“I’ve got to see what they’re up to. Otherwise I won’t be able to feel their pain,” AC smirked.
Jack thrust his hips up. “Come over and feel my pain. Check out how deep it goes.”
AC shook his head. “Oh man. Just like the old days.” He leaned down and whispered to me. “It’s not their first tour, but they’re always like this. Don’t let it get to you.”
I laughed. “Not yet, anyway.”
Tristan glanced around. “How many weeks of the circus?” He gestured to us. “Come see what passes for paradise on the bus.”
Pete pretended to whisper. “Oh good, they’re leaving. Turn the porn back on.”
Jack said, “Where’d you put the remote, you fucker?” Then his voice went lower. “Can’t we just listen in? It’ll be live.”
I wondered if Tristan had heard. I wondered if they cared.
We started walking towards the back of the bus, but Pete called Tristan and AC back. I turned around to see the driver going out. I guessed he was doing a final check around the bus. It must be time to go, I thought. Driving through the night. The Tour. Really beginning. I was examining the bunks, when I heard the bus start up and a loud cheer came from the front. I could feel my heartbeat in my throat. As a kid, I had always dreamed of being rootless, driving around the country. Different day, different town. And now we were about to do it.
Tristan and AC came back—apparently the guys had wanted to apologize for being a little rowdy—and we made it to the end of the skinny corridor, past the bunks with their curtains, looking a little like an old fashioned train. The modern mirror and glass effect, trimmed with little fairy lights, distracted the mind away from the reality that it really wasn’t a huge living space. Tristan turned the handle of the door to the back of the bus, and we entered a room that had a queen size bed, a flat screen TV, and a lot of mirrors. I took a deep breath. No wonder people looked forward to the hotel part. This was like camping, with glitter. I looked down at my small suitcase, wishing I had brought a backpack and a Swiss Army knife.
AC seemed happier though. “Hey man, this is pretty nice. Did you request that they kit it out like this?” He stretched out on the bed, his arms behind his head, taking up space like a dog being allowed on the couch.
Tristan sat down on the bed, and shoved AC and his legs over. “Yeah, I did make some requests. Experience tells.” He laughed. “Remember that tour up the California coast? When we stopped at that winery?”
AC winced. “I remember some of it.”
Tristan looked at me. “We had a big concert—well, not that big. In a vineyard. Complete with hotel. Really nice place. People go up for the outdoors, the tastings. It usually turns into a kind of party. Always a few extra rooms available in case people thought they’d really be spitting it out, and planned to leave afterwards.” Tristan laughed, and looked over at AC, a slight indulgent smile tracing across his face. “Some of the ticket holders had big rooms as part of the package plan. They were good people, really. And a couple of the nice ladies had invited AC here back to their room. They got some of the staff to carry him back to the bus when he finally passed out. 4 a.m. I hear this banging on the door. They won’t go away. I finally open the door to the bus, and there are these two guys, in hotel uniform, with AC trussed up between them. They carried him in the room—it was a bit like this one—and dumped him there. He lay there like the dead for 12 hours. But we woke him up in time for the next show—still hungover as shit.” He looked over at AC. “What were those ladies’ names again?”
AC looked sheepish. “Fuck knows, man. They exhausted me, what can I say?”
Tristan smiled. “I hope they named their first borns after you.” He laughed. “After all, they’d all be related.”
“Hey, I’m careful. Any accidents weren’t mine, man.” AC winked at him. “Don’t worry Lily. Shouldn’t be any mothers chasing us in Montreal.” He rolled over on his side, and looked up at Tristan. “So here we are, again. Are you glad to have me? I’ve missed it. Missed you.”
Tristan looked over at me, his eyes still and wary.
AC laughed. “She’s cool. We had a long chat in London.” Tristan frowned.
I finally spoke up. “True enough. We did talk for quite a while. Not sure what we said though.”
They both watched me for a moment. I didn’t say anything else. Tristan sighed and came to stand by my side. Then I felt Tristan’s warm lips on my cheek.
