The Dancer
Chapter 13
Johnny and Bobby Joe grabbed some hot coffee and a handful of warm rolls and got off to an early start down Interstate 10, heading for California. The sun was just about to peek up over the mountain range behind them. They would reach the California coast in approximately seven hours.
“Johnny, you haven’t said a word since we left Phoenix,” Bobby Joe said. “I guess I know what…I mean, I know who you have on your mind.”
“I’m sure you do, Bobby Joe. The whole thing is so difficult to comprehend. Bobby Joe, I was a lost soul when I pulled into Forest Hills less than 10 days ago!”
“Things happen, Johnny. Give yourself a break. I get the feeling you’ll be seeing Samantha Reed soon enough.”
“That’s what scares me, Bobby Joe. That’s what scares me.”
Bobby Joe turned on the radio. It was Glen Campbell and the ballad, By The Time I Get To Phoenix.
Both men chuckled. Bobby Joe said jokingly, “Glen needs to catch up.”
Johnny smiled and put the pedal to the metal. “Let’s see what this baby can do.”
The two men headed down the highway, chatting about anything and everything. Reliving stories back when they were young boys in Forest Hills and running around town without a care in the world.
“Wildman Clay Hutchins. Whatever happened to that boy?” Johnny asked.
“He was a crazy dude, wasn’t he, Johnny? Remember the time he just walked right through the front door at the Sugar Shack? We walked right in, and we followed him like a couple of fools.”
“What a night that was,” Johnny laughed. “We were crazy teenagers.”
Bobby Joe shook his head. “He’s gone now. Took a job with the Forest Service up near Flagstaff. Something about a heavy-duty equipment accident. I think he was driving a Caterpillar tractor, and it overturned and crushed the poor guy to death.”
“My God!” Johnny said. “Remember when we cruised down Highway 4, and he flipped off a truck driver? We took the last Forest Hills exit, and this big, burly guy without a shirt on followed us in his semi. Clay was driving, jumped the median, and got back on the highway. We had to drive another fifteen miles before we could circle back.”
“Somehow, some way, we survived it all, Johnny. We’re still here, heading down the highway listening to the Highwaymen — Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash, and Kris Kristofferson.”
Bobby Joe smiled at Johnny, reached into his overnight bag, pulled out a cassette, and placed it in the slot. “This is my favorite.”
The two long-time friends eyed the stretch of highway ahead and listened to the Highwaymen and every word of the Bob Seger tune, Against The Wind, with a country twist.
Johnny pulled into a truck stop outside of Blythe. “That was a long stretch, but we’re getting there.”
The waitress took their order. Johnny looked out the window and watched a couple of truckers service their rigs. “Bobby Joe, I’ve got to tell you something I haven’t told anyone yet. I guess I left a sordid detail or two out when I spilled my guts to your father and Judge Haskins.”
Bobby Joe listened as Johnny told a sad story of how he hit rock bottom after losing his mom and dad. “I returned to Los Angeles and started hanging out in the wrong clubs. For the first time in years, I put dancing aside and searched for a new high. First, it was alcohol — an old crutch I had picked up in Vietnam, and then out of nowhere, I discovered another substitute to get me through the day…a new high— a fifteen-minute high which took all the pain away.”
“Thanks to a few friends I had in LA, somehow I worked myself away from crack cocaine, which in a lot of ways had taken over parts of the city — if you had money, then getting a hold of the stuff was easy — if you knew where to go.”
Bobby Joe sat quietly and listened as Johnny told of Esther Manning, who owned the dance studio, a young dance partner by the name of Joni, and a doctor with the last name of Smith — all joining together to bring him back out of the gutter and back to the dance floor.
“And here I am, Bobby Joe. It’s a fine line. You have to work at it every day. In my case, it didn’t take much more heartache to push me over the edge.”
“I know what you’re saying, Johnny. I’ve had my battle with the bottle. Luckily, I have my dad around, my friends…a bunch of angels looking after me.”
“It’s like Judge Haskins said to me the other day. “We’re survivors, Bobby Joe. Let’s go see my friends in LA, load up, and let’s go home to Forest Hills.”
“On the road again, Johnny?”
