Favorite Scene Friday #4

In keeping with yesterday's post about the Summer of 85 cassette tape, here's the scene that was built around it.

We were heading for Boston the next day, and I was hooked up to a Walkman, humming along to Night Ranger’s latest single, “Sentimental Street,” on the radio. Terry was beside me, sprawled across the wrap-around couch, making it impossible for the rest of us to get comfortable.

“Get your foot outta my ribs,” I complained, slurping on a Coke. “Damn, this new stuff sucks!”

Steve breezed in and sat down beside me, propping his feet on the table. He was swigging down a beer. “What’cha listenin’ to?”

“I found a good station outta somewhere,” I said. “They’re playing...uh, lessee...” I strained to hear the next song and started singing along with “She Don’t Know Me,” from Bon Jovi’s first album, doing the lead vocal for once. Producers and other musicians, as well as the guys, have told me that I’m the second best vocalist in the band, and always choose me to sing when we need good two-part harmony. Once when Steve had a cold, I sang lead while he lip-synched at a party we played years ago. I don’t think I’m half-bad myself, but I don’t think of myself as a lead vocalist. I’m just the bass player and a songwriter and I’m perfectly happy with that.

Bryon and Randy, both good harmonizers, joined in the chorus.

Ratt’s new single, “Lay It Down,” followed. Then the deejay got brave and played an obscure cut off “Power to Kill,” which we were planning on releasing as a single later in the year, one called “Break Your Heart Tonight, But I’ll Love You Tomorrow.” We were still singing along, Steve taking over the lead vocal.

“That line still doesn’t make sense,” Barry grumbled, stroking his beard and scribbling on his clipboard.

“What?” I asked, not being able to hear over the music in my ears.

“Yes, it does,” said Steve, answering for himself and me, the writers of that particular tune. “It’s a cool lyric.”

“It’s usually the other way in real life,” said Barry.

“What?” I repeated.

“But I’m just a manager, not a songwriter.” He sat down next to Randy, who was reading Guitar Player, his left hand practicing air guitar riffs.

I poked Terry. “Did I miss something?” Was I speaking too loudly?

The drummer shook his head, slapping his hands on his thighs to the beat of some song other than the one I was listening to.

I sang aloud, deep into the chorus of The Hooter’s “All You Zombies.”

“Would somebody turn him down?” Barry asked

Terry pushed at me with his feet.

“OW! Watch the genitalia there!”

“Surprised it didn’t burn off after the hot babe you bagged last night,” he said, resuming his “drumming.”

“I didn’t bag a hot babe last night,” I said, stretching out my legs and lacing my fingers behind my head.

He pulled his lip down into some weird frown. “You didn’t?”

“Nope.” I resumed singing. The Hooters weren’t exactly metal but this was a really cool song.

Terry sat up. “Are you having…problems?”

I balked at him. “What?”

He pointed to my lap, then pushed him thumb upward into the air…then Steve finished his beer, prompting Barry to ask: “Where’d you get that beer?”

Terry and I gaped at the manager. Randy’s eyes widened, his air guitar fingers frozen in the air, and Bryon’s mouth dropped open but no sound came, and I was glad, because I knew his attempts to tell some story would fail just like they did with the street gang thing. For a college graduate, sometimes he wasn’t just real bright. All book smarts and no common sense.

“In the refrigerator,” Steve said, giving the rest of us a strange look.

“Oh, I guess the bus driver bought it,” Barry said with a shrug. He stood up, and left the lounge.

Randy heaved a sigh of relief, Bryon forgot what he was going to say, and I closed my eyes again. Terry seemed to forget about what he was asking me and laid back down, slapping on his thighs again.

One thing I must make clear: Barry knows all. He keeps up with every item that goes in and out of the bus, every dime we spend, or pretend to spend. He also watched the alcohol inventory in transit like no tomorrow. At the venue or the hotel, that was one thing. The bus was another story. It was the only way to keep tabs on our “habits.” I guessed he hadn’t heard from Zelda, because he hadn’t brought up any strange phone calls about strange purchases. We were gonna catch hell anyway once he found out about our venture to the Tiger Mart in Chicago.

Bryon turned on the TV and all we could pick up was some public access talk show. Some sexy blonde chick in neon pink was smiling idiotically at the camera, a photo of us on display next to her head.

“Here’s Ralph, with a review of the Tarax concert last night.”

“Ralph?” Terry raised his head. “What kinda rock reviewer has a name like Ralph?”

“That guy right there.” Steve pointed to the screen, and on it was a long-haired kid about our age wearing a leather jacket and faded blue jeans, sitting in front of a tie-dyed backdrop.

“Hey, it’s Ralph, check him out,” I said.

The roving rock reporter slash Veejay wanna-be, in a thick, New England accent, announced, “Even after the terrible weekend they just had...”

We cringed for a moment.

“Tarax doesn’t seem aware of their misfortune, because last night’s attack on Hartford rocked. I’ve never heard Randy Blackstone sound so incredible on that Ibanez, and “Terror” Terry James’ drum licks were just killer!”

“I’m a killer diller Godziller!” Terry wailed, modestly.

“Shut up, weirdo.” Steve was just waiting for his own press. Terry flipped him off.