“That’s what is so perfect about you Lils. You notice everything and say nothing. Well, except what you’re going to write for the magazine.”
I kissed him back, gently. I looked Tristan in the eye, then walked over and gave AC a kiss on the cheek. Tristan let out a deep breath. I didn’t think he realized it. “Yeah, well, again, like I said before. What you want out there. With extra sparkly fan girl sprinkles.” I looked around. “Bathroom?”
“Outside. No, kidding. One door is a closet, the other is a bathroom. Water only, doll. Unless you’re desperate.” Tristan grimaced. “Not to be crass, but…”
“No, that’s cool. I’ve been camping. This is just like a mirrored tent.” I went out shutting the door gently behind me, but just in time to hear AC saying, “You trust her, Tristan? Are you sure?”
Then Tristan’s voice, warning, “She never even told me you two talked. So she kept your secrets. She’s kept mine. Now she’ll have to keep ours.”
I moved away from the door. Whatever their secrets were, I had a feeling that after a couple of weeks in this gilded tin can, I’d know them all.
chapter three
New York to Montreal
The bus had stopped for a break at the truck stop before the border, so we wouldn’t have to all wake up in the middle of the night for the passport check. As it was, 5 a.m. seemed painfully early. But the Canadian border patrol apparently liked to put a face with the ID, especially for a rock band in a tour bus. The local promoter in Montreal had faxed them the paperwork. No emails for this. The officer in charge of our passage had already accused us of being incompetent, and Tristan had called James, who had woken up the promoter, who had given us the details. They had all the paperwork for the permits, it had been confirmed by an A. Antoine. That name was enough to get the guy to go back inside to hunt down the passenger manifest. So we all stood there in the early light of the morning, outside the bus, while the guards walked around the bus with a tired looking German Shepherd, who sniffed hopefully, while the one of them examined our passports, looking for errors. A third one, without dogs or passports, had asked for Tristan’s autograph.
After he’d moved away, Tristan whispered in my ear. “Do you think it’s a technique? Or just poor social skills?” He laughed. The guards glared at us. I gave Tristan a sudden passionate kiss. Let them think we were giggling over sex. Better than thinking we were taking the piss.
The driver looked bored. He’d mentioned briefly last night before we left that if anyone was carrying he’d leave them at the border, so anything better get used up. I saw Jack poke around his shower kit, and triumphantly pull out what looked like a Xanax, and swallow it down with a gulp of beer. Apart from him, I wasn’t sure if anyone else had been listening. His pronouncement seemed too serious for the start of tour party atmosphere, but standing here, in the cold grey light, my sneakered feet very small against the freshly poured black tar parking lot, surrounded by broad men in uniform, holstered and booted, I realized what he was talking about.
Finally, the papers were found, and luckily the spelling matched our passports. Tristan had an American and a British passport, due to his American mother and British father, but all the paperwork was for the American one. The permits were granted. It seemed a lot to go through for what was going to be only two nights in Canada, but I’d been through enough crossings to know this wasn’t the time to start questioning the politics of it all. Especially the bo
rder patrol, who were there to do a job, rely on the easy power a uniform and a gun gave them, then go home. Not there to question the system. I’m sure they missed the days of waving through Americans on a driver’s license and a smile. It had probably always been tougher for musicians though, those irregular leather-clad creatures making a mockery of everything decent. I jogged in place to keep alert. I felt like I could drift off. But the surreal sensation of feeling like we were under arrest even though we had done nothing wrong was unpleasant enough to keep me awake.
After a check which involved another series of questions on the merchandise we had brought to sell, and an examination and count of the t-shirts and posters and CDs, with a tax form to fill out if they were sold, and one more mirror check under the chassis, we were free to go. Canada. As with so many land borders, the landscape had changed. We had left the mountainous forests leading down to the lake, to a long flat plain. The horizon was blocked from a clear view with round European-style road signs and long stretches of farmland. The bright colors of the houses and the billboards in French and English felt weirdly foreign, as though we’d left New York City on another planet somewhere, rather than mere hours away down a highway. Then the land began to fill in, more houses closer together, more signs, the highway widening. The first bridge over the river seemed longer than usual, held up in the middle by an island that held the remnants of a distant world fair. The highway curved around, and we were there—following the river, past the Molson Beer Factory, the uneven skyline of small modern buildings scattered among the older factories and houses.
