questions to ponder

Questions raised 10-30-05

• OK, so why did the elder Kellys agree to join the Caravan at such late ages? Quin was 31 and Quentin 37, both married, one with kids, both with established careers. Surely they weren't just waiting for their little brother to finish school. They're good enough musicians that they could have gotten work at it before then. So either they didn't want to, or Bill made them an offer they couldn't refuse.
  
  The Kellys' father died when Quill was barely a year old, leaving their mother Maura, Bill's sister, with three boys to raise. Does she owe Bill something for helping her out? It's not money, although the Kellys are certainly a lucrative draw for the Caravan; Maura had plenty of money of her own. Or is it the other way around, Bill owing Maura a favor, like making her sons famous in return for her bailing him out at a time he expanded business too fast and went into debt? (I don't think that's the case. It's not Maura's style. But I could be wrong.) What's the story? And whatever that deal may be, Quentin knows about it, but Quin and Quill don't.

  
  

• What about acts that have been cut from the Caravan? Who are they, why were they dropped, and how pissed are they at losing that sweet gig? Pissed enough to sabotage the current tour? Pissed enough to try to blackmail Bill or Jimmy or somebody else? Is that why Jimmy isn't so keen on the idea of having an embedded journalist on the bus?
  
  

Bill's basic backstory

The Praise Caravan had started out with Bill Williams and a couple of his friends, fresh out of school, and two pickup trucks. His gospel/folk/bluegrass band, Bill and the Boys, had traveled tent show circuits in the south, playing and singing for their supper and gas money and not much more. Increased bookings lead to a van for the musicians and a trailer for their gear, then a nicer van and a nicer trailer.

In a few years Bill and the Boys were big enough to warrant an opening act, so they lent a hand-me-down van to a younger, less polished group that followed them from place to place. Occasionally someone's friend's or cousin's band would join them for a few stops, too. That was when the touring act became a caravan, although Bill wouldn't change the name for another few years yet. It wasn't until the aging Boys tired of life on the road and opted, one by one, to drop out of the band and start families that Bill was forced to paint a new name on the side of the bus.

Bill found the transition from headliner to manager easier than he'd expected, and he discovered that he genuinely enjoyed nurturing new talent. Entering middle age, Bill Williams had enough clout in southern gospel circles to keep his bus —buses now — moving and his revenues growing. He shuffled the caravan's roster every season or two to keep up with the public's tastes, and to provide himself backup for a quartet so he could keep one foot on the stage. He turned the increasingly complicated business end of things over to longtime friend Jimmy Hindman, who also happened to have a great bass voice, and concentrated on turning the Praise Caravan into the popular brand it was today.

Here Bill paused in his story. Now we get to the good stuff, I thought, nodding encouragement. But my hopes that Bill would reveal his secret heart were soon dashed. He didn't continue until I turned the monologue into an interview.

"How do you choose who to add to the roster and who to cut?" I asked.

Bill answered, "I get dozens of audition tapes from performers and their agents every year, and I also meet a lot of people at music festivals and revivals and in the churches I visit. I discovered Phillip Davis, for instance, singing at a county fair. It's very hard to choose among so much talent. I add acts to the Caravan based on quality, experience, and how well they fit in with the rest of the lineup."

This made me wonder even more about the La Pierre Family Singers, which seemed too homey to blend with the other, slicker acts. However, I couldn't think of a good way to ask the question without insulting them, so I passed over it for the moment to ask something else I'd wondered about.

"What about the Kelly Brothers?" I asked. "They're your nephews. Did they have to audition like everybody else?"

Bill smiled a knowing smile. "I've taken my share of grief for hiring my sister's sons, but the truth is, I knew a long time ago that they'd be perfect for the Praise Caravan. They've been singing in church since they were toddlers, and their talent is obvious. Their mother made me wait until Quill finished school, or I'd have brought those boys on years ago."

I wondered how Quentin Kelly, age 39, felt about being referred to as a boy. I glanced at him poring over some large sheets of paper at a table nearby. Engrossed, he didn't look up. I knew the Kellys had joined the tour only two years ago when Quilleran, a "bonus" child 15 years younger than his oldest brother, had graduated from college. The elder two — Quin was 33 — had already had wives, careers, and in Quentin's case, children when they joined the tour. It seemed an odd time of life for such a drastic shifting of gears, but if they loved music and had a chance to make a go of it, why not?

I returned my attention to Bill. "And the other acts? How did you find them?"

"I'll let them tell you themselves. That should give you enough for now."

I know a dismissal when I hear one. I also noticed that he hadn't responded to the part about cutting acts from the lineup. That, I supposed, could wait.

"All right, Bill, thanks," I said. "I'll have your interview, the first blog, and some design edits to show you by the time we get there."

"Fine, Kielle, fine." His thoughts were already elsewhere.

I set up shop at the table opposite Quentin's and commenced typing. The first blog entry, which I'd been composing in my head since I received Don's phone call, went quickly. It was really just a more detailed version of the speech I'd given on stage the night before. Bill's interview also came together without much trouble. He was accustomed to speaking in sound bites, which made my job easier. Weaving in additional facts and bits of history I'd gleaned from previous reading, I had it done in about 90 minutes.

avoidance behavior du jour

Things I've done today (so far) to avoid working on the story:

• looked up cover art for stray iTunes songs
  
• played solitaire until I won
  
• played Tetris until I lost (didn't take long; I'm WAY out of practice)
  
• surfed
  
• drank too much strong tea on an empty stomach
  
• blogged
  
• started composing reply to e-mail from long-lost friend
  
• considered going to Perkins for brunch
  
• made list of avoidance tactics
  

Day two

In the darkness and fatigue of the previous night, I hadn’t taken a close look at the buses — luxury touring coaches, if you want to be picky about terminology. In the too-early light of that second day, I gave my new home away from home a good going over.

