Cape Cod Repertory Theater was a 45-minute drive from The Beachcomber, and my play started at two o’clock. On the drive over, I had hopes that maybe nobody would show up and we could just not do the matinee. Then when I got there, I found out that our final performance was the one and only sold-out performance of the entire run. The creature feature was definitely on and I was definitely going to miss the Wailers. Disappointed, I headed off to the dressing rooms to get ready. As I got into makeup, I pushed that further and further out of my mind and focused only on the task before me: surviving one more performance of this show without having a breakdown in the middle of it.
Somehow, I made it through. As soon as that curtain came down, I made record time getting out of costume and getting out of that theater. I don’t even think I stopped to say goodbye to anyone but David and Dennis. You see, The Wailers are known for starting at least 45 minutes late and then playing really long. I figured that if I floored it back to Wellfleet, I’d catch the last part of the show. Off I went.
As soon as I pulled up, a throng of people streamed out of The Beachcomber. It was pretty clear I had missed the show. Boy, was I disappointed. My disappointment soon faded into anxiety, as these folks started streaming around my humongous tank of a vehicle. This is the vehicle: a 1991 V-8 Dodge Dakota Longbed with topper. A year before, I’d packed that baby up with what was left of my belongings and made off for the Cape. But in a situation like this, I felt like an elephant trying not to step on schoolchildren.
I wondered how I was going to get back out of this parking lot. Like hell was I going to be stuck in after-show traffic for a concert I’d missed. At that moment, someone started thudding on my passenger-side window. It was a Black woman I’d never seen before yet somehow recognized. Her face wore a distressed and slightly disapproving expression.
“Roll don yir ‘indow!” The Jamaican woman demanded, thudding impatiently. Crowded around her were six equally distressed Black people, and three of them were…carrying instrument cases?
“Op’n oop! We need arride!” Shouted the tall, thin, bald man in a Hawaiian shirt standing behind her. I rolled down my window.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, nervously. I wanted to help, but I needed to know what was going on.
“Tank You! The woman said. Before I could ask what she was thanking me for, she reached into my truck window and unlocked the door. “Fams don lef’ us he-ah,” she explained as she opened the door and got into my truck.
“Go roun’ get in!” shouted the short, stocky man with fine, frizzy hair sticking out from under his straw pork pie hat. He had been was standing beside the tall guy. The other musicians scampered to the back of my truck. I’d left it unlocked, which I now regretted.
“What’s going on?” I asked, “are you in trouble or something? The woman crowded into my truck, with the tall thin man and the short, light man squeezing in behind her.
“We don’ know whe-ah he go.” the woman said. From behind me, I hear the sound of clicking, creaking, and skittering as the musicians loaded up in back.
The tall guy quickly added, “He jus’ up an vanish.”
“Wit the cah-go van,” muttered the short guy.
Glancing at my passenger side mirror, I noticed that one of the musicians, a short, wiry guy with extremely muscular arms and a truly magnificent set of dreadlocks, had started playing traffic cop to get people out of the way so I can back out. At this moment, I caught just the right angle of the woman’s face to recognize her. I was sitting next to Marica Griffiths, one of the original I-Three.
Leaning over me and shouting out my now open driver’s side window, Marica shouted, “Drummie! It time to go!”
“Yeah, man. I got you!” Drummie replied in an American accent. He nodded at me and said, “Go. I’ll guide you out!”
Drummie was as good as his word. He got us out of there and pointed in the right direction before hopping up and diving over the now-raised tailgate of my truck to reach his bandmates. They were staying at the Viking Inn over in Eastham, and I knew exactly how to get there.
I had missed the show but still caught the band. And what a band they were. Beside Marcia Griffiths sat Vin Gordon, OG member of The Skatalites. Crowded in beside him sat a very vexed Glen DaCosta, OG member of Zap Pow. They had just rejoined the rotating lineup of backup brass the Wailers Band toured with. We chatted about Reggae, Cape Cod weather, and summer people as I drove them to Eastham. I was having such a great time, I'd forgotten about A Moon for the Misbegotten.
When we arrived at The Viking Inn, the band dispersed from my vehicle as quickly as they had set upon it. “Thank You”s and “Good Luck”s were gleefully shared all around. We all felt grateful and happy, which was certainly not how I imagined this day would go for me. Drummie Zeb even offered to smoke me out by way of a thank-you.
I was still buzzed by the contact high from the drive over and starting to really crave the nachos waiting for me at home in Siobhan’s fridge. To be honest, the day I’d had was beginning to wear on me. If I took Drummie up on his offer, I wouldn't get betting nachos any time soon, and I’d probably not be good to drive till the morning. I wanted nachos and my own shower. Thoughts thus settled, I thanked him kindly for his offer but declined. That was absolutely and without doubt the correct decision. If I hadn’t headed home right then, I’d have missed the most amazing thing that had ever happened in my life up until that point.
