Non Sequiturus Rex

 

“I can’t believe it! What an amazing drummer!”

I had to shout into my friend Mitch’s ear because we were jammed together against the bar in a club called the Rock Quarry. The band we’d come to see (actually, just the drummer, Bobby Milton) had finished the first set and now the club’s sound system was blasting Springsteen.

“See, didn’t I tell you?” Mitch yelled back at me. “He’s incredible! They’re having some kind of group meeting, and then he’s gonna come by and talk to us.”

I took another sip from my nearly flat beer and leaned in toward Mitch.

“Maybe they’re breaking up; that’s what the meeting’s about.” My lips were practically touching his earlobe. “And they should break up. They don’t even belong on the same bandstand with that drummer.”

Mitch nodded. “And I think Bobby agrees with you. At least, that was the impression I got. It was hard to tell because he’s got this funny way of talking.”

“What do you mean?”

The guy on my other side was unknowingly, I assumed, digging his elbow into my ribs.

“You’ll see,” Mitch said.

We’d come there to check out Bobby Milton’s skills because he was the missing piece in our project. We were putting together a Cream tribute band.

And let me tell you, it was going to be a motherfucker! I’ve worked most of my life on this, and now I can reproduce every great bass line Jack Bruce ever played. I also worked on his voice, and I’ve got it down now to a T.

And Mitch…well, Mitch. Without exaggeration, he is the quintessential Eric Clapton. His voice isn’t an exact match but it’s pretty damn close, and his guitar work is impeccable. He can make a Stratocaster stratospheric.

All we needed was a Ginger Baker, and Bobby Milton seemed to be a godsend. Not only did he have the chops, but he also had red hair! The scraggly beard was missing but he could easily grow one. He’d be perfect!

And in fact, there he was, emerging from a door behind the bandstand. He squinted past the crowd toward the bar area and Mitch waved his hands in the air.

“Bobby!” he shouted as they both made eye contact.

Bobby nodded and then moved his eyes in the direction of the main entrance, signaling that’s where we should meet up. We pushed through the throng and made our way over there, following him out the door and into the parking lot.

“Hey, man,” he said to Mitch as we stepped out into the crisp autumn air.

“Hey, Bobby.” Mitch gave him a power-to-the-people handshake. “I’d like you to meet Brian Willis, otherwise known as Jack Bruce.”

Bobby gave me the same handshake and then scanned the parking lot.

“Don’t see a Ferrari,” he observed.

Ferrari? I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. Then it hit me: Jack Bruce’s second album Things We Like had a Ferrari 365 on its cover.

“Yeah, well, it’s at the shop,” I said. “That’s why I brought the Volkswagen.”

“Ah. So you’re into folk music.”

Now I was really at a loss. My mouth opened but nothing came out. Fortunately, Mitch stepped in.

“So, I told you about our project, Bobby,” he said as I realized out of nowhere that Volkswagen means folk car. “That’s why I wanted Brian to see you. We both really dig your playing, and we think you’ll dig ours too. So if you’ve got eyes for it, let’s get together and play some Cream, huh? When can we do it?”

“Whenever,” said Bobby.

It wasn’t exactly dismissive. It was just toneless.

“Okay,” said Mitch carefully, “when is whenever?”

Bobby began to smile. He looked over at me.

“That’s a pretty heavy philosophical question there, Brian, wouldn’t you say?”

I would, but I suddenly saw what he meant; at least I thought I did.

“By ‘whenever,’ you really mean ‘anytime.’ Is that it?”

The smile continued.

“As you said.”

Two things occurred to me simultaneously. One was that “As You Said” was a song on Cream’s Wheels of Fire album. The other was that working with this guy might turn out to be the most bizarre experience of my life.

 

***

 

We had to wait three days for Bobby’s gig at the Rock Quarry to end before we could all meet up. Then, after he’d moved his drum kit from the club to his garage, Mitch and I drove over there in my “folk car” with our mics and speakers in the trunk and our practice amps and instruments in the backseat. If this thing ever really happened we’d have to buy huge Marshall amps to duplicate Cream’s sound. We thought we could get a manager who’d lay out the money.

