by Sara Taylor
“Listen here, you fucking insect,” I said, raising my voice to be heard over the cheers. “You don’t touch girls like that. Do you get it? Now, I know this isn’t my show. It’s a Goreceps show. But if it was my show, I’d kick your ass the fuck out.”
The crowd roar was deafening, and I looked back to see that the guys from Goreceps had come out on stage and were applauding. I realized that they were applauding me. Their singer, Jacob, made a gesture. Security moved in and dragged the asshole away through the crowd.
I stood there beside Fern, who seemed oblivious to it all and was wringing her hands, and wondered why the fuck security hadn’t done anything to stop the guy in the first place.
THIRTY-SEVEN
“You’re breaking new ground,” the interviewer said. “There’s been a rallying of girls in metal. How does it feel to be a role model?”
The tape recorder was sitting on the table between us. I’d never done an interview before, and this woman worked for Blood Sledge, so I was sort of nervous. One of the biggest metal magazines in Europe, and here I was, sitting backstage, on a tour with a great band, being asked what it feels like to be a role model? It was surreal.
“I don’t think I’m a role model,” I said.
“Three nights ago in Leeds you beat a guy over the head with your microphone because he was grabbing your guitarist. A lot of girls look up to that.”
“I think a lot of girls should beat guys over the head if they’re going to be assaulted like that, because what that guy did was assault,” I said, feeling my pulse quicken. I took a deep breath. “I don’t get why people act like that. Why they think they’re entitled to treat girls that way.”
“Do you see a lot of this sort of thing while you’re touring? Do you think there’s an element of sexism in the music industry?”
I frowned, wondering if she was joking or if this was a serious question. “Definitely. I think a lot of guys have a sense of ego and over-confidence in this industry. Particularly . . .” An image of Balthazar flashed in my mind. I quickly dismissed it, clenching my fists. “Er, particularly musicians.”
The interviewer giggled. “Well, some might say that girls rather enjoy the attention of musicians.”
I swallowed my urge to reach across the table and slap her. I took a deep breath and replied calmly, “Not all girls. I think it’s a good lesson for some of these . . . assholes to remember that. Not every girl is going to fall at your feet and do nothing but giggle. I don’t understand that perspective.”
The interviewer had stopped smiling and now seemed nervous, as though she knew she had offended me and wanted to clarify her point. “But there really are so many groupies —”
“Not every girl is a fucking groupie,” I snapped. Her eyes widened in the silence that followed, and I was aware of the soft whirring of the tape recorder. The faces of the two girls who had been backstage with me and Fern, the ones who had to deal with the disgusting roadie, flashed in my mind. What had that night been like for them? What had happened to them after we had fled? I didn’t want to come off as a bitch here, so when I spoke next, I softened my tone. “And groupies don’t deserve to be treated badly either. It seems like some guys at shows just have a problem with women. It makes me so angry. I mean, Fern is onstage, playing guitar, and some guy thinks he has the right to just grope her, and no one does anything. I don’t understand that.”
“Yes, you’re right,” the interviewer said quickly, smiling back, glad that our conversation had gotten back onto a positive note. “There has always been violence against women at concerts, and I’m glad you’re addressing it.”
“Well, everyone should be damn well addressing it,” I said. “There are enough girls at these shows that we should be looking after each other.”
xXx
The Flesh for Lunch tour seemed to end before it even began, really. A week and a half isn’t a long time at all, especially when you’re playing really cool shows every night. By the last night, though, I have to admit I was a bit relieved. We hadn’t bothered doing laundry, so all the clothes we’d brought were getting raunchy. The food provided each night by the different clubs pretty much sucked — usually just a plate of greasy sandwich meat and, for some reason, a huge variety of buns and bread, and cheese that looked off the minute it hit the table. Not eating well paired with the huge amount of physical energy it took to perform each night proved to be very draining. And I don’t even want to get started on the mystery bruises and bumps on my body.
