Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe - Jobs - Newsboy Dave & On-Stage Defibrillator

Episode Date: November 15, 2024

“The door to days gone by is a strange little door.”Today on the podcast, two stories about jobs and some of Dave’s more unusual work experiences. In the first, in a fit of nostalgia he gets a paper route; in the second story he gets a taste of life on the road with a ‘vintage’ rock band.For more information about our brand new album, SO LONG FOR NOW, check out our website, www.vinylcafe.com Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

From the Apostrophe Podcast Network. Hello, I'm Jess Milton and this is Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe. Welcome. Today on the show, we're talking about the world of work. We have two stories about jobs. The second story is one you may not have heard before. It's about the time Dave goes back out on the road with a rock band. But we're going to start with this one. This is a story we recorded up in Yellowknife, Northwest Territories, back in 2006. This is Newsboy Dave.

The door to days gone by is a strange little door, and it can pop open at the oddest of moments. And when it does that, pops open, unbidden, and spills the light of memory at your feet, you know that almost always you're going to walk through the door, even though you're well aware that once you do, there is no telling the strange places you might go. Dave was alone in his record store the last time memory came calling. It was a rainy afternoon, and you could tell it was going to be slow. David had anything but yesterdays on his mind. He was using the rainy afternoon to flip through a couple of boxes of albums that he'd been meaning to go through for a couple of weeks now.

He was firmly rooted in the here and now. He'd stopped to make a pot of tea and he had just begun again, just picked up the very next album and there it was, the little Dora memory and it was already way too late to do anything about it. The door was wide open and Dave was already through it. Oh my, he said, Appaloosa. He hadn't seen the album for 15 years, maybe 20. Put it on, of course, and that was the end of that afternoon. Appaloosa only ever made the one album produced by Dave's old buddy, Al Cooper. How many years since he had seen Al? Al Cooper, who had famously insinuated himself onto the studio floor during the recording of Bob Dylan's Like a Rolling Stone. Dave looked up and he realized that side one of the Appaloosa record had already been over for a couple of minutes.

The needle as lost in the groove of memory as he was. That night after supper, he sat down at the computer and he spent several hours drifting around like a little lost boat on the foggy lake of memory. Appaloosa had led him to Al. Al was leading him all over the place. Morley was already asleep by the time Dave came to bed. He was tempted to wake her, but he didn't. He waited until the next morning. Morley opened her eyes and there

he was waiting for her. He said, guess what I found on the net last night? Morley sat up and squinted at him. My gloves, she said. A 1973 Gottlieb Deluxe Sure Shot, said Dave. The one with a green background. A what, said Morley? It was only the greatest pinball game ever made. Way better than the later version with a blue background. It's for sale, said Dave. Only about 20 Sure Shots were distributed in North America. It was a game of pinball pool set in a 20-style pool hall. Morley rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom. Dave rolled out of bed and followed her. Beauty of the Sure Shots, said Dave, is if any of the lights burn out, you can replace them with bulbs you can pick up at a hardware store, cheap. Morley said, imagine that. pick up at a hardware store cheap. Morley said, imagine that. I know, said Dave, holding out his hand for the toothpaste. He was still talking at supper, explaining how the Sure Shot was the game

that he and Al Cooper had played the autumn they did the college tour, the one along the northeastern seaboard. They lugged the game around in the back of the sound truck and set it up backstage every night. The sure shot was bright and it was loud. Oh joy, said Marley. The idea to pay for the pinball game by getting a second job didn't flare until the next week. Came to him while he was walking to work. Now, we could have come up with the money from somewhere else. It wasn't about the money. It was about the principle. Morley was right.

The pinball thing was extracurricular. So he'd get an extracurricular job to pay for it, a part-time job. David never had a part-time job. But when he was a kid, he had always wanted to be a paperboy. Big Narrows, the town where Dave grew up, the Boxer brothers had a lock on the town's one paper route. As each brother outgrew the route they passed it on like a peerage to the next brother in line. That's when the idea came. Dave stomping along the street,

grinning foolishly as the kaleidoscope of summer's past twisted through his head. He'd get a paper route. The idea of rising early to deliver papers would be like closing a circle. It'd be a return to a simpler time. It would be more than a return to a simpler time. In the midst of his busy life, it would be like one of those things that monks did, like bookbinding or bread making. It would be his meditation.

It would be his practice. It wouldn't be his role to deliver the papers. The natural state of the papers was on the front porches. Dave's contribution would be to release the papers so they could deliver themselves. The paper route would bring patience into his life, not to mention a pinball game. He called the paper that afternoon. They had a route in his neighborhood. He called the paper that afternoon. They had a route in his neighborhood.

