LB |
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Chapter 12 |
| Got up early the next morning. My mother wasn't living with us at the time, so my dad made breakfast -- a big bowl
of scrambled eggs, a huge skillet of hash browns, a platter of toast, heap-o-bacon, juice and hot chocolate. Kristi
was impressed. Jennifer showed up. Theresa had to go to work -- she'd meet us there later. Craig didn't or couldn't
go. I was too excited to eat. We were going to stay at my Aunt Linda and Uncle Donny's, who lived in Fresno. The car, a '64 and a half Mustang -- the original and best, even if it did have a tantrum -- decided it wanted to try to overheat. Jennifer slowed her down until the engine cooled a bit. Perfect timing. Up till now, it'd been fine. I think we drove 40 mph all the way there. We drove and drove, got to Pacheco Pass, Jennifer and I glancing at each other... remember when? Made it to Fresno and found my aunt's house. Deposited luggage, got directions to the CSUF campus and took off. Fresno is about as close to hell on Earth as you can get. It's hot. It's dry. And you'd prefer to die rather than spend a summer day outside. I'd gotten up happy that morning, but so many stupid and annoying things happened on the way to Fresno, I was no longer in a good mood. But I was really looking forward to seeing the Pretenders, so I was going to overlook this stuff. Found the campus. Parked. We climbed out, relieved to be out of the car for the rest of the day. There was a truck parked next to the car. A guy was standing in front of it, eating a taco (from Taco Bell -- I can remember this very clearly, unfortunately). "Excuse me," I said, "can you tell us where the amphitheatre is?" He stood there, chewing. OK, I'd wait until he was done. He swallowed and looked at us. "Do you know where the amphitheatre is?" Did he speak English? Was I? Had I forgotten which country I was in and spoken in French? German? Portuguese? "The amphitheatre," I said, pointing in different directions with both hands, joking, "do you know where it is? Any idea?" He nodded toward Kristi, "You're on my truck." She most certainly was not... near it, yes, but not touching it. She moved anyhow. He took another bite. Kristi said, "Boy, you're a real asshole, aren't you?" We walked off, me snickering. What a jerk! Man, what would cause someone to act like that? I mean, why would you? Does it make some people happy, being mean? I don't get it. Maybe it's just from living in Fresno. Met up with D., another Pretenders pal. B. was already there with her friend -- they'd flown in. This was it, she said, her father was extremely mad. You know how far you can push your parents before it's serious and they mean what they say. Anyone who has ever been a child, and I believe that includes most of us, knows where that line is. She had a small gig poster -- hey, where'd that come from? They were hanging up, but there aren't anymore, she said. Oh yeah? Jennifer, D. and I went scouting. Saw one on a wall, behind some bushes. "It's mine!" I called, breaking into a run for it. D. started to run for it too, shoving me aside. Ooooh -- are we playing rough? OK, I can do that too. If I sped up I'd be in front of her, then she might fight me for it, but I wouldn't have enough time to remove the poster, which means it would've been ripped. So I stayed with her. Got very near the building, shoved her into the high bushes while I sailed over the low ones. She tumbled into them, screaming, while I slammed into the wall. I hadn't slowed down, estimating that I'd lose less time if the wall stopped me than if I slowed to a stop. Bounced off the wall and very, very carefully freed the orange poster from its binding staples. Turned to D. "Told you it was mine." Yeah, that was a rotten stunt, but she'd had all day to get a poster... hell, she lived there, could've gotten all of them before we arrived on the scene. And she'd started it. I've got two of those posters, an orange one and one that is off-white. I can't recall where I got the second one. Jennifer? Maybe D. got it and I bought it from her when she sold her stuff? Hmm... Well, she was mad at me now and left to stand in line. Kristi, Jennifer and I drifted off, up to no good as usual (D. could hold our places). Went around to the back. They had a fence up -- the tour coach was inside. Is this cyclone fence supposed to keep me out? Or is it merely a short, easy climbing exercise for the day? They might as well have put up a sign that said "Don't Go Past This Sign." But I was good and stayed on the outside of the Pretenders corral. Malcolm came over to say hello to Kristi. He stopped talking when I shifted -- he could see my shirt, the bootleg I'd picked up the night before. "Where'd you get that?" "What? Oh, the shirt? They were selling them outside the Greek Theatre last night. Five bucks -- good deal even if it is pink." I frowned... was there anything on the back? "Oh, yeah." I turned -- I'd left my army shirt in the car because it was so hot. "I want that shirt!" "I'm