Adios, Motherfucker

by Michael Ruffino

  Tour support checks are now going to Northampton, through my account. No other way to do it, on the move like this. Not a good feeling.

  Foot’s asleep.

  DAY / GAS STATION NOWHERE, MISSOURI

  Safety Bear opens the driver’s-side door and a few Budweiser bottles roll out and smash on the ground. Matt is throwing up out the back of the van. A plastic gallon-jug of what is obviously urine is visible on the floor of the van: a guy at the next pump watches us, an expression on his face that defies description—wait, no it doesn’t—it’s disgust. Inside the store, Steve is paying for some Big League Chew with his pants down. It is not clear whether he knows this. His raspberry-glass KISS belt buckle scrapes along the linoleum as he walks out. The only minimart employee not paralyzed by uncertainty is a huge black woman cleaning up a nacho disaster on the floor. She’s using a magazine to shovel cheese-food into a cardboard tray, scraping that back into its pan of origin under the heat lamp. She says, “There must be a better way to do this, but ain’t no Baptist gonna know what it is.”

  Sanitation arrangements: Buy a gallon jug of water, drink or redistribute the water so half an inch of water remains in the jug (add a drop of hand soap if you’re feeling princessy). Now you have a road urinal, an essential. Piss stops kill momentum and potential interruptions abound go when you gas up, meantime it’s the jug. I try to find a storm drain or at least somewhere out of sight when it’s my turn to empty the jug, often brimming with our collective sample. If somebody spots me doing it I say what—you think you’re better than me? Just not aloud.

  JULY 31

  “Your girlfriend made my girlfriend do yoga.” This was Matt, this morning. Wasn’t sure I’d heard him right.

  “Yoga.” He simulated. “What the fuck is going on back there.”

  What’s going on is that the Wilma Improvement Project is underway. As long as she’s a houseguest at the Compound, Wilma is basically a captive. No car (not that she drives), no money of her own, the local farmer bars inconsistent, and frosty—an opportunity for female bonding, free of any immediate, polarizing, band dude influence, interweaved (no doubt) with sub-rosa dietary tweaks, and some version of temperance, with the hope of easing Wilma into a healthier mind-set. Call home confirmed the yoga business. Wilma was not only up well before noon, she did in fact perform several minutes of tippy-toe “sun salutations,” albeit with her morning Pabst in hand, bendy straw and all. (Difficult to not award her points for this.) Because at the root of the Wilma operation is the unified field theory, espoused by my Better Half, that “all everybody really needs is yoga.” Of which I remain skeptical.

  AUGUST 1

  We tied one on in transit last night. Watched TV taking turns holding the rabbit ears, Peeler told juvy stories. Mood improved all around.

  Joe Elliott’s birthday. Matt and I went to his dressing room to deliver an autographed (by us) copy of a Boy Scout Handbook from 1948, and a stickpin that says “New England: Caring Is Our Way.” Literally, the only two items we could find between . . . wherever we were and wherever we are, that we could give him that had anything like meaning.

  I joined two roadies at a table in catering, Moose and Fucking New Guy, good men, and absolutely foul, at all times. They were talking about having been with “the Stranger.” A groupie, I assumed. Fucking New Guy corrected me.

  “No, no. You sit on your hand—”

  “Nondominant hand,” Moose added.

  “Right—until it falls asleep, then—” He mimed ferocious masturbation. “Feels like someone else is doin’ it.”

  “Jesus,” I said.

  Fucking New Guy shrugged. “Whoever you want.”

  Three lifetimes I wouldn’t come up with that. I can’t see any sense in making flossing any more involved than it needs to be, either. Peeler is encyclopedic on stuff like this, but he said he wasn’t familiar. “Unless you mean the Visitor, hey. When you sit on your hand.”

  AUGUST 10 / DALLAS

  Last three nights run together: slept sitting up in the captain’s chair parked in a rest area. The state I’m referring to isn’t really sleep, in the popular sense.

