trophyloaf

“Gentleman, this is R.U.N. Welcome to our headquarters. Welcome to your first steps towards freedom,” this guy in a Motley Crue t-shirt from their 1988 ‘Girls, Girls, Girls’ tour says. He pauses as he looks across the table taking each of us in, one by one. “Congratulations, gentlemen, we’re taking you home.”

The guy talkin’ is some dude named Roger, the leader of R.U.N. (Roadie Underground Network) We’re in the employee break room at the back of a Wal-Mart somewhere just outside a Albuquerque, R.U.N.’s official headquarters. Roger’s tellin’ us how his organization was set up to help free roadies like us and get us ta safety. He keeps talking, comparin’ himself ta somebody named Harry Toeman, or somethin’ I dunno, some black chick that lived a long, long time ago. Not sure what it really has ta do with us. But then again, I ain’t really listenin’ anyways. I’m just excited ‘bout finally being in Albuquerque.

We got inta Albuquerque a coupla days ago.We woulda got here sooner but we hadda stop off so cos I had ta take a shit. It wuz onna them really soft ones, the kind where it take forever to wipe yer ass. Plus Grumpy Bill got busted up kinda bad in a fight with one a them guys from that R.U.N. hingme that’s travellin’ with us – the big guy, Burt, I think his name is. Apparently, they wuz arguing over which band wuz better – Dokken or Winger – an’ things just got a bit outta hand.

“Dokken sucks!” Grumpy Bill screamed. “Don Dokken’s a PUSSY! He ain’t got NUTHIN’ on ma man Kip WINGER!”

“Shut the FUCK up, man!” Burt yelled. “You don’ know what the fuck yer TALKIN’ about!”

“Kip Winger will bring down a WORLD OF PAIN on Dokken and OWN his sorry faggot ass!”

“I told ya, NOBODY talks smack about Dokken, an’ gets away with it. You wanna piece a me? Ya got it. I’ll take ya down, ya ugly mother fucker ! I’LL TAKE YA DOOWWWN!!!”

…and then everything just kinda blew up from there. We ended up havin’ ta rush Grumps to the ‘mergency room in tha middle of the night. He had two black eyes, a busted nose an’ had ta get seventeen stitches on his cheek and the side a his forehead. Burt had a coupla busted knuckles an’ a sprained wrist. Ta be honest, I think it was Grumpy Bill’s fault, I mean he did start it an’ kept eggin’ the guy on; but in all fairness, Grumps was pretty drunk, an’ this guy shoulda know that Grumpy Bill’s a mean drunk.

Anyway we’re here in Albuquerque now an’ that’s all that counts in my book. I’m really jazzed, an’ I’m findin’ it hard ta concentrate on anythin’ because I’m just sooo excited ‘bout bein’ here. I mean, whew, Albuquerque…Christ, this is like a dream come true ta me. I mean this is somethin’ that I’ve been dreamin’ bout my whole life (well the past three years anyways)…you dream, an you plan, an you think ‘maybe one day’ but not in a million..no, a BILLION years did I think I would ever actually be here in Albuquerque…the actual home of High School Musical.
I ain’t done a awful lot since we been here on account a all this R.U.N. bullshit, but we’re supposed ta be in Albuquerque fer at least another week, so it will give me plenty o time to poke around, visit East High an the Lava Springs Country Club where HSM2 wuz made. Shit, maybe if I’m lucky enough I might get ta meet Troy an that Cordon Blue kid durin’ their basket ball practice, or Gabriella. Hell, even if it wuz just that kid that wears all them gay hats, Ryan, well that would be cool, too. But at the moment, I’m stuck in this goddamn meetin’ where these people are gonna try ta figger out how ta get me back ta Scotland.

