Road Rash

by Mark Huntley Parsons

  As we headed back, it occurred to me that she seemed pretty at home here. I heard myself say, “Do you live here, too?”

  She kinda choked for a second. “Uh … no. Why do you ask?”

  Suddenly I felt stupid. I shrugged. “I don’t know … sorry.” Man, I have got to learn to engage my brain before my mouth.…

  We ended up in the same room I’d auditioned in, but no one had their instrument out. They were just sitting around, drinking coffee and hanging. Well, Brad had a beer going, but you get the idea.

  Everyone said hi, then Glenn grinned. “Hate to keep you in suspense, so here it is—we’d like you to play with us.”

  I tried to stay cool, but I could feel a big-ass grin break out. “That’s great.”

  I had the sense that Glenn was going to say something else when Brad leaned forward and cleared his throat. “We would have called you sooner, but we had some business we had to nail down first.”

  “What Brad means,” Jamie said, “is we’re going on the road this summer. We just finalized it with a booking agency.”

  Wow.

  “Yeah,” Brad added. “There just aren’t enough good-money gigs around here, but if we tour, we can play four or five nights a week all summer.”

  “So … when are you going? And when are you getting back?”

  “We leave tomorrow, get back sometime in October,” Danny said matter-of-factly.

  “Uh, but … there’s no way I can …” I looked at the others—they were all trying not to laugh. Except Danny. He had a poker face on.

  “You’ll have to get used to Danny,” Jamie said. “That’s his idea of humor.”

  He looked at me, palms up. “Hey, bro—just joshin’.”

  I grinned. “No problem … you had me going there for a second.” I turned back to Brad. “So, when are we leaving?”

  “We’re outta here the week after next and returning late August,” he said. “Does that sound doable?”

  Okay, on the one hand, I could stay around Los Robles all summer and scramble for a job making french fries. On the other, I could get paid to play music and see the country. Boy, that was a tough one.

  I nodded, trying to sound calm. “That sounds like something I could swing.”

  “Cool,” Brad said with a nod. “We’ve got a little shakedown gig next weekend at Paisano’s. Do you think you could make it here a couple of times during the week so we could rehearse?”

  “Sure. Could you get me a set list ahead of time? That’d make things easier.”

  “How about a live recording from a month ago, pretty much all four sets?”

  Man, that was about as helpful as it gets. “Perfect. So, where are we going?”

  “Mostly the Rockies. We open in Bozeman, Montana, in twelve days.”

  “No,” my mom said.

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “What don’t you understand about no?” my dad said. “No means negative. As in no-how, no-way, ain’t-a-gonna-happen.”

  God, he could be so annoying. “I know what the word means!” I shot back. “What I don’t understand is why you’re saying it. You don’t even know the details yet.”

  “I know enough,” my mom said. “I know you want to go traipsing across the country in a van or a bus or something with a bunch of older kids you don’t even really know. What else do I need to know?”

  “There’s a lot more you should want to know before you make a decision like that.” I glared at them. “But you know what? I don’t even want to talk to you about it—you guys are way too close-minded right now.…” I turned and left. They called me back, but I ignored them and went up to my room.

  I sat on my bed, totally pissed. I mean, is it that freakin’ hard to just listen for once before jumping to conclusions? Don’t answer that.…

  In the middle of thinking all this, my phone rang. I didn’t really want to talk to anyone right then, but it could be Glenn. Or maybe Kimber. I looked. Kyle. What the hell did he want?

  “Hey, what’s up?” I said, not real friendly.

  “Not too much. How about you?”

  Well, I got the best job offer of my life, but it just got shot down. I didn’t even want to go there right now. Especially with him. “Same-same.”

  Then I just waited. After all, he’d called me, right?

  He finally cleared his throat. “Well … You remember ‘No Life to Live’ …?”

  “Duh.” That was one of our original tunes. I’d helped write the damn thing—it had some wicked off-beat sections that Kyle and I had come up with.

  “Uh, do you think you could still play it?”

  “Of course.” Where was this going?

