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Vol.1: Over the Tracks - I [Chapter 2]

Chapter 2: A Machine for the Music Industry

Jac is sitting on my bed in my boxers and t-shirt. She hasn’t brushed her hair, and it falls in a tangled, blonde mess around her face. Her eyes are bigger than they usually are, her lower lip jutted out in a pout. A man weaker than I would have melted already.

“I’ll be so bored,” she exclaims.

“I’ll be bored too,” I tell her and throw my last pair of socks in the suitcase.

“You’ll be on tour. I’ve been on tour, I know what it’s like,” she insists. But this won’t be one of those tours I used to enjoy, hang out at the bar, jump on stage from the midst of the crowd. And it won’t be the ones she has made cameos on, living on the bus for three or four days and hanging out with the bands she is friends with. This is venue security, classified schedules and impersonality taken to new extremes. They all want a piece of us. Now, we’re famous.

“Get dressed,” I tell her, going to the kitchen to empty the fridge of anything that is likely to go off while I’m away. I stop at the bedroom doorway after I’m done, and I watch her put on a bright green dress that stops above her knees. No bra, of course; she has burnt all of hers.

Jac grudgingly helps me carry one of my two suitcases. The taxi is waiting for me downstairs, ready to take me to the airport where I will be reunited with the band. The crew is already in Minnesota where we kick off, getting everything ready for tomorrow night. Jac sighs and chews on her bottom lip. I open my arms. She presses her head against my chest and wraps her tiny arms around my middle. Will she really miss me? Would I really want her to? My chin leans on the top of her head, and I look down my street blindly as my better half says something.

“Huh?”

“Who’s Jackie?” she repeats. “Brent said that you named the tour, so who is she?”

“Brent said?” I repeat sceptically. “When did you hang out with him?” She shrugs in response, and I shrug back, both of our answers locked away in our brains where we don’t share. The taxi driver gets out of the car and points at his wristwatch. I sigh. “Gotta go, babe.”

Jac lets go of me. “I love you.”

“You too,” I say easily. Too easily.

She smiles brightly, and I give her a soft kiss. Then we are separated by the window of the car, and she waves me off before turning around. Her step isn’t any heavier than it normally is. The taxi gains speed and the driver asks, “Was that your wife?”

I suppress a spontaneous laugh. “No.”

“Fiancée?”

“My girlfriend. Occasionally.”

“Oh.” The man sounds disapproving, but he’s an old guy, almost fifty. God forbid us young people, kissing in the streets, fucking in the bushes, growing long hair, wearing tight clothes and listening to that goddamned rock and roll. God forbid us.

After two blocks, it gets harder for me to remember the details of Jac’s face. She is most likely realising the same about me.

* * *

We get to our hotel in St. Paul late afternoon. The venue is on the other side of town, but our tour bus is parked two blocks from the hotel. Joe is organising a huge pre-tour party in his hotel room, starting now, but I decide to skip it. Why be hung-over tomorrow? I definitely do not want to be in even worse shape than I will be.

Instead, I decide to acquaint myself with my home for the next three months. Bigger label means more money, and more money means a better bus. It’s not hard to top the piece of shit we used to tour with, but my expectations are exceeded when I round the corner and spot our bus. It’s brand new and looks like a metal box with a smooth, blue panel on both sides. Small windows decorate the sides of the bus from the front to the middle where they suddenly stop. I figure it’s where the sleeping area must start. To my surprise, Pete is standing by the bus door, rubbing the metal surface with his sleeve. His bell bottom jeans are flipping in the wind as I make my way over.

“Hey.”

Pete swirls around, lifting huge sunglasses up to his forehead. His smirk spreads from his eyes to his mouth and cheeks. “Hey! Just polishing her up,” he says adoringly, casting the bus a look he would give to his lover. “Groovy, ain’t she? Come on, have a look,” Pete urges. I lift a sceptical eyebrow. He is being far too nice to me when we both know that the dislike is mutual. “Come on! I’ve got a surprise for you in the back.”

“A one-way ticket to Hawaii?” I ask and fake a laugh, and Pete imitates me.