wearing it, Malcolm." "I'll trade you something for it." Ooooh! A trade with Malcolm. "Whatcha got?" He looked around. "I'll give you... a bottle of champagne." "Forget it! You get the stuff for free -- besides, I'm wearing it!" I thought he'd trade me one of his shirts for it. "Two bottles!" "Nah. Hey, what does Chrissie have? Is her Road Spider jacket on the coach?" I laughed. Malcolm was not amused. "I'll buy it from you." Now, how many bills would it take for me to make a shirt? "No way!" If he'd have at least offered me his tour itinerary, something that's not easy to find -- I would have done it for that. But he wasn't going to make a deal I'd be happy with. He gave Kristi a bottle of champagne, as if to punish me. I was bummed. The fence blocked off their area in an open space behind a building. Made my way to the front of the building. Hmm... now I wonder... the door was unlocked -- YES! I went in. Music Building. There were all these little soundproof booths to practice in. I kept going, went around a corner -- oooh, stage equipment! And cases marked "Pretenders"!! Now, what was it I wanted? I ran out to tell Jennifer what I'd found (no, I didn't take anything, didn't even touch anything -- it's not my stuff). We went back in. I was walking backwards, talking to Jennifer. I stopped, looked up -- what the--? "Hey," I pointed up, "those look just like the lights they use..." Spun around -- I was on the stage! Oh God, I'd have been in mega trouble had anyone seen me. Went tearing back through the doorway. Where was everyone? In the back, drinking champagne, no doubt. What had I seen, on the way into the building? What was that? No, it was not. Oh yes, I know it was. I backed up, not out on the stage like before, but on the side and towards the back. Hynde's guitars. Oh, man! The white telecaster. And that beat-up blue one (much worse for wear the last time I saw it), right here in front of me -- waiting. And the steel blue-grayish one. I knelt down and just looked at them. No, I didn't touch -- again, it's not my stuff and it's not OK. I wanted to, they were just standing there -- a little army. Which songs were written on which? I hope Chrissie never has that little blue guy repainted, it's awfully charming. Yeah, I was absolutely fascinated. Why? Because they're so personal, because Pretenders songs have been written with them, because they hold more Pretenders history and secrets than almost anyone or anything else. I pulled myself away, sure I'd never get to see them that close up again. It would be simple to get backstage. Not that I was trying to get backstage, I just enjoy figuring out how I could. That's the puzzle. Once solved, it's not that interesting anymore. And it's not that I don't want to go backstage... Oh, lord, I'd die for it. I've never been and it would so, well... different, anyhow. But until the day Hynde herself pulls me backstage (and I'm not holding my breath on that one), I don't belong there. We went back to the line, eventually, and waited for hours in the volcanic heat. It seemed like every person we met was a genuine peckerhead. I started to feel sick from not eating or drinking anything, and from the blistering heat, which I do not exactly do well in anyhow. I was grouchy too. These drunks tried to push their way in front of us in line. That killed the remainder of my rapidly-decreasing tolerance. I shoved the lot of them. "Don't you DARE come over here and try to cut in line in front of us, you stupid fuckers!" They just could not understand why it wasn't OK for them to pour out of their car and stroll to the front of the line. They got behind us -- still cutting, but if the people behind us didn't care, why should I? We had our plan: Jennifer would run for the front, I'd hold her jacket and my army shirt I'd gotten out of the car and have them searched. Jennifer was built for speed, I'm more for strength. She'd get us to the front, I'd keep us there. Had everything checked and searched and poked and x-rayed and got in, finally. Ran down to the front. Got a spot in front of Malcolm, just to his right. Theresa showed up, worked her way to the front as it was extremely crowded. I'd saved a space for her. She had a shitty car that overheated a lot, she'd driven down to Fresno and found the campus after she got off work. Fresno is a three-hour drive from San Jose, if you don't stop. She'd really pushed it getting there. "Look," she said, "my shoe melted!" I looked down -- the bottom of her shoe had melted from the engine's heat. Damn. Before Simple Minds came out, it started. This was one large crowd-o-assholes. The pushing was the worst I've ever experienced. Ever -- before or since. When Simple Minds came out, they weren't pushing anymore -- they were pulling. Yes, pulling. There were hands all over us -- at least three sets on me alone -- trying to pull us away from the front row. Jennifer couldn't hold on. She grabbed me. "NO! You can't hold onto me, you have to hold onto the barrier!" "I CAN'T!" So she held onto me, and