Road Rash

by Mark Huntley Parsons

  But I know that sooner or later we’ll turn this bus around and get it back on the right track. There’s too much talent here not to.

  In the meantime, it’s amusing to consider … Toby Bates vs. Brad Halstead. Who wins? (In a perfect world, they’d charge across the ring at each other and explode into a giant egotistical fireball. But hey, maybe that’s just me …)

  Miss you already.

  L,

  Z

  The next morning after breakfast I was setting up my gear onstage when Brad and Jamie walked in. I didn’t really want to talk to them, especially together, but I also didn’t want to hang around all day just waiting for someone to finally call me.

  “Hey, Brad,” I said. “What time you wanna sound-check?”

  “Don’t worry your little self about it. We’ll be fine.”

  Jamie shot him a confused look, then said to me, “We’ll figure it out later and let you know, Zach.”

  I made some final adjustments to my drumset and left. I didn’t know where I was going, but anywhere was better than there.

  In the lobby they had a ton of brochures about all the different things you could do. Hmm … Most of them were either pretty pricey or didn’t really interest me, but there was this chairlift that went to the top of the mountain on the south end of town. During the winter it serviced the ski slopes, but in the summer you could ride up for a few bucks and take in the view or go hiking or whatever.

  It was turning out to be a great day, weather-wise, so I changed into some hiking clothes, grabbed a bottle of water, and headed over to the lift. And the view from the top was pretty freakin’ outstanding. There’s the whole town laid out below you, like a pic from Google Earth or something. Beyond that is the Grand Teton, clear as a bell. And beyond that you can actually see Yellowstone in the distance. Wow—talk about a photo opportunity.

  I got off at the top and started on a trail that wound along the ridgeline. I went out a few miles, then stopped and took more pics before I headed back. When I got back near the lift station, I found a tree and sat under it in the shade, just leaning against the trunk and taking in the scenics as I finished my water. I didn’t know if it was the environment, the posthike lift, or just being up there by myself, but it felt great. I didn’t really care what it was, I was just glad to feel human again. After a minute of this—or maybe an hour, who knows?—I took out my phone and punched in a number.

  Hi. I can’t answer the phone right now, but leave a message and I’ll call you back soon. Beeeep …

  I looked at my watch. It was before noon in California—she was still in class. “Hi. I have something important to tell you. I love you. Like crazy. That’s all. Bye …”

  From: Dandy Don Davis [DDD@W107.com]

  Sent: Monday, July 26 3:08 PM

  To: Zach Ryan [ZR99@westnet.net]

  Subject: RE: Song Entry

  Hey Zach!

  There’s something I want to run by you—give me a call when you get a minute, okay?

  Talk soon,

  Don

  “Hey, Don, this is Zach Ryan. I got your message.”

  “Zach! Hey, man, thanks for calling back.”

  “No problem. So what’s up?”

  “Well, I might have an interesting opportunity for you. But it depends—when are you guys getting back from tour?”

  “Hang on a sec.” I scrolled through my calendar. “Let’s see … We finish up August twenty-first in Canada. Give us maybe three days to get back. So we should be home Tuesday, the twenty-fourth. Wednesday at the latest.”

  “Well, that’s a little close, but it’ll work.”

  “Work for what?”

  “How would you guys like to open for Neverland?”

  I about dropped the phone. “What …?”

  I could hear him laughing. “Yeah, I thought you’d say that. Here’s the deal … Wild 107 sponsors the grandstand rock show that closes out the Golden State Fair—been doing that for the last four or five years. Well, it wasn’t easy but this year we managed to score Neverland to headline—they’re in the middle of a big US tour this summer.”

  “Awesome.”

  “Yeah, we’re totally jazzed about it. And to make a long story short, we need an opener and we like to use local talent whenever we can. Out of all the bands on our Best in the West CD, Killer Jones is getting the most requests. And you guys just plain rock. So the question is, can you open the show on Saturday, the twenty-eighth?”

  All kinds of things flew through my mind in the two-second pause before I answered. Like how KJ was mostly a figment of my imagination. And whether this was some sort of prank that Toby or someone set up. (Which was stupid, because I’d called Don at the station, not the other way around.) But mostly, it was just a sense of unreality as my brain kept repeating, Neverland? Never-freakin’-land??? But what else could I say?

  “Uh, yeah. I mean yes. Definitely. Holy cow, are you kidding? Of course!”

  “Great. I was hoping that was the case. The show starts at eight and it has a hard quit time of eleven p.m. due to noise restrictions in town, so your slot is forty minutes, max. We’re talking maybe eight to ten songs, and we’d like most of them to be originals—this ain’t no cover gig, believe me.”

  “I understand.” I thought quickly … Glenn and I had maybe six tunes roughed out, but we should have no problem getting the band to polish them and help us work up a few more in the next month. Not with the incentive of opening for a huge act like Neverland to kick us in the ass. “That shouldn’t be a problem,” I said.

  “Outstanding. I have to get going, but we’ll be in touch.”

  “Thanks. The guys’ll be so stoked to hear this—I can’t wait to tell them.”

