by Sara Taylor
“Yeah. I’m Rachel,” I said, walking closer and extending my hand to him, immediately feeling like a fool. He reached to shake it, looking down at me, and though his hood was up the long light brown hair tumbled forward from it and his eyes were really blue, like-the-fucking-spring-sky blue, and his face looked smooth, really nice skin, he was handsome, no — he was cute, even despite the stupid chin-beard, and I swallowed hard. As we shook hands, his brow furrowed and a frown spread over his face. “I’m Chris.”
“Yes, you’re in Ripsawdomy,” I said brightly, trying to make sense of what was happening. I figured that my head would only come halfway up his chest if we were standing closer. I tried to calculate exactly where it would reach without looking anywhere but at his face.
“Yep.” He puffed on his cigarette, studying me, and his frown deepened. I felt awkward, wondering if he disliked me, wishing I had at least brushed my hair this morning, wondering why the fuck I cared. I recognized him as the guitar player, but not the singer, who also played guitar. I didn’t want to make too much eye contact with him, even as he stared at me, knowing somehow that he would easily read my nervous turmoil. The cigarette was starting to make me feel sick, but I guess it wasn’t really the cigarette.
I fumbled for something to say, and as my mind raced, a hideous stench reached my nostrils, wafting in the cool morning breeze. It stank worse than anything I’d ever smelled, like shit and blood and something even worse, and it hit me like a rock to the face. I yelped, “What the fuck?”
Chris didn’t even react. He gestured with his hand. “There’s a slaughterhouse next door.”
“That’s brutal!” I clapped my sleeve over my lower face.
“I’ve played here six times,” he said, unfazed. “Stinks every time.”
I didn’t want him to associate me with bad hair, lame conversation, and that horrible abattoir reek, but I didn’t want to leave either. “You’ve played here six times?”
“Yep.”
“I understand it’s a really, uh, classic venue or whatever.”
He stared at me. “Yeah, I guess it is sort of . . . classic.”
Immediately I was back in high school, in the hallway with Craig, and my idiotic grapevine comment. I realized I couldn’t see Craig’s face in my mind. I couldn’t remember anything except he had long light brown hair, as did the giant in front of me. Odd how things can change, yet stay the same: here I was standing in front of a real metal musician, on tour, beside my own tour bus, and yet I still sounded like a bungling idiot.
I puffed on my cigarette to buy myself time, aware of his scrutinizing frown. I met his eyes for a split second and all I saw on his face was disapproval, and I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment. “Well, sorry,” I said, throwing the butt into the gravel. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”
“No bother,” he said.
“Heh, well, okay. Have a good day,” I managed to get out, then turned and made my way back between the buses as gracefully as I could in case he was still watching. My cheeks pounded with blood. I didn’t give a shit what he thought, right? It galled me that I just couldn’t manage to sound cool, no matter how hard I tried. I looked like a fool in front of that guy, and now he’d think our band sucked even worse than he probably did yesterday. Well done, Rachel.
FORTY-FOUR
Bennys’ parking lot filled up quickly, a definite sign that it would be a great show. We had a small dressing room decorated with the requisite penis graffiti. I pulled on a pair of my bloodstained white knee socks. Fern had stayed in her bunk all afternoon until our soundcheck, and emerged looking worn and withdrawn. She put on her makeup quietly, and I watched her in the mirror. Our eyes met and I smiled at her, and she smiled back, but it was a tired smile. The sound of Timmy checking the gear onstage and the chattering of Toad and the guys faded to a wash as we looked at each other.
xXx
We were halfway through the set and it was a good one. Despite Fern’s melancholy, she was absolutely savage, kicking the audience in front of her into a frenzy. For some reason Edgar was on top of his game too, a wash of flying hair, and I figured it was because we’d done six shows in a row and were starting to get into a good physical and mental place to be for the tour. I was in pretty fine form as well — I’d torn a scab off my palm accidentally, leaped in the air, and when I landed, I smeared some of the blood down the side of my face. I whipped around to the left and saw Chris’s towering figure watching at side of stage next to Timmy.