“I still can’t understand how you figured out what he meant,” Mitch said as we turned into Bobby’s street.

“You and me both. I guess I got lucky.”

“Everything he says has nothing to do with what you just said. He’s like a walking whaddya call it…a walking non sequitur.”

“Yeah, that’s what he is, all right. Except, the non sequitur seems to eventually make sense. At least, most of the time.”

“At most, some of the time,” Mitch corrected.

We pulled into the driveway. Bobby lived with his parents in a large Cape Cod-style house. We all lived with our parents. Mitch and I fervently hoped that this project would set us up enough so we could finally move out.

The garage was a three-car affair with only one car in it, so we had a fairly large area in which to set up. Bobby’s drum kit was already in place at the rear of the garage, with its double bass drums like Ginger Baker’s.

He sat on his stool doing light riffs on the cymbals as we brought all our stuff into the garage in shifts. He didn’t offer to help but I figured that was all right. Some drummers help you, others don’t. They’ve got their own equipment issues.

We set up our amps and mics to face Bobby’s drums so we could all see each other.

“How about, we start off with ‘White Room’?” Mitch suggested.

Sounded good to me. “You want to count it off?” I asked Bobby.

He seemed to be staring at something invisible in the space between us.

“Bobby?” I said. “Do you want to count it off?”

“Who are we?” he said to the space, because he sure wasn’t looking at either of us.

I couldn’t resist. “That’s a pretty heavy philosophical question there, Bobby, wouldn’t you say?” I assumed he’d recognize his own wit and maybe smile.

Nope. He looked dead serious.

“Before we start,” he said, looking from one of us to the other, “we need to decide what the name of this band is.”

Mitch and I had, of course, thought about it from time to time, but it was way down on our list. We were much more concerned with the music.

“We can’t be Heavy Cream,” I said, “because that’s taken.”

“And we can’t be Sons of Cream, either,” said Mitch.

“Bobby, do we really need to do this now?”

He didn’t even dignify it with an answer. He just kept staring at that space.

“All right,” I said, “how about we call ourselves ‘Creamery’?” It had just popped into my head.

There was a weighty silence. Then Mitch spoke.

“I guess it’s better than the one I came up with: ‘Crematorium.’ So, yeah, let’s call ourselves ‘Creamery.’ Is that good for you, Bobby?”

Bobby gave the briefest of nods. Then he counted off and we proceeded to play the absolute living shit out of “White Room.”

When it was over, after we’d instinctively played our way into a spectacular ending (the original record fades out), I stood at my mic in shock.

“Wow,” I said, unable to think of something better. “That was fucking incredible!”

Mitch was shaking his head in wonder, smiling like I’d never seen him smile. “You don’t have to tell me,” he said.

We glanced at Bobby, who was looking down at his snare drum. He rapped on it a couple of times. “I need a new drum head,” he said. “This one sounds like crap.”

My heart sank. We’d just pulled off a flat-out miracle, and he hadn’t even noticed. It hadn’t affected him at all. We waited for him to say more but that seemed to be it.

Oh, well, I thought, I guess I knew this thing was only a dream, and it’ll always be a dream. I turned toward my amp, ready to shut it off and start packing up.

Mitch didn’t take it nearly as well as I did.

“Holy shit, Bobby, your drum head? Your fucking drum head?” He was practically yelling. “Is that all you’ve got to say?”

Bobby shrugged.

“Maybe you don’t mind how it sounds. But if we’re gonna keep playing this incredible, amazingly awesome shit, I’m gonna need a new drum head.”

 

***

 

We did five more songs, all of which were mind-blowing. Bobby had studied Cream as intently as we had. Not a word needed to be spoken. We all knew the material.

We planned to rehearse again the next day, and as Mitch and I drove back home we were still under the spell of it all.

“What are the odds?” I said. “Finding a guy who can play like that and who’s so into Cream? I still can’t believe it.”

“Me too,” said Mitch. “I just wish he’d stop with the weird non sequiturs.”

