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chapter four

Montreal and West

The first night went well. One cock-up when the bassist started playing the wrong
song, having skipped one ahead. Tristan had turned around and made a small motion
with his hand, and Jack turned towards the drum kit, and played a couple of gliding
notes to put himself back in the right key, the right bar. It was reasonably skillful,
but Tristan’s expression was one of frustration. When static started to come out of
the keyboard monitor, his howl in the lyric felt like it was coming straight out of
his blood. One of the roadies rushed out and replaced the cord, and the other half
of the bass sound suddenly burst out into the mix. AC quickly threw in a howling whine
of bent notes and arpeggiated chords. The explosive energy with which he attacked
the strings brought the first smile to Tristan’s face all night.

I was there to watch. Take notes. Be there. I looked at the crowd. Plastic cups of
beer in hand, swaying along to one of the new songs, a few mouthing the words. The
usual throng of the obsessed down the front—a few devoted fans, a few good looking
girls who felt justified by their looks to try and catch the eye of the band members.
Fuck, you only live once, why not, I thought. Even so, it wasn’t a pretty sight. I
wondered if they knew the words. Not like the guy over by Tristan, who had the look
of the recently blessed, a sort of holy passion and peace on his face. He was fun
to watch. When Tristan and AC stood back to back and Tristan slid down halfway, supporting
AC, one large hand twisted around and pressed against AC’s slim waist, one hand in
a death grip on the microphone, his thighs taut with the effort, the effect was electric.
I glanced over to the guy. He was frozen to the spot, his mouth slightly open. I was
close enough to see that a vein in his neck was slightly pulsing. It was like watching
an animal come alive, leaving everything that held him back behind. At the end of
the concert, when Tristan bent down to slap the hands of the fans, I watched as he
reached out. Tristan’s expression changed in a moment, from the rock star performing
a necessary part to that of a priest performing a rite that would link the clamoring
soul to the divine. His face grew serious, and Tristan reached out and grabbed his
hands, delivering a small kiss to the blessed fan’s forehead, seemingly unaware of
the maze of hands that were reaching out to touch his thighs, his arms, any part of
him that they could reach. AC was at his back, smiling down at them, ignoring the
pleas of the fans. Then it was all over, and Tristan and AC walked off, waving to
the crowd. The guy watched them go off, then pushed through the crowd, as though now
he was in a hurry to get away from them, to be alone with his thoughts. And I wondered
about the power on both sides of this moment. This connection that would never be
repeated for him, but might be only the first of many for Tristan.

After we returned to the bus, we sat for a while in the bedroom, while Tristan and
AC worked out some guitar parts and revised the set list. I lay back on the bed, and
closed my eyes and listened to them play and hum out parts and make notes to share
with the rest of the band. It was soothing, listening to their voices talking, then
suddenly bursting out in bits of song, then singing it differently. It was a lullaby,
the calm focus of work. The bedroom was starting to feel less like a container, and
more like a change from everything, a chance to get away from the world, while strangely
going further into it, tires rumbling underneath us, miles passing by us. I dozed
off, and Tristan woke me up, asking if I wanted some of the catering that had been
provided for the first night. AC had disappeared. He brought me a sandwich and a bottle
of water, and kissed me.

“You’ll stay here tonight, right?” I nodded, sleepily. “I’m going to go hang out with
the band. You’ll be ok?” Tristan frowned at me.

I stretched. “Yeah, I’m tired actually. Is that ok? You probably want some time with
them anyway, but I wouldn’t mind just staying in here.”

He gave me a big hug, and found the necklace he had given me under my shirt. Lifting
it up, he kissed it. “No worries, sweet Lily. Get some rest. It only gets crazier
from here on.”

I held his hand to my lips, and kissed his fingers. “Yeah.” Tristan pulled me to him,
and held me close, his lips leaving soft kisses in my hair, murmuring what he would
do if he wasn’t working. I held him close, and breathed in his scent, slightly strange,
the traces of a hundred fan caresses on his skin, flavored with the soap from the
dressing room.

He kissed me again, and went out the door, but turned as he closed it. “Don’t worry
Lily. You’ll see.” I smiled as I watched him leave.

The sudden silence except for the rumble of the tires on the road was slightly unnerving.
I raised my fingers to my lips, trying to recapture the feeling of his touch. Gone
so soon, and wanting it again, more and more as it faded. I lay back on the bed, and
looked at the little recessed lights. Thinking about it wouldn’t help. Quickly changing
out of my clothes, I threw on a t-shirt and leggings, and cleaned my face with the
toner from my makeup bag. I felt more comfortable wearing something, even though I
didn’t usually. I didn’t want to go wandering about the bus half-naked in the dark.
I crawled under the covers, which smelled of fresh laundry soap, and even though they
were scratchy, they were perfectly flat and clean. I rolled over and stuck my headphones
on. “Keep on Truckin’ ” by Eddie Kendricks, his first hit after leaving the Temptations.
Perfect. I looked suspiciously at the chicken wrap Tristan had brought. I had to eat.
I left it on the table. Maybe later. Or not. I took a few bites and I wrote a bit,
and finally fell asleep listening to music.

Around two, according to my phone, Tristan came in and undressed down to his briefs.
I watched him sleepily shake out his jeans and lay them on the chair, stripping off
his shirt, his leather bracelets dark against his white skin. The tattoo at the top
of his ass had turned out to be a tiny figure rolling up the world. It was there,
peeking out over his pants, a little joke, glowing in the half light of the fairy
lights around the room. When I had asked him why he had chosen that for a tattoo,
he laughed. “Have you ever played that game? I played it in Japan when we were touring
there. So trippy, so bizarre, and so wonderful. A little like the place. Rolling up
increasingly bigger pieces of the earth. It’s like a summing up, a metaphor of expanding
your mind. Perfect.” I patted the tattoo when he got in to bed, and he pulled me up
close to him. “I like this,” he said, “you keeping the bed warm for me.” He kissed
me and we settled in together. It felt good. The big scary rock star who wanted a
hug. Not so scary anymore. I had a feeling we were both happy about that.

* * *

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.