Adios, Motherfucker

by Michael Ruffino

  OCTOBER 27 / LLOYDMINSTER

  Temperature: 2.1 degrees Celsius.

  A warehouse in the sprawling blank three hundred miles north of Medicine Hat. Normally for cattle exhibition and auctions, this place. On the other side of the giant corrugated doors that divide the building you can hear hundreds of cows mooing; smell them, too. When the doors slid open after soundcheck kids poured in, and kept coming, and coming. Thousands of them. Some on Sno-Cats.

  OCTOBER 29 / BANFF, ALBERTA

  A resort town in the Rockies. Chalets. Moose roam the streets. We’ve been given a band house, on a residential street in town. (The Headstones have long since graduated to staying in the big hotel.) A Dystopian B&B. Bedrooms—barracks upstairs, graffiti on every surface, ratty furniture, boot holes in the drywall, kitchen that’s been on fire more than a few times. Here in the living room, a pellet stove and an old tube TV begging for a sledge.

  OCTOBER 30 / EN ROUTE TO CALGARY

  This morning people we didn’t know crashed everywhere. I found a guy in a broom closet while I was rummaging for food. Had to move him to get at some puffed rice behind his head. Wound up feeding that to birds. Found a can of beans, but the can opener was in two pieces, both useless. Up early and felt good, after the pharmacy. Did another meandering interview with Lex, mostly about “what it’s like” to be away from girlfriends, wives, a component of her quest here. It’s not like anything. Took a walk, a constitutional. Crisp mountain air. Smoking weather.

  OCTOBER 31 / CALGARY, ALBERTA

  Matt and I were watching fish in a tank in a pet store. Happened to be fighting fish. Between rounds.

  It seems so simple: here’s some money, here’s everything you need to make music, get on this tour bus, go play. It isn’t simple. At all.

  Show is a Halloween bash at a theater, gravestones and reapers with bloody axes, blacklights, cotton webs and monstrous spiders (arachniphobes kept on a hair-trigger all month). Typical Halloween psyche-fare, mushrooms, MDMA; rolling zombie nurses and gladiators, Captain Canuck in a k-hole, in the dressing room drug tasting flights and always, the “BC weed.” Someone brought us actual Quaaludes and Black Beauties, the pharmaceutical equivalent of walking in with a dodo and a passenger pigeon, respectively. The bus afterward was better, or worse, depending on your personal style. I stepped into the back lounge to take a breather, Peeler there reclining on the foldout, a lithe blond demonstrating for him how she could wrap one leg around the back of her neck while standing. Fully clothed, in a freebie Unband tee. Brimming with Canadian-specific non-eroticism.

  A Halloween costume you see in the States but not in Alberta: prostitute.

  NOVEMBER 1 / SASKATOON, SASKATCHEWAN

  Temperature: 2.1°C. Mood on the bus is deteriorating.

  Noticed Eugene re-reading the Vonnegut book he just finished. He said, “It’s printed Prozac.”

  NOVEMBER 2 / KAMLOOPS, BRITISH COLUMBIA

  3°C

  Cold.

  NOVEMBER 3 / VANCOUVER, BRITISH COLUMBIA

  5°C

  Lenny arrived as I was making coffee. He brought a tour support check, and the news that another batch of shows are being added. This was in the offing, pending demand. The tour check won’t cover the new dates; there’s another check being cut for that, already en route here. And, he said, there’s a slot on the Meat Puppets tour if we want it, immediately following this one. Fine by me. Matt emerged from the bunks (“Morning, Robert Smith,” said Lenny. “Morning, Ray Liotta,” said Matt, equally dead-on.). Matt was surprised to see Lenny. He hadn’t expected Lex, either, though he’d been told many times both were coming. A band Lenny’s signing has been added to the bill tonight. “Kinda like Emo meets . . .” something worse, I forget. Don’t worry, Lenny said, they’re great guys. Going to one of the band members’ parents’ house for dinner, he said, and invited us along, knowing we’re seasoned dinner guests.

