Red Velvet Crush (12 page)

But these are not our people—no flannel, no sweet. Any damage will be orderly and should be arranged for in advance. There is paperwork to be filled out at the front desk.

“Fixed,” Jay announces from behind my amp.

Then he pops up and hitches up his pants.

Winston breathes a sigh of relief and lights a cigarette.

Jay is one of those guys who can fix anything. He'll sit down and stare at something and figure out how it works. My amp, the cigarette lighter in the van, Billie's miniature hair dryer: he fixed them all. While this comes in handy, it also makes me feel like I spend an inordinate amount of time with a good view of his butt crack. (FYI, boxers. Always plaid.)

Ty and Ginger are a few feet away, taping our cords to the floor.

After ten days on the road, we have begun to figure out a routine: who does what and how to get everything done that needs to get done so that we can make it onto the stage each night, reasonably close to being on time.

The guys haul the big stuff. Billie and I follow with guitars and cords and cartons of cigarettes. Ty always carries his sticks himself. Then Billie and Winston work the room, befriending bartenders and waitresses and managers while the rest of us set up, double time.

Drop that into reverse, and we are packed up at the end of the show. Cords wrapped neatly, gear stowed under the seats,
people on top, and the white van rolling on toward the bitter end. We have it down.

Jay jumps off the edge of the stage and bounces over. We all huddle together, scribbling down our set list on the back of a pizza box with a big black marker Billie borrowed from the bouncer.

“The ballad killed Styx and Journey,” Winston says, reading over my shoulder, as if he were some kind of sage.

I know better. Winston owns only one book,
How to Survive Anything
. He has read it cover to cover, though, so we are set if the van ever plunges into a raging river or if he gets locked inside a steamer trunk.

“Have I taught you nothing?” he calls out as he runs down the steps and retreats to his hiding place offstage.

Winston always stands to the side of the stage while we play. Beer in hand, leg jiggling along, just close enough for the waitresses to find him when he needs a refill.

“Not on purpose,” I yell at the shadow now looming behind the tall speaker on my right.

Then I reach over and scratch out the Journey song anyway.

Billie stumbles toward me more than buzzed. How did she manage to get loaded while we set up? I look around for the usual suspects, skinny boys with spindly mustaches, looking completely sneaky and smoked out.

How will she win over the crowd like that?

I plug in, silently praying to the often ignored baby Jesus
for a good set, a great night, a gracious landing. Billie steps in beside me, smushing a cigarette with her foot. I don't think it was ever even lit.

“First one to miss a start has to pack the drum kit.” Jay jokes as he bounces his guitar up against his hip, amped.

Ginger nods, up for the challenge.

Jay swings his guitar around to the front, ready to go.

I catch my breath right before the first few notes, just as Billie moves in close to her mic and shouts, “We are Red Velvet Crush!”

The crowd is at attention.

We tear into some serious rock music. Couples fill the dance floor, and even the most spiteful Red Velvet Crush nonbelievers are tapping their toes by the second verse. Someone, somewhere has gotten knocked up in a backseat to this song.

It brings out my inner cheerleader. She likes lip gloss and boys who play football and high kicks. I hop while Billie does the pony next to me. Her blond hair bounces up and down, her voice perfect and raspy; her breath stays even.

She spins during my solo, her skirt flaring out toward the audience, her eyes snapping onto mine after each rotation. Drunk and useless five minutes before we went on, Billie is blistering through it.

Ginger's head rolls from side to side, his eyes shut. Jay plays hard, jumping off everything he can climb. And Ty
pounds under us all, a nonstop highway of snare and crash cymbals with no speed limit.

Sometimes I don't even know we are climbing until we are at the top. Sitting astride a huge wave of rhythm and energy. Sliding to the bottom on shattered fingernails and dissonance, just to start again, ready for the next ride.

How do I come down from that?

How do I go back to real life, to everyday things like history notes, hitting the snooze button at 7:00
A.M.,
and flossing on a regular basis?

I hold on to our final note, hoping I never have to find out. Our shoulders lift in unison, then beat down together one last time, making this great noise, this great feeling, something so much bigger than any one of us could be alone.

