by Mercy Brown
“You do?” I say. “Because you don’t act like it.”
“Yeah, well it’s not that simple,” he says.
“Why not?”
“Because,” he says and pauses. “Well, look,” he starts again and then stops. Then he just sort of gives up on words and instead manhandles me like I’m a piece of gear and sets me down on the tailgate of the van with my back against the bass cabinet. Steady Beth’s back doors are open but pulled in so it’s like a little private fortress around us. I suck air as he looms over me, because I know exactly what’s coming when he looks at me like that. I think I might even be trembling.
“Why don’t you tell me?” he says, leaning over me, bracing himself against the bass cabinet. “Can we kiss and still take it slow?”
“Well . . . I don’t know, I—” I’m in the middle of answering when he shuts me up with his mouth, tasting like ginger ale and everything I guess I ever wanted in a guy, because the moment his lips touch mine, my head empties of everything and anything else but him. He kisses me once and I turn all the way on from head to toe. I wake right the hell up out of some gray, foggy dream I’d been living, into this hyperspace of feeling, all of it focused directly on wherever his lips touch me. My brow, my nose, my temple. He holds my face in his hands and his lips are so soft and sweet as they move over mine, kissing my top lip, my bottom lip, and then there’s his tongue pushing inside of me and fucking hell, he’s so right. I want more. I want more now now now right now.
“Travis,” I whisper, panting like I just had a hard run.
“Yeah,” he whispers back, but I crush his lips with my own again before he can even say anything else, I can’t help it. I can’t keep my lips off of him. I kiss his chin, down his neck as he holds fistfuls of my hair in his hands.
“Emmy,” he groans.
“Stay with me tonight,” I say.
The back door of the club slams open and we hear the beat brothers still singing Soft Cell—Don’t touch me please, I cannot stand the way you tease—with the Corporate Secret guys as they make their way across the parking lot, over to the vans.
“Fuck,” Travis mutters and turns away and adjusts a very obvious boner. His face is so frustrated I feel guilty. He takes a deep breath and walks away from me, away from all of us down the block.
“What’s wrong with Trap?” Joey asks, all out of breath from dancing. “Aren’t we going?”
“Yeah,” I say, averting my eyes because I know they can’t see my boner, but I definitely still have one. If they were looking for it, they could probably see it all over my face but by some miracle they don’t seem to suspect a thing. “I’m going to use the bathroom and then let’s hit the road.”
“Homeward bound!” Cole yells, jumping into his seat up front. He starts rifling through the band CD collection. “We’ve got an English exam to kill!”
I come back out of the club and climb into the van, in the back behind Travis. I pick Travis’s jacket up off the floor and drape it over myself because now the band blanket is covered in bar-floor funk and I have no idea if there’s any Toby kidney-stone-passing residue on there, but I know at this point the van blanket should probably just be burned. Travis pops the Misfits CD out of the CD player over Cole’s protests.
“Driver picks the music,” he says.
“You always drive, though,” Cole argues.
“Yep,” he says as he pushes play and the sound of Mazzy Star’s “Fade into You” fills the van. He knows that I fucking love this song. I sing quietly along to it and catch him glimpsing up at me in the mirror, his eyes all happy.
“Come on, Trap, we’ll all be asleep before the slide guitar comes back around,” Joey complains and then yawns into his arm.
“Well then good night, sweetheart,” Travis says, but as he’s saying it, he looks up in the rearview mirror at me and smiles.
What I’d really like to do right now is curl up in Travis’s strong, amp-carrying arms and the end. That’s it. I could end this whole story right here if I could just figure out how to handle everything I’m feeling. But if I were good at handling powerful feelings, I’d be an accountant, not a musician. I’m good at feeling things like a hypodermic full of adrenaline to the heart, nice and strong and all at once and thrilling and painful, too. (I actually have no idea what a hypodermic needle to the heart would feel like. I just saw John Travolta stab Uma Thurman in the heart like that in Pulp Fiction like everyone else.) I can feel the big, overwhelming feelings, yes. But handling them? Not so much. This is what guitar is for, but guitar just gives you a place to put those things. To feel them without feeling like they’re going to break you. Writing an awesome riff is not really the same as making good decisions about how to treat other people.