He could start Monday morning. It was only after he had hung up that he realized the best thing of all. By doing this, Dave was going to be setting an example for his children. He'd be living a principle that he'd always tried to teach them. The important principle of delayed pleasure. If you wanted something, you had to earn it before you could enjoy it. He sat down to talk to Sam that Sunday night. When he finished explaining everything, he sat back and he smiled. Sam said, you're going to deliver paper so you can buy a pinball machine, right?

Dave smiled. Yeah, that's right. Sam said, that is so embarrassing. The next morning, his first on the job, Dave woke up five minutes before the alarm went off. It was still dark out. He reached out and he turned off the alarm before it rang so it wouldn't wake Morley. He had laid out his clothes the night before, his green sweatshirt, beige spring jacket, a pair of sandals. He figured the sandals would force him to move slowly. He whispered into the kitchen and boiled water for tea, slowly. Filled a stainless steel thermos with the tea and added milk, slowly. He was moving like a monk. He was supposed to pick up his papers at Lawler's Drugstore, and when he got there, he would sit quietly and drink his tea before he set off.

Well, when he arrived at Lawler's, he was surprised to find he was not alone. There was a man there already, throwing stacks of newspapers into the back of a little red car. This man was moving quickly, urgently actually, loading hundreds of papers into his car. Driver's door was open and the tape machine was playing some kind of Asian music. He heaved the last bundle onto the passenger seat. He leaned over and snipped the bundle open with a pair of wire clippers. And then he nodded curtly at Dave and he jumped into his car and he peeled off. There were two small packs of papers left. Dave figured

they must be his piles. They were bound together with wire. No one had said anything about wire. Dave tried to work the pile open with his hands. No one could have broken open the pile with their hands. So Dave ran home, or he tried to run home. It's hard running when you're wearing monk's sandals. He sort of skipped home. It was almost noon before Dave finished his paper route. When he got to work, he got a call from the Circulation Department. We

received two late complaints said the lady, one from number 54 and one from number 50. Dave checked his list. Number 54 was his neighborhood nemesis Mary Turlington. Number 50 was his house. Morley had phoned in a complaint. Dave was determined to get better at this. He decided he needed practice delivering the papers. He rolled them into cylinders. He used elastic bands to secure them.

He took them out to the backyard, and he practiced throwing the papers at a box that he stuck at the far end of the yard. Smiling every time, he made a direct hit, working in the zone until Sam came outside and said, Couldn't you wait until the sun goes down? I have a reputation, you know. Thursday morning was as perfect as a morning could be. The sky was warm and blue and dotted with quiet clouds. And Dave was pulling his wagon along the sidewalk happily,

stomping every time he had a paper to toss. But his release was off. Tosses were falling short. He put more muscle into the next toss, and it was short too. So at the next house, he eyeballed the door, standing on the sidewalk trying to visualize his throw the way athletes do. And then he cocked his arm back like a discus thrower, and he let the paper fly, following through his eyes on the paper as it soared through the air, over the front lawn, past the stairs. And he's wondering how come the front door is opening as he's watching in disbelief as the door opens wide

and his paper smacks Mary Turlington right in the face. Things just weren't working out the way he had imagined. His mornings were rushed, not relaxing. His feet were sore, his shoulders were aching, and worse, he was doing a lousy job. Each day, the silent, swift-moving Asian guy was a reminder of that. And then one morning, the papers weren't there. Dave got to Lawler's, and the Asian guy was sitting on the sidewalk in Lawler's doorway. He held up his cell phone, and he said, Printing problem. No papers for an hour.

Dave wasn't sure what he should do. The guy said, you want to go for coffee? Dave hadn't expected that. Man's name was Thanh Tran. He was from Vietnam. Thanh, said Dave, or Tran? Thanh, said the man, waving his hand over his head. It means the color of the sky.

Dave followed his arm across the sky. It was a beautiful morning. White clouds congregating over the city like a pack of puffy elephants. They walked to Kenny Wong's Cafe. They ordered eggs and toast and orange juice and coffee. Dave knows all the stories of the Vietnamese boat people. The fearsome crossing of the South China Sea, the leaky, terrifyingly crowded boats, the typhoons, the Thai pirates, the corrupt refugee camps.