All sins are forgiven, all squabbles left behind. Every shred of pain and drip of sweat and stab of jealousy is worth it, over and over and over and bow.

T
y and I slide out of the van and spill into a parking lot as the sun starts to set behind us. I'm sure we stink. We have been on the road for more than two weeks straight, and it is summer after all.

The Laundromat has a neon sign in the window. A string of glowing pink bubbles, popping as they light up from bottom to top. The last one is broken. Ty drags our two bags of dirty laundry up over the curb, and I bring my guitar.

“Please don't tell me we got paid in quarters again,” he says as I hold the glass door open for him.

“Nope,” I say, flashing a ten-dollar bill. “We're big time.”

The Laundromat is empty. No people, only the swishing of soapy water and the smell of softener. A good sign, I guess.

It means that at least we can leave our stuff here while it spins and soaks.

I shake my clothes out onto a table and start sorting. Ty skips that step and stuffs all of his into one machine. He gets quarters and two tiny boxes of soap from the dispenser on the wall while I select my temperatures and water levels.

Studying my piles of pinks, whites, and dirty jeans, he smiles skeptically and holds out a handful of change.

“I'm hoping for more than a lump of gray at the end,” I say.

“Optimistic.”

He leans in and kisses me after I drop the lid on my load of darks.

“Do you want to start on that one from last night?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

I add soap while he runs to the van for Jay's acoustic bass.

Settling in, I open my guitar case and sit in the middle of a row of plastic chairs shaped like eggshells. I pull my notebook from the bottom of my bag.

Ty chooses the eggshell on the end of the row. I put the notebook on the empty seat between us as he tunes the bass, twisting his fingers and tipping his head until the sound is just right.

“It's about a girl and the pull of the moon, right?” he asks, remembering like he always does.

Our eyes meet, I nod, and we start to play. My fingers trip along, working out the melody, finding the notes that fit what Ty is thumbing out as the words from my notebook drift in my head, finally falling into place.

We started working together five nights ago after a long, late gig. Ty was taking a shower. We usually stayed in after our shows; after-parties and closing down the bar don't work for Ty. Nothing was on TV but dog races, and I had already tried home, leaving another message for my dad, again.

After the beep I breathed out, “Hi. Hope you're good.” Pause. “Billie had pancakes for breakfast today, with a side order of pancakes . . . I'll send you a picture.” Pause. “Okay. Miss you. Bye.”

I found a picture of Billie's breakfast, a half-eaten short stack of pancakes, swimming in a brown sea of syrup, and hit send.

Picturing Dad at the kitchen table alone, a full box of bran flakes in front of him, or watching TV until he fell asleep every night in a dark and empty house made me feel sad, so I pulled out my notebook and my guitar.

My fingers hadn't tightened up yet, so it wasn't hard to slip right back in and get lost in my own world. I was singing to myself when I realized that Ty was behind me, a towel wrapped around his waist, humming along.

“You were so far away,” he said quietly.

He sat down next to me and reached for my notebook,
drawing five wobbly horizontal lines across the page, followed by a lot of notes.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

He didn't look up.

“Arranging,” he said.

He grabbed his sticks and pounded out a rhythm on the corner of the mattress. It sounded good. I didn't get how he did it; but I liked it anyway.

“What comes next?” he asked, urging me on.

I played, and he scribbled down notes, adding structure underneath my melody and smoothing it all out into a song.

We backed up over a tricky part, and he sat down next to me.

“Someday,” he said, “somebody else should hear this.”

“You sure?” I asked because that was what I wanted. Someone who got me, who made me feel connected and cared for, but knew when I needed a nudge, even if that scared the crap out of me.

“Absolutely,” he said, but his smile sold me.

We have been working together every night since, superlate after a show or first thing in the morning, wrapped up in the sheets of some unknown hotel, setting my words to music.

Ty finds an all-night diner or nonstop convenience store and stocks up on blue slurpees and chocolate cake, and then, covered in cake crumbs, we play into the wee hours, stopping
occasionally to make out like blue-tongued zombies until the sun comes up.

