A forty-ish black gentleman noticed us from inside the bar. He was sitting alone at the bar, seemingly the only patron. Before the bouncer returned with the verdict, the guy came over to us. He told us he’d just won the lottery. He pointed to his scuffed runners, “jus bought dese today. Cash. Two hundred bones.” Next he lifted up his gold chain, “and dis right here cost me ten large. Bought it today too. Tell you what,” he rubbed his knuckles against his chin, “y’all come inside and drinks is on me all night long.”

“Aren’t drinks only a penny?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Motherfucker, don’t worry about the money, drinks is on me.”

The bouncer stepped outside to inform us it was a no-go for letting the girls in tonight. It was more a relief than anything. Bill was agitated from an early situation involving Kerri-Lynn. He’d asked to exchange numbers with her since they’re both in the Hollywood scene, which she interpreted as an advance. This caused some tension with Nils too, and the whole thing was playing out over text message. The last thing the situation needed was a sketchy guy hovering around us all night paying for our penny beers.

With the bar plan fallen though, the girls invited us back to their apartment. We bought a case of Bud Light on the way. I tried my best to make conversation during the trip, but my body was aching for sleep. I leaned my head against the window. The streetlights drew shadows across our bodies. Eventually we entered a gated community. There was a basketball court on our left.

The short girl pointed, “That’s where the nigs play basketball.”

I lifted my head off the glass, “Nigs? Isn’t that kind of racist?”

“No it’s not racist,” she slapped my leg. “That’s just what we call them.”

“Seriously? That’s what you call them to their face?”

“No,” she pressed her palm against her chest, “we wouldn’t say that to their face.”

“And if you did, do you think that they would be pissed off?”

“Well, duh.”

“Ummm,” I rubbed my temples. “Then doesn’t that make calling them ‘nigs’ racist?”

“No, silly, it’s not racist.” Her friend who was driving called back. Bill laughed from the passenger seat. I pretended to watch out the window until we pulled into a parking spot.

The girls walked us past a few doors until they found their own. “I hope no nigs jump us,” I joked and the girls laughed hard enough for me to believe they didn’t get the sarcasm. Inside the place was nicer than I expected. A large livingroom and kitchen with a bedroom on opposite ends that led to two bathrooms.  Ideal for the college experience.

I took a seat on the large chair in the living room. Sitting sideways with my legs draped over the arm, sleep continued to beckon. The shorter girl handed me a Bud Light and took a seat on the floor beside me. Bill and the taller blond sat together on the couch.

“Come on Chris, be more fun,” Bill scolded from across the table.

“I’m trying, man. I really am. Let me get some beer in me.” I took several gulps of the sub par beer.

Bill stood up, “You know what we need to do? A drinking game.” He clapped his hands together. “This will be so much fun.”

“Ooooh,” the girl beside him agreed. “Let’s play Apple and Oranges. It’s an awesome board game.”

Before I agreed to play, I excused myself outside claiming I had to phone Jace to find out how early we left that morning. In reality, I knew that we left at ten in the morning, later than usual. I just needed to get some fresh air. I walked across the lawn, wearing only my socks, over to some bushes to take a leak. I ran around a bit before opening the door in a feeble attempt to restore wakefulness.

Upon returning inside, I see Bill’s girl standing on the chair arm with Bill excitedly calling me over, “dude, dude, you’re just in time. Check this out.” The girl, balancing on one leg, lifted her other leg up until it was perfectly parallel to her body. Then she touched the ceiling with her toes.

“Wow,” I clapped, “Very impressive.”

“Thanks. I’ve been practicing a lot for the cheer squad.” She jumped down.

The next thing I saw was Bill Dawes pointing at this crotch. Apparently, he had dove in the hotel pool with his jeans on. He put dry jeans on before leaving but not dry boxers. Judging by the underwear shaped wetspot soaking through his jeans, they were still wet now.  Bill asked the tall girl if he could borrow some shorts and put his jeans and boxers in the dryer. They disappeared into the room together.

The other girl explained the rules of the drinking game we were about to play. Every few seconds I would stop her and pretend I didn’t understand on account of being Canadian.

“Okay, so these cards here mean you have chug half a drink.” She’d say.

“Wait, hold on. Chug? We don’t have that word in Canada. What’s it mean?”

“Oh my god, you don’t have chug? It’s like, drink really fast. You know, chug it.”

“Ohhh, you mean like caribou it. That’s what we call it back home. So that card means caribou half a beer, okay continue…”

Once I understood the game, I went on inventing bullshit facts about Canada. We have skis on our cars instead of tires, our women wear skirts over top their snowpants in the summer – those types of things. The universe immediately decided to reign retribution against me for lying. I heard Bill and the girl coming out of her room. She was laughing hysterically. I turned my head to witness one of the most disturbing travesties in the history of humanity.

Bill Dawes dancing in a black and white woman’s silk thong.

“Jesus christ Bill,” I slapped a hand over my eyes.

“What?” He came closer until I almost fell off the chair. “My pants are drying. I needed something to wear.”

I was laughing and utterly terrified all at once, “I swear to god. If anything touches me…” I said wafting at Bill like he was an airborn virus. Granted, at least I was awake now. Bill was gracious enough to wrap a towel around his bulge, no more images of a zebra puffing its cheek out.