“So funny, Ryan. Ah, you’re a kidder.” He wipes his eyes.

I get on the bus, passing the empty driver’s seat. Pete gets on the bus after me, and I can feel the slight tilt of our weight. I push a thin curtain aside that can give the driver privacy when driving, and am instantly in a lounge area. Pete eagerly shows me around, explaining how we can hang out on the couches or on the two armchairs with the table in between, perfect for card games to kill time or a nocturnal snack in between cities. The couches and chairs are yellow with orange polka dots while the walls are light green. Needless to say Pete had a hand in this. Nonetheless, I make approving sounds. A couch on a bus? Insane. We only had normal seats the last time.

I pass the tiny kitchen counter and fridge, which is small but should fit a few beers. That’s the latest technology right there. So far, the bus is liveable and downright luxurious. The bathroom is microscopic, but the toilet flushes, which is more than I can say about our last bus. We have clearly hit it big time - everything about the new, modern bus says so.

“The guys decided their bunks yet?” I ask.

“They haven’t checked out the bus. They said they would, but...” Pete looks like a kid whose friends didn’t show up for his birthday party after all.

“Oh, yeah. Joe is having a party in his room. I imagine he has ordered alcohol for over a hundred bucks by now,” I mutter, and Pete goes two shades paler. “Let’s hope they don’t trash the place,” I add with a smile that is practically frolicking in Pete’s sudden anguish. He obsesses over every cent. Cheap bastard.

I open the door to the bunks and stop in my inspection. A young man with dark brown hair stands in the narrow pathway. He turns his head to look at me over his shoulder and says, “Hey.” He has an almost too handsome face with full, beautifully shaped lips that are slightly too big for him, a nose that dips half an inch too low, but neither feature do nothing except enhance the grace of his face. I’ve never seen him before. He is roughly my age and slightly shorter than me. I can’t decide if he is buff or not: he has strong arms and shoulders, but his overall impression is tiny with a narrow waist. His tight clothes only support the impression as the shirt stops two inches before his jeans start. I don’t get the latest fashion at all.

The man draws shut a bunk curtain and wipes his hands to the back of his tight jeans.

“Hey,” I return, the question of ‘and you are?’ clear in my tone.

“Ryan, this is Brendon, Simon’s replacement. Brendon, this is Ryan,” Pete explains, and yeah, figures. This is William’s friend. I conclude that he is too skinny. Not as skinny as me, but I am not expected to lift and shift and push and pull hardcases filled with amps, drums and guitars all day long.

“The singer, right?” Brendon clarifies and offers his hand. I take it.

“It’s my band,” I shrug, regardless of what Joe might say. It’s my music. Don’t try taking it from me.

“Groovy,” Brendon nods, eyeing between me and Pete. “Well, I’m late for the party,” he says, a cue stating that he wants to leave. We give him space, and he squeezes past.

I look after him, feeling just the tiniest bit confused. Brendon looks nothing like any roadie I’ve worked with or seen before. Where was the beard? The rock ‘n roll hair? I don’t go for “the bigger, the better” hair policy that is so popular in our scene, but my brown locks still speak of a level of carefree hippie descent. Brendon’s hair was neatly cut.

Pete walks to the door at the back of the bunks while I add things up. Eight bunks, four on each side. Four band members, one tour manager, four roadies. There isn’t enough room.

“How exactly –”

Pete opens the backdoor, revealing what is best described as a nest of sorts. I snake past Pete to the small back lounge, taking one step from the door before standing by the side of a double bed that is surrounded by the bus on three sides. It looks cosy with huge, red pillows and blankets, and Pete puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “No bunk for you. You sleep right here in the queen-sized bed.”

Because I am not like the rest of the band. I’m the lead: I’m special. I’m the stubborn star Pete has been trying to polish.

He is trying to make me forgive him for our fifty-five show tour. And what’s worse, it’s working. I hate bunks. He knows that, the sly bastard. In bunks, I toss and turn and bang my head to the ceiling, wake up covered in bruises.

“It’s almost like having your own room,” Pete enthuses. “A groovy, big bed, you get all the privacy you want and a good night’s rest. Not like Jac will be here, right?”

