by Jim Fusilli
Otis nodded. “Man, I’m gonna get pneumonia rooming with you.”
“Don’t you know you’re supposed sleep in a cold room?” said Lenny.
“Not in a freezer.”
“That’s what you get for being born in Phoenix.”
“You were born in Phoenix, too.”
“But my folks are from Montana,” Lenny said and smiled. “The cold is in my blood. I can take anything.”
Otis shook his head and waited for his numbers to appear on the Keno TV bolted to the back wall of the restaurant. The waitress came and Lenny ordered drinks, a hamburger steak, three eggs over medium, and a side of French toast.
“I bet you’re wondering why I was on the phone all morning?”
Otis nodded vaguely and kept his eyes on the TV screen.
Lenny sunk down in the booth. “The hot water heater in my house broke, and Wendy’s having a fit ’cause I maxed out our credit card buying the new P bass. We’re flat broke with no hot water and her sister and her three brats will be there in less than twenty-four hours.”
“That’s rough,” said Otis and looked at him. “I hate showering in cold water.”
“And who does she call to help her but Dex. He’s picking up a new water heater from Home Depot and coming over to put it in.”
“Dex is her ex-husband, right?”
Lenny nodded. “You know she’ll fuck him and she always fucks best when she’s mad or guilty and she’ll be both.”
“But look at it this way,” said Otis. “At least you’ll get a new water heater and you’ll get it for free.”
The waitress came from the casino bar with a Budweiser and a shot of Jägermeister and set it down. Lenny drank the shot and leaned over the table. “Maybe this tour is cursed. Maybe this one’s like the time we went out with Bobby Diamond.”
“Shit, man, don’t say things like that,” said Otis. “The van caught fire on that run.”
Lenny drank half his glass of beer.
“And remember that guy in the room next to us at the Super 8 shot himself? And Bobby used to give me those three-page lists of fuck ups I’d make. He had to have a perfect memory, son of a bitch. Fuck that guy. Fifty bucks a day and only ten dollars per diem. One beer per set, it ain’t human. And don’t forget he picked up that retarded gal and had her ride with us for three days. This tour ain’t that bad.”
Lenny finished his beer. “Even so I’d rather be out with Bobby. At least Bobby didn’t make me dress up like a biker with a handle bar mustache.”
“What about me?” Otis said. “I have to play metal licks all night. I’ve spent my whole life trying not to play metal, and now I’m in a country band that plays metal.”
Lenny waved the waitress back over and they ordered two more beers and two shots.
“A movie called The Martian’s playing at one,” said Otis as she walked away. “The front desk lady said the movie theater’s barely a mile down the main street.”
“What’s The Martian about again?”
“A guy stuck on Mars.”
Lenny laughed. “Man, we’re already stuck on Mars. I hate this run. Mesquite, Laughlin, Henderson, then not even Vegas but a truck stop outside of Vegas, Tonopah, Reno, and now this place.”
“It’s only twelve more days,” Otis said. “At least the shows have been good.”
“Harlan can sure pack them in. I have no idea how, but he can,” said Lenny.
“I’m getting depressed just thinking about him.”
The waitress came with their drinks and set them down. They knocked the shot glasses together and drank them.
“You think Harlan takes steroids?”
Otis looked at the numbers coming up on the Keno screen. “He might.”
“I’ve never seen a guy in that good of shape.”
“Me neither.”
“You hit?”
“No,” Otis said and then a Mexican kid came from the back with both meals and set them on the table.
Lenny put a napkin on his lap and shook his head. “I still can’t believe I lost my bass.”
“Me neither,” said Otis and began eating.
Lenny took a drink of beer. “Did I ever tell you the time when I was seventeen and doing a tour with this band called The High Range Rustlers?”
Otis shook his head.