“Well that was just awesome. Let’s have a goddamn drink,” I slapped the table, demanding that cards were dealt. The rules kept changing as we played. Sometimes it was truth or dare. The girls and I competed for who was the most vanilla. Bill Dawes, on the other hand, was putting us to shame. When we were done acting like a bunch of 8^th grade shitheads, we got down to business. Each card in the deck represented some form of drinking. My favorite rule was drawing an Ace meant that the first person chugged. The second person couldn’t stop chugging until the first did, and the third until the second, and the fourth until the third had finished. Better yet, Dawes’ girl was next in the rotation after me since we were playing clockwise, and she was seated to Bill’s right. I had man-thong images to erase so I was planning on some heavy drinking. Getting her loaded too was a welcome side-effect for Bill’s cause.

Bill pulled the first Ace. He took three or four big gulps. The girl beside me followed suit, stopping right after him. I kept drinking. And drinking, until the beer was gone. The poor girl beside Bill dropped her Mike’s Hard Lemonade on the table with water pooling under her eyes. It wasn’t long before the next chain-drinking card came up. Another beer down. This time Dawes’ girl had to give up early, which was a clear rules violation. The punishment: more drinking. One deck of cards later, I was four beers deep in a matter of minutes. I was reborn.

We kept drinking until Bill insisted on getting his clothes from the dryer. I also insisted, or more like pleaded. Bill and the tall girl were gone for a few minutes. I was much more talkative now. Although, I was pretty certain I’d stepped in dog shit or something equally as fowl while walking in my socks outside. The girl beside me was a good sport while I bragged on and on about times I got drunk. Meanwhile, I was enjoying my second life by swigging back more Bud Light.

Bill, thankfully wearing pants, and the taller girl emerged from the laundry room. They took a seat and we resumed drinking. Though by this point I didn’t give a shit about the game, but rather concerned myself with pouring as much awful light beer down my throat as possible. The buzz was all the separated me from a total breakdown.

My cell phone signaled a text message in my pocket. I pulled it out, expecting some form of bad news. Instead, it was Bill writing me from five feet away. “Blondie is driving us back. I wanna make a move then.”

I texted back , “Cool. Think she’ll go for it?”

A few seconds later, “We hardcore made out but don’t know.”

“She seems into you.”

“Help”

I saw Bill smile as he pushed send. He said to the girl beside me while pointing at me, “Hey, you guys should kiss or something. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? You both get laid?”

“I’m not getting laid tonight,” the girl proudly announced. “I’ve got a tampon in.”

“Well that’s classy,” I was already opening my phone again.

I sent one final text, “You concentrate on your girl. I’ll distract Tampon.”

We drank some more, but the games had died off. I couldn’t maintain my current level of drunkness without the necessary support systems. When I felt fatigue sinking its claws into me, I suggested we all head back. It was close to four in the morning. Bill and the tall blonde took their seats in the front. I sat in the back with the other girl, conversing politely while thinking about menstration. When we got to the hotel, I bolted for the lobby bathroom to piss. Tampon girl also had to use the facilities in emergency fashion. When I came out, Bill was trying his best to convince his girl to spend the night.

“No I don’t think I can,” the girl whined. “I have class tomorrow and I can’t just leave my friend stranded.”

Bill looked over at me, desperate for assistance.

“Look,” I said, “she can stay in our room. There’s probably an extra bed. And I’m sure we can bother Jaimee for a spare tampon in the morning.” Both girls frowned, and simple pleasantries, hugs and whatnot, were exchanged before they headed out. I was crashing hard. Bill walked over to me, “what the fuck, dude? I’m disappointed in you.”

“Sorry. I tried,” I said, walking in the opposite direction toward my room.

“I’m disappointed in you,” Bill called behind me. “You let me down Griffin.”

“I don’t fucking care,” I shouted without looking back. The only thing I cared about was finding my bed.

I picked out some fresh clothes from my suitcase. The hotel floor was littered with wet towels outside the bathroom. Charlie and Greg had made it up for a morning shower; it was Greg’s first shower in a week. Jace was inside the bathroom plucking his eyebrows in the mirror.

“Jace, get out. I need a quick shower.”

“No way dude, I’m about to shower. And I’m using the last towel. Too bad, you should have woken up sooner.” He slammed the door in my face, giggling until the sounds of running water drowned it out.

I pounded a fist on the door, “Well hurry the fuck up then.”

“Don’t count on it. I’m shaving my legs too.”

Not enough time to shower. I brushed my teeth in the sink outside the bathroom. Then used a washcloth to freshen up. In other words, I cleaned my armpits before putting on more deodorant.

Corman was my designated co-pilot for the drive. Good news since Corman actually stays awake. He also doesn’t judge me when I load up the car with Red Bulls and proceed to mark every forty-five minutes of driving with the “kish” sound of a freshly opened can until the imprint from my pounding heart is visible through my shirt. Substance abuse and Corman go together like Jace and pissing me off, or Charlie Hoehn and understated handsomeness, or Jaimee and calling me creepy.

The bad news was Corman did not look well at all. A cold had grabbed him by the balls over night. The sickness was making its way around the bus. I was lucky to avoid it thus far since I spent little time, comparatively, in closed quarters with the crew. The drive would test my immune system.

