08 May The Road Crew – Part Ten

Well, here we are at long last, Gentle Reader(s): the tenth chapter of The Road Crew. As previously prophesied, this shall be the final installment to be serialized in these pages. Chapter ten represents approximately one third of the complete manuscript, but after six months this little experiment in self-publishing has run its course. For those of you who have been reading along from the beginning, I thank you wholeheartedly for your kind attentions—I just wish there were more of you! Perhaps one day, some way, The Road Crew will get a complete airing in one format or another but for now we must leave the Cretins to their peripatetic ways, searching the highways and byways of this once great nation in pursuit of the elusive brass ring of musical fame and fortune. Let us wish them good luck and godspeed.

Ten

Back in our room at the Marriott we found Rob sitting on the floor between the beds murmuring sweet nothings into the phone while Beano was in the adjoining room clicking through the channels on the television.

‘So—how was Kindler?’ said Beano.

The Goof tilted his head to the side and made a loud snoring noise. Beano snorted a laugh.

‘But we snagged the rest of the food from the dressing room,’ I said, setting down the cooler.

‘Cool,’ said Beano, getting up. ‘I’m ready for a snack.’

Vinnie put down the grocery bag and said ‘I’m going to my room. Don’t stay up all night ya knuckleheads. The van will be here at 10:00 to take us back to the arena.’

‘Aw man, check out isn’t till 11,’ whined the Goof.

‘I know, but Chuck is doing us a favor letting us leave the bus locked up at the arena, so be down in the lobby by 9:45, okay? We need to hit the road no later than 11.’

‘Yes, mom.’

‘Wrap it up, Robby boy,’ said the Goof. ‘I wanna watch TV.’

‘Yeah, they are… yeah, I will… yeah, yeah I do…’ murmured Rob into the phone. ‘Okay. Call ya again soon.’

As Rob hung up the receiver the Goof said ‘The words are I love you, Rob! I LOOOVE you! Can’t you tell your gal you love her fer crissakes?’

‘Not with you bozos in the room,’ said Rob.

‘Oh, now that hurts,’ said the Goof. ‘I love you, Rob! Ink, you know I love you too, right!’

‘Oh, I know,’ I said. ‘Only too well.’

‘There,’ said the Goof. ‘LOVE, baby! It’s all about the looove! How hard is that?’

‘I’ll show ya how hard it is,’ said Rob, sashaying towards the Goof.

‘Rob, later please! Not in front of the boy,’ whispered the Goof conspiratorially.

‘Okay. Gross. I’m going to go sleep in the lobby,’ I said.

‘Pish posh, I say! I won’t hear of it!’ proclaimed the Goof. ‘WINE for all my men! Let the feasting begin!’

He retrieved the bottle of red wine from the cooler and looked it over.

‘A fine vintage! Got a cork and everything—bless Chuck’s pointed little head. Need to let this baby breathe for a minute. Oh shit! Do we have a corkscrew?’

I fished my Swiss army knife out of the military shoulder bag that contained my WalkMan, book, wallet, sunglasses, camera and other essentials and tossed it to the Goof.

‘There ya go, Ink! That’s why we pay you the big bucks…’

‘NOT!’ we both said, laughing.

‘Get yerself a cup, kid,’ said the Goof, pulling the cork out of the bottle with a pop.

‘I’ll have a beer, actually.’

‘More for me then,’ said the Goof. ‘Rob, care for some vino?’ he called to the other room.

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said Rob.

‘Get a cup.’

I fished a Heineken out of the cooler and put some potato chips and a cookie on a plate. Stretching out on my bed I turned on the television and began to scroll through the channels. Infomercial, infomercial, news, basketball, weather, reruns of crappy television shows, infomercial—Popeil’s Pocket Fisherman, Mister Microphone, Sy Sperling’s Hair Club for Men, a revolutionary new convection oven that could cook a whole rhinoceros in minutes…

‘There must be something watchable,’ said the Goof. ‘Old movies or something.’

I dialed up TBS and Walter Huston’s face appeared on the screen in lustrous black and white.

‘Treasure of the Sierra Madre!’ exclaimed the Goof. ‘Perfect!’

‘Badges? I don’t need to show you no STEENKING BADGES!’ we both exclaimed in our best exaggerated Alfonso Bedoya/Frito Bandito Mexican accents.

