Elemental

Standing in the glare of a dozen spotlights, Travis Glass stood with both arms stretched high -- his right hand alternately waving and fist-pumping, an ancient Gibson Hummingbird still in his left hand -- as ten thousand adoring fans roared with delight. The other members of the band came forward and took a quick bow before melting into the shadows that awaited backstage, leaving Glass alone in blazing colors of light and sound once again. He took a sip of ice water and wiped sweat from his forehead, then all the house lights dimmed -- save one.

Now, with the lone spot on his Gibson and as hushed waves of anticipation broke over the crowd, an ebb of faint, cool blue light just barely asserted a gentle presence on stage as he began humming the opening of Hoagy Carmichael's Stardust. With his eyes closed he turned to the stars once again and he slowly, almost too quietly began singing, the crowd lost in hopeful adoration as he made his way to the last refrain, then he looked up and waved once again -- just as all the lights in the convention center went out.

Helping hands took his Gibson and then his stage manager, with red penlight in hand, guided him through the usual backstage chaos right out to a loading ramp, where she helped Travis into the white limo waiting there for him. His son was already inside -- Coke in one hand and a book in the other -- but so too was the reporter from Rolling Stone...and right then he realized he'd forgotten all about her. And another silly interview he'd been putting off for weeks had finally come home to roost.

The reporter smiled as he climbed inside -- and as he made eye contact with the reporter he watched as her darting eyes roamed around the back of the limo, finally settling on his son, and she seemed to grin a little, assuming she was watching years of easy disdain the boy held for this lifestyle, and probably for his father.

Travis returned her smile and settled into his seat. "Do you need anything, something to drink maybe?" he asked the reporter as the limo pulled out into a heavily falling snow, but in his mind he was still on stage, still lost in the blinding light.

"No thanks," Brenda Sykes replied, and he could tell she was trying her hardest not to appear starstruck, and that made him laugh just a little. "What's so funny?" she added -- perhaps a little too defensively.

"Oh, it would have to be snowing," he grinned as the limo turned away from the SNHU Arena and towards Manchester Regional Airport. Pilots waiting in his new Gulfstream G700 would already be starting her engines and heating the cabin, while Carol, his long-time flight attendant, would be getting their evening meal ready to serve as soon as the gears were up. Four hours -- give or take -- and they'd be home in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, and the reporter would have her interview "in the can" and be on her way back to New York City, or wherever the hell she called home...then maybe, just maybe he'd find enough time to break through the wall of silence he thought his son had put up between them since he'd dropped him off at school last August.

But...something had happened tonight, and Travis Glass was rattled.

While working his way through Stardust he'd felt weightless. Then, in a sudden flash of kaleidoscopic brightness, he'd been flying through trees. Snow covered trees. He'd heard impossible things, animals snarling, wounded creatures crying, then walls of snow covered in blood.

Now, sitting in the back of this limo riding in silence through a winter's night in New Hampshire, he felt awash in the afterglow of these images. Lucid daydreams, perhaps?

But no, this was different, and he knew it.

He'd seen these same things thirty years ago, during his first term away at school. That was when the dreams came for him, when the color and the light turned to stories, and then the stories into music. In another flash he realized that all those many years ago he'd been seeing into the recesses of his future, like echoes of words not yet spoken.

+++++

He finished packing his suitcase, the same silver Zero Halliburton he'd arrived with back in August -- and that was now almost four months ago -- then his roommate said 'Bye!' before he bounced down the stairs and out of the dorm to his parents' waiting S-Class Mercedes. He decided he wanted his new ski boots along for the trip and slipped them into their dedicated boot bag, then Brandon Glass walked down the stairs and over to the visitor's parking lot over by Chase Hall, and he was dismayed to find his limo hadn't arrived yet. He pulled out his iPhone and opened Messages and found the latest note from Stephanie -- his father's longtime manager -- relaying that the driver had run into some snow on the Mass Pike and would be there to pick him up by four. He checked the time -- not quite four yet -- so he dumped his suitcase and snarled at all life's little indignities as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"Did you get the Spengler from the reserve desk, Brandon?" his History teacher, Dr. Phillips said, walking up the steps from the learning center.

"I did, sir," he replied as his teacher walked up.

"I don't think you'll find it too difficult, but if you do just drop me a note and I'll see what I can do to clear things up."

