A Home is A Home is A Home

It was another gorgeous day in Santa Barbara, California. The seagulls sang praises to the sun while they floated along in the gentle breezes of paradise. It was the middle of summer and the birds were expecting a bounty of food as the distracted tourists provided them ample opportunity to snatch a quick meal. The nightmares of fire and mudslides were gone and the COVID War was being won. There were dolphins and whale watching and mothers chasing after sunbaked children, sun block in hand. Michael Aguirre took no notice. He was just a passerby, brought here by promise and jaded by reality. His voice, permanently hoarse, had betrayed him all too soon and his rising star was shot out of the sky overnight. Now there was only pain and work and bills and alcohol to make him forget. He had no care for his doctor's warnings about weight gain and liver failure. Early death would be a welcome event as far as he was concerned.

Michael sucked in his breath as he pushed back a branch from a dying pear tree and forced a key into an aging lock, opening the door to his music shop. The door creaked in empathy, the same way it did every day. The sound somehow brought comfort and he refused to replace the rusted joints. His watery eyes glimpsed at the pile of unpaid bills sitting on his office desk and he sighed. Just a few more years. Five more years and I can leave this overpriced hellhole. Real estate in Santa Barbara was prime and his shop, which seemed an impossible buy fifteen years ago, had now become his retirement plan. God help me if there's ever a bust in the commercial real estate market. There's barely enough money as it is.

The front door bells announced the presence of a newcomer. “No, mother!” Nick Eastman whined into his new iPhone. “I don’t want to go to Bumpkin Field! For Christ’s sake, they don’t even speak English over there!”

Christ, he would have to be early today. Michael’s head was still pounding from the bottle of wine the night before and he was looking forward to a few minutes of quiet time before session.

The teenager marched into the music room like he owned the place. At seventeen-years-old, he was already set to own half the town and he knew it. Nick strummed a few chords on his off-tune guitar and smiled at Michael. “Cool, huh? I’m already writing songs for my album!”

Nick took a look at Michael’s signed photograph of the Beatles, which he had given as payment forward for a year’s worth of guitar lessons. “Never thought you’d be teaching guitar to a McCartney relative, right? I can talk to Uncle Paul if you’d like and get you an autographed record. Aunt Linda is gone but he still returns my phone calls.”

Michael sighed. The little prick never shuts up. Nothing like his mother. No manners at all.

Nick’s father, an apparent god, rated. A child of the Kodak-Eastman family, he had attended private school in New York, graduated with honors from NYU, and had dined with the McCartney’s several times. How he ever got trapped into marrying the daughter of ignorant bumpkins Nick could not fathom. Becky was beautiful and plain-spoken, and invisible in her son’s eyes. He loved his mother and despised her. Eastman blood ran in his veins. His mother was simply a caregiver.

Nick examined the walls of the music room and frowned at an unwelcome display. Michael turned a bloodshot eye to the photo, then stared firmly at Nick. “That man was a good man”, he said.

Nick winced. “He’s the worst of the Bumpkins!” he proclaimed. “He could never come close to the Beatles! Not even!”

“How do you know? You never listen to any of his music. I’ve tried to introduce you to it a number of times.”

The boy sighed and rolled his eyes. “Please! That ignoramus could never compare to the Beatles or Elvis! They were innovators! He’s lucky if he can play one chord and sing one note!”

Michael remembered the conversation with the boy’s mother as if it had happened five minutes prior. Please make sure he understands both sides of his background, she had asked. I’ve tried and he won’t have it. He needs to understand that people are people. And I haven’t been able to teach him. Michael loved Becky Hutchings. Intelligent, beautiful, and down-to-earth, she was a year behind him in school and their families shared farming secrets across their fence over hot summer nights. He could still smell the freshly-watered alfalfa and hear the bleating of his lambs as they cried out for a taste. Becky wasn’t just a neighbor. Becky was family.

Michael’s eyes faded as he fell into deep thought. A promise is a promise, he thought. And a good man always keeps his word.

“Nick, I’m going to make you a deal.”

Nick shut his mouth mid-brag and, for once, paid attention to his lowly guitar teacher.

“What kind of deal?” he asked.

Michael smiled. His brows furrowed and his finger pointed to his prize possession. “I want you to take a field trip with me,” he said. “If you still feel the same way about Buck Owens at the end of the trip, I’ll give you that.”

Nick’s mouth watered and his heart played out a happy rhythm in his chest. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely. A deal is a deal. But, if I win, there will be no more disparaging talk of Bakersfield.”

“You’re on!” Nick smiled and Michael knew the youth was planning the perfect spot to hang it.

“I have such a headache,” Michael complained. “Why don’t you call your mom and see if we can go today? I bet she won’t mind. No, she won’t mind at all.”