  Shotgun now, back on the highway. No idea where we are. Listening to some Mountain. It is proud—proud music. We can only afford to listen to the radio a couple of hours per day—the van’s electrical system is kaput and the battery budget for the portable had to be funneled into something else. For my money, battery time is better spent on right-wing not radio or white noise, rather than trying to find a station that will play two listenable songs in a row. Eugene likes the new Christina Aguilera song. I was more or less with him on “Genie,” but this one’s got gratuitous vocal arpeggios out the wazoo. I’ll take even the new Madonna song over that, despite that it sounds like she phoned it in, through an assistant, while she was asleep. The four of us wasted several minutes of our lives yesterday trying to decide how to decide which was worse, Creed, or 3 Doors Down, and it completely fucking did my head in. If we’ve learned one thing about American radio in all this driving, it’s that whoever, whatever you think you are, if you think you’re getting more play in this country than Bob Seger and his Silver Bullet Band, you are wrong, sister. Dead wrong.

  AUGUST 11 / LITTLE ROCK, ARKANSAS

  Update from the Compound is that the aura of wellness and healing went kablooey in a late-night fray where lamps were broken and everybody called each other “the c-word.” Wilma’s out, that’s all I know. Details will have to wait, since Matt’s not relinquishing the cell anytime soon and the only pay phone around is vandalized beyond utility. Alas.

  Here the heat index is 117 degrees. Not entirely sure what that means but the air is thick as cake and smells like roasting flesh. Hard to breathe. The stage here is on the riverfront, where it’s cooler, until we get up there under the gazillion-watt stage lights.

  Two churchy girls appeared backstage, wanted to meet us. Teens for Christ or something. Expected they were worming their way in so they could pop the question (Are you saved?). We get that a lot for some reason. These girls were off duty, just wanted to hang out and actively not talk about Jesus. Not talk at all, in fact. Went to a bar five minutes away (open until 5 A.M.—Little Rock might be more than it appears). Matt gave up trying to shake the Christian girls and they flanked him all night, not drinking, not speaking a word, while he boozed like a Hun. I saw the taller one shake out her ponytail and fluff her hair while Matt was in the bathroom but very likely that was a red herring. They didn’t seem to want anything. Creepily unforthcoming, it was driving Matt batty. He just drank and drank, they watched. Four thirty in the morning the girls were sitting exactly where they had been all night, hands folded in their laps, Matt between them, passed out, his face pasted to the table, Motley Crüe’s “Girls, Girls, Girls” blaring on the sound system. Steve and a couple of local bouncers carried Matt out by the limbs as the girls looked on. They had no reaction at all, just sat there, pietistic automatons. We had to get moving to be out of the metro area before the morning commute and asked if they needed a ride home (a lab? an underground pod colony?) but they said they were fine where they were, as the bartender was crazily ringing the riverboat bell that meant body shots.

  AUGUST 17

  Last gig on this leg is tonight, here at the Hair Club for Men Ginormodome, Wherever, U.S.A. Then small to midsize clubs for a couple weeks while the Leps do state fairs with local openers, then we hook back up on the West Coast for another month of . . . this.

  There’s a little parklike area behind the stage with a pond, a putting green floating in the middle. There are a few beavers, some frogs; cat-o’-nine-tails sway around it. There’s a little metal rowboat sitting on the bank. We got a bunch of beer from the van and shoved off, Steve, Safety Bear, and I. Lazily floating around, sipping, blue sky, zephyr. The most thoroughly peaceful ten minutes in recent memory. Rejuvenating. Several huge birds circled above the arena.

  “Those are buzzards. Waiting for something to die,” Steve said. H
e added, “Probably a mole or something out there.”

  Local security goons, Leppard’s tour manager, and a local sheriff (his door ensignia surprised me—we’re in Pennsylvania?) appeared on the bank, shouting, at us to come in, pacing the shore. Those particular goons had dragged the body of a fifteen-year-old kid out of that pond last week during Ozzfest. People were upset at us now, and yelling, and so on, and so forth—once more unto the breach.

  Driving us out of the lot later Safety Bear hit something. Minimal damage but it was enough. He pulled his ripcord.

  SEPTEMBER 2 / ARIZONA

  Somewhere outside sweltering, arid, flatly uninhabitable Phoenix, Steve finally got in touch with the Agency. Of the expected dozen shows, two are booked, the rest were only hypothetical. The interior of the cooler looks and smells like a sewer. Lettuce floating around in there, bottlecaps, a Dio laminate . . .