"Thank you, Dr. Phillips, and Merry Christmas to you."

"You too, Brandon. Off to Jackson Hole tonight, right?"

"Yessir."

"Well, do Corbet's for me, would you? At least once?" the old man said, grinning while he referred to a notoriously difficult ski run at the top of Rendezvous Mountain.

"Will do, sir!" Brandon wasn't too surprised that Phillips knew about Corbet's. Phillips seemed to know everything about just about any subject he confronted.

"Attaboy. Well then, take care and we'll see you next year!"

"Yessir! Good day, sir!"

"Oh, do you have my number?"

"Will you be at Kravis, sir?"

"Yes, but you'd better take down my cell. I'll not be answering the house line over the holiday."

They exchanged numbers and Dr. Phillips strode off to Kravis House just as his limo pulled into the lot; twenty minutes later the big white Lincoln was eastbound on the Mass Pike, headed for the 495 and Manchester, New Hampshire.

+++++

The air-stair dropped down as the limo pulled up to the Gulfstream; Mike Butler -- the Gulfstream's captain -- was still up in the cockpit, leaving Liz Carpenter -- Travis' co-pilot -- to welcome them on board this evening. The driver carried Brandon's suitcase and skis up the stairs -- no doubt to take a look around -- leaving him to carry his own ski boot bag up the stairs, and he did so as he followed the reporter and his father into the Gulfstream's almost stiflingly hot passenger cabin.

"Carol!" his father barked. "Has Mike been back here? It's like a sauna back here!"

"I told him, sir! I've got some Pellegrino chilling now; would you care for some while we start up?"

"Just bring bottles of the stuff, would you? And what about that smoked salmon?"

"From Duck Trap, sir, as requested," Carol replied -- with more than a little pride. It had taken her several hours on the phone to pull that minor miracle off.

"Excellent. Miss Sykes? Ready for something to drink now?"

"A Campari and soda?" the reporter said, causing both Brandon and Carol to roll their eyes. Ordering a summer drink in the dead of winter was one sure way to annoy his father, and even before the first inane question passed her prettily pouting lips. He looked at Carol, then to his father, who by that point had decided to visit the cockpit; Carol smiled politely and returned to the galley. "Did I say something wrong?" the reported asked, turning to speak to Brandon directly now.

He shrugged. "May I hang up your coat, Ma'am?" Brandon asked quietly.

"What's with the ma'am thing, kid? You don't have to talk like that around me."

Brandon shrugged, again, only now holding out his hand, still waiting for her snow covered coat.

"I'll get that, Brandon," his father said as he walked back into the forward passenger cabin. "Why don't you help Miss Sykes into her seat?"

"Yes, Father."

Sykes watched this exchange with her reporter's nose for a good story suddenly twitching, all while handing over her coat to Travis, then while this boy led her to a seat just ahead of the right wing.

"This is a good one," the boy said. "It's quiet and smooth up here."

"And where do you sit?" she asked, feeling him out.

"Me? Oh, I'll sit up by Carol in the front. That little cabin we passed when we boarded?"

"Carol?"

"The flight attendant?"

"Okay, here we are," Carol said, as she gently placed Waterford crystal tumblers full of chilled Pellegrino on the folding mahogany table between the facing seats. Travis came and sat facing aft, facing the reporter, picking up his Pellegrino and squeezing fresh sliced lime into the water as he settled into his seat again. The air-stair closed just then and the cabin pressurization sequence began; less than a minute passed before the Gulfstream began taxiing to the active runway, following a United 737 through the now almost blizzard-like conditions that had suddenly engulfed New England.

"Everyone back there...time to get buckled up," Captain Mike Butler said over the intercom. "We're number three to take-off right now, and we'll be taking off on runway three-five, flying direct to Jackson Hole by way of Detroit and Minneapolis. Just as an aside, we'll be flying at forty thousand tonight and so above most of this weather, however Jackson is currently anticipating light snow later this evening, but we'll keep you updated as we get closer to arrival."

"Miss Sykes?" Carol began as she handed over the Campari and soda to the reporter. "We have you flying out on American at zero eight thirty. We'll taxi right up to the terminal so you won't need to worry about ground transfers."

"Oh? Well okay...that's really great! Thanks!"

