LIFESAVERS – Sheep
 
by Luke James (excerpted from his book, Stairway To Nowhere, the true story of late 1970’s Birmingham, UK band Fàshiön).
 

Texas. It goes go on for sodding ever. And then it goes on some more. And then just when you thought it might be running out, yes, it goes on some more. I mean it’s only about an 800 mile drive (only!) from Atlanta to Houston but when the landscape never changes it makes it feel further.
 
“Whoa!”
 
Miki’s apparent delusion that he’s driving the Deadwood stagecoach jerks me fully awake. I’d been dozing through a half-dream, pursued by whooping warriors, pushing my arrow-peppered steed across an endless plateau dotted only with Roadrunner-topped buttes. Wakefulness morphs the Deadwood stage into a 1975 Dodge Ram van, which Miki now slews onto the side of the highway, which is somehow now axle-deep in gory sheep parts. I blink out of the window at the carnage.
 
“Wasn’t me did it!” Miki immediately says, “Whatever it is.”
 
“Bloody hell! Take more than a roll of gaffer tape to put that lot back together.” I say.
 
“Oh I don’t know …” Miki muses. “We could always try.”
 
“Thank you and goodnight Dr. Frankencottrell.” I say.
 
A fair-sized flock of sheep are blocking the road, milling and bleating, the roadside critters are cropping scrubby yellow grass. Thirty feet or so into the flock is a pick-up truck. The front grill is staved into a v-shape and bits of mangled sheep lie in it’s wake. Up on the pick-up roof a denim-clad cowboy smokes a leisurely Marlboro, looking for all the world as if he’s taking a vacation from his billboard and has chosen this spot for its sheep vista. In the back of the van Mulligan, Dik, and Annette untangle themselves from sleep and a small avalanche of gear and suitcases. Miki and I climb out, careful to stand in the door wells. I’m not about to gore up me Docs, am I.
 
“You alright mate?” I yell at the cowboy.
 
He flicks his cigarette at the nearest sheep and turns. If he’s at all surprised to find himself hailed by a seven foot tall, black-clad bloke with dyed red hair and eye make-up, his expression doesn’t betray it.
 
“Howdy,” he says, “had me a little fender bender here.”
I blink. I don’t see a Strat or a Telecaster anywhere. Maybe it’s in his truck. Terrible thing to happen to a guitar!
 
“I’ll get on the CB.” Miki says, “Get you some help.”
 
“’Preciate it,” the cowboy yells, “Ain’t seen a soul all mornin’.”
 
They don’t mess about with this middle-of-nowhere business in the USA, when you are lost, you are lost!
 
“Breaker breaker!” Miki says into the CB mic, “Steady Eddie here. Out on …” he paused, “What road is this?” he asks me.
 
I unfold the map and stab a finger close to the last ketchup stain I’ve left on it.
 
“Near as I can tell … we’re on 79 … about 100 miles out of Henderson … headed east.”
 
“You just made that up.” Miki says.
 
“As if!”
 
“Why have we stopped?” Annette’s head emerges, blooming like a blonde mushroom from the darkness of the back of the van. Mulligan and Dik’s faces appear either side of her, like Satan’s bookends.
 
“Oooh, look at all the sheep.” Mulligan says.
 
“Yeah, look at all the insides of sheep.” Dik adds happily.
 
“Oh, my God!” Annette dives back to her seat and pulls a blanket over her head. “Let me know when we’re moving again.” comes her muffled voice.
 
Miki clacks, fuzzes, static-crackles, and good buddies through a couple of trucker conversations until he is able to let the cowboy know that highway patrol, breakdown truck, and a sheepulance are on their way. The cowboy waves a big country thanks and clambers down into the back of his pick-up for a siesta.
 
“Well, he should be okay now. Can’t sit here all day. Got a gig to get to tonight. Or is it tomorrow?” Miki asks.
 
“It’s always tomorrow somewhere.” I say.
 
“Thank you and goodnight Vasco De Gagarin.” Miki says.
 
While I struggle to visualize sail-powered space capsules, Miki bounces the van off the road, skirts the sheep and has us on our way in no time.
 
“Wish I knew where we were.” I say, peering at the map. Then make a great show of turning it upside down before resuming navigation.

 
Luke James is a regular contributor to andytaylor.tv and has been telling stories since he broke his first window. A first generation punk rock survivor, he was born and raised in the projects of Birmingham, England.
 
He first came to San Francisco in 1979 when his band Fáshiön were touring with The Police. He subsequently lived in Bordeaux, London, Los Angeles, and Charlottesville, VA where Rita Mae Brown gave him money for a typewriter.
 
On his travels throughout Europe and USA he has been variously, a train washer, a restaurant crooner, a night watchman on a car ferry, a street singer, a barman, an antiques restorer, and a minor New Wave rock star.
 
Luke has performed his fiction numerous times over the last 15 years mainly at The Edinburgh Castle Pub in San Francisco. He is co-editor with Alan Black of Public House, an anthology of writers who have read at The Edinburgh Castle Pub. His work has been published in Aethlon, Razors Edge, and Soma Literary Review. His autobiography “Stairway To Nowhere” covers the period 1978-80 when he toured with his band, Fáshiön.