Dale Hatcher knew that joining this tour would uproot his life. Lately, he felt like his musical path was in a rut. Hatch hoped his decision to join his father’s old band full of has-beens might jump-start his lackluster career. Instead, he was the pack mule, being the only one strong enough to haul the speaker stacks up the flight of stairs to rehearsal. At least his hometown cover-tune band had a couple of lackeys that could haul equipment for them.
Hatch was asked to join “the Misadventures” by Victor Bolin, the guitarist. Back in the late ‘70s, Victor and Hatch’s dad were inseparable. Victor Bolin and Tony Hatcher had three strong tours before the big breakup. Tony’s disappearance during the Day Old Wine Tour tore the band apart. Understandably so, as Tony was a huge presence at center stage. His father left some mighty big footprints for Hatch to fill, even after all these years.
Hatch’s father vanished before he was born. Various theories bounced around. The music scene in the 1970s was chaotic, with plenty of drugs, free sex, and various shady characters hanging around the band. No one knew if Tony was dead or just off the grid.
This tour was a reunion for all of them. The group never even considered a reunion until recently. Hatch was plugging in the mikes when he asked Victor why they never had any reunions over the decades.
“We were waiting for all of our knee replacements to heal up in the same time frame,” said Vic.
It didn’t take long to learn that Vic was a wise-ass but would answer his questions if he was patient.
“No, but seriously, Doug was the holdout. He had sole ownership of the name. Without his approval, there could be no legal reunion.”
“What was his hang-up?”
“Well, it’s hard to say. Doug had been very despondent over the disappearance of… your dad, and he wanted to leave it all behind. Without the Misadventures name, what was the point? We wouldn’t be able to get a decent gig without it.”
Doug Dunn was the bassist and founding member of the band. He had recently passed away from natural causes at the age of seventy-four. The attorneys worked it out so the surviving members had the right to use the name.
They were calling it “the Misadventures Grand Reunion Tour”, but Vic privately referred to it as “the Misadventures Grand-parents Tour”. Instead of selling concert T-shirts, he suggested compression socks.
They made jokes, but in truth, it was going to be fun. It beat the hell out of singing another Green Day song for the eighty-millionth time. At least he had family ties to this project. His dad wrote some of these songs. And it was great hanging around Vic and his bandmates.
That afternoon, He and Vic were going through the basement, where the memorabilia was stored. Hatch convinced the guys to adopt modern marketing practices. Merchandise was a great income source, and fans would overpay for keepsakes at the shows.
Nobody had opened these boxes in years and it was quite a mess to organize. They found albums, cassettes, posters, and a handful of booklets that were left over from the final tour. Most of the electronic stuff was obsolete, but they did make one big score: The cloth backdrop with the Misadventures logo in phosphorescent paint. They immediately agreed to resurrect it for the tour.
“This logo is pure seventies. Who came up with this?”
“That was Doug,” answered Vic. “He had all kinds of stuff with that logo. I guess you call it “merch” now. Not just shirts. He had kerchiefs, caps, bumper stickers, jewelry. He even had a pair of red overalls. They were ridiculous.”
“And, no. I will not try them on if we find them,” he finished with his eyebrow raised. Vic had gained thirty something pounds since his youth, like many folks do. Hatch learned that if Vic’s eyebrow was up and his furry white mustache was crooked, that meant he was smarting off again.
He remembered the “Day Old Wine” album with the iconic photo printed on the sleeve. The pinstripe bell bottoms, the teased hair. They were into “Glam”, so some guys had earrings along with numerous bracelets and heavy mascara with their fingernails painted black. Awesome.
Hatch fell quiet as he looked at something he’d found in a smelly cardboard box. Vic asked him about it.
“It’s poetry. Or song lyrics, more specifically. Would you know who this belongs to?”
It took Victor a moment to answer. “Well, Little Hatch, that is the work of Big Hatch. It was Tony’s.”
Hatch pondered that. “Would you guys mind if I take this home and dig deeper?”
“That’s not mine to give. There’s no lawyer here, but I’d say that’s yours. But so you know, there’s no crying allowed in this basement. Sorry, it was in the contract when we bought the place. Something about mold,” said Vic, with eyebrow raised.
“I think I can maintain.”
