“Ever heard of this band called Bananafish? I'm pretty sure they're available.”
It took Loring a few seconds to catch on. When he did, he looked ready to make a comment—his mouth was open, the tip of his tongue was touching the roof of his mouth, but no sound came.
“Just consider it. Please,” I said, getting more excited by the second. “I know it's asking a lot, but the record comes out the same week, and the Drones tour, if it even happens, isn't until March. You'd be doing them a huge favor, and—”
“Eliza.” Loring scratched his temple and sat back in his chair. “Let's discuss this rationally. Even if I did say yes, and I'm not, but if I did, don't you think Paul would consider it below him to open for a mainstream success like me?”
He had a valid point. But, one step at a time. “I'll handle Paul. First things first.”
Loring went silent, and I figured it was best to let him ruminate without interruption. I picked an Oreo from the cake, split it in half, and scraped out the filling with my teeth.
“What about you?” Loring said a few seconds later, as if speaking to his spoon. “Do you really want me to take Paul away for two weeks, or would you, you know, would you come along?”
I paused. “Are there any flying machines involved in this tour?”
“No. Buses.”
Paul had wanted me to tag along on the last Bananafish outing, but traveling in a van with four men who only showered every couple days was not high on my list of glamorous vacations. On the other hand, I'd been dreaming for eons about what life on a real tour bus would be like.
“If I can get the time off work,” I said, “I'd love to come along.”
“Tell you what,” Loring murmured, his eyes and fingers still preoccupied with the spoon. “You work on Paul, and I'll see what I can do on my end.”
“Over my dead goddamn body,” Paul said in the cab on the way home.
“Just think about it. Doug said it himself, going on the road is the best thing you could do right now.”
“Watch it, Peepers. You're starting to sound like Feldman.”
I tried to kick him but couldn't get a good angle. “Don't be gay. This is an arena tour. We're talking at least twelve-thousand people a night. You'd be crazy not to go.”
“Eliza, half of Loring's audience is made up of sorority girls who have the hots for him. That's not the crowd I want to attract. Not that they'd appreciate me anyway. My fans are the lunatic fringe. The fallen souls and suicidal freaks.”
“I beg your pardon,” I said. “Besides, winning over the heathens and pagans should be your top priority. And I've never been to Toronto or Chicago.”
Slowly, Paul pulled back, his glow-in-the-dark eyes spinning so fast I could practically see the synapses flashing like lightening in his brain. “All right,” he said, the cocky-bastard grin in full force. “I've got a proposition for you.”
I rested my hand firmly between his legs, certain he was on some carnal wavelength. “Name your price, sailor.”
“I'll do the tour if you agree to two conditions.” He shook his head. “I never in my life thought I'd say this, but get your hand out of my crotch. I need paper.”
I quickly obliged his request, even handed him a pen. And he wrote out a contract stating that in signing my name, I would be agreeing to the unnamed conditions. In countersigning, he would be agreeing to do the tour.
I scribbled my name and tried to guess the outlandish demands he might have in store for me. “Sex in the stairway? A ménage à trois?”
He made a funny gesture with his hand, a conductor leading an orchestra, only his baton was a black Bic. “You just agreed to marry me.”
I laughed. “Haven't I already agreed to do that?”
“I don't mean someday. I mean ASAP. As soon as we get back from the tour.”
“Done,” I said, thinking I was getting off easy.
“Hold on. There's more. We're going on a honeymoon after the wedding.”
Again, painless. I was about to acquiesce when Paul narrowed his eyes and said, “And we're going to fly there.”
I instantly felt nauseous. “Paul…”
“That's the deal. Take it or leave it.”
I leaned my head back against the seat, forced a long breath down into my lungs, and left it there. In reality, the events of 9/11 had delivered a mortal blow to my already weak will, and I had sensed then that any chance I had of ever getting on a plane had vanished. I just hadn't yet shared this information with Paul.
“Yes or no?” Paul said.
Without exhaling, I nodded. But only because Paul was talking about the future, and it's easy to think of the future as being so far away, there's a good chance it will never arrive.