And although praises bestowed on rest of us in the rhythm section aren’t always expected or needed for ego gratification, Ralph went on to say, “Bryon Kinzey and Jon Warren were excellent as always, burning down the house. And even though Steven Ivey can’t seem to remember the words to “Night Flight”...”

Steve fumed, but didn’t comment, because he did miss the entire second verse.

“…Tarax is still THE band to see this summer!” Ralph concluded his review and Bryon switched channels, managing to find Bo and Hope on “Days of Our Lives.”

Steve moped quietly, since there were no lauds of worship to his rock godliness due to his obvious gaffe. But what does Ralph know, really?

Of the five of us, Steve screwed up the most. He missed his entrance on “Noose,” started singing the lyrics to “Assassination” after four bars of intro to “Shock Me,” which inspired him to make an off-hand comment during the break about how some people shouldn’t write songs that sound so much alike, at which point Bryon reminded him that he, Steve, had co-written both tunes, and they didn’t sound anything alike. Steve also almost caught his ass on fire when he got too close to one of the flash pots, therefore screwing up a choreography move, and…it went on and on. He also complained about what a dead lay his groupie was.

It wasn’t a good show for Steve.

Terry and Randy both were trying not to laugh about the review, and I finally had to get up and go someplace else to do the same, slipping off the headphones and climbing over Terry’s legs. Laughing wasn’t really fair, I guess, considering the weekend, but knowing Steve all these years...maybe he was still blaming himself for not taking care of Randy. We figured Randy would have the rough night, but he played like the genuine guitar wizard he was. Steve was out to lunch. Taking into consideration his recent moodiness, I was beginning to believe something else might be up with Steve.

I ran into Barry in the kitchen area. “Oh, hi.”

“What’s so funny?” asked the manager, looking no more relaxed than he ever does.

“Oh, this reviewer just slammed Steve.”

“Hmm,” was his only response as he shoved me back into the lounge.

“This came in the mail the other day.” He slapped a copy of the Chicago Tribune on the table.

“Oh, no,” Terry and I said in unison.

There we were, front page. Terry was pointing at the camera, his black eye in full view, his mouth open as if he were screaming. I had my bandanna over my face, my eyes peeking through my hair. Officer “Buddy” Richards, the big cop, was behind Terry, and Morgenstern, the little guy, was peering over my shoulder.

But the photo next to that one was even worse. It was of me, at the concert the next night, with my Carvin, leaning forward to the crowd, all my wet hair flying in my face, revealing only my swollen nose.

Randy took one look and began to laugh hysterically, and Bryon did the same. Barry lit up a cigar. “Well, there’s some free publicity.”

“I’ll kill that little asshole if I ever see him again,” growled Terry. I just rubbed my nose.

Bryon tossed the paper to Steve, who studied the candid shots carefully, then read the caption:

“Heavy Rockers Caught In The Act—Terry James and Jon Warren, of the hard rock band Tarax, were seen at the Third Precinct early Saturday, reporting a mugging by a local street gang. James, drummer of Tarax, (foreground) and Warren, bass player, (right), identified three Chicago teenagers as members of a gang that attacked them on West Adams Street Friday night. The rockers did not press criminal charges against the teens, although Warren suffered a fractured nose...”

“My nose isn’t fractured,” I amended.

“…and James a black eye. Their apparent physical conditions had no effect on the sold-out Tarax performance last night at the Rosemont Horizon (see review page E5).

“Damn, your shit made the front page but the concert review is way back here!”

Steve flipped through to read it. He was probably hoping he’d get a better review in Chicago.

“How many papers is that in, do you suppose?” I asked of no one in particular.

“I don’t wanna think about it,” said Terry.

Randy was still laughing and couldn’t seem to stop. The drummer, however, was not as amused.

“It’s not that funny,” he muttered, sullenly.

It took a while for the brown-haired guitarist to find his words. “Yes, it is!” He continued to cackle; probably just glad he could laugh. We all needed a good one.

Steve placed the paper in my lap. “The swelling in your nose did go away pretty quick. Must have been all that tender loving care you got afterward.”

I didn’t know what he was talking about, then I remembered Shanna. Strange he could remember her. Strange how I conveniently forgot.

That really kinda bothered me.

“That may be,” I said, eyeing him suspiciously. I wasn’t about to get into this weird competitive trip with Steve about women. That was Randy’s role. Well, maybe not so much anymore…

I noticed Terry, all pouty and sulled up. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Look at that shit!” He indicated the photos. “I’m in the Chicago Tribune and it’s not even a good picture!”

On to bigger and better things. Barry held up a handful of letters. “Fan mail.”

Fan letters are a trip, because you never know what you’re gonna get. We get some odd requests, and photos, from girls usually. There are the sickos, but those get sorted out at the home office. We got one from some guy in Idaho who wrote that we were gods from another planet and had come to take over the planet.

Weird.

As far as the raunchy ones go, well...they embarrass Bryon, what with this girlfriend and all. Terry thinks they’re hilarious for about five minutes, then tosses them in the trash and forgets he ever read them at all. Steve usually grins smugly and says something like, “Yeah, I’ll bet she does.” Randy reads his quietly and says nothing. He probably keeps some and takes them out to read when he could use a cheap thrill. Me? I flip out for a while, because there are times when I can’t believe somebody I don’t know thinks those kinds of thoughts about me. I’m troll-boy; I’m not attractive.