Theresa latched onto me as well, but at least she could still help hold us in the front. Luckily, there were supports for the barrier in front of me. I wrapped my arms and legs around one of them, and had Theresa and Jennifer link arms with me. I became one with the barrier. Now if I was going to be pulled away from the front, they'd have to tear off my limbs. They tried. It was savage. Funny thing is, I never once thought: Is this worth it? I'm getting beaten, bruised... I can't breathe... just let go. The people who were next to us changed often as the ones who were there got pulled away one after another. Simple Minds finished their set. Sadly, it was a relief. Someone in the road crew saw Jennifer and remembered her (Jennifer the Irresistible)... and did we want something to drink? God, yes. He came back with a plastic bottle of orange juice. Jennifer opened it with one hand and drank. She held the bottle while I drank as I couldn't let go. When we finished that off, he came back and asked if we wanted anything else. (Backstage? Understage? Can I stand in this waterless moat to watch the show?) "Yeah, sure." "What?" "Whatever." He refilled it with water. We left about half and passed it around. I kept the lid. The Pretenders came out. Oh, great -- the crowd was just playing around before, now they were going to get serious. Chrissie kept looking over at us. I assume she sensed my lack of joy, as it was dark and she couldn't really see. Her monitor wasn't in the right spot. Was the road crew out drinking champagne when they were supposed to be setting up or what? She got pissed and started to drag it to where it belonged. Someone bolted out on-stage and moved it for her (she was pregnant, remember?). But she was still mad. She came over a few times. I could not look at her -- I just couldn't. I was trying to hold on and I swear I would've cried. I felt awful and was violently agitated. Finally she came over and stood there. It must've been during "My City Was Gone" because that's the only song with a long break in the vocals, but I don't really remember. No, I was not going to look at her. She wasn't leaving. She was looking down at me, I could feel it. She was not going to leave. I do believe I've found the one person on the planet who is more stubborn than I. She was either going to stand there looking down at me all night or get fed up and clobber me with her guitar. We'd done this before, last winter. I knew better than to try to get away. I looked up. She leaned over and, with no apparent concern for our surroundings, asked "What's wrong?" like I was two years old. I couldn't explain, even as I was being pulled in four different directions. If I'd have tried, it would've taken too long and I would've dissolved into tears. The only way to avoid sobbing was to dump more anger on it. So I stared back at her, accommodating my fury as best I could, and said, "These people are real assholes." Her eyes narrowed, she was hunting. She looked at everyone around me, glaring. "Who?" What could I say? I shook my head. "Never mind." "WHICH ONES?!" Demanding now. What punishment would they receive? "It's all of them." She looked at everyone around us and stormed off, incensed. Someone threw a cigarette on-stage. "Do you mind not throwing your cigarette butts on MY stage?!" she roared, throwing it back at the audience. Oh, great. Now she's in a foul mood -- is this my fault? Partly my fault? Or nothing to do with me? It was quite dark so I don't think she knew what was going on, but she was able to find us so I don't know. I don't think you'd be able to figure it out -- it seems like an audience would look like a big mess and nothing more. Whenever she had a free moment away from the microphone, more often than not, she came over and stood in front of us. She came over for the encore. "What song do you want to hear?" -- as if we were in charge. I still could not look her in the eye. I'd watched her boots all night. "Tattooed Love Boys," Theresa said. Hynde nodded. They played it even though the crowd was yelling for "Brass In Pocket." They didn't play "Brass" that night. When they were done, Chrissie returned to us and leaned over. She was going to toss her guitar pick to me. As you know by now, I could not let go or we'd be sucked backwards into the crowd. An absolute ton of hands went up to try to intercept her toss. Then she saw how bad it was. She leaned over more. I thought she'd fall -- how could I dive for her to break her fall if I couldn't move? Jennifer was leaning forward and had her free hand out. Her left arm was wrapped around my right arm. Chrissie was going to put the pick directly into Jennifer's hand. But still, everyone was reaching for it -- diving on Jennifer with their arms outstretched and the people next to Jennifer trying to push her back. So Hynde was leaning off the edge of the stage, perched precariously with nothing to hold onto. Jennifer was leaning forward, their hands nearly touching. Chrissie moved farther to the right, more in front