Daniel -- looking for an agent, editor, publisher
Curt Gowdy State Park, Wyoming, June 3; A tall, thin bald man stands behind Banjo; suited up like a g-man, sunglasses, distressed-leather briefcase. The air about the guy stinks. A political hack. Daniel knows this because he’s been waiting for someone, anyone, from Barbara Ryan’s political campaign to show up and offer him well-deserved hush money. A shadowy sinister thunderstorm is sneaking over the Cheyenne Ridge. He’ll be soaked by the next set. Daniel knows this because he’s always soaked by the next set.
“Hey, Gordon,” a heckler shouts, “you screwed up on River Too Soon. When you going to get it right?”
“When the last clown leaves the stage,” Daniel Gordon jumps from the Frontier stage. “When the fat lady sings,” he shouts at the heckler. “When I get the hell out of bluegrass.”
As Daniel moves closer, the political hack takes off his sunglasses. He has these bulging frog-eyes. Clears his skinny throat. “George Jankor here, representing the Barbara Ryan Presidential Campaign.” The guy grabs Daniel, rather forcefully Daniel thinks, steers him behind the wooden stage, closer to the cow barn, farther from the nosy band members and their four pathetic fans; away from the stench of the bull dung. “Shut up and pay attention,” he says as Daniel tries to get his footing. “You re-form your pathetic band. Play up front for Ryan’s primary campaign. Don’t talk to the press. Don’t mention the past. Don’t mess with me.”
“And what do I get out of this?”
“First of all, your life. Second, a recording studio, airplane flights, best hotels, best service. This so-called life is over…” He waves around the field. “It’s history. You’re in or you’re dead.”
“Dead?”
“You do as we say or we destroy you.”
“That doesn’t sound too promising.” Daniel starts to walk away.
Jankor grabs him. “You know and I know, Danny Boy, you’re as broke as you are dumb, and you want…no, no, no, you need … a way out of this life. You have two months to get that band together.” He hands Daniel his card. “Jackson Hole, Wyoming, August 15th. Don’t mess with me. Don’t ever mess with me.”
Jankor puts on his sunglasses, grinds dead grass into the dusty ground, heads for the black limo parked behind the Porto-potties.
“Hey, Gordon,” a heckler shouts, “you screwed up on River Too Soon. When you going to get it right?”
“When the last clown leaves the stage,” Daniel Gordon jumps from the Frontier stage. “When the fat lady sings,” he shouts at the heckler. “When I get the hell out of bluegrass.”
As Daniel moves closer, the political hack takes off his sunglasses. He has these bulging frog-eyes. Clears his skinny throat. “George Jankor here, representing the Barbara Ryan Presidential Campaign.” The guy grabs Daniel, rather forcefully Daniel thinks, steers him behind the wooden stage, closer to the cow barn, farther from the nosy band members and their four pathetic fans; away from the stench of the bull dung. “Shut up and pay attention,” he says as Daniel tries to get his footing. “You re-form your pathetic band. Play up front for Ryan’s primary campaign. Don’t talk to the press. Don’t mention the past. Don’t mess with me.”
“And what do I get out of this?”
“First of all, your life. Second, a recording studio, airplane flights, best hotels, best service. This so-called life is over…” He waves around the field. “It’s history. You’re in or you’re dead.”
“Dead?”
“You do as we say or we destroy you.”
“That doesn’t sound too promising.” Daniel starts to walk away.
Jankor grabs him. “You know and I know, Danny Boy, you’re as broke as you are dumb, and you want…no, no, no, you need … a way out of this life. You have two months to get that band together.” He hands Daniel his card. “Jackson Hole, Wyoming, August 15th. Don’t mess with me. Don’t ever mess with me.”
Jankor puts on his sunglasses, grinds dead grass into the dusty ground, heads for the black limo parked behind the Porto-potties.