Barry always picks out two decent fan letters for each of us, in addition to what we get from family and close friends, which we get through a special address. Bryon got a letter from his mystery girlfriend, and I got one from my sister Rikki, who just graduated high school. She’s naive and clueless, so she tends to ramble on about a lot of stuff eighteen-year-old girls like to ramble on about.

Jonny,

Hey it’s me! I’ve been busy as hell these past few weeks, since Mom insists on one of us getting some kind of college education. I enrolled in some summer courses at UA, and am staying with Aunt Martha. Whoopee! I’m in a chemistry class. There’s this really geeky guy in there who refuses to leave me alone, and a girl in my art class who idolizes you. She did a pen-and-ink of you that is just fantastic. She even got your chin! I’m getting a copy I can mail to you.

Mom and Dad are fine. Mom’s breathing down my neck about school and she’s always watching the tabloids to see if your picture turns up. Did you really kick those guys’s asses in Chicago? How’s your nose? I nearly died when I saw your picture in the Sun. Dad thought it was funny. He knew you’d pull through after all those martial arts moves he showed you. Mom said, “See, I told you he’d get into even worse trouble.”

Rumor has it Bryon has some steady girlfriend, some actress who was on “Miami Vice” last week. (It was a rerun). I see you’re still big into one-night-stands. I was looking through a Faces magazine the other day and saw you with some UGLY dishwater blonde chick in a hotel room. I think you’ll catch a disease. Be glad Mom didn’t see it!

Well, look, I’ve got a major exam tomorrow so I’d better study. Didn’t you take chemistry? Do you remember anything about carbons? I’ve taken up enough of your precious rock star time, I’ll write again soon. Mom might let me go see your LA show, but I don’t know. She’s such a hardass. Anyway, BYE!

Keep Rockin’!

Rikki

PSS Duchess ate your old “Toys in the Attic” album. Sorry.

Her closing was followed by some drawings of music notes and guitars. My sister is…a freak. She has this whole obsession with the paranormal…UFO’s, alien abduction. I think she just watched too much Star Trek when we were kids. But I missed her, rambling on about astral projection and the theory of Atlantis…she wants to be a parapsychologist specializing in poltergeist activity. She’s bats.

How did the dog get a hold of my Aerosmith records?

Home seemed far away, and I wished I could see her, Dad, the dog, and yes, even my mother, who I can hear saying, “That ridiculous brother of yours, running around all over the country, picking up strange girls and stranger habits!” I was curious about this picture in Faces of me and some blonde. What the hell was that about? I’m not interested in blondes. They’re such a cliché.

I thought of what my mother told me when I left Phoenix to kick off the tour.

“I guess you’re happy now, with all this craziness.”

“That’s just how it is, Mom. And it’s really not that glamorous, it’s hard work.”

She just frowned. “Well, as long as you don’t get yourself killed.”

What was this? A Buddy Holly flashback? My mother has issues with my choice of career, especially since I didn’t fulfill the desire for her son to be a trial lawyer or a pediatric cardiologist. I always found it strange how she left her close-knit Canadian family to marry my father, an Air Force supply pilot, whom she met in Vancouver. She’s not exactly the model daughter according to my grandmother. Maybe it’s one of those “unfinished business” things that shrinks always talk about.

Some commotion surrounding Bryon interrupted my thoughts, and commotion surrounding Bryon is a major event. He was catching hell about the letter from Rita, or Nita, or whoever.

“C’mon, Bryon,” Terry was saying, “show it to us!”

“It really isn’t any of your business,” Bryon said, shoving the letter into his shirt pocket.

“Yes, it is,” said Steve. “All girls are our business.”

“At least give us a hint,” Randy pleaded. “All we know about her is...well...nothing.”

“That’s all you need to know,” responded Bryon calmly.

“Sounds like the end of the discussion to me, guys,” said Barry, flipping through the pile of papers attached to the clipboard that was always attached to his hand.

“How serious is this, Bryon?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. I guessed that was the end of the discussion, so I asked Terry about his mail.

“Well, I got a letter from a guy in...” He dug the letter out of his back pocket, a keeper, I assumed. “…Minnesota who says he can play the entire first album and is starting his own band.”

“Maybe we can ditch you and hire him,” Randy teased.

“Fuck you!” The drummer tapped the other two letters on the table. “This is from a girl in Wisconsin, and this is a card from my mom.” He displayed it proudly, then clutched it to his chest and leaned on me. “My mom loves me!”

He and I joke about my relationship with my mother a lot. My mother loves Terry, too, and that’s only because he knows how to kiss her ass. “My mother loves me,” I defended. “She just wanted me to be a lawyer.”

“You wanna read it? It’s really funny.” He shook the card under my nose.

“No, that’s cool.” I was a little jealous, wishing my mother would at least acknowledge me in some way. I read my other letters, one written to the band and the other from a girl in Chicago who sent a get-well card because she’d seen the picture of me and my nose.

Barry spoke again. “I have some more good news. We’ve finally found our opening band.”

“Who?” Steve was chugging down a Coke now.

“That band from New Orleans, Rampage.”

“Don’t they have a girl singer?” Randy asked.

“A girl? They let girls do this now?” I asked, jokingly.

“DUH! What about Joan Jett? Lita Ford? The Heart sisters? Janis Joplin?” Terry smacked me with the Guitar Player.

“What are you? Mr. Rock Historian now?”

