The Firebird - St. Louis, Missouri
In 2007, we decided we were a touring band. Monetary resources were low and transportation was needed. After weeks of agonizing over how we would manifest a vehicle, the answer came in the form of fried chicken. Value menus at fast food restaurants were our typical go to when eating out. On a whim, one of the bandmates decided on KFC, which took us a route we normally wouldn't have driven.
As we left the drive-thru lane and pulled out on the residential street, there it sat: a yellow 1988 Ford Club Wagon. We called the number on the “For Sale” sign. All but the front two seats had been removed, and it had spent the last decade as a work van. The owner was asking $800, which was the precise cap of our budget. It was a budget based on recently acquired paychecks from telemarketing jobs and couch cushion scrounging.
There were a lot of reasons that we shouldn't have bought the van, but we needed something and there it was. Once we got on the interstate with the other band we were touring with, things got adventurous. We discovered that exceeding 65 miles per hour caused the engine to shake violently. There was a colony of ants who had made their home somewhere within the engine block. They became restless and sought new accommodations in the cab with us after a hundred miles or so. Perhaps they considered the first layer of snack and beverage containers on the floorboard an invitation.
We limped the van into Memphis about an hour and a half behind the other band. They finagled their way into a room at the Heartbreak Hotel. Since our budget didn't allow for such extravagance, we politely asked the parking lot security guard if we could sleep in our van inside the gates. He allowed it, and we slept well in relative safety, after we chatted for nearly an hour with the guard about his job and our music.
The next day we cruised along to Murfreesboro at a leisurely 65 miles an hour. A member of the ska band that played the show with us, graciously offered a place for all of us to stay. After a home cooked meal, my fascination with the Civil War came up. Our host had once been a park ranger at the Stones River battlefield in Murfreesboro. He offered to give us a private tour of the park the following day, which we gladly took him up on. Later that evening, he brought me two books, a Civil War necktie, and a sergeant chevrons from an authentic Civil War uniform. He decided during our conversations that I would get more enjoyment from the items.
The van made it the rest of the six days of tour. It wasn't a comfortable ride and it wasn't a stress-free ride, but it was ours. A few short trips following that tour, the van gave up the ghost for good. Its final resting place was a scrap yard in Joplin, and we took the proceeds to our favorite Chinese food buffet, and feasted.
They can scrap our vans, they can tell us our investments are foolish, but they can't ever take the memories of the miles.