  He laughed again. “I’ll bet. We’ll talk details later. Take care.”

  “You too.” I hung up and just sat there for a minute. I’d mentioned to Kimber about the bus eventually turning back around, but I had no idea it would happen this soon.

  Or this way.

  Wow …

  36

  “Drop the Bomb”

  You ever have something inside that makes you feel like you’re going to freakin’ burst if you don’t get it out? I felt this burning need to go tell someone right damn now, so I went looking for Glenn, but when I found him, the guy seemed so bummed that I didn’t even feel like telling him.

  I sat down on the corner of his bed. “I’m not sure what’s going on, but if there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know.”

  “Thanks. But I don’t think so.”

  “Okay. God knows I’m no expert when it comes to women.”

  He cracked the tiniest smile. “You seem to be doing all right.”

  “So I’ve got one poor girl fooled. For now. You, on the other hand, could have a whole harem of groupies swooning around you.” Actually, he could. I’ve seen ’em.

  He laughed a little. “You know, I hadn’t considered that option.” He looked around the room. “What’s the capacity in here? I’d say a dozen, easy.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that. You seem to attract them big gals. I’m thinking more like five of ’em. Six, max. And that’s if I leave first.” I had to duck the pillow he threw at me. “Hey! That’s no way to treat your wingman. Or whatever you call the go-getter.”

  “I’d have you go, all right, but I’m afraid of what you’d get.”

  “Okay, so let’s talk about something we can control. Like music. As in, original music.”

  “Yeah, great. So far we’ve played one original tune onstage one time, on a night when Brad was AWOL.”

  I held up my hands. “Hey, you’ve gotta start somewhere.”

  “We started and finished all in the same night!”

  “So far,” I agreed. “But what if we could do our originals—would you?”

  “Of course.”

  “In front of thousands of people?”

  “What kind of a question is that?”

  I held up a finger. “Fin
al question: How would you like to perform them while opening for one of the biggest bands in the country?”

  He squinted at me, but behind the curtain I could see curiosity fighting with annoyance. “Exactly what are you getting at?”

  I couldn’t wait any longer—I just dumped it on him. “We’ve got a gig opening for Neverland at the Golden State Fair, a week after we get back. Saturday, August twenty-eighth. Eight p.m. Closing-night grandstand show. We get forty minutes to play—we’re talking originals, of course. And don’t even ask me about the pay, because I was so freakin’ stoked that I forgot to ask.”

  He stared at me for a minute, then he said quietly, “My God … you’re serious, aren’t you?”

  I nodded. “Yup. What gave it away?”

  “That big-ass smile on your face. But back up a minute. How did we land this gig? There’s no way Corey got it for us, right?”

  “Not hardly. This isn’t a Bad Habit gig, it’s a Killer Jones gig.”

  “Huh …?”

  “Wild 107 is one of the sponsors for the show and they get to choose the opener. They want someone local and we got the best listener response from that Best in the West thing, so we won the slot. How freakin’ cool is that?”

  He reached out and we bumped fists. “This is amazing! So, we’ve got to bring the others on board.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “they’ll need to learn the stuff we’ve got roughed out, and we’ll need a couple more.”

  “Have you told them?”

  “Not yet. I wanted to tell you first, since it was your tune that got us this.”

  He shook his head. “Not even. It was you, man.”

  I shrugged. “It was a team effort. Anyway, I’m thinking we should call a band meeting and tell them all at the same time.”

  He suddenly stopped. “Uh … Brad … original music … my original music …? See any issues here?”

  “Look at it this way. God comes down and says, GT, you can share the stage with Neverland. But you have to wear your underwear on the outside of your pants. Are you in?”

  I could see the lightbulb go on above his head. He nodded. “In a hot second.”

  “No kidding. And I think the others’ll feel the same way.” I paused. “Smile, dude! I think this just might help end the weirdness.”

  He seemed genuinely happy for the first time in a long time. “You know, it just might.”

  I asked Glenn to set up the meeting since Brad and I weren’t exactly best buds these days, so Glenn ended up calling him. After he hung up, he turned to me. “Well, that was weird.”

  “What’s up?”

  “He seemed only too happy to have a band meeting—he actually said it was a good idea. Only apparently tomorrow morning works better. And he wanted it at the club, too, instead of in one of our rooms.”

  “That’s cool—he probably wants to sound-check. And after they hear the news, they’ll probably want to start working on the originals, too.”

  “Sounds good to me …”

  As I lay in bed that night, it occurred to me that this was a time where maybe the ends really did justify the means. Okay, I’d invented an imaginary band for this Franken-tune, and then I’d stuck my neck out by telling Don Davis that we were that band and that of course we were ready to open for the biggest band in the land, no problem.

  And if we couldn’t live up to that fictionage, then I guess I deserved whatever I had coming. But if we could—if this was what it took to get us out of the trenches—then it was all going to be worth it.

  I couldn’t wait.

  Q: WHY IS BEING A PROCTOLOGIST BETTER THAN BEING A DRUMMER?

  A: BECAUSE YOU ONLY HAVE TO DEAL WITH ONE A-HOLE AT A TIME.

