Caravan Click

It's Fiction Friday!

I rarely write fiction, due primarily to the severe lack of plots rolling around in my brain. However, I have it on good authority that this should not be a problem. So what the heck, here's some fiction. And by fiction, I mean things that are not true and did not happen to me, no matter how much they seem to resemble actual events in my life.

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As the late afternoon sun inched beyond the skylight, enough chill permeated the apartment that I reluctantly turned on the heat. I'd become necessarily tight with a buck over the past year, but I hate cold even more than high gas bills. Julie and Matt, who rent me the Fonz-style loft over their garage, had done an excellent job of insulating the place, but March in Minneapolis is still winter as far as the thermometer is concerned.

As the light waned, so did my enthusiasm for work. I had been diligently plunking out yet another article on the subject of weight control, which I could have summarized, like all the others, in four words: Eat less, exercise more. The fitness stories kept the wolf from the door — though not far — while I waited to hear from my agent. After months without an encouraging word about my Great American Novel, I was seriously considering looking for full-time work again. My savings were running low, self-employment taxes were running high, and the unpredictable nature of freelancing was a serious bother to my plan-ahead nature.

Going out on my own had seemed like a good idea at the time. I had gotten a decent chunk of change from the sale of the house when Paul and I split, which combined with the prospect of magazine work had been just enough to push me out of my cubicle and into the glorious life of the freelance writer. I was in serious starting over mode anyway, so why not? This would be the perfect opportunity to stop stagnating at my office job and make serious headway on the novel.

It went well for a while. My friends rented me the bachelorette pad for less than they should have, and I poured heart and soul into my writing and my studies. I had finished the book, scraped up an agent (with the help of other friends), and sent my baby off to be published within the first six months. Then I sat back to wait.

My patience, and therefore my vacation, lasted a week. Then I took another good look at my financial situation and started calling all my friends in the publishing industry.

I got work, enough to slow the drain on my savings account, but not enough to truly make a living. And it was not the stimulating, challenging, reputation-making work I had imagined for myself; it was "eat less, exercise more." I had started another fiction project, a sequel to the first, but my heart wasn't in it. I was spending more time online reading other writers' blogs than producing anything of my own. The more time passed without word of my first book's sale, the clearer my realization that playtime was nearly over. I'd had my shot, and it would soon be time to rejoin the real world.

I was knee-deep in cynical resignation when the phone rang.

"Don!" I exclaimed, recognizing my caller's voice. Don Preston was as unlikely a friend as I was likely to have. We'd met while both working for a home-improvement magazine. Don was a carpenter by day and church choir director by night, while I knew nothing of tools (I'd been the copyeditor) and enough of churches to know I didn't want any. He was a devoted dad, I child-free by choice. He listened to 70s rock and roll, I preferred a cappella. A shared sense of humor, however, was enough to draw us together.

After the small talk and publishing community gossip, he got down to the reason for his call. He had an opportunity for me.

"I thought of you immediately, Kielle, even though you're going to say, 'That is so not me' as soon as I tell you what it is. And it's by no means a sure thing; you'd have to interview for it and all that. But I think you're the right person for the job."

"Well, don't keep me in suspense, then. What is it?"

"Have you heard of the Williams Praise Caravan?" he asked.

I had. The Williams Praise Caravan was a company of contemporary Christian musicians that toured the country playing to huge stadia packed with the faithful. I'd even been to a couple Caravan shows with some friends of my parents whom I was fond of despite distinct differences in our religious views. Alarm bells went off in the back of my head.

"Yes," I said slowly, wondering what was coming.

"Well, Bill — Bill Williams, who owns the Caravan — wants to update its image. He wants someone to ride along with the tour and document the shows and keep the website up to date. Sort of half embedded journalist, half roadie. And I think you'd be great at it."

"You're right, Don, that is so not me," I laughed. "That's just about the last concert tour I would ever choose to go on. And isn't tour blogging passé already?"

"Bill Williams doesn't think so. Besides," Don added nonchalantly, "I already told him about you, and he wants to meet you."

"Dude!" I spluttered. "You what?"

"I sent him some of your clips and pointed him to your blog. He's impressed with your writing. And with the fact that you could be available on short notice."

"First of all, how do you know Bill Williams? And second, I don’t' know whether to thank you or kick your ass."

I could hear Don smiling, though he had the courtesy not to laugh. "We were in music ed together in college, and we've kept in touch. And I really hope this works out well, because I don't think I could survive an ass-kicking from you."

Trying to sound stern, I said, "You're right, you couldn't." I sighed. "How short is short notice?"

"Short. He wants somebody on the bus two weeks from now."

Short indeed. I was silent for a minute, doing my best not to feel any excitement at the prospect of going on tour with a popular musical act and getting paid to be a professional blogger. This gig would get me way out of my rut.

"Oh, gee, look at the time," said Don. "I'd better get off your phone."

His innocent haste made me suspicious. "Why the hurry?"

"I sort of told Bill you'd call him at 5:00."

"It's only 10 minutes till four."

"He's in the Eastern Time zone today. An hour ahead."

"You bastard, Don."

"You're welcome."

* * *

I called Williams as promised, telling myself that it would make Don look bad if I didn't. I'd had barely enough time to look up the Praise Caravan website and skim the highlights. One thing was for sure, the site did need updating. The page design was straight out of the late 90s, and the colors were atrocious.

Williams, clearly preoccupied, kept the conversation brief. He considered me qualified, he said, based on my writing samples and Don's character reference. The conditions of the job were these: to administer the website and bulletin boards and act as the online fan liaison; to update performer profiles; to ride on the tour bus and attend the performances and post a daily road journal of the group's travels; to take some photos; and to do whatever else came up. The journals and photos were to contain nothing that would embarrass the performers or reflect badly on the Caravan, and nothing that was in bad taste (which was left undefined). Six-week probationary period.

Benefits? Full insurance coverage. Transportation, meals, and lodging provided. The salary represented a 300-percent raise over my present income. That was the part that really caught my eye.

I inquired about equipment. Did they have a computer for me to use? A camera?

Buy what you need and the company will reimburse you, he said impatiently. Did I want the job or not?

In a moment of weakness, I said I did.

"Great. Meet us in Atlanta on April 1. Welcome aboard."

* * *

The next two weeks were a blur. I had few affairs to wrap up other than finishing the stories I was working on. I bought the best laptop computer on the market and tricked it out with wireless Internet and all the bells and whistles. I bought a digital camera and a combination PDA/cell phone and did the same. I spent a day getting them all to work in concert, and by the end of it I could post photos and text to the Internet with my remote devices.

I also made myself master of the subject matter. I spent hours reading all I could find about every member of the company, from Bill Williams himself to the singers and band to the business manager and tech crew. I read the bulletin boards and acquainted myself with the fans and their web pages. I noted the complaints they had with the existing Caravan site and began sketching out improvements. I constructed my redesign on the new computer and had it ready to go live pending Bill's approval.

I spent a lot of time explaining my new job to my friends.

Then I stuffed three weeks' worth of clothes into my biggest suitcase, locked up the loft, and got on a plane for Atlanta.