Access Unlimited

by Alice Severin

  * * *

  The rumbling of the bus finally broke through and I crept to the bathroom. I couldn’t tell exactly what time it was, but it was early. Or late. That time. I really hoped I wasn’t waking anyone up, but there was no way to avoid it. The only privacy that the beds had was a heavy curtain, and they were fairly thick, a sort of cross between canvas and velvet, like a thin theatre curtain. Good, but not perfect. I could hear one of them snoring. I wondered who was where and where AC had landed in the bunk positioning. I had the feeling that he wasn’t entirely used to sleeping with the band—unless it was his band.

  I opened the little door as quietly as I could, and clicked it shut behind me. Looking around, the bathroom was pretty incredible really, considering we were only on a kitted-out bus. There was more recessed lighting, and a sink that was like a grey granite bowl, resting atop a darker colored granite counter. The shower had a neat pattern of grey and speckled tiles, a hand-held shower attachment, and a glass sliding door. The toilet was black. There were mirrors everywhere. It was all very modern, and clean, and if you ignored the absence of windows anywhere, it was pretty sweet. I washed my hands and brushed my teeth with the bottled water. I wasn’t sure if the water was potable, but I figured I wouldn’t take a chance. I wondered how quietly I could make a coffee in the front kitchen. There was a constant sort of background rumble from the road anyway. Maybe it would drown things out. I went back to the bedroom to grab my stuff.

  Tristan was fast asleep, stretched out on the bed diagonally. His skin was so beautiful against the pillows, the sweeping curve of his shoulder muscle sinking down to his arms. He had been working out—in preparation for the tour. The results were still pretty subtle, but the carved out effect of his muscles was more pronounced. I followed the line of his body, half under half out of the covers. There was the strange little Japanese tattoo above the slight rise of his ass, the other tattoo, a line from one of his favorite songs, stretching out over his ribs on his right side, under his arm, so it was generally invisible unless you got to see him without a shirt, which didn’t happen often to the rest of the world. His private message to himself. I admired the view for a moment, then blew him a kiss. I threw on a pair of jeans, and headed out to the front of the bus.

  The kitchen was as glossy as the rest of the setup. The stove looked brand new. I opened a cupboard and there was a collection of gleaming white hotel room cups and plates. I sighed. Suddenly being domestic in any way lost its appeal, and I grabbed a bottle of iced tea from the refrigerator instead. The steady snores of the band, and a vague smell of socks and sweat was already beginning to fill the close air in the bus. I sat down, and looked out the big front windows of the bus. There were still bits of fog hovering in the low-lying bushes and patches of forest they had left alone when they blasted through the highway. There were a few cars and vans, but it was still a calm introduction to the morning. There were the lines of trucks heading west, catching the jump on the traffic, sleep not as much of an incentive compared to an early breakfast and the chance to make up some hours before the main part of the day. I felt I should say something to the driver, but it seemed rude to interrupt his intent stare down the yellow lines leading through to the other coast, to the other side of the world. It wasn’t so hard to imagine them peeling right down through the sand, into the water, and into the strange half-light under the sea, not so different from the thin early morning haze the two of us were driving through, with our precious cargo of men sleeping childlike behind us.

  I was about to say something, even hello, just to break what was beginning to seem like a weird silence when we both knew we were there, when his gruff prison warden voice broke through my thoughts. “Lady on a bus, like a lady on a ship. You’re a Jonah, aren’t you?”

  I laughed. “A Jonah. It’s been a while since I heard that expression. Can’t imagine you meet too many people who know it, but maybe you do. Do you?”

  “Not a lot of women on the bus. That stay.” He fell silent.

  “I’m not leaving though. Think you’ll be ok with that?” I thought I saw him grimace. “By the way, thanks for the coffee the other day. I appreciate it. It’s got to be weird, right, this constant change. But you must get pretty close to the bands you drive, right?” He said nothing. I drank some of my tea, and found some music to listen to while I wrote up yesterday’s notes. I couldn’t stop thinking about that fan, that kiss Tristan left on his forehead.