Travis still had his trademark red bandana tied around his forehead, and he yanked this off now, then, to the surprise of the reporter -- not to mention Brandon -- he pulled off the wig he was wearing on this tour when he performed in front of large audiences, smiling as he removed the soggy mop of hair.

"Surprised?" Travis asked as he took a long pull on his water.

Sykes shook her head. "No, not really. I've been at this long enough to realize that things are seldom what they appear to be, at least on first glance. Besides, everyone has been wondering..."

"Well put. A true cynic," Travis replied. "Well, you've got about three hours or so, or until I pass out, so you better start asking your questions now."

"Well, I know you explained the parameters of all this to my editor, but I wondered...may I ask a few questions about your son?"

"And I thought my manager made that clear. No questions about my family."

"I was hoping you'd make an exception?"

"I won't. Anything else, or are we done now?"

Brandon hardly listened to these things anymore. Barely literate reporters straining to find some morsel of scandal among a repeating litany of oft-repeated questions amidst all the mounting detritus left in the wake of all the foundering careers and the mediocre talents, hacks willing to break any and all rules -- few of them ever coming face to face with people like his father. An Old School rocker who occasionally dabbled in both country ballads and even a few golden oldies from the forties, his father believed their personal life was strictly off limits -- and he made no exceptions. Now, he looked at his father and saw the same opaque mask he'd seen so many times before, a mask that slipped into place when dealing with congenital idiots -- this interview already effectively over, and with one more mediocre reporter doomed to return to her office empty handed. The trouble was she didn't understand that just yet...and she'd keep trying to ask the same vapid questions over and over again for the next four hours.

Travis smiled at her before he took another pull from his glass, just as the Gulfstream turned onto the runway, but then Travis turned and looked out the broad oval window as his jet powered up and hurtled down the snow covered runway...but by then Brandon didn't quite know what to think. This one was cute, he said to himself, cuter than the norm these days but nothing special, but something felt "off" in his father's smile so he kind of sat up and thought maybe it was time to pay a little more attention to this reporter and her questions. After all, he'd not seen his father since August, and maybe things had changed -- for the better. Even though he was just eleven years old, he was fairly well attuned to such things, though his father's cancer had come at the worst possible time.

'Or -- maybe I've changed,' the little boy thought.

This Christmas, after all, marked the end of a year marked by endless, painful change. First his mother leaving, just walking out on them with some other guy, then his father getting sick a few months after that. Still, his dad had gone to the Eaglebrook School back in the day and the plan all along had been for Brandon to go there too -- when his sixth grade year rolled around, so he'd pretty much been counting on that happening for years. But then his mom had washed up on a beach south of Manzanillo, murdered, and rumors of cartel involvement had soon swirled around the hidden details of her death. Then her new boyfriend had simply disappeared, too, and then the reporters had shown up -- in droves. Now the questions never seemed to stop, yet they all seemed to ask the very same questions, time after time.

And soon enough, with his father sick and his mother dead, his life had more or less fallen into the hands of others -- to those who basically didn't care for him in the slightest. They were caretakers being paid to handle him, so he did what came naturally: he rebelled. He'd skied seven days a week last spring, easily running away from the minders who'd been sent to keep an eye on him. He'd ignored his schoolwork. Maids came in to clean his room and he trashed their efforts as soon as they left, turning his part of the house into a sloppy, ransacked mess. He disrespected everyone who tried to "make a connection" with him, because when he realized no one really cared about him he just didn't care about the world anymore.

But after months of chemotherapy his dad was pronounced cured, so their plans to send him back to school in Massachusetts remained on track, and if pressed he'd have admitted he was kind of excited about the whole thing. Following in his father's footsteps, after all, seemed like the right thing to do. Maybe now more than ever, because even Brandon knew he'd gone off the rails, and that caring about nothing was a sure path to nothingness.

So they'd flown back to Massachusetts in August and his father had shown him all the places and things he remembered about his four years on the side of the mountain, and Brandon had soaked it all up like a sponge. Still, after his dad left he'd felt homesick for the first time in his life, and he'd cried himself to sleep his first two nights in Kravis House.

But that's when he'd first met Dr. Phillips.