The final night in England, we got to our hotel and I sank into bed, shocked by how exhausted I felt. It seemed like I had been running on some sort of high, knowing we had shows each night, and now that I knew all we had to do was get up and get on a plane the next day to go home, I was ready to collapse.
“It was a good tour,” Fern said from the next bed over.
My eyes were closed, and through my haze of exhaustion I heard the flick of her lighter. “Yeah, it was. Some really good shows.”
“Definitely.” She blew smoke audibly.
“The Goreceps guys were really cool,” I murmured. “I hope they’re glad they brought us along. It seemed like we brought our fair share of fans to the shows, even though I don’t really get how that’s possible. Can you believe people over here know us?”
“They seemed nice,” Fern said stiffly, referring to the guys from the other band. “They didn’t seem like they were doing anything shitty to anyone.”
I lay quietly, listening to her smoke.
“Rachel, do you think we’ll get near those . . . assholes again?” she finally asked.
“I promise we will.”
“Because . . . sometimes I just don’t know how to make the shit feeling go away, and I really don’t know . . . I just don’t know what to do.” Her voice lowered, strained. “I don’t know how to deal with this. I mean, here we are in England, you know, we just did a tour, we played some great shows, and it’s like none of it even matters. I feel like I’m watching everyone around me, and none of them are paying attention or something. Like I can’t understand what they have to be so happy about.” I heard the light ringing of glass as she ground out her cigarette in the ashtray.
“We’ll get close to them,” I said.
Then she was silent, and I waited to hear the slow, heavy sound of her sleep breathing. Part of me wanted to speak again, to reassure her again, but I didn’t know what more I could tell her. I had no plan, just a goal. I rolled on my back, and in the dim light filtering through the window blinds, I watched the remnants of a wave of her smoke drift silently through the room like a storm cloud moving through the night sky. I dug my fingernails into my palm and felt the relief of the warm trickle of blood.
THIRTY-EIGHT
We landed in a rainstorm. We piled our gear and ourselves into a van cab, putting together the last of our money to afford it. We were silent during the ride back into the city, and I became very self-conscious of the fact that we totally reeked. From the instruments, which stank like cigarettes and old beer from the dirty venues we’d played, to the bags of our filthy, sweaty clothes, to just plain us, I’m sure the cab driver was pretty unimpressed with us.
“It was a good tour,” Socks said from the front seat, turning around to look at us. I was sitting next to Edgar in the middle, and Fern had curled up in the back next to a pile of our backpacks. I stared at Socks, feeling as though I was half asleep. His long hair looked greasy, and he was clearly exhausted. I’m sure I looked no better. “We had some good shows and some good press. Good job!” He grinned and gave us all the thumbs-up.
From beside me, Edgar laughed and I smiled tiredly back, and there was no sound from behind us at all. I wondered if Fern was asleep.
“We have to focus on money,” Socks continued, and I wondered if he’d spent the flight home brainstorming. “Next time we tour we have to ask for more money. And we
almost sold out of shirts, so we need to print more. Which we have no money to do.”
“My parents aren’t in a rush to get their money back,” Edgar said, referring to the flight money they’d loaned us.
“Nevertheless, we need to focus on making money,” Socks said. “But great tour!”
The cab pulled up to Fern’s house first, and she gathered her things and smiled wanly at us. “Call me soon,” she said, standing outside Socks’s rolled-down window, and waved as the cab backed out of her driveway and drove away. She stood motionless, watching the van as we drove away, a sad figure in rumpled jeans, with a wool cap pulled over her tangled white hair.
“Okay,” Edgar said immediately. “What happened?”
Socks looked at me intently, and I hesitated. “What do you mean?”
“Something is wrong with Fern,” Socks said. “Since before the tour. For the last few months she hasn’t been herself. At all.”