Roger’s still talkin’, goin’ on ‘bout how before he made his escape he used ta roadie fer some hair metal band back in the 80’s –Hanoi Rocks. How they used ta make him carry all these speakers an’ heavy ‘quipment up to their rehearsal space on the top floor of this 12 story walk-up. How he had ta carry all this shit upstairs while the band took the service elevator. Then he’d have ta run back up an’ down the stairs at least 10 times during their rehearsals on account a he had ta fetch the band’s drugs, an’ they’d laugh at him the whole time. Then the singer died an’ the band had ta break up so he wuz sold ta Motley Crue fer a bottle a Jim Beam, a gram a heroin an a cock ring.

When he went ta Motley Crue, it got even worse. They used ta use him as sorta an all purpose tester. For example, whenever Nikki Sixx got some smack from a dealer he didn’t know, he’d call up Roger an’ make him shoot up, just ta test the drug an’ make sure it was okay an that he wuzn’t gonna like O.D. from it or anything. But it wuzn’t just drugs that he’d test, there wuz other shit, too. Like whenever there wuz a really questionable-lookin’ groupie, one that looked like she mighta been rife with disease, they’d force him ta have unprotected sex with her before any a the guys in the band did to see if she was safe or what not, an’ remember, this is Motley Crue we’re talkin’ bout, they ain’t really known fer havin’ high standards, so you know them chicks had ta be reaaaally skanky. So he ends up gettin’ all kinds a nasty shit.

“So today my penis is just one giant pus-filled blister,” he announces.

Roger pauses an’ looks down at his watch. “Gentlemen, I’ve gotta go take a shit, so I’ll turn the proceedings over to our Vice Chairman of Planning Things, Harold. Take it away Harold.”

Roger walks off an’ this guy in a old t-shirt with the word ‘Quarterflash’ across the front of it stands up.

“Thanks Roger,” he says. “Now before we begin I have an announcement to make – I fucked my wife last night.”

Everybody around the table starts clappin’ their hands and cheerin’ him on. “Heyyy! Alright!” “Good for you.” “Attaboy,” they all say. Harold smiles, soakin’ up the applause.

“Yeah, in fact I was so good that, now get this, she actually forgot my name,” he laughs. “yeah, she actually called me Steve. I mean can ya believe it?”

The applause is cut short an everybody looks at Harold
standin’ there proud as a peacock with this his chest all puffed out an’ this big grin on his face. A coupla guys clap, not knowing what else to do. Then some guy in a Loverboy t-shirt says “erm, that’s…great, Harold.”

“Yeah,….uh, nice work?” pipes in some dude wearing a ancient Doobie Brothers shirt from their 1978 tour.

“I mean, c’mon, Steve. Hah! That’s not even CLOSE to Harold. Christ I must be a DYNAMO in the sack!”

“Ummm…that’s great Harry…so do you wanna tell us about this plan?” asks one a the guys that picked us up in Colorado, the skinny guy in the Marlins cap an’ Grateful Dead shirt; Steve I think is what he told me his name wuz.

“Oh yeah, anyway you guys, this is the plan – we’ve got plants, a whole network of people working on the inside for the enemy. Not necessarily roadies, but the people that work behind the scenes – electricians, gaffers, stagehands…people like that, people who are sympathetic to our cause. These people have agreed to smuggle you into their respective bands…bands that are touring all over the country and the world over. You’re basically gonna tour with these bands until they make a stopover in your hometowns or as close as possible an’ then once your there, you’ll just be cut loose.”

Then, Tyler raises his hand. “Excuse me, sir, but won’t these bands know we’re not part of their normal road crew? I mean will we not get caught?”

“No,” Harold replies. “You’re entering these bands through the backdoor, kinda like how I did my wife last night. You’ll be travelling incognito and you won’t be travelling with the actual band members themselves, it will be with the entourage, the hangers-on that follow.”

“I dunno, I worry,” says Dong.

“Listen guy, it’s not the inner circle you’re penetrating here - which is exactly what my wife said last night, by the way– it’s the people that follow in the band’s wake: the merchandise sellers, the stage hands, the lighting technicians, the sound board engineers, the band members’ wives and children – the people that don’t have any actual interaction with the members of the band. Shit, chances are you won’t even see the band except on stage.” Harold pauses to take a sip a Pepsi Free. He burps an’ continues. “Although that’s not to say that you still shouldn’t keep your head down and maintain a low profile…just to be on the safe side.”