Despite the early morning departure, I was alert and energetic. Images from the impending protest filled my mind. Police in riot gear were firing tear gas into the enraged mass of student protestors who, in retaliation, were tossing moltov cocktails lit off the pages of Tucker’s burning book. I take a breath behind a makeshift barricade formed from an overturned table. Angry hippies fire flesh melting rainbows that zip over my head. My shirt hangs loose in shreds from running through fire to gain a flank position. A vein on my right bicep raises from blackened skin as I cock my assault rifle. One last swig of beer before I stand to my feet during a pause in enemy fire. I front flip over the table firing automatic rounds as I stick the landing. My body pulses in rhythm with the bullets, muscles rattling as I holler. Hippies are mowed down back into the dirt from which they rose. I cartwheel in mid-air, rainbows firing between my extended limbs. One rips a chunk from my right thigh, I grimace falling to one knee, but the bullets don’t relent from my gun. Blood splattering amidst the unbathed masses. I kick a rainbow back at a hippie with sole of my shoe. The beam tears through his hemp sack before disintegrating his heart. I’m out of bullets. Pot smoke rises from the corpses and the scent of charred patchouli oil overwhelms me as I sprint toward the few remaining dirty tree-huggers with my knife drawn. DIE YOU HIPPIE FUCKS!

“Griffin.” Corman called between fits of sneezing.

“Huh?” I blinked, “What’s up?”

“Pull over at that gas station. I need to pick up some medicine.”

I watched through the store window as Corman swiped his arm across the cold remedy shelf, dumping various products into the crook of his elbow. He struggled not to drop anything on the way to the cashier.

Back on the road, Corman popped pills and swigged from bottles hoping that something would allow him to breath. I figured conversation might distract him from the mucus terrorism. “So, how do you think Tucker will react to the protesters?”

“I doubt he’ll be bothered.” Corman labored a deep breath unable to get air through his nose, “He’s dealt with it before, and it’s not like they’ll hurt his ego.”

“I always wonder if narcissism is a necessary condition to make it as a celebrity. It is prevalent in Hollywood. Unwavering confidence certainly doesn’t hurt in the face of constant criticism. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be a polarizing figure like Tucker. You’ve got thousands of people calling you a god and a thousand more who despise your very existence. I beat myself up enough as it is. I don’t really need others jumping in to help me out. Tucker doesn’t seem affected by the attackers. And he’s not even mainstream yet.  It’s only going to get worse.”

“When it does, he’ll be ready for it. You have to believe in yourself before you can convince others to do so. Tucker has being preparing for success for a long time.”

Corman dozed off for an hour and when he awoke the drugs had taken effect providing him with momentary relief. We spoke about the ways Dawes was planning on fucking with the protestors. Every time Corman sneezed, I pictured millions of microscopic germs swarming my immune system – that is, if it was even active after the abuse I’d been doing to my body.

At the hotel, Corman went straight to bed to get some rest before the big show. I put the luggage in various rooms and did the UPS run. The drive from the hotel to the theater was a little longer than usual. In some cities I’d get lucky. It’d be five minutes. This time it was more like twenty minutes. What made it trickier is that the theater was on campus. Not even on the outskirts, but right smack in the middle with cars clogging the tiny roads and students bloating the sidewalks.

As I navigated the final roads to the theater, I didn’t need to check my map. I knew I was in the right place by the thirty or so protestors who had already lined up with cardboard signs hours before the show.

SAY NO TO RAPE.
MEN CAN STOP RAPE.
DON’T RAPE.

I shook my head, taking in the spectacle. The signs baffled me. What were they trying to accomplish? I couldn’t imagine a student walking by, looking at the signs and saying to himself, “ohhh rape is wrong. Well shit, that changes everything.” These protestors might as well have had signs saying “breathe so you don’t die” and “murder is bad.”

There are hundreds of reasons to hate Tucker Max.  I could provide you with several. Hell, he’d list most of them for you if you asked him. But calling him a rapist was so utterly retarded, it was beyond comprehension. I’d spent a good amount of time with Tucker by this point, including watching him interact with girls. Although he was by any standard a complete asshole, never once did I see him do something that was even remotely aggressive in a sexual nature toward a girl. I did, however, see a few girls effectively ‘rape’ him.

We’d learn from reading signs and listening to the chanting that the protestors’ basic argument was an individual cannot consent to sex when drunk. Therefore hooking up with a guy or girl while they were drunk equaled raping them, which, by my impression of the US college environment would narrow the college rapist population down to almost every male and female ever outside of protestors and computer science majors.

Bill Dawes, after debating multiple approaches, decided to go undercover as a gay reporter. He wore a beret with matching jacket that he borrowed from Greg. The disguise worked. It wasn’t long until Bill, Charlie and Greg learned that not a single protestor, aside from the girl who organized it, had read Tucker’s book.

I always hated the protestor types during my college years. I don’t have anything against demonstrations on a fundamental level, quite the opposite. The world could use a lot more uprising beyond the racists and homophobes who plague most rallies today. The problem with college protestors was they weren’t people driven to action through an impassioned cause. Rather, they were socially awkward, unkempt weirdos who protested everything. The same forty people holding up dead fetus pictures to protest abortion on Monday would then lock themselves in a cheap bamboo cage on Wednesday to protest that situation in Tibet. More than likely they participated for the social interaction and camaraderie. But in the process they made a mockery of otherwise serious causes by taking a sensationalist approach to complex topics without bothering to understand the inner-workings of what they were protesting. What bothered me the most was that they seemed to bitch about everything. There’s nothing more draining than a person who has something negative to say about any issue without actually providing any constructive solutions. The protestors who had shown up against I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell were just these types of people. Whiny outcasts with no real agenda, lacking the awareness to understand they were only helping the movie’s cause by bring attention to it.

