Man, I don’t know how much more a this I can take. Been on the road with Huey Lewis and the News fer nearly three months now. They’ve got me workin’ fer them as a roadie. It’s a lotta hard work, coz we gotta lift all this heavy equipment an’ shit. First we unload it from the bus. Then we gotta carry it on stage an’ set it up, then after a couple a hours we gotta take it all apart and get it back onto the bus again. We do this six, sometimes seven nights a week. None a us are musically inclined so we don’t really know what we’re doing. Plus no one really speaks English (‘cept fer me of course) so the guys in the band are always yellin’ at us, barkin’ orders and no one knows what the fuck’s goin’ on.
At a gig last night in Canyon City, Colorado, I’m carrying a box of guitar picks up to the stage when one a them picks falls outta the box.. Don’t even realize it until Johnny, the guitarist sees this an’ goes ape shit.
“Hey!” he shouts ta get my attention. “Hey you, ya stupid motherfucker!”
“What?” I ask.
“Do you know what you just did?”
“Umm…no; why, what’s the matter?”
Johnny sighs and behind the black Ray Bans that he always wears, I can feel him rollin’ his eyes at me. “What’s this?” He asks, pointing to the concrete floor?
“Umm…I dunno, looks like a cigarette butt ta me.”
“No. This!” He shouts, thrusting his finger towards the floor again.
“A…a…um a wad of chewing gum?”
“No, goddamnit !” he screams, slapping across the face a couple a times. “This…This you stupid sonavabitch! That bit of plastic next to yer feet, what the fuck is it?”
“Hmmm…looks like a guitar pick ta me,” I say.
Johnny shakes his head. “Yeah, that’s right, genius. Ya dropped a fucking guitar pick on the floor.”
“Oh…look Johnny, I’m sor..” but before I can apologize Johnny punches me hard in the guts, knocks the wind outta me. I’m doubled over, tryin’ ta catch my breath an Johnny’s standin’ over me, screaming.
“You idiot! Do you realize how much guitar picks cost?!? If we run outta picks, that mean’s I’ll have to pluck the guitar strings with my fingers…my FINGERS!!! And I won’t allow that! Don’t you EVER let me catch you dropping guitar picks again, ya got that?!?”
Johnny then makes me pick up the pick and put it back in the box. That night after the encore Johnny grabs the box of picks from side of the stage an’ dumps all the picks into the audience. The audience goes nuts.
**********
At night after everything gets loaded back on the bus, the bus takes off for the band’s hotel. Mr. Lewis usually sends Bradford, his manager, to the hotel in advance and rents out an entire floor fer the band and entourage. While the band is partyin’ an’ sleepin’ n the hotel, us roadies gotta stay with the equipment. There’s three a us and we take turns watchin’ the shit. One a us stands guard while the other two try ta sleep in the back seat of the Ford Escort. We take turns an’ switch every two an a half hours. It’s real borin’ watchin’ the equipment; an’ time just seems ta drag on forever. A minute seems like a fucking, I dunno, three hours or something. Bradford doen’t let us do any reading, light a fire, or even play games on the Gameboy. We can’t do shit because he says that any light or sudden noises might attract the thieves’ attention and then they’d come an’ tie us up and brutally rape us an’ then steal all the equipment. So when your shift comes up you just have to sit outside, freezin’ yer ass of in the dark and watch the goddamn bus; and ya don’t wanna be caught sleepin’ when yer on guard duty. Bradford caught somebody asleep one time an….well, let’s just say I ain’t heard or seen from that dude again.
When yer shift is over an’ you get a chance ta sleep, well that’s tough too. It’s two people tryin’ ta stretch out on the back seat of an economy class car. I usually have ta sleep across from Dong, this Vietnamese guy, an his feet are always in my face. I wake up an the guy’s big toe is shoved up one a my nostrils. An if I do manage ta sleep, I wake up with my back all sore an’ shit ‘cos it’s so cramped up in that car. God, seems like I’m tired all the time.
Bradford’s a real hard-ass. Everybody’s afraid a him; even the other band members. Mr. Lewis ain’t of course, but that’s because he’s the boss. Before he got into the music biz, Bradford supposedly did a tour a duty with the Marines in ‘Nam. An’ one time when his platoon was under heavy enemy fire, Bradford, having seen the enemy’s position, gets out of his foxhole and calmly strolls over to tunnel opening where Charlie’s firing from. He don’t even flinch or nuthin’ when he takes a coupla bullets - one to the shoulder, an the other to the chest. At the mouth of the tunnel are these two VC snipers, an’ they keep firing at Bradford but he’s still walkin’ towards them, as casually as though he were on a afternoon stroll. The snipers nearly shit their pants an try ta make a run for it by burrowing back into the tunnel, but Bradford reaches in an grabs them by the lapels of their shirts and yanks them out of the tunnel. He punches one a them VC so hard in the face that his fist came out the back a the guy’s skull. His buddy is so petrified by what he just saw that he drops his rifle and just stands there wetting his pants. Bradford gives him this cold, hard stare, then makes out like he’s gonna hit him, but at the last second he grabs the guy’s face in both hands and kisses him full on the lips, even slips him some tongue. Then he lets the guy go and flashes him a peace sign.