  Walking through the resort to the club the next day with Glenn, I thought about how to tell the band the good news. I could tease them by stretching it out. Or we could play twenty questions. Or I suppose I could just tell them straight up.

  I’d finally decided on having a game of Celebrity Deathmatch, as in Bad Habit vs. Neverland on the same stage … who wins? They’d say, What the hell are you talking about? and I’d say, You’re about to find out … bitches! The thought made me bust up as we walked in, and then suddenly the laughter stopped.

  Have you ever been in a situation where you can tell, instantly, that things are definitely not going to go as planned? Like the doorbell rings and you’re expecting a friend, only you open the door and there’s a policeman standing there instead. Or this really cute girl in class asks you to come over and help her with her homework, and you get to her house and her football-player boyfriend is there, too, and what she really wants is … help with her homework.

  Well, this was like that. On steroids. For starters, Brad was the only one there. And he didn’t act like he was expecting anyone else to arrive. He also didn’t bother to ask why we’d called the meeting.

  But the really subtle clue that I’d cleverly picked up on was that my drums were no longer onstage where I’d set them up. Instead, they’d been stacked off to the side. Holy backstab, Batman …

  I was right back in that garage with Toby. And man, I’d forgotten what a totally shitty place that was to be.

  “Who the hell’s been messing with my drums?” I spat out.

  Brad ignored the question. He was all calm, like he was the mature supervisor and I was some underperforming employee. “Zach, you haven’t been very happy working with us lately, have you?”

  I almost screamed, No, really—I love dealing with all your shit. But I realized that that was exactly what he wanted me to do. I could hear my dad’s voice after I’d blown up at Chris: No matter how mad you get, the way you win is to act professional. I’d hated it when he’d said that, because he’d had a point. So I took a seat, willing myself to stay calm.

  “Actually,” I said, “I have been pretty happy overall. I think the band’s been sounding better than ever.”

  That seemed to throw him off balance. “Uh, you do?”

  “Sure. Yeah, we have little personality flare-ups now and then, but it’s no big. Everybody has to deal with that stuff. Either you figure it out and move forward or you fall apart and no one ever hears from you again.” I shrugged. “It’s up to you …”

  His eyes narrowed—he was back in familiar territory now. “Oh, so you’re telling me how to run my band again?”

  I shook my head. “That’s your job. You’re a smart guy and you’ve been doing this longer than I have. I’m sure you figured that out a long time ago, right?”

  “Uh, right.”

  “So yeah, I think we’ve been sounding pretty damn good. I’m looking forward to us doing some original material, which is partly what we wanted to talk about.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure it is. Seems like you’re always pushing your agenda.”

  God, I hated to admit it, but I was going to have to call my dad and thank him, big-time. This “professional” stuff was really working. The more we talked, the more calm and confident I felt. “My only agenda is wanting us to be successful.” I looked at him and tried to imagine that I was the boss, interviewing him. “So, I’d be curious to know—what does your vision of success look like?”

  He lost it a little. “Dude, this is my band. Why the hell should I have to tell you anything?”

  I surprised myself by laughing out loud. I’d just realized that I was interviewing him, and for a pretty good promotion at that. And he was failing, miserably.

  Glenn hadn’t said a word the whole time. He was just sitting back and listening, like he was watching an interesting debate on TV. Finally, he leaned forward and said quietly, “Did it ever occur to you to ask why we called this meeting?”

  Brad shrugged. “You want to do more originals, or some other bullshit. Whatever. It doesn’t really matter.”

  “It might …”

  I looked at Glenn and cut him off with a shake of my head. “Let’s not even go there. I’d rather not do it at all than do it with his attitude. If you really want, I�
��ll give you the contact info and you can work out the details by yourself.”

  He looked at me, then slowly shook his head. I could tell—he was watching the boat drift away downstream with some very big dreams on board. “Nope,” he finally said. “Hard right over easy wrong.” He managed a sad smile. “Right?”

  “What the hell are you guys talking about?” Brad said.

  “Never mind.” I looked around. “Where are the others? I thought this was a band meeting?”

  “It’s a meeting about band business, but that doesn’t mean they all need to be here. I still call the shots, remember?”

  Okay, I slipped for a minute. “Oh yeah, how could I forget? You’re the big fish. But your pond’s really just a puddle on the sidewalk. Sooner or later the sun’s gonna come out, and poof, it’ll be gone.”

  That finally drove him to the punch line, although probably without all the little excuses he’d had in mind. “Why the hell am I wasting my time talking to you? You’re outta here, man! It just ain’t working. You’re all paid up as of yesterday, so pack up your shit and get gone.”

  It’s weird. I mean, I guess I was expecting it ever since I saw that my gear had been moved, but still, hearing him say it like that felt like a punch in the gut.

  “Who’s gonna cover the gig?” I finally said.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  I just stared at him. I mean, what more was there to say? Maybe to the others, but not to him. He was a closed book.

  Glenn broke the silence. “Well, in that case I hope whoever you found brought another guitar player with him.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. If you’re seriously gonna let him go for whatever screwed-up reasons you’ve got rattling around in your brain, then I’m done with you.”