My back throbbed like a swollen tooth when I took the exit north into Midtown Phoenix. Evening shade flicked the night lights on. I blinked and yawned, going windows down to wake me up. I’d heard about not leaving your house due to severe heat. Only I lived in Atlanta and didn’t understand the big deal. Until driving at night with windows down still yielded a feeling like warm cotton wrapped around my head.

            I cranked the A/C.

            Music: Glass Tiger’s “Don’t Forget Me When I’m Gone.”

            EJ’s directions took me north on 7th Avenue, east on McDowell, north on N. 1st Ave, east on Central Arts Way, and south onto N. Central Avenue. Locals might have laughed at me, but all I had was GPS and the realization that it was a loop to get me to Larry’s Big Diner, a small restaurant in a swanky complex containing restaurants and shops with apartments above. Palm trees lined the street like a welcome mat. I turned right into a lot behind a bubble tea shop. 

            Turning a car off after thirteen hours of driving yielded a sigh like the world exhaling. The passenger seat had gotten out of hand. Granola bar wrappers hung halfway out of a plastic bag. Trail mix and jerky bags were both open, M&M’s mingling with teriyaki. Water bottles littered the floor. Despite the fresh air blowing through the car, it smelled like sweat and farts. 

            “You ready for Larry?”

            Can’t wait. Love that guy. Are you?

            “Ditto.” 

            A bell dinged overhead when I entered. It was an upscale throwback diner, with three red leather booths on the left and right, one standing bar in the middle of the room, and one seated bar at the back. Every seat was accounted for, even the bench by the entrance. Mounted TVs showed the Diamondbacks-Nationals game. Cooks and staff worked in the open kitchen behind the bar. It smelled like syrup, beer, and fried food. 

            “Good evening! Welcome to Larry’s.” The hostess sounded like Madonna singing “Borderline.” Or Kim Wilde singing “You Keep Me Hanging On.” Could she see me wondering if she could see my face working through random thoughts?

            “Good evening. What’s the wait time?”

            She surveyed the restaurant, then a tablet screen, and then me. “How many?”

            “Just one.” 

            That still sting?

            It didn’t sting. Humans aren’t meant to be alone, but it’s important to learn how to be solitary. Solitude recharges the soul.

            Okay, Mr. Wizard.

            I thought of Fred Savage, Christian Slater, and Beau Bridges, and how anyone who listened to Jenny Lewis probably didn’t know she acted in the greatest Nintendo advertisement of all time. 

            “It looks like we’re full right now. Probably 20-25 minutes?” 

            I didn’t want to do it, but it was worth a shot. “Any chance Larry’s around? I’m an old friend.” 

            Her eyes, that damn sweet girl, narrowed slightly, probably to prevent the eye roll. How many people were old friends with Larry, the dude who put the J in jovial? “He’s in the back.” 

            “Noted,” I said. “Fender, for one.” 

            She took my phone number. I stood in the corner like Baby, happy to be on my feet and not in a car seat. A couple waiting next to me watched a video of Spin Cycle playing Madison Square Garden on their phone. The one where Larry does a five-minute drum solo bridging “Lazy Susan” with “Homegrown Muff.” He was possessed that night, the spirit of the radio. 

            “Can you believe it?” the man marveled. “That guy is that guy.” He nodded to the kitchen where lo and behold there stood the big fella. There was only one Big Man, Clarence Clemons. No one owned Big Fella, however, and Larry was ours. Writing this now, I can tell you I sensed a hair trend, but when you’re like me and not hip, you don’t catch onto these things. Larry’s hair had grown. Unlike Paul with his silver strands, Larry’s was still jet black and hanging to his shoulders. He towered over his staff, 6’4” and beefy. One of the few people who made me feel short. The same serious yet chummy countenance. 

“You ever hear what Chuck Klosterman said about Larry?” I asked the couple. They were searching for more Larry drum solos, of which there were plenty.

“Chuck who?” the woman said. 

“Klosterman. In his essay All of These Things Are Not Like the Others, he talks about grunge and punk and how Spin Cycle is those, but also new age 80s, part country, sprinkles of hip hop, and most likely more interested in Petty-like pop songs than anything else. In his exploration on the dichotomy of imitation versus originality, he says Larry has hands so big they make drumsticks look like chicken wings. I forget where he published it, but it’s probably online now.”

            “All of these things,” the guy repeated.

            “Are not like the others,” I said. 

            “Thank you,” they both said. 

            “Of course.”

            “Fender Carradine!” 

            Larry’s voice boomed across the diner. I chuckled at the couple connecting the dots. Spin Cycle was alive and well, even with the younger crowd. 

            “Larry!” 

            We met by the front bar, bear hugged, pushed each other away, laughed, and hugged again. He had slimmed. Still a big fella, but svelte could at least be considered for a sentence describing the former Spin Cycle drummer. 

            “Sir,” the hostess said. “We have a spot at the bar for you.” 

