volume one IN THE D U D L E Y C L A R K - Ohio Vine Tours

fans. Maybe, this being his later life, Bob or Bobby has become
a hermit like Howard Hughes, grown his nails long and pointy,
his hair no longer slicked-back Hollywood, but dirty and scraggy
like Roy’s.
Just imagine.
This is what Roy does—just imagines—as he stares and stares
at the door marked 28/RR.
And as he stares and stares and just imagines, he hears
something. It’s something unlike anything he’s ever heard before.
It’s something akin to music he’s familiar with, yet not. It’s
something almost otherworldly. It’s something totally weird and
bizarre.
It’s also something that calls to him, urges him to lean closer
and listen.
And this is exactly what Roy does. He leans closer and he
listens.
It’s definitely some kind of music.
Leaning even closer, he listens even harder.
As a consequence of all this leaning and listening, the music
grows louder and becomes more distinct.
He slides his feet nearer the yellow bar of light that lives at the
bottom of the door marked 28/RR.
Whoever is inside—whose initials must be RR—is playing the
weirdest shit he’s ever heard.
Roy turns his head to one side and further reduces the
distance between the helix of his left ear and the white surface of
the door. The hairs that spike the rim of his ear make contact
with the surface of the door and, like an insect’s antennae,
amplify vibrations emanating from the other side. These
vibrations bombard his tympanic membrane, set at a gallop his
hammer and stirrup and convert mechanical energy into neural
impulses that rush to fill his brain.
A brain that has not formerly been favored with such sweet
sounds.
A brain limited by a glut of electrified cries and amplified
caterwauler.
A brain content with its narrow bandwidth, yet young and
supple enough to appreciate marvels.
ROY ROGERS IN THE 21ST CENTURY 1