Gordon Ryder's Blues

By Jeff Dee

Gordon Ryder has the blues. Its 1969, the worst year of Gordons life so far. He has no friends, and when his father deserts the family, Gordon is left alone with his overly controlling mother. Gordons only solace is running, which leads to an encounter in the forest preserve that could change everything. Myra Roth, a hippie leader at Gordons high school, invites him into her inner circle. Gordon must decide: should he enter Myras world of war protests, drugs, and free love? Gordon Ryders Blues tells the story of a teenager coming of age in the turbulent Sixties, a story written to entertain young adults curious about that time, baby boomers eager to reminisce, and everyone in between.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781467038102

Jeff Dee

Jeff Dee is a high school English teacher and coach who has published articles in The Athletic Journal and Chalkboard. He still enjoys going for a run in the woods near his home in St. Louis, Missouri. This is his first novel.

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GORDON RYDER’S

BLUES

Jeff Dee

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AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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© 2011 by Jeff Dee. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse  09/16/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4670-3811-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-3810-2 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011916925

Printed in the United States of America

This is a work of fiction. Apart from certain historical persons and New York City locales, the characters, events, and places in this book are products of the author’s imagination.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

CHAPTER 1

INVITATION

CHAPTER 2

MOTHER & SON BLUES

CHAPTER 3

GREASED

CHAPTER 4

PEACE PARTY

CHAPTER 5

REBELS WITH A CAUSE

CHAPTER 6

RALLY IN THE SQUARE

CHAPTER 7

FREAKY STUFF

CHAPTER 8

THE MOUNTAIN

CHAPTER 9

NO DIRECTION HOME

CHAPTER 10

FATHER & SON BLUES

CHAPTER 11

BLUE BOY

CHAPTER 12

FINALE

CHAPTER 1

INVITATION

Running along a leaf-covered trail in South Mountain Forest Preserve, Gordon slipped and slid when the path angled sharply downhill. An older runner would have cut speed, but Gordon was sixteen and had no fear of falling. He visualized in his head how he would simply tuck, roll, and pop up again running if he did fall. Keep your rhythm, keep your rhythm, Gordon repeated to himself. Go with the flow, RUN downhill.

The red cloth headband Gordon wore to keep his hair out of his eyes darkened with perspiration as he ran. He couldn’t believe this weather. Here it was the second weekend in November, and the temperature reached into the high sixties, when it had been in the thirties and forties most of the week before. Still, the wind felt cool on Gordon’s face as he swooped down the side of the mountain in his scanty, brightly colored running clothes. Ahead of him the trail cut a wide swath through the silver and gray woods. Only the oak trees remained brown and bushy with leaves.

Following the trail around the base of the mountain, Gordon spotted a couple out for a Sunday stroll about a hundred or so yards ahead. Two girls? No, a long-haired guy and his girl, Gordon realized as he drew close. He whooshed by them before they knew he was coming, but the guy called out Hey! at Gordon’s back. He slowed, turned, and jogged in place twenty or so yards past the couple.

Hey man, that’s a groovy shirt, the longhair called to him. How much you want for it?

No way, Gordon called back, and ran on.

The shirt, a sleeveless tie-dyed tee shirt, was a present from his father. It pulsated with color; the brilliant starbursts of red, blue, yellow and green swirled together in truly psychedelic fashion. Running through the forest in this shirt, his long dark hair flying behind him, Gordon felt wild and fast and free. He shouldn’t have stopped to talk to anyone. It only broke the mood. This was the best: to run through the woods alone, with no one to worry about or answer to. As the trail turned uphill, Gordon dared himself to run even faster. Attack the hills, he exhorted himself. Pick up the pace, pick it up!

Passing the cutoff for Twin Rocks, Gordon thought he heard music playing, a flute maybe? When he reached Circle Drive, Gordon decided to run another loop of the White Oak Trail and check out that sound. He blasted the down hills again, recovered on the flats around the base, and pumped it up for the final climb. As the trail led him up and up, outcroppings of grayish-brown sandstone broke through the beaten clay path. Crossing tree roots, the earth eroded around them, made the footing even more hazardous. Gordon watched his feet as he bounded up this part of the trail. He had run six miles up and down the mountain, but he wasn’t tired.