***
When Hatch wasn’t working on the old material or rehearsing with the band, he spent his free time reading Tony’s old notebooks. Some pages were Misadventure songs he recognized from the oldies radio station, while others seemed like the undecipherable scribblings of an artist who was a stranger to him.
Too bad his mom wasn’t around to go through the notepads with him. Hatch lost his mother to an aneurysm a few years back. It would have meant a lot to her to relive some of these memories.
He found a few poems that seemed like they would make excellent songs for the Misadventures. The lyrics made him wonder if this band had some kind of Fleetwood Mac drama going on. It has been proven that love triangles provide emotional fuel for songwriters, and these notebooks were chocked full. He wondered if his new partners would consider incorporating these “new” songs into the setlist. Persuading them would not be easy. The “youngster” wasn’t exactly the Alpha in this band. He decided to pause the idea until he was accepted as an equal partner.
***
The tour proved to be a lot of fun. The old ladies in the front rows, the canes and walkers, Vic and his senior citizen humor, all of it was fun. Hatch got more comfortable with every show. There was talk of continuing, maybe teaming up with some other bands and doing an oldie tour or something. Vic suggested “Geezerpalooza”.
Hatch met all kinds of great people. The same fans from the glory days were showing up for the shows in every city. He was an instant celebrity, thanks to Tony. The late Tony Hatch still had quite a fan club. He heard story after story about Tony and his antics. Whenever he tried to learn anything about his dad’s disappearance, folks tended to clam up. He quickly learned that bringing up Tony’s vanishing act would shut down any conversation.
That changed one rainy evening in a Baltimore hotel bar. He met Scratch. Scratch had served as a roadie and photographer for the band. He introduced himself by asking Hatch to buy him a drink. Hatch immediately figured him for a drifter by his smelly clothes, brown teeth, and sickly pallor. But he probably knew Tony, so why not? Perhaps he might learn something useful.
What he learned was that Scratch intended to take advantage of him. He acted like Hatch was a rich rock star before he offered to provide solid information regarding his father, if the price was right.
Hatch wasn’t rich. Not even “comfortable”. This tour was the biggest payoff he’d ever stumbled into. Scratch’s price was very high. He wanted Tony’s old guitar. It was a 1959 Les Paul Starburst. Until recently, it was the only thing left to Hatch by his father, and he would never sell that beautiful piece of art, regardless of the price. And it was worth plenty.
“Are you touched in the head, pops? How desperate do you think I am? And what makes you think I would trust you, anyway?”
They were interrupted by Victor, who recognized the scrawny little man from the old days. He chased him off with a threat to call Security.
Once he was gone, Vic told Hatch, “I should’ve known that little twit would show up somewhere. I guess I expected him to be dead. I see the years haven’t changed him.”
Hatch had never seen this side of Victor before. As Vic walked away, he told Hatch, “You cannot trust that ferret. That stuff happened a long time ago and there were some rough characters around back then. You should be careful. You keep asking questions, you might learn something you wish you hadn’t.”
***
The tour carried on. Hatch took Victor’s advice, for the most part. He really enjoyed the gang, and the shows. Hatch felt like he was really a part of something big. He never was able to get that with the cover band thing, and he didn’t want to lose this gig.
It bothered him that he never found out what happened to his dad, but it was nothing new. He had been carrying that monkey on his back his entire life. If he could store it away, this just might be a long-term thing. What would his mom say? Compartmentalize it.
The only thing that made him uncomfortable was Vic’s wife, Judy. The old lady seemed friendly enough to everyone else, but never warmed up to Hatch. She treated him like furniture and he didn’t understand it. He decided he wouldn’t try to force it. She’ll come around if she decides to, and it’s alright if she doesn’t. After all, he’s a singer in a rock band. As Vic would say, it was departmental policy to be apathetic regarding other people’s opinions.
***
Things were running smoothly for about a month, when Hatch received a text message to call Father Teifenbrauer. Father T was the priest from his mom’s church back home. Hatch was what you might call a “casual Catholic” and he and Father T had known each other for many years. He caught up to him on a Saturday afternoon at the rectory.
“I have some surprising news for you, Dale,” began Father T.
“Please call me Hatch.” I hate that name. How many times have I told you that? “Lay it on me, Father.”