  So we were transported through a tidy suburban neighborhood to a dapper ranch home with a nice, Canadian family inside. Mom, dad, sis, junior, smiling in sweaters, nuclear decency around the fire, behind glass in a brick-veneer hearth. Screws with your head; this. Careful. Mom, as if her doorstep hadn’t just been darkened, holiday cheery offering the platter of hors d’oeuvres. Dip the mini hot dog in the mustard and try not to blurt out a euphemism. Try not to say anything indecent, without knowing any longer what constitutes indecency. Feign normal, but don’t force it, or they’ll know. I helped out in the kitchen; that grounded me a little. Arranged frozen phyllo shapes on a cookie tray, consulted on the onion dip.

  The band Lenny signed is young, seventeen, eighteen, clean and sober except for beer and the odd Caesar, a Bloody Mary with Clamato instead of tomato juice. (I assumed I’d like it. I like tomatoes, I like clams, I like vodka—nope. Disgusting.) Mom and dad asked us questions, What It’s Like, How It All Works, this music business. We did our best to answer honestly. We listened to some music. Some people want to know what a musician thinks of the music they like, whether it’s actually any good—whether it’s of respectable quality, I suppose. If you like it, what does it matter? Which is what we said when Pearl Jam came up. If you’re into Pearl Jam you’re into a guy singing adolescent poetry like an Elvis impersonator doing the Swedish Chef; quality doesn’t enter into it. Stompin’ Tom Connors went much better with the ketchup-flavored potato chips and Molsons.

  Later dad drove us to the liquor store, where we bought some of “the hard stuff,” he called it. Instead of going back to the bus as planned, we went back to the house, stayed late. Didn’t feel like we stayed past our welcome, but we’ve been wrong about that before.

  Woke up early on the bus, stationed in the alley behind the club, alongside the dumpsters. Didn’t—couldn’t manage getting dressed, went bathrobed, the Oddfather shuffle, around the corner to get some cigarettes. Experimenting with Canadian brands, all of which seem like discount brands. DuMauriers were a bust, tried Export A’s this time. Choked on one, then another. An itch that can’t be scratched.

  String of interviews in our dressing room, in a graffito above the door reads “no one likes anyone.” The editor of a school newspaper, on about how he’s a big fan. Matt and I not keeping up appearances anymore, it seems; gloves off. So be it. Eug bailed out right away and after about ten minutes the kid turned off his tape recorder and said, “I think I’ve got enough.” Had enough, clearly.

  Went out for dinner with Lex sans camera. She’s leaving, back to her desert pueblo after the show. Sushi place she knows, quiet. Maybe it’s a ploy on her part, but I found myself defending the future of the band, that there is a future, which she doubts. Sushi on plates color-coded according to price floated on little lacquered wooden boats. The miniature island paradise in the center made me think of those Japanese soldiers, holdouts who refused to believe the war was over, as I waited for something affordable to float by. Not much did.

  Steve heard about the tour extension, pulled me aside to say he needs a break, at least a couple weeks, planning to take one after this tour. He tracked this new support check, which, yes, is on its way here, but we’ll be halfway to Saskatoon when it arrives, and having someone here forward it ahead of us is a logistics hell. At present we’re on the hook for gas, at four miles per gallon, plus Mack’s pay and expenses. Sitting here figuring how we can improve fuel efficiency. Fiddling with drag coefficients, wind resistance, torque. According to my calculations, we’re fucked.

  Eug, Trailer, and Peeler were debriefed on the new itinerary and current challenges. Per diems are halved and, for Peeler and Trailer, pay deferred to the end of the trip. Nobody took it all that hard but Peeler is understandably wary of proceeding, for the moment, without pay. No reflection on us personally, he says. I can imagine nearly everything about how the music industry works sounds suspicious to a guy not unfamiliar with street crime, which is straightforward, honest work by comparison. Had low expectations for the sit-down with Steve and Matt on the bus regarding Our Situation. Not low eno
ugh.

  I showed Matt the breakdown on the laptop. Column by column, row by row. Don’t show him any of that bullshit, he said, it only confuses him more. Recalling the hours I spent putting together itemized statements and bank printouts at the start of the Leppard tour, photocopied, stapled, distributed, all instantly lost, probably dragged through an asscrack or two first—hours I won’t get back, I shut the computer and laid out the details as best I could without confusing him.

  “The bus company needs its nut. The label is wiring additional tour support, but because of the long weekend this weekend, we can’t get the money on our end until Tuesday. Until then, we’re out of pocket.”

  “This is bullshit. I’m with Steve and Peeler when I say I am not going to be on the next tour. And I’m fucking dead serious about that. So. Have fun.”