Finally we turned off, and there were traffic lights. Streets. Apartment buildings. Shops. One café raising its metal bars over the windows. It looked quiet. Too early for much activity on a Sunday, except for a few people who could be going home, or going to work. I was the only one on the bus who was up. The driver expertly pulled into a large parking lot, and stopped. The lack of motion and background sounds echoed in my ears, and I felt a little dizzy. I stood up and suddenly the bus seemed very small, even for someone my height. I sat down again, breathing.
The bus driver climbed out and stretched quickly, then patted his pocket for his wallet. He nodded to me. “What’s your name again?” I told him. “Lily, that’s right. Look, Lily, I’m going out to pick up a coffee, something to eat. Can you stay with the bus please? I’ll be 20 minutes, maximum. I appreciate it. Thank you.” And he was already opening the door.
I was just quick enough to follow him down the stairs, a Canadian five dollar bill in my hand. “Sure, fine. You’re Hank, right? Nice to meet you.” I extended my hand. He shook it, quickly. “Listen, can you leave the door open? I won’t go anywhere. Bit claustrophobic. And would you bring me back a coffee? Milk sugar? I’d really appreciate it. Cheers.” He took the money, shrugging, and turned towards the exit. I watched him walk away, and turn past the metal chain link fence, and disappear down the strip of beige sidewalk that bordered the lot.
I stood there, looking at the collection of cars and buses, then back down at my feet on the dusty ground. I kicked a pebble. The milky sky meant it was full daylight but it was like a ceiling over the city. There was a bright spot that was the sun trying to break through, but mostly the no-color sky matched the concrete buildings. The bus stood out—silver and black, an energetic stripe of metal that promised a lot. Sound check was at 3 p.m. I looked up at the sky again. The color of very milky coffee. I shut my eyes, and leaned back against the bus to wait for mine.
chapter four
Montreal and West
The first night went well. One cock-up when the bassist started playing the wrong song, having skipped one ahead. Tristan had turned around and made a small motion with his hand, and Jack turned towards the drum kit, and played a couple of gliding notes to put himself back in the right key, the right bar. It was reasonably skillful, but Tristan’s expression was one of frustration. When static started to come out of the keyboard monitor, his howl in the lyric felt like it was coming straight out of his blood. One of the roadies rushed out and replaced the cord, and the other half of the bass sound suddenly burst out into the mix. AC quickly threw in a howling whine of bent notes and arpeggiated chords. The explosive energy with which he attacked the strings brought the first smile to Tristan’s face all night.
I was there to watch. Take notes. Be there. I looked at the crowd. Plastic cups of beer in hand, swaying along to one of the new songs, a few mouthing the words. The usual throng of the obsessed down the front—a few devoted fans, a few good looking girls who felt justified by their looks to try and catch the eye of the band members. Fuck, you only live once, why not, I thought. Even so, it wasn’t a pretty sight. I wondered if they knew the words. Not like the guy over by Tristan, who had the look of the recently blessed, a sort of holy passion and peace on his face. He was fun to watch. When Tristan and AC stood back to back and Tristan slid down halfway, supporting AC, one large hand twisted around and pressed against AC’s slim waist, one hand in a death grip on the microphone, his thighs taut with the effort, the effect was electric. I glanced over to the guy. He was frozen to the spot, his mouth slightly open. I was close enough to see that a vein in his neck was slightly pulsing. It was like watching an animal come alive, leaving everything that held him back behind. At the end of the concert, when Tristan bent down to slap the hands of the fans, I watched as he reached out. Tristan’s expression changed in a moment, from the rock star performing a necessary part to that of a priest performing a rite that would link the clamoring soul to the divine. His face grew serious, and Tristan reached out and grabbed his hands, delivering a small kiss to the blessed fan’s forehead, seemingly unaware of the maze of hands that were reaching out to touch his thighs, his arms, any part of him that they could reach. AC was at his back, smiling down at them, ignoring the pleas of the fans. Then it was all over, and Tristan and AC walked off, waving to the crowd. The guy watched them go off, then pushed through the crowd, as though now he was in a hurry to get away from them, to be alone with his thoughts. And I wondered about the power on both sides of this moment. This connection that would never be repeated for him, but might be only the first of many for Tristan.
