18 Apr The Road Crew – Part Nine

Gentle Reader(s)—hold onto your hair—today is your lucky day! Why is today your lucky day? Today is your lucky day because YOU have stumbled onto Part Nine of the Road Crew saga! Place a bet on the ponies, buy a lottery ticket, acquire some risky stock, forget about getting hit by a meteorite, cuz YOU are on a roll. This chapter is a real thriller, let me tell you: The band ventures ever deeper into the heartland, hits the stage in support of the high-flying Tom Kindler Band, risks life and limb in their valiant quest for the Big Time, and comes face-to-face with their fandom. Spoiler alert: No vintage Stratocasters were harmed and everybody gets to go home happy… at least for the moment. So, there you go. I will sound one note of alarm, however, and that note is that this is likely to be the second-to-last episode of The Road Crew to be posted in these pages. I have encouraged you (and by ‘you’ I mean YOU) to get off yer duff and let me know if The Road Crew has been of interest to you… or not. That’s what the Contact page is for. As of yet, it has been crickets. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Therefore, as of Part Ten I shall be pulling the plug on this little experiment. Unless you convince me otherwise. I’m not holding my breath, but I done tole ya. But forget about that for the moment and enjoy Part Nine of The Road Crew.

Nine

The Marriott had MTV on its cable system but I wasn’t feeling it—the show was just a few hours away, what did I need MTV for? And, come to think of it, what day was it? After cogitating about it for a moment I felt pretty certain that it was a Friday and if it was a Friday then there was at least a 50/50 chance that the Cubs were playing an afternoon game at Wrigley. I turned the television on and started scrolling through the channels looking for ESPN. There were some guys in suits sitting behind a desk talking about basketball. No thank you. I scrolled a bit further and TBS came up and…Sweet Baby Jesus—the Cubs were playing the Braves! Top of the fifth, the Cubs were down 3-5, Chuck Rainey on the mound for the Cubs and Glenn Hubbard was at the plate for Atlanta.

The Goof called out from behind the bathroom door, ‘Ohhh Inky! I dropped the soap! Could you come help me find it?’

‘Dream on, ya pervert!’ I yelled.

The sound of the shower stopped and the Goof started singing I Started A Joke by the BeeGees.

‘Dude,’ I called out, ‘the Cubs are playing.’

‘Are they winning?’ he called back.

‘No,’ I said, ‘They’re down five to three, top of the fifth.’

‘Don’t get your hopes up, Ink,’ the Goof said as he walked into the room wrapped in one towel with another wound theatrically around his head. ‘I hate to see a grown man cry… even you!’ as he whipped off the towel from his head and snapped it at me.

‘What can I say? I’m a natural born optimist,’ I said.

‘It’s just a phase,’ said the Goof. ‘You’re young, you’ll get over it.’

I got up to take my shower. In anticipation of the hygienic and stylistic deficiencies of life on the road I had cut my hair short before heading out on the road with the Cretins. The less of me there was to look after, the better… with the exception of teeth, I suppose. After all, we weren’t British.

I peeled off my t-shirt and jeans and boxers and climbed into the shower. The hot water felt so fucking good I could have stayed in there for an hour, easy. The shower head had a variety of different settings and I dialed through all of them, letting the stream massage my scalp and my face. It felt so goddam amazing to be genuinely clean, to get the grime out of every pore and crevice of my body. Rarely had I so fully appreciated the miracle of unrestricted access to hot running water as much as I had since going on the road.

The bathroom door opened and the Goof called out ‘Hey Ink, stop pulling your pud! The Cubs just tied it up—three runs off of Behenna.’

‘No shit!! I’ll be out in a minute.’

Reluctantly I shut off the water and climbed out of the shower. I wiped the condensation off a portion of the huge bathroom mirror and studied my reflection for a minute. Were those actually some gray hairs around my temples? It hardly seemed possible but then my dad’s hair had started turning gray when he was in his mid 20s. Now in his early 60s, he still had a good thick head full of salt and pepper hair. If I should wake up in the morning and find that mine had turned fuchsia overnight I couldn’t care less, so long as it stayed put.

The Goof and I joined in singing a rousing 7th inning stretch led by Harry Caray and the Cubs scored again in the top of the 6th and again in the 8th. They might actually win this one! The bullpen put down the Braves in order in the bottom of the 8th, and held them scoreless through the rest of the game. The Cubs season hadn’t been trending in a positive direction—they were seven games below .500, whereas the Braves were 11 games above. Seeing as how rarely I had a chance to actually watch a game I felt gratified that they put together a winning effort on my behalf. It was a good portent.

With the game over I turned off the TV and settled back on my bed to read for a while. I was about half way through Anthony Burgess’s A Vision of Battlements and the Goof had lifted a collection of short stories by F. Scott Fitzgerald from my stash of paperbacks. After about 15 minutes of reading my eyelids began to sag and the book slid down onto my chest. I didn’t know what story the Goof was reading but every now and then he let out with a snort of derision or a small chuckle. I fell blissfully asleep—clean and lying on a real bed with big fluffy pillows, the steady rush of the air conditioning providing a soothing overlay of white noise.