The video crew wrapped up filming early upon realizing they had more than enough hilarious footage. Inside the theater, Jeff had Jaimiee and Jace working double time on removing all the pint glasses from the swag bags. We would hand them out to the people upon exiting instead. Meanwhile, Ben was checking-in the blossoming lineup while I moved boxes around trying to keep the fire marshal happy.  The possibility of a protestor pulling the fire alarm to disrupt the movie led NC State to disable the fire alarms. The fire marshal was now responsible for ensuring the building’s safety. The bomb squad swept the building beforehand as an extra precaution – pretty intense preparation for a comedy movie, if you ask me.

Our fire marshal was a stickler for policy. His glasses rested on a string against an ill-fitting plain white button-up shirt. “I hate to be a pain,” he’d say (liar), “but I’ve got to abide by the rules they give me downtown.” Procedural bureaucrats tend to annoy the fuck out of me, but in this instance abiding by the man’s every whim was the only solution since he could shut the show down with the flick of a wrist.

When it came time to drive Jerry back to the hotel, the protestors had moved from the sidewalk to gather in a grassy park outside the theater’s exit. None of them made eye contact with me during all the times I walked by them. Jerry seemed like he wanted to stick around to see if anything was going to happen. That, and to keep an eye on his bus. I assured that it was going to be an uneventful night. Besides, we’d hired security personnel to guard the bus. At the hotel, I darted up to my room to have a shower. I hadn’t had time in the morning or before we left for the show. Things at the theater seemed to be running smoothly enough without me.

Ten minutes later, I was back in the van. The phone rang. Jeff came through, “Griffin, are you driving back?” He sounded pissed.

“Yeah, on my way right now.” My pulse quickened at the thought of having to admit I dicked around at the hotel.

“The fire marshal says the bus is blocking a water outlet on the building. We need Jerry back here as soon as possible. Nobody gets let in unless the bus is moved. No Jerry, no show.”

“I’m on it.”

“I’m counting on you Canadian.” I couldn’t help but smile as I called Jerry to come down to the van as soon as possible. Jeff probably figured I was almost back at the theater. I’d look like a hero when I showed up in half the expected time. Jerry got back in the van. He seemed less than pleased at the unexpected disturbance, more so as he held on for dear life while I blasted the van through traffic. The rush hour was a pain, but the campus traffic had died down considerably now that it was early evening. I called Jeff when I was three minutes out.

“Just a heads up, I’ve got Jerry.”

“Good. He’s in the van now?”

“Yeah.”

“How long do you think it’ll take to get him here?”

“Like two minutes. I’m just down the street.”

“Down the… what? Two minutes?” Jeff’s mood improved instantly. “Well, shit. Drop him off right at the bus.”

Jerry hopped out of the van. I parked it in a loading bay across the street. When I came back, Jerry had repositioned the bus. I couldn’t even tell. That was because, Jerry explained, he only had to reverse about three feet. Unbelievable. But our fire marshal was happy having exploited his authority to the maximum potential so that when he found himself sitting alone on his couch with only the television’s icy glare to keep him company he could feel accomplished.  The show was back on.

I took Jerry back to the hotel again and picked up pizza on the way back. Keri-Lynn Pratt flew in to participate for the after show. She had a certain class to her that was absent from the rest of the crew. Though, she did take the mediocre pizza in stride. When Kerri-Lynn was on the bus, the dynamic changed. Dave and Nils made a deliberate effort catering to her and making her feel at home but the whole thing felt artificial. I wondered what Keri-Lynn thought about the treatment. Did she recognize that people were essentially kissing her ass? Did it annoy her? Did she interpret it as genuine?

I poured beer in a red dixie cup and stepped off the bus. The sun had disappeared. Halogen light bled down buildings, occasionally disappearing among passing headlights.  Students still walked up and down the streets. The drunk ones would stop to scream variations of “I love you Tucker” at the bus. A frat boy shouted “Fuck you” and stuck up two middle fingers before strutting off with his friends, as if the bus had feelings. I walked around the corner to see if the protestors had disbanded.

To my surprise, the protestors were still in the park outside the theater exit. They had formed a large circle with each person holding a lit candle. A halo of loneliness. In the middle of the circle rested a small stereo playing the sounds of a crying baby. I stood in disbelief. I moved closer to make sure the sound wasn’t an actual crying baby, but nope, everybody stood in stoned silence and the noise was clearly emanating from the stereo. Unbelievable. They either sell wailing baby CDs or somebody took the time to record and loop this most aggravating of sounds. I could understand if they were playing it over a loud speaker, but the only people they were irritating were themselves. They might as well have played Nickelback. In what world could somebody take this protest seriously? Even if I was forced into it because I liked a girl – back when I was naïve and kind-hearted enough to do dumb shit like that – I couldn’t have retained my sanity. Watching it from the outside, my every cerebral operation was dedicated to processing how lame the scene was. There’s no way these people could look each other in the eye and not think “what are we doing with our lives? I mean, really, what are we accomplishing right now? Is this all an elaborate prank?” I would have made it ninety seconds before lighting my pants on fire with the stupid candle. Baby screaming and rape. I don’t get the connection, and please don’t attempt to explain it to me.