Beano came in with his sandwich on a paper plate and pulled the upholstered chair by the desk out so he could put his feet up and watch the movie.

‘What’s this?’

‘Treasure of the Sierra Madre. Humphrey Bogart, Walter Huston, 1940-something. The ONLY film in which both Walter and John Huston appear onscreen together, am I right Inky?’

‘So far as I know,’ I said. ‘Seen it before, Beans?’

‘Nope.’

‘Ah, well, you are in for a treat, my son,’ said the Goof. ‘It’s a certified all-time classic.’

Rob leaned in the doorway for a while to watch the movie and eventually returned to the other room to settle down on his bed with his WalkMan and headphones and book. The Goof worked on the bottle of red wine and started fishing around in the grocery bags full of stuff from the dressing room.

‘Ink—remind me. Why, exactly, did we take all of these plates and cups and shit?’

‘Uhh, I dunno. Waste not, want not?’

‘We’ve got real plates and stuff on the bus already.’

‘True. Well, we’re using them now.’

‘And are we going to eat this entire fucking loaf of Wonderbread? I hate white bread. This stuff is made out of air and petroleum byproducts.’

‘I dunno…’

‘I’m feeling artistic tonight,’ said the Goof, sipping from his cup of red wine, surveying the contents of the grocery bags.

‘Can your muse wait till the movie is over?’

‘No, it cannot. I need to CREATE! Now!’

The Goof pulled the loaf of Wonderbread and the stack of red, white and blue-striped paper cups out of the bag and headed for the bathroom.

Beano rolled his eyes and returned to the other room.

Fred C. Dobbs was about to get his just deserts in the desert from Gold Hat and his gang.

I could hear the Goof rustling around in the bathroom.

‘I need more color!’ he called. ‘What color is your toothpaste?’

‘My toothpaste? It’s Crest. It’s… Crest-colored. Pale blue, I think?’

‘Not good enough. I need something stronger, more vibrant.’

‘My shaving cream comes out as bright blue gel,’ I said.

‘That’ll work.’

‘I kinda need my shaving cream, dude,’ I said.

‘Don’t worry—I just need a bit for accents. I won’t use too much.’

More rustling about. Aerosol sounds…

The Goof came back into the room and started poking around in the grocery bags again.

‘Where’s the mustard?’

‘In the cooler. Hey, don’t waste the mustard! That’s my essential condiment.’

‘Not to worry, Inky boy! All for a good cause…’

The Goof headed back into the bathroom with the squeeze bottle of French’s.

‘What the fuck is going on in there?’ I said and started to get up from the bed.

‘No no no!’ said the Goof, blocking the bathroom door. ‘Not ready yet! The heat is upon me—the white heat of CREATION!’

‘As opposed to the more usual white heat of destruction?’

‘You’re gonna love it! I’m in the zone here,’ called the Goof. ‘I hope you’ve got film in your camera. This masterpiece must be documented for the ages.’

‘I think that’s what’s called evidence,’ I said.

‘HAH! Mock if you must, Ink. True genius is rarely appreciated in its time.’

I returned my attention to Treasure of the Sierra Madre. The federales were about to hand Gold Hat and his muchachos their just deserts in the desert.

Just as the movie was ending and Howard and Curtin’s hard-won fortunes were blowing away into the wilds of windswept Durango the Goof emerged from the bathroom and announced that his artistic exertions were complete.

‘Enter, young Ink! Behold His Mighty Hand!!’

I got up from my bed and entered the bathroom. The expansive mirror above the double sinks—covering an area of about three-plus feet by seven or so feet—was covered in wiggling, arcing skeins of white shave cream interspersed with slashes and blobs of my bright blue shaving gel and looping lines of French’s yellow mustard. On the countertop below the mirror the Goof had assembled a multi-tiered installation of red, white and blue paper cups topped haphazardly with slices of Wonderbread that were in turn embellished with meandering lines of shaving cream, blue gel and mustard. He had managed to get a few slices of the bread to adhere to the mirror, held on by globs of shaving gel.

The whole composition was beginning to slide slowly down the mirror and it gave off an odd aroma that combined elements of barber shop and delicatessen.