Tyler, Dong an’ me all look at each other then at Harold. Don’t think any of us are convinced that this is gonna work. The last thing any of us wanna do is get caught out an’ forced inta bein’ roadies fer the rest of our, ‘cos some a these bands actually sound worse than Huey Lewis, an’ that wuz a nightmare!

“Look, I’m telling ya,” Harold says. “I was a roadie for over 20 years. I’ve seen it all, I’ve been with them all Thompson Twins, Berlin, the Buggles, Twisted Sister…hell, I was forced to work as a fluffer for Frankie Goes to Hollywood for christsakes. So I know how bad it can get. I know about praying every night for a merciful death so you don’t have to face another day of washing Dee Snider’s sweat soaked codpiece; and all of us here have similar stories. The last thing we want to do is have you guys get caught. So, trust me this, we know what we’re doing.”

Tyler an’ Dong still look kinda unsure. An’ I guess I’m still not sure either, but the way I see it, what other choice do we have?

“Alright,” I say. “So what do we do?”

Harold pulls this wad a paper outta his pocket, an’ unfolds it an places it onna table. He looks at it fer a coupla seconds then calls us over. I look down an’ notice that it’s a menu fer some Chinese restaurant called the Golden Panda.

Then he starts tellin’ us how over the next few weeks there’s gonna be some bands comin’ ta play in the Albuquerque area. 38 Special is playing inna couple a days, an then they’re headin’ west ta California, then he’s gonna hook up wit soma the wardrobe guys from Hanson as they’re gonna do a tour a Japan an’ eastern Asia.

“Dong,” he says. “I’ve made arrangements for you to hook up with a couple of band’s sound engineers and travel with them.”

Then he tells Tyler that he’s gonna hook up with a coupla guys from Earth, Wind and Fire’s P.R. team when they come to town the followin’ week. The band does two gigs in Baltimore an then he’s gonna have ta hook up with the Scorpions ta get him overseas.

Finally he gets ta me. “Okay,” he says. “A couple of days after the Earth, Wind and Fire concert, Journey is gonna be in town. You’re gonna hook up with the band’s lighting technicians and travel with them to Milwaukee where they’re sharing the bill with Kansas and Asia. Once you’re in Milwaukee, we’re gonna do a swap with the lighting techs for Kansas, so you’ll travel on to New Jersey with Kansas while another runaway takes your place and travels onto Bismark, North Dakota, with Journey. Then once you’re in New Jersey, you’ll meet up with some sound guys for the Fixx who are doing a gig Trenton then flying back to the UK the next morning. You got all of that?”

“Yeah, I think so,” I says, but really I don’t.

After his talk, Harold asks us if we have any questions. None of us say anything. Then Harold says he’s gonna turn the floor over ta Steve, the Grateful Dead guy, for the next item on the meeting’s agenda. Then Steve stands up an’ starts talkin’ bout how the vending machine in the staff break room ain’t givin’ out candy like it’s supposed to when ya put yer quarters in an’ on top of that it won’t give ya yer change back.

“So if this happens, please do not bang on the machines because we rent them from the company and if there’s any damage to them we have to pay for them ourselves,” he says. “Instead, go report it to one of the maintenance guys or Carol at the Customer Service desk.”

After the meeting Roger and Harold pull Dong aside; I guess it’s so they can go over the plans for the 38. Special gig. Tyler and me get to talkin’ an neither of us are too keen on these plans. Then Tyler tells me he’s don’t even really want ta go back to his home.

“I am from Zimbabwe,” he tells me. “Why in hell would I want to go back? If I did, Mugabe’s henchmen would surely have me beaten and possibly killed.”

“Yeah…I have no idea what you’ve just said,” I says. “But I do know that I ain’t too keen on all this travellin’ round an’ hookin’ up wit all these different bands. It just seems too complicated.”