So he didn't ask how Thanh had made it to Canada. Instead he said, what did you used to do in your country? Thanh told Dave he'd been a doctor in Vietnam. Here he said, I'm not able to practice. He said it without rancor or even frustration. He said it like it was just the way it was. He said he had two jobs. He worked days at a restaurant and nights as a cleaner.

Three jobs then, said Dave. Two, said Ton, counting them off on his fingers. One restaurant, two cleaner. And three, said Dave, the papers. The papers make three. Papers, not real jobs, said Dave, the papers. The papers make three. Papers, not real jobs, said Tom. He was smiling. I do papers on the way to the restaurant.

Then he said, how many jobs do you have? We are, all of us, ultimately insignificant in the turning of this old world. But mostly as the world turns, we're too busy to face the truth of the thing. Dave took in a deep breath. He felt suddenly foolish, felt juvenile. He felt diminished sitting in front of this quiet man. Hardly one job, he said.

I own a little record store. You do papers on the way to the store, said Ton? Just for a while, said Dave. Just for a couple of months, until I can buy something. Me too, said Ton. I want to buy a new washing machine and dryer for my wife. Then maybe a new fridge. Dave took in a deep breath. I want to buy a pinball game, he said. What, said Tom? A pinball game, said Dave. He held his arms

out in front of him as if he was working the flippers. A machine, he said, a game, there's a ball and a, I know pinball, said Tom. Oh, said David. David misinterpreted the look on Ton's face. Ton wasn't confused. He was disappointed. Dave said, it's just a game. Ton said, I know, I know. What game? Oh, said Dave, it's called the sure shot. It's a game like pool where blue or green backgrounds, said Dave, it's called the Sure Shot. It's a game like pool where blue or green background set on. And in that moment, right then, right there, they became friends.

Sitting there in the booth of Kenny Wong's Cafe on that beautiful and soft morning before anybody else was up. They talked about music. Blood, sweat, and tears, said Ton, my favorite group. It was Al Cooper's band. Al Cooper had put blood, sweat, and tears together. The game arrived three months later on a truck from Indianapolis. It came on a Thursday, but Dave waited for Sunday to set it up. When the record store wasn't open for business and Taun wasn't working either. Delayed pleasure. Is there any better?

He invited Taun and his family to the store. Morley and Sam joined them. They ordered dinner and then everyone played the sure shot. Dave and Ton had the first games, and they were both horrible. Tilting the machine all over the place, completely blowing games. I thought you said you were good, said Ton. Ah, said Dave, once. It'll take a while to get the feel back.

He'd always thought that the thrill of pinball was being in the zone, playing well, getting the game lit up like a Christmas tree. But pinball never made him as happy as that Sunday evening, sitting in his store with Ton Tron and his wife as they passed around boxes of Kenny Wong's crispy salt cod. His son, Sam, leaning against the machine, watching Ton's 12-year-old daughter, Sarah, pulling the plunger back and putting a ball into play. Sam was staring at Sarah's face, not the game. Flashing lights and clunking

bells and best of all, laughter filling Dave's little store. Thank you very much. applause That was Newsboy Dave. We recorded that story in Yellowknife, Northwest Territories, back in 2006. That was the first time Stuart and I traveled to the north together. We spent two weeks in the Northwest Territories, in Yellowknife, Inuvik, and Tuktoyaktuk. We fished in the Great Slave Lake, swatted mosquitoes on the Dempster Highway, and swam in Frobisher Bay. Well, I swam in Frobisher Bay. Cold water was never Stuart's thing. It was on that trip that I fell in love with the North.

There's a spirit there and the people that live there that I really connected to. They're more connected to the land, and I've always wondered if that has something to do with the light. They're more connected to the land. And I've always wondered if that has something to do with the light. When we were there recording that story, it was June, which means eternal sunshine. Sounds amazing, but it did not feel that way to me. I mean, there are ways to deal with this. Pretty much everyone has blackout blinds, but you can still feel the sun.

I always have a hard time sleeping when it's light out. Even when the sun is blocked out, it's like my body saying, hey, I know it's still light out. You can't fool me. I know what's behind those blackout blinds. But maybe that energy is part of the spirit that I'm talking about. You can feel it. Maybe it's just me, but it feels like the people who live in the North are more connected to the cycles of the sun and the earth than the rest of us. I'm drawn to the North and I'm determined one day to live there. We're going to take a short break now, but we'll be back in a couple of minutes with another story about work.