“Peace, motherfucker,” he says.
The sniper mumbles something in Vietnamese then drops dead from shock. An the thing is, is that Bradford is 48 years old now, which means he went ta Vietnam when he was nine! Holy shit!!
**************
In the morning the band checks outta the hotel and we roll on out. The guys in the band look well-rested and as fresh as daisies. Me an’ the other roadies, on the other hand, are dead tired an’ smellin’ real bad. I been wearing the same underwear fer the past three weeks, which I wouldn’t mind so much, but being as this is a rock n’ roll band, there’s a lotta groupies hangin’ around an’ I know that kinda stuff is a turnoff fer the ladies. Not that I’d be gettin’ much action anyways ‘cos there’s this hiracky, see? It goes somethin’ like this - Mr. Lewis gets the smokin’, super hot babes, Bradford gets alla the ones that aren’t quite as hot but still pretty good lookin’, the band get all the plain-lookin’ chicks, the sound an’ security guys get all the ugly chicks, an’ so on. By the time it gits ta be our turn, there ain’t no one left. Well, occasionally we end up with this overweight, middle-aged gay guy named Clive; and it’s not like he’s even really a big fan a Huey Lewis and the News per se, it’s just that he’s got a thing in general fer bands from the 80’s. He keeps braggin’ ta us ‘bout how he once blew the drummer fer Kajagoogoo. Anyways I ain’t no homo, so I ain’t tha least bit innersted. Nope, The Brocker is strickly fer tha ladies; even if that means the occasional nine-year dry spell.
So after we load up the bus an’ stuff; us roadies cram ourselves inta the Escort an take off.. One a tha old roadies had bladder control problems. We lost him about three weeks ago. Don’ know what the hell happened, the dude just disappeared. Anyway the car still smells like piss. It hits ya everytime ya open the door, an then it just sticks to ya. Anyways this guy from someplace in Africa, Tyler’s his name, anyways he’s drivin’ an I’m ridin’ shotgun. About an hour later I start driftin’ off; not really sleepin’ ya know, just kinda spacin’ out, thinkin’ bout things. First I start by thinkin’ bout how hungry I am. Man, I really miss eggs. I ain’t had any eggs since, well, shit, since I first got to tha States. Then I start thinkin’ bout them Scotch eggs I got in the fridge back home; wonderin’ if they’re still any good. Not too sure ‘bout the sell by date, but they’d only been in there a coupla months, I think. Well, they’re probably gone by now. My sister or her husband, Joe probably ate ‘em all and who could blame ‘em? Eggs an’ all that breading coverin’ em…I mean ya gotta be some kinda weirdo ta pass that by.
Then I start thinkin’ bout my sister an’ Joe an all my pals back home. Do ya think they miss me? I start thinkin’ bout all the regulars at The Silver Fish: Tam, Doris, Ned an’ his crew, an Ernie…especially Ernie. It’s weird how he just up an’ split like that. Him an’ Margaret cleared out their flat, closed down the pub and left town just like that; he didn’t even tell nobody. Damn, I really miss The Silver Fish. An’ ya know what? If The Silver Fish wuz still open I wouldn’t be in this mess right now. I’d be in the pub drinkin’ a pint.
Then I start thinkin’ bout Grumpy Bill, this roadie that wuz tourin’ with us a while back. Grumpy Bill wuz fuckin’ cool. He wuz this old guy that Bradford picked up outside a Denver. I liked him cuz he wuz the only other roadie that spoke English. He had a lotta stories ta tell. Sure, most a them didn’t make sense but they were always innerstin’ He used ta get so drunk he’d piss his pants an’ then say that a mermaid had tried to blow him, then start laughing his ass off. Then about a couple of months ago he drops a microphone stand while settin’ up fer a gig in Springfield, IL. Bradford goes nuts an after that we never see Grumpy Bill again. Poor Grumpy Bill; I think he really would’ve liked The Silver Fish. He woulda brought a bit of class to the joint. I really miss him.
We stop fer lunch at this Burger King just outside a Colorado Springs. Actually the band is havin’ lunch. Us roadies are just standin’ around tryin’ ta ignore the sound of our bellies groanin’. Since none a us are getting paid, we don’t actually have any money to buy food so’s we kinda gotta hope fer the best and hope that Mr. Lewis, Bradford or somebody in the band will give us some of theirs. So far, no luck, which sucks ‘cos we’re starvin’. The weather’s nice today, so everyone’s outside eatin’ in the parking lot, except fer Mr. Lewis, who’s not with us right now. He’s gonna fly in from his home in the Bahamas on his private jet fer the gig later tonight. The guys in the band are all eatin’ an carrying on, mostly ignoring us as the three of us stand off to the side trying not ta salivate too badly in front a them. Dong suddenly collapses from the starvation and a couple of the band members look over.