I began to dream. It was one of those surreal/hyper-real ones, something about being in a park in New Orleans as a small child with my mother and brother. The park resembled one we actually used to go to when I was little—a long rectangular space with tall palm trees and benches here and there—but in this dream version the park was outfitted with large kidney shaped pools in which aquatic dinosaurs with flippers and long sinuous necks were swimming. I was standing next to my mother, watching these creatures slice through the water, huge but graceful, surfacing and twisting back under. I felt a sense of awe tinged with alarm. Everything was strange yet oddly familiar, as things often are in dreams. Gradually I began to sense a presence behind me. I turned my head the slightest bit to my left. I saw that one of the creatures had crept up behind us and had silently poised itself with one limb—like the massive round tree trunk leg of an elephant—just an inch or two above my head. Keeping as still as possible, I reached out towards my mother, who was standing just to my right, but she didn’t seem to notice what was going on. I was simultaneously thrilled and terrified, scarcely able to breathe…

I opened my eyes. The Goof was standing beside the bed looking down at me.

‘You alright, boy?’ he said. ‘You were making some funny noises there. Dreaming about me again, were ya?’

‘Not unless you exist in my subconscious as an aquatic dinosaur,’ I said.

‘Good lord, I hope not,’ he said. ‘That would take a team of monkey psychiatrists in a roomful of typewriters a few centuries to figure out and we ain’t got the time.’

‘What time is it?’

‘Quarter to six. Start getting ready and I’ll check in with the knuckleheads.’

The Goof banged on the adjoining door between our room and Rob and Beano’s.

‘Room service!’ he called out. ‘I have your caviar and toast points!’

‘Slide it under the door!’ came Rob’s voice from the other side.

‘I’ll slide YOU under the door! Open up!’

Rob jerked the door open and struck a comic pugilistic pose with fists up.

‘HAVEATCHA!’ yelled the Goof and began to slap Rob on the top of the head.

‘Don’t touch my hair!’ said Rob.

‘You damn kids knock it off,’ called Beano. ‘Your mother and I are getting sick and tired of your shenanigans!’

Beano appeared in the doorway behind Rob and started slapping at the Goof’s head.

‘AAAAH! AAAAAH!’ shrieked the Goof. ‘Ink! Help me!’

‘Jeezus! Stop screeching! You boneheads are going to get us tossed out of this joint. Respectable people stay here!’ I said.

‘Respectable people? Well then we’re definitely fucked,’ said the Goof, giving up on the slapfest and plopping down on the edge of his bed. ‘What time was it whatshisname is coming with the van?’

‘Chuck. 6:30,’ said Beano.

‘Chuckles at 6:30. Check. Should we do the set list now or at the gig?’

‘I’m going to shave and make a couple of calls—let’s do it there,’ said Rob.

‘Righty right. I’m going out for a smoke. Ink, you coming?’

‘Uh, I don’t smoke, actually,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you hadn’t noticed?’

‘Are you coming?’ repeated the Goof.

‘Yeah.’

At quarter past six we were all down in the lobby of the Marriott. The boys were already in their stage duds and I was standing watch over the guitar cases. The Goof had on a faded sleeveless red t-shirt with a silkscreened headshot of Marilyn Monroe printed on it. Rob was wearing a t-shirt with a leopard print pattern. They both had on their pleather pants and stage boots. Beano was wearing a pair of spandex pants with a purple and black geometric pattern and a striped red and white t-shirt with the collar and sleeves cut off. He had on a pair of black hi-top Keds sneakers.

To say that we were objects of curiosity was a substantial understatement. Staff and fellow hotel guests basically just stood around and gawped at us.

Yes, folks, the aliens have landed! The End Times are now truly upon us!

We were used to this by now and generally paid no attention to the whispering and staring.

Never one to waste a good audience, the Goof threw an arm over my shoulders and started palpitating my stomach with his fingertips, murmuring ‘Ohmygawd, those abs, Inky, those abs…’

‘Get yer meathooks off the merch,’ I said.

The Goof wrapped his arm around my neck and started tickling me. I started trying to push him away and we wrestled around for a moment before he released me, covered his eyes and wailed, ’You don’t love me anymore!’

Sobbing melodramatically, he strode out the lobby doors just as Chuck pulled up in the van.

The bellhop standing by the luggage carts was looking at us like we all had two heads.

Back at the arena the band made themselves comfortable in the dressing room while I grabbed the tool box and went to the stage. I sat behind the drum kit and confirmed that the kick and hi-hat pedals were functional and that the drums and cymbals were in the correct orientation. Beano’s mic stand remained where it was supposed to be, just to the rear left of the drum stool.

