Road Rash (25 page)

We played it cool until we got out of the office, but once we’d escaped with the money, we were slapping hands like a Little League team that’d just won the World Series.

“Man, that was classic,” Glenn said, and I couldn’t argue with him.

We went back into the club and started tearing down sound and lights. After a while the other guys began trickling in—Danny, then Amber, then finally Brad and Jamie.

When Brad showed up, Glenn said, “How’s it going?”

Actually, I was expecting maybe an apology or something, if not to me, then at least to the band for leaving them high and dry. But all he said was “I’m good.” That was it.

“Well,
I’m
not.” Whoa. I was stunned to hear that come from
my
mouth. “I get why you’re pissed at me, because of that whole stupid song thing … which I’m sorry about, by the way. But there’s no way you should have screwed the whole band and bailed on the gig last night.”

Brad gave me that same look I’d seen yesterday and started
to open his mouth as I braced for him to go off on me. And then …

“He’s completely right.”

Jamie had spoken very quietly, but it shut Brad down like a bucket of cold water. I looked at her like,
Thanks
.

“Hey, it was only one night,” Brad finally said, “and it’s not like this dive matters to anyone. Apparently, you guys covered okay.”

“Right,” Glenn said. “No big deal … especially if you don’t care about getting paid.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah,
huh
. We’re in violation of our contract because of you, and our buddy Alex basically said
Screw you, I ain’t paying you. You wanna stick around Montana for six months and sue me, go right ahead
.” Glenn let that sink in for a moment. “And if not for some quick thinking by our not-so-baby brother here, we’d be walking out empty-handed right now.” He caught Brad’s eye. “So you owe him a few thousand dollars’ worth of thanks.”

“C’mon, Alex was just yanking your chain—”

Glenn cut him off. “It’s also not a big deal,
if
you don’t care about having a band anymore.”

Brad squinted. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means if you ever pull something like that again, I’m out of here.”

“Where do you get off with that shit? Lemme tell you something. This band was up and running long before I hired you, and we’ll be playing long after you’re gone. You think we couldn’t do our gigs without you?”

“Yeah, you probably could,” I piped in. “But good luck doing
them without a drummer.” Boy, my mouth was really enjoying running the show today, wasn’t it?

He glared at me. “Oh, so now you’re leaving, too? After we picked you up off the shit pile?”

“I don’t
want
to, but I also don’t want to worry you’re gonna bail every time we have a disagreement.” I just shook my head.

Danny spoke up. “He’s right, man—that wasn’t cool.”

Brad looked at all of us. The room was dead quiet. Finally, he nodded. “Okay, you guys are right. I was totally pissed, but still, I shouldn’t have let that push me into doing something stupid.” He let that hang in the air a minute. “So, we good?”

To be honest, I wasn’t. But I would have been a total jerk to say
No, your little half-assed non-apology didn’t really do it for me
. So I said yeah, like everyone else, and we all bumped fists and had a group hug.

Then we packed everything up and got the hell out of there.

As we headed east on I-90 on our way toward Yellowstone, I thought about the whole deal with Brad. I don’t really know why I was wasting time worrying about it
—he
owed
me
an apology and not the other way around.

Right?

But something was nagging at me. It took me a while, but somewhere between Butte and what Kimber would have described as the ironically named town of Manhattan, Montana, I figured out what it was.…

Apologies aren’t really for when you’re absolutely certain you’re a hundred percent at fault. I mean, by then the whole world knows it anyway, and even a totally self-centered jerk pretty much has to cough it up.

Right?

We stopped at a Subway in Belgrade to eat. And when we were about done, just sitting around, it was quieter than normal. Like something was still hanging there, invisible.

“Uh, I’d like to say something,” I announced. I wasn’t exactly sure
what
I was going to say, but I hated the vibe that was in the air and I had to do something.

“If it’s about what I did, just drop it,” Brad said.

“No, it’s about what
I
did.” I took a drink of water. “I just want to apologize for this whole thing. I own a big piece of this because … well, because I wove this whole tangled web in the first place. It would have been a lot better if I’d just played the song for everyone at the same time and been honest about what it was. So if nothing else, I’ve learned I should say what I think.”

I took a deep breath. “So … here’s what I think.” I looked at Brad. “I think you’re a great singer, just like Jamie and Glenn and Danny are great at what they do.”

“Hey, hey! I think you’re leaving someone out here,” Amber threw in.

I laughed. “Sorry. You’re an outstanding outlaw-tambourine-dancer-girl-type creature. Definitely.”