I whirled away, pretending I hadn’t seen him. I wished I hadn’t — I was now hyper conscious of every step I took, every gesture, every shriek. I felt clownish and juvenile with the blood on my face.
He remained there for the entire set, and when I left the stage there he stood, talking with some of the guys from Gurgol. I glanced at him, and he was looking at me with the same grouchy expression. I hurried past into the dressing room, my clothes soaked, out of breath.
I buried my face in a towel, appreciating having our small dressing room to myself for a few moments while the others and Timmy got the gear offstage. I turned to the mirror, examining my flushed face and sweaty, scraggly hair, and then I saw him appear in the doorway behind me.
“Is that real blood on your socks?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, looking at myself again, very conscious of my shiny red Rudolph nose and smeared makeup. I looked truly horrible and was a bit irritated that he would just follow me here immediately after our performance without giving me five minutes to chill out and comb my damn hair or whatever.
Edgar appeared in the doorway beside him. “Oh, hey man!”
“Great show, dude,” Chris said to him, and they did one of those stupid finger-snapping handshakes that a lot of guys just seem to instinctively know how to do.
“Oh, cool, thanks for watching,” Edgar said, clearly elated that Chris had watched the set. “It’s a great crowd, they’re really excited for you guys.”
While they chatted I took the opportunity to put some powder on my face and fix up my hair a little bit, and then Socks and Fern came in. Toad followed them, and one of the other guys from Ripsawdomy walked past and must’ve seen Chris so he stopped in, and they all started talking loudly and drinking beer. We heard Gurgol go onstage, and I stood next to Fern and smiled and talked, and all the while I just felt Chris’s eyes on me. Even though I didn’t look at him once, I couldn’t stop smiling this stupid little smile. I’m pretty sure I was batting my eyelashes.
xXx
So things continued like that for a few days, which on a tour feels like an eternity. Chris stood by the side of the stage and watched our set every night, and sometimes guys from his band or Gurgol would watch too. And I’d watch Gurgol and sometimes I’d watch Ripsawdomy, but I refused to stand at the side of the stage like that. I didn’t want him to see me there, so I’d stand just out of his line of vision, aligned with an amp or something, so I could just stare at him as he played. The band was pretty good. Their singer, Chick, had a pretty unfriendly air about him, and he didn’t really bother with us or with anyone else, but it seemed like for the most part the bands were starting to warm up to each other. At first, things on the tour were all about being efficient and everyone stayed out of each other’s way, but gradually we were all making friends.
The nights had a chill, but none of us were complaining. We were slowly making our way south, and soon enough the air would be heavy and humid and we’d be sweating, and we’d give anything for a chilly night in the parking lot after the venue had closed, snug in a hoody, smoking in the dark. It was one such night when I was outside, around the side of our bus. I could hear a group of tech guys and band guys smoking and laughing across the lot, but I felt awkward joining them, so I just sat in my spot and listened to the crickets in the long grass that lined the parking lot behind me. The others in my band were on the bus watching a movie.
As I sat smoking, I heard the telltale gravel crunch that someone was approaching. I already knew who it would be, and when Chris appeared, I smiled at him.
“I was hoping I’d find you out here,” he said. “Thought I’d take a walk over and see. Is there room on that curb?”
“Sure,” I said, sliding over. He lowered himself down beside me, sighing, and lit up his own cigarette.
“Getting warmer,” he commented.
“It is.”
“Soon, it’ll be too hot to breathe. Man, I love the heat.” He stretched his arms over his head, yawning. “Fuck, I’m tired.”
“It was a great crowd tonight,” I remarked.
“Fucking rad.” He nodded. “You guys were killer.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re a great fucking singer. Really take charge of the crowd.”
“Thanks.”
“I really like watching you.” He swayed sideways, playfully bumping my shoulder with his.
I fumbled for words. “Well, uh — I’m glad that you do.”