  I looked over at the bus driver. Friend or foe? Or nothing. Hard to say. I thought I’d push it a little just to see. “You know, I knew someone once, a woman, a lady, if you like. She was a boat captain. People said the same thing to her. But she stayed afloat. Maybe she didn’t have enough of what you would call feminine to make it count. But maybe I don’t either. Am I making you nervous?”

  “Women don’t usually come on the bus.” His voice was flat, almost robotic.

  “So, the nice bathrooms are just for the girl in us all?” I laughed. “Really, dude. Don’t worry.”

  He stared at the road. “Some people like to be lied to.”

  I shrugged. “Most people, maybe. So, you like driving?”

  He grunted, non-committal. And I went back to looking at the road.

  After about 20 minutes of us sitting there, me lost in my thoughts, watching the day rise, he spoke. I jumped, slightly surprised. “We’ll be at the venue in about two hours. You might want to give your boyfriend the warning. Not sure if the manager is here. He’s going to have to take care of the check-in too from now on. Wasn’t sure if he didn’t come in last night.”

  “Oh, ok. Thanks.” I wanted to ask him more, like how many times had he done this, and who hired him for this run, and did he know the band at all, and did he care, but he had already pulled himself in. There was time. At least he was talking.

  I walked back through the bunks, and a hand reached out to grab me. I nearly screamed, but managed to choke it down on a gulp. A face peered around the curtain. “Jesus, AC, you scared me,” I whispered. “What’s up?”

  “So, Toronto in about two hours?” AC said. He looked drawn. I wondered if he’d slept at all.

  “The driver said so.” I replied. “You want a coffee or something? You look wiped.” I felt protective of him. That image I had of him, sitting in the hotel room, ordering another bottle of Barolo, that night I’d fled the tour in London, and he’d tried to hit on me, came to mind. There was a sad look in his green eyes, now bleary and swollen with sleep or lack of.

  “They always say that. They mean two hours, sometimes three. Staying positive. Keeping us sweet. No, Lily, thanks, but I think I’ll wait until we’re on solid ground.” He paused for a minute. “Say hi to Tristan for me.”

  “Yes, ok. You can come in and tell him yourself, if you want.” A flash of interest lit up his face, but only for a moment.

  “No, that’s ok. I imagine he’ll want to wake up with you, first.” He winked and gave me a wan smile, then pulled back the curtain with a flourish.

  I looked at the spot where his face had been and kept heading to the back of the bus. I opened the door. Tristan was still asleep, and I crawled onto the bed, carefully, staying over the covers, placing my head on the pillow next to his where I could see him. His dark eyelashes, delicately shaped mouth, the slight darkness around his jaw from not shaving. The vulnerability of sleep. And he allowed me in. That trust, that incredible trust, so fragile, unmentionable. Something you couldn’t say to anyone, ever, not out loud. A silent understanding. If you had to ask, something was wrong. To me, anyway. I watched his chest rise and fall for a while, the steadiness soothing. For a moment it was though I was guarding him. Unconsciously I looked towards the door leading to the front of the bus, the rest of the band, the world. A sudden fierce protectiveness made me want to hold him tightly, tell him it was all going to be ok. Instead, I lay down gently beside him, closed my eyes and tried to slee
p. I had a feeling these quiet moments were going to be rare.

  chapter five

  Heading West and Toronto

  The next thing I knew, I was being gently kissed by Tristan. “Lily? Are you awake?”

  I nodded sleepily. Then I sat up with a start. “Wait, what time is it? The driver said we’d be there in two hours. How long have I been asleep?”

  Tristan laughed. “So responsible.” But he picked up his phone. “Only 9. You were up early then. When did he tell you?” Now he was sitting up well, a crease between his eyes.

  I tried to pull my thoughts into line. “Around 8, I guess. So we’ve got another hour.”

  Tristan rolled his eyes. “At least. They always give you shorter times. I think they think it keeps morale up. I think it has the same effect as setting your clock for the wrong time. You just start subtracting.” He lay back down. “So how are you this morning? Getting used to the bus?”