I strum one more time tonight and stop. I've gotten as far as I can go. I'm out of words.

“How does it end?” Ty asks, playing a low, rambling bass line that I can feel through the seats.

I look at him and shrug.

We are together, surrounded by suds and hum. I am warm and safe, and it smells like soap. I don't ever want this one to end.

“Well, then,” Ty says, continuing to play, “let's just tumble.”

“Would you look at that?” Jay drops his duffel in front of the van, claps his hands above his head, and then vaults over the waist-high chain-link fence in front of the motel pool. It is tiny and covered in cracked blue tile, but definitely swimmable.

The motel surrounds the pool on three sides, the parking lot on the other. Two wood-shingled floors with an Astroturf-covered balcony run the length of the motel's second floor, cutting sharp corners to cap the ends of the pool with staircases.

“Our first pool.” Billie smiles as Jay pulls the gate open for her from the inside. She heaves her backpack up against the fence, sits right down on the cement, and pulls off a boot.

“Don't anybody drown,” Winston says, heading off toward the office.

I follow along behind him. Winston always drags me with him for administrative tasks such as checking in, ordering food, and paying for broken and/or missing items. Jay is officially hyperactive, Ty is too easily distracted, and Billie is, well, Billie, so Winston appointed me. Ginger Baker is probably more responsible than all of us put together, but it is hard to be certain since he never actually speaks.

“Winston Carter?” The little round man behind the desk reads Winston's name aloud and upside down, breaking each syllable into pieces as Winston fills in his info and the van's plate number on the required form. The man is kind of red and meat colored, like a ham.

Winston stops writing and nods.

Hambone breathes heavily.

“Well, Mr. Carter . . . that'll be two hundred thirty-nine dollars and ninety-six cents, not including incidentals.” He rocks back on his heels as if he thinks we can't cover it.

I make a mental note to make sure that Billie steals nothing bigger than a bar of soap. Country ham looks like a stickler.

Winston whips a wad of Randy's cash out of his front pocket, and the guy's eyes bulge. Winston flips through the bills and hands over five of them.

“We're old school,” he says to the clerk with a forced
smile as he reaches into his other pocket to grab his chiming phone.

He checks a text and hands his phone to me.

It's from Randy. We are canceled for tonight.

Winston stuffs his phone back into his jacket and starts to light a cigarette.

Hambone shakes his head and points dramatically at the no smoking sign posted on the paneled wall next to Winston's head.

Winston slides out the door in a puff of nicotine as the little man scowls. He straightens some papers on his desk, regaining his composure. He hands me our change, which I pocket, and then drops four metal room keys into my open hand.

Each one has a flat green plastic diamond attached to it that is engraved with the room number. Talk about old school.

“Office closes at ten,” he says to me in a clipped voice as he glares at the growing cloud of smoke swirling outside his office door.

He rotates and then gulps for air before he walks away and disappears into a room no bigger than a glorified closet to plop down in front of a tiny TV, our business finished.

Billie is sitting at the edge of the pool, feet submerged, leaning up against a metal ladder in her undies and a T-shirt when Winston and I get back. Her boots are dumped at the end of
a woven plastic chaise lounge, and the bruises on her skinny legs look fresh and blue. She probably bumped into something onstage last night.

Ginger Baker is stretched out on a lounge chair, arms over his head, apparently asleep, his body as limber as a wooden clothespin.

“We're canceled for tonight,” Winston says.

Ty sneaks up from behind, wraps his arms around my waist, and says, softly over my shoulder, “An entire day off.”

“An entire day without money,” Winston replies.

“No problem,” Ty says like it is no big deal. And it isn't for him. He can always get money from home.

“At least there's a pool,” Billie says.

“Yeah, the last place didn't even have a bathtub,” Jay remarks.

“Sorry, Queen Victoria,” Winston says. He doesn't look up; he is busy tapping another cigarette out of his pack.