After we returned to the bus, we sat for a while in the bedroom, while Tristan and AC worked out some guitar parts and revised the set list. I lay back on the bed, and closed my eyes and listened to them play and hum out parts and make notes to share with the rest of the band. It was soothing, listening to their voices talking, then suddenly bursting out in bits of song, then singing it differently. It was a lullaby, the calm focus of work. The bedroom was starting to feel less like a container, and more like a change from everything, a chance to get away from the world, while strangely going further into it, tires rumbling underneath us, miles passing by us. I dozed off, and Tristan woke me up, asking if I wanted some of the catering that had been provided for the first night. AC had disappeared. He brought me a sandwich and a bottle of water, and kissed me.
“You’ll stay here tonight, right?” I nodded, sleepily. “I’m going to go hang out with the band. You’ll be ok?” Tristan frowned at me.
I stretched. “Yeah, I’m tired actually. Is that ok? You probably want some time with them anyway, but I wouldn’t mind just staying in here.”
He gave me a big hug, and found the necklace he had given me under my shirt. Lifting it up, he kissed it. “No worries, sweet Lily. Get some rest. It only gets crazier from here on.”
I held his hand to my lips, and kissed his fingers. “Yeah.” Tristan pulled me to him, and held me close, his lips leaving soft kisses in my hair, murmuring what he would do if he wasn’t working. I held him close, and breathed in his scent, slightly strange, the traces of a hundred fan caresses on his skin, flavored with the soap from the dressing room.
He kissed me again, and went out the door, but turned as he closed it. “Don’t worry Lily. You’ll see.” I smiled as I watched him leave.
&n
bsp; The sudden silence except for the rumble of the tires on the road was slightly unnerving. I raised my fingers to my lips, trying to recapture the feeling of his touch. Gone so soon, and wanting it again, more and more as it faded. I lay back on the bed, and looked at the little recessed lights. Thinking about it wouldn’t help. Quickly changing out of my clothes, I threw on a t-shirt and leggings, and cleaned my face with the toner from my makeup bag. I felt more comfortable wearing something, even though I didn’t usually. I didn’t want to go wandering about the bus half-naked in the dark. I crawled under the covers, which smelled of fresh laundry soap, and even though they were scratchy, they were perfectly flat and clean. I rolled over and stuck my headphones on. “Keep on Truckin’ ” by Eddie Kendricks, his first hit after leaving the Temptations. Perfect. I looked suspiciously at the chicken wrap Tristan had brought. I had to eat. I left it on the table. Maybe later. Or not. I took a few bites and I wrote a bit, and finally fell asleep listening to music.
Around two, according to my phone, Tristan came in and undressed down to his briefs. I watched him sleepily shake out his jeans and lay them on the chair, stripping off his shirt, his leather bracelets dark against his white skin. The tattoo at the top of his ass had turned out to be a tiny figure rolling up the world. It was there, peeking out over his pants, a little joke, glowing in the half light of the fairy lights around the room. When I had asked him why he had chosen that for a tattoo, he laughed. “Have you ever played that game? I played it in Japan when we were touring there. So trippy, so bizarre, and so wonderful. A little like the place. Rolling up increasingly bigger pieces of the earth. It’s like a summing up, a metaphor of expanding your mind. Perfect.” I patted the tattoo when he got in to bed, and he pulled me up close to him. “I like this,” he said, “you keeping the bed warm for me.” He kissed me and we settled in together. It felt good. The big scary rock star who wanted a hug. Not so scary anymore. I had a feeling we were both happy about that.
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