He’d made several more as the rehearsal went on. Some of them I could figure out, others were a mystery.

Like when we asked him if it was okay to leave our equipment there in the garage and he said, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder. At least, it’s supposed to.”

We took that as a “yes,” but I’ll be damned if I know why.

“Phil Sherman,” Mitch was now saying, “the keyboard player who turned me onto him, told me he’s in a bad situation with his parents. They’re going through a real nasty divorce. That’s why there’s only one car in that garage.”

“It must be tough,” I said, grateful that my parents still seemed to get along reasonably well.

“Supposedly, his dad has a history of violence and is a gun nut and a mean drunk besides. And he’s really fighting the divorce. Phil told me they had to take out a restraining order against him.”

“Oh, man.”

“So I guess Bobby has a right to be a little weird. But it’s still unnerving.”

I thought about it.

“It’s definitely unnerving. But I guess it’s a small price to pay for magic.”

Mitch thought about it.

“I just hope it’s a small price,” he said.

 

***

 

We were back at work the next day, playing a dozen more of the songs to the same spectacular effect. The only hiccup was when Mitch sang a wrong lyric on “Crossroads.” Instead of “tried to flag a ride,” he sang “tried to beg a ride.” He’d always sung it that way and I’d never realized it was wrong, which just shows you we’re all human.

But Bobby picked up on it and pointed it out. Even then, he couldn’t just say it. He had to say, “Hey, Mitch, you shouldn’t be a beggar. Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Huh?” we both said in unison.

“Why would you want to be a beggar when you can be a flagger? Google the lyrics, you’ll see.”

So we did on my phone, and he was right.

We resumed, and the time sailed by as we killed it on song after song. During the second verse of “Politician,” I heard the garage door behind me starting to roll up.

Bobby abruptly stopped playing. A look of fear crossed his face. “Oh, shit,” he muttered.

I looked behind me, and there in the open space stood a heavyset man in a t-shirt and cargo pants. He had red hair like Bobby’s, and in his right hand he was holding a gun.

“You changed the locks but you forgot to change the code for the garage door opener, didn’t you?” he said as he stepped inside and hit the button that closed the door behind him. “Oh, well, I guess you can’t think of everything.”

I couldn’t take my eyes off the gun. He was carrying it so casually, like it was an iPhone.

“Why don’t you clowns move away from those microphones and put your asses against that wall,” he told us, indicating which wall he meant by pointing the gun at it. “I’d like to speak with my son.”

We quickly stashed our instruments and complied.

I don’t know what Mitch was thinking as we stood there against that cold concrete and witnessed what was unfolding, but I was pretty sure I was going to die at the end of it. If not before.

He stood in the center of the garage, the gun pointed at Bobby.

“What’s your mother doing right now, right at this moment?” he said. “Is she fucking that asshole lawyer in my bed? I saw his car parked down the block.”

Bobby said nothing, his face expressionless.

“And what are you doing right now, right at this moment? Still sitting on your toilet seat and shitting out garbage?”

He scowled at Bobby.

“What a waste of life you are. You’re pathetic. Maybe you don’t deserve to live either, just like your whore mother.”

My heart virtually leaped to my throat, but Bobby’s expressionless face didn’t change.

“Dad,” he said in a calm, rational tone of voice, “I think, for your sake, that you should go.”

It was the clearest thing I’d ever heard him say.

It made his father crack up laughing. He broke into loud whooping cackles while his face turned crimson, which was as scary as everything else.

“Oh, you’re thinking for my sake, are you? Is that how you think?”

He momentarily lost his balance, waving the gun in the air for a second as he regained it. I realized he must be drunk out of his mind. It ratcheted up the scariness to yet a new level.

“Yeah, Dad, it is how I think, whether you like it or not.” Bobby’s eyes were locked on his. “And what are you doing right now, right at this moment? Standing there shitfaced with a gun in your hand? What good can come out of that?”

Another clear statement; this was definitely not the same Bobby. But it infuriated his father.

“Who the fuck says I want anything good to come out of it?” Spittle flew from his mouth. “You little punk. I can still whip your ass, with or without a gun!”