So stick around. Welcome back. Story time now. This is a story you might not have heard before. It's a deep cut from the archives, an old one, and one we haven't played very many times over the years. one of the very few stories that has never, ever appeared either in a book or on a CD. Until now. We have a new Vinyl Cafe CD out this fall. Over an hour of stories that have never been on CD before. The album is called So Long For Now. Here's a sneak peek. This is one of the stories featured on the album. From way back in 2004, this is Stuart McLean with On Stage Defibrillator. There was a rainy Thursday at the beginning of this month. You might remember it. Day too chilly and damp for anyone to be wandering the streets.

A day everyone should have been allowed to stay in bed, which is essentially what Dave did. He didn't really stay in bed. He didn't even stay at home. He went to work as usual, but no one came through the door of his record store until hours after he arrived. So it was almost as good as staying home. Dave stomping through the front door, flicking on the lights and the little heater by the cash. Dave slipping into the store like he was slipping on an old sweater. He plugged in the kettle and put the first act of Rigoletto on the turntable. He paid some bills. He logged on and checked an item he was bidding for on eBay. A page torn from a 1960 British newspaper. A page that featured an ad for a group called the Beatles,

playing the next night, according to the ad, at the Cavern Club. Dave's bid was still the highest, and feeling good about that, he pulled a porcelain canister from the shelf above the cattle and brewed a mug of a first flush Darjeeling, the champagne of teas. He carried the mug of tea to the chair behind the cash, and he settled down with Richie Underburger's book about folk rock called Turn, Turn, Turn. Lorna, the letter carrier, was the next person through the front door. That was 50 pages, two phone calls, and 14 computer checks later. Seven hours left in the auction. If Dave's bid held, he knew

a collector in Boston who would buy the newspaper from him for three times the price he was going to pay, and that would be a good week's work. Lorna banged through the door. It's freezing out there, she said, walking behind the counter, dropping Dave's mail in his lap, plugging the kettle in. Dave pushed the canister of Darjeeling toward her. He flipped the mail onto the counter, dropping Dave's mail in his lap, plugging the kettle in. Dave pushed the canister of Darjeeling toward her. He flipped the mail onto the counter without looking at it. He didn't get to it for an hour after another cup of tea and another few computer checks. When he did, he couldn't believe what he found. An envelope from a hotel in Michigan, And inside the envelope, a piece of hotel stationery with a scrawled note. Thanks, he read.

It was good to see you. I slept well last night. First time in maybe a year. I'm feeling a whole lot better. Thought you should have this, a souvenir or something. Love. The note was signed with one letter. A big round letter B, Bobby Kugel. There was still

something inside the envelope, a kid's hockey card, worn and soft. Dave knew it wasn't just any old card. Before he touched it, he went to the bathroom and washed his hands. It was Eddie Shore's 1933 Boston Bruin card. 1933 being the year Shore checked Ace Bailey so hard he knocked him right out of the NHL. Dave pulled the card out of the envelope and stared at the black and white picture of Shore skating in front of a big white star. Shore wearing the old Boston Bruins jersey with a bear lumbering across the front. Bobby Kugel's father had given Bobby that card when he was a boy. Bobby had carried the card with him for over 40 years. He had it in his tuxedo pocket on the day he got married.

I wanted Eddie there too, he said when he pulled it out at the reception. Later that night, his wife watched him lean the card against the lamp on the hotel bedside table. What are you doing, she asked. I'm just setting Eddie up, said Bobby. I always set him up like this at night. Are you out of your mind, said his wife. Bobby put the hockey card in his suitcase. From then on, he only took it out on the nights he was on the road, which was about 260 nights a year. Dave picked up the phone and called Morley.

He got her answering machine. I just got a letter from Bobby Kugel, he said. You'll never believe what he sent me. He was staring at the bear on Eddie Shore's chest. The bear seemed to be moving, moving the way Dave always thought Bobby moved, with the loping grace of a bear crossing a mountain meadow. He turned the card over and read the little paragraph about Eddie Shore. It made mention of Shore's rugged play, but it didn't mention his bizarre behavior as the owner of the AHL Springfield Indians, which he purchased in 1939, didn't mention, for instance, that Shore

made his netminders practice with a belt tied around their necks and attached to the crossbar of the goal. Bobby Kugel loved that story. Bobby used to tell it to every new musician who joined one of his tours. Bobby Kugel is a music promoter, has been promoting rock and roll shows since he was 16 years old. He'd drop down beside the new kid on the bus and move in real close, dropping his voice low like Jack Nicholson in The Shining, and he'd say, kid, did I ever tell you about Eddie Shore? They'd never give him any trouble after that. They'd do whatever he wanted. They'd double up their hotel rooms, whatever. Bobby knew how to squeeze a nickel from every corner. He also knew