Tyler nods, “I understand.”

“But I ain’t got no bread or even my passport, so what the fuck else am I gonna do? Know what I’m sayin’?”

Me an’ Tyler both agree that the set up seems a bit dodgy but really it’s the only game in town. The one good thing outta this is that we’ve still got a coupla weeks to decide what we’re gonna do – stick with this plan or see if we can figger out somethin’ else.

In the meantime, I’m gonna take this opportunity ta do a little explorin’ on ma own. I mean I’m Albuquerque fer cryin’ out loud...home of the East High Wildcats. Ya only get an chance like this maybe once in a lifetime. So startin’ tomorrow I’m gonna get my head in the game. I’m gonna find what I’ve been looking for. Yep, that’s right, I’m gonna go hang with the cast of High School Musical!

To be continued…………………

We’re somewhere just outside a Flagstaff, AZ.. A coupla days ago we finally managed to escape from Huey Lewis an’ the News after months a being forced inta touring across America as roadies fer the band. Now we’re holed up in some dude’s garage, layin’ low fer awhile waitin’ fer Tyler ta get better.

The night before we left, Tyler wuz in charge a settin’ up the microphones fer a gig in the Coors Light tent at the Larimer County Fair in Colorado. An’ apparently he didn’t tighten the mic stand tightly enough, cos’ during the middle of “Heart of Rock and Roll,” Mr. Lewis’ microphone stand collapses, an’ his microphone goes slidin’ back down until it’s almost level with his waist. He kinda laughs it off an’ continues singin’ the rest a the song bent over sos he can reach the mic an’ the crowd cheers. But two songs later we can’t get the mic stand fixed an’ he’s still singin’ all bent over. Not sure why Mr. Lewis don’t just take the mic off the stand an’ hold it up to his mouth, but he don’t. It get’s especially bad durin’ his harmonica solo on “Bad is Bad,” cos when he’s all hunched over like that he can’t get no breath enough to hit all the right notes. It get’s even worse when towards the end of “Hip to be Square” he starts screamin’. “Aaaugh! My Baaaa-aack! Fuck!”

The gig ends abruptly. Bradford an’ a couple of the guys in the band lead Mr. Lewis off the stage and he’s whisked off to the hospital in his private helicopter. Nobody says nothin’ cos we’re all just shitin’ ourselves, waitin’ fer Bradford to come back. We know he’s gonna lay inta us bad, but we don’t know how bad. It’s a good three or four hours an’ we’re sweatin’ it the whole way through. When he finally does return, he calls us three roadies inta his office –which happens ta be the men’s bathroom in the Denny’s restaurant next to the motel that the band’s stayin’ at tonight. We’re standin’ there scared stiff as Bradford sits on the toilet with his pants down around his ankles, starin’ at us an’ not sayin’ anything. Tyler’s shakin’ like a week old greyhound puppy cos he knows he’s the one that’s gonna get the shit fer this. The silence lasts fer about five minutes and temporarily breaks when Bradford cuts loose with a loud and watery fart, sprayin’ diarrhea all over the bowl. The smell is noxious but none a us dares ta say anything or make a move cos then it’d be all over fer us. I glance over at Dong an’ see a tear in the corner of his eye.

Finally, Bradford speaks. “What happened out there?” He asks in a voice so low that it’s barely above a whisper. “Who’s responsible?”

The three of us look at each other, waiting for what the other guy will do. None of us wants to be the first to speak.

“Well, I’m waiting,” Bradford says. “C’mon, who was in charge of the microphones tonight?”

Still we don’t say anything; we just look at each other waiting to see what the other guy’s gonna do. Finally Dong cracks.

“Ty-rer!” he cries. “It was Ty-rer! He in chawge of the micwophone .” Then he puts his head in his hands and sobs. “I’m so solly, Ty-rer. I so, so solly.”

He can’t even bring himself to look at Tyler.
Bradford looks at me. “Is that right? The African guy was in charge of settin’ up the mic stands?”

