steps. His eyes had been wide with the frustration and helplessness Carl himself felt so keenly.
They’d sat at the top of the stairs until the sky had turned orange.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Tim said, finally, all the way in New Mexico. “Especially if it’s not even the right guy.”
A recording butted in, asking for money.
Carl looked at the change scattered on the shelf under the phone. Instead of popping more in, he said, “I’ve gotta go.”
“Don’t do anything fucking stupid.”
He swept the quarters into his hand, the sun hot on his head. Back at the car, he smoked three cigarettes, leaning against the door, looking but not looking at passersby, wondering what they thought as they passed him. Wondering what they knew about the bikers.
He tossed the last cigarette on the ground and climbed inside, cranked the engine, and pulled up in front of the convenience store, that much closer to the man he was after.
3.
----
W hile the crew loaded equipment into the belly of the bus, Dean mounted the steps, coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other, a pair of convenience-store sunglasses perched on his face. Life seemed a lot more pleasant with those on, and his last pair was in the jacket he’d lost. He’d had to borrow cash from Shawn to cover the purchase, but at least he didn’t have to worry about food for the next two months. Per diems would help with alcohol. He’d be all right.
The bus had that steamed-fabric and burned-vacuum-belt smell that wouldn’t survive more than a day or two of eight guys leaving their dirty socks in it. One of his bags went under the bus, the other he dropped on the “junk” bunk in the narrow sleeping area. In his pocket he had one more thing from the convenience store, and he pulled it out while he leaned a hip against the bunk.
The bus swayed, people climbing on and off, traversing its aisle. He managed to pluck the cotton out of the mouth of the Tylenol bottle with his cigarette clamped between two fingers. He dumped two pills onto his slashed palm.
His teeth ached, he’d come to realize during the van ride. All the way across the front. He must have hit his mouth on the ground when the biker’d tackled him, though how he hadn’t bloodied his nose at the same time, he didn’t know.
It was funny how different pains turned on in their own time: the neck and knee when he woke in the truck, the cheek when he’d first touched it—now it smarted whenever he moved his face. And now his teeth.
“Hey, hey.” Teddy turned sideways to fit his bulk through the bunkroom door. One of their roadies, Ted hauled equipment and kept fans at bay, usually just by crossing his arms and standing there, but he was also their guitar tech, with fingers more nimble than you’d expect and an almost preternatural talent for coaxing failing equipment back into service.
Dean shifted toward the back lounge to let Teddy drop his stuff in the junk. Heat came off the man like a furnace—ten in the morning and the tips of his hair were already pointed with sweat from loading up.
Dean popped the Tylenols in his mouth and chased them with coffee, grimacing as it went down his throat. Some of the best coffee he’d ever had had come from gas stations, but this made his stomach kick before it even reached it. He doubted he’d finish it.
The first thing Teddy pulled out of his bag was a hand towel to sop up the sweat on his face.
Their first big tour, they’d taken three roadie-slash-security guys, two guitar techs, a drum tech, light and sound guys, someone to handle the merch sales, and their first big-tour tour manager—and why not: the record label was supporting the tour.
Man, they were dumb.
They could still tour with a crew like that if they wanted to—just give in and dig their hole with High Class so deep they’d be able to smell Chinese food when they looked down it. And maybe that was the way they were supposed to do it—shut up, sit back, and enjoy the ride. It
They’d sat at the top of the stairs until the sky had turned orange.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Tim said, finally, all the way in New Mexico. “Especially if it’s not even the right guy.”
A recording butted in, asking for money.
Carl looked at the change scattered on the shelf under the phone. Instead of popping more in, he said, “I’ve gotta go.”
“Don’t do anything fucking stupid.”
He swept the quarters into his hand, the sun hot on his head. Back at the car, he smoked three cigarettes, leaning against the door, looking but not looking at passersby, wondering what they thought as they passed him. Wondering what they knew about the bikers.
He tossed the last cigarette on the ground and climbed inside, cranked the engine, and pulled up in front of the convenience store, that much closer to the man he was after.
3.
----
W hile the crew loaded equipment into the belly of the bus, Dean mounted the steps, coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other, a pair of convenience-store sunglasses perched on his face. Life seemed a lot more pleasant with those on, and his last pair was in the jacket he’d lost. He’d had to borrow cash from Shawn to cover the purchase, but at least he didn’t have to worry about food for the next two months. Per diems would help with alcohol. He’d be all right.
The bus had that steamed-fabric and burned-vacuum-belt smell that wouldn’t survive more than a day or two of eight guys leaving their dirty socks in it. One of his bags went under the bus, the other he dropped on the “junk” bunk in the narrow sleeping area. In his pocket he had one more thing from the convenience store, and he pulled it out while he leaned a hip against the bunk.
The bus swayed, people climbing on and off, traversing its aisle. He managed to pluck the cotton out of the mouth of the Tylenol bottle with his cigarette clamped between two fingers. He dumped two pills onto his slashed palm.
His teeth ached, he’d come to realize during the van ride. All the way across the front. He must have hit his mouth on the ground when the biker’d tackled him, though how he hadn’t bloodied his nose at the same time, he didn’t know.
It was funny how different pains turned on in their own time: the neck and knee when he woke in the truck, the cheek when he’d first touched it—now it smarted whenever he moved his face. And now his teeth.
“Hey, hey.” Teddy turned sideways to fit his bulk through the bunkroom door. One of their roadies, Ted hauled equipment and kept fans at bay, usually just by crossing his arms and standing there, but he was also their guitar tech, with fingers more nimble than you’d expect and an almost preternatural talent for coaxing failing equipment back into service.
Dean shifted toward the back lounge to let Teddy drop his stuff in the junk. Heat came off the man like a furnace—ten in the morning and the tips of his hair were already pointed with sweat from loading up.
Dean popped the Tylenols in his mouth and chased them with coffee, grimacing as it went down his throat. Some of the best coffee he’d ever had had come from gas stations, but this made his stomach kick before it even reached it. He doubted he’d finish it.
The first thing Teddy pulled out of his bag was a hand towel to sop up the sweat on his face.
Their first big tour, they’d taken three roadie-slash-security guys, two guitar techs, a drum tech, light and sound guys, someone to handle the merch sales, and their first big-tour tour manager—and why not: the record label was supporting the tour.
Man, they were dumb.
They could still tour with a crew like that if they wanted to—just give in and dig their hole with High Class so deep they’d be able to smell Chinese food when they looked down it. And maybe that was the way they were supposed to do it—shut up, sit back, and enjoy the ride. It
Similar Books