how to pop up at the damnedest times. Dave hadn't heard from Bobby Kugel for years, and then he got a phone call about a month ago, late at night, late like 2, 3 in the morning, the time of night when a ringing phone scares the hell out of you, the time of night when a phone call can only mean bad news. Did I wake you? Said the voice at the other end of the line. Bobby? Said Dave. Is that you? Sounded like he was phoning from a sawmill. In fact, he was phoning from a bus. Where are you, said Dave, trying gamely to

get his own bearings. We are on Highway 95, just past that barbecue joint where we stopped for ribs at 83 on the other side of Marion. You know, coming up to the junction where 42 meets 61. What, said Dave? He had no idea what Bobby was talking about. Oh, said Bobby, we're in Ohio. We played Fort Wayne last night. Within anyone's life, there are a handful of people who make a big impression. Sometimes it's a favorable impression. Sometimes it's otherwise. Bobby Kugel has loomed big in Dave's life since the day they met. Are you okay, said Dave, wondering about his own pounding heart, the shot of adrenaline the ringing phone had sent through his system. I am definitely not okay, said Bobby Kugel. I'm all messed up, Davey, said Bobby.

Ever since Hank died, I can't seem to get on track. I don't sleep anymore. I'm definitely not okay. I'm all messed up. Dave had never heard Bobby talk like this before. The Bobby Kugel he knew used to love his life. Bobby Kugel was always okay. Are you kidding, he used to say.

Bobby used to live for the road, for cutting deals. Whenever Bobby pulled off something good, browbeat a hall manager to cut the rent, knock down an axe guarantee, grabbed a few TV spots for the show he was humping around. Whenever he pulled a few extra bucks to put in his pocket, Bobby could hardly contain himself. One of the first things he ever said to Dave was, I learned everything I need to know about this business from watching The Godfather. Which wasn't exactly true. Bobby had grown up in the business.

His father, Nate, owned a spot on the St. Clair River called the Starlight Lounge. Nate used to bring all the old dance bands to town, Guy Lombardo, Glenn Miller, the Johnny Downs Orchestra. Bobby learned the business at his daddy's knee. When Bobby was just a kid, barely 16, he talked Nate into letting him promote his first show, rock and roll, of course. He hit the ground running and he never stopped. Are you kidding? Over the years, he booked shows for just about everyone in the business. Deep Purple, Alice Cooper, Ozzy Osbourne, Iggy Pop.

Bobby Kugel was the first guy to bring Bob Seger into Canada. He booked him into the starlight while his dad watched his kid in amazement. So Bobby hit the road and he found that life on the road suited him and once you were out there you start hearing about the other road warriors. Bobby had heard about Dave from Hank Snow. Hank was so effusive about this kid from Cape Breton that Bobby had to meet him. They met on a surly autumn day in Thunder Bay, Ontario, 1974. Gray sheets of rain lashing across Lake Superior from Duluth. They met in a coffee shop on Algoma Street.

A little joint with a counter and stools and a bottle of ketchup and vinegar at every station. It was 3.30 in the afternoon. They both ordered breakfast. Bobby slipped into story mode even before the coffee came. Did I ever tell you the time I booked Arthur Brown, said Bobby. Seeing as how they'd only spent five minutes together and the subject of Arthur Brown had never come up, Dave thought this might be a question that could go unanswered. So did I, said Bobby again, leaning forward, picking up the salt shaker and shaking some salt into the palm

of his hands and licking it. No, said Dave, no, never. It was, said Bobby, settling back, both arms stretched along the back of the booth, Bobby getting comfortable, Bobby looking around to see if there was anyone else in earshot who should hear this. It was, said Bobby, just after his big hit, which I can't seem to remember. I am the god of hell fire, said Dave, interrupting, drumming on the tabletop with his hands, the waitress looking over and frowning. I got a call from New York the morning of the show, said Bobby Kugel.

Arthur's manager hadn't been paying him, so Arthur hadn't been paying his band, and the band had had split and I got this call telling me Arthur wasn't coming. Well I'd sold 2,000 tickets and I said to hell he's not coming. Put him on a plane. Now he arrived just before the show and of course he didn't have his costumes or his props or anything which was a big problem because Arthur used to do this thing where he set himself on fire when he sang that song. And everyone knew that and there was no way we weren't going to light him up. So I got an old metal lampshade, and we packed it up with styrofoam.