of me where there were fewer open hands and lunging bodies. Jennifer followed. Chrissie leaned forward even more -- now fuck me and how lousy I felt, she was gonna fall and it would be all my fault. She placed the guitar pick into Jennifer's hand and didn't let go until Jennifer's hand was closed on it. Then she pointed to me. It was mine. Jennifer nodded. Why'd she have to do that? I was scared to death she'd slip. Nearly killed herself so I could have a guitar pick. We locked gazes again and I think we both thought the same thing: Damn you. I adore that woman. Anyone who says anything bad about her is gonna have to tangle with me. She doesn't need me, that's for sure, but I sure need her. The crowd started to leave. A girl behind jumped up on me -- she threw her arms around my neck, choking me. "She talked to you! You got attention!" She kissed me. She kissed me! "GET OFF ME!" I bellowed, throwing her back into the crowd. She'd slammed her cooties into my cheek. I don't sleep with you. Do we fuck, you and I? No, we do not, and I don't want your bodily fluids on me. Fuckin' yuck. We exited the amphitheatre. I had my white guitar pick (it's a heavy pick and she wore part of it down -- how hard had she been hitting that guitar?) and souvenir plastic lid. And I was insane with rage. I wanted nothing more than to get into a fight. I hurled insults at everyone I saw, hoping someone would step forward and try to shut me up. No one did. They probably though I was just some psycho, but no one came near or even said anything. Now who was being a jerk? We went to the car, dying of thirst and no bottle opener for the Cokes in the car (there were a couple of cans and a bunch of bottles). I pried them part way off with something found in the car, then opened them the rest of the way with my teeth. My teeth are made of granite and I've never been able to damage them... even when I slammed face-first into a curb when I was little and my mouth hit the top of it, all I'd done was bruise myself. Anyhow, I had a can of Coke (yes, it's relevant). We got into the car and were going to go to the hotel, wherever it was. We stopped at a light. Once we went through the light, we'd split off from the other traffic to get on the freeway. The sides of the freeway were sloped steeply and covered with that shitty ivy California uses to decorate everything. A guy on a motorcycle was in the next lane on our right. He'd have to get on the freeway too. Everyone was wound up from my behavior. Jennifer wasn't even pulling any crap... normally she'd be trying to race the guy next to us. The light turned green. We took off, picking up speed. The guy on the motorcycle stayed even with us. I noticed him, but I didn't look at him. Just before we got to the split-off he swerved into our lane. Jennifer, always an excellent driver (she is, she can get through anything and get there first) avoided him by veering into the lane on the left. If she hadn't done this, he'd have been under the car and, more tragic, might have scratched it on the way down. Then she pulled back quickly to avoid hitting the car in the left lane and the oncoming metal divider. What the hell? I looked at him, even with us again (my window was down, sweltering weather). He smiled, then he laughed. That was it. That was the end. He'd almost made Jennifer wreck the car for no reason and was now laughing about it. I'd had enough bullshit for one day, had exceeded the limit long ago. "You inbred piece of shit!" I yelled, throwing my full can of Coke at him as hard as I could with my left hand, diving nearly halfway out of the car to give it more force. I did not care if I fell out of the car and got killed -- this was not going to continue, no matter what the cost. He got hit in the arm and knocked a bit off balance. He swerved to the right and very nearly went off the road and down the slope, pulling back at the last second. He wasn't laughing now. Hey, what's wrong, pal, wasn't that just as funny as the bit you just pulled? I let out quite a savory string of obscenities as we passed him. He was catching up to us again. I was out the window. ready to be pulled out of the car (and killed) for a fight. C'mon, do your best, asshole. Jennifer dove across the seat and pulled me in, flooring the pedal at the same time. We launched like a rocket and the guy disappeared. She was yelling at me, "You know you have to wear your seat belt in my car, you know it! Put it on NOW! What are you trying to do, get KILLED?! I'm not going home and telling Dad you died!" (Pretty much everyone I know calls my dad "Dad.") She slowed down and pulled into the right lane, and after awhile asked, "Where's the Hilton?" "How should I know? I'm not from this shit hole!" "No, but you've been here enough -- where is it?" I looked around, trying to find downtown Fresno. "There," I said, pointing, "head for that big batch of lights". But the guy on the motorcycle was back, and he'd brought some friends -- two truckloads, literally. They were in front of and next to us