Paul was bleeding.
It happened the second night of the tour, during the show in Toronto, after he cut his pinkie on a broken guitar string. Neither the cut nor the missing D string interfered with his ability to finish the song, but when the blood began dripping down the front of his guitar, I imagined a holy weeping wound and wanted him so badly I had to sit down.
Standing off to the side, stage left, I backed up, parked myself on a crate, and squeezed my knees together. The louder the music got, the harder the crate vibrated. It was like having sex with Paul's spirit until his body could step in and finish the job.
He had his beloved ES-335 around his neck and was in the middle of “Charlie Bucket,” one of my favorites, when it happened. The song was a complex tune with a tribal rhythm, and Paul sang it with understated longing right up until the end, when he would let loose and wail like someone had just plunged a stake through his heart.
There were two common reactions to this song: terror and captivation. In Toronto, the majority of the crowd looked captivated. And when they saw the blood, the first few rows cheered with a perverse satisfaction rivaled only by my own wanton response.
Paul had been right about Loring's audience. They were mostly college kids, with an 80-20 female-to-male ratio. The night before, in Montreal, I'd found them to be less than enthusiastic. But one thing that impressed me about Loring's fans—they were kind. Despite appearing almost frightened by Paul's intensity, despite the glazed looks on their faces when he screamed, they clapped politely like people who didn't want to hurt the poor lunatic's feelings.
I did, however, notice a handful of people up front who were moved. They were easy to spot: eyes the size of balloons, stupefied smiles, heads bobbing in a trance.
They'd been converted.
Loring stepped up from the darkness behind me, temporarily disrupting my concentration. He had to cup his hands around his mouth and yell to be heard above the music. “Think he knows he's bleeding?”
I shrugged and yelled back. “Paul could catch on fire during this song and he wouldn't notice.”
Then I started imagining Paul's finger in my mouth, imagined I could taste the sharp, metallic flavor of his blood on my tongue. I was also getting whiffs of Loring's cologne, and before the song was over I had to pretend to sneeze to disguise my uncontrollable shudders.
The date of the Toronto show coincided with the twenty-seventh birthday of Loring's rambunctious drummer, Tab. He decided there was going to be a party in his honor and he invited everyone to Loring's suite to celebrate. He put me in charge of ordering food, and Vera, who had flown in for the weekend before she had to go back to school, went to get a cake, hats, and balloons.
Loring's room was exponentially larger than the one Michael, Vera, Paul, and I were sharing. It had a king-size bed, a living room with a dining table that sat six, a couch, a bar, and a video game system hooked up to the TV.
While we were setting up, I told Vera what had happened during the show. “Mother-of-Pearl,” she said. “You had sex with a guitar crate?”
The party commenced soon after the show ended. In addition to both bands, Tab had invited half a dozen young ladies he'd met backstage. Supposedly they'd hitchhiked up from Detroit to see the show and had no way o
f getting home. He promised them a ride back on the bus the next day.
One of the guests, Brandy, a towering, masculine girl with eggplant-colored hair and wearing so much make-up I could have carved my initials into her cheek, questioned Tab in a cutthroat voice about who Vera and I were.
“They're our merch girls,” Tab said. “Among other things.”
“What's a merch girl?” a ditzy blonde who introduced herself as “Star-with-two-Rs” asked.
Tab said, “Basically, they sell our T-shirts and other merchandise, and they suck our dicks whenever we tell them to.”
Brandy's eyes widened; Vera, who'd already had three vodka tonics, quickly sat down and signaled me to play along. “It pays well,” she said with a shrug. Her hair was in pigtails and she was wearing one of her long plaid skirts, making her look more like the band's tutor than their on-call “merch” girl.
Star-with-two-Rs looked like she was ready to apply for the job. “What's Loring like in bed?” she asked Vera, as if they were suddenly best friends.
“A tiger.”