“Bwaahhhaaa! Look!” Sean, the keyboard player, bellows, spitting bits of onion rings onto the table. “The Chinaman passed out. Fuckin’ A!”
He turns to Mario, the band’s bassist and the two of them start high-fiving an' fist bumpin' each other.
“OMG!!! What pussy! Wahhhahhhahha!” Mario screams.
The entire table busts out laughing, which is a bit too much for Tyler ta take. I try ta stop him, but he insists on going over to the band’s seatin’ area an’ asking if they can give us some food.
“Please kind sirs,” He says. “My friends and I have not eaten for days and are weak and starving. We would be most grateful if you would find it in your hearts to give us just a little of your food.”
“Oh, I understand,” says Johnny. “You’re hungry. You need something to eat? Well howzabout a French fry? Would you like a French fry, huh?”
He dangles a fry about foot away from Tyler’s face. I see Tyler startin’ ta drool. My guts are rumblin’ somethin’ fierce. Johnny then flicks the fry at Tyler. It bounces off his forehead and lands on the pavement.
“Whoa, nice catch there, Carlton Fisk. C’mon, what the fuck’s wrong with ya?” Johnny barks, drawing a fresh round a laughter from the table.
“Please, Mr. Johnny, sir,” Tyler says. “We are very hungry and cannot work without something to eat.”
Johnny flings a couple more fries at him. Then Sean throws an onion ring at him. It sticks to Tyler’s shirt.
“Make sure the other guys get something to eat, too,” Bradford shouts before whipping the bun off his fish sandwich at me. He throws it hard and the bun slaps against my cheek and slides off onto the ground. It stings and the sesame seeds draw blood.
Pretty soon, the entire band is chucking their lunch at us. A French fry gets lodged pretty good in Tyler’s ear. The patty from a really hot Whooper hits my crotch an the grease singes my nuts. All three of us are covered in condomints – ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise, an a bit a relish. An a pickle slice is wedged up my ass. We grab Dong and drag him to the Escort. Tyler opens the door an’ the three of us get inside where we quietly eat the condiments and bits a food that stick to our clothes. It’s the only meal we get to eat fer two days.
***************
We’re in Fort Collins, now. It’s the middle of the night, probably ‘bout 3 am. Dong woke me up ‘bout a hour ago to do my turn watchin’ the equipment. It’s dead quiet tonight. The band’s partying at the hotel died down early an now I don’t hear nothing. Everyone’s asleep. I look inside the Escort an’ see both Tyler an’ Dong fast asleep. Not much chance a me falling asleep again, though. The bruises that I from a beating I took earlier tonight are starting to sting. Apparently I didn’t screw a snare drum on tightly enough so Bill the drummer smacked me around with his drumsticks. Fuck, those things hurt; like tiny, little fists pummelling into ya. It hurts whenever I lean back in the lawn chair because them plastic slats rub against the welts on my back where Bill whacked me; so I stand up an stretch, try ta walk around a bit.
I’m pacin’ back an’ forth between the chair an’ the bus thinkin’ bout how much earwax an’ snot look alike an how they might actually be the same thing, when all a the sudden I hear this noise. At first I don’t think much of it, that it’s probably the wind or a rat or something. But then I hear it again, only this time a bit louder – the clanking of a glass bottle or something and the scuffing of something cross the pavement.
“Hullo? Who’s there?” I say.
“Hey you,” I hear someone or something whisper. “Over here.”
Over by the dumpster I see something move an’ my heart damn near jumps outta my mouth.
“Who’s there?” I ask again.
“C’mon, it’s me,” the voice says. “Fuckin’ hurry up.”
I’m thinkin’ that this guy might be some kinda weird crackhead wantin’ ta kill me an then suck ma dick fer crack money so he can go get high on crack.
“Listen pal, ya don’t wanna mess with me, cos I’m a deadly weapon. I’ll fuck ya up if ya try anything.” I say, hopin’ this will scare him off.
“Aww fer chrissake, Brad, it’s me. Would ya just get over her ya dumbass.”
I take a few steps towards the dumpster. My heart’s racin’ and my fists are ready fer action. The figure at the dumpster is still in the shadows so I can’t make him out.
“C’mon, we ain’t got much time,” he says.
I take a couple more steps, bracin’ myself fer anything.
“Allright….who are ya? What do ya want?”
“It’s me,” the figure says as he take a couple of steps towards me an’ outta the shadows. I can finally make out who he is, an I’m both relieved and shocked. “It’s me, Grumpy Bill. Get the other guys and let’s go, I’m here ta get ya outta this crazy outfit.”
TO BE CONTINUED.......