“We were playing a convention in Helena, Montana, and after the gig we drove to a friend of one of the guys to stay the night. Back then I never left my bass anywhere. My dad had lost a couple guitars over the years and he was the one who told me to never let the son of a bitch out of my sight. So I took the fucker in with me every time, no matter what. But that night I’d taken some mushrooms and we were drinking tequila and I was the guy bringing in everyone’s personal gear. I took out my bass, set it on the ground, and started making trips. But I forgot the poor fucker in the dark and left her on the front lawn. It was the same time as now, November, and it was like today and had started snowing. Dumped maybe seven or eight inches, not a lot but enough that it covered my bass. We had the next day off. I woke up hungover as shit and didn’t think about where it was. I just ate breakfast and walked around Helena. They had a party that night and not once did I think about my poor bass. The next day comes and we’re loading out and suddenly it starts raining and it melts the snow and wham bam if my bass isn’t there safe and sound in its plastic case. She caused it to rain so I’d find her . . . And then there was that time I went home with that gal and she pulled the knife on me so I ran out of her apartment. Wasn’t until I’d gotten back to the motel that I realized I’d forgotten my bass. And the worst of it was I was so drunk I couldn’t remember where she lived. But the next morning I went down to the lobby and there my bass was leaned against the front desk in that same case. The crazy chick had brought her back. My bass convinced a maniac with a kitchen knife to bring her to the motel. I got dozens of those stories. . . . Hell my dad gave me the bass for my sixteenth birthday and now I’m twenty-nine and I ain’t half as big a fuck up as I was back then. But now, after all this time, she suddenly vanishes at a truck-stop gig outside of Las Vegas. No other gear goes missing, just my Dad’s ’72 P bass. And don’t forget the manager of the room swore up and down he locked every door.”
“I don’t even like talking about it,” said Otis quietly.
“How do you think I feel?” Lenny cried. “Thing’s worth a couple grand.”
“And it was your dad’s.”
Lenny nodded and picked up his knife and fork. “My dad’s probably pissing on my head from heaven for being such a shit-heel.” He broke apart the three over-medium eggs, mixed them in with the hamburger and hash browns, and poured syrup over all of it.
“I really do have a bad feeling about this whole tour,” said Otis. “Don’t forget Mickey lost his gold watch in Henderson.”
“But he left it in the van,” Lenny said. “Who leaves a watch sitting in a van on the seat for everyone to see?”
“But we were only gone ten minutes. Remember it was just a piss break. And there was hardly anyone at that gas station.”
“Well they won’t let us have a key so it wasn’t our fault the van was left unlocked. They get mad if we lock it and they get mad if we don’t.”
“Mickey said his wife gave him the watch,” said Otis with a mouth full of food. “It was her grandfather’s prized possession. She inherited it and had it engraved for their wedding day, ‘Mickey and Emily forever.’ It’s worth a thousand dollars plus, of course, sentimental value.”
“Who wears a watch anymore anyway?”
“You just hate him ’cause he doesn’t like Sneaky Pete,” Otis said and laughed.
“What steel player doesn’t like Sneaky Pete?”
“That’s a good point.”
“Why couldn’t it have happened to Terry?”
“You just hate Terry ’cause he drags,” said Otis.
“And why shouldn’t I? I’m the bass player, aren’t I? He has three beers and then he drags
the rest of the fucking night. When I see him cracking that third bottle I just cringe. He and Harlan do nothing but lift weights and play on the Internet. Maybe Terry should listen to a click and learn how to keep a beat. And just ’cause he’s Harlan’s brother-in-law he gets keys to the van and gets paid more than we do.”
“He has keys ’cause it’s his van.”
“Still,” Lenny said and took the side order of French toast, covered it in butter and syrup, and scraped it off the small plate onto the half-eaten eggs and hamburger steak. “And here’s something else. Mickey thinks Harlan’s about ready to sign some big Nashville deal.”
“Really?”
“He’s probably going to be famous.”
“Jesus, you think that could be true?”
“I don’t know. He sure packs them in. Even in these shitholes.”
Otis looked at the Keno screen and shook his head. “I hate to say what I’m about to say, but maybe we should stick this one out for a while.”
“That’s what Mickey thinks too.”
“The problem is he’ll fire Mickey.”
Lenny nodded and pointed his fork at Otis. “’Cause he’s fat and bald, right?”
“Exactly.”