  “Suit yourself. Steve and I will deal with this problem. The only point here was to keep you informed, as agreed,” I said. I was about to yank the door lever when Matt said, “I can’t live like this.” From a plush couch in a luxury motor coach, drinking a beer from the limitless, free supply, with thirty days on either side of him he doesn’t have to lift a finger except to pick up a coke straw or, God forbid, a guitar, the world as we know it oysterized. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Look at you. What is so goddamn bad about your life right now?”

  “I just want to have more control over it.”

  “Then wake the fuck up.”

  “I’m awake, it’s that sometimes I don’t know there’s a hidden situation until a week down the road.”

  “What hidden? It’s all happening right under your nose.”

  “It’s happening behind my back.”

  “There is nothing behind your back.”

  “So you’re saying I knew about this whole tour support situation all along.”

  “Nobody knew about this situation. Because it didn’t exist.”

  “You talk in fucking circles.”

  “Because it always comes back to the same fucking point. Which is that you don’t listen.”

  “You said you assumed the money was coming from somewhere else, yet you wrote a check out of our account.”

  “For fuck’s sake. This is exactly what I mean. We already did this.” I waited a beat, in case Steve wanted to jump in. He didn’t. Just as well, I thought. For now. “And no, I didn’t write any fucking checks. I can’t write checks. Steve is the only one writing checks on the road. Ever. You know this.”

  “Whatever. Your girlfriend wrote the check.”

  “What? Am I not speaking out loud right now?”

  “I wrote the check,” Steve said. Which was better.

  “Okay, fine,” said Matt. “So, what you’re saying is, if someone doesn’t send us three grand by tomorrow, then I can’t eat,” Matt said. Noted, I could have avoided all the confusion if I’d just put it that way in the first place, ended it there.

  “Right. You won’t be able to get any food to eat. Unless you go to catering, or the dressing room, or open that refrigerator, or the one in the back, or walk up to almost anyone wearing a tour laminate and ask them to bring you some and fucking feed it to you.”

  Matt was silent. Steve stood up and said, “Good. Let’s do this again, the three of us. Clearing the air is healthy.” He nodded at Matt. “I can tell you feel better.”

  “I don’t feel that much better,” Matt said.

  Neither did I. I went out. I needed a stiff drink. I walked for a while and then went into a bar and had one. Then the barkeep brought over a bottle with a preserved scorpion in it, on the house.

  Show sold out. A smattering of hostility from the crowd, the first we’ve encountered up here, of any kind.

  A couple of songs in I accidentally kicked Matt’s cable out, for the thousandth time. He refuses to duct-tape his cables to his pedals like a normal person, I don’t know why. He stormed over and kicked me dead-on in the groin with a steel-toed motorcycle boot. As if I’m not already playing legacy roulette with the fucking drugs and stress and everything else. Went at him, and stopped myself. Then the pain hit. Adrenaline and fury kept me from devolving to a helpless fetus, spotlit in front of three thousand people and surrounded by swooping photographers and videographers. I stayed away from the dressing room afterward, instead found a kitchen area and sat on a freezer, icing my groin.

  The after party was in the suite of greenrooms on the top floor of the building swarmed. The walls loaded with graffiti—unusual grammatical correctness. Party in full swing, Babylonian. People and furniture flying around. In the thick of it someone sprang into the room—a panicked ejaculation, gripping the doorframe: “Nickelback is in the hallway!” As if we needed to commence a procedure or deploy some training we hoped we’d never need to use. Bottom line, we need to tighten up our ship, fast.

  NOVEMBER 9 / BRANDON, MANITOBA

  We outran the storm getting here but it’s on us now, snow whipping around and piling up fast out there. Tried to take a walk but the wind does you like a cheese grater. Venue is in a motel, accommodations amount to a whole wing of the place. Particleboard furniture, Cold War TV set, fluorescent tube lighting in the rooms. The painting above the bed in my room is of some type of cockeyed tundra duck. The artist didn’t do him any favors. Feels like a halfway house in Serbia. Nothing specific to complain about. Off the lobby is a pool with a two-story waterslide, rimmed with corrosion. I was in there for a while, in a meditative squat up to my nose. The water boiling with chlorine. In two consecutive slide runs, two youngsters wiped out and were dragged out of the pool crying, one right after the other. Less dangerous but also less entertaining, the slot machines here, in the huge, sportsy room where we’ll play. Plunked in some change, yanked the arm—bang, bang, and . . . bang—immediate triple-sevens. Machine went nuts, flashing “Jackpot” sign, siren, crazy bells, people looking over. I’ll be damned. Payday. I waited but nothing came out. Probably too much money; you have to collect elsewhere. I found a guy and asked where you collect. “Collect?” he said. “Oh no, those’re just for fun, eh?” It is recognized that Manitobans have a funny sense of fun.