The “old” bus I’d boarded to meet with Bill showed no signs of age. Designed to convey 15 people in comfort, it was at least twice as large as my first apartment and far better appointed than anywhere I had ever lived. The driver’s seat, manned by Reg Donaldson, looked like the cockpit of the space shuttle. In addition to speed and mileage, he could monitor [all the things he could monitor] from the glowing dashboard.

Rows of reclining seats and a couple bunk beds led back to the lounge, galley, and surprisingly large bathroom. The entertainment center, with its satellite TV, DVD player, Xbox game system, and stereo, looked like a display from the home theatre section at Best Buy. Reading lights and computer hook-ups studded the seating areas. The large tinted windows let in plenty of light, but an elaborate climate control system governed the temperature. Intercoms built into the walls allowed for easy calling from front to back.

It was posh. It was high-tech. For a bus, it was spacious. But with my boss peering over my shoulder at my designs for his web site, it felt cramped.

We pored over the examples I’d drafted for more than an hour. My carefully crafted narration went out the window; Bill asked questions and I answered them. He approved most of what I’d done but was not shy about nixing the things he didn’t like, or about telling me to lift up the faith-related features.

“Lift up? You want those at the top of the page?” I asked.

“I want them emphasized,” he said. Oh. Christian vocabulary lesson number one. I would make the Mission Statement and the Daily Inspiration more prominent.

He liked the idea of adding sound and video clips to the site, provided I didn’t post any complete songs people could illicitly download. The route-tracking roadmap, the audience photos, and the Q&A also got the okay. However, the colors purple and orange were off limits. I wasn’t going to miss orange, since I hate it, too, but the ousting of purple meant I’d have to rethink some of the color scheme. I wondered how far I could push indigo before Bill decided it was purple.

Other instructions: proceed with taking new portraits immediately, starting that evening; proceed with interviews immediately, starting with Bill right now; proceed with blogging immediately and submit a sample for review by sound check that evening.

That last one rankled, but not as much as it might have. While I’m loath to cede editorial control to anyone else, even the boss, part of the agreement had been that Bill would review the first couple weeks’ blog entries before posting to make sure they were kosher, so to speak. Once he trusted that I wasn’t defaming the Caravan, I’d be on my own.

The photos would have to wait until evening and my first blog was already written in my head, so I switched to the seat across from Bill to begin the interview.

“Whenever you’re ready,” I said.

“Aren’t you going to take notes?”

“I’ll remember what you say.”

“But you can’t remember everything. Not exactly,” he protested. “You need notes or a tape recorder.”

“Actually, I can remember it all,” I replied. “I have a photographic memory, and if I mentally close-caption a conversation, I can recall everything that was said.”

His skeptical expression elicited a mental sigh from me. I’m used to being asked to prove it and have the parlor trick down to a science. Taking a deep breath, I began to repeat our conversation starting from the first hello, and including tone of voice and gestures for good measure. It took only a couple minutes to convince him.

“Very impressive,” he said. “All right, let’s get started.”

He led off with a canned spiel honed by years of giving interviews. I listened attentively, but I’d heard it all before: how he . . .

[And here’s where we get Bill Williams’s back story. I wonder what it is.]

What the hell do you know about contemporary Christian music?

Not much, but here's a few groups I've seen and liked.

• the Booth Brothers — a loose starting point for the Kelly brothers
  
• Ernie Haase & Signature Sound Quartet — a good-looking, high-energy group, and bass Tim Duncan totally kicks ass!!
  
• Gaither Vocal Band and Gaither Homecoming — a loose starting point for the idea of a tour involving not just a single group, but several ensembles. I've been to a few Homecoming shows, and they're all right. Overorchestrated, cheesy as hell, and merchandise-driven, but well attended.
  
• Point of Grace — funky web site includes band blog
  

I also like the Barenaked Ladies web site for all its fun features, and the Bobs' site for Amy-Bob's period tales from the road revolving around cheese, sleep, and the Weather Channel.

And of course we can't forget Rockapella. Journals and e-postcards written by RP's ex-road manager and band alumni provide insight into life on the road, and their fans (of which I am a big one) supply ample fodder for the fanatic fan antics you'll see around Praise Caravan shows.

getting on the road

movies about bands on tour:

• Almost Famous — about a teenage writer who fakes his way into touring with the band to get interviews for Rolling Stone; band based on Led Zeppelin
  
• Barenaked in America — Barenaked Ladies
  
• The Flaming Lips — The Fearless Freaks — Flaming Lips
  
• NIN: All That Could Have Been — Nine Inch Nails
  
• Pearl Jam: Touring Band 2000 — Pearl Jam
  
• U2: Rattle and Hum — U2
  

Taking additional recommendations. Please!

small edit

I take back what I said about Jimmy and Nancy being the first to leave the m&g. Nancy is going to stick to her fiance Quill like glue and be the Perfect Couple as long as they're in public. Raleigh leaves with Jimmy. This means Kielle has to walk out with and get her info from somebody else. Let's say Sarah. Sarah's nice.

the bus(es)

http://www.plazalimousineltd.com/bus.htm

meet & greet

Camera in hand, I followed my new colleagues to the meet and greet.

M&Gs are the show after the show. The performers are still “on,” projecting energy, charming the public, and selling the product.

And they’re not the only ones. The fans are just as much “on” as the performers. More so. For diehard fans who have seen the show numerous times, this part matters more than what happens on the stage. They spend weeks planning what they’ll wear, what they’ll have autographed, and most importantly, what they’ll say when they meet their idols.