‘Well? Whaddya think?’

‘Ohhhkay… very, uh… very expressive?’

‘Damn right it’s expressive!’

‘It looks like Jackson Pollock threw up while shaving one morning.’

‘I was thinking more of deKooning, actually. I believe this is some of my finest work. Ephemeral yet ageless.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I do! I DO say so! Beano & Rob need to see this.’

‘I think they might be asleep,’ I said.

‘Then they shall be awakened!’

The Goof banged on the door between the adjoining rooms.

‘Wakey wakey, ladies and gents! Arise and feast your eyes on my latest creation.’

I followed the Goof into the room. Rob had his bedside light on and was sitting up in bed, reading a book and listening to his WalkMan. Beano was under the covers with a pillow over his head.

Rob pulled his headphones off.

‘What’s up?’

‘ART, baby! That’s what’s up.’

Rob sighed and clicked off his WalkMan.

Beano didn’t move. The Goof grabbed a protruding foot and shook it.

‘Whaaaa… fuck off…,’ muffled from beneath the pillow.

‘Up up up!’

‘Come on maaan, I’m sleeping!’

‘Correction—you were sleeping!’

‘Ughhh… leave me alone…’

The Goof continued to waggle Beano’s foot.

‘Up up up!’

Beano began to thrash around in the bed.

‘Goddammit!!’ Throwing the covers off he snapped upright and threw his pillow at the Goof.

‘What is so FUCKING IMPORTANT? Do I drag your ass out of bed for random shit whenever I feel like it?’

‘This isn’t random shit! Calm yourself, grasshopper!’ said the Goof, gesticulating towards the door to our room.

Rob got up followed by a groaning Beano.

‘Okay, let’s get this over with,’ he muttered as he passed me.

‘Step this way, gents,’ said the Goof ushering them into the bathroom.

‘What the fuck…’ said Rob, laughing.

Blinking in the bright bathroom lights, Beano said ‘Holy shit. Dude, do you realize you’re totally out of your mind.’

‘Uhhh, yes, and your point is… what?’

‘Nothing, I guess,’ sighed Beano. ‘Nice. Very very nice, I love it, you’re a fucking genius, I’m going back to sleep.’

Beano turned and trudged back to the other room.

‘I’m casting my pearls before swine here!’ exclaimed the Goof. ‘Rob, whaddya think? Pretty great, huh?’

‘It’s, uh… magnificent,’ said Rob. ‘Does it have a title?’

‘Good question,’ said the Goof. ‘Lemme think… I think I’ll call it Homage to the Horror of the Heartland, how’s that?’

‘Perfect. Now who’s going to clean it up?’

‘Clean it up?’

‘Yeah, clean it up,’ said Rob as he walked out. ‘Leave that mess there and we’ll never stay in a Marriott again.’

‘We might never stay in a Marriott again anyway!’ I said.

‘Keith Moon never had to clean up!’ protested the Goof.

‘And you’re not Keith Moon. I rest my case. Good night,’ said Rob.

The Goof leaned in the doorway of the bathroom surveying his work.
‘You like it, right?’

‘Sure, I love it,’ I said, ‘But Rob’s right. If we don’t clean it up some poor maid is going to have to do it tomorrow and that wouldn’t be cool. Vinnie will totally blow a fuse and the hotel management will probably call Chuck and he’ll call the promoters, and they’ll call Sonny…’

The Goof sighed. ‘I guess so. Goddammit. No respect for art anymore. What about your camera? You’ve got it here don’t you? If we can shoot it then it’s cool. We just need to document it… for posterity.’

‘On behalf of posterity, I thank you in advance,’ I said.

I retrieved my camera from my shoulder bag—a miniature Olympus XA, not much larger than a bar of soap. It had a 24 roll of Kodak Gold 400 film in it and there were still ten shots left.

‘Get it all in there,’ said the Goof.

‘I am. I just need to get back farther,’ I said. I opened the door to the shower stall and backed into it.

‘How’s the light?’ said the Goof.

‘Looks good. Won’t need the flash in here.’

I took two photos of the scene at slightly different angles.

‘Now you get in there,’ I said to the Goof. ‘The artiste and his creation.’

The Goof arranged himself to the right of the mirror, folded his arms, adopting a satisfied smile.