My mind raced. I was painfully aware of the cab driver, sitting there listening. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“She barely talks anymore,” Edgar said. “I tried to ask her what was wrong one night on the tour and she just stared at me, like she didn’t understand what I had asked. Like I was speaking another language or something.”
“I don’t think anything is wrong,” I said. “She seems fine to me. She talks all the time.”
Socks frowned. “She’s not like she was before and you know it. What are you hiding?”
I glared at him. “Nothing. If Fern is going through something maybe she just wants to be left alone. Did you ever consider that?”
Edgar touched my arm. “You know it’s just because we care about her. Look, is she okay?”
I guess I really hadn’t considered that Socks or Edgar would notice anything wrong, even though I knew Fern was visibly withdrawn and had been for months. I wasn’t sure if I was even acting like myself anymore. I don’t know why I was so surprised that our friends would care. Of course they would. I had no idea what to say. After a few seconds of fumbling for words, I finally spoke. “You’re right, Fern is in a bad place right now. It’s sort of private, so I don’t want to speak for her.”
“Is she okay?” Socks said.
“Yes. I think the best thing for her is for the band to move forward. To keep her mind off things, and to have something to look forward to. Like a big tour.” With DED.
They both nodded. Then there was quiet for a few moments. I stared out the window at the rain as we neared my neighbourhood.
“Are you okay?” Edgar said after a minute.
I felt both their eyes on me, watching closely. “I’m totally fine.”
xXx
I don’t know if they believed me or not, but as I climbed out of the cab and waved goodbye I tried to give my most convincing smile.
I walked up the driveway and through the side door of the house. Immediately I heard two kitchen chairs scrape back as my parents jumped to their feet. Mom and Dad were both wide-eyed, exhausted-looking, totally freaked out. I froze. “What’s wrong?”
They stared at me and relief swept over their faces. “Rachel,” Mom said. “You’re home!”
I couldn’t tell if I was in trouble or not. They’d been agreeable when I had asked them if I could go on the tour. I had told them everything about it, and they had been okay with it, especially once I’d shown them the plane ticket and they realized the whole thing was legit.
“Yes,” I said. Their eyes followed my movements as I put my dirty, reeking shoulder bag and backpack down. “I’m home. Is everything okay?”
“Are you okay?” Mom said.
They both looked pretty stunned. I fumbled to grasp what was going on. “Yes, I’m totally fine.”
Dad sank down into his chair, rubbing his temples with his fingers. “When we agreed to let you go to England, I don’t think we’d really thought it through. I visited Germany the summer after I graduated from high school. Saw the sights, visited, and travelled. Backpacked from hostel to hostel. Berlin, Frankfurt, Ingolstadt. Met so many incredible people.”
I had heard Dad’s Trip to Germany story many times. When I’d told them about going to England, Melissa and I had sat though another memory lane diatribe. “Yes, Dad, I know.”
“So when you wanted to go to England, I guess I thought it would be similar to my trip. And a great experience for you.”
“We figured if the group of you were there together, you would be safe,” Mom said. “Your dad had such a great time.”
“But then as the reality of it sunk in — touring, bands, being around alcohol and drugs — we started to worry maybe we had made a mistake in allowing you to go.”
“Okay, but remember, I don’t drink or do drugs,” I said. “We were on a schedule. We weren’t just goofing off or whatever. We were paid to be there.” I did my best to be patient. Of course they couldn’t understand. Of course it wasn’t like Dad’s stupid backpacking hostel trip.
Mom took the passport and had a look. “This is pretty neat.”
“Yes.” I unzipped a pocket on my shoulder bag and pulled out a laminated card on a lanyard. “Here’s the tour laminate,” I said, showing them the list of the dates and cities of the tour. “I wore this the whole time.”
“You visited so many cities,” Mom said, looking over at Dad. “That’s really something, isn’t it?”