The diehards — groupies, if you want a less complimentary term — want to stand out and be memorable, to mean as much to the stars as the stars mean to them. They take an interest in the desired ones’ hobbies and life events so they’ll have something to talk about. They bring gifts for holidays, birthdays, and performance milestones, ranging from homemade treats and crafts to toys and books for the bus to clothing and accessories. They’re flirting. Wooing. Most will hasten to admit that they know their crushes must remain unrequited, but they can’t stop trying, just in case.

Occasionally a fan will go too far, perhaps by giving inappropriate gifts or photos or sending unwelcome e-mail. With Caravan followers, thankfully, this seemed to be a rarity. If anything, they went too far in the other direction, becoming creepily knowledgeable about the singers’ families.

“So, Jocelyn starts first grade this fall, right?” someone asked Quentin Kelly. His head came up, his eyes narrowed, his shoulders set: father on the alert. I could see him wondering just how much this woman knew about his daughter and whether he ought to worry. The answer was no, she was just making small talk, and Quentin responded with vague niceties about parenting. But he didn’t completely relax for the rest of the night.

Thanks to Bill making a spectacle of me, I ended up with my own little knot of admirers at that first m&g. I didn’t fool myself into believing their interest was truly in the new web site design; most were just killing time until the crowds thinned around the people they really came to see. And there were a fair number who wanted to be my friend simply because I was connected to the Caravan and therefore one step closer to greatness.

I answered a few questions about my background and resume, uncomfortably aware that my listeners could, and a few probably would, Google me later to dig up the real dirt. I was glad there wasn’t much but already resented the potential intrusion. I’m strictly a behind-the-scenes player. My T’ai Chi teachers always warned us not to try to become famous, and it was advice I had no trouble following. I didn’t mind if my work became a little famous — like the novel I was trying to get published — but that was a step removed from me personally. I hoped the novelty would wear off of me quickly.

We worked the m&g for about 45 minutes before road manager Joe Wallace and his crew of local volunteers started packing the merchandise back into its boxes and hauling it out. Getting this signal that the party was over, the singers began making their way toward the bus that had brought them from the hotel. Nancy Wainwright and Jimmy Hindman were the first ones out.

Trailing the pack, I ended up walking with Quill Kelly, whom a few hangers-on seemed bent on accompanying all the way to the street. He chatted amiably, bestowing not only generous attention but coveted hugs before boarding the bus. He ushered me to a seat with the casual gallantry native to southern gentlemen and plunked down beside me with a contented sigh, stretching long legs into the aisle. I took the opportunity to ask him what Bill had meant by “circle” — “meet” — which bus I’d find him on — the “old” bus, both the oldest of the fleet and the one preferred by the older company members — and what time to be on it — seven a.m. sharp. Oy.

We reached the hotel in about 15 minutes, just long enough for me to realize how tired I was. The singers, coming off their performance high, quickly dispersed to their rooms, and I followed suit. I uploaded the rest of the night’s photos to my laptop, plugged everything in to charge overnight, spent a few minutes updating my online journal about my eventful first day on the job, and tumbled into bed.

Kielle takes the stage

“Tell us a little bit about yourself and what you do, Kielle,” he said.

I’m a writer, not a talker, and I hate the sound of my own voice on tape or amplified through speakers. Bill’s position on my Christmas card list was falling fast. Still, he was the boss. I took a deep breath and put my high school public speaking classes to use.

“Hi, my name is Kielle Hughes, and I’m pleased to be the newest member of the PC crew.” There was light applause, just enough to qualify as a smattering. “I’m from Minneapolis, Minnesota,” I went on. “Mostly I took this job because it’s a lot warmer in the south this time of year.” Laughter. Yeah, jokes about Minnesota being cold are always good for a couple yuks. I took a step away from Bill and turned to address another section of the stadium.

“I’m the Caravan’s new web master. Next Monday, you’ll want to come to our web site to see the new design and some new features we’re adding to make it more user-friendly and more fun. Does everybody know where to find us on the web?” Rumblegrumble. They hadn’t known there would be a pop quiz. “Get out your pens. I’m going to spell the web site address for you. Ready?” I recited the URL twice, slowly, and added that people could Google us if they weren’t sure.

“Now, about those new features. First of all, you’re going to be seeing a lot more pictures.” I hefted the camera hanging around my neck. “I’ll be posting photos not only of every show, but also of sound checks, backstage, and even on the bus.” I snuck a peek at the performers, whose mutters to one another suggested they hadn’t been informed of the full extent of my photographing duties.

“I’m also going to blog the tour. You know what a blog is? It’s a web log — like the Captain’s log from Star Trek. I’ll post a new diary entry each day telling you where we are, where we’re going, and how we’re amusing ourselves along the way.” Interested murmurs from the crowd. I made another quarter turn.

“You like these folks, right?” I gestured widely to take in the whole stage. Big cheer. “Would you like to get to know them a little better?” Bigger cheer. Fans always want to know their idols better. “Well, now you can. I’m going to be conducting behind-the-scene interviews with each and every member of the Praise Caravan company and posting them on the web site. — What’s that address again?” Thousands of voices chanted the URL back to me in schoolroom singsong.

Turning back to Williams, I said, “I like these fans, Bill. Can I throw in a little something extra for them?” Geez, when did I become a used car salesman?

He leaned in to share the mike. “Don’t you think you’d better clear it with the boss first?” he asked pointedly.

I made an “oops!” face for the cameras and tucked the mike behind my back to whisper in his ear. We weren’t acting; I’d hoped to meet with him that afternoon to talk about my ideas for the web site, but the travel delays had prevented it. I wondered belatedly how much he minded me springing this on him unscripted. Well, turn about is fair play, right?

Bill nodded at what I said to him, so I announced that I would launch a Caravan Q&A feature. Fans could e-mail questions to be answered personally by members of the company. When I said “personally” I meant “by a person,” and that person would be me; it was my job, not the performers’ or the crew’s, to answer the mail. But the answers would come from authentic sources, and that was all the audience needed to know.