We roll out of Baltimore, happy and high from another great night, and as I close my eyes I can still feel his lips on mine, the soft feel of his tongue in my mouth. Now my stomach is all fluttery and I can tell you exactly why they call that feeling butterflies: it’s because new love is a beautiful, wild thing and if you keep it trapped inside of you, it will rail at that imprisonment until you let it out there into the world. It feels a little like that out-of-control feeling you get right before you orgasm. Or vomit.
I pull Travis’s jacket tighter around myself even though it’s not cold. I just like breathing under it because it smells like him. I am in love with him, I know that I am. I’m feeling it, full fucking on.
And I am terrified about everything I am about to fuck up in my life because of it.
***
A loud clang jolts me out of an awkward sleep. I open my eyes and we’re not moving, and nobody else is in the van. I’m disoriented for a minute, like maybe I just woke up inside a space capsule and the guys are out spacewalking or something. I hear more clanging, so I squint and look out the windshield and all I can see is the raised hood of the van and oh fuck. Oh no. Oh fuck no. I look at my watch. It’s two a.m.—we can’t even be out of Maryland yet.
Van problems among bands are second only to drummer problems in terms of how common and what a royal pain in the ass they are, but among all the band vans in New Brunswick, Steady Beth is legendary for not giving us shit. Because Travis plans it that way. Travis works part-time at Jiffy Lube, so he always changes the oil, checks the belts, tweaks and tunes her so this won’t happen. She’s a 1986, so nine years old, but she’s got a hundred and forty-two thousand miles on her. But we’re not moving and I’ve got an exam at eight thirty in the morning, so I’m thinking the worst.
Maybe it’s something that’s not a big deal. Maybe somebody had to take a piss and Travis is just checking the oil. He is prone to neurotically checking the oil.
I climb out and learn that we’re just at the Chesapeake House, a rest area in the middle of I-95 at the north end of Maryland about two hours from home. And unfortunately, Travis isn’t just checking the oil, and nobody has to take a piss.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Travis is muttering. He looks pissed, and Joey and Cole are standing there looking grim. “It’s the alternator, I’m sure,” Travis says. “The battery is practically new.”
“What the hell are we going to do?” I say.
“I need to replace it,” he says. “I can get a tow from Triple A to a shop, but nobody will be able to work on it until tomorrow morning.”
“Not good enough,” I say. “That doesn’t work at all.”
“I know,” Travis says. “We still need to get you home tonight.”
“We’ll get you home, Emmy,” Joey says. “I’ll piggyback you there if I have to.”
“Nobody is going to piggyback anybody,” Travis says. “We’ll get her a taxi.”
“How much will all that cost?” I say. “If we need to buy an alternator, won’t that be more than our whole guarantee?”
“We’ll pool our money,” he says. “I’ve got thirty in cash on me aside from that. Wh
at do you guys have?”
“I’ve got ten,” Cole says.
“Five,” Joey says. “I’m sorry.”
“I’ve got four dollars,” I say.
“That won’t be enough,” Travis says. “But I’ve got enough for the alternator in savings. So we’ll use the guarantee to pay for a taxi.”
“You need that money to fly to Omaha for Easter,” I say.
“I’ll just have to cancel,” Travis says.
“No you won’t,” I argue. “Your parents hate the band enough as it is.”
“No they don’t,” he says. “Shit happens, they’ll understand.”
