When I pulled into the driveway of Siobhan’s little seaside hippie farm there on Shore Road in Truro, I noticed more cars than usual for a Sunday. Geno’s Camry–a lugubrious shade of blue–was parked outside. But then so was Van Moves, the big red cargo van that the David’s Foote guys rolled around in. David’s Foote was a post-funk indie fusion band from Deleware who were hanging out in Orleans that summer, gigging up and down the Cape. They were also all Quakers who occasionally attended Friends meetings over in Brewster. Great guys, good friends, but their drummer was Siobhan’s other boyfriend, Dusty. Dusty and Geno didn’t get on. Then again, when they butted heads over her, it didn’t last long. Sooner or later they just ended up agreeing that but Siobhan was always a good time that neither one could really blame the other for wanting to be with her. What struck me as odd was that Dusty had driven separately, because his filthy gold Honda CRX hatchback parked there next to Van Moves. As I headed into the barn I called home, I glanced over at Van Moves and admired the beautiful lighthouse scene on the Massachusetts license places.
As soon as I got in the door, I checked my messages. There was only one. It was from Paul, a goth-nerd-turned-Cape-Eurotrash-for-the-summer fella of my acquaintance. In fact, the last time I’d seen Paul, he’d asked me out on a date. The last time I’d heard from Paul was never, because the fucker stood me up. I listened with disbelief as Paul explained that he had gotten himself srtanded in Hyannis because he’d misread the bus schedule and could I please pick him up? My do-gooder instincts had deployed once already today, and they just weren’t ready for a second go. Cackling like a Sanderson sister, I pressed “delete” and headed to the kitchen. Turns out, this tiny act of self-respect was another vitally important decision along the path to my future. My path at that minute led straight to my nachos and I was salivating at the thought of them.
The sound of music drifted by me. Guitar and bongo drums. Two sets of bongos and…nope. One set of bongos and one talking drum. Siobhan was having an afterparty. Dusty was obvs on the talking drum, but who were the other two? Dan on bass and Bob on bongos? Then the scent of cannabis breezed through my nostrils, and I immediately remembered the nachos that were awaiting me. With a spring in my step, I hopped up the steps to the kitchen and opened the door. It was a party alright. Geno and Dusty were there, sitting in chairs next to one another. Geno was playing bongos. The rest of the guys from David’s Foote weren’t there, but other people I’d never seen before were.
Golden goddes Siobhan sat smiling on the floor between them. In front of her, Liza was stretched out on a My Little Pony blanket on the floor, coloring. A boy of about eight lounged on the floor opposite Liza, also coloring. Behind him sat his exceedingly pregnant mother, also on the floor. She had long curly hair and freckles. Her shirt was open and she was nursing a beautiful 11-month-old girl. On the chair behind her sat…I shook my head to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. Aston “Family Man” Barrett–OG bassist for Bob Marley’s Wailers band–was sitting at my kitchen table, playing guitar with a spliff in his mouth. This, as it turns out, is where Fams had run off to in the band’s cargo van: My kitchen.
“WENDIIIII!” Siobhan shrieked as she hopped up off the floor and dashed in my direction.
“SIOBHAAAAAAAN! HEEEEY!” I said, as I hugged her. As she pulled away, I grabbed her back and whispered, “What’s happening here? Why is Aston Ba–?”
At my question, Siobahn broke out into peals of summery laughter. For reasons unknown, we all just kind of joined in and laughed with her. I still had no idea what was going on.
“Oh-ho My God, Wendi! You will never believe this!” Siohban said, and then she explained what happened.
“This is Fams–Family Man Barrett–and his partner Jen. She also manages the band. These are their kids, Ian, and Maya.”
Jen lifted her head graciously and smiling, said, “Very pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise,” I said, as I made my way over to my remaining nachos. "My name is Wendi! Can I just get by you to the–” I said as I descended upon the snack table.
Siobhan flitted back to her spot and flounced back to the floor. “Well, Ian and Liza met on the beach and started playing together.”