“That’s better!”

I turned back to Brad. “But besides being a great singer, you’re also a freakin’ great front man, which is a whole different thing. Well, besides being a great guitarist, part of what Glenn does is write awesome songs. And the only way to make it to the next level is to have some good original material. It doesn’t mean Glenn has to write everything by himself—it can be him, or him and you, or the whole band jamming together.” I paused. “But I think that’s the next step. In case anyone’s interested.” I stopped then, before I wore out my soapbox.

The table went graveyard for a minute, then Jamie said, “That makes a lot of sense—we should be spending more time working on original material. And besides being a great drummer, Zach’s really good at arranging and tracking music.” She looked at Brad. “Don’t you think?”

Brad nodded. “Like I said, he’s our baby brother/den mother.”

I let it go. If it made him feel better to put me in that little box, well, whatever.

“We weren’t expecting you guys until Tuesday,” the lady said. “But let’s see what we’ve got.” She hit a few keys on her computer, then picked up the phone. “Hey, Scotty,” she said. “The band’s here … yeah, I guess they couldn’t wait. So, are 207, 208, and 209 open …? Well, what do we have …?” She waited a minute. “Hmm. Okay, let’s do that. Can you call Chuck and get right back to me? Thanks, babe.”

She hung up. “I’m sorry, guys, but we’re full up—we’re smack in the middle of the high season. We’ll definitely have rooms
for you tomorrow. Meanwhile, we’ll try to find you something nearby.”

We were in the club at the Western Star Inn in West Yellowstone. Usually we’d take a day or two to get to the next gig, sightseeing along the way and either staying at cheap motels or crashing in the Bad-Mobile to save money. But we’d all wanted to get here and see the area and it wasn’t that far from Butte, so we’d just driven straight down.

“Would it be all right if we unloaded our gear in the meantime?” Glenn asked.

“Sure, go right ahead.”

So we unloaded our stuff onto the stage. Well, all except the PA and lights—this place had a nice house system and a dozen cans up in the overhead. When we were done, the lady waved us over to her desk.

She introduced herself—she was Donna, and she and her husband, Scott, ran the place—then she gave us the semi-good news. “Chuck over at the Lodge has a few rooms left, and we got him to give you the courtesy rate. You’ll like it there—they have a pretty nice club, too. Not as nice as ours, of course, but not bad. He’ll try to steal you from us, but don’t you let him.” She winked. “We serve complimentary breakfast from six to ten, so if you get here by then, we’ll be happy to feed you, then we’ll scare up some rooms for you as soon as they open up.”

We got directions and headed over to the Lodge. Since we weren’t staying long, I didn’t really unpack. I just dragged in my duffel and took up residence in a chair with my laptop.

“Hey, we’re gonna go find some food,” Danny said, poking his head into the room. “You coming?”

“Naw,” I said. “I’ll catch you guys later.”

As they left, I checked my email. I hadn’t gotten anything since that flaming email from Kimber, which I guess was to be expected. Still, I had something I needed to say.…

After I finished the postcard, I checked my email again. Nothing. Of course. I put my phone away and realized I was hungry. I couldn’t find the other guys anywhere, so I walked down the street and got a bite at this place called the Grizzly Grubstake. It was a total tourist joint, but I had to admit it was kind of fun. The waiters were dressed like cowboys or gold miners or something, and the waitresses were like saloon girls. All the drinks
were in these widemouthed jars, you ate off tin plates, and the piped-in music was pure corn pie—I expected dancing bears to take the stage any minute.

After I ate, I wandered around a little, looking at the town. And I came to the conclusion that the Grizzly Grubstake actually fit right in here. The entire town was like a set from a western, complete with wooden sidewalks and hitching posts out front of the general store. You half expected the sheriff and his posse to ride up at any moment, and I really did see a couple of guys on horses on one of the side streets.

When I got back to the hotel, I could hear music coming from the lounge and I remembered seeing something about a Sunday evening show, but I passed on it and went up to my room. And yeah, I checked my email again.
Nada
.

I dug out a recent issue of
Mix
magazine and tried to get through another article on how everything’s over-compressed these days. I finally put it aside and started working on this song I’d been messing with. It was an idea that had come to me as we’d driven through the Mojave Desert between Barstow and Baker on our way out of California, using the barren landscape as a metaphor for a dry spell in someone’s love life. I called it “Pray for Rain.” It had a hypnotic chorus that I almost liked, but I thought the verses were lame so I was trying to rework them.