The shows had been good so far. We were easily playing in front of a thousand people a night, which were the biggest crowds for us yet. I’d seen a few of our T-shirts here and there, but based on the fact that pretty much everyone in the crowd was tall, long haired, scowling, and basically looked exactly like the guys from Ripsawdomy — it was a Ripsawdomy crowd. Some nights I’d noticed people watching us from the side of stage: some of the guys from Gurgol, maybe one or two of the Ripsawdomy guys, but I didn’t want to gawk, so I wasn’t sure. None of them watched the whole set, but I have to admit that when I knew they were watching, I tried to look extra awesome. We all felt like pros. Timmy would run onstage if any problems came up, we got a soundcheck every day (it was Gurgol who didn’t — our gear was set up last, as we were first to play) and when we were done, we’d go relax on our tour bus, for god’s sake. Timmy, Toad, and the guys would go have a drink or something, or we’d stand side of stage and watch the other bands. When the night was over, we’d get on the bus and sleep or watch a movie or whatever. If the next venue was really far, Roger would drive through the night with the other two buses, like a fleet. If it wasn’t so bad, he’d stay at the hotel and arrive early in the morning for the drive. It was starting to feel like a real tour.
I walked out into the front lounge, blinded for a moment by the sun. Edgar and Toad were on one of the couches. The countryside swept past the windows; I could hear Roger whistling up in the driver’s seat.
“Where are we?” I said, squinty.
“Washington State,” Toad said around a mouthful of cereal, balancing the bowl against his chest so as not to spill. “Not far from the club.”
“Maybe about twenty minutes out,” Roger offered in a jolly voice.
I plunked down next to Edgar on the couch and gazed out the window.
“Nice to see you too, Little Miss Sunshine,” Toad said.
“Whatever, Toad,” I said, glad that the name was also an insult. I didn’t really like Toad, and mornings on the bus did nothing good for my mood. I looked like shit, I felt like shit, and it was impossible to fix it. Bus water is kind of gross, so you brush your teeth with bottled water. And you always wait till you get to the venue or a gas station so you can use their toilets and wash your face and whatever else, with what is hopefully clean water. But let’s be frank. Venue bathrooms are horrible. Some backstage dressing rooms are nice, some have showers, and even laundry. But most of the time you’re washing your face in a sink where some kid probably threw up a bunch of beer a few hours earlier.
The bus pulled up to the venue, Bennys — I found the missing apostrophe irritating. It had a huge parking lot and there were some buildings on either side of it, but otherwise we were in the middle of nowhere. I saw that Ripsawdomy’s bus was already parked; Roger pulled up alongside it, grinning out the window at the other driver, who was smoking in the lot. Gurgol’s bus was nowhere to be seen.
“This place seems weird,” I commented. “Sort of isolated.”
“They’ve been having big metal shows here for years. This place is a classic!” Toad said, and from next to me I heard Edgar suck in a quick breath of annoyance. We both knew was what going to happen next. Toad launched into some long-winded story about some band he’d toured with a few years ago, and how they’d played at Bennys, and how those were the days when the club could serve booze past 2 a.m. and the Hells Angels would show up and whatever else. I had a bowl of cereal and gazed out the window.
I’d picked up the somewhat revolting habit of smoking, but only because it afforded me the chance to gracefully exit a situation and buy myself ten minutes alone outside. When I was done my cereal, I tiptoed through the bunk area to the empty back lounge, found my clothing bag, took off my stupid flannel pyjama pants and pulled on the dirty jeans I’d been wearing every day. Then I changed into a T-shirt, grabbed the hoody with the cigarettes in the pocket, went through the bunk area, noted that Fern’s curtain was still closed, walked back up past Edgar, Toad, and now Timmy and Socks — who were all talking about guitar strings or something — and left the bus.
It was a little bit chilly, being the end of September, and I walked down the thin space between the two buses towards the open lot behind them and lit my cigarette.
When I cleared the two buses, I hesitated. The very tall Ripsawdomy guy stood there by himself, slouched in his hoody, also smoking. We made eye contact and I froze, intimidated.
“Sorry,” I said, as if he owned the parking lot and I was a bothersome insect.