Time to quit while I was ahead. I promised more goodies to come, shoved the mike back at Bill, did a four-corner wave, and hustled off the stage. My sendoff ovation was a good deal warmer than the greeting had been. I took that as a good sign.

The concert was over before I knew it and we were all back in the green room, high on a show buzz. The ravenous singers descended on the sideboard like a swarm of locusts. They had about 15 minutes to chow down and freshen up before going back out to appear at their merchandise tables, where they would press the flesh and sign autographs.

Bill cornered me on his way out the door.

“Nice job on your intro, Kielle. Do it the same tomorrow night. Comb your hair and put on a little mascara. But don’t put me on the spot like that again. Circle with me on the bus in the morning to go over the web site design.”

Well, there’s one question answered. But what exactly did “circle” mean? In my vocabulary, circling is what fighters do before they start throwing punches, or what sharks and birds of prey do before they swoop in for the kill. And did he just order me to wear mascara?

While I pondered that, Nancy Wainwright paused to inform me that I would not be photographing her on the bus, nor was I to even think about it. I could see that she’d look significantly different without the hair and makeup. I wondered if she’d behave differently, too.

Camera in hand, I followed my new colleagues to the meet and greet.

end of first concert

Most of that first concert passed in a blur. I saw it through the lens of my camera, which I lowered just long enough to spot my next photo op and to glance at my feet so I didn’t trip as I bustled from one side of the stage apron to another. I found myself focusing on odd little things: the chandelier earrings the women wore, which looked glamorous from afar but uncomfortable through the zoom; the unadorned piercing in Quill Kelly’s left earlobe; Tiffany La Pierre’s ragged cuticles; the drummer using one of his sticks as a back scratcher. From my position on the floor, I felt like I was shooting up their noses a lot of the time. I would have to scout around for a better vantage point.

Intermission was upon us before I knew it. As the crowds streamed out toward bathrooms and concession stands, I realized I could use both myself. I hurried backstage in the performers’ wake, the ladies’ room my first priority, rummaging an energy bar from the bottom of my gear bag as I went. It wasn’t much, but it would do until I got back to the hotel.

Twenty minutes isn’t much time when you have work to do. I plugged my camera into an outlet in the green room to charge while I uploaded photos to my laptop. Several people came over to introduce themselves, and I snapped a few backstage shots of those willing to pose. The next night, I decided, the laptop would stay behind in a secure location; it was too heavy to lug around during the show but too valuable to leave unattended in a dressing room.

I also spotted the cold cut buffet laid out along one wall and realized my first perk of being with the band: free food. The singers, I noticed, didn’t eat during intermission, wary of clogging their pipes, but the instrumentalists and stage crew helped themselves.

When the second half of the show began, I had a better idea of what I wanted to do. I spent part of the set lurking among the singers’ seats, sneaking into unoccupied chairs from time to time. I also walked out into the aisles on the arena floor for some wider angles. I considered crouching behind the guitarists onstage but figured I’d better ask first. Maybe tomorrow night.

Any time the lights came up for audience participation, I turned my eye out into the tiers of packed seats. A few audience members saw me and waved, which gave me an idea for a new web site feature: Who are these people? I could post a few audience photographs from each concert and ask readers to identify the people in them. Everybody likes to be famous, right?

Not quite everybody. Not me, anyway, at least not without fair warning. During a break between songs, I was mortified to hear Bill Williams announce that there was a new member of the Praise Caravan family, then boom my name and beckon.

“Come on up here, Kielle, so everybody can see you!” His outstretched hand looked more imperious than inviting to me.

Have I mentioned that I hate the spotlight? That’s why I’m a writer: so I can toil in obscurity, known only by name, and pass unrecognized among my faithful readers, free to observe and record their actions without being scrutinized myself. I’ve always thought of it as sort of like having a secret identity. There’s a carefully constructed part of me that’s public and a much rougher part that’s private.

That night, I was 100 percent on public display. I resolutely did not watch as my shiny face, straggling hair, and wrinkled shirt loomed to life on the huge video screens. Smile plastered in place (and desperately hoping there was no parsley in my teeth but afraid to look), I crossed the stage to shake hands with Bill and turn in a circle to wave at the crowd.

Then — and I still haven’t forgiven him for this — Bill thrust his cordless microphone into my hand.

“Tell us a little bit about yourself, Kielle,” he said.

thinking cap

This is my thinking cap — my Rockapella baseball cap. I wear it (usually backward) when I'm writing. It's a huge improvement over the old black beret I used to wear, yes?

avoidance behavior

Avoidance behaviors: things I've done today to avoid writing this story:

1. talked on the phone
   
2. lunched with friends
   
3. wrote BND post for the day
   
4. cleaned bathroom floor
   
5. did dishes
   
6. petted & played with cats
   
7. sought freelance writing/copyediting work via e-mail (a.k.a. networking)
   
8. renamed site "The Naked Novel" instead of "The Naked Novelist," because it's the story that's naked here, not me — so hey, everybody, change your bookmarks to http://thenakednovel.blogspot.com
   