  “Well, um …” I could hear him take in a breath, then let it out. “Look. We’re trying to do some recording, and Josh is having a hard time really nailing some of the songs. And I was wondering … actually, we were wondering … if maybe … well, if you could help us track some of the tunes?”

  The word of the day for today was definitely wow. “So you want me back in the band, then?”

  “Well … you could play on a lot of the tracks. You’d get a credit on the record. And you’d get a chance to record in a real pro studio.”

  “But I wouldn’t actually be in the band?”

  “Uh, not exactly.”

  It hit me. If I’m in, then Josh is out. And if Josh is out of the band, then the band is out of the studio … and they’re also out of his dad’s contacts and everything that went with all that.

  “Sorry. I can’t do it.”

  “You mean you don’t want to do it.”

  “I actually don’t know if I want to do it or not. But it doesn’t matter, because I’ve got other plans.”

  “Look, man, I’m sorry we can’t officially put you back in the band. It’s not my choice—”

  “You know, I’ve gotten a lot of that from you lately,” I interjected.

  He kept going like he hadn’t heard me. “—but if that doesn’t work for you, just say so. You don’t have to make up some bullshit story about ‘other plans’ or whatever.”

  That did it. “No fiction on my side, man! You’re the one that’s spewing the bullshit. Sorry dude, but I can’t bail out you and your spoiled-ass drummer boy right now … because I’ll be on the road with Bad Habit all summer.”

  “What …?”

  “You heard me,” I said, and I hung up.

  God, me and my mad mouth …

  PART II

  ROAD

  12

  “Magic Bus”

  Danny came up and tapped me on the shoulder. He spoke quietly so he wouldn’t wake the others. “Hey, bro, you doing all right up here? Need anything?”

  “Thanks, man, I’m good.”

  “Ten-four. Let me know when you need a break.”

  “You got it.”

  Driving a motor home is like driving a car once you get the hang of it. It’s just that getting the hang of it takes a while, and it was “earn while you learn” in my case. When they’d asked if I could take a turn behind the wheel, I’d said sure, like I piloted a thirty-foot motor home down the interstate every day. Or make that every night, since my turn came after we’d stopped for dinner at a Subway outside Vegas.

  I figured it couldn’t be all that different from driving my dad’s pickup. Wrong. Especially when it came to getting up the on-ramp and back onto the freeway—that damn thing was big, and changing lanes was hairy-scary. It didn’t take me long to figure out that the best strategy was to pick a lane and stay in it.

  At first that was the slow lane, but as we got out into the middle of nowhere and I got more used to the beast, I migrated into the fast lane and just tooled along at seventy-five or so. My plan was to try to make it to Salt Lake City before stopping to swap drivers. So far, the glamorous life of being on tour was a lot like being a long-haul trucker.…

  Amazingly, my parents had been pretty reasonable once I’d actually talked with them. They didn’t care that Bad H
abit were the hottest act in town, or that I’d improve my drumming skills by working with them, or that it was a feather in my cap that they’d picked me at all. And they couldn’t have cared less about what I’d flung in Kyle’s face. Nope. What convinced them was the fact that they’d replaced their old drummer because he was a druggie. Pretty funny, considering I’d done everything I could to not mention Bad Habit and drugs in the same sentence. And my mom was actually relieved when she found out that two of the people going were girls.… Jamie was bringing her friend Amber—I guess so she wouldn’t feel weird being the only girl. Mom somehow thought that having them along would make the guys more likely to “behave.” Whatever—it worked.

  After we’d hashed it all out, my dad said, “I have a couple of things I want.”

  I would have shaved my head and dyed my eyebrows pink for him at that point. “Sure.”

  “I want you to call or text or email on a regular basis. I’m not talking every day, but do it when you can, okay? Just to let us know you’re alive?” I nodded. Easy. He went on. “Your mom worries about you, probably more than you know. My main objection to letting you go was about the stress it might cause her, more than anything to do with you. Letting her know you’re okay will help with that.”

  “Sure, I can do that. No problem.”

  “Thanks.” He grinned. “If I were in your shoes, I’d be wanting to go, too. In a big way. So behave, but enjoy yourself. I think it’ll be a good experience for you.”