I had disconnected and wound up all the instrument cables at the end of sound check and I now laid them all out again. Before hooking everything up I took the 9 volt batteries out of their compartments in the Goof’s array of pedals, touching them briefly against my tongue to check the power. I had replaced them all the week before and the jolt was still strong. Returning the batteries to their compartments I reconnected everything and checked the tool box, doing a quick inventory of the extra guitar strings. There were several complete sets still left, with a good supply of extra D, B and high E strings—the ones the Goof typically broke.

I took out the plastic box with the vinyl Dunlop .88mm picks that the Goof and I both favored—the dark gray ones. Rob used the black 1mm Dunlops on some songs but mostly played with his fingers.

I cut an eight-inch strip of duct tape, folded over a bit of one edge lengthwise, and affixed the other edge to the Goof’s mic stand. I lightly pressed the tips of six Dunlop .88s to the unattached edge of the tape so that they adhered—secure enough to stay put but lightly enough to detach easily.

I sat behind Beano’s drum kit and banged around for a minute, swung his mic stand in and out.

I turned on the Taurus pedals and, though I couldn’t hear them, made sure that the little green screen lit up and that the right preset—the eponymous ‘Taurus’ tone—was cued up for both. Everything seemed to be in order.

There was a Yamaha keyboard from the Kindler gear pushed over to the edge of front stage left, just beyond the Goof’s left hand monitor—not quite in front of the Goof, but still rather obtrusive. He wouldn’t like it, but nothing to be done about that.

Forty-five minutes to go before show time. Doors had opened at 6:30. Venue staff were wandering about and early arrivals were beginning to filter into the arena.

Beano and the Goof were sitting on a bench in the dressing room with Vinnie who had a yellow legal pad in hand, going over the set list.

‘So, how about Say It’s Not True here?’ said Vinnie pointing with a pen.

‘Nah, I think we need to mix it up a bit more around mid-set, take it down a notch before the final push,’ said the Goof.

‘How about Change,’ said Beano.

‘That would be good,’ said Vinnie. ‘I’ve got some cool lighting cues for that one.’

‘Yeah, that’ll work. We can stretch a bit on that, then Say It’s Not True, Rat Salad, and Long Division. No encore tonight, right?’

‘Definitely no encore,’ said Vinnie. ‘So hit ‘em hard with the last three songs—bang bang bang—and we’re out before anyone can catch their breath. Kindler and his boys will sound like the Osmond Brothers after that.’

‘But let’s not push too hard,’ said Beano. ‘We need Kindler to like us. We need to book more gigs with these guys.’

‘Dude,’ said the Goof, ‘we’re here to kick ass and do what we do. If those guys can’t handle following us then that’s their goddam problem. They probably won’t even come out of their dressing room anyway.’

Beano shrugged and said ‘Well, yeah, but…’ He gesticulated at the dressing room, the piles of fluffy towels, the tables with the deli platters and the cookies and the ice chest full of chilly refreshments.

‘Right,’ said the Goof, ‘I know, I know, but we gots to do what we gots to DO! Am I right?’

‘Yes, right, but I’m just sayin…’

Vinnie handed the yellow pad to me. I copied out the set with a Sharpie pen on four more sheets in large capital letters—one each for the boys and one for me—and gave the original back to Vinnie. Eleven songs, about 45 minutes of music, give or take.

Chuck appeared in the dressing room with adhesive artist passes for us. Vinnie and I stuck ours on our t-shirts but the band wouldn’t need theirs until after the show. I brought Rob’s fretless up to the stage, checked the tuning, and stood it on a stand behind the Ampeg cabinets. I turned on both Bassman heads so they would be fully warmed up by stage time. Rob’s rig was solid state and didn’t require warming up. I taped the set lists to the floor next to the bases of the band’s mic stands.

A group of teenage girls had already taken their seats just off the aisle between the stage and the far side of the room. They giggled and goggled at me as I walked past on my way back to the dressing room with the tool box.

I went through the tune/whammy/repeat ritual twice with both the Strats and checked the batteries in the wireless transmitters attached to Rob and the Goof’s guitar straps. All good. I ran down my mental pre-gig list, verifying for myself that everything was checked that should be checked.

‘Alright,’ I announced. ‘That’s it. We’re good to go.’

‘Righto,’ said the Goof. ‘Going out to smoke. Ink, you coming?’

‘Actually, no,’ I said. ‘I want to lie down for a bit. And hey—if you’re going outside, make sure you can get back in. Take your pass.’

The Goof had caused a mild panic on more than one occasion by stepping out for a cigarette at a gig and getting himself locked out of the venue.

‘Ink, if he’s not back in ten go find his sorry ass, please,’ said Vinnie.

I stretched out on one of the wooden benches with a fluffy towel under my head and closed my eyes. This was the lull before the storm and my nerves were jangling a bit. If I was forgetting anything it always ended up stuck in the back of my mind somewhere. I might not be able to remember the thing, but if I emptied out my head a bit eventually I could feel the unknown something or other rattling around back there. Nothing left to do at this point but wait.
At ten minutes to show time Chuck stepped into the dressing room with a walkie talkie in hand and said, ‘Time to go, gentlemen.’