“You forgot Wendy O. Williams,” said Bryon.

“And Lee Aaron,” added Steve.

“And two of those were Runaways,” Randy concluded. “That’s not much of a selection.”

“Hand me the tape box. Jon’s a stupid ass.” Terry pointed over my head and Bryon reached behind me, taking the leather case out of the window. Terry rattled through the box, since none of the tapes were actually in the slots but thrown into a jumbled mess inside. He pulled one out and grimaced. “New Edition? Where the hell did that come from?”

“She’s a young black boy?” I asked. Bryon laughed.

“Piss off, I’ll find it.” He dug around some more, tossing tapes, empty cases, and liner notes all over the table.

“Oh, hey, there’s my Black Sabbath’s Greatest Hits!” said Steve.

Randy imitated Ozzy Osbourne, screeching about being an iron man.

“Well, where the fuck is it? Ah ha!” Terry finally found the tape jacket he was looking for, and gave it to me. “See, that chick right there.”

Everyone leaned over Terry to look. “Damn, get off me!” he complained.

I raised an eyebrow, expecting to see someone done up like, well, maybe some Heavy Metal Deborah Harry, but instead...

Holy…shit…

“That’s no chick!” Randy squealed. “That’s a fricking goddess.” And he couldn’t be more correct.

She was young, with shaggy black hair that fell to her waist. The photo was black and white, so I couldn’t tell the eye color, but the lids were lined with thick black pencil, her lips full and pouty with shiny dark lipstick. Her brows arched perfectly over almond-shaped eyes, her cheekbones high and shaded with dark blush. It was a half-length shot, showing off most of a perfect body: full breasts, slender waist, slim hips. She wore a white tank top, cropped to reveal a smooth, flat stomach, leather jeans, several bracelets and rings, and long chandelier earrings. Her wrists were crossed over her head, and she wore a sexy, seductive scowl on her face, a lot like the one on that girl at the end of the movie Heavy Metal, the one who kicked everyone’s ass in the bar.

That’s no chick. That’s a fricking goddess.

Piece of ass aside, though. Was that her voice on the tape, or did someone else sing and this picture is just someone who looks good?

Damn good.

“She looks like a female Nikki Sixx,” Steve said.

“No way,” Randy argued.

I wasn’t paying attention. Terry suddenly beat me in the arm. “Yo! Earth to Jon!”

I didn’t even look up. “Huh?”

Steve snapped his fingers in front of my face. “I think he’s stoned.”

“No, he’s just got a major boner.” Randy picked up the Guitar Player and resumed reading.

Terry snatched the magazine out of Randy’s grasp and smacked me with it. Again.

“Hey, I was reading that.”

I ignored the lashing. “What’s this girl’s name?” I scanned the liner notes.

“Holy shit! I think he’s in love!” Terry gave up.

“Two hundred he’s the first to nail her,” Steve chimed. “Who’s in?”

The others started making wagers, except Bryon, who seemed more interested in business than my chance at pleasure. “Will they be with us for the whole tour?”

“Till we finish in the U.S.,” Barry answered, and was about to add more, when Bryon turned back to Steve.

“You got a deal!”

So much for business.

I ignored them, though their idea didn’t sound too bad. Would she qualify as quality pussy? I hadn’t had any in a while, and after last weekend, sex wasn’t a priority, though it might have eased the stress.

“Season Trovisar,” someone said.

“Huh?” I jerked to life again, after imagining running my tongue down a firm, creamy thigh.

“That’s her name, Season Trovisar.” It was Bryon, turning his head upside down, reading the liner notes.

“Trovisar?” I turned the sleeve over in my hand. “Like Benatar?”

“I guess so.” The guitarist with the mustache righted his head.

“Season.” I mumbled to myself, lost in a trance.

Randy started singing, naming off seasons from a very familiar James Taylor tune. Steve joined in with the next line.

Everybody! “You’ve got a friend!”

“Cut that out,” Barry grumbled.

“Oh, she’ll be more than a friend all right,” Terry said, poking me.

Randy decided to reorganize the tape carrier. “I gotta fix this. Culture Club? Jesus!”

“You done with that, or are you gonna jerk off to it?” Sounded like Steve. “Jon!”

“What?”

“Oh, he’s not paying attention,” Terry said, sorting out the empty cases. “He’s got that look in his eyes.”

“What look?” I continued to stare. Season kept looking better and better.

“I think I’d just forget about whatever it is you’re thinking about, even though I already know what it is.” Steve finished his Coke and leaned back. “You know what happens when there’s a girl in the band.”

I nodded, vaguely remembering some stories about being passed around from member to member. Hmm....

“She’s probably involved with this guy.” I indicated another member of the band, a tall, blonde guy. More like a tall, menacing blond tree.

“That’s her cousin,” Barry said.

A strange “ooh” sound echoed around the table.

“Well, they are from Louisiana,” said Steve.

I wrinkled my nose. I was sure incest was not an issue here. “Maybe this guy?” I pointed out a rather stout member of Rampage, slightly on the pudgy side, also with blonde hair.

Terry and Randy shook their heads. “Nah.”

“Nevertheless,” said Steve, lacing his fingers behind his own blonde mane and stretching his legs. “Maybe she’d like to have a whole new line of choices.”

“Hold it!” Terry said. “We made a bet Jon was first!”