This was the old man's second year teaching at the school, a quiet retirement after a long career working for the Department of State. Phillips had worked in Moscow almost his entire career, because, apparently, he had been some kind of wunderkind Russian History student at Dartmouth or Harvard, before heading off to the Fletcher School for graduate studies in diplomacy. Phillips spoke Russian and Latin and, of course, French, and when he wasn't teaching he was working on a book about his time in Moscow.

Phillips was thin as a rail and not at all tall, but he seemed to have been fashioned from a block of solid steel. He was tough as nails, and one rumor had it that he'd worked with the CIA more than once over the years, but if that was true Dr. Phillips wasn't talking. The old man had close-cropped steel gray hair, wore round steel rimmed glasses, and never left Kravis House without a bright red madras bow tie knotted smartly under a white button-downed oxford cloth shirt. And, of course, he wore khakis or gray flannel slacks above his old dusty white bucks. He was Ivy, through and through.

Yet perhaps Dr. Phillips had seen something in the boy, because he helped Brandon pick up the pieces and really get into his new life at Eaglebrook, and after the last nine months the boy doted on this new brand of attention. Not to make too fine a point about the matter, but the truth was far simpler than even that, because no one had ever paid so much attention to Brandon. Not his mother, not his father, nor even any of the dozens of musicians or managers who had coursed through their lives on an almost daily basis. Maybe because Dr. Phillips had never married and so had never had any kids of his own, or maybe because their lives were similar in other ways Brandon could only guess at, yet for some reason there was a real connection between the old diplomat and the singer's spoiled son.

Dr. Phillips pushed the boy academically, of course, but he was around to push him to take responsibility for his personal spaces, too -- something the boy had never had to do before. Sure, Phillips was one of the House "Masters" and that was part of his job, yet Dr. Phillips had a way of making Brandon want to succeed...or, to put it another, much more important way, from almost their very first day together Brandon didn't want to let Dr. Phillips down. As a matter of fact, after a month in his new home he didn't want to let anyone down. And so, for the first time in his life, Brandon buckled down and got to work.

Then the word was out. He heard about his dad's latest tour -- his return to the concert stage in support of a new studio album due to be released just in time for Christmas -- but then he learned his dad wouldn't be able to pick him up for Thanksgiving vacation in November -- because of conflicts with new tour dates out west. He'd been disappointed, of course, but his roommate's family had invited him to stay with them out on Martha's Vineyard -- and, by the way, he'd kissed his first girl out there on the dunes by the Head, so that part of the vacation wasn't a total loss, was it?

Then it was back to school studying for end of term exams -- and skiing when enough snow fell on the hill, always counting the days until Christmas break -- because that was when his dad was coming to pick him up, and then he could go home again.

But where was home, really?

+++++

The Gulfstream gathered speed and lifted into the night; Carol brought plates of smoked salmon -- hand delivered by a courier who had driven down from Maine and delivered it to her just minutes before the limo arrived -- smiling despite the anxiety she'd felt for hours that day after her first attempts for a smooth delivery had fallen apart. The reporter sipped her Campari, realizing she'd overstepped her bounds and was now desperately trying to figure out a way to regroup.

Brandon looked out over the wing as it loaded and flexed, the strobes out there on the wingtips pulsing in blowing clouds of snow as the jet began a gradual turn to the northwest. There was, he soon realized, nothing to see out there so he pulled his book from his carryon and turned on the reading light.

"What are you reading?" the reporter asked -- now a little too contritely.

Brandon held up the book so she could see the cover.

"The Decline of the West?" she read aloud. "What on earth is that about?"

"Miss Sykes?" his father sighed. "Please -- ask me your questions, not my son...okay?"

"Right. So, tell me about your new album..."

Brandon pulled his AirPods out and slipped them in his ears, then he opened Music and found his favorite playlist. He took a bite of salmon and read a few pages, stopping to highlight a few dense passages he was having trouble with before eating a little more. Carol came by and refilled his glass and he thanked her -- causing her to smile just a little -- before he resumed reading. There was a screen on the forward bulkhead that was a rich moving map display, showing their position over the United States as well as their course, speed, altitude, and outside temperatures, both up here and at their destination, and Brandon looked up and noted they were already coming up on Montreal and almost at their cruising altitude. He looked at his father; he seemed perturbed one moment then easy going the next, and he thought it kind of looked like the reporter was trying to push all his father's buttons...so he covertly pulled an AirPod out of one ear and began listening...