  “Thanks, Dad. What was the other thing?”

  “This is going to sound dumb, but humor me.…” God, was he going to ask me to wear a chastity ring or take some drug-free vow or what …? “I want you to send postcards. I’ll get you a roll of stamps before you go. Buy a postcard at every town you visit, scratch something on it, and send it home. That’s all.”

  I didn’t get it. “Dad, I’ve got my phone. I can send you pics anytime I want.”

  He cleared his throat. “I was actually aware of that. Just work with me on this, okay? I don’t expect you to understand now, but you’ll be glad you did it later. And besides, Alicia loves getting old-fashioned postcards. So if nothing else, do it for her. Okay?”

  He was right—I totally didn’t get it. But considering all the weird things I could imagine my parents asking for, it was the least I could do. “Okay.”

  Once all that was straightened out, I spent the next week rehearsing with Bad Habit and woodshedding the songs on my own. I had a lot of tunes to get a handle on, but it felt good to be playing, and it was also nice to be learning different material.…

  The guys in the Sock Monkeys liked the more garage-y, pop-punk stuff (even though their set lists were all over the map), while Bad Habit had more of an indie and modern-rockish vibe going on. There was still some overlap—they both did “Lonely Boy,” by the Black Keys, for example—but even then their versions were different: the Sock Monkeys did it as a straight-ahead, four-on-the-floor, guitar/bass/drums thing, while Bad Habit changed it up a little, with Jamie’s backing vocals and cool piano part adding more dimension.

  So yeah, I was happy being in a band again—things started feeling almost normal.

  One thing that was weird, however—and I’m not really sure why—was Kimber. The night after I’d talked with Kyle, she texted me.

  Kyle told me you’re going on tour w/ Bad Habit???

  That’s the truth, lil sis.

  :-(

  Then a second later she added JK! ☺

  I hope so, I wrote. I’m stoked about going.

  Yeah, me 2. GTG. Talk later.

  Later …

  She showed up at the gig at Paisano’s. I don’t know—maybe it was the stress of playing new songs with a new band—but the whole thing was strange.…

  I saw her during the first set, standing near the back with her older sister, Sarah. I guess she’d gotten a ride from Sarah—who must have been home from Cal Poly for the summer—because Kyle was nowhere in sight.

  Kimber came up during the break and we sat at a table and had a couple of cokes.

  “God, you sound good,” she said, looking at me. When did her eyes get so big?

  “I think it’s the company I keep. Those guys are pros.”

  “Maybe. Partly. But that’s you and no one else up there playing the drums, and I know what I see.”

  “Thanks.” She still had that big-eyes thing going on, and I swear I almost let fly with Hey, you got any annoying jerks you need scared off? The first one’s free tonight. My face must have given me away.

  “What’s with the grin?” she asked.

  “Nothing.” Okay, besides that whole hop-on-my-lap image, what I was really thinking was how nice she’d been since I’d gotten kicked from the band. I shrugged. “You’ve been a good friend. That’s all.” That came out sounding dorky, but she didn’t seem to mind.

  “Thanks, Zach!” She smiled, but then she looked up at the gear onstage and got kind of quiet. “So you’re really going on the road with these guys? Kyle said all summer?”

  “Yeah. Northern Rockies.”

  “Why do you have to go all that way? There’s got to be plenty of clubs in California.…”

  “Yeah. But there are also a lot of bands here, so clubs don’t need to bring them in from the outside. They don’t have as many local acts up there, so there’s more work for touring bands. We start in Montana next week. Then Wyoming, Idaho, and a couple of weeks up in Canada. We’ll be back a week or two before school starts.”

  She didn’t say anything. Maybe it was like someone telling you all about the great vacation they’re going to have in Hawaii or whatever, and you’re stuck in town all summer. I was about to tell her that it wouldn’t be all play and no work when she held up her drink.

  “This …,” she said quietly, staring into the glass like it was a crystal ball. “This tastes like … like I’m sitting alone at two in the morning in an all-night diner in Barstow. There’s no one in the place but me, some smelly old drunk at the counter, and a burnt-out waitress with blond hair and black roots. The flickering fluorescents are giving me a headache as I suck down my third cup of lukewarm coffee.” She set the glass down and stood up. “That’s what this tastes like.” She came around to my side of the table and gave me a quick hug, then turned and walked away.