9. wrote this
   

notes to self

• I think I'll post my notes in a color other than black so they're distinguishible from the actual story.
• I need names for the two guitarists and the drummer. Do the instrumentalists travel with the singers or on the crew bus? I'm thining with the singers, but they have to be on stage earlier to warm up the crowd before the real stars come on.
• I need to name the video director and the three camera operators, too, plus at least one sound tech in addition to Fred. They definitely travel on the crew bus. Are any of them women?
• I think we're going to need yet another bus. Crew bus, less posh. Executive bus, very nice. Bill, Jimmy, & Arlynn always ride the executive bus. Phillip, Nancy & Quentin often do too. The younger, less stuffy performers ride the fun bus, driven by Miss Stone. (Don't even think of calling Miss Stone by her first name without an invitation, and if you get one, that's Miss Rosetta to you.) They need room to spread out, so I don't want the buses getting too crowded. A little crowded, yes, for friction, but not cramped. Good lord, the gas bill alone is going to have Bill Williams tearing out what's left of his hair. Not that he wears a toupee or anything.
• When I drive I-90 between the Twin Cities and the Black Hills, I make a game of pretending the town names on exit signs are people's names instead. So if you meet an Emery Farmer — or a Magnolia Kanaranzi — in this story, you'll know where he/she came from.
• Needs more Jesus. I think Bill opens the show with a prayer, too.
• What kind of camera does Kielle carry? How much memory does it have and how many pictures does that equal? I'll have to ask Rachel.
• Would it be wrong of me to call Jimmy the Asshole Jimmy Hindman? Probably. But (butt) I won't say I'm not tempted.
• I suppose I'll have to describe the entire show, act by act, here in the beginning so we all know what the hell I'm talking about. Cripes, that's going to be tedious. Well, not if I do it right.
• Kielle is going to have a hell of a time not doocing herself, especially when things get hairy backstage. That's going to be a real struggle.

first day of work

I had no idea what I was doing, of course. I’ve never been a picture taker. Blessed/cursed with a photographic memory, I’ve never needed to be. But there I was, a hired photojournalist who didn’t know her F-stop from a hole in the ground. Figuring I’d better act the part, I trotted ahead to turn and snap a few shots of the singers as they headed for the stage.

I got a variety of reactions. Phillip Davis, the Big Name soloist, was so focused he didn’t notice me. He filled my frame with an intensity I knew his fans would love. Bill Williams and Quentin Kelly also looked very serious as they went to work. On Kelly, the concentration was Byronic; on Williams, just grumpy.

Arlynn La Pierre and her children Tiffany and Raleigh, a mid-level folk trio whose presence in the otherwise high-powered Caravan I didn’t quite understand, gave me camera-ready smiles as they passed. I dutifully recorded them. Night and Day — the odd-couple duet of Shyrene McGill and Sarah Jeffers — waved and blew kisses. That was my first inkling that I had a lot to learn about lighting: the hallway’s fluorescents glared off Sarah’s fair skin and hair but threw harsh shadows on Shy’s African-American complexion, and the glossy fabric of their dresses created odd sunspots in the captured images. Note to self: Master PhotoShop.

The remaining Kellys, Quill and Quin, clowned it up when they saw me, mugging and posing and throwing off sparks of energy. Sharply tailored like their elder brother but a lot less starchy, they galloped past in a photogenic blur.

Bringing up the rear were Wainwright and Jimmy ____, the tour’s silver-haired business manager and the bass voice of FourWord, Williams’s quartet. With a blue suit coat buttoned over his burghermeister’s belly, ____ supported the dragonfly next to him with one beefy arm.

“Get that thing out of my face,” she snapped, turning her head away from me. ____ scowled and steered her wide around me. He relinquished his hold when she stepped forward to take her fiancé’s hand. Quill Kelly beamed down at her from a full foot above.

As the last person passed, I turned to shoot over their backs into the stadium. I had arrived during the warm-up act, focused on finding Williams backstage, and hadn’t taken a good look around me. Now I got an eyeful through the lens of my Nikon. Tuning in, I got an earful as well.

Like most Praise Caravan concerts, this one was sold out. The stage huddled in the middle of the arena floor, the instrumental musicians already ranged around its edges. Row upon row of seats, first at ground level and then in the stadium tiers, rippled out from this center. The eager audience was on its feet, clapping and stamping and cheering, positively frenzied to get a look at their idols. The noise got even louder when Bill Williams emerged from the vomitorium, now all benevolent smiles.

How do you like your new office, Kielle? I asked myself. Um, it’s a little drafty, and the neighbors are noisy.

I trailed behind the posse and stayed with the group as Williams peeled off to bound up the few stairs to the stage. The stage manager guided the rest to a cluster of seats on a small riser to the north of the stage, where a large part of their evening would be spent looking attentive while their colleagues performed. There was one seat per singer, with a bottle of water beneath each, and no empty spot left over for me. Apparently I was meant to move about the floor like the video crew did.

The video crew are the unsung heroes of any PC concert. To the people in the nosebleed seats, a body on the stage looks like little more than a smudge on the floor. The videographers, however, film each performance from two or three angles and project the images on enormous screens hanging above the stage. Suddenly every seat in the house is a good one.

The camera crane dominated stage south. In addition to two handheld video cameras, there’s this larger one that dips and swoops above the stage, guided by a crew member with a bewildering array of joysticks. The video director, from a perch in the tech booth, coordinates the feeds from the three cameras to the overhead screens. I imagine it’s something like being the leader of a jazz combo — part rehearsed, part improv, but all intended to appear seamless to the audience.

I crept around the edge of the stage to get a frontal shot of Bill delivering his introductory remarks and had just gotten into position when he turned to address another section of the stadium. Damn! But of course he turned. This was theater in the round, where there was no “front.” He would be in near-constant motion so no one would have to stare at his back for too long. I would have to learn his rotation pattern, if he had one, so I’d know how to get in front of him. Meanwhile, I pretended I’d been angling for a profile shot all along.

I zoomed in on the instrumentalists as well. They, at least, stayed put. Mason Jeffers, Sarah’s husband, sat at the baby grand piano on the west side of the stage. When not tinkling out accompaniment, he served as Bill’s comic foil. In the few videos I’d seen, laconic Mace seemed a lot funnier than his boss, but the crowd appeared to disagree with me, howling at the stale (but clean!) one-liners Bill had been working for years.

