“If you don’t use that in a song, I will,” Mickey declared.
“Already working on it,” Rebel replied. “Which was what I’d planned to do until I got ordered to go party. Yay. So much fun. Yippie. This is going to be the highlight of my week.”
His brittle tone conveyed his frustration, which I completely understood. Creating took a special mindset, a vibe really, where everything flowed and nothing else existed. Getting interrupted in the middle of that or being prevented from returning to it was always a source of irritation.
“Dude, I get it,” Robbie said. “The muse wants what the muse wants, and we’re not always in a position to feed it the way we’d like, which sucks, but this was the dream. We’re here; we’re living the moments we always talked about. You didn’t think it’d be all bubble gum and roses, did you?”
“I guess I just never thought there’d be a time when I’d havea shadow whenever I’m not in my hotel room. I miss being anonymous. I miss getting to pick the party and how the night ends. Most of all, I miss not having everyone all up in my business 24/7.”
“Hate to break it to you, bro, but we’ve been all up in each other’s business for over fifteen years, so there’s nothing new there, and after what happened with our pyro, I’m good with having eyes on us and our gear at all times,” Robbie said. “I thought you were too.”
“At the time, when we were all freaked out over Johnny and Draven being chased in Palm Springs, yeah, I was cool with it. Now I’m regretting that choice, not that there was ever a real choice. I’d have been outvoted even if I’d said no, so I guess I was screwed either way.”
“Speaking of screwed, are you sure all this moodiness isn’t just you needing to get laid?” Robbie asked.
“Pass. The hassle isn’t worth it,” Rebel grumbled.
Damn. Hearing him say that made me think of the kisses we’d shared on the beach when I’d auditioned to be Ozzy’s relief drummer. Surreal and completely out of the blue, with the force of a lightning bolt and enough crackling heat to curl my toes. When it was over, we’d both bumbled through apologies, heads bumping as we’d doubled over laughing and nearly fell off the rock we’d been sitting on.
Getting involved with a bandmate was probably a bad idea, though all around me I saw it working. Those deeper bonds gave birth to crazy cohesive collaborations, and the music, sweet musical sky gods in the heavens, was beyond any words I possessed. The clumsy collection of attempted lyrics in my notebooks wasn't anything I’d ever dare share with the rest of the band. They were too kind to laugh, but I could just picture nervous discomfort filling the room as they politely stammered their way through responses meant to spare my feelings.
“Alright guys, give me a moment to check things out inside, then I’ll come back and get you,” Sully declared as we pulled up in front of the pub.
We knew the drill, so none of us moved until Sully returned and gave the okay. Even then, we alternated, with each of us following our guard off the bus and into the pub. The cheer that went up when we entered deafened me for a moment and left me a bit disoriented too. Nothing like being surrounded and shouted at in a cramped, confined space, especially when there was a wall of black t-shirts in front of me that made it difficult to look around the place. I was definitely going to need a few drinks to get through the rest of the night.
Like at most of these events, we were soon swept in different directions. Fortunately, I wound up near the bar.
“Could I have a double shot of tequila?” I asked the bartender.
“Sure thing.”
“So, Kit, help me out with something,” a man in a swirly red and black Blissfully Immune t-shirt asked. “My kid is a drummer, and he’s driving my wife and me crazy with the noise. My wife has been collecting egg cartons from everyone she knows so he can cover his walls with them. Will that actually work, or am I going to have to fork over fistfuls of money because my asshole brother-in-law decided to buy him a drum kit?"
“That was me,” the guy beside him said, waving. “I’m the asshole.”
Dude was proud of it too, even as his brother-in-law rolled his eyes and asked the bartender for another beer. The brother-in-law was decked out in the purple hues of Damaged Saint’sShattered Seductionalbum, the crumpled wings on the front stretching from shoulder to shoulder. Something told me these two didn’t agree on much, which probably made football season at their house about as interesting as they’d been in mine.
“Sorry, but egg cartons won’t work; they'll barely cut the vibrations, let alone muffle the sound. Your best bet is acoustic foam. My folks stuck a soundproofed shed in the backyard for me once they realized I wasn’t going to give up learning to play.”
“It’s been nine months,” the guy replied, “and I don’t see that kid giving up anytime soon. He used to come home and rush through his homework so he could play video games. Now herushes through his homework to get to that drum kit. He threw a fit about not being able to come here tonight, but he’s only fourteen.”
And this gathering was clearly for the 21 and over crowd. At least these guys were chill. Talking to a guy who, while annoyed about the noise, wasn’t trying to dissuade his kid from learning the instrument I loved seemed a hell of a lot better than the game of pool taking place to the left of me. Robbie had gotten talked into some kind of competition involving vodka shots and was already chalking up a pool cue.
“If he hasn’t found it yet, Ozius has a YouTube channel that’s entirely drum tutorials,” I explained. “I used them myself when I was learning.”
“So that’s your connection to the band,” the brother-in-law said. “See, I told you he wasn’t someone’s secret love child! Now pay up.”
Oh, fuck my life.
Seriously?!
I slammed my tequila back and asked for a second while the drummer kid’s dad pulled out a twenty and forked it over.
If it wouldn’t have been seen as rude, I’d have facepalmed and grumbled a whole slew of curses, because damn! Instead, I blew out a breath and remembered what Draven was constantly trying to drill into our heads.
Image is everything.
“Yeah, that’s how I got to know Ozius,” I said. “I commented a great deal in the beginning, asking questions, picking his brain about techniques, and eventually he offered to mentor me. Fast forward to today, and I’m playing in his band. I guess it proves what my old man always said about hard work paying off.”