before we knew what was going on. "SHIT!" Jennifer yelled, slamming on the brakes. They were throwing all kinds of stuff at us -- luckily only one item hit the car, and it was very small (probably an assailant's brain). Jennifer floored the pedal again and went off the road to snake around them, took the exit at 80 mph (no traffic in Fresno -- good thing), ran the first two red lights and careened around a corner or two. Oh. The Hilton. Cool. Pulled into a parking space. Theresa, with us the entire time, pulled into a space of her own. Who says girls can't drive? We lost those guys, but Theresa was able to stick right behind us the whole time. I climbed out and inspected the car. There was a small chip of paint taken off the hood -- not bad. We were alive. I was still in one piece after pulling a series of stupid stunts. The car wasn't wrecked. We were at the Hilton. Well, all right! Theresa got out. "What was that about? I couldn't believe that idiot almost hit you guys with his motorcycle!" We all agreed he was Jerk of the Day and gave him the big round of applause we always awarded someone who was a real donkey's butt. We went into the hotel. There was a girl there who'd been at the hotel in Berkeley. She had (dyed) black hair with a chunk of orange and a chunk of purple. We'd (creatively) referred to her as The Girl With The Purple Hair. She had a really big mouth -- bigger than mine, if you can believe it. She had a couple of friends with her. I had my gang. Apparently, we didn't like each other. Had I missed something here? I thought she was dumb -- she'd asked Chrissie, "Did you write Jealous Dogs about your dog?" It was an incredibly stupid question. Chrissie said, "Uh, no." (But I wish she'd said, "Oh, yes. What else could it be?") It was one of those times she looked at me and we both started laughing. But that didn't mean I hated this girl, and even if I did, I'm usually capable of acting civilized. Were they the only other fans there? I can't remember anyone else. The lobby was silent. There was someone behind the front desk, and maybe a security guard. There was a sitting area -- a square made of two couches and four chairs (couch, two chairs, couch, two chairs, and a table in the middle). We sat on one side, they on the other. We asked if the band had come in yet. The girl with the purple hair said she didn't think so, but she wasn't sure. They hadn't seen Chrissie. You folks wouldn't lie to me, now, would you? My anger had still not yet subsided. We sat there for awhile. Kristi wanted something to drink and asked the desk clerk where a Coke machine was. Up the elevator to the second floor. "Come with me." Grumbling, I went. The second floor Coke machine was out of root beer. She pressed the button for the top floor, which was like -- four or something (Fresno, remember?). When the doors started to open, she said, "Don't hold it, I've always wanted to do this." She bounded down the corridor, threw her money in the machine, grabbed her root beer, dashed back and leapt in between the closing doors. "I always wondered if I could do that." I was not amused, just stood there, silent, still mad. "Hey!" She hit me with the back of her hand. "Chrissie." Dropping to her knees, she leaned forward, right arm in the air, singing into her can, "He-ey! He-ey! He-ey! He-ey!" This was too much for me, I started to laugh. Soon I was in tears, on the floor of the elevator, howling hysterically, Kristi still doing her Chrissie-singing- Room Full of Mirrors imitation, with a can of root beer for a microphone. Arriving at the lobby, the elevator's doors opened and all the sounds it contained spilled out. Everyone turned to look. Then the doors closed and we were off again, which made it even funnier to me. From one extreme to another, just like that. Exuberance claimed me -- anger hadn't even ebbed, just vanished in an instant. After resting for a bit, I was able to sit up, then stand. We stopped on the third floor, pressed the lobby button in the lift, and shot out and down the staircase at the end of the corridor, flew into the lobby hooting with glee, straight back into the opening elevator doors and back up. Theresa joined us, coming from the other elevator. Got off on the top floor. In front of one door was a huge pile of food garbage. A cake box and plates, glasses, chip bags. I remembered Martin saying, "I can eat four meals a day and still lose weight. "Look! Martin's room!" I chuckled. "Hey! Where's Chrissie?" Tumbling to the floor, I looked under a door. It was dark -- empty...? (I hope so.) "Chrissieeee?" I mewed. We all started in again, convulsing with laughter. Crawling to the next door, a suite, whispering, "Chrissie?" through conspiratorial gales of laughter. Kristi, between breaths, whispered, "What if Chrissie was here?" Overcome again by peals of laughter, I collapsed onto my side, rolled over on my back and curled up, rocking from side to side. "Oh God, wouldn't that be just great! The door flies open and there's these boots--" I couldn't even finish. She'd