He walked us through the interior corridor that our dressing room opened onto around to the other side of the auditorium behind the stage. There were no chairs or anything so we just stood around, the Goof and Rob absently playing runs on their instruments and Beano twirling his drumsticks. Vinnie went out to join the union lads at the sound/light platform.

With a few minutes left to go Chuck opened the doors to the hall and we moved into an enclosed area blocked off from the floor of the auditorium by black curtains on metal frames. I went up to the stage with the tool box and the #2 Strat which went onto its stand behind the Goof’s amps. Glancing out into the hall I saw that the floor seating looked to be about half full but there was only a smattering of people up in the second level.

I came back down the stairs to the enclosed area and the Goof said, ‘How’s it looking out there?’

‘Pretty good. They’re still coming in. Wireless on, guys?’

Rob and the Goof both switched on the Samson wireless packs on their straps.

The house lights dimmed and applause began to ripple through the hall.
A voice came over Chuck’s walkie talkie: ‘Stage, repeat, stage.’

‘Stage, roger that,’ said Chuck into the walkie talkie and, turning to us ‘You’re up, Cretins. Knock ‘em dead.’

He pulled aside the black curtain of our enclosure.

I switched on my flashlight and pointed the band up the metal stairs to the stage.

Beano ran up the steps followed by Rob and the Goof. Settling in behind the drums, Beano performed a few runs around the kit, pedaled the kick, adjusted the stool and pulled the snare in a bit closer. I followed the Goof up, flipped up the standby switches on both Bassman heads and took up my customary position behind the Marshalls.

‘Hello, Omaha!’ yelled Beano. Applause and cheers…

The Goof called out ‘Hey hey hey! Howya doin out there, People of the Corn? We are the Cretins from Albuquerque, New Mexico, and we’re here to amuse and terrify you for a few minutes! ONE-TWO-THREE-FOUR!’

The band slammed into Pale Daddy and I kept a careful eye on the Goof and an ear to the sound. Everything seemed to be as it should be and the band was focused but loose, the energy level perceptibly a notch or two higher than the preceding evening at Croakers.

With the stage lights now up full I couldn’t really see anything beyond the edge of the stage—just a dark void. This was kind of cool in a way because if I couldn’t see the audience it was like they didn’t exist and I could put them out of my mind and just focus on the band.

As the band started Gone Again I became aware that something odd was happening. There was a slight shudder, a sensation of movement, like a mild earthquake or something. Alarmed, I looked around the stage for something, anything wrong, off kilter, but everything looked normal. Then it dawned upon me—the whole stage was moving.

Holy shit—I had forgotten!

Chuck had mentioned that it was a rotating stage but over the course of the day I had completely forgotten about it and he never said that the stage was actually going to be rotating during our set. Sonofabitch! As I looked out into the darkness I could see the lights near the exits on the other side of the hall passing as the stage slowly rotated clockwise.

I couldn’t tell whether the band realized that we were moving. The Goof and Rob were in front of me, both facing away into the lights, so I couldn’t see their faces and they couldn’t see much beyond the stage either. Beano was to my right and when I looked over at him and he was slamming away as usual. If they hadn’t realized it yet they would in a moment or two.

There wasn’t a single person sitting in the upper levels that were behind the stage—or rather that were initially behind the stage—but within a minute or so we were playing to the empty portion of the arena and the audience was behind us. This was genuinely disconcerting. I was used to sitting on the tool box in the dark behind the amps, in my own private space, watching everything but otherwise unseen. Now everybody in the whole goddam arena was looking at my back! What the fuck? What should I do? Should I turn around? Why would anyone want to look at me and the tangle of cables and gear at the back of the stage?

I just sat there and pretended like nothing unusual was going on. What the hell else could I do?

The band ended the song and the Goof said, ‘Thank you! Hey, I don’t know about you guys, but I’m having a great time. It’s like the whole room is spinning! Are you all feeling that too?’

Cheers and laughter from the crowd.

‘I thought only Elvis got the rotisserie treatment so this is a real honor! But I gotta tell ya, it’s kinda weird! Every couple of minutes it’s like we’re playing to an empty room—lemme know you’re out there, Omaha!’

The Goof started the intro to No Reply and Beano and Rob hammered in together on the third bar. Vinnie was doing some cool stuff with the lights and the energy was good—the guys seemed to be getting a kick out of the spinning stage schtick. As they progressed through the set the response from the audience got louder and more enthusiastic and I expected that we’d see a lot more people out there when the lights came up.

The Goof started the Taurus pedal intro section to Can’t Say No followed by Rob tapping out the harmony line on his pedals. Vinnie bathed the stage in an atmospheric blue wash to complement the synth haze. The Goof hit the final note on the Taurus and tapped the delay pedal to begin the jangling Edge-esque guitar line and Vinnie faded out the blue and isolated him in a red spot as Beano joined in with a nimble hi-hat/bass pattern.