When Gordon reached the cutoff to Twin Rocks, he turned and slackened his pace. He took long slow breaths as he jogged down the path. Gordon could hear the music, much clearer now since he was closer, and in a minute’s time he spied the flute player sitting atop one of the boulders overlooking the valley. He caught a glimpse of her sharp profile as she turned and dipped, her whole body swaying gently to the music. She had beautiful hair, a straight blonde fall down the length of her back.

The flute player warbled her way through several Beatles’ love songs, Yesterday, and Norwegian Wood, and I Will. She improvised a bit and never faltered, segueing smoothly from one song into another. A gorgeous Irish setter, its copper coat silky and shining, sat on the ground beside the huge rock. Gordon stood and watched and listened. A cool breeze dried the perspiration on his face and chest. Out beyond the flute player, the land rolled west, the hills of New Jersey rising higher and higher in the distance. The whole scene had a beauty so perfect that it looked composed; an artist could not have framed it better.

Gordon’s muscles relaxed completely, a pleasant aftereffect of his hard run. His mind was a blank. The silver notes of the flute floated through without any attempt on Gordon’s part to listen. Harmony. Serenity. This was the way Gordon wanted to feel all the time; this was the way he so rarely felt. What if she turned around and caught him watching her? Would she regard him as an intruder? Gordon shook his head sadly. He could never turn off his mind for very long.

Gordon walked up the last two hundred yards of the White Oak Trail to Circle Drive. The only paved road in and out of the forest preserve looped around a small clearing at this point, which made the area a popular gathering place. When he reached the circle, Gordon was not surprised to see more hippie vans parked along the curve than when he had passed through less than an hour before. After all, it was a beautiful day. Gordon strolled past the vans, eyeing them curiously. The standard hippie van was a Volkswagen bus painted a day-glo color such as lime green or fluorescent purple, with something extra on the sides: one had stick-on flowers, another a psychedelic design, and another the hand-painted words, Tune in, Turn on, Drop out. Since he had trained in the forest preserve all summer, Gordon recognized some of the longhairs leaned up against their vans rapping about the latest concert they went to, or Vietnam, or the weather. Gordon always listened in on their conversations as he passed by, but he never made eye contact with anyone, never said hello. He made no attempt to enter their world, and up until this day, no one had invited him in.

Gordon! Hey Gordon, over here! Gordon stopped and turned toward the female voice that called to him from the stone and mortar wall that rimmed the edge of Circle Drive. He thought the voice sounded like Myra Roth’s, and he was right. Gordon watched her break away from a cluster of teenagers leaning up against the wall together and walk toward him, a smile on her face. For the last couple of weeks Myra had cornered Gordon after English class, the one class they had together, every day. She talked, and he listened. Gordon knew she was after him, but he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. He never went out with girls.

Hey stranger, Myra said when she reached him. What brings you out to the woods?

I’ve been running.

Why don’t you c’mon over and rap for a while? Myra suggested. Then she grabbed his hand and began pulling him after her, which left Gordon little choice.

As they approached the vista, Gordon looked east and automatically searched for his new street, Ivy Terrace, among the dozens of gray ribbons that flowed down the foot of South Mountain. Before he could zoom in on it, Myra gave Gordon’s hand a little shake to get his attention. She introduced him to two boys Gordon had seen in school but had not met, longhairs named Jed and Howie. They both said Hey, man, to Gordon and then resumed talking to each other.

Jed and Howie play in Randy’s band, Myra told Gordon. You know Randy, don’t you?

Kind of.

The band played the Halloween dance at school. Were you there?"

No.

I didn’t think so. ’Cause I looked for you. Myra’s round face curved into a smile, her Cheshire cat grin, Gordon called it. She had almond-shaped eyes and the full but firm body of a cat, too. Right now she was looking up at Gordon the way a cat looks when it wants to be stroked. Gordon shuffled his feet nervously.