“Yeah.”

I had actually worried about how I’d get laid on this bus. Now I know.

“The other guys will be furious that I’ve got my own room,” I point out even as I salivate over the thought. Maybe I deserve this. I have far more pressure on me than the other guys. They don’t get what it’s like.

“I’ll talk to them. You just leave it up to me,” Pete says in his I-can-fix-anything voice. “You’ll even enjoy this tour. You’ll see.”

He’s even more disillusioned than he has been.

* * *

Civic Center, St. Paul, Minnesota. The show is not quite sold out. Pete says it was a close call.

Our support band is some Midwestern promise for the music world. I follow them from the side of the stage for a while as the energetic singer takes a hold of the microphone and shouts, “Fuck the war!” The crowd roars like his words are new when they are not. The war has been over for a few years, a handful of troops still lingering in Vietnam. We need something new to fight for, but no one seems to be coming up with anything. I am sure most of the roaring is from the enthusiasm that the singer said the F word.

Music and politics. It’s not a good idea to mix them.

“What do you think?” Zack asks from beside me, and I shrug.

“A bit pretentious. A bit insincere.”

“About the crowd,” he laughs, and I force my eyes to the right where I see a row of people, then another, another, and then the venue opens up like the open sea, endlessly fading into black. I make my way back to the dressing room, where the rest of the band is getting ready. Joe is my opposite in many ways, and over the five years that we have been in this band, Joe has made friends in every state of this country. He surrounds himself with people, and he invites these admirers backstage in every city, so even now the dressing room is full of people I don’t know with backstage stickers glued to their shirts and jeans.

“Pete,” I call out, and Pete reads my expression easily enough. He looks torn between pleasing me and pleasing Joe, but two minutes later, the room is void of freeloaders. Joe doesn’t mind for once as he too wants to get ready to go on. It’s the first night. That counts. He, Brent and Spencer are all hungover.

I didn’t drink last night, but I’ll drink now. I block out the voices, laughter, excitement and nervousness, take sips from the wine bottle and stare at our setlist. Maybe the order isn’t good. Maybe we got it all wrong.

“Ryan.”

“Huh?” I look up and see Brendon. He is holding out his hand with an unsure smile. I blink. His smile.

“I need the setlist?”

“Right.” I pass it to him, and he rushes out of the room as William nearly squeals, “Can I please, please be the one-two-three guy?”

Spencer is putting on his stage clothes: jeans, t-shirt, vest and bandanna. Joe is always the most extravagant, and tonight, he is wearing a one-piece with a V-cut so deep it almost goes to his belly button. He should shave his chest hair, at least for my sake. Brent’s going on in a suit. Pete is calling out encouragements, and back in the hall, the crowd is cheering and chanting loud enough for us to hear. My breathing is shallow as I hear the increased pace of my heartbeat soaring in my ears. One down, fifty-four to go. After tonight, it’ll be one down.

William comes back, a big grin on his face. “Five minutes! I’ll keep an eye on you from the back!” William is taking care of the merch, and he gives us a thumbs up and leaves.

I keep studying the backstage pass I have hanging around my neck, examining the font spelling out The Followers and Jackie, Me and This Lady, brushing my thumb over ‘all access’. Pete keeps telling us not to lose these. It’s a crown of sorts, a shield and a sword, but somehow, it still feels like an iron chain around my neck, pulling me down.

Pete hurdles us together for a big pep talk. I don’t listen, but I put my hand in the middle with the others. Then something weird happens: I slide to the back of my head. My eyes become a cinema screen, and I take a comfortable seat in the back of my brain, tilt the chair backwards, reach for the popcorn. On the screen is a corridor, then another, a flight of stairs, Spencer’s back, sudden lights. The side of a stage, screaming fans in the distance, a halt, Andy and Zack are smiling at the screen, encouraging, and the ear-wrenching noise is muffled as the halt is over, and the camera flips down, shows my shoes walking, which is funny because I am in my brain cinema and not walking on stage. That is not me; that’s somebody else. That’s a machine for the music industry.

