I became involved the day I answered a knock on my dorm room door and found an alarming assemblage of 4 or 5 individuals crowded together in my doorway. The apparent leader had a short shaggy beard and unkempt hair standing out from his head at odd angles. Beside him, sort of leaning into the room, stood a lofty figure in a trench coat with penetrating eyes glowering from above a rasputinish beard. Peering around from behind them were several assorted faces wearing a mixture of eager, curious, and skeptical expressions.
"We hear you play bass," the leader said.
From the looks of it I was about to be the victim of a mob contract on bass players. Shortly thereafter, however, I too looked the part of the fashion disaster, which was de rigueur for rock bands, even Christian ones.
I joined the group, and after getting a repertoire established and trying it out on the unsuspecting ears of local coffee shops, schools, churches, etc., we managed to book a tour for the summer break: We would circumnavigate the lower left corner of the US, shoot up through the Midwest into Canada, then return to the Northwest, hitting our climactic moment playing at the worlds fair in Spokane, Washington.
The college (who, being a fairly respectable institution, had been ignoring us thinking we might go away) actually consented to rent one of their fleet vans to us for the summer, probably in the remote hope that we would lose our way in California and run out of gas somewhere in Central America. However, in the unlikely event that we might bump into someone along the way who actually knew the college, they made us pay to have the college's name removed from the side of the van.
So off we went: 6 musicians and an older gentleman (being the wise old age of 24) who was acting as our chaperon, chauffeur, pastor, and all-around spiritual leader. Now, the laws of nature dictate that anytime you put 7 people in an 8 person van for two months - Christian or not - it's only a matter of time before they will all be at each other's throats. And so we were.
Towards the end of the tour, by which time most of us had stopped speaking to the others, we found ourselves with a free day in Banff, Alberta. I was in a rebellious mood and looking for an appropriately noxious way to express it. The guitarist (my most like-minded band mate at that moment) and I were walking around the downtown area when I spotted the tobacco shop; I knew instantly that I'd found my instrument of rebellion.
Glancing furtively over our respective shoulders for any nearby band mates, we ducked in. Looking for something I could afford, I bought a small briar pipe carved in the shape of a man's head, a pouch of cheap tobacco, and a lighter.
We stepped out the door, again looking up and down the street for any bantams as we left the shop. I began stuffing tobacco in the bowl, and as my appalled companion tried to reason with me ("I can't believe you're doing this. You are going to be in so much trouble" - as if I cared at that moment), I began sending up lovely billows of smoke.
We headed for the outskirts of the downtown area, intending to find streets less likely to contain other band members. We turned a corner and there, just as I put the lighter up to the pipe (in my 12th attempt in three blocks to light it), not more than 10 feet away, was our chaperon. He stopped short. We stopped short. There was a long, awkward silence.
I was desperate to find any words that might prevent my having to walk home from Canada, but nothing came.
Finally, our Godly, spiritual leader sighed, and his shoulders slumped slightly.
"I've been wanting to do that for weeks!", he said, wistfully.
I couldn't believe my ears.
Later we spent a glorious evening together, puffing our pipes and watching the sun set over the mountains behind Lake Louise. Not only had I discovered the pleasure of the briar, I had also in the same day found the one thing that so wonderfully enhances the experience: A fellow pipe-lover.
©copyright 2002, Perry S. Fuller