Now, I don’t wanna grass out Tyler cos we’re pretty good buds; but I also don’t wanna have Bradford punch his fist through my skull. Plus, the way I see it, Dong’s already blabbed so Tyler’s already good as dead; ain’t no sense in both a us getting killed, y’know what I’m sayin’? So I tells ‘em the truth.

“Uhh…yeah, I guess so,” I says.

Tyler says something to defend himself but his English ain’t too good and he’s so flustered that nobody can make out what he’s sayin’. I don’t matter anyway cos Bradford interrupts him, tells us ta wait outside while he deals with Tyler privately. So Dong an me wait outside in the Denny’s parkin’ lot. Even out here we can hear muffled screams an’ shouts. About an hour later Bradford walks outside with a couple a the band members and a few groupies. They’re all laughin’ an stuff an as they walk past us, Bradford tells us to go back in an get “that black guy.”

We go back inta the bathroom an’ see Tyler lyin’ on the floor next ta one a the toilets, coughin’ up blood. He’s a fuckin’ mess. Blood and teeth are all over the bathroom floor. His arm is broken in two places, both kneecaps are busted an’ he’s got three or four cracked ribs. We drag him outta there and take him back to the Escort. Half a hour later, he’s passed out from the pain. Me an’ Dong are tryin’ ta figure out what ta do. A couplea nights earlier Grumpy Bill comes ta us with plans to help us bust out. We didn’t go then because Bradford had told us he was gonna give us a loaf a bread an’a can a Pepsi Max to share between us fer doin’ such a good job at the show in Fort Collins. Grumpy Bill said he understood he’d be waitin’ fer us in Flagstaff if we changed our minds. Even though we were still waitin’ fer our Pepsi Max, Dong an’ I decide we’ve had enough, so later on that night when everyone’s asleep, we take off an’ head fer Flagstaff.

***************

So we’ve been stayin’ at this guy’s garage fer the past few days. Grumpy Bill says he knows this guy.

“The guy’s away on vacation but he says it’s cool,” Grumpy Bill tells me.

“Can we go inside the house?" I ask. "I don’t really like it out here..too fuckin’ cold. And there’s spiders."

“Ummm… no.”

“How come? You said the guy’s on vacation. How’s he gonna know?”

“Cuz I said so, okay?” Grumpy Bill snaps.

Well if Grumpy Bill says this guy don’t want us in the house then I guess that’s that; at least we got the garage and that’s somewhere. A coupla days later I figer out why the guy don’t want us in his house. Just outta curiosity I peer through this guy’s window into his living room and can see right away that this guy’s interior decoratin’ is atrocious. I mean all the furniture is covered in these white sheets, an’ there’s this yella tape all over the place. I mean what the fuck, right? An’ what’s the deal with these white outlines all over the floor; there’s about three or four of ‘em, all in the shape of people. This guy’s not a very good housekeeper either, cos there’s these stains all over the carpet. No wonder the dude didn’t want us in his house; he must be totally embarrassed about what a shitty housekeeper he is.

Anyway, Grumpy Bill says that none of us are supposed to leave the garage until he says so, cos Mr. Lewis has all FBI, CIA and all the cops in the state out lookin’ fer us. He insists that he’s the only of us who can leave because he’s got ninja training. So the three of us are stuck here an Grumpy Bill comes an’ visits us a couple a times a day to bring us food an’ stuff. Sometimes when he’s supposed ta come back with food he arrives empty handed an’ tells us that he got hungry an’ ate the food himself so tough shit. Whenever he does this he’s usually comin’ back drunker than usual; then he usually takes his clothes off an’ marches around the garage screamin’ that he’s some sorta super hero. One time when he does this he grabs me an’ pile drives my head onto the concrete floor. “Away with your villany, you evil villain!” he screams.