They both studied me. I knew I was a mess, totally smelly and dishevelled. But I had been on tour overseas, with the laminate and passport stamps and a hideous bag of dirty clothes to prove it. And I wasn’t drunk or stoned or sick. It made me feel good to see them at a loss for words.
“So,” Dad said, “your band is doing really well? Making money?”
“Well, we opened for Goreceps,” I explained. “It wasn’t our tour, technically.” I started feeling resentful again. I had already explained this to them weeks before. They hadn’t listened. “Like I told you, they invited us. Edgar’s parents paid for the tickets, and we sold CDs and shirts that we had made ourselves.”
“I’ve always wanted to go to England,” Mom said, smiling. “Rachel, I almost can’t believe it. You toured and travelled, made your own CDs and shirts.”
“I did the shirt designs myself. And our CD cover.” I couldn’t help it. I started to feel proud, and wanted to share that with Mom and Dad. I’d spent so many hours in my room alone, working on designs, working on lyrics, so many hours at rehearsals, singing and working on my voice, and here my parents were, talking about it with me. It felt damn good to see their interest.
“And you write all the song lyrics,” Dad said.
“Yeah.” I smiled. It was a goofy smile, probably. Like, a genuine one.
“You really have achieved so much,” Mom said.
“Mom and I were worried the whole time you were gone.”
“Why did you let me go then?” I said. “If you honestly thought I was just going to go party or something? For a week and a half? You were fine just letting me go?”
“This was going to be it,” Dad admitted. “Once you got back, no more band. It was going to be college or a full-time job.”
“And now?” I asked. “Now that you can see this band moving forward? That I can make money at it? That I’m not a drug addict?”
They were quiet. They didn’t know what to say. I shrugged and took my bags to my room. My sister wasn’t even home. As I unpacked wads of still-damp clothes from my backpack, I realized how much it must suck to be a parent. You devote everything to your kids, who just end up growing up and disliking you. I felt bad for them briefly, but at least they had each other. In that moment I decided I wouldn’t have kids. I don’t think I could handle the level of betrayal I’d feel once I realized that they weren’t interested in me anymore.
THIRTY-NINE
Socks’s voice was urgent and excited o
n the other end of the phone. “The owner is coming out. The owner of Recordead is flying here!”
“I hate that name,” I said.
“I know. It’s terrible. But who gives a shit? It’s Recordead Records. Do you know how many wicked bands they have?”
“Yes.” Pretty much all the bands we listened to were on Recordead Records: Surgical Carnage, Gurgol, DED. I’d always hated the name. Such a shitty pun. Why would you go to so much trouble and be so passionate about the music and have just the worst possible fucking name?
“Well, I just wanted to make sure you know that the guy who runs the label is coming here, on an airplane, in two weeks. To see us.”
“So are we going to put on a show?”
“Yes, if you’re up for it,” Socks said, and I heard the crumpling noises of paper as he pulled out his notes. He cleared his throat. “I was thinking we could play the Toe. I was talking to Robbie — the promoter with the radio show?”
“Right.” I remembered two things about Robbie — one was that he was the only one who had clapped after our first song during that first show with Heathenistic Bile. The second was that I had felt bad for him, having heard all the stories of the money he’d lost booking metal shows.
“Well, he was saying he’d help us out. He says he’ll rent out the Toe for us, and give us an interview on his show.”
“Cool.”
“Totally!” Socks continued. “I was thinking we could get Torn Bowel to play with us. I’ve kept in touch with PJ — he said they’d love to do another show with us.”
“Okay,” I agreed. I remembered their guitarist, Jamie, and how he’d totally stopped flirting with me after I puked on that asshole.
“So we’ll have the guy from Recordead come out to that show. Robbie thinks we can get something awesome together. He thinks it’ll be a great night.” I was quiet, grateful for Socks. The guy was basically managing us. “He says he’s had a lot of interest in the band on his radio show. People calling in, talking about the U.K. tour, the interview you did in Blood Sledge. He gets a lot of requests.”