  I shrugged, and lay down next to him. “I talked to the driver a bit. Not very talkative.”

  “They’re a strange bunch. All different. All a bit mad. I suppose you’ve have to be, to agree to drive a bunch of lunatics through the night for weeks on end.”

  I curled up next to him, feeling the warmth from his body heating my skin. I closed my eyes. This was nice.

  Tristan moved closer to me. I could feel his whole body now against mine. He was very awake now. He took my hand. “I imagined this,” he said. “I imagined us together, just the two of us, like this.” He laughed. “Isn’t that stupid? But I could see us, holding hands, lying on the bed, on the tour bus.” He rolled over and carefully draped a long leg over mine. “Maybe not just holding hands, though.” He rocked against me, slowly.

  I looked at the little door leading to the rest of the bus, out to where the bunks were. I frowned at him. “The rest of them, can they hear us? You’ve done this before?”

  Tristan ignored my question, and instead kissed me, his soft lips tracing the line of my cheekbone. Then he looked up at me, teasingly, from under his long eyelashes. “Why, are you shy? They know what we’re going to do.” He ran his finger slowly up my bare arm. “I’ll be very quiet, if you will.” He caught my hand and brought it up to his mouth, covering it, his eyes flashing with amusement.

  It went beyond understanding how Tristan made each moment feel like this, like we were starting over, right from the first desperate need to be touched. I closed my eyes. It felt good, so good to feel the weight of his body on me. His hands were warm and strong, and soon I forgot about the people on the other side of the door, the bus, the tour, and everything except the feeling of his fingers exploring my skin. I gasped when he finally entered me, easing in.

  “Shh, love.” And he smiled, then pulled my hips up and hard against his. I bit my lip. He thrust in again, then again, pushing further inside, raising me until he held me entirely in his arms. I turned and buried my face in the pillow as I gave up my body to him, trying to muffle my cries. He pulled me tighter to him and then it was too much, and I couldn’t tell who was moaning. “Lily,” he whispered, “now love, now.”

  * * *

  Judging from the slightly stunned look on AC’s face when we finally emerged, I didn’t think we’d been very successful at being quiet.

  chapter six

  Toronto

  Coming in on the bus, Toronto looked a little disappointing. Another industrial waterfront, ruined by a big freeway, with patches of greenery that looked like they had been thrown at random. A few plants and trees to distract the eye while the city planners figured out how to reclaim what first had been ruined, and then left to rot. As we followed the lake, and drew closer, the effect of driving under the big highway overhead was claustrophobic, like a video game where you’re trapped in a big machine, a big virtual universe of lines. The one where you’re driving a car and you’ve got to jump across to another highway, while floating in space, before the one on top of you and the one you’re on come to an abrupt end, like some trick of drawing out the horizon to a point on a piece of graph paper. Wasteland seemed to be a theme of the trip so far. Leaving or coming in to a city or town, as on a train line with only one good track among the rusted spurs and shunts, we were following the line of industrial growth become overgrowth. The tangled mess of neglect and dropped ideas, newly cut through with a six lane highway.

  I’d heard such good things about Toronto. Initially, I’d been sorry we weren’t spending more time here. Now I was glad we were leaving again tonight. I supposed this was wanderlust—the feeling of freedom, of not belonging anywhere. It wasn’t a bad description of how I’d lived my whole life anyway. Maybe I’d turn out to be one of those people who just couldn’t stop touring. A top that couldn’t stop spinning, on the road again. For now, the reward of six hours of driving was slowing down to the sound of the indicator, ticking out our plans to the cars and trucks we were leaving behind out on the highway. I watched through the window as the bus maneuvered down the street and into the big lot behind the Kool Haus, tonight’s venue. It was breathtakingly ugly. Grey. Blue. Plastic and concrete. And amazingly enough, there was a little tangle of fans waiting. They looked very excited. One girl was jumping up and down, holding a vinyl copy of the new album aloft, looking a bit like one of those people that guide in the planes to the gates, if one of them had lost their mind mid-shift. I wondered how long they’d been waiting.