I think it was styrofoam, I forget, whatever it was. We soaked it in lighter fluid, we tied a red checked tablecloth around him for a cape, and then we put the lampshade on his head, and just as we pushed him out on stage, we set the thing on fire. Bobby sat back and grinned. Well, said Dave. Well, said Bobby, it flared up a little bigger than we expected. What happened, said Dave. It was quite a sight, said Bobby. Arthur stood there for a moment and everyone was going crazy. And then the cape caught fire. And he jumped off the stage and he ran right through the crowd and out the front door and across down the lawn and jumped

in the river. He was only on stage for less than a minute, but no one asked for their money back. I wouldn't ask for my money back, said Dave. Are you kidding, said Bobby. A few hours later in the penalty box of the Fort Williams Gardens, Bobby Kugel offered Dave a job. I want you to come out with me after Christmas, he said. offered Dave a job. I want you to come out with me after Christmas, he said. Where, said Dave? Now this was 28 years ago. Everywhere, said Bobby Kugel. I am going out with one of the great voices of R&B history and I want you with me. And that's how it started. That's how Bobby and Dave became traveling partners. For a couple of years, Dave and Bobby traveled back and forth across North America like a couple of fur traders. David lost track of the nights he had ridden shotgun while Bobby drove

some rattle trap motor home through the night. A can of rye spiked ginger ale between his thighs, his medicine. Good chunk of those years, Hank Ballard had been asleep in the back. Good chunk of those years, Hank Ballard had been asleep in the back. Hank Ballard and the Midnighters burned up the airwaves in the early 1950s. It was Hank Ballard, not Chubby Checker, who wrote the twist. He put it out on the B-side of a ballad called Teardrops on Your Letter. And Chubby's version was so close to Hank's that the first time Hank heard it, he thought it was him singing. Hey, said Hank,

I'm on the hit parade. That was long before Dave joined the circus. That was way back when Dave was still a kid in Cape Breton. And now Dave was standing in the middle of his bedroom on a cordless phone, his sleeping wife in the bed he had just left. He was in the middle of his bedroom, in the middle of the night, in the middle of his life. Long way from Hank Ballard. Long way from rock and roll. But he had the phone cranked to his ear talking about Hank to Bobby Kugel, who was on a bus somewhere in the middle of, where did he say, Indiana, Ohio? Morley was beginning to roll around. Bobby, whispered Dave. It's 2.30 in the morning here. My wife is asleep. I'm going downstairs to the kitchen. I still can't believe he's dead, said Bobby Kugel. He was only 66. Now that's not true, said Dave, as he walked carefully down the stairs, the dog, Arthur, following him, hopefully.

As he walked carefully down the stairs, the dog, Arthur, following him, hopefully. You know that's not true, said Dave. Anna found the papers. He was at least 75. Whatever, said Bobby Kugel. He was a pioneer, and he was still rocking. Dave couldn't argue with that. By the time Dave had come along, Hank hadn't had a hit for years, but he had kept going. He had kept on playing right to the end.

Hank always said, if you were looking for longevity, you should take a big dose of rock and roll. Better than caffeine, he used to say. Good for your soul, good for your psyche, good for your everything. I miss him so much, Davey, said Bobby Kugel. I miss him so much, Davey, said Bobby Kugel. And then Bobby Kugel hung up, which was such a Bobby Kugel thing to do. 2.30 in the morning, Bobby on a bus in Ohio or wherever he was, Dave standing in his kitchen wondering what he should do now.

I'm worried, said Dave to Morley the next morning. I think I should go and see him. The last time Dave saw Bobby Kugel, Bobby had weighed over 300 pounds. Bobby and his burgers. Bobby and his donuts. Like all people who eat more than they should, Bobby did a lot of his eating in private, slipping out by himself for a donut and a burger after dinner. In public, Bobby liked to feed the people around him. After a show, you'd go to your room and fall into bed, and you'd be lying there, and you'd just know there was going to be a knock on your door. And sure enough, at three o'clock in the morning, there it was. And you'd open the door, and there was Bobby grinning at you with a greasy paper bag of french fries in one hand and

a pizza in the other. I don't know what you like, so I told him to load it up with a bit of everything and double the cheese. Hope you like cheese. And you couldn't not invite him in when he'd gone to all that trouble, so he would come in and there would go another night, Dave sitting there until dawn eating pizza. Bobby Kugel sitting across the room ripping the filters off his cigarettes before he lit them. There's poison in the filters, he used to say. Rolling a filter between his finger and flicking it vaguely towards the nearest garbage can. Some kind of fiber, I don't know, that's what kills people. Not the tobacco. Dave got on a plane on Wednesday evening. The plan was he would meet the bus and Bobby Kugel in Philadelphia. He would stay with the band over the weekend through Harrisburg, Scranton, Buffalo, and Toledo. At home, Dave was talking reluctance.