  Band meeting about nothing in the almost-empty bar. Steve dealt out drink tickets—seventy-five. That’s seventy-five free drink vouchers. And you can’t take ’em with you.

  Band meeting was less than two hours ago, for reference. Walked back to the now crowded barroom just as Steve hoists a table over his head and, howling like a baboon, chucks into some loosely stacked chairs, then bear-hugs the popcorn machine, grunting and roaring, trying to lift it. Matt on the floor in the middle of the room in a fur coat and a hockey helmet, rolling around with his hand in his pants screaming that he’s being raped. He is partying. Magic mushrooms grow wild around here, I remembered then. More than drinks involved, has to be. I watched the scene in the barroom get exponentially more wild, Steve and Matt careening around the room touching off scenes, activating pockets of chaos, with three hours till showtime. Fetched the camcorder.

  Sometime after 2 A.M. I heard the sound of a television going out a window and exploding against pavement. Sounded like a Toshiba. Activity in the hall escalated. Sometime after 3 A.M. the phone rang. Somebody on the line said, “Um. You need to come down to the room here.” He said the room number.

  The debris field began in front of my door and stretched the length of the hall, and continued out into the lobby. Pieces of electronics—clock radio bits, husk of a TV, broken bottles, furniture shards. Pillow stuffing fluttered above floor vents. I stepped over a guy (nudged him with my foot, he was okay). The room I was called to wasn’t one of ours. It had had a full Moon & Bonham remodel, bed upside down, a standing lamp javelined through a wall, drawers pulled out and smashed; the framed print, the same as in my room, had had a fist or a small head punched through its duck pond. There was a good deal of blood pooled on the carpet and spattered onto some of the furniture. A kid in an employee shirt was there. “Your friend Matt got hurt. They said to tell you they’re at the hospital.
”

  “They who? Steve?”

  “He said his name was Mungo. Mungo the Magnificent, or something.”

  “Steve.”

  The kid shook his head. “He said Mungo. The Magnificent. Wait, no. Malevolent.”

  “Is all this blood Matt’s?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “You work here?”

  “Probably not,” he said. He was all done. Eyes going googly.

  “Mungo?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  I followed loud punk rock music to another room. It was crowded and someone was spraying Silly String onto the wall. Eugene was hanging out with a couple of Canadian guys raising beers and cheering whenever anybody said anything. What he knew was that Matt unwisely egged Peeler into a mock fight that took a turn, and everybody had to go to the local ER, tripping.

  It’s 5 A.M. Mungo called a little while ago from the hospital. Sober, relatively. Seventeen stitches for Matt. As for Matt being able to play the last couple shows of the tour, Mungo skeptical.

  NOVEMBER 10

  Departure delayed this morning while Steve goes over the damages with motel management. He’s gotten remarkably good at this part. We’re not being held responsible for what happened in the fish pond in the lobby, currently being drained and swabbed, but at least two of the rooms registered to us were demolished down to the peepholes, which looked like they’d been plucked out by a demonic magpie, scratches all over the doors.

  We wait on the bus. Matt is in a sling, semiconscious. Eug (where he disappeared to last night still unknown) napping fetal, Peeler lobotomized. I’m traitorously well rested and unhungover, though I only slept a couple hours. Shortly after we boarded, a bearded drunk guy nobody knew slipped down from a bunk, made the devil horns at us—“Unband! Rock and fuckin’ roll!”—and hopped off the bus and ran away.

  The door swished open and admitted Steve, less grim than expected. He showed us the bill. It was hard to believe. The list of damages scrolled on, but the totals . . . Battling rhinos would have left the rooms in better condition—there will need to be actual construction to make them habitable again. “This can’t be for all of it,” I said.