  It was the no sort of time, end of morning, beginning of afternoon. I guessed it was around 12:30. The plan was to hang out here all day, do the sound check and the gig, then head out again. The outside beckoned, even if it was nothing more than watery sun reflecting on the faded lines in the parking lot, but I didn’t want to deal with the fans. I felt for them, but. Soon enough. Everyone was still asleep, or pretending to be. Tristan and AC were talking on the phone to James. The driver had already gone off. At least he’d asked me if I wanted anything, but I shook my head. I did, but I didn’t think a burnt coffee and a road sandwich was going to do it for me right now. On the other hand, it would be nice to get out, clean up a bit. It depended on how bad were the showers in the dressing rooms. I sniffed my clothes. I smelled like Tristan. I couldn’t help the smile that instantly spread across my face. After all, touring was like camping. Perfectly clean was for home.

  I was making some notes, and listening to the moody intricacies of Recoil, trying to get the blog written. Nothing seemed to link together. I finally threw my notebook aside and stretched my arms out. I really needed some fresh air. I glanced over at the bunks. They couldn’t all sleep forever, could they? But they had crashed later than I did. A few more yoga stretches confirmed that I couldn’t stand being cooped up any longer. I went to the fridge and grabbed a beer, and opened the door to the bus, breathing in the air of a new city. Fortunately, the driver had shown me how to close the door and open it up again from the outside. So I went down the steps, latching the door carefully behind me. The last thing we needed was to have some excited fan pushing on to the bus. I tried to walk away before I was spotted, but the fans were on the alert, watching for any signs of life. Two of them ran up to me.

  “Hi, excuse me, is this Tristan Hunter’s tour bus?” At least they were polite, but to be fair, most of his fans did seem fairly respectful so far.

  It felt oddly embarrassing to be his representative. I couldn’t lie though. “Yes, they’ll be out in a while for the soundcheck. If you can wait around, they’ll probably do some autographs.” That sounded good.

  They squealed out a thank you, and ran back to the group. You could see the news spread as different people reacted. It was really kind of cute. I walked away from the bus, not going too far so I could keep an eye on it and its precious cargo. I was the guard, making sure no one bothered them. I looked at my phone. Nearly 1. They’d all be up pretty soon. I walked around in circles, making patterns on the ground, drinking my beer. Hanging out in parking lots by the
freeway. Let no one say that touring isn’t glamorous, I thought. I drank some more beer. Day three of touring, and I was already a little restless. “Idiot,” I said out loud. The trucks going by weren’t interested.

  I was attempting a labyrinth pattern, in an effort to create some calm, when I felt my phone vibrate. I managed, though I nearly dropped the beer, to get it just before it stopped ringing. I didn’t even look at the caller ID. “Hello?”

  “Lily, Dave here.” His voice was instantly recognizable. I didn’t need the introduction.

  “Hello Dave, how are you? I knew it was you the minute I heard your voice.” I laughed.

  “Is that so? Well, I’ll take that as a compliment.” Dave paused, “I want to catch up and hear about life for you on tour. Right now I have news. Good news. Is Tristan around?”

  “He’s in the bus. I can go get him.”

  Dave chuckled. “Up until dawn and coming alive in the afternoon. That’s ok. Just have him call me. Where are you?”

  He wasn’t leaving me hanging like that. “Walking around. I’ll get him to call but wait a minute. News?”

  Dave hesitated. “It’s going to be everywhere in a second anyway. Go ahead, you tell him, but still have him call me. It’s the album. It’s been nominated for Best Alternative Album at the MUT awards. Shall I read the press release to you? ‘Showing us all that the second act might be better than the first, Tristan Hunter, former lead singer with Devised, is nominated for his solo album, Some of Us Remember the Future.’ ”

  I let out a shriek. The little group of fans all looked over in my direction. I waved my beer at them.

  I could hear Dave smiling. “Thought you’d be happy. Of course, more work for you. We’ll most likely do a focus on him and, of course, the tour, next week. Ton meilleur effort, s’il te plait.” Your best effort, please.