The Other Side of the Road

The road, especially on the other side, can be solitary. My name is Jake, and I find myself at the tail end of a long and winding music career. I'm a guitarist renowned for my blues and soulful melodies. I may not be the best singer, but I'm the one who infuses our music with its soul through songwriting. Yet, despite the music and the fame, I often walk a lonely road.

We were sent to a studio, a place that felt strangely familiar. We had never been there before, yet every corner reminded us of our creative struggles. To say I'm tired would be an understatement. The urgent message delivered to me by a third party was almost a relief. I knew what it meant. I needed to return home.

For the past three weeks, I had been holed up in a clubhouse with my band, The Rangers. Our creative process had hit a roadblock. Our ideas were brilliant, and our enthusiasm was intense, but our styles had evolved so much over the years that they no longer harmonized. It was a struggle we all faced, the inevitable growth and change in our artistic expression. Our music had transformed over time, each note reflecting our dedication and love for our craft. The tension was mounting, and our once-solid friendships began to crack under the pressure, leaving us all feeling the weight of our creative differences.

I had flown out with a duffle bag consisting of a change of clothes and a pocket full of cash, thinking we could grind it out over a weekend. Was I ever wrong? Now, I needed to get home to Western Montana in the dead of winter. The decision to leave was difficult, but I knew it was necessary.  I had made a decent living over the years but didn’t have a credit card or jacket, and I didn’t have a minute to spare. The situation's urgency was real, and I knew I had to act quickly. My heart was heavy with the weight of the decision and the uncertainty of what lay ahead.

I grabbed my duffel, shook our drummer Dave’s hand, and walked down the long desert driveway. I honestly had no idea where we were. That was the point: to isolate us and get the job done without distraction. The studio, a place of isolation, had served its purpose.  I had flown into Phoenix and thought I was in Arizona, California or Nevada. I looked at my phone for the time and position of the sun and headed in the direction that I thought was North.

I had no idea how long or far I walked when an old beat-up pickup approached me. It was a farmworker, and the man didn’t speak English well. All he said was gasoline and town. That was a good start, I thought. The man turned on the am radio and turned up the volume when our first single, “Hit the Road,” started playing. He tapped his foot and drummed his fingers on the faded steering wheel cover. It was bittersweet, a harsh reminder that those days would soon be over. As the song played, I couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness and nostalgia for the life I was leaving behind. We rode in comfortable silence, accompanied by the oldies station. This suited me well, as I did not want conversation, and most of all, I wanted to maintain anonymity.

We arrived at what appeared to be a farm store with fuel. The man went inside, handed over some bills, and filled old red metal fuel cans. I scanned the store for any hint of where I was. I knew the man would not accept payment for the ride, so I asked the clerk to add twenty dollars towards his fuel. At least my conscience was clear. 

The farmer returned to the store, selected two colas from the cooler, and paid for his purchases. He handed me a bottle and shook my hand, leaving me in the middle of nowhere. 

I noticed he had New Mexico license plates. Brilliant, I thought. Not knowing where I started didn’t help me know which way I was going. I thought I would try to talk with the station attendant when a fuel truck arrived. It had Colorado plates. 

Approaching the driver cautiously, I asked if he was allowed passengers. He looked at me somewhat skeptically. That’s when I noticed the tiny black print on the door: “No Riders.” The man told me he had one more stop and was returning to Salt Lake. He was required to take a thirty-minute break after he dispensed the fuel, and I was more than welcome to join him.

Even better, I thought. I returned to the store to use the restroom and purchase food. I paused at the mirror. Between the scratches and phone numbers, I caught a glimpse of myself. My once neatly trimmed beard was now a few days old, and my hair, usually styled, was slightly disheveled.  I wasn’t sure if I dared shave because I didn’t want to be noticed. I cleaned myself the best I could and purchased some toiletries, sunglasses and a ball cap. I inwardly chuckled, the oldest disguise in the book.

