Fast Lane - Kristen Ashley Page 0,110

Disclosure:

I have been employed on a contract basis by RockitRollit for the last three years selecting artists for features on the site, and writing those features, along with being a freelance entertainment journalist specializing in popular culture and the music industry, primarily the Rock and Punk genres. The latter of which I began in high school, submitting one of my commentaries to Alt Yes magazine and garnering my first byline at age eighteen.

Prior to commencing the “Fast Lane” project, I became engaged to Brody Townes.

However, it must be noted, I was an admirer of the Roadmasters’ music, had a long fascination with their story and had already made requests in an effort to embark on this project preceding my relationship with my now fiancé.

Before beginning this venture, I had not yet met my fiancé’s father’s band and I requested that Brody Townes not be involved in procuring access to the players for this undertaking.

Thus, he was not involved.

However, it should be noted that, even though my fiancé was not a part of this project, I am fully aware I would not have gained access to the band, even if I had not previously met any of them but Tim Townes, if I was not considered by them to be part of the family.

The reader can interpret any bias they wish as per my admiration of the band and my relationship to it.

The Roadmasters’ request, anyone moved to do so by these tales having been told, that they donate to their local nonprofit legal services or child abuse organizations, or they can send their gifts to Childhelp and/or the NAACP Legal Defense Fund.

Childhelp: childhelp

NAACP LDF: naacpldf

Interviewer’s Impressions, Recorded After Event:

Just before Lyla’s final interview completes, McCade uncurls from around his wife and exits the daybed with the tiger cat in his possession.

It does not escape notice that the gray cat keeps a distance, but trots behind him.

After we finish, Lyla reiterates the invitation to stay for chili.

She then pushes from the daybed, and I follow her through the door into the inner sanctum.

A massive room confronts me.

A room filled with windows.

Furniture.

And warmth.

We are immediately in a large kitchen over which is a tall ceiling made of angled skylights, ten of them—five facing five—buttressed braces spanning the overhead space.

There are butcherblock countertops and barnwood paneling.

A top-of-the-line range sits in a hearth of carefully laid river rock, the back of the hearth, behind the stove, is fashioned of brick.

There is a long dining table that seats ten beyond an island made of glossy black cabinets with a startling white farmer’s drop sink in the middle. The table sits in front of a window which both the tiger and gray cat are perching on the ledge of, their tails curling and unfurling, their gazes aimed outside.

I look out the window and see McCade and his son in the gently sloping front area with all three dogs, including the Maltese.

They are at work at a large firepit surrounded by rocks beyond which is a circle of a goodly number of Adirondack chairs.

Lyla goes to the stove and lifts the top from a very large, very shiny pot.

When she does, I feel the need to check my notes.

It is my understanding Lyla and McCade have two children: Jesse Baptiste, aged eighteen and Evelyn “Lynie” Loretta, aged sixteen.

The large dining room table and that pot, not to mention a living area with a long couch and a number of comfortable armchairs with and without ottomans aimed at an enormous TV and/or a fireplace that currently has a crackling fire indicate a much bigger family lives in this house.

Lyla picks up a spoon, stirs, and a rich, spicy aroma fills the air.

Lyla then moves to the front door that sits between kitchen and dining area, opens it and shouts through it, “If Bobby McGee gets filthy, I’m not the one giving her a bath!”

I look to the window.

McCade just tips his head back from being bent over, laying logs in the firepit, and grins at his wife.

His son shouts back, “Lynie will do it!”

Lyla closes the door and looks to me.

“That means, after they have fun and make Bobby McGee love them beyond compare by allowing her to get filthy, I’m giving that dog a bath.”

She does not appear upset about this.

I share I’m uncomfortable roaming their living space freely as pertains to my current reason for being there.

Lyla shares that if Preacher didn’t wish for me to do so, I would not be invited for chili.

“And if