‘Perfect,’ I said and took two more shots.

‘Closeups. We need some detail shots,’ said the Goof.

‘Okay okay,’ I said and crouched down to get an angle looking up past the stacked cups and the piles of bread to the mirror.

‘Wait—don’t move! I have an idea!’ said the Goof, rushing out of the bathroom. He reappeared a minute later with a Cretins promo photo from Rob’s briefcase. Examining the composition for a moment he took the photo and pressed it onto the mirror on top of a blob of blue shave cream. It stuck there.

‘That’s BEAUTIFUL! Shoot that, Ink!’

I took a tight shot of the black and white glossy of smiling Rob, Beano and the Goof, draped on one another, decked out in their stage duds, with the band’s management and contact info printed beneath.

‘Okay, got it. Now I’m brushing my teeth and going to bed,’ I said.

‘Aren’t you going to help me clean it up?’ said the Goof.

‘No, actually, I am not. I’m beat,’ I said. ‘You created the monster, now you get to destroy it.’

With the assistance of Brian Eno on my Walkman and a huge Marriott pillow over my head I fell quickly into a dreamless sleep. The clean sheets, big pillows and soft bed felt amazing. It had been a very long day.

Next thing I knew Beano was knocking on the adjoining room door.

‘Wakey wakey!’

A brilliant shaft of sunlight was burning through the gap in the heavy curtains in front of the window at the far end of the room.

‘What time is it?’

‘Nine o’clock. Time to get rolling.’

‘Okay. I’m up.’

The Goof was laying sprawled face up on his bed, one arm across his face. He was stilling wearing his stage trousers. The empty bottle of red wine was on the bedside tale along with two empty Heineken bottles.

Beano grabbed the Goof’s covered foot and shook it.

‘Up up up, Goof!’

‘Aaaarghh, fuck off.’

‘Leave it, Beans. I’ll get him up,’ I said.

‘Oh yeah, you’ll get me up,’ mumbled the Goof.

I got up and threw the curtains open to reveal the Marriott parking lot in all of its sun drenched glory. The rumble of semi trucks on highway 480 was faintly audible over the air conditioner.

‘Uchhh… ohmigawd, what the fuck is that?’ groaned the Goof.

‘It’s called daylight,’ I said. ‘Supposed to be good for ya. On your feet. It’s nine o’clock. I’m first for the shower.’

I walked into the bathroom with some trepidation, bracing myself for some gravitationally degraded version of the Goof’s abstract shitstorm of the previous evening.

The bathroom was pristine. The giant mirror was practically spotless—barely a streak. No shaving cream or gel, no French’s mustard, no stale piles of Wonderbread, no stacks of soggy cups… A nearly depleted roll of paper towels sat at one end of the bathroom counter and a pile of damp hotel towels were on the floor underneath.

‘Goof,’ I said, leaning through the doorway into the bedroom, ‘How the hell? I think it’s cleaner in here than when we checked in.’

Still lying with his arm over his eyes he said ‘I abhor a mess. You know that. Hotel shampoo, warm water, lotsa paper towels. Worked a cinch.’

‘Where’s all the bread and cups and crap?’

‘I took it all out to the dumpster last night when I went out to smoke.’

‘And all without waking me up—that is amazing. Now I’m impressed.’

At 9:40 we were all packed and as clean as we were going to get. As I opened the door of our room something small on the carpeting flipped over by my foot. It was a piece of folded paper.

‘What’s this?’ I picked it up.

‘Dunno,’ said the Goof. ‘It must have been stuck under the door.’

I unfolded the paper. It looked like it had been torn out of a small journal.

In a neatly looping script: ‘Hi Guys—We came by but Nicole talked me out of knocking. You were probably asleep anyway. We loved your band! Hope you can come back to Omaha soon! Cathy with a C and Nicole, XO!!’

The ‘O’ in ‘XO’ had a little smiley face drawn in it.

I handed it to the Goof. ‘You must have just missed them when you went out last night.’

‘AGGGGHHHHHH! OHMYGAWD!’ shrieked the Goof. ‘What the FUCK? They came all the way up here and didn’t KNOCK?? Oh Sweet Baby Jesus!’

Rob and Beano were emerging from their door down the hall.

