Favorite Scene Friday #1

Favorite Scene Friday

This particular scene, near the beginning, was one of Christine Cooper's favorites. (RIP My dear, dear friend!!!)

Jon, the bassist, Terry, the drummer, and Bryon, rhythm guitarist, have escaped their hotel in the middle of the night to go foraging for snacks at the nearest convenience store. Comedy ensues.

Author's Note: I have NO idea why I came up with this scene. I was only 16 at the time and I guess I figured that's what hungry musicians on the road do. And when I grew up and became a road musician, I discovered that yes, it is indeed what they do. Perhaps I will incorporate a sad but true tale concerning "Little Chocolate Donuts" in the sequel (Theodore C. Stone...!!). 

Enjoy!

CHICAGO, IL
Friday, May 31, 1985

The slightly overweight lady at the checkout counter looked down her nose as we entered. She seemed to be thinking, What is this crap? Three guys with long hair, wearing leather jackets in the middle of summer and sunglasses at three a.m.?

Not a good sign.

I wondered suddenly, do all gas stations have silent alarms?

We prowled through the refrigerated items, pulling out bottles of soda. Terry nabbed a six-pack of Coors, but Bryon stopped him. “No booze during the day right before a show, you know that.”

“It’s not day, it’s night,” Terry replied, motioning outside.

Bryon frowned. Downtrodden, Terry began to replace the beer, then grinned. “We’re out on the bus!”

Bryon glanced at me for confirmation, knowing Terry’s penchant for lying.

“Uh, yeah, he’s right,” I said, maybe telling the truth. All I wanted was my Coke and didn’t feel the need to verify this rather unimportant issue.

Bryon shrugged. “Well, don’t let Randy see it, or we’ll still be out.”

Terry shook his head. “Aw, hell no. I’ll keep it in the bag and hide it under one of the beds.”

“Then you’ll forget about it and leave it there,” I said, remembering Terry’s other penchant for not remembering shit. He’d forget his dick if it weren’t attached.

“Terry forget beer?” Bryon quipped. “Get real, Warren.”

“Yeah.” A familiar orange package in the candy section caught my eye. “Just what I need!”

“Oh, shit. You and your sugar jones.” Terry tucked his six-pack under his arm. “This is gonna be a long-ass night.”

“I’m having withdrawals.”

“So you can puke ‘em up on the bus again?” Not much of a sweets eater, Terry grimaced, referring to a night not too long ago when I ate too much candy and my stomach was not impressed.

Bryon had long since abandoned our discussion of my unfavorable snacking habits and had moved to the magazine rack. “This month’s Circus. We even made the cover.”

Terry immediately snatched up the heavy rock periodical. “Damn. Why is it that stuck-up lead singers always get to be on the cover?” He waved the issue in my face, his voice loud enough to invoke another disapproving look from the checkout lady.

I ignored the glossy image of Steve and flipped to the article. “I think it’s that interview with me and you. Let’s see if they quoted us right.”

“Hopefully not like when they asked Steve about Randy back in March?” Bryon asked.

“Oh, yeah,” I said, frowning. “That was ‘positive’.”

“Well, you know us,” Terry began, matter-of-factly. “Brutally and totally honest.” Suddenly he seemed to freak out, causing Bryon to wince uncomfortably. I dropped the magazine.

“Penthouse!” he wailed, grabbing the porn mag off the top rack like a life preserver. “Yes!”

Another sneer from the cashier, who was more than ready for us to get the hell out of her store. “This ain’t a library,” she called out.

“Bitch,” Terry muttered.

“What time is it?” I asked before things got ugly.

Bryon glanced at his watch. “Three-twenty-five.”

“Shit! We need to get out of here!” Terry exclaimed.

“Would you quit screaming?” Bryon begged.

“Are we gonna buy this?” Terry asked, tearing the plastic off the Penthouse.

“We pretty much have to now, dumbass,” I said.

“I just gotta look at one thing first…”

“Come on!” I took him by one arm while Bryon pushed him from behind.

We threw our stuff onto the counter. The cashier, her nametag reading “Zelda,” continued to frown at us, but she did manage to ring up our sale even as Terry kept finding junk near the cash register to toss into the pile.

“What use do you have for that?” Bryon asked as Terry pulled down some bottle opener key chain that was shaped like…I couldn’t tell what it was supposed to be shaped like.

“Well, y’know. I think it’s cool.”

“That’ll be forty-two fifty,” the cashier stated flatly.

“Shit!” Terry almost yelled. “And we didn’t even buy gas!”

“What did you buy?” I asked, poking through the pile of junk.

“Y’know, stuff.”

“Did you guys bring any money?” Bryon asked.

Panic hit me. Rare in such an event, but I never go anywhere without at least…

“I got a five!” I announced proudly, pulling it out of my back pocket.

