that it would take about an hour.

I started to half-heartedly object to the request—laundry and closet organization were suddenly on my need to do list. He would have none of it. He didn't ask the second time. He informed me he would be at my house at 7 pm. He informed me as well that Paul, my husband and his friend, needed to be there too. He asked me if he needed to call Paul or if I could pass the word.

I gave a lukewarm, resigned assurance that we would be there and that I would speak to Paul myself. When I hung up I sat thinking that his emphasis of the word "need" for Paul being there was not a good sign. How bad an omen it was I had no earthly idea.

By the weekend of the reunion I was exhausted. I had spent more emotional energy in the previous four months than I had to expend. For several weeks I had felt the surface buzzing of chronic sleep deprivation. I desperately wanted this whole thing to be over so that I could lay down for a week or two.

I slept fitfully on Friday but stayed in bed until nearly one the next afternoon. When I arose I felt better than I had in weeks. Paul had already left to play golf with some of the reunion guests and had left a note saying he would see me at the party. He signed it "Love always, Hoss". For some reason this brought a rare tear to my eye.

I started to get supplies for coffee together but realized I felt so good I didn't need any. I sat on the couch in my pajamas, my feet pulled up close to my bottom, my knees just beneath my chin, and looked out the picture window of our living room admiring the beauty of the Michigan day for thirty minutes without stirring. I then took a deep breath in through my nose and then out through my mouth and hopped up to shower.

In retrospect my improved form was as much from relief as a good night's rest. I had held a wonderful secret for four months and was about to successfully pull off a surprise I never thought I could. Secrets were never my strength, exposure was. The secret I had guarded for more than 100 days was a doozy and I was lightened by the prospect of relinquishing it. I smiled at myself during my entire luxurious shower, pleased that I had pulled off the improbable.

Ray, and his staff, had been incredible throughout the entire process. They handled all the real logistics and organizing of the event. I merely had to make a few introductions to the right people, do some rudimentary research, and get out of their way so the professionals could make things happen. It was my kind of job.

So, I tracked down yearbook and school paper photo negatives. I contacted the local and county newspapers for the same items from that era and forwarded the collection to Ray's people. I put Ray's people in contact with the Vasper Community Center's event personnel and made arrangements to forward floor plans of the hall to Ray's sound technician. I mailed invitations to all 244 surviving members of the class using my home address for the RSVP.

For this little bit of effort Ray had rewarded me with $500 per week and the opportunity to do the bands introduction at the reunion. My burgeoning excitement over this plum little honor surely contributed to my lessening fatigue.

Two hundred nineteen of the 247 person class had confirmed they were attending. The invitations had all stressed that admission to the event was free of cost. Ray had absorbed all expenses for the event but had insisted this not be known to anyone. The story circulated in the invitation packet was that there was enough money generated from the previous reunion gate and a few local sponsors to pay for this one. With spouses and other guests the total expected audience would approach 500 people.

The hall had hosted several weddings that had exceeded 700 guests so it had adequate room but significant alterations were needed to be able to accommodate that many people and fit a stage for Ray and his band. Ray's staff would handle all of that. All I had to do was forward the community center phone number to Ray's manager and then step back and let it happen.

Ray had spared no expense in making the accommodations work. He had become one of the obscenely wealthy to whom money no longer has real meaning. He approached every detail from the viewpoint that you paid what it took to make it what you wanted. Never did he balk at the estimate given on what his needs would cost.

I arrived to help with the final hall decorations at about 3:15. Ray's staff already had yearbook and school newspaper photographs, all enlarged into 48 X 30 posters, adorning the hallways and foyer of the building. Every table in the auditorium had a 5X7 framed yearbook photo of the class-member assigned to each seat.

The two dozen selections for the posters were perfect. I couldn't help stopping to gaze at each one and reminisce about the circumstances surrounding its genesis. Three of them were particularly pertinent to me.

Two murals, one in the entrance way and the other in the main hall leading to the auditorium, were shots of the six seniors on that years basketball team. I had used these photos as part of a psychology experiment I concocted in college. In one the boys were formally posed in two rows wearing their home white uniforms. Brock was center back flanked by Hoss on his right and Spider to his left. Kneeling in front of them was from left to right Rico, Lefty, and Romeo. All the boys, except for Brock, had on their best tough guy face. Brock sported his 500 watt smile.

In the other shot the guys were haphazardly arranged and in mismatched shorts and tee shirts, it was obviously an unplanned photo. In it Brock was closest to the camera on the far left. He was standing, his left leg extended in front of his right, with all his weight on that right leg. Under the crook in his left arm he pressed a basketball to his hip. The other boys stood in various stages of relaxation in an uneven line that gently slanted back toward the right. Their long hair was conspicuous for the sweat that matted it in varying amounts to their heads. All the boys were smiling or outright laughing in this shot.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from UPHILL AGAINST the WINDby D.W. PATTAN Copyright © 2012 by D.W. Pattan. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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