“Then I’ll be next.” Steve smiled that shit-eating, lady-killer grin we all knew, and hated, so well.

Suddenly I felt like ripping his head off. “I thought you didn’t like sloppy seconds.”

Terry and Randy howled, slapping hands. Steve replied with a sideways sneer at them, then thumped Barry’s leg with the toe of his Nikes.

“What’s the dirty lowdown on this band?”

Wow, back to business again. Boz Skaggs sang in my head.

Barry whipped over a page on his clipboard. “I thought you’d never ask,” he said, bored and perturbed with our stupid guy talk. “They’re meeting us in Atlantic City on Thursday. They finished opening for Dokken in May. Forty-five minute set and their album’s about to go gold. Season’s a big hit.”

“That’s the girl, Jon,” said Terry and Randy simultaneously.

“No shit,” I said.

Steve told us to shut up. Randy gave him the international sign of ill will.

“They’re a clean show,” Barry said. “Very pro. But we may have to share some backline.”

“No problem there,” said Bryon.

“Oh, I’ll bet Jon will loan her his microphone!” Terry made a gross gesture.

I handed him the tape jacket, getting pissed. “All I did was look at her picture.”

“No, way, man,” Randy said, neatly placing Dokken’s “Tooth and Nail” in its cover. “You didn’t just look at her picture. We’re talking major stiffness here.”

“Okay, so, she’s really hot,” I said. “But that’s airbrushing and pro photography. That could make Dee Snider look good.”

“I’m sure it was a perfectly normal reaction, Jon,” Barry assured me.

“Right!” I was relieved there was someone who wasn’t ribbing me, although the others laughed uncontrollably.

“That wasn’t normal,” Terry said. “Even for you!”

“Well, just don’t have me married off by the end of the summer.” Ewww…saying that made me feel really weird.

“Hey,” Randy said suddenly. “You guys wanna hear a story about this female singer who used to blow a band member before each show?”

People threw things at him.

Favorite Scene Friday #3

Favorite Scene Friday Week #3

This scene was labeled as funny (especially one particular line) by the Writers' Digest Self-Published Book Awards reviewer. It's a "down-time" moment (a rare event for touring musicians), but has some funny moments. 

I've cleaned up some of the language on this one. But remember, if you've ever been around road musicians, of any genre, well...it's how they talk. 

RICHMOND, VA-Feel Like Makin’ Love

Sunday, June 24

We finally had a day off and could relax, after the most hectic week we’d had yet. The press had died down about Randy’s accident, and there were more interesting things going on in the world besides us. I didn’t want to think about the band or music or business or romance or anything, I just wanted to sleep, which I did, until about twelve-thirty.

Terry was already up and gone when I awoke. I took a long bath in the Jacuzzi and spent most of the early afternoon watching TV, catching up on world events. Space shuttle Discovery had landed safely that morning, and Air India Flight 182 had exploded yesterday over the Atlantic Ocean, killing over three hundred passengers.

There was a knock on the door about two. It was Bryon and Randy.

“What’s going on, man?” Bryon waltzed in and sat down. “You doing all right?”

“Why? What’s the rumor today?” I asked, tossing the remote control onto Terry’s bed.

“Rumor?” Randy picked up an ashtray and tapped in his ashes. “There’s no rumor about you.”

“That’s a relief.” I lied back down.

“Has there been a rumor?” Bryon asked. “I haven’t heard it.”

“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” I said.

“I heard you and Steve got into it the other night,” Randy said. “You shoulda just kicked his squirrelly ass. He never knows what he’s talking about.”

I just shook my head. “I thought you guys were friends again.”

The slim, dark guitarist frowned. “Yeah, that lasted about a day.” He lit a new cigarette with the old one, his hands still shaking terribly. Amazing that his withdrawal symptoms hadn’t affected his playing. “Asshole.”

There was obviously still some contention between Steve and Randy. Who knew what it was now.

“Was it true about him and that woman in Springfield?” Bryon asked.

“What?” I barely remembered “Grandma.”

“She told him she could get him a solo deal,” Randy muttered. “And he was stupid enough to believe it.”

“Solo deal?” Strange news. I had visions of us going through the whole David Lee Roth vs. Van Halen thing. “Is he serious?”

Randy shook his head. “He won’t get a solo deal. He can’t cut it on his own and he knows it.”

“Season doesn’t particularly care for him, does she?” Bryon announced.

Randy laughed. “That’s no lie. He was all over her after dinner last night. Or this morning, rather. Why didn’t you kick his ass, Jon?”

I sighed, remembering his continued advances toward her as we came out of Denney’s after the show. During dinner, after I watched her wolf down a bacon cheeseburger like it was her last meal, we’d discussed porn films, which led to a comment from Clint about how she was being bitchy lately because she wasn’t getting any.

That sounded familiar.

Anyway, Terry went into this long speech about how I was the one who always knew the right places to take women on dates, then when Season said romance was for suckers, Clint reached over and touched the back of her neck, saying the spot just under her right ear was her “on” switch. She shoved him off with a joke about not doing “that touchy-feely inbred cousin thing.” Naturally, Steve saw this as a golden opportunity to move in for the kill. He wouldn’t leave her alone, and kept leering at me, like I was some kind of sexual retard. I pretended not to notice, trying to keep Terry’s hair out of my food. Eventually Season climbed on her bus and slammed the door in Steve’s face.