Loring and Paul were in the midst of a video baseball game across the room. Since meeting Doug, Paul had taken an avid interest in baseball. Burke and Michael were also in front of the TV waiting their turns, and they all appeared to be listening at least intermittently to our conversation because every so often I heard them chuckling.
Brandy had huge hands and a five o'clock shadow on her upper lip, and for a while I considered the possibility that she might be a transvestite, but according to Vera the girl didn't have enough cleavage. Brandy was also drunk, and she kept leaning in close to my ear when she talked. “So, you've pretty much slept with all of them?”
I could tell Brandy thought she was being quiet, but being quiet to a drunk, mannish groupie equaled loud to the whole room.
Tab said, “They'll tell you I'm the best, aren't I, love?”
“By far,” Vera said, her pigtails moving to and fro, her eyes glassy. “The things you can do with that chin. Whoa.”
“What about him?” Star-with-two-Rs asked, salivating in Paul's direction. “He's kind of cute. Even with that nose.”
I whispered, “Just between you and me, he's gay.”
Brandy nodded at Starr. “See? I told you he looked a little femme.”
Vera scribbled something on a napkin and slid it toward me. It said She wouldn't know “femme” if it sat on her face.
There was another girl sitting with us at the table, a pretty redhead whose name I didn't catch. She was reading a book and didn't get up when Brandy and Starr disappeared into the bedroom with Angelo and Loring's keyboard player, Juan.
“The Yankees win the title for the second time this hour!” Paul cheered, waving a hundred-dollar bill in the air. Then he said something about David Justice being named MVP as if he knew what being named MVP meant.
I lowered my chin and stared at him. “Who are you and what have you done with Paul Hudson?”
The redhead looked up. “You're not really a merch girl, are you?”
“Worse. I'm with the gay one.”
The girl laughed. “I'm Anna,” she said.
I took notice of Anna's book. The cover was a picture of the Sistine Chapel, the Creation of Adam segment where God and Adam are touching fingers.
“It's a biographical novel about Michelangelo,” Anna said. She told me she was a painter studying at an art school in Toronto, and then excused herself to go to the bathroom.
Michael replaced Loring as Paul's new opponent, and Loring took a seat beside Vera. He looked glum and I asked him what was wrong.
“I'm tired,” he said unconvincingly.
Vera leaned in toward his ear. “Know what you need? A tension breaker.”
“Excuse me?”
“S-E-X,” Vera said. “You look like someone who hasn't had it in a long time.”
Loring glanced my way, like he expected me to rescue him from my inebriated friend, but all I did was offer him a baited smile and nod at Anna's vacated seat. “How about that one? She seems sweet.”
He shook his head. “I don't do groupies.”
“She's not a groupie, she's a painter.” I pointed to Anna's book. “Renaissance, right? You have something in common.”
Loring picked up the book, paged through it too fast to have taken in a word, and put it back down.
Vera sniffed his neck. “Wow. You smell yummy. Eliza, come over here and smell him.”
“I know what he smells like,” I said without thinking.
The comment went unnoticed by Vera, whose nose was still stuck on Loring's neck, but Loring raised his eyes for a fraction of a second and I looked away as fast as I could. I felt guilty, though I wasn't sure why.
“When was the last time you had sex?” Vera said, distracting Loring.
He rested his chin on his palm. “Why is this pertinent to your life?”
“Vicarious living. Come on, we'll tell you if you tell us.”
“You first,” he said.
“This morning, in the shower,” Vera answered.
“You did it in our shower?” I whined.
“It's our shower, too.” Then Vera laughed, yelling, “Hey, Paul. Can you guess when the last time Eliza had an orgasm was?”
“Yesterday,” Paul yelled without turning his head from the screen. He nudged Michael. “You were at lunch.”
“That's what you think,” Vera chimed. “She cheated on you with a guitar crate.”
“She what?” the whole room practically said in unison.
I covered my face and took Vera's drink away from her.
“You were bleeding,” Vera explained to Paul, imitating the inflections in my voice when I'd told her the story. “And those crates vibrate when the music gets loud.”