Bobby still seemed unperturbed.

“Then why don’t you put the gun down and you can show me?”

That got a contemptuous laugh.

“Listen, asshole, I may be drunk but I ain’t stupid.”

He took a step toward the connecting door to the house, which again made him lose his balance. But he recovered, the gun still firmly in his grip and pointed at Bobby.

“I’m gonna go upstairs now and take care of your whore mother,” he said. “If I get lucky and the lawyer’s there, then I’ll have me a twofer. But I was just wondering whether I need to take care of you first. And, of course—” he glanced over at Mitch and me “—your two buddies over there.”

I felt a chill. Like my insides were cringing. My thoughts were scattered, but basically they were No! No! No! No! No!

The man continued talking. “It’s not that I need to eliminate all of you as witnesses. I don’t give a shit about that because I’m not coming out of this alive anyway.

“So there’s no reason why I need to kill you, but you know, Bobby? I wonder if I should do it anyway. Just ’cause I feel like it. What do you think?”

I can’t imagine what it took, but Bobby still kept that calm face.

“I think I need a better drum head for my snare,” he said. “I really don’t like how this one sounds, even though it’s brand new.”

His father looked at him like he’d lost his mind.

“What?!” he sputtered. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“My—snare—drum. It—sucks.” Bobby spaced the words out like he was talking to a child. “What don’t you understand?”

His father’s face again turned crimson.

“WHAT DON’T I UNDERSTAND?!”

He moved toward the drum set, his legs a bit unsteady, but not his gun hand. It stayed pointed right at Bobby.

“I just asked you a simple question, you little shithead. I asked you why I shouldn’t kill you, and all you have to say is some gobbledygook about your drums? What the hell is wrong with you? Are you high on drugs?”

He’d reached the drum set now. He leaned across the twin bass drums at Bobby.

“I’m gonna give you one more chance to save your worthless ass. Tell me why I shouldn’t…”

Bobby suddenly hit the crash cymbal, full force. His father’s head was right underneath it. For him it must have seemed like an explosion.

He instinctively recoiled, staggering backward as Bobby launched himself over the drum set, right into him.

They both fell over, Bobby on top, his father landing on his back as his arms flew out to the sides. The gun came out of his hand, skittering across the garage floor and coming to a stop right at my feet.

I stared down at it, like it was a hallucination. Bobby had to yell at me: “Pick it up! Pick it up!” before I finally did, holding it gingerly.

At that moment the connecting door to the house burst open. Two cops stood in the doorway with their weapons drawn.

Bobby was still sitting atop his father, who was now glassy-eyed. He looked down at him.

“Guess what, Dad?” he said. “Mom called the cops again.”

 

***

 

“Well, I never thought my life would be saved by a well-placed non sequitur,” Mitch said.

It was two days later, and we were driving to Bobby’s house for our first rehearsal since it happened. His mother, it turned out, had been up in her bedroom alone (no lascivious lawyer), looking out the window, when she’d spotted her husband’s car pulling into the driveway and immediately called the police.

Afterward, when they checked the car, they found a small arsenal inside it as well as a full can of gasoline, which he was evidently going to use to set fire to the house and go out in a proverbial blaze of glory.

“He always likes to get in your face,” I overheard Bobby explaining to the cops. “My only hope was to bait him enough so that he’d move close to the drums, and I’d at least have a chance.”

We’d taken our equipment back home with us afterward, and now it was once again in the trunk and backseat of the Volkswagen as we pulled up to the garage, whose door was open.

This time, Bobby helped us bring it all in.

When we were set up, we just stood there and looked at each other. These were the same positions we were in when the nightmare began. It was so surreal that, for the first time ever, I could not think of a single Cream song to play.

“You call it, Bobby,” I said.

He stared at that invisible thing in the space between us.

“I think we should work on our tans.”

I, of course, had no idea what he was talking about, but by now I was getting used to it.

Mitch just smiled. Then he began to play one of the most legendary guitar figures of all time.

Bobby and I joined in, and we commenced to nail every note of “Sunshine of Your Love” like we owned it.