Little by little Tyler gets better; he gets stronger. After about two weeks he’s able to walk a little with the crutches. Grumpy Bill sends round a doctor a one day: Dr. Beaver. He comes an’ looks at Tyler lyin’ down on the couch then sits next to him. He takes out this yella, plastic stethacope- y’know one of them things that docs use ta listen to yer heart and holds it ta Tyler’s chest. He listens fer a couple a seconds, then puts the heart listening thing back in his bag an then he grabs Tyler’s balls an has a feel. After about half an hour he tells Tyler that as part of his treatment Tyler needs ta take his pants off an’ massage his nuts twice a day fer at least a half hour each. Then he takes out a disposable camera an’ hands it over ta Dong.

“It’s very important he does this, if he wants to get better,” the doc says. “And to make sure that he actually does it I want you to take some pictures an’ send them to me as proof.”

Dong looks at me an’ I shrug my shoulders. Not sure how Tyler squeezin’ his bag is gonna help with his shattered kneecaps but then again, I ain’t no doctor. I didn’t go to some fancy medical school in Mexico fer six months like this fella did. So he must know what he’s talkin’ bout.

After ‘bout a month, Tyler is well enough to move about. He’s ready to get outta the garage an’ get movin’ again. We all are, but we have to wait fer Grumpy Bill ta give us the all clear, an’ he seems ta have split. Nobody knows where he is. So we wait, and we wait….and we wait. With Grumpy Bill missin’ there’s no one ta bring us food, and our supplies are startin’ ta get scarce. We’re all starvin’. I find a old saltine cracker behind a old exercise bike an’ wolf it down hopin’ nobody sees it. It’s the only thing I get ta eat fer nearly 2 days.

Then one day, just outta the blue, Grumpy Bill’s back. He’s got two guys with him. I’ve never seen these guys before, but they look like they could be real big shots cos they’re real classy lookin.’ I mean, they’re the kinda guys that ya look at an’ think – shit, if only that wuz me. I bet these guys swim in a river a pussy every night. Damn.

Both guys are probably ‘bout in their mid 40’s or so. One a them’s a big guy, over 6 feet, an’ heavy. He’s got glasses, a beard an’ a pony tail; an’ he’s sportin’ a fadin’ black Dokken t-shirt from their 1987 tour. The other guy’s small, kinda wiry lookin’. He’s got a red bandanna tied round his forehead an’ a Florida Marlins cap perched on top a it. Stringy blonde hair trials from his cap down the back a his neck to his shoulders. He’s wearin’ this tie-dyed t-shirt with all this big skull on it an some band called the Grateful Dead written across the chest.. I ain’t never heard a them before but with a name like that I can tell they must be balls out metal. Cain’t wait ta hear ‘em.

Anyway, Grumpy Bill introduces ‘em an’ tells us their names, but I don’t quite catch ‘em cos I’m still thinkin’ bout cool these guys look. The big guy steps up an’ shakes our hands, like he’s a cop or somethin,’ The guy in the Grateful Dead shirt just nods.

“Gentlemen,” the big dude says. “We represent an organization called R.U.N.”

“R.U.N., what is this R.U.N. that you speak of?” Tyler asks.

“It stands for Roadie Underground Network,” says Grateful Dead guy. “Basically we’re a group of former roadies that are committed to securing the freedom of roadies such as your selves.”

“That’s right,” the big guy says. “I spent six years as a roadie for Krokus before I was traded to Great White. I saw and did things that no human being should have to. It was horrible. I finally made my escape during the Rhode Island nightclub fire of 2003. Sadly, not all of my comrades made it.”

“And I was a roadie for the Grateful Dead,” said the other guy. “Most of my memories of those years have been wiped out, which I guess is a blessing. But to this day, everything smells to me like Jerry Garcia’s beard.”

“Wow,” Dong says. “That must be tough.”

“Anyway, we’ve come by to tell you to get your things together because we need to leave as soon as possible, like by tonight,” the big guy says.

“Tonight, where are we going?” I ask.

“Where going to R.U.N.’s secret headquarters so you can meet our leader and so we can make plans to get you guys back home.”

“And where would that be, sir?” Tyler asks.

“Where else? Albuquerque, New Mexico.”

To Be Continued……….