  Whatever we get paid tonight is it for a while. Small place, owner-operator, nice guy. Says he’ll videotape the show for ten bucks, Why not. Posterity.

  SEPTEMBER 3 / LAS VEGAS

  Last night’s audience peaked at a dozen people, including Peeler. Club owner felt bad and gave us the tape at half price. Popped it in the VCR in the van. It’s stationary footage, off a security camera up in the corner, no sound. Bird’s eye as I fall off the stage about ninety times, while Peeler plays video poker. Every once and a while a guy walks through carrying something, doing chores.

  And so we’re good and fucked here in room 103 of the Tawdry Duke, a bedbug farm next to the Riviera Hotel and Casino. Coin-op beds and playing card wallpaper in the hallways. There is no show here, we know now. Hoping for a miracle we called Frank, a promoter we’ve worked with a few times. Had he known we were coming he would have set us up, he says. As it is he’s got nothing. Also, we’re out of gas. Have to wait for more funds from back east—how these funds will come is unknown, and will anyway involve time-consuming banking rigmarole. If you’ve got a nickel, Vegas wants it.

  The TV news was on. The screen split, the anchor on one side, on the other was Danny, the drummer replaced by Eugene, reporting from a war zone, or some disaster in progress. He was in soot-streaked khakis, looking like Wile E. Coyote after a run-in with a glitchy landmine. Other than that, doesn’t look like he’s aged a day.

  By the light of the plastic chandelier in the vending area, I could make out a bag of peanuts midway off its balcony in the machine. Despite a substantial kicking and jostling, it remained there, unaffordable at sixty-five cents.

  SEPTEMBER 4

  Room scene not good. TV flicker all day long, no food, nothing. I’m in the corner squeezing a relish packet into my mouth, reserving some for later. No one speaks, at all.

  I went out.

  Las Vegas will buy you drinks even at the five-cent slots. If you don’t care about winning friends or taking home the waitress, you can tie one on for a nickel maybe. I scoured the van for change, found some, and headed for the casino. Picnicked on Chivas for two hours.

  Couldn’t find my room key, slept on top of the van. Fell asleep thinking about slots, the old people at them. The monkeys on their backs. And: what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. A paraphrase of the road adage, totally untrue with almost everything but your money. In both cases.

  SEPTEMBER 6 / LOS ANGELES

  Hail Mary money transfer from the Compound got us out of Vegas. Lyle’s brother Mark invited us to where he’s housesitting, a midcentury ranch job up in the hills. Robotics in the marble shower that fits ten people, a Dutch hi-fi, view out to the water, room, space. Our calendar’s blank for at least a week, through the booking glass, darkly. Steve and I sat down and did some math. We can manage ten-dollar per diems for the next three days, semihibernation after that. Eat what falls off the trees, get Janist with it.

  Liza and her friend came by and Matt and I went with them to a jazz-rock show. Fusion Subgenres on display. Then an after party, then a rainbow gathering, at the Rainbow.

  Woke up on a couch in Laurel Canyon surrounded by candles, a monster chameleon on the coffee table, eyes all wackadoo, looking at me from two directions at once, and a woman named after a dessert hovering around in some type of billowy sorceress frock saying, “I’ve been on the phone with Slash’s people doing damage control all goddamn morning. Thanks a lot!” No idea what that’s about. Any of it.

  Miserable day in evening clothes. Dragging myself around Hollywood penniless in leather pants—and I’m not the only one. (In my head, Lee Ving: “There’s so many of us, there’s so many of us . . .”) Bums pissing all over the place, bad suit stores, masked superheroes on the grift, Spiderman in a screaming fit. Never ceases to amaze me that the first batch of tourists to actually get a look at the place didn’t go back to wherever they come from and tell everybody, “Forget it. It is not what you think. Total shithole. Take a cruise instead.”

  SEPTEMBER 7

  Long-shot call to the Whisky, as luck would have it there’s a Fu Manchu show tonight, with Supagroup, who people keep telling us we have to see. Called Fu’s people and they sorted out space for us. In the liquor store across from the club we met this Supagroup, after noticing we had item for item identical shopping baskets.