At home, with Morley, Dave was talking apprehension. He was talking duty, but that's not what he was feeling. Secretly, Dave was delighted to be heading back on the road. It had been, unbelievably, Secretly, Dave was delighted to be heading back on the road. It had been, unbelievably, 23 years since he had left the world of rock and roll behind him. He was ready for a bit of Hank Ballard's caffeine. He was ready for late nights and loud music and all-night parties on an all-night bus. He called Bobby Kugel on Wednesday night to confirm the details. I forgot to ask, said Dave, who were you out with? White Leopard, said Bobby.

Oh no, said Dave. But Bobby had already hung up. It was a three-month white leopard tour of the southern United States, Alabama, Mississippi, Texas, and God help him, Louisiana, that had effectively ended Dave's days on the road. Summer of 1979, so hot you could barely breathe. a never-ending series of 2,000 seat arenas and overnight trips on a bus with no beds it didn't matter no one was interested in sleeping white leopards drummer al a thin man with a head of hair that would put frank zappa to shame would sit in the front of the bus pounding a guitar hour after hour. Lou, who did sound on the show, singing along, if you could call it singing, making up lyrics to Al's improvisations. They had discovered Jack Daniels, and each night Lou's lyrics kept getting more and more raucous,

more and more lurid. Dave would never forget the road from Yoakum to Woodsboro, sitting there buried in the latest Rolling Stone and just the other side of the San Antonio River, the bus flipped over. It just drifted off the road into the ditch and made one long graceful roll and landed 360 degrees later with a soft plop on its wheels in the middle of a cotton field. And Dave was the only one who noticed. Bobby, who was driving, had nodded off and didn't bother to wake for the accident or its aftermath. So I was tired, is all he said later. Al kept playing his guitar as if nothing had happened. Dave crawled out a window and went for help. When he came back an hour later, they were all on the bus, everyone asleep except for Al.

Al still playing. Louis asleep in the chair beside him was covered in lasagna. Actually, it all looked pretty normal. Dave left the road several months later, but that's another story. Now he was in Pittsburgh waiting by the carousel for his bag in the Greater Pittsburgh International Airport, vaguely wondering if he was still up for this. By the time Dave got to the hotel, the bus was almost ready to pull out. There

was a middle-aged woman in a blue pea jacket standing by the bus door. She was holding a clipboard. I'm Ruth Todd, she said. Ruth looked like Dave's grade three teacher. Not the sort of woman Dave was used to seeing on these trips. I'm the tour nurse, said Ruth. Do you have any allergies? Are you taking any medication you need help with? And then she turned to a man who was struggling with a black road case. That can go down under, Phil, she said, pointing at the luggage bins. We don't need that on the bus. And then she turned to Dave,

who was following the black case quizzically. It's nothing, she said. It's just the onstage The band was already on the bus. Dave climbed aboard and was greeted with a round of applause. A paunchy, balding man, peering at a laptop and sitting on the couch by the bar, looked up at him over his glasses and motioned at the seat beside him. Dave stared at him blankly. The man with the laptop held his hands apart like he was inviting Dave to hug him. It's Al, man. Al.

Al, the skinny, long-haired Frank Zappa double, looked like a high school principal. Or an orthodontist. Or someone you'd meet at a sales convention or a hockey game or pretty much anywhere. Just checking the markets, he said, snapping the laptop shut. Just like the old days, they drove through the night, except unlike the old days, it wasn't long before people began to drift back to the bunks at the back of the bus. It turned out White Leopard hadn't been on the road for years either. Al wasn't even in the music business anymore. Al had grown up to be an investment dealer. Lou was a food importer. The tour was just for old time's sake. White Leopard

were just indulging themselves and their fans. About an hour after they left Philadelphia, Bobby Kugel appeared from the back lounge where he had been settling the night show, going over the expenses and the gate. He folded himself into the seat beside Dave. My knees are killing me, he said. They've been killing you for years, said Dave. Like these guys, said Bobby, meaning the band. Can you believe these guys? What, said Dave?