“Yes, I remember. You don’t really do small talk. Fair enough. I spoke to the sheriff this morning. It seems like the drought around here is stirring up some ancient memories. The river has been low for weeks. It dropped lower that it’s ever been.”
Hatch wondered why he should care about this.
“What I’m trying to say, Hatch, is that a few cars were found in the muddy bottom of the riverbed a few days ago. The scrap guy was pulling them out with a winch. One of them. . . the rusty license plate was destroyed, but they were able to get a V.I.N. from the dashboard. They think it’s your father’s Pontiac.”
Father T continued speaking, but Hatch didn’t get any of it. His hearing stopped working. Sounds came to his ears as if he were on the airport runway while a 737 was taking off. He suffered tunnel vision, as well. He had a vague thought that he might be in shock, but the idea of it evaporated like the trail of smoke from an extinguished candle.
He mumbled something in the receiver about calling him back before he abruptly hung up on Father T.
***
Hatch wanted to leave the tour immediately and return home. As far as family, he had a few distant cousins, so it wasn’t about that. It was about this mystery surrounding his father and finding some answers after all these years.
He spoke to the local sheriff, who assured him there was nothing to talk about until they worked through any evidence that was not destroyed in the murky mess. It would take several days, and he would be of no help, anyway. She suggested he stay with his band and she’d be in touch.
Sheriff Orlando did not tell Hatch about the body they discovered in the trunk.
***
The band members and crew were relieved to find out the tour would roll on. Once everything was in place and moving along, canceling shows was quite a hassle. And it could be expensive, even if it was only a brief interruption.
Hatch remained a consummate professional onstage, but he grew increasingly troubled as he watched America glide past through the window of a tour bus.
After a few weeks, he finally got the call he had been waiting for. The lab work was complete, and Sheriff Orlando was ready to share information with him, but only face to face. Hatch explained the situation to Vic and the gang and promised to return as soon as possible.
A few days later in the small office, the sheriff’s vibe was that of a competent professional, which she was. There was very little chit-chat before she told Hatch about the skeleton.
“We believe your father was murdered and his body was loaded into the trunk of that Grand Prix before they shoved it into the water. The evidence we have is not completely trustworthy, but I’m telling you that’s what we think happened.”
“The evidence suggests it happened long ago,” the sheriff explained. “Probably in the same time frame as your birth. If it hadn’t been for this record-breaking drought, who knows when that car would’ve turned up?”
“There’s more. The lab techs discovered bone damage that most surely came from a small caliber firearm, likely a pistol. I’m resurrecting this as a cold case. At this point, I have no idea what other evidence we might turn up. But I promise you I will try. Do you have any information that might help us?”
Hatch described the book of poetry and lyrics to Sheriff Orlando. “I’ve been through every page of those notes and I didn’t see anything that would help. There’s no mention of drugs or anyone who hates him. There’s no violence or even aggression there. Most of it is quite vague, you know? Like rock song lyrics tend to be. He wrote about a love triangle, but I couldn’t figure out who he was describing. I can ask around, but. . . I wouldn’t expect much help from the old guys.”
“Why is that?”
That’s when Hatch remembered the roadie from Baltimore. “I take that back. There is one source I haven’t tapped into. There was a little hobo guy who claimed to have useful information. He seemed like a shyster so we told him to shove off. Victor told me to steer clear of him.”
“Victor,” said the sheriff. She reached for her notepad. Her husband called her Columbo when she used the little spiral pad. “Victor as in Victor Bolin.”
“Yeah. He’s the guitarist and leader of the Misadventures. He has been invaluable to me, as far as getting me involved in the band. Not so helpful when I try to talk about my dad’s disappearance.”
“Interesting.” Sheriff Orlando scribbled some notes before she hit Hatch with the major clue they discovered. Days ago, she had decided to get Hatch talking before she dropped this load on him. He wasn’t a suspect, obviously, but she wanted to watch his reaction anyway.
“Just one last thing before you go. We found a piece of jewelry in the trunk. There was an earring amongst the muddy mess. It’s black and silver, with the band’s logo on it. I don’t suppose you’d know who that belongs to?”
“No. I mean, how could I know that? I wasn’t born yet, right?”
“Right. I don’t mean to be indelicate. But I wonder if you’ve seen your mother with earrings like that? I know she passed some years ago, but maybe in an old photo?”