‘What’s going on?’ said Beano.

‘THEY DIDN’T KNOCK!! Aw jeez, just kill me now!’ said the Goof, holding out the paper.

Beano took the folded paper. ‘Who are Cathy with a C and Nicole?’

‘The lovely corn-fed teeny boppers we met at the gig last night!’

‘Ah, and how old were these teeny boppers?’

‘I dunno… old enough to be out on their own.’

‘Sixteen, maybe seventeen,’ I said. ‘Still in high school for sure.’

‘Awww man! They loved us! They had Inky signing autographs and everything!’ moaned the Goof.

Beano gave me a questioning look. I shrugged.

‘Lemme see,’ said Rob and took the note from Beano.

‘They were cute, huh?’

‘They were BEAUTIFUL! I can’t believe this…’ The Goof slumped in the doorway. He looked like he was about to sit down on the floor and cry.

The door to a room across the hallway opened and a portly, balding man in an undershirt stuck his head out. He eyed the four of us suspiciously.

‘Pardon us,’ I said. ‘We were just leaving. C’mon Goof.’

I grabbed the Goof by the arm and tugged him in the direction of the elevators.

The Goof turned towards the man in the doorway who was staring at us with unabashed scorn.

‘What’re you looking at?’ snarled the Goof, pulling away from me. ‘Huh?’

Alarmed, the man in the doorway retreated, closing the door down to a crack.

A ‘ding’ sounded down the hallway and Vinnie appeared pushing a luggage cart.

The man across the hall continued to eyeball us through the crack.

The Goof glared belligerently back at him. I held onto his arm.

‘What’s this?’ said Vinnie.

‘Nothing nothing,’ said Beano. ‘Sorry for disturbing you, sir. Good morning!’ he gave a friendly wave to the man across the hall.

The man closed the door.

‘Fucking asshole,’ muttered the Goof.

‘What’s this?’ repeated Vinnie.

‘The Goof has had a bit of a… disappointment,’ said Rob. ‘Nothing too serious.’

‘NOTHING SERIOUS?’ said the Goof.

‘Can we please just leave before Fred Mertz over here calls in the SWAT team?’ I said.

I loaded the Strat case I was carrying onto the luggage cart and took the other case from the Goof. Rob and Beano loaded Rob’s basses next to the guitars and we piled our luggage and the cooler on top.

‘What did I miss? What happened?’ asked Vinnie.

‘That’s it! NOTHING happened!’ said the Goof.

Rob handed Cathy with a C’s note to Vinnie.

‘Oh shit! They actually came by?’ said Vinnie.

‘Downstairs, downstairs,’ said Rob, pushing him towards the elevator.

An hour later the Goof was sprawled in the hangout area in the back of the bus, still sulking. Rather than just another absurd misadventure from the road, the abortive Cathy with a C/Nicole episode was the kind of thing that could plunge the Goof into a emotional tailspin—for a few hours, a day, a couple of days, a week? No way to know.

The Goof was prone to spells of gloom and despondency and I knew there was nothing for it but to just give him his space and hope that he’d snap out of it, sooner than later. Otherwise the entire day—and the gig—would be fraught, a minefield rife with opportunities for the Goof to lash out at one or another or all of us, or at whatever unsuspecting locals as might be unlucky enough to cross his path. If we were lucky, he might just leave us out of it—aim high and target his rage at the Almighty and the universe in general.

One way or the other, the show must go on.

Beano was driving. I was sitting next to the Goof, scanning through a copy of the Weekly World News for material for my next report on the deranged and ridiculous. Rob was in his bunk and Vinnie was up front with Beano looking through our well-thumbed copy of the Rand McNally Road Atlas. The windows were open to catch the last of the morning cool and the rolling countryside of the Heartland unfurled, mile after mile, to the steady rumble of the PeaPod.

We were opening for Kindler that evening at the Veterans Memorial Auditorium in Des Moines. Des Moines was only a couple of hours away on Interstate 80, but that made it at least two and a half hours, probably three, for the PeaPod.

Whether or not Elvis had ever played at the Vets I did not know, but the auditorium was notable as the venue where Ozzy Osbourne had bitten the head off a bat at a concert the previous year. An auspicious portent, without a doubt.

Load in was at 2:00.