“Yep, Bobby Joe. We’re on The Road Again.”
The two men glanced out the window and eyed the terrain ahead. For the next few hours, they listened to Willie and The Boys and the roar of the asphalt below. Soon, they would see the Pacific Ocean.
It was just after lunch hour, and Johnny maneuvered his way through what seemed like a disjointed, giant spider web of interstates to Bobby Joe. “How do you drive in this maze?”
“By the seat of your pants some of the time,” Johnny said. “You just hang on. I’m heading straight to Venice Beach. You’ll have your toes in the sand in a little over an hour.”
Bobby Joe kept staring out the window in hopes of catching a glimpse of the ocean. Finally, he caught sight of the breathtaking beauty of the coastline. “There it is, Johnny.” He took off his cowboy hat and let out a roar, sticking his head out the window.
“Settle down, cowboy,” Johnny said as he frantically headed down the home stretch. Forty-five minutes later, they found a parking spot and walked to the beach.
Johnny got a kick out of watching his buddy. He was like a wild mustang let loose from captivity. “I could get used to this,” Bobby Joe said as he took off his shoes and ran up and down the beach.
The two Arizona boys found a hot dog stand, secured a vacated bench, sat down, and stared out over the ocean for the better part of two hours.
“Come on, beach bum,” Johnny said. “We’ve got things to do.”
“The first order of business is the trailer rental. The next stop is to visit my old studio in Anaheim.
A "For Sale" sign was in the window. Lady Manning, as Johnny often referred to her, opened the door and let them in.
“Welcome back, Johnny. You look good. I see you got those locks trimmed.”
“Yes, I did,” Johnny said as he introduced Bobby Joe to Lady Manning and walked him through each room of the vacant studio.
Lady Manning explained. “Right after you left for Arizona, an offer came in to buy the place. It was a great offer. I couldn’t turn it down, and now we have just thirty days to get out of here. Time for me to retire, I guess. I’m hoping things are going to work out for you in Forest Hills.”
“Yes, I think they are. Finally, it’s all coming together.”
“Well, that’s great, Johnny. I saved some of your pictures. Most of them are still on the walls. I gave some of the stuff to Joni. You know her boyfriend, Jake Hammond, don't you? He was always in the wings watching the two of you perform. Well, he popped the question. Looks like it’s the end of the road for me after so many years in the business. But I’m so glad it’s working out for you and Joni.”
“Thank you, Lady Manning,” Johnny said. “We have some work ahead. Need to load up the apartment, grab my parents’ stuff from the storage center, and head back to Forest Hills. The Fallon name will be back in business in a few weeks.”
“That’s lovely, Johnny. I’m so happy for you.”
Johnny and Bobby Joe spent the next morning stuffing the trailer.
“I had no idea you had all this stuff, Johnny.”
“Most of it is mom and dad's. I bet I have every record they ever purchased, dating back to the 1930s. Still got the old Hi-Fi. I’m not sure what we’ll do with it all, but we’ll figure it out,” Johnny said as he locked up the trailer.
“Well, Johnny. Are we ready to hit the road?”
“I think we’re ready. If you’re up for it, we can take turns driving and be in Forest Hills by noon tomorrow.”
“Let’s roll!”
Johnny and Bobby Joe headed for the Arizona border. Johnny fiddled with the radio and found a country station where the DJ was introducing his next song. “And here is a tune written by Hedy West, popularized in 1962 by the Mama’s and the Papa’s, and the song hit the country charts as a No. 1 a year later. Here’s Bobby Bare and 500 Miles Away From Home.”
The two men smiled. Johnny flipped on his brights, and they headed home, leaving the Pacific Ocean behind.
As the final words of the Bobby Bare song faded, Bobby Joe questioned Johnny. “All these songs you hear. Do you have a photographic memory or what?”
“I doubt that,” Bobby Joe said. “For some reason, I can close my eyes, bring up a tune, and dance alone for three minutes at a time.”
“I’m just the opposite. I recognize it when I hear it. But, for the life of me, I can’t remember the name of the song, much less the words.”
“It kept me going in Vietnam, Bobby Joe. Many times, I was alone in the dark. I could conjure up a tune, and for three minutes, I’d pass the time. Just me and the music. Those three minutes turned into three days, and the days turned into months. Without the music rattling around in my head, I’m not sure I would have kept my sanity.”