“Man, Harlan’s an asshole.”
Otis nodded.
Lenny took a drink of beer. “As my dad would say, ‘Mickey is one sugar-picking son of a bitch.’ And that trumps all looks, weight, and most deviant behavior.”
Otis laughed.
“You really think a guy like Harlan could hit the big time?”
Otis pushed his plate to the center of the table. “Did I ever tell you about the time I was in that band called the Black Dust Marauders?”
Lenny shook his head.
“It was when I was nineteen or so. All original songs. We put out a couple records.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Like Doug Sahm meets Yes. Prog country,” he said and laughed. “It didn’t make a lot of sense. Weird time signatures and songs that would go on for ten minutes. But I dug it and the singer-songwriter’s mom bankrolled the band. I made twenty grand just playing fifty or sixty nights a year. She must have lost a fortune. Anyway, we were doing a gig in Salt Lake and the band opening for us was Matchbox Twenty.”
“I think I’ve heard of that band,” said Lenny.
“They were famous a few years back. But that night in Salt Lake they weren’t shit and all we saw was a brand new blue fifteen-seat Econoline with a matching blue trailer taking our parking spot. They were on a major label when labels still had the money. The Black Dust Marauders were topping out at forty to fifty people a gig and driving a fifteen-year-old Dodge. But hell, we brought the people that night. No one knew who they were. Even so, they had a merch person, a sound man, and that new goddamn van and trailer. I watched their set and that’s when I was convinced that none of it made sense. That the whole thing didn’t make sense. They’d sign anyone, throw money at anyone, even a blown-out tire on the side of the road. ’Cause to me that’s what they sounded like. And then you know what happened?”
“What’s that?”
“Maybe three weeks later we were in Boston, Massachusetts, and they were on the radio. I went into a mini-mart and heard them mentioned by a DJ. After that I heard them everywhere. They had a hit. I must have heard their song twenty or thirty times during that last week of the tour. What that says to me is maybe Harlan Sudrey will be the next Kenny Chesney.”
“We sure have to play enough of that shit.”
“Chesney’s better than playing Harlan’s ‘Riding That Wave like a Bull.’ ”
Lenny laughed and kept shoveling in his breakfast.
Otis finished his beer. “I got to say you look like an idiot with that mustache.”
“How do you think I feel?” said Lenny sighing. He put down his knife and fork. “The last thing I want is a handlebar mustache. ’Cause know who else has a fucking handlebar mustache?”
“Who?”
“Wendy’s dad, that’s who. Every time I go to kiss her she thinks it’s her dad trying to stick his tongue down her throat. Man, it’s even worse when we get in the sack.”
Otis laughed, crumbled his Keno card and put it on his breakfast plate.
Lenny set down a twenty dollar bill and his food voucher on the table and got up from his seat. “I got forty bucks on Arizona State and the game starts in an hour. I’ll see you around. Remember he wants to do the Zach Brown song tonight and the Metallica one.”
OTIS WALKED DOWN THE MAIN street of Winnemucca towards the theater. Snow fell but wasn’t sticking and the main road was clear and a constant stream of cars and trucks passed on the road. He darted across the street to a minimart, bought a large bag of M&M’s and a bottle of Coke and put them in his coat pocket. He could see the theater marquee a block away when a man ran toward him on the sidewalk. As he got closer he could see it was the singer, Harlan Sudrey, dressed in a silver-and-black jogging outfit with matching silver-and-black running shoes.
“How far have you gone?” asked Otis.
“I don’t know. I just run for an hour,” Harlan said out of breath. He continued to run in place as they spoke. “It’s good to see you’re getting some exercise.”
“Always trying,” said Otis.
“It’s good I bumped into you. I was hoping to talk. What happened on the intro to ‘Tomahawks and Teepees?’”
“My tuner got stuck.”
Harlan nodded. “What about the bridge on ‘Champagne Sunrise?’”
Otis shook his head. “I’m sorry about that one. I got it confused with ‘Tequila, Tecate & Teresa.’”
“Those changes are close, that’s true,” Harlan said and spit on the ground. “You want me to send you the MP3s so you can revisit them?”