KILL us! She'd fuckin' kill us. Why was that funny? Then I couldn't move, lay there in a ball snorting, my tears soaking the carpet. We spent some time running down halls, screaming, shrieking, up and down the elevators, the stairs, through the lobby. Not once did the desk clerk tell us to shut up or leave. Must've been a slow night. Jennifer had joined us at some point. During our wild festivities, we ran into, literally, Donna Santisti, who was a photographer touring with the band. She stopped us. I thought she'd yell at us, but she didn't. I know she said something about Chrissie being really mad after the show, but I can't recall what about her being mad. I informed her that Fresno was coming along very well in their quest to become an abysmal example of life in America. Jennifer told her what had happened on the way to the hotel. She said, "Oh, wow. So you guys are having, like, a really bad time, huh?" A really bad time? We're running around like maniacs in a nice hotel, singing, laughing, racing each other in the elevators, down the stairs, playing hide-and-seek. Oh yes, a dreadful time. I thought for a minute. "Well, it was pretty awful," but cheered up, "but it's OK now, we're, um..." (What? Racing around like lunatics?) "It's OK, I'm with my friends, it's all right now." She gave us her card and said to write to her and she'd send us some pictures of the band. I never did write, but I've thought of her often and wondered what she was up to. That was generous of her to make that offer. Strange thing is, when the Pretenders toured in 1994 and we were in San Francisco, I met someone who claimed to live around the corner from Donna. Kristi was with me in San Francisco and we were like, "Hey! She said she'd give us pictures!" I'd write to her, but I'm sure she wouldn't remember us. After a while of waiting for the band, the other group left. Yeah, where were they, anyhow? There's nothing to do in Fresno. Finally we left too. It was well past two o'clock in the morning. We crossed the street to get to the cars, stood there goofing around for awhile. Jennifer jumped on my back. "Wooooo-hoooo!" "Ow ow owwww!" We howled like maniacs while I spun around. She hopped off. We split up to head for our rides. "Good night." What? It was a man's voice. I looked up, couldn't see, waved, hoping whoever said it would wave back and maybe I could find him. A wave came back -- from the top floor -- the suite I'd nearly died laughing in front of. There was a man in a white t-shirt -- I could just make it out -- on the balcony. "Good night," I called back. Mortified, I turned back toward the car. Whoever was up there was a Scot, he'd said "Goodnae." Got in the car. I could hardly move. I was exhausted from the show, then from laughing so hard. Don't know how we found my aunt's house. Guessed, I guess. It was awfully late. Starving, I dropped into a bed, put my lid on the night stand, and slept with the pick in my hand. (And I feel overwhelmingly stupid letting anyone know I did that.) It's a piece of plastic, that pick. Made out of margarine or whatever they make plastic out of. Plastic. And it's small. I know this. I try to keep it in perspective. Just plastic... Guess I'm not good at perspective, either. To me, the guitar pick is the end result of all the effort someone (who doesn't even know me, mind you) put forth just to make me feel better. Someone who could've gone, you're bringin' me down -- fuck you. Or looked somewhere else and pretended not to see. It would have meant a lot to me even if I didn't know who she was, either. But I do know, and it means so much more because of it. Jennifer passed out next to me. Slept off and on. Got up early. Theresa and Kristi, who'd slept on the sleeper sofa in the living room (bathed in the light of a giant Pepsi clock which was in the next room) were waking up. C'mon, Jennifer, get up. We were all pretty whipped. Aunt Linda, Uncle Donny and my Great-Aunt Gert were finishing breakfast (how early did they get up?) Did we want something? "No thanks, we really have to go." Told them the show was fantastic. (What was I supposed to say? I've never been so miserable?) I know we should've eaten something. While trying to get dressed, I felt like I was going to pass out. Every time I attempted to pull my shirt over my head, I'd get dizzy. I leaned against a wall, slid down it and got dressed sitting on the floor. I was surprised that I made it out of the house without throwing up. But we had to leave. Kristi had to eat breakfast, so she went to the tiny restaurant inside the hotel. I sat with her for awhile. The waitress asked me, "Are you the one on tour?" I was wearing my Pretenders II t-shirt, and sunglasses. If I looked like anyone on there, it'd have to be -- Martin? "Uh... no." I laughed. She left, but kept looking at me, sure I was Chrissie Hynde, or Martin Chambers. I left. Bought two candy bars for breakfast. Sat in the sitting square with Theresa and Jennifer. Tracy came down, probably for no reason other than to see how many