It was moments like these—a big hall with full-on professional quality sound and lights, the band stepping up fully into the moment—that I felt like we were actually there. The big show. It was fucking cool, no doubt about it. This was the way it should be. If only we could figure out a way to stay here—in this groove—and make it stick. Somebody, somewhere would eventually take notice. At moments like these it actually seemed possible.

The Goof took an extended solo on Change, throwing his flashiest fretwork at the audience with lots of blazing speed and heavy whammy bar. It was action like that that typically resulted in the Strat going out of tune but at the end of the song the Goof launched directly into Say It’s Not True without a pause. True to plan, the energy level of the final songs was feverish and even if the #1 Strat was a bit off pitch it was no time to stop and switch guitars.

At the end of Long Division the band crashed and thrashed and banged into an extended outro, Rob and Beano following the Goof’s lead as he coaxed a wall of feedback out of the Marshalls. He turned towards the cabinets and whipped the Strat off and swung it around by the neck in front of the amps as it howled and squealed. Watching him closely, I caught his nod and turned the master volume on the rear panel of the #1 Bassman all the way up.

The Goof stood the Strat upright on the stage in front of the Marshalls, holding the headstock with one finger while the feedback roared. He removed his finger and the Strat dropped flat onto the stage in front of the amps with a loud clang, and the Goof worked the whammy bar up and down with his boot as it continued to wail and screech.

Fenders were tough. With their bolt-on necks they could withstand this kind of theatrical abuse much better than a set-neck Gibson ever could.

The Goof stepped back to the mic and yelled, ‘We are the Cretins! Thank you for inviting us to your town! We’re off to see the Wizard! No—wait, that’s Kansas! Good night and good luck, Nebraska!’

Beano sent his drumsticks cartwheeling high into the darkness—no chance of hitting the ceiling in this venue—and the guys gathered at the front of the stage for a moment to wave to the crowd. The stage had stopped rotating at the end of the song. The applause and cheering was loud but I could still hear it echoing around the hall which indicated that it was far from full.

I turned down the master volume on the #1 BassMan head to avoid any blown speakers and switched on my mini MagLite and as the band began to move off to stage left. The stage lights dimmed and the house lights remained down. I walked to the edge of the stage to guide the band down the stairs. The Goof was about to take the first step down, one Beatle boot poised in the air above the brink, when I abruptly threw up my right arm to stop him: The stairs weren’t there.

‘What the fuck…’ said the Goof.

Beano bumped into him and Rob, still carrying his bass, bumped into Beano.

‘Let’s GO’ yelled Beano over the Goof’s shoulder.

‘THE STAIRS AREN’T HERE!’ I yelled back.

‘What?’

‘NO STAIRS!’

Pushing the Goof back I began to search with the flashlight in both directions along the perimeter of the stage. I hadn’t fully realized that the rotating part of the stage was inset and that a foot or so of the lip of the stage remained stationary. The stairs were attached to this stationary portion of the stage and had remained at a fixed spot on the floor of the auditorium. That spot was now off to the left, about 10 feet away from where they had been all afternoon leading up to our set.

Of course it made sense that the stairs didn’t move, but I hadn’t had a chance to think about it. Whoever the fuck was controlling the rotation of the stage hadn’t bothered to stop it so that the stairs were where they had been before. It was at least a six foot drop to the concrete floor of the Civic Auditorium.

I led the Goof over to the stairs and descended first, shining the light back up at the band’s feet. They clambered down and I directed them back into the curtained enclosure by the door to the inner hallway.

Rob slapped me on the back as he passed. ‘Good catch, Ink. That could have been a disaster.’

In the hallway Chuck came walking up with his walkie talkie crackling and said ‘Nice set, guys! They loved you.’

‘Great!’ I said. ‘We nearly broke our goddam necks out there!’

‘What?’

‘The STAIRS, Chuckles!’ said the Goof, poking Chuck in the chest. ‘When the stage stopped the stairs weren’t where they were supposed to be!’

‘Oh, shit! Sorry, guys—I should have warned you to check first.’

‘Yeah, it would have been helpful. No one mentioned that the stage was actually going to be moving during our set,’ I said.

‘Well, we pretty much always try to do that.’

‘What? Try to kill the band?’

‘No, no, rotate the stage. People love it!’

‘Well, you might consider mentioning that to your headliners tonight.’

‘Sorry guys,’ said Chuck. ‘You’re right—I should have mentioned it. Come on back to the dressing room and hang out for as long as you want. We’ll get your gear together and I’ll have someone drive you to the hotel when you’re ready. Let me know if there’s anything you need.’

Chuck led us back around the arena to our dressing on the other side and I got the two Strat cases and the Anvil case for Rob’s fretless bass. Instead of walking all the way back around to the backstage area I just cut across the hall through the audience. The house lights were up and people were milling around, the PA system was playing a Tom Petty song.

