As I had said in the previous ‘Snippet-Spin-Off’ posts, a new novel I am working on, titled (as of now) The Murder Rule, will be written in at least three parts. The first two, and updated, posts, concern a murder of a singer and front man for a band on the wane trying to get back into the limelight (which would be Part One of the new novel). The singer, Denny Spradlin and his band, Wolfin, is featured in The Prodigal Band Trilogy, mostly in the first trilogy novel Battle of the Band.
This post features another minor character in Battle of the Band, that is also featured in The Prodigal Band who later in the novel plays a key role in guiding the prodigal band Sound Unltd to their given ‘mission of God.’ His name is Bobby Jones, a band fan-turned-roadie who later creates a song the prodigal band is guided to perform once they accept that ‘mission.’ Bobby, originally from Dallas, Texas, finds himself mind-boggled due to psychedelic drugs he took while partying in the fictitious city of Richmont, California, a fictitious city I use often in the trilogy. He’s so drugged out he can’t even remember who he is… but somehow remembers the phone number of his parents, whom he is getting in touch with months after he left home mysteriously.
The snippet below is the beginning of the first chapter of Part Two of the new novel. More sections of this chapter will appear in coming snippet posts. Enjoy!
(Note: the snippet below is copyrighted material of Deborah Lagarde).
Hello. Bobby Jones is my name.
Well, I think it is.
That’s what my parents told me it was. Over the phone.
There I was in the middle of Richmont, California. Talking to my parents over a pay phone at a phone booth two blocks from the Richmont Church of the Circle of Unity where something happened to me but I can’t remember what.
Funny, that I could remember my parents’ phone number, but not my name, and not what I had been doing the previous several hours in the basement of a church after being in a basement at the occultist Hellside Horror House in the fancy section near the beach by Richmont. And it took me hours to remember even that.
I had dialed my parents’ phone number. Rotary dial? Push button dial? Couldn’t remember. But I knew the phone number. Collect call. I had no money on me. Was my money stolen? I can’t remember.
My dad, a Dallas dentist, answered the phone.
I responded, “Dad?”
“Bobby? Is that you?”
“Bobby?” I turned my head in wonder, then asked my dad, “Bobby? Who’s Bobby?”
Mr. Jones, on the other end of the line two hours ahead in Dallas, Texas, turned his head around to his wife.
“Is that Bobby?” she asked, nervous. It was 7 a.m.
“Yes, dear.” Voice shaking. “It’s Bobby, but—but—”
Turned to his wife. “It’s Bobby, all right! I know it, but he doesn’t!”
I heard what my dad was telling my mom.
“Is my name Bobby?” I shouted into the phone hoping dad would hear my shouts and tell me.
Nothing on the other end, so I shouted louder. “Dad! Mom! Why are you calling me ‘Bobby’?”
Dad whispered to his wife, “Bobby is shouting, asking me if his name is Bobby.”
Jones then shouted back into the phone, “Yes! Your name is Bobby!”
“Bobby is my name? Is that you, dad?”
“Yes! Bobby, why did you forget your name? What happened?”
While Jones spoke into the phone, he thought, Are you on drugs, son? How else could you forget your name? And where are you?
“Uh, dad, it’s gonna take a while to tell it, and anyway, I don’t remember all the details—”
“Well, Bobby, come on home and tell us what happened.” Short laugh. “If you can remember where you live—”
“Uh, no I can’t come home, dad. Because I’m not where you think I am.”
“Well then, Bobby, where are you?”
“You are in Dallas I take it?”
“Um—No dad. Not Dallas. Richmont.”
“Richmont?” Taken aback, Dad shouted a whine. “You’re in California?”
“California?” Mom nearly screamed. “How in the blue blazes—”
I heard my mother’s scream. “Uh—yeah, Richmont, California. Sorry I never told you but I’ve been here since last year—”
Mortified. “Last—year? Bobby—last year?” Anger built up inside Dad. “Why in the devil didn’t you tell us you—what? Hitch-hiked? To California? Why the devil—California?” Livid now. “Why you—!”
My dad cussed at me over the phone. Meaning, he was mad as hell.
And on and on.
Yep. I did in fact hitch-hike to California a couple of months after telling my folks I dropped out of high school in April, 1992, in order to work full time as a recording studio musician locally, a guitarist. I was fourteen at the time; my guitar skills were adequate.
But then something weird happened a month later at a party given by a well-known local night club venue owner in whose house I was renting a room along with Lee, who hailed from some hole-in-the-wall in far west Texas.
Lee had given me to eat psilocybin mushroom, which caused me to hallucinate, then a snort of a designer drug called skank which cost about 500 dollars an ounce and which he had stolen from some party goer from some Midland-Odessa oil baron family.
After the skank—which caused me to see visions of a scene from a horror TV channel I loved to watch, visions of Andre’ Cool and Cheetah Nightshade’s Hellside Horror House horror and occult television channel—I packed a few clothes and things and, yep, hitch-hiked to Richmont, California. With the 500 dollars I managed to steal from my roommate—who stole that money from that same rich kid party goer—I was able to buy a beat-up VW van-bus.
Where I proceeded to live, parked in an alley across from an RV dealer. The dealer actually thought that my VW was an RV for sale!
Then in July, 1992, I worked as a roadie for a top American rock band.
About ten minutes into the call, my dad finally got over his anger at me.
“You don’t need to be living in a van, Bobby!” Dad now sounded calm and happy. At least Bobby’s living the life he wants to live and is supporting himself, dad thought. “Look, son, if you need money, we’ll send you some, okay? You need to find a decent apartment—”
The next post should be next week. Cheers! And use the menu above to purchase books, download the FREE PDF The Prodigal Band, view trilogy snippet posts, and more.