A microphone. A funny metal ball with a thousand little holes, and it comes closer to the screen. A voice says, “Good evening, St. Paul,” speaking into it. A girl in the front row stretches out both arms and screams, “RYAN!”

Instantaneously, I am pulled from my chair and onto the floor of my brain, and I struggle in vain, kick the air and scream as invisible hands take a hold of my collar and drag and drag and drag me, throw me at the cinema screen, and I fall right through.

I am on stage in front of thousands, people stretching far to my right and far to my left, and right ahead of me until they get eaten by the dark. The lights are hot. I’ve got a guitar around me, providing a very thin layer of protection. How did I get here?

Spencer yells, “One-two, one-two-three-four –”

Play. Just play. You know how to.

I let myself slip into automatic, managing to do it out of sheer horror. After the first two songs, it becomes nothing more than a painful, sickening throb in my guts.

I resent the audience.

Luckily, we all have certain roles on stage that we are known for. Joe is the entertainer who jumps with his guitar, throws it up into the air, entertains, spins around like mad. I’m famous for my lack of interaction, for being stoic and solemn. The reviews say it’s my thing. Brent is from between the two of us, rocking out with Joe sometimes, coming up to me to share the mic and shout into it. Spencer can hide behind his drum kit. I should’ve been a drummer.

I close my eyes and pretend that the audience is not there, turn around to play guitar to Spencer, who bangs and bangs, breaks two drumsticks, beats the shit out of the drums like his life depends on it. Knowing him, he probably believes it does. Sweat rolls down from under his red bandanna, hair stuck to his neck. Eventually, he crashes the cymbals and the song is at an end.

Six thousand people behind me roar. I walk to the drum kit, take a glass of water from the stage floor and pour its contents over my head. It soaks my shirt, and Spencer grins at me. The water lands on the guitar too. Sadly, I do not get electrocuted.

“Ryan.”

I look to my side and focus on Andy. His glasses are slipping down his nose as he sweats in the heat of the stage lights. He is offering me a guitar with a hand that is attached to a heavily tattooed arm, and I quickly walk back to the mic, step on two effect pedals to turn them off and unplug my Telecaster before giving it to him. I plug in the new one, check the tuning, and it’s just me and the instrument as I make sure everything is ready. The audience keeps clapping, as if beckoning me to play, to do something exciting, give them their money’s worth.

I strum the start of the next song. They recognise it, and the girls scream while the boys shout.

Brent is at the piano, and I can hear my guitar through the amps, the way it buzzes like a live wire, angry and demanding.

At the side of the stage, the crew is watching. Pete has his arms crossed, his shoulders tense. He is waiting for me to break down or storm off. Andy is nodding his head to the beat while Zack is eyeing the audience. I know William is somewhere around, making sure the venue workers are selling the merch at the right prices.

The new guy, Brendon, is reading a book.

My eyes fix on him.

It’s the first night on tour. We are the most exciting band around, all these fans paid to see us. We are famous. And there’s this guy, a guy who is getting paid to stand there, the best place to watch us perform, and... he is reading a book.

It takes me half of the song to remember what the hell I’m even supposed to be doing.

* * *

I wait around outside the dressing room, nodding as the crew heads back for the bus. The backstage area is full of people, all saying hi to me as they walk past with slightly hopeful smiles like I’ll indicate I want to start a conversation. I don’t.

“I just gotta,” I mumble and wave my hands around, and no one stops to ask me, “What?” One brush off from me is enough. Pete simply reminds me we have to leave in twenty and warns me of the aficionados waiting outside the venue. Zack offers to play the bodyguard since Pete is convinced they want me to place my hand above their heads and bless them, or quite possibly impregnate them. I can take on a few fans. I think.

My calloused fingertips ache from the show. I can see bits of black on them from the dirty strings. I should have practised more to prepare myself for the tour, but we hardly did more work than the crew practice. We didn’t exactly want to lock ourselves up in a small room with each other.

I hear movement in the dressing room, and I take in a breath and go in. Brendon is by the dressing tables and he looks up, our eyes meeting in the mirror. He’s just come from the shower, a towel wrapped around his narrow waist.

“Hey,” I say, and he turns around, tightening the towel with uncertain movements.