Vinnie emerged from the crowd, headed towards the dressing room.

‘Did you see that shit?’ I said.

‘Yeah! That was fucking nuts! It looked like you guys were doing a Keystone Cops routine up there.’

‘Hilarious! A few more inches and it would have been off to the emergency room!’

‘No shit!’

‘I’ll bring the instruments to the dressing room in a minute. The stagehands are going to break the rest of it down but Beano is going to have to help pack his kit.’

‘Right. Let those guys do all the grunt work.’

As I continued down the aisle towards the stage the gaggle of teenyboppers that I had passed before were still there. A couple of them stopped talking and lowered their eyes as I walked by. Did they not realize that I was the goddam roadie?

I climbed up onstage, switched the two Bassman heads to standby to let the tubes cool down, and packed up the Strats and the backup bass. I disconnected all the Goof’s effect pedals, wound up the cables, pulled up the set lists, retrieved the unused Dunlops from the tape on the mic stand.

All of the Goof’s pedals and guitar cables went into the blue suitcase. I disconnected both sets of Taurus pedals and moved them back by the stairs. The local stagehands arrived and began to rearrange the stage for Kindler’s gear. This was the point where things could get tense because the arena crew and Kindler’s roadies would want to get all of our stuff off the stage and out of the way as soon as possible and there was only me to keep our gear organized and separate.

I jogged all the way around the arena hallway back to the dressing room with the two Strats and buttonholed Beano.

‘Dude, we need to get our gear offstage ASAP. If you want your kit packed up right you need to come now.’

I knew full well that Beano would rather drink cobra venom than appear onstage at a gig like this as his own drum roadie.

‘Aww, Ink, can’t you do it this time?’ he whined. ‘It doesn’t have to be perfect, just do the best you can. You know where everything goes.’

‘I’ll help you with the kit, but I’ve got to wrangle all the other gear too. The stagehands are up there now taking everything apart.’

‘Shit, man, I don’t wanna go back out there…’

‘Beano, dude, no one is paying any attention, I swear! No one gives a shit. You can wear a bag over your head.’

‘I’ll go,’ said Vinnie. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get it done.’

‘Thanks, Vinnie,’ I said. ‘We gotta go.’

As we headed to the door Vinnie muttered ‘Goddam prima donna…’

Between Vinnie and myself we broke down the drum kit as best we could. There was a certain art to getting all the heavy chrome hardware into the one long, black rectangular fiberboard road case. Beano always made it look so easy, but I had never fully mastered the technique. It took us a couple of tries but we finally managed to jam it all in. The cymbal case was a breeze—they just stacked in according to size—and the drum cases were similarly obvious.

We lined up the drum kit cases back by the stairs and let the locals start humping them down the steps and onto the equipment carts. Vinnie and I checked through all the gear as it came down from the stage—speakers, amps, tool box, the blue suitcase, the reverb unit, Beano’s mic stand, Taurus pedals—all good.

I grabbed Rob’s backup bass and we followed the three stagehands as they walked the carts piled with our gear back around through the inner hallway to just outside of the dressing room. I left the bass with the boys and Vinnie got the keys for the PeaPod from Rob’s briefcase. He backed the bus up to the loading dock and we reversed the process from earlier in the day.

The union boys protected their sacred turf right up to the edge of the dock and Vinnie and I arranged everything into the tightly packed puzzle of the cargo hold. It was amazing how quickly it all went when there were five people doing it instead of just one or two.

Okay. We were all done and it wasn’t yet nine o’clock.

Vinnie and I thanked the stagehands and they trundled the carts off in the direction of backstage. Their night wasn’t anywhere close to over yet and the Kindler band had a shitload more gear than we did. We returned to the dressing room where the band was lounging about with plates filled with the bounty of our deluxe spread.

‘All done,’ I said. ‘The bus is packed and we’re good to go.’

‘Well done tonight,’ said the Goof, giving me a bear hug. ‘You saved my ass… again!’

‘All in a day’s work, Goof.’

‘Kick back and relax a bit, have a snack and a beer. Let’s enjoy the big time while we can.’

‘Don’t mind If I do,’ I said. ‘Then I think I might go out and catch some of Kindler’s set. What time do you want to head back to the hotel?’

‘I dunno,’ said the Goof. ‘What time is it?’

‘Uh, about ten of nine, I said, checking my watch.

‘An hour? Ten o’clock? No hurry, right? I wanna go out there with you for a bit—I feel like I should check those guys out in case I ever actually talk to any of them.’

‘I think I’ll hit up Chuck for a ride to the hotel now,’ Rob said. ‘I want to call Alison.’

Alison being Rob’s girlfriend back in Albuquerque.

‘I’ll go with you,’ said Beano. ‘I need to make some calls too.’

‘Collect calls, please,’ said Vinnie. ‘No surprises when we check out in the morning.’