I looked sideways at him, and he was looking at me, and when our eyes met, he smiled, and I realized that I hadn’t seen him smile before. He’d always just been wearing that grouchy, scrutinizing scowl. His teeth were straight and the smile lifted his face, almost illuminated it. I smiled back.
“Look, Rachel, I was just wondering, I mean, maybe one of these nights, after the show —”
He was cut off by the sudden appearance of Fern and Toad coming around the side of the bus. Toad took one look at us and then fixed me with a leering smirk. “Oh, are we interrupting anything?”
Chris got up and the two of them did another one of those handshake things, and for some reason I couldn’t bring myself to look at Fern as she lit her cigarette.
“Nah, man, it’s all good,” Chris said. “Just smokin’ with Rachel here.” He took a last drag of his cigarette and flicked the butt into the darkness. “Well, have a good night, guys,” he said, and left.
“What was that all about?” Toad asked, lighting his own smoke.
“Nothing. He likes the band,” I said, aware that I was trying to pacify Fern as well. I had this impression that she would feel betrayed by me hanging out with Chris, though when I did finally look at her, she didn’t look perturbed. She just stood, placidly smoking and listening to our conversation while covering a yawn.
“That guy’s one lucky dude — he gets so many chicks,” Toad grinned. “You know who his ex is, right? That model, the fetish chick, Sophie Cleaver.”
Images flashed in my mind of a black-haired, corseted, ’40s-styled girl with pin curls in a bathtub wearing stockings and stilettos. I’d seen pictures of Sophie Cleaver. I swallowed hard, and Toad laughed, obviously noticing my discomfort. “She’s hot,” he pointed out needlessly.
“Why’d they break up?” I said.
“Ah, who knows? Maybe because he was getting so much action on the road,” he chuckled. Fern shot him a withering look, which I doubled. Toad had this way of talking like he was always surrounded by a group of really douchey guys.
“You barely even know him. That shit’s a rumour. He seems like a nice guy,” Fern said defensively, and I raised my chin.
“Yep,” Toad said. “He’s an awesome guy. I guess I’d just be careful, is all, if you’re getting involved with him or whatever, Rachel.”
I followed the two of them back onto the bus and went to my bunk, my mind spinning. He’d dated a famous and gorgeous pin-up fetish model with a great body, and here I was, short and not famous and wearing filthy stage clothes. I pictured my sweaty, blotchy post-show face, and my dirty, matted hair, and compared it to the perfect makeup, the smooth skin, the pouty perfection of Sophie Cleaver. I winced, burying my face in the pillow. And was it true about the girls on the road? In the short while we’d been on tour I hadn’t seen Chris with any girls backstage. He was the quiet one in his band — the others would yell and party and get all rowdy, and he always just seemed to be the quiet observer. But I barely knew him. I felt like an idiot. And what was I going to do? Ask him? Look like a jealous weirdo? And why was I jealous?
Lying there, processing these thoughts in the dark, I heard the bus engine start and felt the gentle vibration that was starting to become soothing. The bus pulled out of the parking lot, beginning our drive through the night. As I drifted off to sleep I heard the Velcro tear of another bunk curtain open and close.
FORTY-FIVE
The next day I woke up with some inane resolve to ignore Chris, or something — some juvenile plan to pull away from him and thus cause him to worry what was bothering me. I could put on this self-righteous disgust at him for all of his many affairs or whatever, and it would result in him having compassion for me and wanting to impress me or something. The plan was stupid and didn’t end up happening anyway. I didn’t really see Chris at all that day — his band had somewhere to go, a radio interview, maybe. I don’t know. They weren’t at the venue all day, their crew soundchecked for them.
We were somewhere in Florida, in a horrible part of town. There were dumpsters everywhere and it stank. Our buses were parked in the back lot very close together. There were creepy crackheads wandering around through the alleys. Toad warned us not to go far from the venue, basically not to leave the parking lot, so we hung out on the bus. Edgar was taking pictures of some of these derelicts through the bus window. I remember Toad, Timmy, and Socks had a magazine with Sophie Cleaver on the cover and were drooling over her. I was all quiet and grumpy because I was insecure. It was stupid.