You'd think they'd give it up for good, said Bobby. Hank didn't give it up, said Dave. That's different, said Bobby. No,'t give it up, said Dave. That's different, said Bobby. No, it's not different, said Dave. They sat in silence for a while, the bus humming along through the night. They sat there in the silent, soft, yellow light of the bus. They sat there cradling their drinks. They passed a little house all lit up, yellow and flickering, someone else who couldn't sleep. And then Bobby said, do you think Hank wasted his talent? Do you think he was a failure? What are you talking about, said Dave.

It was someone at his funeral, said Bobby. They said he wasted his talent. They said after the twist and all, he should have stopped touring. He should have produced or stuck to writing. He wrote the twist, said Dave. Yeah, yeah, said Bobby. Dave took a swallow of his beer and he reached out and he put his hand on Bobby's shoulder. Bobby, look at these guys.

They left the road and they had to come back. These guys are never going to have another hit. I know that, said Bobby. They know that too, said Dave. Doesn't mean this is a waste. I don't know, said Bobby. Bobby, said Dave, all those shows with Hank, those were some of the greatest shows I ever saw. Those were some of the greatest shows anyone ever saw. You know that. And you know what? Those shows wouldn't have happened without you. You made that possible for Hank. And you know what? The joy of creation has nothing to do with business. Who knows what people are going to think 50 years from now? Maybe Hank was just out of sync with his era. Sometimes it takes decades to find your audience.

We sure had fun, muttered Bobby. Dave would have kept going, but Bobby's head was slowly dropping onto his chest. And Dave took his hand off his shoulder and he got up and he walked over to Lou and he said, Can I join you, man? And they talked until dawn. Anyway, I thought you'd like to know all that, just in case one day you drop into the Vinyl Cafe. Because if you do, you might notice a frame hanging on the wall behind the cash register. And if you looked at it carefully, you would see there were two things in the frame. The week after, Bobby Kugel sent Dave

Eddie Shore's hockey card and his note that said, I am sleeping better than I have for a year. Dave went into the upstairs room above his record store and he fetched one of the most sought after treasures in the world of record collecting. A 10 inch red vinyl disc, the Royals greatest hits. The Royals were a doo-wop group that featured the young Hank Ballard. These were the days before Ballard steered the Royals away from doo-wop towards the jump blues that would put a lot of money in their pockets. These were the years before the twist. The records worth maybe 10, maybe 15,000 dollars. Dave took the record and the hockey card over to Dorfman's, and he had Alan Dorfman put them in a frame,

the old Hank Ballard doo-wop record with Bobby Kugel's Eddie Shore hockey card. It's what we do with the things we care about. We hold on to them even after they're gone. We try to hold on to our friends and our lovers, after they're gone. We try to hold on to our friends and our lovers, and when they slip through our fingers like Hank Ballard slipped away from Bobby Kugel, we hold on to the little pieces of paper that connect us to them. The ticket stubs, the restaurant bills, we hold on to them like photographs. We put them in drawers and scrapbooks and frames, our little paths to the

past. Thank you very much. I love the end of that story. Stuart wrote that years ago, back in 2004, and I liked it then, but I love it now because, of course, I've held on to his work, on to our work. I've held on to it so that the memories don't slip through my fingers. And I've tried, just like Dave at the end of that story, to put those memories in a frame.

That's what I do on this podcast. I'm trying to hold on to these memories, these stories, these characters. I'm trying to hold on to them for me, but for you too. His stories have become your stories. They've become our stories. And it's how we are all remembered through story. It's how we stop people from slipping away completely. Little paths to the Past. Alright, that's it for today. But we'll be back here next week with two more Dave and Morley stories, including this one. They were back on the deck the next morning.

Morley settled into a shady corner with a pile of magazines. There was still no one around. It was a it was a little spooky. Where is everyone, she said. Ship of the damned, said Dave. Dave went downstairs again at 1130 to fetch sunscreen. There was a lineup at the dining room door. Men in shorts and sandals and knee-length black socks. You've been on this cruise? Women in oversized sunglasses carrying large purses. Lunch isn't for half an hour, said Dave as he handed Morley the sunscreen. Do you think they know something we don't? That's next week on the podcast.

I hope you'll join us. that's next week on the podcast i hope you'll join us backstage at the vinyl cafe is part of the apostrophe podcast network the recording engineer is eternal sunshine greg de clute totally amazing but also kind of annoying i can see you behind that blackout blind de clute themeot. Theme music is by Danny Michelle, and the show is produced by Louise Curtis, Greg DeCloot, and me, Jess Milton. Let's meet again next week. Until then, so long for now.