  The Whisky people were good to us all around and no charge for the video of our set, because, the video woman said, we made her laugh out loud. Hijinks up in the dark balcony after the show. Fu Manchu left, back to the Orient; we went back up to the hills with Supagroup. Just about every denim-and-leather crazy in pissing distance of the Whisky tagged along. Taime Downe (Faster Pussycat) assorted ex-hair metal also rans; LA variety thespians; grown-up (biologically) star children and child stars; a bearded, togaed Jesus going through the kitchen cabinets; mute hulk in a pill bottle bandolier, the overcrowded hot tub, idiot soup, LA nightscape backdrop. People still going at it this morning. Every so often a dazed stranger emerges from somewhere.

  Peace, maybe, in the little shed next to the hot tub—Mark said, “I wouldn’t do that. So many black widows in there you can’t see your hand in front of your face.”

  Morale up generally.

  SEPTEMBER 10

  Bent over some bushes waiting for a vomit that wouldn’t come, Steve brought me the mobile. A book editor in New York had seen the account of our tour with Dio in the paper and wondered if I was interested in doing a book. I said yes quickly then vomited into the bushes.

  Then Valeria called, someone she knows is interested in one of our songs for something. Turns out she’s here in town, with the band she works for. Said she’d come “rescue me,” we’d go for a coffee or something. I said what makes you think I need to be rescued and how fast can you get here. As she valeted the car Valeria said, “You’re gonna like this.” We went up a few steps, and then a few steps further and we were no longer in a wardrobe at all but in a place called the Chateau Marmont. That was a lifetime ago.

  SEPTEMBER 11 / SPOKANE, WASHINGTON

  The van bounced across the infield of the dog track, bottles rolling around clinking, on time for once. A stage being assembled dwarfed all previous ones we’ve played on. Walked into the catering tent, parrot was in there at his rinds. Cocked his head and squawked, “Sonofabitch.” Good to be home.

  It’s occurred to us how much space there is at these huge places, not being used. We asked for a place to set up and play for a couple of hours, get some new songs together; new songs would do us a world of good, might shake us out of the joblike repetition, for a start. Some Leppard crew and some local hands cleared out a storage garage by the access gate and rigged it with a generator. We worked on getting a Def Leppard cover together, least we could do. Eventually this turned into a small show for staff. Beer arrived on a forklift. The driver parked it in front of us and stayed there, made himself comfortable, opened a beer.

  After the show, we were as usual rounded up by assistant promoters and brought to a gentleman’s club, very exclusive—no one in it but us, though not by design. Guy in an iffy tuxedo came over and greeted
us excitedly. Knew we were coming.

  “I know you gentlemen like to have a good time, and may I say— we are happy to meet your every need! Everything is on the house!” he said. We thanked him and went to the bar. A girl came out onto the stage and started taking her clothes off to a Creed song. Looked as if she might be pregnant. Even Peeler groaned. I ordered a double vodka and the indifferent bartender said, “No booze.”

  “Beer’s fine, whatever you got. Thanks.”

  “We got orange juice and we got ice cream.”

  “Meaning.”

  “Meaning we got orange juice. And we got ice cream. That’s it.”

  The tuxedo guy appeared and exclaimed, “Not true!” He unfurled his arm in the direction of a guy over by the stage dipping a chip into melted cheesefood. Bartender shook his head. “Nacho machine’s down. I don’t know where he got that.”

  SEPTEMBER 13 / BOISE, IDAHO

  No matter how multitiered the security, somehow here he is, in the dressing room. Crackie. High enough to walk through walls, perhaps. “How’s it goin’, dudes! Yeah!” He starts filling his pockets from the buffet. He’s missing a hand. Pushes a sandwich into his mouth whole and says, best he can, “So, man, so like. What’s it like tourin’ with Journey?”

  The promoter’s assistant had given access passes to a troop of nice Boise girls, farmers’ daughters who have never in their lives been in the presence of anyone who has been to New York. Literally. The crackhead who thinks he’s hanging out with Journey decided to act out the story of how he lost his hand in a way that horrified everyone. Several of the girls looked like they were about to vomit. Peeler handed the crackhead a Fanta and said, “Don’t stop believin’, chief,” and led him out the door, ignoring cracky protests.