Jen chimed in, adding, “They were the only two kids their age at the show. Ian’s on the road with us, and he never gets to see kids his own age.” I scooped up all remaining nachos and then took as much of Siobhan’s watermelon, Mango, and kiwi as I wanted.
“Sooooo–” Siobhan said, smiling, “I invited them over here to hang out and play for a few hours.
Nodding nodded conspiratorially to Siobhan, Jen said, “And WE said YES!”
“And that’s how a world-famoud reggae musician and his family came to be in my kitchen!” I added, unable to resist. Plate balanced carefully in hand, I located a section of the floor that was as yet unoccupied and settled down to eat.
“Though I’m glad to meet you, we’re not entirely strangers,” I said between bites of my nachos. “I just got back from giving your band a ride to the Viking Inn.”
“Wha?” Boomed a bass voice. For the first time, Fams acknowledged my presence. He sounded concerned. “Wh ‘bout de band?”
I dreaded this next bit of conversation, “Well, sir, you took the cargo van and so there was nobody to take them to the hotel. I happened along in my truck.”
“OH!” The most innocent look of surprise and horror crossed his face right then. I hated to be the reason for it, even if he really did kind of deserve it.
“Fams! There’s no worries!” I assured him, “They all fit in my truck. They’re back at the hotel.”
“You drop dem off?” Fams cocks his head up to the right and looks down at me, credulously.
“Yeah, man, I dropped them off.”
Fams visibly relaxes. “Irie,” he says, grinning. He pulls a drag off his spliff and goes back to playing guitar. He remained thus entranced fro the rest of their visit. Geno and Dusty played alongside him, in perfect synchopation. It was really lovely.
As it turns out, Jen, like myself, had an interest in multicultural literature and drama. I’d studied both in undergrad. She told me how it led her to love reggae, and that led her to join the Wailers as their merch girl. That led to a romantic relationship with Fams, three beautiful children, and new business ventures. We discussed Jean Rhys’ Wide Sargasso Sea, a novel we both loved, and Edgar White’s play, Lament for Rastafari, which we also both loved. We had common interest reggae and postcolonial literature, so I took a risk: I asked her if she’d ever heard of the Greenwood Race Massacre. She said she had not. I only knew a little about it at the time, but I’d been reading everything I could find about it since I accidentally discovered that hidden history in high school. Jen listened intently as I told her what I knew of the matter. I'd never had a conversation about this topic with anyone else in my life up until that point. She was interested and appreciative.
Eventually, the conversation turned toward the quotidian. I wanted to know about life on the road and what The Wailers were up to these days. Jen wanted to know more about ME. She was particularly keen to hear about my stage management and technical production skills. Nobody else ever had been, so that part kind of sticks out as very memorable. I told her about different employment adventures I’d had on the Cape, and Jen seemed...impressed somehow? When I told Jen where I was from, she immediately said, “you just up and came out here with a truck and a few boxes. Just like that?” I told her I most certainly had. Jen was surprised by that. But not so surprised as I was was after what she said to me next:
“We’re taking a few weeks off for the holidays in October, but we’ll be back on the road again to do the New Years’ shows. We need a new road manager. Would you be interested in the job? I know it’s not theater…”
My heart pounded in my ears as I listened to her. It was not theater. But after the day I'd had, I was definitely happy to entertain other ways to use my theater skills. Especially if the job really paid. I chose my next words very carefully: “What does a Road Manager do and how much does it pay?”
“Well, “Jen began, “First, you do advance work to confirm every detail of each performance prior to the show. When you get to the city of the gig, you get the band checked into the hotel. Then you have to get the band back and forth from the hotel to the venue for soundcheck and the show. Finally, you settle the contract before the band goes on. That’s when you go over the numbers and the contract details and pick up our money. Wash rinse repeat. Two grand per week. Do you have a passport?”