Bryon presented a humble black canvas Velcro wallet and examined its contents. “I’ve got four.”

I searched through my other pockets and presented a quarter. “That’s all I got.”

Rhythm guitarist and bassist looked expectantly at drummer. Things were looking pretty grim if we were relying on the brokest man alive to provide a solution to the current cash deficiency.

Terry began shoving his long scrawny hands into the pockets of his beat-up Levi’s. At last he held out one palm, and in it was a nickel, three dimes, a penny, some pocket lint, and something that looked like the pit of a cherry.

“Thirty-six cents!” He grinned, as if he’d just presented a freaking one hundred dollar bill.

Three members of a rock band known nationwide, with two songs in the Top 30, a soon-to-be platinum album, on our first headlining tour of the United States, standing in a dirty Exxon station across the street from a very high class hotel in Chicago, buying a bunch of junk food at three-thirty a.m., and the only money we had on us was nine dollars, sixty-one cents, and a dried-up cherry pit. Or something that resembled a cherry pit. I certainly hoped it was something as harmless as a cherry pit.

Bryon, out of character, was the first one to speak after the long uneasy silence. “Take back the candy, Jon.”

It was a crushing blow. “No way!” I cried. “Make Terry put the beer back. Or put back all that stupid shit, like this White Sox beer thing and…whatever the hell this is.”

“It’s a hand-held, battery-operated fan shaped like a kangaroo.” Terry sounded like Ron Popeill. “Take back that damn box of Ding Dongs!”

“Hey, I love those things,” Bryon shot back.

“Are you guys gonna argue all night?” The cashier sounded strangely like some Chicago cop I’d seen on a TV show once. Or maybe that was a gangster. She was one tough looking broad.

“Listen,” I began, taking up my usual role as heavy metal diplomatic advisor. “We’re in a band…”

She interrupted me. “Look, you long-haired punk, I got a gun under this counter, and I’ve had all kinds of you weirdos in here all night.”

Now, despite rumors about most bands in our genre, and the ongoing verbal squabbles between Steven and Randy, Tarax is not known for stirring up too much trouble, especially the kind that involved police intervention. Barry wanted it to remain as such, to keep insurance costs down and the record company happy, since our label was still very wary of “metal” acts and their future as moneymakers. Sneaking out of the hotel was a small thing. To have him come bail us out of jail was something else. Not only would there be no money to pay for our little “picnic”, there might not be any more money for anything and we’d all be back in Arizona pumping gas and flipping burgers.

“Oh, please, ma’am,” Terry chimed in, “we don’t want to cause any trouble.”

I looked at him strangely, as did Bryon. Where did this “please, ma’am” shit come from? He sounded like Wally Cleaver on acid.

“We pulled up in that bus over at the Sheraton about an hour ago.” I picked up the Circus and showed her our pictures, which probably didn’t help because they were stage shots: sweat, smeared make-up, stringy hair, torn spandex. The one of me was atrocious.

“That’s me,” I said, disappointed. “This is Bryon, next to me.” I indicated the flesh and blood Bryon on my left. “And this is Terry.”

“God, what a shitty picture of me!” Terry leaned over, practically shoving Bryon backwards, so he could gape at his likeness. He was so, physical, at times, like a boisterous dog. Maybe we should start calling him Marmaduke. “I look like hell!” He tore off the sunglasses, grinning. “But it’s still me, see?”

Zelda just stared at us.

My mind, tired and failing to work its magic, cried, What to do? What to do? I tore the subscription card out of the magazine, grabbed a greasy-looking pen off the counter, and scribbled Barry’s office address in LA. I knew his secretary would call him on his mobile as soon as it came across her desk.

“This is our manager’s address. He’ll take care of it with no problem.” I smiled, attempting to turn on that “charm” people tell me I possess. I personally don’t see it, but they tell me it works. I noticed Terry and Bryon watching me intently, waiting for the result. I shrugged, uncertain.

Still no response.

“Uh, why don’t you call him at the hotel in the morning?”

Groans from the boys.

She pondered it a minute. “Okay. That I can do.”

I must have looked surprised because she smiled.

“My son listens to you guys. Could you sign this magazine?”

Wow.

Terry and Bryon sauntered out with the bags and the cashier called me by name. “Yes?”

“I knew who you guys were. I just thought I’d give you hard time.”

I smiled wanly. Gee, thanks a lot.

She smiled again, and I noticed a front tooth missing. “My son wants to play bass.”

“Cool. Is he any good?”

“He stinks. But he has a good time.”

“He’ll fit in just fine,” I said.

Terry poked his head back in. “Don’t tell anyone we came in here!”

The cashier made a motion as if she were zipping her lips.

“Cool!” Terry ducked back out.