Two More Pieces of Pie
By Rick Glaze
Jolene skipped out of the front door, letting the screen door slam behind her. No doubt another sliver or two of brown paint peeled away from the door frame and settled onto the outdoor porch unnoticed. As she slid into the driver’s seat of the two-tone 1973 Ford Ranger, she allowed her mind to examine just why she felt carefree and happy when everything in her life was not necessarily on track. “I guess there really is an actual track somewhere,” she thought.
After her 14th birthday, she had started waitressing in her grandfather’s barbeque restaurant in the foothills of southern California between the coast and the central valley. Now, three years later and about to finish high school, Jolene worked the busy weekend schedule, drove the hand-me-down truck, and felt like she should be doing more with her life going forward, but was unsure what that might look like.
School had worked out okay, and her grades were above average. She even took all the math and science courses that were recommended for the college prep track. Not that she liked either discipline; she just wanted to prove she could do it. But Jolene liked music, and she was a natural talent at just about any instrument she picked up. The high school had hired an extremely talented music teacher three years before Jolene’s freshman year. Mr. Johns had completed a master’s degree from the Julliard School and was playing in both the Baltimore and Philadelphia symphony orchestras. One day after visiting Los Angeles, he rented a car and drove up the coast for the day. As he wound along the shoestring ribbon of Highway 1 heading north from Santa Barbara, he turned right, onto a nondescript paved road winding into the coastal hills. After fifteen miles, he pulled into the dusty gravel parking lot of the Bob-a-Que Family Restaurant. It was nearly six in the evening, and Mr. Johns sat alone, looking out his window at an endless expanse of live oak trees and the accompanying clutter that littered the hills with nature’s debris at the base of each rugged trunk. Over his right shoulder he turned to see thirty-five acres of vineyards in straight rows bathed in the pastel light of a California setting sun.
Mr. Johns made a decision at that moment of epiphany. His transition was swift, shocking his friends and family, but leveling a sharper blow to the symphony itself. When Mr. Johns began his first class in the band room of Paso Robles high school, it had barely been six months, but the harvest was beginning for the season, and he could hardly wait to watch the grape crush on Saturday and Sunday. He rarely ever thought of his previous life as a top symphony violinist. His decision was quick but also final. After the crush activity wound down Saturday, he planned to stop by the Bob-a-Que for the catfish dinner fresh from the coast that afternoon.
Jolene clearly played Vivaldi the best, and it was no wonder, because he was her favorite of all the classical composers. The fingers of her left hand stroked the violin strings of her school-issued instrument into a purring complacency like a mother cajoling her baby to sleep. Mr. Johns had literally put the violin in Jolene’s hands and showed her how to hold it and how to move the bow. To his amazement, he needed to show Jolene very little else about the instrument, and the music itself came to her just as easily. But she only spent the required school time on classical music and saved the passion for the roadhouse jams.
On Friday and Saturday nights the house band played until nine o’clock. After that, a jam would often begin for an hour until closing time, that is unless Jolene’s grandfather jumped in on the congas or piano, which could easily extent the fun till midnight. Jolene liked to sit in with the house band on piano in between serving up the ribeye or the porterhouse steaks. If the cook saw her mount the stage, he would slow up the orders a little, giving the rest of the patrons a little more musical time. Jolene first started playing the bass with the band in the days when she had to stand on a chair to reach the top of the neck. She never had a lesson, but a few years of quiet watching was all she needed. She could slap out those bass runs just like a pro.
Mr. Johns had told Jolene about the East Coast classical music scene. Although a somewhat unconventional applicant, he was quite confident he could get her accepted at the Berkeley School of Music in Boston or maybe even Julliard itself. She was ambitious, after all, and why not follow an ambition at her age? She admired Mr. Johns even though she was a little befuddled about his colossal career change. But she knew the hills, the vineyards and the Pacific Ocean she loved, would always be here for to come home to. In fact, the excitement of a big move and an exciting career had driven her to complete applications to the Berkeley School, Julliard, and Carnegie Mellon as a back up school. The finishing touches were just now completed, and the mailing deadline was fast approaching.
When Mr. Johns walked in the Bob-a-Que Restaurant, Jolene was just starting a fiddle solo with the house band. They normally stuck to country music or some jazz inspired country songs known as western swing, but this one was a bluegrass song made famous by the Virginia bluegrass king, Bill Monroe, called “Uncle Pen.” There was plenty of room for instrumental solos, originally played by Monroe on the mandolin, but nobody was missing the shrill staccato of the mandolin when Jolene’s fingers flew over the strings in a soft, delicate but determined movement. The short notes pounded like a six-pound hammer on a nail and the long notes hung in the air like an angel in church. After her solo, the lead singer weaved his high tenor voice into the second verse and Jolene unceremoniously ducked off stage and headed for the kitchen. She had a table of six with three catfish dinners, and two split orders of the giant porterhouse steak to deliver. As she set the last dinner in front of the customer, she leaned over and whispered, “Only two more pieces of pie left. You better order them now.”
Mr. Johns was looking forward to an early evening and slipped out after dinner. Jolene finished her last table, gathered up the tips, and left before closing. Nobody really missed her. The clean up was routine, and she had had a long night. On the way home, she pulled into the small country store about two miles from the restaurant. It was a sleepy little store all the time, but tonight it was nearly dead asleep. She bought a pack of sugarless gum, got back in the truck, and pulled out of the parking lot. Just before the driveway joined the road, she stopped next to a phone booth. Reaching next to her on the front bench seat, she grabbed the three envelopes containing her school applications. Sliding out the driver’s seat, she walked over toward the phone booth. As her steps shortened and she drew to a stop, she looked over her shoulder at the dilapidated store front she had just left, gazed up at the sky, and was not surprised to see the Big Dipper now directly overhead. Jolene looked down at the rusted steel barrel beside her. It had been used as a trash and debris can for just the amount of time it takes to nearly rot one side out completely. She gave a quick glance at the can’s position, looked out again at the wide-open sky, took a deep breath, then tossed the envelops in. They hit the back side and settled in on top of the well seasoned contents of mostly cans and bottles. She got back in the truck and headed home. “Not much to do tomorrow,” she thought, “guess I’ll sleep late.”