Opposite the piano, stage east, sat the lead guitarist, the bassist and the drummer. I wondered why Bill bothered having a live band onstage, as electronic backup tracks nearly drowned them out, but again, he seemed to know his business. In all my reading of fan bulletin board discussions and concert recaps, I hadn’t seen anyone complain about excessive instrumentation. Well, I prefer a cappella music anyway, so maybe it was just me.

I framed numerous shots but clicked sparingly, wary of filling up my camera’s memory card too quickly. I had a spare card in my bag but no clear notion of how long it would take me to max them out. I had the laptop computer with me, too, so if necessary I supposed I could download photos during intermission. Nothing like on-the-job training.

FourWord led off the set. Phillip Davis, Jimmy ____ and Raleigh La Pierre joined Bill onstage to belt out a few old-time gospel favorites. The arrangements were solidly traditional, taking no advantage of the flourishes Davis could add to the high end. A standout soloist in his own right, Phillip deferred to Bill completely when they shared the stage. Raleigh looked like a bantam rooster among the more substantial men, choking a few notes off his range by stretching his neck to look taller. Fittingly, Jimmy, by far the heaviest man, served as both visual and auditory anchor of the group.

assorted plot points

Assorted plot points, in no particular order:

• Quill Kelly and Nancy Wainwright are a lousy match. She treats him like shit, but he won’t give up his romantic notions of making it work.
  
• Kielle overhears/oversees a few things she shouldn’t but doesn’t realize at the time that her knowledge is dangerous.
  
• Somebody realizes Kielle knows incriminating facts.
  
• There’s a nasty backstage accident.
  
• Kielle saves Raleigh and Quill’s asses in a bar fight, at some expense to her health.
  
• Kielle’s revamp of the PC web site is a huge improvement.
  
• Kielle becomes mildly famous amongst PC fans — a little too famous to suit her, as she’s an introvert by nature.
  
• Kielle gets a secret admirer: a Mr. Peabody admires her writing on the PC site and her other work and leaves clever, complimentary comments. They strike up a friendly acquaintance. Kielle likes Peabody a lot, but he’s an anonymous Internet creature and probably gross in real life, so she doesn’t think much of it.
  
• Quentin Kelly hates being on the road away from his family.
  
• What’s the deal between Bill Williams and Arlynn La Pierre? She must know where some bodies are buried or something.
  
• Quentin and Quill don’t get along very well. Quin is often caught in the middle trying to make peace.
  
• Quentin works his day job from the road. He’s an architect. Quin works his day job from the road, too. He’s a financial advisor. Quill does not have a day job (and Quentin doesn’t let him forget it). All he’s ever wanted to do is sing.
  
• Nancy tries to make life difficult for Kielle.
  
• Kielle desperately misses having privacy and like-minded friends around to talk to.
  
• Kielle discovers that Darius, the stage manager, also does kung fu (praying mantis style). They become fast friends and workout partners when time permits. But that isn’t as often as they’d like, as Darius has to travel ahead with the equipment truck, while Kielle usually (but not always) travels with the performers.
  
• Kielle meets Benjamin Shea, a cousin of the Kellys. Although both are gun-shy from previous bad relationships, they hit it off right away.
  
• The story takes place over the course of about a year.
  
• Kielle starts to realize that the odd little bits and pieces she’s seen/heard add up to something — something bad. She starts to investigate in earnest.
  
• Kielle confides her suspicions in Ben, who is a private investigator.
  
• Kielle and Ben are an item.
  
• Kielle and Ben break up.
  
• Kielle has a near-death experience, with a little help.
  
• Kielle confronts Bill with her suspicions.
  
• Bill fires Kielle. She goes into hiding.
  
• There’s a murder that looks like a suicide.
  
• Quill discovers the body and is struck mute with shock.
  
• Ben tracks Kielle down and convinces her to come back to Atlanta to see if she can help Quill.
  
• Thrown together again, Kielle and Ben figure out what’s really going on. They solve the mystery (whatever it is!).
  
• Everyone lives happily ever after.
  

Kielle goes to Atlanta

Goddamn AirTran.

Normally, a direct flight from Minneapolis would not be a big deal. A couple hours in the air and boom, there you are. But not this time. First, mechanical difficulties delayed our departure from MSP by an hour, but we were willing to wait rather than take to the air in a dicky plane. Apparently we didn’t wait long enough, though, because whatever was supposed to get fixed didn’t quite, and we ended up making an unscheduled landing in St. Louis. Then there was a delay while harried airline staff found different flights for us to board. They found some other different flights for our luggage, which naturally enough meant that passengers and bags arrived in Atlanta at different times.

I waited around the airport for an extra hour while mine were rounded up. Unlike some of the other passengers, I wasn’t willing to leave and hope my things would catch up to me at my hotel; the Caravan would be checking out the next morning and I couldn’t risk leaving town without clothes for the next two weeks. So I didn’t make it to the hotel until nearly 6:00, when I should have arrived mid-afternoon.

I had left periodic messages on Bill Williams’s cell phone letting him know where I was and when I expected to arrive, with no response. The only acknowledgment came in the form of a terse message waiting for me at the hotel’s front desk: Meet me at the venue. Wear black. Great. I hadn’t even begun my first day of work and already the boss sounded pissed.

Show time was 7:00. As I checked in, I asked the desk clerk to call me a cab. I took time only to wash my face, change into backstage black, fix my hair — it’s a little longer than shoulder length, easy to pull up into a quick chignon if you know how — and load my gear bag. Then I raced back downstairs to hop into the waiting taxi.

I got to the [large Atlanta concert venue] at about 6:45 and slipped through the teeming crowds to ground level, where it took approximately two minutes to talk my way backstage. Either my Jedi mind tricks were more powerful than I had realized or the Caravan needed better security. I also noted that telling the security guy my name hadn’t affected the process one way or the other. No one had told him to expect me. I made a mental note to bring both points up with Williams at an opportune time. Later.