“Hi. Uh, I thought –”

“I was wondering,” I begin, not understanding why he is acting flustered when he doesn’t even know what I am going to say. “What were you reading?”

Brendon blinks at me. “Sorry?”

“Tonight. During the show.” A slight red emerges on Brendon’s cheeks as he opens his mouth without anything coming out. “I saw you,” I cut in.

“Hemingway. The Sun Also Rises.”

I lost to an alcoholic wannabe fisherman who spent his golden years drinking piña coladas in Key West before shooting his brains out. “What’s the book about?” I ask.

Brendon shrugs. “This American guy who lives in Paris. He loves a woman, who doesn’t love him back. Or, well, I think she loves him. She just doesn’t love him enough to care, and he knows that.”

For a moment, I think he is describing a very saccharine and romanticised version of my current relationship before my own ridiculousness dawns on me. Want of love is not love.

“You know you’re supposed to be paying attention during the shows. A mic stand might fall over, a string might break,” I list, and don’t mention how, tragic love story or not, I should still be more captivating than a dusty book. They said we had an amazing first show. I was there, I don’t know, but that’s what they said.

Brendon mutters, “Sorry.”

I look around the dressing room. It’s a mess now that we’ve had our way with it. Empty beer bottles, bits of food, one emotionally fucked up front man and a roadie who obviously can’t be bothered.

“You ever been a roadie before?”

Brendon shakes his head. “Used to work at a venue back in San Francisco. This is my first tour, though.”

“You live in San Francisco?” I ask, and he nods. I let my shoulders drop as I remember that we both have to make bus call. “Just pay a bit more attention, alright?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Come on, then. Don’t wanna be late.”

Brendon searches for his clothes, and I turn around as he gets dressed. He checks the dressing room one last time to make sure no one has forgotten anything, and a venue worker shows us to the back door. The place is too big for us to be able to figure it out for ourselves.

There are fans waiting outside, just like Pete said there would be. I feel myself tensing up at the sight of them. There are far more than I had expected. I thought there’d be a couple like we had on our last tour, but there must be nearly twenty of them. Brendon and I both freeze, and my eyes frantically look around for an escape that isn’t there.

“Ryan!”

I will never get used to random people knowing my name. Twenty people let out an excited squeal and rush over, a mob suddenly surrounding us. The one who gets to me first, the ginger haired one, says, “Can I shake your hand?”

“Sure.”

“That was a beautiful show. That was –”

“The new album is amazing –”

“Your music is –”

“Thanks, that’s nice. Thanks for coming out. Yeah.” I speak to everyone and no one at all. They are all speaking at the same time. One girl stands in the back and stares at me with watery eyes. Someone touches my shoulder, someone my wrist, coming in closer and closer. I try to take steps back to no avail. Someone is snapping pictures of me.

“I’m coming to the next four shows! Would’ve come to more, but I ran out of money.”

I laugh uncomfortably and sign his copy of Boneless, where Brent, Joe and Spencer’s autographs already are, smearing the cover art of the LP. Jac designed it. She’s an artist and perfectly unknown, not counting the fame she gets for fucking me. She is an artist, and she has her privacy, and she wants to get rid of it so badly. Stupid woman.

I mutter, “It’s gonna be the same show tomorrow night. You’ll be wasting your time...”

“Hardly!” he enthuses.

I can’t come up with anything to say. “What do you think of St. Paul?” someone shouts.

Nothing. I’ve seen the tour bus, one diner, one hotel room. I think nothing of it.

“It’s, yeah... a lovely place.”

A girl smiles appreciatively, her eyes shining. They are pushing and shoving each other, and I feel more terrified by the second.

“Ryan, man, can I just ask –”

A hand lands on my shoulder, but it’s not trying to devour me, it’s trying to balance me. “I’m really sorry, but we have to get going now,” Brendon says firmly in a ‘don’t mess with me’ voice that sounds like it belongs to a man much taller and larger and more threatening than him.