To get the most out of his laugh, Paul rolled onto his back, but he composed himself quickly because his team was about to head into the outfield. He nudged Michael again. “Doesn't she make you proud?”
“I stopped listening at yesterday,” Michael said.
“Hold it.” Loring leaned forward. “You mean, when I was standing there, you were—”
“Can we just drop it?” I sighed, morbidly embarrassed.
Tab walked over wearing a cone-shaped hat that said My First Birthday. His shirt was unbuttoned and he was smoking a cigar. “What am I missing in here?”
“My betrothed had sex with a guitar crate,” Paul said proudly.
“She what?”
“Forget it!” I cried.
Vera yanked on Tab's sleeve. “When was the last time Loring got some?”
Tab sat down on the table, excited by the topic. “Alone or with someone else?”
“Either or.”
“I'll tell you a little secret about Lori.” Tab's head rotated back and forth between Vera and me. “He's a speed-showerer. Normally it takes him three minutes from the time he turns on the water until the time he turns it off. When he's in there longer than that, I know something's up, no pun intended. In Montreal he broke nine minutes.”
I could feel Loring's discomfort as Vera grabbed Tab's elbow. “There are over half a dozen girls in here,” she said. “You mean to tell me there's not one he'd be willing to at least make out with?”
As if he knew something she didn't, Tab said, “I'm sure there's at least one.”
At that, Loring shot up out of his chair. “Put a lid on it,” he said to Tab. Then he asked Brandy, Starr, and Angelo to vacate his bedroom, and after lingering outside the door while they presumably dressed themselves, he locked himself in and the festivities continued without him.
It was almost noon by the time I woke up. I had no idea how long the party had gone on after Paul and I left, but I'd made plans to run with Loring so I stopped by his suite to see if he still wanted to go.
Tab answered the door with a beer in one hand and a piece of cake in the other.
“Is that breakfast or a late-night snack?” I asked.
“Both.” He jutted the
cake towards me. “Want some?”
“No, thanks. I'm going running. Is Loring up?”
Tab beckoned me in by opening the door as wide as it would go. “Lori,” he yodeled. “A Thousand Ways is looking for you.”
“What did you call me?”
Tab laughed. “Nothing. Come in.”
Inside, Starr was making Bloody Marys over the sink. A girl I didn't remember meeting was watching TV. Anna was asleep on the floor, and Brandy, who had taken a liking to Angelo hours ago, was nowhere in sight.
Loring was on the couch, knees pulled up into his chest, his face bent over a steaming mug of tea as if it were a fire keeping him warm.
“Morning,” I said penitently, playfully kicking the bottom of his foot.
He raised his eyes and gave me a weak smile.
“Are you mad?” I said.
“No.”
“You seemed kind of mad last night.”
“I wasn't.”
“In that case,” I nodded in Anna's direction, “you get any?”
At least I'd made him smile. “You think you're so funny,” he said. “Right. We'll see who's laughing when I channel all my pent up sexual energy into my run and dust you.”
The concept of time, as it's commonly understood by normal people with normal jobs and normal goddamn lives, doesn't exist on the road. The nights spread out like the dark, godforsaken highways that distinguish them, and the days run together like Thanksgiving dinner smothered in gravy. You never really know where you are or what time it is, and the outside world starts to fade away.
It's cool.
And sure, an extended period of said lifestyle would no doubt have major drawbacks, my biggest complaint so far being the food—it's next to impossible to avoid shitty food. But two weeks isn't nearly enough time to suffer the disadvantages common to life on the road. Hell, I like riding around on the bus. I like waking up in a different city every day. Playing for thousands of people night after night is the high of all highs and right now, sitting in my bunk in a parking lot in our nation's capital, I feel like being on this tour is a glimpse of the band's goddamn yellow-brick future. Not to mention that Loring had to go and tell me stories about how, on his first big tour, he and his wife set up cribs in the back of the bus, and how his kids had been to almost every state in the country before they were a year old. Loring's wife thought being on tour was like living in hell, though. She eventually went home and that's when things started getting “rusted.”