“I’m a lover, not a fighter,” I said. “According to Steve, I’m not even that.”

“Aw, fuck him,” Randy said. “It’s a wonder he can even function with what he’s been doing.”

Bryon and I exchanged looks, but Randy didn’t continue.

There was a sudden commotion at the door. It rattled ferociously, then someone banged it on it, swearing at the top his lungs like a truck driver.

“This key doesn’t work! The one time I don’t lose the damn key and the stupid-ass thing is broke!”

More banging.

“Damn,” said Randy, lighting yet another cigarette.

“Should we open it for him?” Bryon stood up.

“Nah, he’ll figure it out,” I said.

The doorknob sounded as if it was being ripped out.

“Dammit!”

Barry’s voice: “Terry, quit swearing!”

“My key doesn’t work! Barry! Don’t...aw, shit!”

Terry continued to battle with his key. He kicked the door, his profanities ringing through the corridor. I finally got up and let him in.

He stumbled into the room, his hand still clutching the knob. “Oh, hi, guys. I didn’t think anyone was in here.” He was instantly calm, strutting in and collapsing on his bed. “Let’s go find Jon a prostitute, and get him out of this funk he’s been in.”

“In Richmond, Virginia?” Bryon asked.

“The Virgin State?” Randy added, grinning.

“Nothing like poppin’ a virgin!” I threw a pillow at Terry.

“Ain’t that the truth!” The lanky New Mexican started thrusting his hips in the air.

Steve happened in. “What the hell’s going on in here?”

“Terry’s fucking an invisible woman,” Randy said, blowing circles of smoke out of his nose. “I’ll bet you can’t even top that.”

Steve didn’t respond. He seemed out of it, and I wondered about Randy’s previous comment about “what he’s been doing.” There was a weird awkward silence, then the singer said, “Barry wants us downstairs.”

Terry sat up, disappointed. “For what? It’s our day off.”

“Shopping.” Steve walked back out, like a zombie.

Worried looks went around the room. Finally Terry said, “He’s fucked up.”

Randy just nodded. “I quit drinking and he does this.”

“What’s he on?” I asked, standing and looking for my boots.

“I don’t know, he’s hiding it pretty well.” Randy crushed out his cigarette and scratched his head. “I’ve looked through all his stuff and can’t find anything but aspirin. I’ve caught people handing stuff off to him though, but he must take it all ‘coz there’s nothing left.”

We spent the better part of the afternoon wandering around Cloverleaf Mall, sort of incognito, to do some miscellaneous shopping. Randy and I looked for clothes. Terry picked up some jewelry, including a watch that I knew he would never look at. Bryon bought some things for Nita, and I never knew he had such great taste in lingerie. Terry picked up a black teddy and waved it in my face. “Maybe you should get this for your new girlfriend!”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” I amended.

“Yet,” said Bryon.

“And besides, you don’t buy women you hardly know lingerie.” I started looking for a way out of Victoria’s Secret. Considering my current state, I didn’t need to be looking at lingerie.

Terry held the teddy up to his scrawny chest and looked in a mirror. “Is it me?”

Bryon narrowed his eyes. “Terry, I’m seriously worried about you.”

The drummer whistled to the rather attractive girl behind the counter. “Hey, baby, would you model this for me?”

“We’re leaving now.” I dragged Terry from the store.

Steve skulked around with us every once in a while, would disappear for a few minutes, then turn back up mysteriously, like some kind of vampire. It was really strange.

We were glad the mall wasn’t very busy, another reason we preferred Sundays off. If we needed to do errands, we could easily go unnoticed. We sort of blended in with the other long-haired guys who hung out in malls, two of which recognized Terry and me at Disc Jockey and asked for autographs.

Favorite Scene Friday #2

It's time for another Favorite Scene Friday!

This scene got a nod as a favorite from the reviewer from the Writers' Digest Self-Published Book Awards last fall.

Jon and Terry are having lunch in Peacock Alley in the Waldorf Astoria when they're spotted by some fans, followed by reporters. They decide to make an escape through the kitchen, then quite obviously, through the laundry room.

Again, language ahead...Enjoy!

NEW YORK, NEW YORK
June 15, 1985

Terry and I sat in the restaurant, Peacock Alley, next to tinted windows. There were people lining the sidewalk, and judging by their clothes, manner, and youth, they had to be fans. Girls were crying, guys were glum.

The word’s out all over the country by now, I thought. It would make Entertainment Tonight’s opening sequence, and MTV Music News had probably been broadcasting it every hour since seven a.m. Kids would be freaking out all over the place, worrying about the tour, and getting the information completely screwed up.

“They say Randy’s dead.”

“This girl was killed!”

“He’ll be sent to prison for life!”

“They’ll cancel their tour. Their career’s over.”

Terry quieted the voices in my head. “What the hell is this, Jon?” he was saying as I stirred my tea, watching three packs of sugar form a pile at the bottom of the glass. “This whole ordeal is bringing out things in us I’ve never seen.”

I nodded slowly. In just seven hours, every member of Tarax had undergone some sort of transformation. Randy was no longer the bitter alcoholic guitarist; he was a lost and frightened soul, weary of all the rock-n-roll hoopla. Steve’s frontman ego had become a chastised child, countered by a shocking outburst of fury from the always serene and reserved Bryon. Even the hyperactive, completely ignorant Terry was speaking intelligently. “Cloud of gloom” and a word like “ordeal” were not part of his normal vocabulary.

