Instead, I find myself tapping along and remembering a time when I used to sit on a milk crate, watching my friend’s garage band. The drummer was… well he was trouble. The kind of trouble that you never forget. The kind that you want… you crave… despite your mama’s warnings against it. I found that kind of trouble before. That was the only time I had ever been truly in love and vowed to never love again. The pain far outweighed any happiness and I definitely learned my lesson. It’s a hard pill to swallow knowing you’ll always be a second or third priority in their lives, and that’s if you’re lucky. The drums always come first, followed closely by the band. You’re technically just background noise, offering undying support and a place for them to lay their head at night. Nothing more.
And always so much less.
2
Ajay
There needs to be a handbook on how to cope with tour life. Something to guide starving artists on the ins and outs of road survival and how to deal with the lack of home cooked meals, decent showers, and a goodnight’s sleep, which are a few of my gripes. Not to mention a shortage of clean clothes. I miss the comforts of my lonely apartment. The ability to sleep, do my laundry whenever I please, go to the bathroom without hearing my friends talk about why it’s taking me so long, making something that isn’t Ramen noodles or filled with grease are high on my priority list. Not that I’m any kind of an actual chef, but I do like to take care of myself. For the most part, my place is quiet with the exception of when my neighbors have a party, but I’ll take that over the big rigs traveling down the highway going fifteen to twenty over the speed limit, shaking the bus as they go by and blaring their horns in some sort of solidarity to their comrades on the other side of the road. Of course, this is how things are until Sinful Distraction hits it big.
Right now, we’re opening for 4225 West and I have never been so grateful in my entire life for the experience. The rush I get every time I step onto the stage is indescribable. The thundering vibration from the fans screaming our name, over and over, sends chills down my spine. And when I pull my drumsticks out, and the wood nestles between my fingers, I’m transported. Nothing else exists except me, my kit, and the people surrounding me. We become one. And for an hour we play our hearts out to a mostly full venue. I wouldn’t change anything right now other than the fact that I’d really love to fly on 4225 West’s private jet and stay in their fancy hotels instead of living on this damn bus.
For the most part, our stops are somewhat close. After our performance, the tour company makes sure our dressing room is stocked full of food. Often, we’re taking anything left over with us because most of the time the food is decent. We relax a bit, eat as much as we can, chat with a few of the roadies and some of the fans who managed to get backstage passes, and watch our biggest supporters perform. The tour is a family affair with 4225 West’s family tagging along. Quinn’s mother hovers over us, making sure we’re not drinking too much, insisting we take our vitamins, and giving death glares to any women who try and get close. Keane’s daughter is also on tour with us, however she’s traveling with Liam’s daughter by plane. I don’t know how she got so lucky, but there are times when I want to point out that Harrison’s my mentor and I need some quality time with him. Still, when it comes time to leave, my steps are slow, and I feel like a geriatric when I have to climb the steps to the bus.
Maybe it’s because the décor never changes. The wood paneling starts to become muted in color, the shine it had when we boarded the first time is long gone. The chairs have all lost their comfort from the constant sitting we do in them, becoming lumpy and misshapen. Our shower is small, and the water is often cold. Elle made a schedule for us to follow but honestly most of us wait until we get to the venue, hoping we have a chance to sneak into the locker rooms. Our sleeping quarters aren’t much better, although I’ve always wanted to sleep on a bunk bed. Now that I have, I can cross it off my “never want to do this again” bucket list. Keane is my roommate and for the most part, things are great. He’s quiet, doesn’t snore and really keeps to himself. I know he worries about his daughter, but I’d gladly take her place if given the chance. That girl is living the life right now with the Page entourage.
There are a few people standing outside when we exit the building. This still shocks me, especially considering who we opened for. Like why wouldn’t they be inside experiencing that show instead of waiting for us? Elle tells us to embrace it, to give the fans what they want, which are stinky hugs and selfies for their social media. The fans form two lines on either side of the door. Some have signs, while others have their phones out likely taking pictures as we walk toward them. Names are called and declarations of love are made, something Liam Page warned us about ahead of time. His motto is to thank them and never return the sentiment. He said what we feel for them isn’t what they’re feeling for us. We are grateful, humbled and in debt to them, and they see us as a fantasy, someone they long to be or be with. He says the line needs to be clear from the beginning.
Oh, and we’re never ever to get involved with a fan. That’s something JD Davis pounds into our heads before every show. According to Liam, JD used to be the worst of the worst when it came to fan hook-ups, and we’re to heed the word of the famous Brit. Not that we could do anything if we wanted. Elle is fierce and no one gets past her. She’s like a shark and can sense when someone is “up to no good”, as she calls it. So even if we, with the exception of Quinn, wanted to find some adult entertainment while on the road, Elle would slam that door shut so fast it would make our heads spin. She’s strict but with good reason. Quinn said once that his dad and the band went through some shit with their former manager, most of it public if I wanted to search through the confines of the internet, and that was the main reason Elle chose the business. He said his sister would make sure nothing ever happened to any of us. Thing is, I believe him.
