Hanging out with most of the Traveling Wilburys? It's a pretty complicated journey, as it turns out. But sometimes, it happens as a result of an honest search, mixed in with a bit of dumb luck, as we learned while reading a new book, Langley Powell and the Society for the Defense of the Mundane. (UCR excerpt)
The novel, written by culture writer and editor Jeff Giles (who has written for a number of outlets, including UCR), follows Powell as he finds himself surprisingly rescued from an unfortunate death. Brought right back to Earth, Langley is confronted with a new mission: to save the universe. Is he equipped for this unforeseen challenge? Good question. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Let's get back to hanging out with Petty, Orbison and Harrison. UCR exclusive excerpt from the book will take us there now.To read the full story click UCR HERE.
Frank and Langley crept around behind the house, where a swimming pool glinted silently in the sun. In front of them and past the pool, a short distance from the main structure, stood a cottage-sized building that could have been a pool house or a detached office — Langley wasn’t sure which. Off to their right, a giant sliding glass door offered entry into the mansion.
“Eenie meenie minie moe,” said Frank. “We may not have time to look inside both of these buildings. Which one do we trespass our way into first?”
“Hmm,” said Langley. “It’ll take less time to search the smaller one, but I think we stand a better chance of finding something that will lead us to Pemberton if we start with the house.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Frank. “But if you’re wrong, I’m still blaming you.”
“I’d expect no less,” said Langley, and tugged on the handle of the sliding glass door. It slid open easily on its track. After waiting a moment for the shrill cry of an alarm — or worse, a no-face ambush — they stepped inside.
“Looks like a regular old rich person home,” said Frank, and Langley offered a short nod of assent. He was right — as they made their way through, they saw that the place was tastefully designed and outfitted, with modern (but not too modern) art on the walls, glowing in the bright slants of morning sunlight that streamed through the many windows. The ceiling was high and vaulted, with exposed beams that added a rustic (but not too rustic) touch. The kitchen was well-appointed. Upstairs and downstairs, the whole thing had a floor plan that balanced distinctive architecture and sensible design. Just as he had outside, Langley found himself thinking that he’d been in countless celebrities’ houses that were more or less just like it.
After methodically making their way through, around, and behind every drawer, sofa cushion, and nook or cranny they could find in the mansion’s many assorted rooms, Frank and Langley were almost ready to give up and head to the outbuilding near the pool, but as they made their way downstairs, Langley grabbed Frank’s arm.
“Wait,” he said. “Stop. Be still for a moment. Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Frank asked. “I don’t — oh.”
They looked at each other for a moment in wordless acknowledgment, both hearing a deep, rhythmic rumble coming from someplace in the house.
“What is that?” Frank wondered. “We’ve been through every inch of this house. How did we miss whatever’s making that noise?”
“The garage,” said Langley. “We forgot the garage, and it’s huge — it has to have room for at least five cars.” They descended the stairs and headed for the garage door, feeling the noise’s intensity increase as they got closer. It continued as they stood outside the door, each giving the other a questioning look.
“Keep that backpack handy,” said Frank. “We’re liable to need everything in it if Pemberton’s on the other side of this door."
“I’m ready,” said Langley, although he didn’t fully believe that.
“Use the lunchbox first,” Frank continued. “Just keep throwing bologna sandwiches at him until he surrenders.”Suddenly, the rumbling stopped.
Langley took a deep breath as Frank grabbed the handle and opened the door.
They saw three men seated in a loose semi-circle on the other side — one blond, one dark-haired, and one graying. Two were wearing dark glasses, and they were all holding what looked like weapons.
Wait, no — those weren’t weapons at all. They were… guitars?
And didn’t he recognize those men?
“Hey, man,” said the blond one, lifting his glasses. “Didn’t I meet you at the Grammys or something one year?”
“Tom Petty?” Langley replied, dumbfounded. “What are you doing here?”
“This is my house,” laughed Tom Petty, strumming a chord on his guitar. “What are you doing here? And who’s the kid?”
“There must be some mistake,” said Langley. “I’m looking for the house where a man named Neville Pemberton once lived.”
To read the full story click UCR HERE.