The driver looked relieved. From what I could see, he was an older man who had spent his life driving. I felt safe with him, as he didn’t know who I was. I introduced myself as Jake and explained I had been working hard and had to go home for an emergency. He understood and assured me we would be in Salt Lake by morning. As we drove through the night, I found myself lost in my thoughts, wondering if this journey was a new beginning or the end of an era. 

The truck did not have a sleeper because it was a fuel tanker. The man apologized for not being hospitable. I assured him I was okay. It reminded me of the years I spent riding on an old tour bus, and I was asleep before we reached the interstate. 

I woke to the sounds of the truck downshifting. The driver said we were in Price, Utah. I was embarrassed when he offered me a shower token, but I graciously accepted the opportunity and purchased a t-shirt and work jacket from the store.

I felt out of place, out in the open, without all the fanfare. It felt comfortable, and that scared me. I had a following since I was fifteen and had not been out in public without my manager or some escort for more than twenty years. I wondered if there was any chance of returning to the band or if this was the new me. The uncertainty of my future loomed over me, and I dodged eye contact and turned away from people. I did not want a confrontation.

As the man promised, we reached Salt Lake at sunrise. He understood my urgency and pushed to get me there as soon as possible. I had slept most of the way while he was busy on the radio trying to find me a ride. 

He was successful. He found an auto parts driver who had scheduled stops in Pocatello, Blackfoot and Idaho Falls, Idaho. That would leave me nearly two hours from home. I wasn’t sure how to repay the man for his kindness, and the stack of bills in my wallet was shrinking rapidly. 

“Pay it forward,” he said. He explained that being a loner and living on the road, it was nice to have a companion, even if only for a brief time. If only I could tell him how much I understood. I always had an entourage around me, but it was very lonely. They were not there for me. They were there for Jake E. Ray.

The parts driver was also very gracious. He was younger, and that worried me. He didn’t ask any questions, and I didn’t offer any information. Riding in the front of a semi was boring. All I could do was sit and stare out the windshield. I missed having a guitar in my hand. My fingers ached to play, and words flowed through my thoughts. I had several song ideas and no way to work them out. I didn’t want to lose them, so I pulled out my phone. It was dead. Another good song hook, I thought.

I avoided going into the stores with the driver but helped from within the trailer the best I could. Hauling gear for so many years made operating the pallet jack with totes of parts simple for me. I was down to forty dollars, so cash wasn’t an option. All I could do was help. 

The last stop was in Idaho Falls. He had to go to a store for his final delivery and then to another location to load up the parts cores and special-order returns to take back to Salt Lake. It was the end of the road for me. On that ride, I learned a lot about the auto parts industry. It didn’t sound too bad. Maybe I could look into that if my career was indeed over.

It started snowing, and the wind howled through the store's doors. I browsed through the aisles, trying to pass the time inside the warm store while I tried to think of a plan. I wasn’t a praying man, but the thought crossed my mind. 

I had not been close to my family for years. My mother died when I was young, and my father remarried. My stepmother, her daughters, and I never got along. I was always the third wheel, and my lousy attitude probably created many problems. When the opportunity arose for me to go on the road at fifteen, my dad encouraged me. He knew I wasn’t happy. Although I spoke with him on the phone, I never returned home. Now, it may be too late.

The door slapping against the window brought me back to the present. A young woman shivered as she entered the store, stomping the snow from her shoes on the mat with the store's logo. She made eye contact with me and smiled. Did she recognize me? I stepped behind a stand with phone chargers to attempt to hide.

She asked the counterperson for some tire chains. She was going to Montana, and chains were required. The man asked her tire size, and she had no idea. They went back and forth for a while, and soon, she was paying the cashier. I had to make my move. 

I didn’t want to frighten her, and three weeks of shaggy hair and beard did not look very good. I approached her before going outside so she could have the security of others around.