I’ve spent plenty of time behind the scenes in various theaters and had little trouble figuring out where the dressing rooms were: just follow the sound of vocal warmups. I was striding purposefully toward arpeggios when somebody grabbed my elbow from behind and tried to yank me around.

“Just where do you think you’re going, missy?” demanded a nasal, honeyed drawl.

I’ve been studying T’ai Chi for more than a dozen years. Most people know T’ai Chi as a series of gentle, flowing movements practiced by Chinese senior citizens in public parks at dawn. They’re right, but that’s only one side of the coin. On the other side is kung fu. Each of those gentle, flowing movements, when revved up to fighting speed, is a self-defense technique. I know most of them, and I know them well. Had I been accosted that way in a dark alley, I would have whirled, freed my arm, and slammed the bad guy to the ground in one smooth motion. I thought about doing so anyway, because the voice had called me “missy.”

However, T’ai Chi is also the art of relaxation, so I took a deep breath and settled for two out of three. I spun and freed myself, and in standing my ground made the woman who’d grabbed me take a step back. No body slam.

I towered over her. Her eyes were level with my chin. Her aggressively blonde hair, however, was almost as high as mine. That, her shimmery dress, and the voice I’d recognized from hours of studying Praise Caravan performers told me who I’d met. I turned off my don’t-fuck-with-me glare and switched on a friendly smile.

“Ah, Nancy Wainwright. I’m Kielle Hughes, the Caravan’s new webmaster. How do you do.” I stuck out my right hand, which she ignored, fists on hips. Nancy Wainwright was contemporary Christian pop’s sweetheart onstage. Offstage, apparently, was a different story. I spared a moment to wonder why she wasn’t warming up with the rest of the company.

“Good for you,” said the sweetheart tartly. “And where do you think you’re going?”

Nice to meet you, too. “I’m supposed to meet with Bill Williams before the show. He’s back this way, right?” I resumed walking in my original direction. I could hear Williams’s mellow tenor voice leading the vocal exercises at the end of the hall.

Wainwright scurried around me, a feat I admired given the height of her heels, and planted herself in my path. I had to either stop or plow her over. Tough choice. When I’ve set my course for a goal, I don’t take kindly to obstacles in my way, especially when they reek of AquaNet.

“Crew,” she sneered, looking me up and down, “do not bother Bill backstage before a show, which anyone with common sense would know. How did you sneak back here, anyway?”

I have to work with this woman, I reminded myself. It’s not nice to knock a coworker on her ass.

“Bill left me a message to meet him here when I arrived. He’s expecting me.” I took a deep, calming breath, shaking off the frustration of travel delays, determined not to cause a scene.

I didn’t have to. Wainwright’s rising voice did it for me as she snapped, “Like hell he is.”

A man in an impeccably tailored charcoal grey suit popped out of the green room and started toward us without hesitation. Dark hair in a conservative cut, eyes that matched his silver tie, a quarterback’s shoulders and stride: Quentin Kelly, lead singer and eldest of the Kelly Brothers Trio, and Wainwright’s future brother-in-law.

“Nancy? What’s going on?” His words were for her, his keen gaze for me.

I faked left and deftly stepped to the right, my hand out again. I ignored Wainwright’s icy glare, half expecting to feel one of her stilettos in the back of my leg. “Mr. Kelly, hi, I’m Kielle Hughes,” I introduced myself again. “I’m looking for Mr. Williams. Is he inside?”

Kelly shook my hand reflexively, sizing me up in a moment. “The Internet person, right? Come on in. We’ve only got a minute, but I know he was looking for you.” He turned to usher me down the hall.

“Quentin, she can’t go in there!” Wainwright protested. “You know the rule. No visitors in the green room.”

“Miss Hughes isn’t a visitor, she’s staff,” Kelly pointed out, guiding me through the green room door with a light touch on my back. I took an extra step forward so Wainwright could steam past. She flounced into position next to the youngest, tallest, most attractive man in the room and shrugged off the arm he tried to settle across her shoulders.

Bill Williams noted our arrival but did not pause until he’d led the group through the end of a series of scales. Then he made a conductor’s cutoff motion and looked expectantly at Kelly, who took his cue to introduce me to the group.

“Miss Hughes. Glad you could join us.” Gee, thanks for the warm welcome, boss. To the rest, he said, “Kielle, as you know, is our embedded journalist as well as our webmaster. She’ll be taking pictures and conducting interviews while we’re on tour. Give her your full cooperation.” They swiveled to look at me. I smiled back at the murmured hellos.

A man wearing black clothes and a headset stopped briefly in the doorway. “Two minutes, Bill,” he said, and disappeared again. Stage manager, I thought.

“Let us pray,” Williams intoned. I recalled that he was an ordained minister. The company joined hands — me included, as people on either side clasped mine — and bowed their heads while their leader asked a blessing for their performance.

Out of practice with praying, I studied my new colleagues’ footwear until he finished. Leather dress shoes for the gentlemen, simple pumps for the ladies, except for Wainwright’s high heels. I wondered if the uniformity was a matter of dress code or personal choice, and why Wainwright was the only standout. My musings were cut short when the stage manager reappeared to announce, “Places.”

The tide of singers swept me back out into the hallway as I dug out my digital camera. Time to go to work.

third question of the day

Q: Can I sleep with the lead singer?
~ L

A: Depends on who who you mean by lead singer. There are several ensembles on the tour. I'll take the liberty of ruling out the girls. You can't sleep with Quentin Kelly, the lead singer of the trio, because he's not only married, but too old and too old-fashioned for you. You can't sleep with Bill Williams, the lead singer of the quartet, because he's a right bastard and you deserve better. But Phillip Davis, the other tenor in the quartet — actually, you may be just what that guy needs. Hmm . . . Thanks, L!

another question

Q: Do you ever have a problem with characters "refusing" to behave in ways you want them to? Like, you try to write a scene a certain way and find yourself stymied because "So-and-so would never do that"?