I had just applied for a passport because I was headed to Munich for Oktoberfest in late September. “Yes, I do,” I confidently replied. To be honest, it sounded like a job made up of things I was already good at, and if this tour stop and our recent conversation was any indication, I’d get to see the resort towns of at least 12 countries if I took this job. And I was I was going to take it. I was going to hop in and drive this job like I stole it for as long as I possibly could. I would make up what I didn't know and bullshit the rest.
A leap of faith was needed here, so I took it. “I’d love to take the job,” I said, “When does it start?
“We go back on the road December 26th. You’ll probably have to leave Christmas Day.”
As far as I was concerned, Christmas was already happening right there in that kitchen. “That shouldn’t be a problem. When can I expect to hear back from you?”
“We’ll reach out in November to get things in motion,” confirmed Jen.
Ay, there was the rub. I wouldn’t know it this magical gig was the real thing or not until almost Thanksgiving. But what would it hurt to give Jen my contact information for the Cape–and for Oklahoma, just in case. We exchanged contact information, and Jen and Fams left not long thereafter. They had to drive to Portland, Maine early the next morning. As they pulled away, I wondered if I’d ever hear from them again.
And then I completely forgot about the entire thing. I went on to do a few more shows that summer on the Cape. I got nominated for some sort of P-Town based “best supporting actress in a comedic role” award I’d never heard of for my turn as Grandma in Provincetown Theater Company’s production of Paula Vogel’s How I Learned to Drive. I lost out to Ryan Landry for his portrayal of Colonel Sandra in Pussy on the House, his parody of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Landry deserved that award, but it was an honor to be nominated for it, whatever it was.
Summer shenanigans notwithstanding, I hadn’t had ANY luck getting connections in Boston. By the end of the summer, I knew I would be heading back to Oklahoma to regroup and plan my next steps. I hated the idea of it, but I just kind of hoped something would come along. I made the most of my proximity to a proper international airport and thoroughly enjoyed my Oktoberfest trip. Then, I headed home, where I enjoyed time with my family after nearly two years apart.
On November 30th, 2000, Jen called me. I had no fucking clue who it even was. She had to remind me of that day in Siobhan’s kitchen before I realized who I was talking to. Jen said that she was calling to tell me that my flight to North Carolina would be leaving at 5am on Christmas day, and I’d be traveling on to Hilton Head from RDU immediately after landing. My portfolio and contract would be FedExed to me the next week so I could start advancing the tour and get on the payroll.
I’d forgotten all about our meeting, but Jen had kept track of my contact information and used it to track me down and give me the road manager job. The fact that it all took place before cell phones were a thing makes this also sort of a miracle. Road Managing the 2001 Wailers Band World Tour was by far the most amazing, dangerous, challenging, fun, and fabulous job I’ve ever had. The absolute best possible thing I could ever have done for myself.
It’s good to think back on that time of my life as I embark on a similarly harrowing and bold new adventure: doing whatever the hell I want. It took my burnout for me to realize that I’m done with the rat race, because it nearly destroyed my cognitive and psychological health. I’m done with Oklahoma, because after six years of struggling , there is still opportunity for me in terms of career, creativity, and community. My chosen family is far-flung and I want to spend time near them after years apart. I’m done trying to do what was expected of me, because trying to meet others’ expectations while burning myself out is a folly I can ill afford for my mental and cognitive health. If I want time and energy left over to write, make art, be with my people, and live my life, it’s time to sell the house and nearly everything in it and do what I’ve wanted to do for years: pick up that sweet little Winnebago of my dreams and hit the road as digital nomad. At least, that’s the plan, such as it is.
Change means opportunity, if it means anything at all. I know for a certainty that the right mix of things will come up sooner or later, because that's what's what has always happened. It is also usually comes completely out of left field and as a total surprise, so there's that. In the meantime, I am plenty busy working out the details, shedding decades of dead weight, and prioritizing things that matter to me: my writing and my relationships. That said, plans can be paused. I saw that the Wailers Band will be in Tulsa in late June, which is about the time I’l be heading out. Maybe I’ll see what they’re up to before I make any firm decisions.