“No. My mom?” He gave the officer a skeptical stare, then tried to think about the old photos he went through. “That’s crazy! My mom wouldn’t hurt any living creature. When she was alive, I mean. She was all about love and kindness and peace and butterflies.”
“Of course. I’m sorry. I had to ask,” said the sheriff.
There was no way for Hatch to know that Sheriff Orlando was holding back again. She did not mention where she found the earring. It was clutched in the bony hands of the skeleton in the trunk of that old Pontiac.
***
Hatch was glad for the long drive back to re-join the tour. His visit with the Sheriff Orlando gave him a lot to think about. His mom had never given him details about his dad. She would crank up the waterworks every time the subject came up. He laughed when he thought about the clueless cop asking about his mom. Imagine!
To be fair, all of this went down over forty years ago, and that sheriff doesn’t know any of the people involved. Her evidence is cold as the tundra. She’s just shooting arrows at the moon. He figured she had no chance of solving this.
A thought came to him. He said it out loud, to make it more astute and supremely monumental.
“If there is any way to get to the truth, it’s up to me.”
He was closest to the key players in the story, the ones not deceased, anyway. Plus, he was convinced Victor knew something useful. He failed to get Vic to talk before, but he felt like he had some leverage now.
“What leverage, you ask?” he asked the windshield.
That’s when he realized he cared more about learning the truth about his father than he did about staying on tour with the Misadventures. He also knew that Victor cared an awful lot about his precious band. The geriatric musician hadn’t been able to get a decent gig since 1979. Now that he finally got the chance to get his groove back, he would not give it up easily.
The old bunch of has-beens gained credibility by replacing their beloved frontman with his own offspring. Like when Skynyrd brought in the late singer’s brother. It made it acceptable to fans.
I will hold this band over his head. He will talk.
***
Any misgivings he had about pressuring Vic for information evaporated when he rejoined the tour. No one asked about his trip home or his meeting with the sheriff. It was not normal behavior for everyone to avoid the issue. Not if they cared about him. If we don’t talk about it, it never happened, right?
He waited a few days for his best opportunity to get Vic alone. They were at the Stratton Inn in Dayton when he followed Vic up to his room.
“No more stalling, Vic. No more dodging. I need to know what you know about my dad’s disappearance, and I’m not leaving this room until I get some answers.”
“Oooh, I like the new you. Decisive. Firm. You’re giving me goose bumps. I think my nipples are hard.”
“Not funny, Vic. I’m dead serious.”
“How did it go with the sheriff?”
“Oh, now you want to ask about that? They found my dad’s body inside his own car, dumped in the river. You’ve been avoiding the subject since we met, and I’m saying that isn’t going to work anymore.”
The pause seemed eternal. The tension was thick in the stuffy little hotel room. As the seconds ticked past, Vic saw that he could not escape. Finally, he dropped his eyes and spoke.
“Well… she was right. I told her I could keep it under wraps, but it’s been burning a hole in my gut for weeks. I thought it was an ulcer, at first.”
“Who was right?” Hatch asked.
“Judy. She told me it was going to blow up. You’d think she could get over it with decades gone by.”
Judy was Vic’s wife. The one who avoided Hatch like a leprosy patient.
“What’s going to blow up? Come on, Vic. I thought we were friends. Don’t make this like an interrogation. I deserve to know.”
“You do. I agree. I wanted to tell you years ago. Many, many years ago, in fact. They wouldn’t allow it. You don’t know what it’s like, being married for forty years. It ain’t easy. Anybody stays married over ten years deserves a gold medal and an all-exclusive trip to Tahiti.”
Hatch just stared at him this time. Waiting.
“Okay. Here goes,” Vic said as he looked Hatch in the eye this time.
“Your dad’s not dead.”
“Uh… yes he is. The sheriff confirmed it. Lab tests, science, all of it.”
“Yeah. Tony’s dead. But Tony’s not your dad. I am.”
Hatch started to feel that vertigo thing that he experienced when Father T first broke the news. The room was askew. He was determined to control it this time.
Vic waited a moment before he delivered the rest of the story.
“We were living on the road. We were rocking America in the late seventies, man. It was different, then. Okay?”
