Jeremy could have gone to college—he’d had the option even though his grades in high school hadn’t been great—but he’d never had any desire or seen the point. Music was his life, had always been his life, and he had figured no professor could teach him as much about it as he already knew or could learn from his father’s friends. Fourteen years recording albums, touring the world, and winning awards had proven him right. At thirty-one, he was at the top of his game. No degree needed.
“All right, so listen to this,” the bartender said, smoothly moving on when Jeremy didn’t answer his question. “This one semester, the guy in charge of the pledge class—” He paused and furrowed his brow in concentration. “Feltus was his name, I think. Anyway, he was from Palo Alto, and there were like five dudes in the pledge class from OC.” He chuckled. “So one night, during hell week, Feltus takes the pledges out to the desert—this was in Tempe; I went to ASU—and he has them dig holes in the ground. Then he tells the SoCal guys to get in, has the other pledges bury them up to their necks, and makes everyone pile into their cars and drive back to campus.” The bartender shook his head. “Fuckin’ crazy rivalry, man. I tell you.”
People said rock stars were wild, but Jeremy hadn’t ever seen anybody get buried alive. Oddly fascinated by the story, he rested his forearms on the bar, leaned forward, and said, “Then what happened? Did anybody get hurt?”
“Nah.” The bartender shook his head. “It sounds worse than it was. It’s not like the dirt was packed or anything. The guys were able to get themselves out, and right after, a few of the other pledges drove back and picked them up.”
“They must have been terrified,” Jeremy said, shaking his head.
“It was hell week,” he said with a snort. “They were too fucked up to be terrified.”
Jeremy chuckled, took a drink of his beer, and sighed contentedly, feeling relaxed for the first time in a long time. It was nice to sit and chat with someone about nothing for no reason.
“I’m Reggie, by the way.” The bartender wiped his hand on the towel and then extended it over the bar. “Reggie Moore. But everyone calls me Reg.”
After sliding his palm on his gray skinny jeans, Jeremy held it out and shook Reg’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Reg. I’m—” He paused, trying to decide if he should stop there, give a fake name, or be honest. He landed on something in between. “Jeremy.”
“What brings you to Munds Park on this fine Tuesday evening, Jeremy?” Reg snagged the almost-empty glass, held it under the tap, and refilled it. “You on your way to Flag?”
“Uh….”
Jeremy’s confused expression must have given Reg his answer.
“All right, that’s a negative on the journey to Flagstaff.” He leaned over the bar and perused Jeremy, or at least as much of Jeremy as he could see considering the lighting was crap and Jeremy was seated. “No dirt all over your clothes, so you can’t be on your way back from the canyon—”
“I am, actually,” Jeremy corrected him.
“Oh really? Cool. Did you hike the south rim? I do that trail a few times a year. Did you go to ’Supai Falls?”
“No, I didn’t hike. Didn’t have time. I just wanted to see it. I’ve lived one state over most of my life, and I’ve never been.” Raising his hand to drag it through his hair, Jeremy hit the baseball cap, which reminded him to be careful sharing too much information, no matter how minor, with a stranger. People had a way of twisting things around when they sold them to the highest bidder looking for a catchy headline: “Jeremy Jameson Jumps into Grand Canyon in Drunken Craze.”
“You look like you’re in good shape, man. You’ve got to hike it next time,” Reg said excitedly. “The falls are amazing.”
Hopping around on stage night after night required a hell of lot of energy and stamina, which wasn’t as easy in his thirties as it had been in his twenties. Jeremy had a concert tour starting in just over a week, so he had upped his normal exercise routine. It seemed the results were evident, which made him puff up.
“I’ll do that,” he said, more to be polite than because he meant it. The reality was, he didn’t know when he’d next have free time, and scheduling a hiking trip would probably give his manager a coronary.
“Cool.” Reg beamed. “Let me go check on those guys”—he nudged his chin in the direction of the only other people in the bar—“and then I’ll tell you the best spot to camp.”
Stopping in for one drink turned into spending the entire evening at the bar, sipping mediocre beer and having a great conversation. People came in and out, having a drink, bending Reg’s ear about their concern with the state of politics or what team stood a chance that season or whatever issue they were having with their girlfriend or wife. And in between those conversations, Reg always returned to Jeremy, smiling and chatting, sharing funny stories and asking questions that didn’t seem designed to do anything but get to know him. Jeremy was having a better time than he could ever remember.