I cleared my throat. “Excuse me, um, I couldn’t help but overhear. You are going to Montana?”

She smiled brightly, “I am. At least, I am going to try. I am not so sure about all this snow.”

There was an awkward pause. I asked the young lady where she was going, and she said she was going to a town about an hour from where I needed to go. She was going to pass my hometown. This was my chance. 

“I hate to ask this, but is there any chance I can tag along? I need to get to a little town called Ennis. I believe you are going to pass right through there?”  

A wave of relief passed over her young face. “Will you drive?”

I hadn’t driven in years. I was always chauffeured around or put on a bus or plane. I had my license, but I admit I was more afraid of driving in the snow than she was.

“How about this? Let’s see how it goes, and if needed, I can help. I mean, it’s your car and all.” 

Conflicted, she said okay. At least someone was with her. If anything happened, she wouldn’t be alone. Maybe having company would keep her from being so scared.

I followed her to her car and put my duffle in the back seat. I introduced myself as Jake Raymond and waited for a reaction. My birth name was Jake Edward Raymond, and my stage name was Jake E. Ray. She shook my hand and then started the car. So far, she didn’t recognize me.

The conversation was easy, and we had a lot in common. I cringed when she brought up music. She grew up in San Diego and tried her hand at the music scene. She knew people I did and played in some of the clubs where I had started. Life got in front of her, and she had to get a job, and the music dream faded away. I saw that happen many times over the years.

I held my breath, waiting for her to ask me what I did. Instead, she turned on the radio. Another one of our songs was playing. She turned the volume up and seemed to relax as my solo started. I'm playing with my band on the radio.

“There is just something about that guitarist, Jake.  I tried so hard to play some of his stuff and couldn’t do it. I mean, technically, I could. But no matter what I do, I can’t get the feeling right. Does that make any sense?” She looked at me for reassurance.

I chose my words carefully. “A solo has to breathe. It lives within the song and must be symbiotic with it.” I had her full attention and was afraid she would forget the snow-covered road. “Kind of like how you hold the pick. If you want to be loud or punchy, you have to grip it hard, and if you want to be soft or fade out, you grip it softer. I guess you think how you want it to feel as you play it?” I wasn’t sure how to explain it. 

She continued talking about The Mavericks and how almost every song felt like it was written for her. The lyrics spoke to her soul, and the solos and melodies were sheer perfection. I was the only band member she ever referred to.

I asked her if she had heard anything recent about the band. I wanted to know if word was out that I had walked away. Not that I quit or told anyone why I was leaving, but I knew the press and that they would be having a field day no matter what was said.

She started to respond when her phone rang. I was relieved by the distraction. It was a great time to change the subject. It was her parents, and there was a wreck on Norris Hill, and she would not be able to pass. They suggested she go home.

After disconnecting, she looked at me and asked what I wanted to do. I knew it was too late and that my father was gone. My stepmother wanted me to deal with the house in Montana—the house I grew up in. According to the attorney who called me while I was in the studio, she expected me to clear out his junk and sell it so she could have the money. We were less than half an hour away.

I had to tell her who I was. Then, I could ask her if she wanted to stay with me and wait out the storm. For once, I wanted companionship, and I truly liked her. She got it; she understood music and what all performing entailed. She laughed and flirted with me, and it didn’t appear she knew who I was. Maybe she liked me—not Jake E. Ray, even though she liked him too.

I took a deep breath. “We are about thirty miles from my house. You are welcome to wait out the storm there if you would like.” I was about to tell her my identity when a gust of wind forced her into the opposite lane. I stayed silent, allowing her to focus on the road.

When we reached the vacant house, I asked her to wait before going in. I had to explain before we entered. I knew my father was proud of me and wasn’t sure what we would find inside.

“I know I told you my name was Jake. Well, my name is Jake Edward Raymond.” No reaction. I braced myself as I whispered, “Jake E Ray.”