It was an exciting day, filled with promise. It was the first road trip for Stacey Blade, a metal band in the 80's, that had come from the ruins of another band called Strider. There had been more rehearsals than Lars Uhlrich would need for a Fanny Bryce revival, and we were finally ready to rock. For anyone, anywhere. A ramshackle basement-level club called The Operating Room would be our first out-of-towner. The guys who had been in Strider were familiar with the room, so they brought along bodyguards for the band, but the rest of us were mentally unprepared.
The O.R., as it was called, actually was a pretty happening place, at least for Laramie Wyoming. One thing people in Wyoming know how to do is drink. In the 80's Wyoming was just coming down from the twin booms of oil and coal exploration. There was still plenty of both, and plenty of jobs, but the huge money that was there in the 70's was starting to leave, and people could feel that the boom was starting to subside. That feeling, along with the typical party atmosphere of roughnecks, made for nightclub action that was not to be outdone. The murals at Pompeii seemed like the musings of a rank amateur next to the bars in Wyoming.
I was a mere lad of eighteen, hailing from small-town USA, and excited at the prospect of becoming a rock star. I was on my way, finally going out on the concert trail to meet the people I'd always heard about. But why did we need bodyguards?
The answer came the very first night, as a small fight broke out on the dance floor during the second set. By "small," I mean eight or ten people, lots of yelling, bottles flying, and blood spatters on various people, as well as on the floor. The club's bouncers eventually broke it all up and threw a ton of people out. Who started it? One of our bodyguards. His version was different, and was bolstered by the fact that his face and body were far bloodier than anyone else's. Nonetheless, he wasn't allowed back in. Ever. So he left the next morning for Denver, and we didn't see him until our next in-town gig.
After the melee and the next pretend-like-nothing-happened set were over, we repaired to the band house to revel in our new-found glory. In that period, it was commonplace for bands to travel constantly, and motel costs could add up fast. Add to that the club's realization that they never really knew where the bands were, and the logical conclusion was to rent a single house for all the bands to stay in. Some weren't all that bad. But the pairing of the club owner being a cheapskate, and most bands' penchant for destruction, meant that most bandhouses weren't places you'd want to spend more than ten minutes running through. Picture a junkyard of mobile homes, with a wall or two of each torn down, wet insulation exposed, kitchen fixtures torn out, and few, if any, working light bulbs. Now take two of those trailers and bolt them together. Voila. Band house.
Like the club, the O.R. band house was underground, and God help whomever it was that lived upstairs. It may have even been abandoned. We never bothered to find out. There was a multitude of bedrooms in this particular example, along with a very large common room that the uninitiated may have called a Living Room. Our singer, Ronald, had found some lovely young nymph who seemed very interested in him, and brought her back with us for some socialization. Ah, we must have talked for hours. Actually, we did. One by one, each of the band members would retire from the Living Room to their respective bedrooms, saying goodnight, or not, per their own preference. Eventually, after what seemed like a lifetime, it was just me, Ronald, and the nymph. Her name was Eve, and yes, that's her real name.
I'm not very good with names, and even after knowing someone for a year or more, I may not remember their actual name. It's nothing personal - I just have some kind of block in that portion of my brain. Someone can tell me their name, and literally one second later, I don't recall what name they gave. But I remember Eve.
That length of time that seemed like a lifetime to me, must have seemed even longer to Ronald, as well as to certain other band members. For it turns out that, even though there were many bedrooms, there weren't quite enough for all of us - six band members and two crew. (The bodyguards were wisely staying in a motel.) While I, in my small-town naivete, was socializing with our guest, the reality that escaped me was that I was in Ronald's bedroom, and he and Eve would certainly like to be using it as such. I should leave. But why would I do that? She's a guest - it's rude to go to bed while guests are still there, and after all, she may need some assistance getting back home. With everyone else in bed, and our singer not having a driver's license, I figured I would be needed. At some point.
Some conversation and laughter could be heard from one of the bedrooms, where our soundman, Brian, had drawn a couple of other members to confer. They called me in. Initially I refused. How rude that would be, to leave our guest! Why couldn't they come out to the Living Room? Desipte my protestations, they eventually convinced me to leave the Living Room, even if only for a moment.
They then explained to me, between their fits of apparently uncontrollable laughter, what was really going on. It actually took me quite a while to be convinced that I was in the wrong - probably fifteen or twenty minutes. They had never seen such a Gomer, and they let me know it. Even though I was trying to decide whether to be humiliated for me, for Eve, or furious at their lack of cooth, it was hard to be mad at a bunch of guys who are literally rolling on the floor trying to catch their breath.
Once I finally came out of the bedroom, it was instantly obvious that our doors were much thinner than we had assumed. Eve was in tears, and was definitely, absolutely, completely ready to leave. I think perhaps what sealed the deal, or anti-deal, as it were, was the fact that Ronald had come into the bedroom and was laughing with everyone else. I rather doubt that Eve took kindly to that.
I consider myself fortunate that the the next day he told me he wasn't upset with me at all, and that he'd just find someone else. It was simply no big deal. That was a great relief to me. I didn't want to rock the boat in a band of seasoned professionals that I had just joined, and I thought it was very big of him to be so understanding. Thank you Ronald, wherever you may be. I didn't understand, and I was wrong.
Ronald was the one who was to drive her home, even though no one trusted him with The Blademobile. I guess it was his duty - he had failed to make his bed, and now he had to not lie in it. So in a very uncomfortable conclusion to to an evening of hilarity for everyone else, Eve said some quick, stilted goodbyes. She looked more at the floor than any of us, then turned and walked out the door into the unforgiving, humiliating night.
But that was not to be my last encounter with Eve.
No comments:
Post a Comment