“What kind of songs, Johnny?”
“Guys like Buddy Holly. Peggy Sue and That’ll Be The Day, Chuck Berry’s Back In The USA, and Elvis…all of Presley’s songs from Hound Dog to Blue Suede Shoes. You name it. I had my own jukebox in my head.”
“Wow, Johnny. I wish I could have been there with you.”
“No. I’m glad you stayed put in Forest Hills. I’m glad you're sitting next to me right now.”
“I wanted to be. You know, Johnny. I failed the darn physical. Something to do with an enlarged heart. They booted me right out of the line.”
They took turns driving. They rolled through Blythe and made it through Phoenix before the sun had peeked up over the Superstition Mountains. Two hours later, they entered the tall pines as the temperature dropped to the mid-40s. Finally, the sign ahead: Forest Hills, 10 miles.
Johnny pulled his truck into his driveway. “We made good time, Bobby Joe. It’s a better drive at night. It makes it so much easier with two drivers.”
“It’s good to be back home. Enjoyed the trip. It’s too bad there’s no oceanfront property in Arizona,” Bobby Joe smiled, glancing over at Johnny. “I know, Johnny. I just reminded you of a George Strait song.”
Johnny walked away, humming the tune. He looked back at his sidekick. “Come on, Bobby Joe. Let’s get this baby unloaded.”
Chapter 14
Robert Gorman was late for church. He heard the sirens in the distance but continued north on Forest Hills Loop Road toward the First Methodist Church when he noticed a fire truck and two ambulances looming larger and larger in his review mirror.
Up ahead, he saw Leo Johnson’s Jeep Cherokee pulled over and stopped on the right side of the road. Gorman quickly pulled in behind Leo’s vehicle and rushed to where Leo was standing.
The fire truck and ambulances blew past the two men and, moments later, turned onto Ramsey Canyon Road.
“It’s the Hideout,” Leo said, pointing his right index finger toward the direction of the smoke.
Three more vehicles pulled over to the side of the road. Inside the lead car were Junior and Mandy Ferguson. Behind them, Clyde Hart was parked in one vehicle, while Paul Spivey and Clifford Steele emerged from the third vehicle.
“My God! I had one of those new-fangled police radios installed in my truck last week,” Junior said. “I just turned it on and heard through all the static…the address they gave…the tavern is in flames.”
The men from the Gentlemen’s Club, along with Mandy, watched the two ambulances emerge from the hill of Ramsey Canyon Road.
The two vehicles were in no hurry. “My God!” Mandy said.
The Forest Hills Police Chief, Wallace Sorenson, pulled up alongside the group, his flashing red light pulsating, but his siren remained silent. “It’s Bernie and Wanda — they’re gone. The fire chief figures it was a gas leak in the kitchen. He’ll know more once they get around to the inspection.”
Thanks for letting us know, Wally.” Leo said, with his head down and tears streaming out of his eyes.
“There’s nothing left up there. Just ashes,” the police chief said as he turned his attention away from his friends to answer a call. “Roger that, I’m on my way.”
Sorenson looked up at the group. “I’m so sorry.”
The Police chief floored his cruiser and sped away. All seven were left standing…stunned and in silence, as they watched the cruiser make the gradual turn down Forest Hills Loop Road and disappear…
The following Sunday, it was standing room only inside the First Methodist Church on Forest Loop Road. The final song, Amazing Grace, is played reverently at the piano by Berlson’s granddaughter, Shelby, a music major and a senior at the University of Arizona in Tucson. She would graduate in May. There wasn’t a day that went by at the Hideout without Wanda and Bernie mentioning Shelby’s name.
The trail of vehicles extended from the church south through the center of town, down Main Street, then curled down Palm Avenue and up the hill to the Forest Lawn Cemetery.