The movie and after show went off without incident. Tucker did an admirable job addressing the ridiculous accusations by pointing out that the protestors were actually exploiting the victims of rape by hijacking the issue to push their own ignorant agenda. The fans reacted with cheers, and then everybody got back to telling stories about shitting themselves.

When everything was packed up, I made the drive for Jerry one final time. The crew decided to hang out on the bus for the night since the hotel was a distance from any good bars. When the bus came to a halt in the hotel parking lot, I went straight for my bunk. I was thoroughly exhausted from the previous week. The bus was alive with chatter, a few girls had come down to drink. I hoped I would fall asleep despite the noise. I opened up my laptop in my bunk to check email.

I heard one of the girls mention that she was an x-ray tech.

“Really?” Jeff jumped in. “Can you get me in for an appointment in the morning? I hurt my elbow but I haven’t been able to get to a clinic because we’re on the road every day.”

I heard a collective “Ewww” that no doubt came from Jeff revealing the massive liquid-filled, golf-ball-sized bulge that now decorated the tip of his elbow. Jeff was crafty at avoiding the specifics about what happened to his elbow. He’d usually mumble something about hurting it before trailing off. The real story might have got him into some trouble. I will say Jeff did not get into a fight with a large mechanical object and win. That object was not an elevator. He did not knock the door off track with a vicious elbow and then have to climb up to the second floor at head-level after prying the doors apart because he was trapped inside after the elevator came to an emergency halt.

The chipper x-ray tech seemed more than happy to help. “I can get you in whenever you want. What time? First thing in the morning? I have the keys. We could go right now if you want.”

“Really?” Jeff sounded relieved and excited. “That would be awesome. Let’s –“

“Wait,” Tucker interrupted his voice dominating the other voices. “You’re an x-ray tech. If we go with you, could you take an x-ray of me and her fucking on a table?” I figured Tucker was referencing the girl sitting beside him.

“X-ray picture or video?”

“What,” Tucker fumbled for words, “there’s x-ray video now?”

More giggling. “Yeah, totally. It’s, like, a moving video of your bones.”

“Oh my god. Video x-ray?” Tucker was shouting. “Call Griffin. Tell him he’s driving.”

I leaned out of my bunk. I saw Jeff standing up. “Jeff,” I called tossing the keys at him. “I’m too tired to drive.”

“Get some sleep. We’ll be fine.” Jeff called back as Tucker sprinted passed him and out the door with childlike excitement.

I noticed Charlie and Greg were on the bus. I decided to try my luck in the hotel room. Jace would be in there, but a tv is a lot less distracting than a bus full of drunk people. I dragged my feet across the parking lot to the hotel.  There was a dull pounding in my head. My stomach felt sick from the disgusting mix of booze and caffeine. Bill Dawes, his hair slicked back and dripping wet, was standing at front desk talking to the clerk.

When he saw me, he came running toward me waving his hand. “Griffin, Griffin. Come here. What are you doing?”

“Going to bed, man. I feel like I’m going to die.”

“Fuck that shit,” Bill said, somehow whispering and shouting at the same time. “I need a wingman. I’ve got two girls in the hotel pool. Hot girls. I want to hook up with one. I need you to distract the other.”

“Ask for a threesome.”

“Nah, dude. I’m not getting that vibe. They’re roommates or some shit. Come on, don’t be a pussy.”

Dawes pushed me along. The pool was located in the center of the hotel. It was an outdoor pool. We walked up to the gate. A large sign hung on the front indicating that the pool closed at 10pm. It was now well past midnight. The two girls spoke quietly to each other until Bill got their attention. Together they emerged from the water like the slow-motion bikini scene in a James Bond movie. Two college girls, blond hair pasted to their cheeks, smiling as they sauntered toward us. Goddamnit, I thought, what does a guy have to do to get some sleep around here?

Bill put his hand on my shoulder, “Girls, I’d like you to meet Tucker’s brother.”

“Tucker’s brother?” The shorter one with slightly darker blonde hair cocked her head sideways.

“No,” I frowned.

“Oh come on. Don’t be modest.” Bill leaned over the fence closer to the girls. “He’s always embarrassed about being associated with Tucker because he’s the nice brother.” He put his hand back on my shoulder. “So are we going to swim or what? We could chicken fight? Yeah, that’s a great idea. Chicken fighting.” He pinched the taller girl on the stomach, which I took as an indication of the one he was after.

“My swimming shorts are in the room, and I’ve got this.” I held up my laptop.

“You don’t need shorts. You got underwear on, right? Come on. This will be fun. Let’s go.” Bill should work in infomercials.

The short one spoke up again, “I’m not chicken fighting. You said there would be a hot tub and there isn’t. We need some drinks.”

Bill didn’t miss a beat, “Alright. That’s cool. We’ll get some drinks from the bus. Fuck this hot tub-less hotel. Actually you girls want to go out to the bar? That’ll be fun. Go get changed.”

Bill and I waited while the girls changed back into their clothes. Apparently they had gone home to grab their bikinis after the show and met Bill at the hotel. I pleaded with Bill to find an alternate wingman so I didn’t experience heart failure. But he was having none of it. The look of disgust on his face made me question my manhood. Next thing I knew, I had stashed my laptop back on my bunk, grabbed some fresh beers, and we were all sitting in the girl’s car driving to a bar.