“What? No, wait –”

“Step back, please!” Brendon orders. I shrug as an apology without being sorry at all, and Brendon firmly pulls me with him. He starts to walk behind me, hand on my shoulder and leading me away. The fans follow us. “Bye, Ryan!” “See you tomorrow night!” “Love you, man!” “I love you!” Brendon has to ask them to step back a second time as we take hurried steps and I hang my head, clearly thinking with an ostrich’s logic that hiding my head will make the rest of me vanish too. Brendon lets go when the distance is safe enough.

I mutter, “Thanks.”

“No probs,” Brendon says as we reach the bus. The thought of an actual bodyguard seems exaggerated, but with every day, I slowly realise how huge our band has become. I should let Zack play the angry dog with a tendency to bite. “Shit, those guys were insane. Looked at you like God.”

“I am God. To them,” I amend.

Brendon shakes his head in disbelief, but I don’t share his shock. I don’t want him to see that, for a second there, I got damn scared.

“Are you always that awkward with your fans?”

“I wasn’t awkward,” I protest, now fumbling my pockets for a cigarette. I offer him one, but he refuses. After one puff, I nod, “Yeah, I am.”

Brendon laughs. “Figured.”

We get on the bus, and I give St. Paul one last look over my shoulder. The fans are still lingering around, perhaps praying that I will come back to their temple to be worshipped.

* * *

“Another beer, come on!”

Andy pushes the fridge door shut with his leg, and the guys cheer as his arms are filled with more bottles. The entire front lounge smells of weed as we’re crossing the state line between Minnesota and Wisconsin. I should be sleeping, but it’s the first night. You always stay up on the first night of tour. It’s essential for the crew to bond so that we can have a laugh for the first three weeks. After that start the fights and the moans about missing everyone back home. Someone threatens to quit until Pete manages to intervene. Maybe someone will actually quit this time.

Joe, the insane fucker, is driving. We don’t have to drive when there are four roadies to take shifts for us, but he insisted on it. Something about him, night-time radio and the open road. I’m surprised by his act of kindness. He firmly said that he was too big a star to drive the bus or van anymore, so I take his driving to mean that he’s fucking furious about something and thinks it’s best not to be in the same room with anyone. The rest of us have crammed into the lounge area, which manages to seat the eight of us and even leaves room for more. Pete is going through paperwork by the table, having difficulty stepping out of his managerial role. He only looks up to make sure we’re not making a mess.

Brendon has his Hemingway on his lap, but he’s not reading it. Maybe he is waiting for the conversation to get boring.

“A toast!” Brent insists, and we all lift our drinks. “To the amazing, fabulous, fucking rocking Jackie, Me, And This Lady ’74 tour!” The guys cheer and drink up. I take a sip of my beer, feel the cool glass against my lips.

“Ry,” Zack asks, and I hum and stare at the mouth of my beer bottle. “Why didn’t you bring Jac on tour, man?”

I snort. “As if I would when I know you want to put it in her.” The guys laugh, even Zack. He knows how to laugh at the truth when I present it to him. “Jac is coming to New York,” I add in.

Spencer joins in with, “Jac and Zack, sitting in a tree...”

“Sounds cute,” Andy grins. “Valerie was pissed as fuck that I’d be gone for most of the summer. She’s convinced I’m gonna bang a groupie. What groupie? Where? I’m not even in the fucking band!”

Spencer grins. “We were in Minnesota, man. The ladies will come a-rollin’ when we find some that meet our standards.” Spencer speaks like an expert though he never fucks any of them. He stopped when he met that girl. Here’s hoping he will start again. It’ll do him good.

“Yeah, they’ll all probably look a lot like Jac,” Zack retorts, and I give him the middle finger with a sweet smile as the guys laugh.

Brent, of all people, says, “Come on, don’t talk about Jac like that.” I appreciate the support of not having my whatever-she-is labelled as cheap, even if Brent is the biggest chauvinist in the room, which is exactly what Jac hates about most men, myself probably included. Brent asks, “What about you?” He is addressing Brendon. “You got a girl back home?”

“I’m single,” Brendon says, speaking for the first time in a while.

Andy nods approvingly. “Good, that’s –”

“And I’m gay.”

Pete’s head lifts from the paperwork in the blink of an eye. The chattering dies.