After posing for a handful of pictures and signing just as many autographs, we’re finally on the bus. The door is shut making the outside voices muffled. Hendrix and I kneel on the sofa, looking out the window. We can see the fans, but they can’t see us. A few are jumping up and down, trying to get our attention, while others linger in a group, and some walk away knowing we’re about to hit the road. The rumble of the engine changes everyone’s mood. Dana goes off to the room she shares with Elle. Hendrix watches her like a puppy dog yearning for attention. Keane disappears into our room to video chat with this daughter. Quinn reclines in the chairs and puts his headphones on. He and Elle are used to living on the road. Me, I continue to stare out of the window imagining what the scenery looks like. Are the trees still the greenest I’ve ever seen them? Is the ocean still as warm as I remember? Are my friends still working on the docks or have they finally left our small town in hopes of pursuing their dreams? That’s what I did, and I never looked back. Probably not the wisest decision I ever made but there was nothing left for me. I was broken, shattered. If I hadn’t fled, I would probably be in jail right about now.
Still, I watch the darkness drift by as we head down the highway. The bus is quiet, minus the lull from the motor and the faint music I can hear from the driver’s radio. The headlights flash on a road sign, telling us which town we’re approaching. Instantly, I’m overcome with emotion and dread, fear and longing. My body hurts and I feel like I’m going to be sick. My hometown of Bailey is fifty miles away, much closer than I anticipated on this leg of the tour. I don’t want to see the signs as we get closer because I know I’ll smash my forehead against the glass hoping to see something that looks familiar, so I get up and head to the bathroom. The small confined space is stifling, the air reeking of floral air freshener. I gag and pull my shirt over my nose but quickly change my mind because I haven’t showered yet and definitely do not smell the greatest right now.
When I feel the motor coach stop, relief washes over me. If luck is on my side, we’ve pulled over for the night and I can shower, and maybe get a decent night’s sleep. Even as I open the door and look out the small window, I know we haven’t stopped at a campsite, but along the side of the road. I come out of the bathroom to find Elle standing in the middle of our makeshift living room talking to a man in uniform. Something tells me to turn away, to go back into the bathroom or go hide out in my room, but I don’t. I step further into the living area and make eye contact with the man who tried to shoot me years ago.
Sheriff Foster, the man who can and will terrify you in your sleep is standing in front of Elle with his eyes trained on me and his hand on his gun. I swallow hard as Elle turns slightly. She has a piece of paper in her hands and she looks… sorry. I’m not sure what her expression means, but it’s not one I’ve seen before.
“And you’re sure this matter can’t be taken care of with some community service? We’re on a time schedule here.”
“Ma’am, as I said, this matter must be dealt with immediately,” the Sheriff’s booming voice echoes through the bus. By now, everyone’s awake, and no one is saying anything. Sheriff Foster steps toward me and I lose all ability to think. I’m a grown ass adult and this man scares the shit right out of me.
“Sheriff Foster,” I say as kindly as possible. “Missed you at the show tonight. I had tickets set out for you and everything.” My voice cracks at the end. He won’t find humor in my statement. He won’t even crack a smile.
He comes toward me, each step slow and methodical. He’s going to kill me and hang my body in the center of town in front of everyone. It’s what I deserve especially after what I did, and something tells me that saying “I’m sorry” isn’t going to cut it.
“Ajay Ballard, I have a warrant for your arrest.” He pulls out his handcuffs and motions for me to turn around. I suppose that this isn’t a good time for me to tell him that his daughter and I used them once even though those are the words sitting on the edge of my tongue.
Instead, I’m a complete and utter fool when I ask, “For what?” as snottily as possible.
He chuckles and his round belly jiggles slightly. I try not to laugh but the years haven’t been good to his midsection. “Turn around asshole.”
“Not until you tell me what you’re arresting me for this time.”
“This time?” Elle barks out. “Do you have a record that I should know about?”
“No, ma’am.”
“He will once Judge Harvey is done with him.”
Harvey. Harvey. My mouth drops open as it all comes back to me. My girl, Whiskey, and me, drunk as hell, decided to teepee the judge’s house one night. Only I got cold feet and couldn’t go through with it. Whiskey did though, and decorated that house like a Christmas tree, eggs included.
“Wasn’t me,” I tell him, smug as can be.
“Warrant says otherwise.” He holds up the piece of paper. I reach for it, but he pulls it away. “Not so fast. Turn around and put your hands on the wall.”
“What? No. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Wrong choice of words as he moves so fast that I’m pushed against the side of the bus. His forearm is pushing down on my neck and his leg is between my thighs while his weight presses against me. He reads me my rights and tells me I’m under arrest for resisting arrest and for the outstanding warrant.