So we have a plan, it seems. That is, we have a plan until we can’t find a fucking cab company in the phone book that’s picking up the phone at two a.m. What is wrong with you, Maryland? We finally get hold of a car service down in Baltimore who will meet us out here on the interstate, but they can’t get here for an hour at least. But if they get here by three thirty, I can be home by five thirty. I’ll be exhausted, but I’ll make it to my Modern Novel exam. Joey will ride back with me, and Travis and Cole will wait with the van, get Triple A to tow it to a garage in the morning, and Travis will use his savings account to pay for the alternator, as much as I hate this. We’ll pay him back, of course. But it’ll take a few Friday nights at the Court Tavern to get there.
After we hit the bathrooms we head back out and climb back into Steady Beth and wait for the car service to come.
“Maybe if you tell your professor what happened, he’ll give you a makeup exam,” Cole says.
“Uh, no, he definitely will not,” I say. “And if I don’t get a 3.5 or above in this class, I’ll put my scholarship in jeopardy. And if that happens, well, my mother . . .”
“Say no more,” Joey says. “We don’t want your mom to get on your case.”
“I just don’t want to deal with the lecture about life choices,” I say. “You know how she hates this. Jesus, if she could see me right now she’d birth a chimp.”
“You’ll get back for the exam,” Travis says, looking at me in the rearview mirror. “Go on and sleep for a while until the cab gets here. I’ll stay up and wait.”
But none of us can sleep now, so we stay up talking instead. It’s funny how you can spend so much time with the same three people and still have so much to talk about. Travis is waxing poetic about the Internet and how it’s going to change everything for bands like us, and imagine the day when we can finally give up Kinko’s and mailing out all those postcards before shows, he says. As if! Those are like miniature works of art, even if stamping and labeling three hundred of those things every month is a pain in my ass (and not cheap, either).
We talk about our friends from Jersey City, Crown the Robin, who are planning to go out on the road for the summer and how awesome it would be to go out on tour with them. We’ve played Maxwell’s in Hoboken a few times together and the shows were almost always sold out because they’re doing so well. We talk about Ag Field Day and start throwing around what kind of set we should play. A more mellow vibe, to sort of match Ween? Or something more rockin’, like we played tonight? We’re not used to playing in broad daylight, so this is going to take some thought. It’ll take me the next five weeks just to pick out the right T-shirt.
We gab like this for a while before I start to anxiously check my watch and now it’s three forty-five a.m. and there’s still no cab. What the fuck. Travis and I go inside to call again, and this time nobody answers.
I surprise myself and Travis when I start to cry. I feel like such a baby right now, I can’t even stand myself. But I’m tired and I’m angry that I have to worry so much about this exam when I don’t even really care about Modern Novel. I mean, it’s a great course, but I want to front a band for a living, not be an English professor and I’m sick of people telling me it’s not realistic, that I need a backup plan if the band doesn’t work out. I know that makes perfect sense, I’m not stupid. But the thing is, it’s not what I want and I don’t believe in planning for what you don’t want. So truthfully, I don’t feel bad that I made the choice to come down to Baltimore the night before a big exam. I feel bad that making these kinds of choices is a disappointment to my mother—the one woman I look up to more than anyone in the world.
Travis wraps his arms around me and I bury my face against his chest.
“Fuck,” I say. “Fucking God damn it.”
“I’ll call George,” Travis says. “He’ll come. That’s our best chance. You might still make it if we call right now.”
“I don’t want you to call George,” I say. “It’s not even four a.m.”
“He’ll do it,” Travis says. “He’ll bitch about it, but he’ll come.”
I hate this idea, but I don’t know what else to do now. So we call George, but there’s no answer. George is either so fast asleep he doesn’t hear the phone or he’s not even home.
We’re standing outside on the steps and I look down across the parking lot to where the row of gas pumps are. As I’m watching, a shiny beacon of hope on eighteen wheels rolls up to the pumps. Then I get an idea.
“I’ll hitch a ride,” I say.
“No,” Travis says. “You will not hitch a ride. Are you insane?”
“I’ll hitch a ride with a northbound truck,” I say. “That one.”
I point to a big rig gassing up on the northbound side. Odds are this truck will be passing through New Jersey on the Turnpike. If I can just get to Exit 9, I’ll only be ten minutes away from home. I’ll find somebody who can come get me from there.