Brendon’s lips press together as he scratches the side of his head. “I don’t think William told you guys about that.”

Brent shakes his head a little. I turn to William, who, if someone had to be, should be the gay guy in the room. William wears his heart on his sleeve, is easy to get upset, is easy to forgive. He often acts like it’s the end of the world when it’s just a delay with our arrival to a venue, the drama swelling up to phenomenal levels. He talks with his hands, obsesses over his hair, and despite all this, he at least claims to be a straight man. And he never told us that the guy he recommended was a fag. He never said a word of it.

“Well,” William begins to fill the silence, “it’s not like it makes a difference.” Pause. “Right?”

I quickly try to figure out what the odds of getting raped by Brendon are. I could take him on.

“No, yeah.” “Of course not.” “Right, sure.” “Yeah.” Our voices are mumbled, seeking to be more liberal than truly accepting. William is looking at us all with big eyes, and I can almost see his left eyebrow twitching as he slowly works himself up to a scene. So Brendon fucks guys. Some guys do.

Brendon looks me straight in the eye, and I look away.

Pete can sense that William is about to freak out and asks, “So, Brendon. No boyfriend or... or anything or?”

I am relatively sure there is too many “or”s in the question. William leans back and lets out a breath. Thank god we managed to stop that one.

“I’m young, I’m cute, and I live in the Castro. I’m not looking for anything, definitely not to settle down.”

“Very sensible,” Andy grants him. It takes a group effort from Spencer and Zack to direct the conversation elsewhere. Brendon and William go to their bunks shortly after, William with the excuse that he needs to take a nap before he starts driving. He probably wants to calm down or vent to Brendon in private. Joe pulls up to a rest stop, and most of us scramble out of the bus and into the night air.

“You don’t think he and William...?” Brent trails off as we sit in the all-night diner. I sit in my own booth and scribble down in my notebook. The waitress comes around, but I decline the coffee with a shake of my head. I plan to retire to my glorious nest once we get back on the bus. Joe glances at me with a dirty look, and now I know it’s me he is avoiding. Great, what did I do this time?

Zack says, “I hope not.”

I don’t look up but listen in with a half-interested ear. I doubt they are fucking. I’ve seen William with women. They both live in San Francisco, and Brendon said something about having worked in a venue. William has worked at the Winterland Ballroom. It’s the only connection I can come up with.

Joe asks, “So he actually said that he’s cute? Jeez.”

“I can see it,” Spencer says, and I look up to watch the back of his head. “I can see why gay guys would find him attractive. He’s pretty feminine physically, his ass is like a girl’s, then hips and all.”

Brent snorts. “Someone’s been watching.”

“I just made an observation,” Spencer says calmly, and I recognise the tone as one that leaves no room for suggestive remarks. It’s not really fair to be talking about Brendon behind his back like this, but the news is far too juicy to just pass.

“Shit,” Joe gasps suddenly. “Does this mean I have to stop walking around the bus in my underwear?”

The guys start laughing, and I take my pen and notebook and head back out as my friends argue which one of them Brendon will try to molest.

“Yo, Ry,” Joe calls out. “Is your highness going back to his exclusive tour bus boudoir?”

I fucking told Pete it wouldn’t go down well. I told him. But Joe doesn’t understand.

“Yeah, I am.”

“Well, have fun now,” Joe says and sips his coffee, asking Spencer something as they all proceed to ignore me.

The night is not as warm as it would be back home, but the stars seem much brighter. The June wind blows in the pine trees, and a car drives down the road, headlights appearing and disappearing from sight. It’s quiet and I’m alone, something I know won’t happen a lot for the rest of the summer.

I make my way back to the bus, and for a moment, I let myself be the random guy with a guitar who wrote a few songs. It’s what I ultimately am.

Brendon emerges from the bus bathroom wearing a faded white t-shirt and grey boxers with a toothbrush in his mouth just as I head for the bunks. I say a simple, “Goodnight,” and he waves his hand, hair sticking out in random places.

I get why he was flustered when I barged in while he was barely dressed. I thought nothing of it, but if he’s a homosexual, he would perceive the situation entirely differently.

It’s a strange thought.