pain-in-the-ass fans were in the lobby. Three, Tracy, and one in the restaurant. Martin came down, looked around suspiciously and went into the cigarette shop where I'd gotten my tasty stale candy bars (I'd decided to save the second one -- I think they were the original candy bars they stocked the shelves with when they built the hotel). He came out with a pack of smokes (tee-hee -- he hadn't seen us) and got into the elevator, opening his purchase. When the doors started to close, I yelled, "Hey! I thought you QUIT!" We'd all ducked down behind the furniture and were peeking above the backs of it and through plants. He nearly dropped them, looked like a deer caught in headlights. The doors closed and up he went. Yes, I looked to see which floor, but it stopped once, then went to the top so I don't know where he got off. Giggled about that for awhile. Kristi came out, asked me if I was the one on tour and could she have my autograph? Waited. Ding. The elevators opened and a load of people piled out. Babies, rock stars, nannies, who were all these people? And how did they all fit into that little elevator that I'd been laughing so hard in just hours before? I was embarrassed. Had they heard us last night? Was Chrissie waiting until now to kill me? I was in the chair farthest from the lobby doors, across from another chair. Chrissie stopped when she saw us. She leaned over the back of the empty chair across from me. "Hey!" "Hi!!" She aimed for me -- uh-oh. "Was the show that bad last night?" Whew. "Oh no. You just wouldn't believe all the stuff that happened to us yesterday. It was just shi--" --I looked at Natalie-- "not good." "Well, if you ever bum me out like that again, I'm gonna kick you." "Fair enough. Thanks for the pick and stuff." She nodded. "Oh." I pulled out 'The Waitress.' "I promised a friend of mine (and will never again promise anyone anything if it has to do with the Pretenders) I'd give you this if I got to meet you." Got up and handed it to her. "I swear to you I didn't do it... but it is funny. She changed the words of 'The Adultress' to 'The Waitress.'" "Oh, OK." She glanced at it, something caught her eye and she read it. Done, she laughed. "Great!" Marlene was going to love this. She was looking down, reading again. "Well, we don't want to keep you. We had so much fun. It's been pretty incredible..." She jerked her head up in surprise and interrupted, "You aren't going to the last show?" We all looked at each other. The last show was in Costa Mesa -- about a nine-hour drive from San Jose, not including stopping for gas and to eat. We never went to Los Angeles to see bands. It was a long haul and we hadn't even considered buying tickets for it. When you live in northern California, southern California is like another state. It might as well have been in Florida or another country. The thought of going never crossed the threshold of my mind until she said that. "Well, no. I mean..." What did I mean? We all looked at each other again. Why the hell didn't we buy tickets?! Where was my head? "Um..." Chrissie was still looking at me as if she'd just asked the question. "I mean..." Damn! I continued in amazement, "We didn't even buy tickets, and..." "Oh," she pushed that excuse aside, waving her hand, "I'll give you tickets." I sat there shocked. We all looked at each other again, and grins began to appear. We were all thinking the same thing... at least an eight-hour trip with no money, we'd starve again... and we'd have to drive home first, three more hours. Yes! We'd do it! I looked at Chrissie, "Really?" "Yeah!" She really wanted us to go. This was mind-blowing. I mean, she did want us to go, she was excited too. (OK, not as much as I was, but she wanted us to go and was giving us tickets.) "Here -- give me your names -- write them on the back of this." It was 'The Waitress.' We did. Gave it back. She said, "All right!" "All right!" we echoed. We got up to leave. "Wow! Thanks! See ya!" "Bye." She left smiling. We stood there for a couple minutes, making plans. "You have to call in sick -- tell them Uncle Bob died." Theresa and I always used Uncle Bob. He'd been dead for a few years, but when you needed out of something and people knew you weren't sick, "I can't, I have to go to a funeral. My Uncle Bob died." "Oh, I'm sorry." "Yeah, well," trying not to laugh, trying not to finish with "it's happened before." Hell, how many times did that man die? Jennifer and I had slept in his room the night before. "We'll need money for gas." "We can't take my car -- it'll overheat." "Mine, too." Theresa said, "You have to ask Dad if we can borrow the car -- he always gives you what you want." "OK." Plotting, planning -- there was a lot to be done. We left the Hilton, ready to cross the street to the cars, noticed it wasn't a street but a driveway to the parking lot for the hotel. A limo was backing out. We stopped to let it go. A hand came out to wave us on and the car stopped. We quickly crossed the driveway, still discussing our plans. "Hey!" We stopped