I didn’t know what the hell was wrong with me, speaking out of turn to police investigators, and unlike my usual diplomatic and tactful self, I was speechless and numb. Our career, all that we bled for, was hanging by a thread, and it just hadn’t hit me yet.

“Are you listening to me?”

“Huh? What?” I came back to life.

“You look stoned, man,” he said. “I know you like dope, but even when you’re high you don’t look this bad. And you’re stirring your tea with your fork.”

I stopped immediately, tossing the fork back onto the table with a clang, thinking of how the guys used to dog me out for actually knowing there was such a thing as a salad fork, a dinner fork, and a desert spoon. Randy used to blame it solely on the fact that my mother’s a Canadian.

“That’s the funniest thing I’ve seen since early this morning,” the drummer said, also remembering my knowledge of table settings.

“I’m sorry. My mind is elsewhere.”

“Obviously.”

“What were you saying anyway?” I flagged down the waiter to bring our check.

“Are we gonna be okay? I mean, we’ve all been acting so strange. How are things gonna get back to normal?”

Ah, Terry. The most sheltered only child in the history of mankind. Every blow softened, every harshness quickly covered and extinguished. The only bad thing that had ever happened to Terry was the death of a beloved pet hamster in the fifth grade. Terry’s twenty-one years were basically without tragedy or heartache. Life was always good with Terry.

“It’ll be odd at first,” I said, trying to sound like the aged advisor, the one who knew the right thing to say at the right time, which was quite the joke since I hadn’t experienced much tragedy myself. “But we’ll make out all right. I guess if Vince can get through this anyone can.”

I recalled Vince Neil’s accident last December that killed Nicholas “Razzle” Dingley of Hanoi Rocks.

“You think we should go to the funeral?” he asked, frowning.

“Randy should, maybe,” I said, then reconsidered. “But then again, that’d be a disaster if relatives got out of hand. And if the press showed up.”

“No shit.”

We were silent for a while. I stared at my plate, nothing left but a few uneaten French fries and one last bite of a chicken sandwich.

“Are you gonna eat that?” Terry asked suddenly.

I shook my head, and he had it down in one gulp. “At least I haven’t lost my appetite,” he grinned. “I still don’t see how you eat yard bird all the damn time. Cannibal little fuckers.”

He was obviously recalling his days working in chicken houses with his grandfather in Oklahoma. Would you call that a tragedy? “I like chicken. You’ve got mayonnaise on your chin.”

He wiped it away then licked it off his fingers. Along with his appetite, he hadn’t lost his lack of table manners either. “You sound really strange, Jon. Tell me you’re not losing your mind, too.”

Riiiight…. “I didn’t think I’d ever have to go through this again. But it’s different this time, because we’re so much more nationwide now. I mean, look at all those people out there now.” I pointed out the window. “People I don’t know are worried about us. We’ve disappointed a lot of folks, man.” I stopped for a minute, getting my thoughts in order. “I don’t understand it, Terry. Show business can be scary.”

There was another silence before he sighed with relief. “Oh good, you’re back to normal.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re talking like you usually do,” he said. “All philosophical and shit. Nobody else is talking like they should.”

“Barry is.”

“That’s debatable.”

Debatable? He can’t even spell “debatable.” I didn’t point out his new expanded vocabulary; I was too shocked by it. I was about to say something else when I saw two guys and a dark-haired girl standing at the host’s station. They pointed at us excitedly and started heading our way.

“Don’t look now, but I think we have been identified.”

Terry glanced over his shoulder. “Shit. What do we do?”

“Leave.” Where were Billy and Ray?

“How?”

I grabbed a passing waiter as he came by. “Uh, sir, could you show us a different way out of here? We’d like to keep away from the public for today.”

“You can go out through the kitchen,” he said. “Right this way.”

And not a moment too soon. Following the three kids were about six reporters. We ran through the kitchen as the host stopped them and tried to shove them out of the restaurant.

“The kids must’ve been bait,” Terry said as we stood amidst stoves and sinks and pots and pans. A head chef looked down his long nose at us, rattling on in French. I recognized a few select phrases, like the ones Madame Parker didn’t teach us in high school, but those I learned from my uncle Gilbert, and a foreign exchange student named Gabrielle, who also introduced me to the finer points of...well, I’ll talk about that later.

Terry nudged my arm. “What’d he say?”

“Something like, ‘My car’s in the factory’.”

“What?”

“That’s what it sounded like.” I couldn’t tell him I’d heard “assholes” about five times.

The chef turned his back to us, so Terry tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, mon-sur, how do we rock-aires get out of la keetch-un?”

I rolled my eyes.

The chef was not so amused. He cursed again in his native language.

“Never mind,” I said, recognizing the f-word. “We’ll find it ourselves.”

We pushed through the noisy kitchen and found the service entrance. We opened it, finding ourselves in an alley.

“Aw, shit,” groaned Terry. “Not another one of these!”

We didn’t much like alleys after Chicago.

“Now what do we do?” I mumbled to myself.

“Go back inside.” Terry opened the door.

“I’ve got it!” I snapped my fingers.

“Oh, no. You’re thinking of something really dumb, Jon. I can already tell.”