~ Gembrat

A: You betcha. And whose fault is it these people are so damn stubborn? Er . . . yes, it happens, but I take it as a good sign. If a character has enough personality that he or she is not easily molded into just any old shape, it means the person has dimension, and that's good.

a question!

Q: I see you've assembled an entire cast of characters already. Don't most writers "discover" characters as they write?
~ Rona

A: I can't speak for most writers, only for myself. For me, it's usually about half and half: I think up a person or two, then some situations for them to get into, and then I discover more people for them to meet in those situations. It goes back and forth like that.

In the case of the novel I'm working on here, however, it's slightly different. I've been thinking about this story off and on for a couple years and so have already "met" most of the people in it — or so I think; that will certainly change a bit as I go. I've also mentally mapped out several major plot points — and I plan to post the map soon, if I can just get my poop in a group this weekend.

Thanks for asking! All questions (and answers!) welcome. The Naked Novelist, like most novelists, will do just about anything to avoid actually working on her novel, so keep 'em coming. :-)

forgot a couple people

The Caravan needs a road manager and a sound guy, too. Let's call them Joseph Wallace and Eustice "Fred" Fredrickson, respectively.

who’s on the bus?

a partial list of Praise Caravaners

Kielle Hughes, blogger, webmaster, fan liaison

Bill Williams, head honcho (and a bit of a bastard if you ask me). Front man of FourWord, his old-school gospel quartet.

The Kelly Brothers: Quentin, Quin, and Quilleran. (Don’t blame me; the cutesy Q-names were their mother’s idea.) Singers. Bill’s nephews.

Nancy Wainwright, diva soprano and Quill’s fiancée; huge bitch in a small package

Night & Day, a.k.a. Sarah Jeffers and Shyrene McGill, singers. One lily-white and British, one black and soulful. Great odd-couple duet.

Mason Jeffers, keyboardist, Bill’s comic foil, Sarah’s husband. He and Sarah met while working as cruise ship entertainers.

Jimmy the Asshole, Bill’s business manager and bass voice of FourWord. He’ll get a last name when I’m damn good and ready.

Phillip Davis, soloist, the Praise Caravan’s big draw. Powerhouse on stage, neurotic introvert off stage. Also a tenor in FourWord.

A trio made up of Arlynn La Pierre and her children, naive Tiffany and boorish Raleigh. They sing and play instruments, probably folky stuff. They’re not all that great, so you wonder how they made it into the Caravan, but Arlynn and Bill have some history. She has some kind of influence on him.

a fourth member of FourWord (baritone), possibly Raleigh La Pierre

Rosetta Stone, driver

Darius Cole, stage manager. Gay and very, very closeted.

various pit musicians

sundry stage crew

Clearly we’re going to need more than one bus.

---

not on the bus

Kielle’s friends at home

Maura Kelly, the Kelly brothers’ mother

Nolie Baker Kelly, Quin’s wife; financial consultant

Leah Kelly, Quentin’s wife; parochial school headmistress

Benjamin Shea, a Kelly cousin; private investigator

legions of enthusiastic Caravan fans

a vocal minority of overly devoted fans

a few stalkerish fans

the plot

Not much to tell about the plot just yet, but it will include:

• introspection
  
• conspiracy
  
• romance
  
• murder
  
• humor
  

our heroine

Our Heroine: a partial introduction

When we meet Kielle Hughes, she has just finished the novel she quit her day job to write. It’s in the hands of her agent, and the waiting is killing her. She takes the Praise Caravan job as much as for distraction’s sake as anything else, although of course there’s that nagging work ethic in the back of her head that says she has to be doing something demonstrably productive, with a steady paycheck, or she’s a bad person.

Kielle has some misgivings about the Caravan from the start. For one thing, it’s a contemporary Christian ensemble, and Kielle is not a Christian. Not anti-, but definitely not Christian. She’s Taoist if she’s anything, but that’s philosophy, not religion. So she’s not sure how well she’s going to get along with people who are totally into Jesus. She’s also not convinced that people who say they’re into Jesus actually practice what he preached, having had some negative experiences with that sort of thing in the past.

Riding on the tour bus is going to make Kielle insane. She’s a hermit by nature, one of those writers who can hole up in her garret for days on end without feeling a need to speak to anyone. Yet she has signed up to spend her days trapped on a bus with people she may not like and her evenings surrounded by crowds in the concert venues. Her only alone-time while on tour will be in her hotel room late at night when she’s too wiped out to enjoy it. And forget crawling into her cave when she’s not on tour; all her friends at home want to spend time with her while they can. What the hell was she thinking?

Kielle has a few tools to help keep her sane, though. She’s a devout student of T’ai Chi, an internal-style Chinese martial art she studies for both health and self-defense. Her meditation practice is vital to her sense of well-being, and the physical activity helps a lot as well. Also, she writes. Constantly. She maintains a road blog for the tour, a public blog to keep her family up to date, a private online journal open to a select inner circle, and active correspondence with several friends. That’s in addition to the pen-and-paper diary she keeps — in Portuguese or something, just in case anyone peeks.

Another interesting thing about Kielle: she as a photographic memory. This will become vital to the plot (once I figure out what that is). She remembers everything she sees or reads and most of what she hears, especially if she visualizes the words as they’re being spoken. She has taught herself to read lips, too, and is not above eavesdropping that way. That will put her into more than one tight spot re: knowing things she shouldn’t and needing to keep quiet about how she learned them.

Interesting aside: Since she had such an easy time memorizing rote material, during college Kielle scored the occasional easy money by taking tests for other students. And she never felt particularly bad about it.

intro

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.