“Absolutely not,” Travis says. “That’s sheer stupidity.”
“It’ll be fine,” I say. “I promise.”
“Emmy, this isn’t the sort of thing you promise will be fine. It’s the sort of thing that ends up with you being on a 60 Minutes special about human trafficking.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” I say.
I walk back to the van with Travis on my heels giving me grief: Wait, what do you think you’re doing? Emmy? Are you nuts? It’s just an exam. The whole time. What a pain in my ass, seriously. His negativity is really putting a damper on my “great idea” buzz. And besides, it’s not just an exam—this scholarship is the difference between making my mother proud or making her relive the agony she went through with my father fucking up his life. I really don’t care if it seems foolish, if Travis doesn’t get it. He doesn’t know how my mother gets, and he doesn’t know how much she’s sacrificed to help me get through school. And I know what the fuck I’m doing.
Oh, did I say that out loud?
“Yeah,” he says. “You did.”
“Well, I’m sorry you think it’s stupid,” I say. “But I have to do this. I have to try.”
I open the back doors to Steady Beth so I can dig my guitar out of the gear pile, but then he gets right in my way, blocking me so I can’t walk past him.
“Cut it out,” I say.
“No,” he says, moving right in front of me. “We’re not done talking about this.”
Joey’s head pops up over the gear and he sees me attempt to shove past Travis, who puts his arms around me and still won’t get the fuck out of my way. Now I’m really angry. That’s when Cole and Joey hop out of the van and come around the back.
“What the fuck, Travis?” I say. “Let go of me.”
Travis lets go of me, but he won’t move out of my way.
“What are you doing?” I snap. “He’s going to leave before I can even ask for a ride home!”
“What the hell?” Cole says. “Who’s going to leave?”
“She thinks she’s going to hitch a ride home on a truck,” Travis says.
“You can’t force me not to hitchhike home. You’re my guitarist, not my fucking father!”
“I’m just trying to help you!” he yells back. “It’s a grade on an English tes
t, for fuck’s sake, it’s not worth putting yourself in danger!”
“I’m not!” I say.
“Dude,” Cole says. “Everyone calm the fuck down, all right? Let’s talk this through.”
“Let her by, Trap,” Joey says. “Before one of you gets hurt, seriously.”
He glares at Joey and then steps to the side. I want to smack him right now, I swear to God, and this time I don’t want to fuck him at all.
“I’m trying to help you, Emmy,” he says. “It’s late, you’re upset and you’re not thinking straight.”
“Fuck you, Travis.”
“Fuck me?” he says. “Whatever, then. Fine. Go on and get yourself molested by a lonely trucker. Great idea.”
“Jesus Christ, Trap,” Cole says. “Calm down, all right?”
I grab my guitar and I am so pissed off I feel like if I can actually manage to get this trucker to give me a ride north, I might just quit life and apply to be his trucker assistant. Maybe I’ll become a trucker myself and never have to put up with stupid boys treating me like I can’t figure my own shit out and telling me what to do. God damn it.
Travis paces away from me, muttering, his hands clenched at his sides. Then he goes to the front of the van and I figure that’s it, and fuck him anyway. I’ll deal with him when he gets home. Or whatever.
“I’ll get my jacket,” Joey says.
“No you won’t,” Travis calls from around the side, then reappears with my backpack and my jacket, and he’s wearing his. “You guys stay here with the gear. Call Triple A and have them tow it to the nearest garage. I’ll be back down in Emmy’s car with the cash by one o’clock.”
“What?” I say.
Travis turns around and pulls his guitar out of the back.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask.
“I’m going with you,” Travis says.
“You are?” I’m still so mad I want to tell him to go fuck himself, but I’m too relieved to say it.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m not letting you hitch a ride with a trucker by yourself, are you crazy? Oh wait, if you weren’t crazy, we wouldn’t be bumming rides off of lonely truckers in the first place.”