“Do you know how to get there?” the boy asked, puzzled. Michael had never shared his friendship with Becky with the privileged youngster. She wanted it that way.

“I think I can figure it out.”

The boy hurried to the outer room before his instructor could change his mind. His hands were sweating and he spoke quickly when his mother answered her phone. “Mom! Michael says I can have his Elvis Presley record if I take a field trip with him and listen to that Loser! He wants to go today!”

“Let me talk to him,” she said. “I’m not sure today is a good day.”

The future winner gladly handed off his phone and rushed outside to wait.

“Michael,” she admonished. “This is really too far. That record is way too expensive.”

“He’s almost eighteen years old,” Michael said. “It’s time for him to grow up and become a man. He needs to learn life is more than money and knowing who’s who. He needs to know where he comes from. He needs to learn character.”

A good man always keeps his word. And Nick is going to learn how to keep his word, starting today. No more running late and no more excuses. A promise is a promise and this kid needs to learn how to keep them.

“No, Michael,” she attempted. “I won’t allow this.”

“It’s already done,” he said. “What time do you want him back?”

She sighed. Becky had learned long ago not to argue with her headstrong Basque neighbors. Once you had been accepted into their fold you were one of them. Which meant what they had was yours and they would have it no other way. “Stay as long as you want,” she relented. “I just hope you know what you’re doing!”

Michael smiled. Becky was still his tomboy neighbor from long ago and he would have it no other way.

The giddy teen grinned when he saw Michael exit the shop and lock the door. All he had to do was smile politely at the bumpkins, humor his tour guide, and the prize would be his! Nick looked like a homeless man who had just won the lottery.

Silence reigned supreme until they reached Carpinteria. Before Nick could object, the silence was replaced with the noise of Bakersfield Country. You don’t know me, but you don’t like me … Buck Owens announced in a very matter-of-fact tone. Nick placed his hand over his eyes so there would be no chance of Michael changing his mind. Have you ever walked the streets of Bakersfield? Buck asked.

Michael’s Jeep continued onward, unaware of the importance of its journey. It had made this trip dozens of times and this trip could be no different as far as it was concerned. First they reached Ventura, then took the 126 east to Santa Clarita, where they turned North on the I-5. From there, it was a straight shot.

“I think we need to have lunch at the Crystal Palace.” Michael suggested. Nick sighed and rolled his eyes in agreement.

The Jeep pounded its way through the heat and into town. It took the Rosedale Highway off-ramp and turned right onto 24th Street. From there it was a quick left and Nick found himself on Buck Owens Boulevard. God, he thought, the bumpkins even named a street after him!

Nick’s face betrayed his thoughts. “This is the best food in town.” Michael said. Knowing he was being had, Nick again rolled his eyes and sighed. Michael smiled in return.

Inside the Palace it was cool. Nick winced when his eyes adjusted and he saw the museum in front of him. “Could this man ever have been any tackier?” he asked. Then came the inevitable. “We’ll take a look around after lunch,” Michael said. Nick bit his lip and followed the hostess to a padded booth.

After lunch, Michael paid the bill and escorted his charge to pictures hanging on a far wall, decorating the staircase to yet another row of display cases filled with Buck Owens history.

“There’s a picture of Buck with a lot of different folks here. Do you recognize any of them?” Michael asked.

Nick played his part and searched the wall. His eyes froze and his mouth fell open.

“Who do you see?”

“Is that who I think it is?” Nick was shocked.

Michael’s fingers had already told Google to find the video. “Here’s some kind of video. Wanna watch it with me?” Nick stared at the phone in disbelief.

Ringo Starr and Buck Owens were the worst actors ever but they sure knew how to sing. They’re gonna put me in the movies! They’re gonna make a big star out of me!

Nick’s mouth hung open as Buck played his red, white, and blue guitar while he and Ringo sang and competed for who was going to be the bigger star. We’ll make a scene about a man that’s sad and lonely … I’ll play the part but I won’t need rehearsing … All I’ll have to do is act naturally!

“Says here that Ringo enjoyed country and decided to sing Act Naturally on a Beatles album after hearing Buck sing it. Imagine that!”

“Wow, not bad!” Nick said.

“I need a drink,” Michael said. “Let’s sit at the bar for a few before we take off.”

Michael ordered a glass of white wine and Nick examined the Cadillac hanging behind the bar. Cheesy, but fascinating.

“Where did he get this?” Nick asked.

The bartender smiled. “Won it.”

“Won it?”

“Card game with Elvis Presley.”

“Not half bad,” Nick said, unaware he was saying it out loud.

“What say you?” Michael raised an eyebrow.

“You win.” Nick was shocked. “You can keep the record.”

As the Jeep headed south toward the 126, Buck Owens sang again, this time at Nick’s request. Michael smiled. A promise is a promise and a good man keeps his word.