me if I touch this woman. And now even though I'm pissed, I'm curious.
"Scout," he calls loudly over his shoulder.
Impatient, from earlier, walks into the room. My eyes don't even make it up to her face before I stand. "Oh, hell no," I say, striding toward the balcony. The cigarette's already between my lips.
Hitler's angry and his voice booms from behind me. "This is non-negotiable, Gustov."
I light my cigarette, inhale, and with the cigarette clutched between my fingers, I point at him. "I don't need a fucking babysitter."
His pompous laugh resounds behind me as I rip open the sliding door leading to the balcony. He's practically shouting now. "I'm afraid after your behavior in Europe, you certainly do."
Shutting the door on his condescension, I slump into a deck chair.
I'm lighting a second cigarette when Franco joins me. He opens his mouth to speak, but I beat him to it. I'm irate. "They can't fucking do this," I say bitterly. Then I look up at Franco. " Can they ?"
He shrugs. "I don't know, dude."
Snubbing out my cigarette, I huff. "The next few months are going to be a nightmare. What good is a personal assistant, other than to narc back to fucking Hitler?"
His eyebrows rise in agreement. "I'm not sure what to make of this either." He chuckles a little, apparently amused. "She's definitely not a new fuck buddy. He made sure of that. She's all business, man."
I'm staring at the ground lost in my own rage, but his laughter pulls me out of it. I shake my head. "Have you talked to the girl, dude? She's rigid as fuck."
He laughs harder. "Yeah, I get that. We all got introduced after you left. Go easy on her though, I think she's just shy. And maybe a little uptight," he adds.
" A little ? She was completely disgusted with me earlier when she heard me hitting on the stylist." I look him in the eye and can't help laughing with him. "This is a goddamn nightmare."
He slaps me on the shoulder before he walks away. "Welcome to Hitler's hell, twat waffle."
Nine weeks of hell.
Nine more weeks and I'm home.
Nine more weeks.
Home.
Saturday, April 22
(Gus)
The show last night was probably the best one we've played since last year. I was on the uncomfortable side of sober by showtime, but it worked. The crowd was loud and their energy was easy to feed off of.
We didn't play "Finish Me." Hitler was furious. I'm beginning to take some serious pleasure from seeing that vein in his forehead throb.
I went to sleep as soon as we got on the bus after the show and didn't wake up until noon today. I've never slept so hard on the road. I feel almost human.
Before I open my bunk curtain, I tug on a T-shirt. There's a decency line I'm pretty sure I shouldn't cross this time around. The last thing I need isImpatient calling sexual harassment on me.
It isn't until after I use the bathroom that I realize the bus isn't moving. And I'm the only one on it. After putting on some jeans, socks, and my shoes, I grab the essentials and make my way out into the bright sunshine. We're in Phoenix and it's hot. I don't mind the heat; it beats the hell out of the cold. I've had enough cold this winter to last me a lifetime.
While I light the first of many cigarettes for the day, I survey the surroundings. We're parked in the back lot of the venue. There's a taco joint across the street, and my stomach starts growling at the sight of it. This boy needs tacos.
The place is small inside and cleanliness doesn't seem to be high on the list of priorities, but it'll do just fine. And when I see veggie tacos on the menu, I know I'm home. I order a six-pack of tacos and a bottle of water and take a seat at the booth by the front window. The tacos don't taste like Ma's, but they're damn good.
When I'm done, I find that I don't want to leave. The sidewalk outside isn't crowded but there's a fairly steady stream of people. I love to people watch. I could sit here all day and try to guess people's stories. Or make up their stories in my
"Scout," he calls loudly over his shoulder.
Impatient, from earlier, walks into the room. My eyes don't even make it up to her face before I stand. "Oh, hell no," I say, striding toward the balcony. The cigarette's already between my lips.
Hitler's angry and his voice booms from behind me. "This is non-negotiable, Gustov."
I light my cigarette, inhale, and with the cigarette clutched between my fingers, I point at him. "I don't need a fucking babysitter."
His pompous laugh resounds behind me as I rip open the sliding door leading to the balcony. He's practically shouting now. "I'm afraid after your behavior in Europe, you certainly do."
Shutting the door on his condescension, I slump into a deck chair.
I'm lighting a second cigarette when Franco joins me. He opens his mouth to speak, but I beat him to it. I'm irate. "They can't fucking do this," I say bitterly. Then I look up at Franco. " Can they ?"
He shrugs. "I don't know, dude."
Snubbing out my cigarette, I huff. "The next few months are going to be a nightmare. What good is a personal assistant, other than to narc back to fucking Hitler?"
His eyebrows rise in agreement. "I'm not sure what to make of this either." He chuckles a little, apparently amused. "She's definitely not a new fuck buddy. He made sure of that. She's all business, man."
I'm staring at the ground lost in my own rage, but his laughter pulls me out of it. I shake my head. "Have you talked to the girl, dude? She's rigid as fuck."
He laughs harder. "Yeah, I get that. We all got introduced after you left. Go easy on her though, I think she's just shy. And maybe a little uptight," he adds.
" A little ? She was completely disgusted with me earlier when she heard me hitting on the stylist." I look him in the eye and can't help laughing with him. "This is a goddamn nightmare."
He slaps me on the shoulder before he walks away. "Welcome to Hitler's hell, twat waffle."
Nine weeks of hell.
Nine more weeks and I'm home.
Nine more weeks.
Home.
Saturday, April 22
(Gus)
The show last night was probably the best one we've played since last year. I was on the uncomfortable side of sober by showtime, but it worked. The crowd was loud and their energy was easy to feed off of.
We didn't play "Finish Me." Hitler was furious. I'm beginning to take some serious pleasure from seeing that vein in his forehead throb.
I went to sleep as soon as we got on the bus after the show and didn't wake up until noon today. I've never slept so hard on the road. I feel almost human.
Before I open my bunk curtain, I tug on a T-shirt. There's a decency line I'm pretty sure I shouldn't cross this time around. The last thing I need isImpatient calling sexual harassment on me.
It isn't until after I use the bathroom that I realize the bus isn't moving. And I'm the only one on it. After putting on some jeans, socks, and my shoes, I grab the essentials and make my way out into the bright sunshine. We're in Phoenix and it's hot. I don't mind the heat; it beats the hell out of the cold. I've had enough cold this winter to last me a lifetime.
While I light the first of many cigarettes for the day, I survey the surroundings. We're parked in the back lot of the venue. There's a taco joint across the street, and my stomach starts growling at the sight of it. This boy needs tacos.
The place is small inside and cleanliness doesn't seem to be high on the list of priorities, but it'll do just fine. And when I see veggie tacos on the menu, I know I'm home. I order a six-pack of tacos and a bottle of water and take a seat at the booth by the front window. The tacos don't taste like Ma's, but they're damn good.
When I'm done, I find that I don't want to leave. The sidewalk outside isn't crowded but there's a fairly steady stream of people. I love to people watch. I could sit here all day and try to guess people's stories. Or make up their stories in my
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