Continued…

Tucker had been the source of the noise. He was setting up his laptop on his table. I tried to hide my agony as a stumbled by, grunting in place of morning pleasantries. Stepping off the bus, the southern air was thick but hollow as if god was rationing out oxygen. I finished the red bulls before finding the hotel room. A knock on the door revealed that Charlie was already awake.

“Sup dude, how was your night?” He said, going back to packing up his suitcase.

“Ugh, okay. Bar was too busy. Lots of beer, though.” I closed the bathroom door behind me. Unzipping my toiletry bag, I stared into the mirror. My reflection avoided making eye contact. It’s a good thing because I had some words for him about repeated bad decisions. If insanity is doing the same thing over again and expecting a different result, what do you call doing the same thing over again knowing you’ll get the same agonizing result?

Sociopathy?

After showering and dressing, I walked down to the van to see most of the crew had left their luggage against the rear door. I lifted the suitcases in between seats where they would fit. My body shook in poisoned defiance with every movement.  I stepped back on the bus to take another six red bulls. I hoped one for every hour of the drive would suffice.

Dave was sitting just inside the door. He handed me a day sheet, which outlined all the pertinent details leading up to the night’s show. “Have a good night’s rest?”

“Yeah,” I lied, “slept in my bunk.”

“Glad to hear it. You’ve got a long drive ahead of you. You should stop half way and grab a quick bite to eat, stretch your legs and all that.”

I feigned enthusiasm with a grin that hid gritted teeth, “Will do. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

I waited for five minutes until Jace climbed into the passenger seat. He laid out a bag full of drinks, energy bars and other assorted food. “I grabbed a bunch of stuff in case we need it.”

“My man,” I said pulling out onto the highway.

The sun shone with mid-day intensity but from a horizontal morning plane – one of those late August days when nature basks in the pinnacle of its maturity. Butterflies extended their wings, flashing their utmost brilliance before becoming plastered slime on the windshield with an anti-climatic thud.

“God, this drive is going to suck,” I sipped from my red bull.

Jace agreed twisting the radio dial to find something resembling music. “I wish I had an i-pod adapter. These stations only play crap.”

“You kids and your technology.”

“Shut up, dude. Everybody has an i-pod, even old people like you.”

“Watch it. You keep up with comments like that, and I’ll fall asleep at the wheel to kill us both.”

“Whatever, I could take over driving. I drive these fifteen passenger vans for tours all the time back home. I’m a runner. Music acts come to town and hire me for a day to run errands.”

“What?” I crushed the empty can and tossed it into the back. “You do this shit for living? Why the hell am I driving then? My skills would be much better served guarding the beer cooler.”

Jace put his feet up on the dash, “I’m not twenty-five. They wont let me drive the van for insurance reasons.”

“I’m sure they just think I’m the better driver. They know I’ll be responsible and trust me with such an important job.” I weaved the van into the left lane and around a car. “So, is that how you got the job on this tour then? Because you had experience?”

Jace’s trademark mischievous look grew across his face, “Sort of. Except I applied to be tour manager and bullshitted a little bit about my experience. They were interested at first until they went the professional route and hired Dave. Then they called me a week before we started and said they had a new spot open up as a gopher because someone got fired last minute.”

“They did can a guy who wasn’t pulling his weight. Man, we would have been proper-fucked if they hired you as tour manager.”

Jace laughed still fiddling with the radio to make it play something that wasn’t gospel. “Yeah, we would have been screwed. I just really want to work in the music touring business but there’s no way I could have done Dave’s job. Tucker would have killed me.” He turned the volume to zero, “fuck, is all the music about jesus down here?”

“What’s the matter, is your jew-guilt getting to you?” Jace threw an empty chip bag at me. I threw it back at him, “Don’t you fucking start with me, you little shit.”

Jace reclined his seat back, “I hope I can learn a lot from Dave. I’m going to be, like, his assistant on this tour. Then I can get on another tour when were done, a music tour. If I don’t, I’ll be pissed off.”

“Sounds like you have a little crush on Dave. But, seriously, you’ll make it happen if you want it enough. Dave knows his shit. I can’t imagine a better manager to learn from. That’s both the best and worst part about following a dream, you’re invested in it. When things go right, you actually get a genuine chemical high from it, like you might experience in a relationship and unlike the cheap, fleeting high drugs can buy you. But when things go wrong, you actually get depressed. It makes a good argument for taking the safe route and chaining yourself to a cubicle. At least then you don’t give a shit one way or another what happens. There are no emotions aside from empty ones such as irritation with coworkers, boredom arising from monotony and stress to meet deadlines.  It’s just something you do between eating, fucking and drinking your face off, or raising kids or whatever is important to you. But, I wager that in the long run you’re better off dealing with the momentary setbacks and heartaches in favor of a more fulfilling existence.  Do what you love, love what you do and all that stuff.”

“You love dudes, and love doing them too.”

“Goddamnit Jace, I’m teaching you a life lesson here.”

Jace folded his arms and shifted lower in his seat until the back of his knees curled up onto the dashboard. “I need some sleep. I’m still tired from drinking last night.”

“Those few sips of beers were killer, huh? You had, what, six gulps and I think you chugged three of them.”

“Shut up,” Jace muttered turning his head away and closing his eyes.