Leo, Robert, Bobby Joe, and Johnny shared one vehicle, a late-model, polished black four-door sedan borrowed from the car lot at Gorman Automotive. Robert parked the car at the bottom of the hill, and the four of them walked together and joined the rest of the gathering as the First Methodist pastor, Ben Oglesong, began the proceedings with an opening prayer, “Our Heavenly Father, we are gathered here today…”
After the ceremony, Judge Haskins joined Leo, Robert, Bobby, Joe, and Johnny. They all looked north across the valley. It was a beautiful day, with blue sky as far as the eye could see. They all looked toward Ramsey Canyon Road and followed the tree line east to the very spot where the Tavern on the Hill used to be.
“A sad day for us all,” Judge Haskins said.
The Judge turned to Johnny. “I know it’s a bad time. Heck, you just got back from California and haven’t had a chance to get your bearings, but I need your help with something. Can you meet me Monday morning in my chambers around eleven o’clock?”
“Sure, Judge. I have some painting to do at the studio. I’ll get started early, get cleaned up, and head over.”
“Thank you, Johnny,” said Judge Haskins as he headed down the hill to his car.
“Johnny, I wonder what that’s all about?” Bobby Joe said.
“I don’t know, Bobby Joe. I guess I’ll find out in the morning.”
Mandy Ferguson said goodbye to the group and hustled off to her art studio. As for the six members of the Gentlemen’s Club, they suddenly realized they had nowhere to go.
Johnny finished his morning chores — including the paint job in the main room of the studio. He picked up some fliers at the print shop on Second Street. The fliers looked good: Grand Opening, Fallon’s Dance Studio, May 1. He also stopped by the newspaper and dropped off an ad. He would need to hire some employees, especially as summer approaches, and parents in Forest Hills and the surrounding towns will be looking for activities to keep their children busy until September, the perfect time to get the show rolling.
He also knew the mood of the town would be very low following the tragedy in Ramsey Canyon. Dancing may be the furthest thing from the minds of the townspeople. He needed to start somewhere, and what better place than with the children of Forest Hills.
His mom and dad started it all in the 1940s — all those children who went through the studio back then are now parents and have children of their own.
As for many of the adults in town, they had lost their way — their place to dance was gone — taken away from them in an instant, and for many of them, all they have left are the memories of the Tavern on the Hill. No longer can they pluck a coin in the jukebox and dance the night away on a Friday or a Saturday night. The tavern is gone, and the music has died right along with it.
“Johnny, come in. Thanks for coming by,” Judge Haskins said. “I see you have a little paint on your nose.”
“I guess I missed a spot, Judge.”
“I know you’re busy getting ready for your opening, but something has come up you might be interested in.”
Judge Haskins shuffled through the papers on his desk. “Johnny, you have inherited some property.”
“I, what?”
The Judge smiled and explained. “Slim Walker owns ten acres of land up in Ramsey Canyon. He wants to deed it all to you.”
“Why, Judge?”
“Well, let's just say Slim remembers a little shoeshine boy, and he’s counting on you, Johnny Fallon, to make things right up there on Ramsey Canyon. For you see, Johnny, that land is smack dab in the center of the ashes of the Hideout, or as Slim likes to still refer to it, The Tavern on the Hill.”
Johnny then looked the Judge square in the eye. “Judge, is this for real?”
“Here are the papers. See for yourself.”
Johnny grabbed the papers and read every page — including the fine print. “My goodness. What am I gonna do with ten acres up on Ramsey Canyon?”
“You’re gonna rebuild the Tavern on the Hill, Johnny. With a little help from your friends, of course.”
Judge Haskins went on to enlighten Johnny on the game plan.
“First of all, Clyde Hart is going to chip in all the lumber, Paul Spivey’s crew will handle all the electrical work, and Mandy and Junior Ferguson have agreed to be a financial partner, along with my help, of course. We’ll all work together to get this done. Your job, of course, will be to turn the inside of the place into a moneymaker. You’ll have free rein. After all, you own the land, and I’m counting on you to turn this business venture into something the entire town will be proud of — complete with the biggest dance floor in the Southwest.”
“Wow, Judge. I don’t know what to say?”
“Just say you’re in.”
“I’m in, Judge. I’m in.”
After lunch, Johnny pulled his ’57 Chevy out of the garage and drove up to Ramsey Canyon. He stood in the middle of what used to be a dance floor. He looked to the east…to the west… to the north, and to the south.
“I can do this!”
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