‘That Chuckles dude owes us, man,’ said the Goof. ‘If not for Inky boy here and his trusty flashlight the lawsuits would be flying by now! He should pay for the incidentals.’

‘In your dreams!’ said Vinnie. ‘Collect calls, both of you.’

Beano went out in search of Chuck and the Goof went out to smoke while I finished up my plate of deli goodies accompanied by a cold Heineken.

There was still about half of the food left over as well as most of the beers and both bottles of wine.

‘This is our schwag, right?’ I said to Vinnie.

‘That’s what the contract rider says.’

‘So it would be a total waste to leave it behind, right?’

‘Hell yeah.’

‘Let’s get the cooler off the bus. When we’re ready to go we’ll pack up the leftovers.’

‘Good idea,’ Rob said and tossed me the keys.

Outside, the Goof was sitting on the edge of the loading dock, puffing away.

‘Hey man, we’re going to pack up the cooler with the rest of the food and stuff. They’d probably toss whatever’s left over anyway.’

‘Definitely,’ said the Goof. ‘I want to change my shirt too.’

I unlocked the bus doors and we climbed aboard. The Goof took my flashlight and rummaged around for something else to wear. I got the empty cooler from the hangout area in front of the partition. I would have changed my shirt too but the rest of my clothes were back at the hotel.

Back in the dressing room Rob and Beano were waiting for us along with one of Chuck’s polo-shirted minions.

‘Okay, we’re set,’ I said, giving the bus keys back to Rob. ‘We’ll see you back at the hotel.’

‘Right, don’t stay out too late boys. Your mother and I won’t sleep a wink until you get back,’ said Rob.

Rob and Beano took the basses and the Strats and departed with Chuck’s driver. Vinnie, the Goof and I went through the doors to the near side of the arena.

The house lights were still up and there were several rows of empty seats at the back of the section and we sat down just off the aisle. The gaggle of girls who I had passed by previously were milling about in the aisle several rows ahead and they had turned around as we came through the doors from the inner corridor.

They were looking at us, wide-eyed, and after conferring for a moment two of them began to walk nervously back to our row.

The Goof was sitting in the aisle seat.

‘Good evening, ladies,’ he said.

The two girls, one of whom was blonde and the other brunette, giggled and squirmed and said ‘Hi.’ They looked to be about sixteen or seventeen.

‘Did you catch our set?’ said the Goof.

‘Yes! You guys were so awesome!’ said the brunette.

‘Great. Thank you! Glad you liked it.’

They giggled and squirmed some more.

‘Where can we get your records?’ the blonde, who was wearing a striped t-shirt and bib overall shorts asked.

‘Ah, well, we don’t actually have anything out right now,’ said the Goof, ‘but we will soon.’

The Goof was always loath to mention the Cretins existing vinyl, seeing as he was not on any of it.

‘Oh, okay.’ (More squirming) ‘Can I have your autograph?’ she said, proffering a small hardbound journal to the Goof with a ballpoint pen stuck in between the pages.

‘Sure thing, sweetheart,’ said the Goof. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Cathy,’ said the blonde.

‘This page okay, Cathy?’ asked the Goof opening the journal to the page where the pen was stuck.

‘Yes, please!’

‘Okay… Cathy with a K or Cathy with a C?’

‘Cathy with a C!’

‘Right right, just checking. Alright then, To Cathy with a C, with Love and kisses from the Cretins, Omaha,’ recited the Goof as he wrote. ‘Omaha… Kansas?’

‘Kansas? Noooo! This is Nebraska!’ squealed the brunette.

‘I’m just kidding with ya,’ said the Goof, signing his name at the bottom. ‘Here ya go, Cathy.’

‘Thanks,’ said Cathy with a C. She examined the Goof’s inscription for a moment and then extended the journal to me. ‘And yours too?’

What??
‘Uh, I’m not actually in the band,’ I said. ‘My job is looking after this guy,’ nodding towards the Goof. ‘I’m the roadie.’

‘That’s okay,’ Cathy said. ‘Please?’

‘Well, okay,’ I said, glancing at the Goof. He looked genuinely amused.
I had never signed an autograph before in my life.

‘Alright, Ink!’ said the Goof. ‘The first of many!’

I took the journal and pen from Cathy and paused, unsure of what to write.
I looked up at Cathy with a C and her friend, waiting expectantly.

‘For the lovely Cathy, thanks for your support! Your friend…’ I wrote, followed by my semi-illegible signature and the date.

I handed the journal and the pen back to Cathy. Her friend, who was wearing a David Bowie Let’s Dance t-shirt and stone-washed jeans, held out a spiral notebook and a pen.
‘Me too, please!’ she said.

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Nicole,’ she said.

‘Okay, Nicole with an N?’ I asked.

‘Of course, silly!’ she said, rolling her eyes. Cathy with a C laughed.