“I have them. I’ll look them over before tonight.”
“Want me to see if Terry can get you a tuner that doesn’t stick?”
“Nah, I figured it out.”
“And remember we’re doing Zach Brown’s ‘Chicken Fried’ in E and tell Lenny we’re not doing just ‘Sandman’ but a Metallica medley that Terry and I worked out last night after the gig. ‘Sandman’ into ‘Sad but True’ into ‘Fuel.’ ‘Fuel’ we’ll do bluegrass. Gig starts at nine, maybe practice at seven so we can work them out.”
Otis nodded.
“And stop by my room sometime before then. Terry and I were thinking about you wearing a mechanic’s shirt.”
“A mechanic shirt?”
“The kind with the names on them. We picked you up a couple in Reno. And you were wearing regular jeans last night.”
“I spilled coffee on my black ones yesterday,” said Otis.
Harlan kept running in place. “They have laundry machines at the end of the motel row.”
Otis nodded.
“You ever think of cutting your hair?”
“Not really,” Otis said. “But look, I’ll let you keep running.”
Harlan nodded. “Oh, one last thing. How drunk do you think Lenny was last night?”
“Drunk?”
“He seemed off with Terry on the third set. Seemed like he was rushing.”
Otis smiled. “Shit, Harlan, Lenny’s got the best time of any guy I ever met. He wasn’t drunk, it was just Terry dragging.”
Harlan spit again. “We’re in room 235,” he said. “Maybe come before five.”
THE MOVIE THEATER WAS EMPTY. He ordered a small popcorn, watched the film, and then walked across the street to the China Garden Chinese restaurant and ate a late afternoon lunch. He called Lenny on the walk back to the motel.
“You know how I hate bad Chinese food.”
“Yeah, so?” replied Lenny.
“Well, for a Podunk town they know how to make Chinese . The Kung Pao Chicken was something else and the sweet and sour pork was the best I’ve had since that place in San Diego.”
“Kung Pao is the stuff with peanuts in it, right?”
“That’s it.”
> “Man, I hate peanuts in food,” said Lenny.
“That’s ’cause you’re a dumb fuck.”
“Maybe.”
“You win on Arizona State?”
“Missed the spread by two points, but I put twenty on LSU and it looks like I’ll get that.”
Otis walked along the sidewalk and snow continued to fall. “Harlan thinks you were rushing the third set. I told him it was Terry but who knows what he thinks.”
“Where’d you see him?”
“He was jogging when I was heading to the movie.”
“Were there any aliens in ‘The Martian?’”
“Nothing like that.”
“You like it?”
“Good enough,” Otis said.
“Harlan should spend more time learning to play guitar than bitching about me.”
Otis laughed. “We have practice at seven.”
“Shit, man,” Lenny cried. “Why we always have to practice?”
“I don’t know.”
“What are we learning?”
“A Metallica medley.”
Lenny started laughing and hung up.
AT THE BACK END OF the motel was a small laundry room with two washers and two dryers. Otis opened his suitcase and put all his clothes, including the pants and shirt he was wearing, into a rusted-out washing machine. In his underwear he walked back to his room, showered, and shaved. He put his clothes in the dryer, watched TV until they were done, and then put on his black jeans and his best black long-sleeved Western shirt. He shined his boots, brushed his teeth, and walked down to room 235 and knocked on the door.
Inside Harlan and Terry had pushed their beds apart. Harlan was doing pushups in the space in between them.
“Forty-four, forty-five, forty-six,” yelled Terry. When he got to fifty Harlan quit, stood up, and stepped back, and Terry got down.
“We’re almost done,” Harlan said, breathing heavily as sweat dripped down his face. “Terry has one more set so hold tight.”
Terry went through his fifty and then collapsed on his bed. Harlan walked over to the vanity sink outside the bathroom, took off his shirt, and stood in front of the mirror and stared at himself. He had the abs of a boxer and the arms of a football player. Otis just shook his head. Terry turned the TV onto CMT, opened a Red Bull, and got on his laptop.