Vic poured a finger of rum into a tumbler from the bar and knocked it back before he continued. “Your mother was beautiful. A wonderful person. I can’t describe her. Captivating is a good effort. Gwen was so full of perky happiness. She lit up the room. Any room. Dracula’s room. I was crazy about her.”
“But then I met Judy. And I instantly fell in love with Judy. I still love my wife, don’t you see?”
“Well, Doug Dunn and Gwen were an item. He was a bit of a son-of-a-bitch. He had women everywhere. Everyone knew he’d had a vasectomy. He openly told all the women. Free love, right? And that guy thought he owned your mom.”
“When Gwen discovered she was pregnant, she immediately knew I was the father. I was the only candidate, besides ‘vasectomy-Doug’. No way was she sticking with Doug. Not a chance. She went to Judy with her story. Gwen and Judy were best friends. I offered to stand up like a man should. I told her I would support her.”
“But Judy was heartbroken. She was very jealous and anyway, she knew something we didn’t. She had just found out that she was carrying my child, as well!”
Hatch was thinking this was like a bad soap opera, but he didn’t interrupt.
“And your mom… I told you she was an angel. She wanted Judy to get what she always wanted. Which was me and a family.”
“That’s when Tony surprised us all. He’s the one that stepped up. He had never been with your mom, uh… you know, carnally. But he stepped up anyway. He was a damn fine fella, and he knew Doug was a complete jackass. He was going to be your dad. I already told you; Gwen was easy to love. We all loved her. It was decided. Tony and Gwen would be your parents, and I would marry Judy, and we would be Tosha’s parents. Need I remind you it was the seventies?”
Hatch knew of Vic’s daughter, but he’d never met Tosha. He knew she was about his age. He has a sister.
He was blown away. Completely overstimulated. He stared at his feet for a moment, then raised his eyes to see that Vic was politely waiting for him to process it all.
“Then Tony disappeared. Nobody knew what happened to him. There were some sketchy low-lifes always hanging around, trying to make friends, get free drugs, stuff like that. I don’t know. Some say he couldn’t take the pressure of being a rock star, so he retreated to a quiet place where he could live in anonymity. But now…” Vic stood there, shaking his head slowly, remembering.
“Everyone thought the band broke up because Tony was gone. That’s true. But also because we couldn’t stand Doug Dunn anymore. It wasn’t worth it. I always wondered if he got rid of Tony. I told you; he was a man who thinks he owns his women. When Gwen and Tony announced the bun in the oven, Doug probably thought they betrayed him. That’s how egocentric that guy was. You know what I mean? It was always ‘How does this affect me?’ That’s how he thought about everything.”
Hatch asked the burning question: “Why didn’t you take over when my mom was alone? With Tony gone, you left her to raise me without a dad? Not cool, man!”
“I’m not saying it was the right thing to do.” Vic poured another inch of rum in the tumbler as he offered one to Hatch, who was ready this time. Vic was clearly stalling.
“I guess you don’t remember me from your childhood. I was around. Gwen eventually cut me off. She didn’t want to disrupt Judy’s family. Your mom always thought of others. Judy’s not like that. The women got together and decided I was out. And you did not have financial needs. We made sure of that.”
Hatch’s head was swimming. Vic continued before Hatch could decide which question he should ask next.
“Tony was a wild man on stage, and he could party like… well, like a rock star. But he wouldn’t run off to Tierra del Fuego or whatever. He’s not like that. He had just made a commitment to Gwen. Finding your – oops, I almost called him your dad. This will take some getting used to. Anyway, finding Tony’s body in that car supports my long-standing suspicion that Doug Dunn got rid of him.”
Hatch stared at Vic a moment, obviously mulling over that last statement. He walked over to a stack of memorabilia and pulled out the “Day Old Wine” album. He slid the album sleeve out, held the iconic photo under the desk lamp, and found what he was looking for.
Doug Dunn was wearing the black and silver earrings, with the Misadventures logo plain to see.
[Image Credit : Photo by Karsten Winegeart on Unsplash]
Aaron Mayer is an artist from the Midwest. In addition to his fiction writing, he is also a cartoonist whose work has been published on industry websites and in trade magazines. He is a singer/songwriter. You can listen to his original music from virtually any streaming service. When Aaron is not writing, drawing, singing, or playing, he loves traveling and the outdoors. If you see him on a trail, say hello to his dog, Milo.