and turned around. It was Chrissie. She'd rolled the window down. "What are you guys going to do now?" "Right now?" I yelled back -- they were kinda far away. She nodded. "We're going to go eat." "Then what?" I wasn't going to stand in the middle of the sidewalk twenty feet from a car yelling to its passengers, that's what. We walked over. I kneeled down by her open window. "We have to go home and make our dad lend us his car. Then we have to..." --I looked back at Theresa, who was behind me-- "... what?" Theresa shrugged. I turned back. "Some of us have to lie to get off work." "What do you guys do?" she asked. Chrissie looked at Theresa for her to start since there were four of us. "I work for a computer company." She had a shitty factory job. The happiest I've ever seen her was the day she quit. Jennifer: "I'm a secretary. I hate it." Kristi said something about working for a computer company also. I don't remember her exact answer, but she mentioned using an air brush. I think what she did was remove dust and stuff from computer parts. Chrissie perked up. "Oh, you can really do some neat stuff with airbrush." "Yeah." Kristi said later, "I knew she'd think it was painting -- everyone does. I didn't have the heart to tell her it was a boring factory job." Hynde looked at me. "I just got out of school. I quit my job to go see you guys in Worcester, Massachusetts last month. I'm free." This seemed to please her, but she appeared to be kinda bummed. No musicians? Was that it? No art people (except for Kristi with her airbrush). But she didn't ask if we could play anything, or paint or draw or write. She asked what we did, implying for money. Theresa, Jennifer and I all played guitar. Theresa could draw and paint very well. Jennifer wrote stuff, really funny stories, mostly. I wrote shitty poetry. No waitresses? Did she ponder my fate? Assume I, a once happy, wild and free kid, would get some crappy job like these other two behind me? Akron and San Jose are parallel in that respect -- get out or get stuck. (I got out. But I moved to Akron. Huh.) All she had to do was ask. I'm not falling into that -- I'd blow my brains onto a wall first. Unlike her, I didn't find fame and fortune, but I'm not ambitious enough to go looking for it. I found my peace. Then she gave Natalie, who was on her lap (which must now be unimaginable to Chrissie and Natalie) and who was staring at me the entire time (kids always do that to me, I'm used to it) a tiny nudge. We were all smiling at her. She was a cutie. Chrissie said, "Can you smile for the fans?" At which all smiles disappeared. SMILE FOR THE FANS?! How dare she call me the F word. And in front of that sweet child no less. How dare she! How demoralizing. Hell, how humiliating. Why couldn't she leave "for the fans" off? But watching her with her child, I knew she didn't mean anything by it. If she wanted to stab me, she'd have done it sooner and better. She wanted Natalie to smile and that was just how it came out. But the child was not going for it. She just looked at us. Not all all afraid, but not wanting to do what was asked of her. "So what are you guys doing after the tour? Can we have a new album soon? I mean, I hate to be so selfish, but I am, so..." "Yeah. We'll probably do some more recording. And I want to have a few more of these." She pointed to Natalie. I said, "A few?!" She laughed. "No way!" I continued. Jim, who was in the front seat, started laughing too. "No no no no." I shook my head, looking down. "Two is good. Two girls. Sisters." I looked at Theresa. "Right?" She made a face. "Well, it's good sometimes, or maybe just once in awhile..." Everyone was laughing -- Martin, Tracy, Jim, Chrissie, and people I'd never seen before. Well, everyone over the age of two was laughing It's weird, thinking about it now. This was one of the last times I'd speak to Martin for many years. What else was going on in Chrissie's head? Within two years, the next album would be recorded. Martin would not be included. The next tour would be so alien. So very different. She'd be Chrissie Hynde, Rock Star-O-the-Universe, and everyone would jump at her request. She would be different -- yet, she'd also be exactly the same. Why did she want to talk to us again after leaving the lobby? I don't remember what else was said. We were there for what? Ten minutes? "Take care -- see ya." "You guys have a safe trip." I leaned in to her. "Take car of yourself -- be careful." I pointed to her belly. "I don't want anything to happen to you... two." Looked at Jim. "Don't make her do anything she doesn't want to." "I couldn't." "True." I nodded. He was a quick one. We all laughed again. "Bye." We headed back down the street. They drove past us, waving. What an awfully nice batch of people. On the advice of Chrissie's doctor, they ended up canceling the rest of the Japanese tour dates after the first few shows. Initially, it was announced that she'd had a miscarriage, but it was later learned that the Japanese press misinterpreted the announcement. |