I think Randy’s band does Hendrix best, Myra continued, apparently willing to carry the whole conversation by herself. They really wailed on ‘Purple Haze’. The dance was a gas. You should have come. Don’t you go out?

Sure, Gordon lied. He hadn’t been to a dance or a party all year.

You’re a strange dude, Myra remarked.

What do you mean?

Well, you’re this big track star or something, but you don’t act like a jock.

That’s because I’m not a jock, Gordon shot back, harder than he meant to. I like to run, that’s all. I don’t hang out with the jocks.

Hey, don’t get uptight, I like you. You shouldn’t be such a loner. I never see you with friends. You want to be my friend?

Sure, Gordon answered.

Someone shouted at them as a frisbee smacked into the wall beside Gordon’s leg. Myra picked up the frisbee and handed it to Gordon. He flipped it a short distance to a boy whose long blonde hair was tied back into a ponytail. When their eyes met, Gordon forced a smile.

You want to meet Randy? Myra asked.

Okay, Gordon agreed, because he couldn’t think of a good reason not to. Randy West, whose blond ponytail whipped to the side as he zinged the frisbee back across the circle, was the hippie leader of Crestwood High. That was all Gordon really knew about him. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know more.

Myra held Gordon’s hand as they walked slowly toward Randy. Look, you can see the city today, Myra said. She pointed out at the horizon, to where the New York City skyline was dimly visible through a cloud of gray smog.

Hey, cowboy, Myra called to Randy when they were a few steps away, I want you to meet a friend. This is Gordon Ryder.

Randy gave Gordon a soul shake, holding his palm up vertically and wrapping his thumb around Gordon’s. Are you the dude Myra told me about who plays the harp? Randy asked.

"He plays the harmonica, I told you," Myra cut in.

You gork, Randy sneered at Myra. You don’t call it a harmonica in a blues band. You call it a harp.

"Well, pardon me," Myra replied.

I play some blues harp, Gordon said, when it appeared Randy was done teasing Myra.

Well, you gotta come to the party then, Randy said, still looking more at Myra than Gordon. Whitey needs someone to jam with him, since Myra won’t let me bring my guitar.

What party? Gordon asked.

Oh be cool, Myra hissed at Randy. They both ignored Gordon’s question and made faces at each other instead. Daddy’s letting us have the party, so don’t get all uptight about not playing your guitar. Daddy said no loud music or the pigs might come.

Your dad’s a freaking paranoid, Randy jeered.

He’s not. He’s cool. He’s a lot groovier than your parents, anyway.

That’s no lie, Randy agreed, as he turned his attention away from Myra. The frisbee came sailing toward them, headed for the wall, beyond which lay nothing but empty space. Randy took two steps, jumped, and picked the frisbee out of the sky.

C’mon, Myra said to Gordon. She turned and pulled him along behind her. Let’s go to the lookout.

What party? Gordon asked again, as Myra led him back down the trail into the woods.

"I told you on Friday, Myra responded, and frowned at him in mock anger. My brother’s coming home tonight on his way back from the rally in D.C. I know I told you."

You did, but I thought you were talking about a family party or something, Gordon replied defensively.

They reached the lookout, a slab of concrete enclosed by a low wall that was molded to look like carved stone, but was simply more molded concrete. You couldn’t see any better from here than you could from Circle Drive, but the lookout was more private. Another couple was making out in one corner of the lookout when Gordon and Myra arrived.

It’s not just a family party, Myra said as they leaned against the lookout wall together. "I want you to come. All my friends are. It’s going to be a far out party. And it’s not just a party. We’re planning something. Mark wants Crestwood High to join in the moratorium."

What do you mean? Gordon asked. He knew, of course, about the moratorium, the millions of young people, mostly college students, who had ditched their normal lives to protest the war. He also knew that this weekend’s rally in D.C. had been huge, and that Mark Roth was a radical who had led an uprising at Columbia University last spring.

Mark says we have to keep the moratorium going now, Myra explained. I talked to him on the telephone last night. They’re already organizing a rally in New York for tomorrow afternoon. We’re going to plan the walkout tonight.

You mean walk out of school? Gordon asked, incredulous.

Right on, Myra responded, and