            Larry squeezed my shoulder. “That’s okay, Becca. Thank you. We’re not staying here. Frannie has the kitchen under control. She’ll close up.” 

            “Fender! Great to see you. How are you? How’s the drive? Check that. Hold that thought. Let’s get out of here. Tons to discuss.” 

            He had his keys out. 

            “Becca,” I asked. “Do you have a pen and paper?” 

            “Of course.” 

She gave me a small notepad and pen labeled Big Larry’s Diner. I handed it to Larry. “I just met these two. They’re big fans. Do you mind?” 

            The couple paused their video and clammed up. I hoped they could get their names out. “My pleasure. Nice to meet you both. Who am I making it out to?”

            “Annie and Dave,” said Annie. 

            Larry scribbled a message and his signature, nodding to a song I couldn’t hear. He ripped the note off and gave it to them. “You Eurythmics fans, by chance?”

            “We’re not,” Dave said hesitantly. 

            “After you’re done watching Spin Cycle, check them out. Thank you, Becca. Fender, let’s roll.”

            Outside, he talked about the diner and running a restaurant, how the original location didn’t have a liquor license, and that’s where the money was at. 

            “But more than the booze, it’s the setting and vibe and food. That’s your mirepoix. Turn it up a notch with a splash of wine. And treat people right. Becca doesn’t know any better. Sorry about that. She’s learning. Nice kid. Needs to play a show or two before she’s ready for the big stage. But, no, like I was saying, it’s quieter here. Easier to eat and talk before we hit the road.” 

            I followed him as he drove his SUV ten blocks north to the original Big Larry’s Diner. We parked in front of what looked more like a shack than a restaurant. There were two windows lit with people inside eating ribs. The smell of roasting pork wafted from the back. 

            “Hit the road?”

            Larry’s Original BBQ was painted on wooden shingles above the door. He opened it. BBQ flooded my senses. My stomach moaned. 

            “Hit the road, Jack. I’m coming with you to Michigan.”

            I felt the smile in my eyes before I realized it was on my lips. My heart went ba-rump a pum pum like a Christmas carol in July.

            “Come inside. Eat. Then I’ll show you your new ride.”

            “New ride?”

            We entered to a smattering of “Hey, Larry” greetings. He’d made himself into a local through BBQ and good nature. More smoked meat smells wafted from the kitchen. We sat in a booth and a waitress in a black and white Larry’s BBQ tee shirt brought us plastic glasses of water filled with pellet ice.

            I chewed the ice. “Remember when I used to bring Kool-Aid packets on tour and dump them into this type of ice to make snow cones?”

            “Cherry, grape, and tropical punch, in that order,” he said. “Unless you mixed them all. What’d you call that?”

            “Tropical Storm Fender.”

            Memories glinted in his eyes. “Tropical Storm Fender. Blowing through a tour bus in your area. Stay on the lookout for a kid with an appetite and a hell of a good taste in music. You still writing?”

            The waitress brought out a tray filled with an assortment of ribs, pulled pork, and chicken and baked and green beans, macaroni and cheese, and coleslaw. Three plastic squirt bottles sat below the window, marked Mild, Pepper, and Sweet. We ate and talked, talked and ate.

            “I’m writing again, finally,” I said. My chest lit up at a realization and recollection of something Laramie said to me. You’re happier when you’re writing. Whether I’m with you or not, if you have writing, you have your soul. It’s how you break it all down and put it back together again. Do you agree, Humpty Dumpty?

            After we ate, Larry led me into a simple kitchen and through a backdoor to a gravel lot. Two engine black smokers took up real estate to one side, smoke billowing like a bat signal into the Arizona night. The other side looped around to the front of the restaurant, our path back to the highway and home. Larry walked us to the back of the lot, where a covered vehicle was parked alongside a chain link fence with a sign that said, “Larry’s Original BBQ, Est. 2001.”

            “My ride,” I said.

            He ran his hand along the gray fabric cover. “Technically your old man’s ride. Give me a hand.”

            We started at the rear and unrolled the cover. The boxy form under the fabric revealed a robin’s egg blue Scout II Traveler, the version with the fiberglass hardtop and third row. I knew as much about cars as I did Sanskrit, but I did clearly recall Dad describing his baby. “They made the Travelers from 1976 to 1980. Same with the Terras. The chrome grill with that International nameplate shifted slightly to center on the left side, different from earlier editions. This one has the most popular engine, the 345-cylinder V-8. Take the roof off, find an open stretch of highway, and go.”

            I stepped a few paces back to admire my transportation for the final leg of my journey. Larry opened the door and waved away the must. He turned the chrome window crank on either side to air it out. “I’ll grab my stuff and we can head out. I’m excited.”

            He disappeared into the restaurant. I let the moment take over. My skin prickled, my eyes crinkled, and tears fell. I clenched and unclenched my fists, bending my knuckles until they popped. James breathed in time with my steady exhalations. The Scout itself didn’t beckon, but the memories did. “Well played, Dad. Well played.”