Rocked Up

“Decoy?”

“Hey, I’m not scared about disobeying your father’s orders but I’m not going to fuck with anything this early in the tour. Believe me, your father has eyes everywhere. He’ll be asking about the bus for a while yet. You just won’t be on it.”

I laugh. “It’s still ridiculous then.”

“Welcome to the world of rock and roll,” Brad says. He places his hand at the back of my arm and steers me toward the hotel. “Come on, let’s get you settled in. Tomorrow we play Seattle, then Portland, then San Francisco. Those crowds are going to be insane, so you need your rest. The best is just ahead of us.”





Chapter Seven





Brad




I was never good at sleeping on a moving bus, especially when Arnie is driving. Arnie spent a great deal of his early twenties rally car driving and he seems to think the I-5 is a race track. I much prefer our normal driver who is the opposite of Arnie in every way. George is the calmest person I have ever met, and the bus seems to float along the highway when he’s driving. But ol’ Arnie is flying along, yelling at cars as he passes them, his accent deepening with his road rage.

Get off the road, ya Wanker!

Learn how to drive, plonker!

The drive from Portland to San Francisco is ten hours, and Arnie splits the driving with George for the long trips so we don’t have to stop anywhere. We couldn’t keep up this schedule otherwise.

But I can’t blame my insomnia entirely on Arnie’s driving—I have a hard time winding down after any show. My adrenaline doesn’t switch off when I step off the stage. Instead, it lingers like an idling race car engine, maybe like the cars Arnie used to race. It rumbles along in my chest as I lie in my bunk and watch the dark Oregon forest fly by.

Switch snores. If he wasn’t such a great guy to be in a band with, it would be a deal breaker. I take his snoring like he’s showing off, boasting at how easily he can sleep on this bus. I go through an internal emotional journey until I can’t take it anymore and consider hitting him right in his rumbling nose. Then the tone of his snoring changes and I feel like he’s making an effort even though he doesn’t know it.

Calvi is showing off too, that bastard. This one actually smiles like a weirdo while he sleeps. We could have had the worst day of our lives and the bus could be on fire and this smug bastard would still smile away in his slumber. Sometimes he even giggles in his sleep, though he always says he doesn’t remember what he dreams about. I think he’s just laughing at me and my insomnia.

I’ve been trying not to stare at Lael ever since she joined our bus. She’s created a happy home within the confines of the tiny space of her bunk. Right now she’s wrapped up perfectly in a blanket that she brought with her, her phone lying next to her like a loyal companion. Her purse is tucked in the corner by her feet and a notebook and some magazines are under her pillow.

I have to admit, she’s hard not to stare at. She has my full attention more and more these days. I trace the lines of her lips, the curve of her nose, her eyebrows, her chin—I barely blink as I take her in.

The race car in my chest turns off its engine.

I hold her in my gaze and I feel…calm.

She slowly opens her eyes and looks over at me as if she knows I have been watching her.

I don’t look away.

We share a moment, our heads resting on our pillows as we look at one another.

She smiles.

I sleep.

I feel like I merely blinked but somehow it’s morning, and judging by the colorful buildings I can see from my window of the parked bus, I know we have arrived at our destination.

I sit up and rub my eyes. Lael’s bed is made up and one of her duffle bags is in the corner. The other two vacant bunks are left in a twisted mess.

I’ve always liked San Francisco. The sky, when you can see it, is a slightly different shade of blue, and the ocean air always feels clean. Today it’s sunny, and considering it’s mid-December, the sun feels warm. I don’t mind the bus sometimes, but a hotel room with a hot shower is in order at this point.

“Morning, young man,” Arnie says as he climbs up the narrow steps into the bus. He offers me a very large coffee and a familiar piece of paper—our itinerary for the day.

“You’re a good man, Arnie,” I respond as I take the coffee and sheet of paper, glancing at it.



9am - Interview at 865 Battery Street, Live 105 radio show

11am - Hotel check-in, 181 3rd St., W Hotel

12pm - Lunch with App designer at 27 Hotaling Pl., Villa Taverna

1:30pm - Band meeting and rehearsal at venue, Warfield Theater, 982 Market St.

2:30pm - Interview with full band, Rolling Stone magazine

3pm - Meet and greet with VIP ticket holders

3:30pm - Sound check

6pm - Dinner at Boulevard Restaurant, 1 Mission St.

7pm - Wardrobe

7:30 - Group video message for And Then Fan club website stream

8pm - Meet and greet with VIP Elite plus members

9pm - Showtime!

After party: Kirk Hammett’s house



I look over my morning orders, rolling my eyes and shaking my head at each item.

“Lunch with an app designer?” I question.

“Don’t you remember? The Brad Snyder App. They’ll get a notification every time you take a piss,” Arnie answers.

“Is there really an after party at Kirk Hammett’s house? I mean, the Kirk Hammet. Guitarist for Metallica?” I ask.

“Yeah, mate. I guess he’s a fan. He invited you and the boys over. You know he’s a collector of horror memorabilia and his house is like a museum full of the shit.”

“Really?”

“Really. Now, let’s try to stick to the schedule today. No flaking off, especially for the interviews. The other turkeys have already started their days. Time for you to get on with it. There’s a driver waiting outside to shuttle you around. I’ll leave you to it and meet you at the Warfield after lunch.”

Arnie leaves the bus like he’s late for something. I know it can’t be easy for him, keeping all of this going. It would all fall apart in a minute if it weren’t for him herding us like cats.

I rummage through my storage space to find some clean clothes, quickly wash up, and step out of the bus with coffee in hand, squinting at the morning sun.

“Mr. Snyder.”

A rather short man with a middle-aged face and the body of a boy is standing next to a black Suburban. My driver.

“Hello,” I greet him with a smile and step into the vehicle. I can barely see him from my back seat so I’m concerned he can’t see over the dashboard. His small hand reaches up to adjust the rearview mirror, and I meet his eyes.