  The signs go flashing by in the night. SALT LAKE CITY—82 MILES. I almost wish they weren’t there at all, because you see that your destination is three hundred miles or whatever, then you drive forever, and the sign says it’s still 209 miles. (If you wanted to inflict some real Langley-type torture on someone, you could have a road sign every mile. God, that would be the worst.)

  Man, it was going to be almost two a.m. when we got to Salt Lake. I’d thought about getting someone else to drive, but everyone was asleep by then and I hated to wake them. Plus, they’d trusted me to take my turn, and I wanted to show I could carry my weight.

  By the time I got to Salt Lake, we needed gas, I was burnt, and I was about ready to pee my pants. So I pulled into this big-ass gas station right off the highway, used the bathroom, got a large coffee and a power bar, and filled the tank. I’d had the radio on while I drove, turned down low and tuned to a talk station to keep me awake. I left it on at the gas station, and sure enough, everyone stayed asleep. I’d learned that trick when we were kids. We’d be on some long drive and Alicia would wake up every time we stopped until my dad started leaving either the radio on or the engine running. Funny how the absence of noise can wake you.

  So I paid with money from the band fund and pulled back on the freeway. After I’d finished the coffee and the power bar I felt a lot better, so I kept on cruising along as I listened to some goofballs debate the likelihood that aliens were responsible for a bunch of dead goats in New Mexico.

  I made it as far as Idaho Falls and had to give up—it was almost five a.m. and I was toast. I pulled off the freeway, found an empty parking lot next to a shopping center, and shut it down. I have a ha
rd time sleeping sitting up so I climbed in back and looked for somewhere to snooze. The girls were up in the little loft above the driver’s seat, two guys were on the little fold-out dinette benches, and someone was sprawled out on the seat across the aisle. The heck with it—I found someone’s sweatshirt to roll up and use as a pillow and I just crashed on the floor.

  I was having this bizarre nightmare about Mr. Langley torturing his students. He had us tied up in the classroom, and he’d say, “That’s one minute out of the day. Only one thousand four hundred and thirty-nine left.” Then sixty seconds later he’d say, “That’s two minutes out of the day. Only one thousand four hundred and thirty-eight left.…” Then Kimber walked into the classroom and I told her to run and get help. She sat down and said no, she was going to drink cold coffee instead.…

  Suddenly I woke up. Where the hell was I? I sat up and … whack. I looked around. No wonder I’d banged my head—I was up in the loft. Through the funky plaid curtains I could see scenery going by—we were back on the highway, and somehow they’d managed to hoist me up there without waking me. Well, at least they hadn’t stripped me or tied my feet together or any of the other things the guys in the Sock Monkeys might have done if I’d fallen asleep on the floor.

  You’d think there’d be enough room for all of us to sleep semi-comfortably in here. And I suppose in a new motor home this size, there is. Every year at the Golden State Fair they have a huge display of RVs, and sometimes I wander through and look at them. Some of them are pretty impressive—water beds, hot tubs, big-screen TVs … whatever you want.

  Well, the ol’ Bad-Mobile was nothing like that. It was probably okay when it was new … which was way before I was born. Apparently, Brad’s family had used it on vacations when he was a little kid, but since then it’d spent most of its time sitting under a tarp next to their garage, home to bugs and birds and wayward squirrels—not even worth the cost of having it hauled away.

  But to the guys in the band, it looked like the perfect road warrior. They gutted the whole back half and built a plywood wall cordoning the rear section off. Never mind that this eliminated little details like the bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom—it made a great cargo compartment for all their gear. So all that was left for the passengers was the front half—the dinette, this little vinyl-covered bench that was probably called a sofa in the original sales brochure, and the two seats up front. Oh yeah, and the tiny loft. In theory everyone was supposed to be in a real seat wearing a real seat belt whenever we were moving, but in reality you do what you have to do to make it work.