I don’t really remember the show — it was one in a line of many — but I do remember feeling bad for the kids at this show because they’d had to line up outside the club and it was just such a shitty neighbourhood to have to be in. I don’t think Chris watched the show that night; I don’t remember — fuck, I guess it’s all just eclipsed by what happened after.
I was sitting on the bus after midnight, Toad and Socks playing some video game, Edgar and Timmy watching a movie in the back lounge. Fern wasn’t on the bus — she’d stayed back in the venue to use the phone or wash up or something, and Roger wasn’t going to be there until around 4 a.m. because it was only a few hours’ drive to the next venue. He was at his hotel room.
So everything seemed pretty normal. I had changed into shorts and a black T-shirt and was watching Toad and Socks’s game, then I decided to go for a cigarette. Toad, hammering controller buttons, didn’t take his eyes off the screen as I put on my hoody. “Don’t leave the lighted areas of the parking lot,” he warned. “And go into the venue, tell Fern to get her ass on this bus. I don’t want to have to spend my night chasing after any of you.”
Yeah, you look real worried. “Whatever,” I said. I stepped off the bus, my eyes sweeping the dark parking lot. I noted with irritation that Ripsawdomy’s bus was already gone, and I’d had no interaction with Chris the whole day. Gurgol’s bus was parked next to ours, shades drawn. Light flickered from within — it looked like the band was watching TV or something.
I walked behind our bus, my eyes scanning the dark lot. We’d parked beneath the one light in the lot, which in my opinion sort of made us sitting ducks. I sat on a curb just beyond the light with my back to a brick wall and lit my cigarette.
To my left was the back of the venue and a short alley that led to a street. To my right about fifteen feet away was another dark building and a dark alley that I couldn’t see the end of — it loomed like a long dark mouth. I stared at that alley for a few moments, trying to see farther inside of it, but I couldn’t make anything out. My skin crawled, goosebumps rising on my arms despite the hot night air. I reassured myself that I would have plenty of time to run onto the bus if anyone came loping out of that alleyway towards me.
I resolved to smoke faster than I would normally, and as I puffed, I gazed at the back of the venue. I noticed that all the lights
were dark — the back door was closed. Wasn’t Fern still in there? The finality of that closed door, the stillness of the lot, gave the impression that the venue had been closed for a while.
Where the fuck was Fern?
Fear knotted my stomach. I actually felt it wrench and contort hideously as my mind tried to figure out where she could be. I felt my whole body break into a sweat, soaking my shirt, and my eyes darted around the shadows of the parking lot. My growing panic was only compounded by the noise that I heard next, the sound that floated gently from the dark chasm to my right.
“Hey.”
I was on my feet, frozen, my every sense attuned directly to that alleyway, my breath ragged, my eyes unblinking and straining into that dark gap, feeling like they could burst out of my skull.
“Rachel? Come here.”
I swallowed, my mouth dry. It was Fern. I had no idea what she was doing in that alley. She didn’t sound hurt, she sounded excited somehow, like she’d found something. I took a tentative step towards her voice.
“Hurry.”
My eyes adjusted as I got into the darkness, and I could make out a few overflowing trash cans and a figure that I guessed was Fern. She was standing over a pile of garbage. The whole alley smelled horrible, like old booze and rotten food, and I smelled sweat, probably mine.
“What’s going on?”
“Shhhhh.” She leaned in and continued in a low voice. “I need your help.”
“Okay.” I waited for her to continue, my eyes wide and dry, trying to absorb everything they could in the darkness. She was still wearing her show clothes, and she had an excited energy to her and seemed jumpy and fidgety.
“Look.” She gestured down to the pile of trash she was standing above.
Confused, I looked down and realized that it wasn’t a pile of garbage at all — Fern was standing above a guy. He was lying on his back and I noticed he was shaking slightly, his eyes bulging as wide as mine felt, glaring up at us.