He slept for the next three hours. I drove along in silence, too bothered to dick around with the radio. The caffeine did an adequate job at keeping me awake, but sent my thoughts spinning into high gear. Rubber and pavement hummed beneath my feet as I found myself in disbelief – was this really happening? Am I really driving a van through godknowswhere USA to a destination I couldn’t point out on a map? This is what I live for. No time to really stop and think. No stagnation. Everything was in motion and not even exhaustion could catch up to me.

There is a difference between exhaustion and fatigue. It’s like putting money on your credit card. Fatigue is the interest. You can skirt by from day to day as long as you make small deposits in the form of fitful naps. Exhaustion is the outstanding principle balance that accumulates as you withdraw more and more. Eventually there will come a day when you have to pay it down, and when you’re stretching the limit like I was not even a quarter of a way through the tour, the process of reimbursing your body is an ugly hybrid of hibernation and detox.

My body’s sleep mechanisms kicked about halfway through the trip. Forgoing the whole nodding off and startling awake from the rumble strips dance, I pulled over at a rest stop. Jace sat up sensing the van had come to a stop.

He cleared his throat, “Are we close?”

“Half-way. I’m stopping to take a leak.” I stepped out of the van. The large shrubs near the side of road offered a superior alternative to the undoubtedly disgusting truck stop urinal. The sun had risen directly above us blasting away any shadows. I jogged down a gravel pathway a couple hundred yards and back, drinking a warm redbull. When the blood was sufficiently moving, we headed out on the road. Jace’s nap served him well. He was awake now and we felt like we were on the final stretch, even if that stretch was over two hundred miles.

I propped the wheel with my knee while opening an energy bar. “Remind me to stop at a hardware store. Jeff said we need some tape to designate the press and reserved seats for the showings.”

“What kind of tape?” Jace took the final sip from a vitamin water.

“He said something like yellow caution tape, but without caution written on it.”

“Dude, just get red velvet ribbon from a craft store. That’s what they use in the music business. VIP shit.”

“Good idea,” I said, watching Jace climb in between the front seats to the back row. “What are you doing?”

“I gotta piss. I’ll use this bottle,” He held up the empty vitamin water bottle.

“We just fucking stopped a few minutes ago. Why didn’t you piss then? Don’t use a bottle. I’ll stop again soon.” Before I finished the distinct hollow sound of urine flowing into a bottle filled the van. “For fucksakes.”

Jace finished up and climbed back into the passenger seat. “What? Stop being a baby. It’s just piss. You want a sip?” He extended the bottle toward me. “It’s warm.”

“I swear to god, if that bottle so much as touches me, I will beat the living shit out of you.”

The next ten minutes involved Jace motioning the bottle toward me, and me swinging my fist wildly in his direction. The car behind us probably wondered why the driver in the large white van was swerving irately at the threat of apple juice. It wasn’t apple juice, you shitty Prius driving hippie! It was piss. Warm piss. Warm jew piss.

The long drive gave us plenty of time to put distance between ourselves and the bus. At the hotel, I put everyone’s luggage in their rooms and took a shower before the bus pulled up. I would have done the UPS run but we had a meeting about the next day’s show in Raleigh, NC. A large scale protest was being planned because, apparently, I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell and Tucker Max promote rape culture.

We met in an empty hotel conference room after everybody had a few minutes to settle in. It was nice to be on time for a meeting. The gist was pretty simple: don’t engage the protesters and if approached be professional and say “we’re only there to do a job.” In other words, don’t give the protesters more reason to bitch. There were some other details to go over, but I needed to hit the UPS store.

I took off alone since everyone was still in the meeting. At the UPS there were thirty or so boxes, more than usual. An order of Beer Pong kits had come in too, and I needed to use every square inch of space, cramming boxes right up to the ceiling to make them fit. On the way back, I pulled into a crafts store and picked up some kickass velvet ribbon, smooth as Aphrodite’s breasts, red as the lust that courses through her heart . Crafts stores are creepy. There’s so much pent up sexual frustration that a single mention of “boner” would send the whole place, and their Garfield knitting patterns, into a mass orgy. Gray hair, repressed desires, old ladies making out, hard. Thick hardened tongues containing just enough saliva to make them sticky as they tenderly explored each crevice on wrinkled faces. Whoa, holy shit.

I made it back to the hotel at 3:20pm giving me ten minutes to change before our 3:30pm roll out. I couldn’t remember the room number, so I had to dick around at the front desk for a couple of minutes, which delayed me. At 3:33pm I received the following text from Dave as I put my shoes on:

“Wake up sunshine are you coming down bro?”

Wake up? As in, from sleeping. I almost cried. Most people used the time between arrival and the show for a nap. Not Chris. I swallowed the distress down into my stomach with a mental note to kill it with beer in a couple of hours.

The setup at the theater went smoothly.  Jeff walked in as we were draping the last swag bags over the seats. I remembered the red ribbon and handed one of the spools to him.

Jeff spun the spool around in his hand with a raised eyebrow, “This is about the worst thing you could have bought.”

“Really?” Fucking Jace and his stupid velvet ribbon idea.

“Yeah, I want something cheap that we can throw away after each show.” He put the ribbon into his backpack. “Not a huge deal. I’ll keep it in case we have some use for it.”