‘For fair Nicole,’ I wrote, ‘Thanks for coming to our show! Any friend of David Bowie is a friend of mine…’ with my signature and the date.

I handed Nicole’s notebook to the Goof and he scribbled a short dedication and his name.

‘So, what do you girls do around here for fun?’ asked the Goof.

‘We go to concerts! Duh!’ said Nicole.

‘Excuuuse me! Jeez,’ said the Goof, laughing. ‘Do a lot of tours come through here?’

‘Some do, but more of them go to Kansas City, so we have to go down there sometimes. And they have concerts in Lincoln during the state fair, but mostly it’s country stuff.’

‘Not a country fan?’

‘Uh, no! Ick! My dad likes that kind of stuff.’

‘So who are your favorite bands?’

‘I like David Bowie, obviously,’ said Nicole. ‘Eurythymics, Duran Duran, the Cure, the Police—Cathy is in love with Sting…’

‘No, I’m NOT!’ said Cathy. ‘I mean, he’s cool, but kinda old. Nicole is in love with the bass player from Duran Duran.’

‘John Taylor, yeah,’ said the Goof. ‘He’s pretty hot. Inky boy here is in love with him too,’ digging me in the ribs with his elbow. ‘So you’re big on the Brits—good for you! So are we.’

The house lights dimmed and the Culture Club song playing through the PA stopped. Applause and cheers erupted around the hall.

‘We’ve got to go back to our seats,’ said Cathy. ‘Are you staying around after the show?’

‘We’re gonna hang out for a few of Kinder’s songs, but then we’re heading back to the hotel,’ said the Goof.

‘Which hotel?’ said Nicole.

‘The Marriott. The Kindler band is there too.’

‘Ooh, nice! Maybe we’ll stop by.’

‘Room 418! Come see us!’ called the Goof as the girls headed back down the aisle.

‘Dude, those chicks are total jailbait,’ said Vinnie. ‘Do NOT encourage them!’

‘Don’t worry, Vin! They’ll never show up,’ said the Goof. ‘But the age of consent in this state is probably like 12 or something anyway.’

‘I’m thinkin’ perhaps we shouldn’t test that theory,’ I said.

‘C’mon, Ink! They loved you!’ said the Goof. ‘That Cathy was definitely into you.’

‘Her dad is probably the chief of police or something. I would not fare well in prison—I’m too pretty. It’s bad enough on the bus with you.’

‘HAH! You LOVE it,’ said the Goof, grabbing at my crotch.

‘Jeezis, get a room you two,’ said Vinnie.

‘We’ve already GOT a room,’ I said, grappling with the Goof. ‘That’s the problem. Get the fuck OFF me, man!’

The Kindler band bounced out on stage followed by the man himself to enthusiastic applause and cheers. They were a good catchy pop group, no doubt about it, but Tom Kindler wasn’t necessarily what you’d call God’s own gift to the ranks of rock & roll front men. Decent voice, reasonably good looking, but not exactly brimming over with charisma.

‘We blew their shit away,’ said the Goof after a couple of songs. ‘No doubt about it. Kindler looks like a game show host.’

‘Perhaps, but they don’t seem terribly intimidated,’ I said. ‘Have any of those guys even come out the dressing room to see us?’

‘Who knows? I do like that guitar though.’

Kindler was playing a vintage Vox Phantom 12-string.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t want to have to keep one of those monsters in tune.’

Contrary to a clear majority of concert attendees, who were going politely apeshit, the Goof declared himself Kindler-weary after three not particularly inspiring songs. I wasn’t going to argue—they were undoubtedly a decent pop band but, well, kinda boring, at least to the eyes and ears of rock and roll cognoscenti such as ourselves. I went in search of Chuck to arrange for our ride to the hotel while the Goof and Vinnie returned to the dressing room. I found Chuck and his walkie talkie in the backstage hallway and he said he’d send one of his guys to drive us to the Marriott within the next 20 minutes.

‘Thanks, Chuck. And all the food and drinks in the dressing room, that’s for us, right?’

‘Absolutely—it’s all yours,’ he said. ‘Take whatever you want. Take all of it.’

‘Great—we’re actually on kind of a tight budget. But you didn’t hear that from me.’

‘It’ll be our secret.’

I returned to the dressing room and we began to load the contents of the deli trays and the beer, wine and soft drinks into the cooler along with a bag of ice. The cookies, bread, chips and M&Ms went into a grocery bag and the plastic utensils, paper plates, cups, napkins and a roll of paper towels went into another. We did everything except lick off the plastic deli platters.

The Goof liberated a couple of rolls of toilet paper from the bathroom. I peeled the Cretins dressing room sign off of the door.

Eyeing the folding tables that all the food had been sitting on the Goof said ‘Think they’d miss one of these?’

‘No way dude, let’s not push our luck,’ advised Vinnie.

‘Rob has the keys anyway,’ I said.

‘Yeah… too bad,’ said the Goof as he surveyed the room for anything else potentially useful that wasn’t nailed down.