“I like to soak,” Jay says as he spins himself around, trapped inside a tiny, lime green inner tube with a dinosaur head on it. Some kid, somewhere, is driving away in a packed station wagon, missing that thing.

“Are any of them poolside?” Jay asks.

I look at the keys in my hand and the numbers on the doors.

“One,” I say.

We moved to a four-room system after that first night
when Billie slept alone and Winston learned that he does not like to share. I'm willing to bet the money for the extra room doesn't come out of his cut.

Jay points to Ginger and yells, “My man!” like this is the Four Seasons in Maui and Ginger is in any way excitable.

I smile. I like that about Jay. For a sorta rich boy, he can slum it up with the rest of us and somehow be psyched about it.

“Was it us?” Ty asks Winston.

Winston shrugs and inhales, “Headliner probably couldn't sell out the club.”

“Hell, we could sell out a club.”

Jay twirls again, dragging a beer can in his wake.

Winston smiles. “Someday.”

He picks through the keys in my hand, pulls out the one marked 204, and makes his way to the open wooden stairs heading up to the second floor.

Winston is not going to swim. I'm not sure I've ever even seen his legs.

“You know what we need?” Ty asks out of the blue.

He peels off his T-shirt and tosses it at a chair.

“More time spent in daylight?” I ask.

Everyone is so
white
. Except Ginger; he goes way past white into a world of translucent. Only his hair has color.

Ty loses his shoes and socks in a pile and then backs up to the fence. He runs at the water, knowing we all are waiting
to hear what he is going to say. He lifts into a dive as soon as his toes hit the words
NO DIVING
painted in red letters on the deck.

“Fried chicken?” Billie shouts right before his pointed hands split the water open. Her ankles glow white, rippling in his wash.

Ty comes up shaking his head.

“No, not chicken.” He pauses, breathing, shoulder deep.

“New songs,” he says with a triumphant grin.

My heart skips. This is not a nudge. This is a push right into the deep end. A dunk. And I'm not even holding my breath.

“Awesome!” Jay says. “I was only thinking of floating beer cozies.”

Ginger leans up on one elbow and looks at me.

Ty's words just sit there. Everyone heard him. Are they waiting for it to sink in?

“New songs. Really?” Jay asks.

“Yeah, don't you think?”

“To the songs, not the chicken?” Jay clarifies, his brain seemingly scrambled by excitement.

Ty nods.

“Shouldn't Winston be here?” Jay asks.

“He's not
in
the band,” Billie says. She pulls her dripping ankles from the water. “Technically.”

“If we're discussing this, I mean,” Jay says.

He tries to spin in his tube, but it turns into a splash.

Ty holds on to the edge of the pool, leans his head back, and yells toward the balcony overlooking the pool. “Winston!”

“Is this a meeting then?” Jay asks, paddling his way toward the deep end.

“No, no. Not really,” Ty says, glancing up at me.

I stand silently. A dark cloud blocking out the sun.

“Feels like one,” Billie says, leaning back, the palms of her hands flat on the cement.

Ty pulls himself from the water on the far side of the pool. His back muscles flex once, strong, and then he is out.

“It's just . . . . up for discussion,” he turns and says.

I watch him drip.

“I don't want to discuss this at all,” I say to him.

The songs are mine. And I thought they were just between the two of us, at least until I was ready. Looks like I am wrong.

I step over to the nearest table. It has a crooked umbrella and a white rubber ring around the edge, the acrylic surface covered in cigarette burns and scratch marks. I drop two room keys on it.

“What's with TL?” Jay asks as I walk away.

Ty doesn't answer.

The remaining room key digs into my hand as I hit each wooden step, hard, and pray I didn't manage to walk away with the one poolside key. I didn't think to check the room
number, and there is no way I am going back down there. Not now.

“Wait,” Billie asks from below. “She's TL now?”

“Don't worry about it, Billie,” Ty says; then he yells up again from the pool. “Winston!”

The door to room 204 swings open next to me. Winston stands there: no shirt, just jeans, white feet, and a can of beer.

“Are we on fire?” he asks.

“No. Ty is just being stupid.”

“Well, drummers are strange people,” Winston says.