“C’mon.” I grabbed his arm and we went back inside.

I peeked out the kitchen doors into the dining room. The press guys were gone.

“Hey, baby, how’s it goin?” Terry gawked at a waitress carrying a tray of desserts. He reached out to pinch her ass and she whacked him in the face with a napkin. “Ow! Bitch.”

I waved to the host.

“Yes, Mr. Warren?” He came to us immediately.

“I need a favor.”

“I knew this was a really dumb idea, Jon.”

“Shh. Put your head back down.”

“They only do this shit in movies, Warren,” he grumbled. “I don’t fucking believe this.”

I adjusted my tie. I was dressed as a laundry boy, my hair slicked back into a ponytail with cooking oil; a look I must say doesn’t really suit me. My white starched shirt was cutting into my jugular, and the black pants were too small and pulled at the crotch. They didn’t have shoes, so I had on Terry’s black Chuck Taylors, which were two sizes too big. Terry was in the laundry cart, holding my clothes, buried under towels and linens. We stepped out of the elevator on the tenth floor, and to my surprise, the hallway was deserted.

“Wow, there’s nobody here,” I said.

“Good, then get me outta here.” Terry began to emerge out of the basket.

I shoved him back down. “No, you never know if they’re going to jump out and get you.”

“They’re just the press, not the Boogey Men,” he said, his voice muffled.

Suddenly a man came around a far corner, carrying a camera, a press badge attached to his shirt pocket. I ducked my head. I thought he was gone when I heard him say, “Hey, do you know where Tarax is staying?”

I ducked my head down, hoping my dark looks and Southern Arizona background could help me. “Señor?”

“What?” Terry’s nose appeared under a pillowcase. He whispered loudly. “Are you high? You’re not a fucking Mexican!”

“No, I’m Puerto Rican!” I whispered back.

“The rock group Tarax,” the photographer spoke again. “They’re playing at the Gardens this weekend. Their lead guitarist had a car wreck. Supposedly killed some girl.”

“¿Cómo? No hablo inglés.”

“Aw, shit.” Terry recovered his head.

“Tarax, the rock band?” The man spoke louder. It’s funny how if you don’t speak English, you’re automatically deaf, too. “You know, rock and…Oh never mind.” He got into the elevator and was gone.

“Told you they jump out at you,” I said, pushing the cart again.

“Okay, whatever,” complained the drummer. “Just get us back to the room before I suffocate.”

“I guess you didn’t get any fresh air after all,” I joked.

“Fuck you!”

I knocked on our door, curious as to where our security had gone. Steve answered, his blue eyes peeking over the chain. He looked somewhat confused.

“Can I help you?”

Before I could speak, the laundry cart said, “Steve, it’s us. Let us in.”

“Huh?”

“It’s me…Jon.”

“How can I be sure?”

What? Was he high? I didn’t look that much unlike myself. Maybe he was just being an ass.

Terry’s head came up from out of the towels. “Open the damn door!”

Steve, stunned, unchained the door. Terry leaped out of the laundry cart, flinging linens onto the floor. “It smells like shit down in there!”

I took the rubber band out of my hair, feeling oil on my fingers.

“What the hell is this?” Barry came out of the rather large bathroom.

“We got spotted by the press in the restaurant,” Terry said. “Señor Genius here got us this wonderful disguise.” He threw my clothes and boots at me as I began to take off the stiff shirt. I hadn’t worn a shirt this starched since I quit the Boy Scouts.

“It worked, didn’t it?” I headed for the nearest shower.

Terry’s lip curled. “I guess.”

“How are things in here?” I asked, stepping into the bathroom. I groaned, watching rivulets of vegetable oil dribble down my neck. I looked like a reject from some Fonzie auditions.

“Still pretty quiet,” said Steve. “We got a call from Chuck.”

Chuck Greeley, our booking agent in LA. I turned on the shower, shoving my head under the running water. “What’d he say?”

Steve handed me this tankard of conditioning shampoo, a bottle we took with us everywhere, because with us, it’s always about “the Hair.” “He said to keep cool. He’d get word to the promoters.”

“That’s it?” I began to scrub my head vigorously, hearing Terry relate our escapade to Barry, complete with an imitation of my Latino accent.

“Well…” Steve was much calmer now, almost too calm. “Since the hearing isn’t until, oh, what’d he say? October?”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll pull through.” He sat down on the toilet while I showered, feeling grease pour over me. “How’re things downstairs?”

“It’s a fucking madhouse,” Terry said. “That’s why we came up in the laundry bag.” He pulled back the shower curtain and snapped a towel onto my bare ass. “No thanks to Jonny here.”

I rinsed, shut off the water, and shook my head like a wet dog, spraying water all over the bathroom. “Did you have a better idea?”

He frowned. “No. Well, you coulda been in the cart smelling all that stinky shit!”

Steve grabbed the towel in Terry’s hand and flicked him with it.

“Ow!” Terry had no tolerance for pain, and whimpers like a little girl from the slightest nudge. He caught Steve in a headlock.

“Let me go! Watch the hair! Watch the haaaaaaaaairrrrrrrr!” His screams trailed off as Terry dragged him into the living room. Steve reached out to grab me, but I leaped back and fell back into the bathtub, with was filled with water, soap, and cooking oil. The more I tried to get up, the more I slipped. “Shit! Hey, could somebody help me?”