on and I realize that the music isn’t coming from the gas station—it’s coming from the truck. And it’s not on the radio, because nobody plays a double shot of Consequence on the radio, not even at four a.m. This trucker guy is actually a fan of Consequence, and he’s playing a cassette tape of Consequence’s album Blue Aphasia on his stereo.
“Hey, do you like this band?” I call as he’s about to climb up into the cab of his truck.
“What?”
“Consequence,” I say. “Great Southern-style rock band from the ’70s, right? Totally underappreciated, though.”
Now I start singing along with the next song, and you know I have to be a fan because nobody has even heard “Rubber Tire” if they’re not a big fan. I air guitar along and belt the verse out and I sound pretty darned good for four in the morning, thanks very much.
“So you’re a fan of Consequence, then?” he says, eyeing my Boss Hog T-shirt with a healthy degree of skepticism. “You don’t look the type.”
“Well,” I say, clearing my throat. “Actually? I’m the lead guitarist’s only daughter.”
“No way,” he laughs. He might be amused now, but he’s not convinced.
“Yes. Yes way. And I’m in a band now myself, and we’re on our way home from playing down in Baltimore and our van broke down.”
“What happened to it?”
“Alternator,” Travis says.
“You sure it’s not just the battery?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m sure.”
Montana doesn’t say anything else for a minute. Travis and I exchange looks. Montana still says nothing.
“So . . .” I begin.
“I don’t pick up strays,” he says. “As a matter of personal ethics.”
“But I need your help,” I say. “Mr. . . .”
He doesn’t say anything. He’s supposed to tell us his name here, but he just stares blankly and blinks slowly a couple of times. “Mr. Montana?”
“We’ll pay you fifty bucks,” Travis says. “It’s only a couple of hours north.”
“I don’t do rides,” Mr. Montana says.
“Please, Mr. Montana,” I say. “I have an exam at Rutgers first thing in the morning and I really can’t miss it.”
“Then maybe you should keep your ass in school instead of wandering around the highway with your boyfriend on a Wednesday night, ever think of that?”
I grit my teeth. I grind them. But I don’t back down.
“Look, the rock is in me,” I say, looking him dead in the eye. “I was born with it.”
“Then what do you care about an exam?”
“I care about my mom and all she’s sacrificed to get me through college.”
He’s thinking it over, I can tell because he’s tweaking the ’stache and his tongue darts out to lick at the corner of his mouth as he concentrates.
“Let’s go, Emmy,” Travis says, pointing over to a Peterbilt rolling in to the pumps. “We’ll ask this guy coming in now.”
“Wait a minute,” Montana says. “You’re really a daughter of Consequence?”
“Yes,” I say. “I can prove it.”
“Right. I’m sure you’ve got your birth certificate on you and everything,” he says.
“Better than that,” I say. Then I pull my guitar out of the case and strap my Gretsch on. Montana’s eyes go real wide when he sees the guitar.
“Is that . . . ?” he says. “No, it can’t be.”
“Oh yes,” I say. “It is. This is Len Kelley’s very own Gretsch.”
Then I take a pick from my pocket and play Dad’s lead on “Rubber Tire” perfectly, right along with the truck’s cassette player.
“No Goddamned way,” Montana says, and his eyes go all watery with emotion. Like, the guy is about to crack. “You’re really little Emmylou, the only daughter of Len Kelley?”
“Yeah, that’s me,” I say. “Not so little anymore.”
“Your father was my guitar hero.”
“Mine, too,” I say, and something catches in my throat as I have a total moment here.
“This is like a sign from God—no, a sign from Len.”
Travis sighs a big, heavy one and I don’t even care what he’s thinking because this is awesome. He pulls a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket. “Come on. I’ll give you twenty now and the other thirty when we get off at Exit 9,” he says.
Mr. Montana scratches his chin, rolls back on his heels. He sticks his hand in his vest pocket and clicks his tongue.
“You’ve got yourselves a Goddamned deal.”
Travis hands Montana the twenty. Montana smiles, hops up into the cab, into the driver’s seat, singing like the guy is in church.