I did a beer run a took a bucket full of ice from the movie theater to top off the cooler. Tucker and Nils were discussing ways to fuck with the protestors the next day. I offered them each a beer. Tucker nodded in approval. “You’re getting better, finally starting to think ahead. Things like getting our luggage into the rooms. That’s the difference between an amateur and a professional. Look at Dave, for example. He knows his shit inside and out and is thinking twenty steps ahead at all times. He’s already hired off-duty police officers for the show tomorrow to guard the bus so nobody vandalizes it. We’re also going to remove all the pint glasses from the swag in case somebody tries to throw one at us on stage. The chances of any of that happening are basically zero, but considering them can be the difference between success and failure. You might only be driving a van, but you’re in the trenches and that’s where it all begins for the rest of us. Keeping things stocked, getting the swag on time, setting up for the show, it all contributes to the larger goal.”

Nils laughed, “I even saw him out in the Florida heat, shirtless and emptying boxes the other day.”

I thought about making a ripped like a Greek God joke but instead thanked them for noticing and went to the back while I was ahead. I saw the second spool of red ribbon in my bunk. I put it on the bus’s kitchen counter up front in case Jeff wanted to keep that one in his backpack too.

During the pre-show I handed out beer pong kits to the fans who told the best stories. It beat sitting alone on the bus, drinking to stay awake. Or did it? Jace had our food ready when the movie started rolling. As we ate, Jeff went to the fridge. He saw the red ribbon spool sitting on the counter.

“What the hell?” He picked it up. “Is this ribbon stalking me? I thought I threw it out.”

Tucker glanced up from his meal, “Why the fuck do you have red ribbon?”

“I asked our Canadian to pick up some tape to block off press seats. This is what he brought back?”

“Are you fucking serious?” Tucker shouted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Red ribbon. What the fuck are you going to give them a present too?”

The bus filled with laughter as Jeff grabbed the end of the ribbon and sent the spool rolling down the aisle. It unraveled for twelve feet before coming to a stop. Jeff looked at it both amused and astonished. “Griffin, not only did you buy some faggy red ribbon, but there’s only twelve feet of it. What do you expect me to do with this?”

“Oh my god,” Tucker pounded a fist on the table.

I fought back a smile knowing I had to deadpan the next line with a hint of enthusiasm for maximum effectiveness. I put my burger down, and turned to Jeff, “That’s why I bought two of them.”

Tucker threw up his arms, Jeff shook his head, and I did my best Canadian moose caught in headlights impression. Jeff took the ribbon and looped it under Corman’s chin, tying a big bow on top of his shaved head. Corman smiled proudly before removing the ribbon and handing it to me as I walked by. I threw the tangled red mess into the trash, the perfect metaphor for my heart. Stupid jerks.

To my disappointment, I was given bus duty (or as I came to think of it “beer drinking duty”) for the post-show. When Jeff came back to the bus with the press who were waiting for interviews, I went into the theater to tear everything down and take it back to the bus. Tucker and Nils were still signing stuff for the fans. Ben was taking fan pictures while Charlie and I lugged sound equipment. We couldn’t help but notice Jace sitting in a front row theater seat bullshitting with Dave and Nils.

“Lazy fucker,” I grumbled to Charlie who returned an agreeable nod.

After picking up Jerry and taking him to the theater, I met the bus back at the hotel. A few random sluts had found their way on. It was becoming a common sight – usually a group of girls who were waiting for their one friend to finish fucking Tucker. Sometimes there were groupies looking to experience the “rock star” lifestyle, not quite aware there were no rockstars of any sort on board (unless you count air-guitar). Rarely there was a nice, normal girl who had somehow been swept up but that wasn’t the case this night.

I sat down beside a wide-faced brunette with a pronounced chin and thick eyebrows. She wasn’t unattractive, sort of cute in that Eugene Levy way. I struck up a conversation and within seconds it was apparent she was looking to fuck. Not specifically me, but really anyone within arm’s length. I made pleasant conversation but I couldn’t get over the overbearing smell of peanuts, or was it more like peanut butter? I didn’t even realize peanuts had a distinct smell, but there it was. I looked around for a source. Nothing there, only her. Had she been eating gross quantities of peanuts? Was it some strange manifestation of body odor? She put her hand on my thigh in response to a joke I made. It stayed there. I looked down at it imagining free airline snacks or feeding an elephant at the circus.

“I’ve got a big drive tomorrow,” I exaggerated a sigh, standing up. “I better pack it in.” I walked to the cooler and took out a beer for the hotel room. The bus door opened and Jeff stepped on. He was well into the booze. “Have you met Jeff Waldman?” I said back at the peanuts girl.

She smiled. Jeff took a fresh beer before falling down beside her and proceeding to insult her in his own charming, drunk way. At one point on tour, Nils had said the key to getting any girl you want is not to give a fuck whether you get her or not. In Jeff’s case, this worked time and again. Girls would weather a barrage of insults, only to emerge more intent than ever on sleeping with him. In every case, one factor was consistent: Jeff clearly did not give a fuck.

I went to the hotel room and watched adult swim until the beer was done. I brushed my teeth, turned off the tv, turned out the lights and set my phone for 7:30am. Dave wanted to leave extra early to give us plenty of time to prepare for the protesters. It was only a four hour drive to Raleigh. The possibility for five and a half hours sleep brought a smile to my face as I closed my eyes, drifting off to sleep wondering why peanuts?