Days Off

The Knoxville’s show cancellation meant we had two extra days off in Atlanta before heading to Tallahassee. I use the term “days off” loosely because my cell rang at 10am.  One thing you’ll learn from sharing a room with Charlie Hoehn is that guy loves his air conditioning. I live in fucking Canada and I still woke up a shivering wreck. I’d rather build a snowman with my balls (national pastime) than sleep blanketless in a hotel room with Charlie – sleeping blanketless being an unintended consequence of passing out drunk on the couch in yesterday’s clothes.

I rolled off the couch, bracing an arm against the floor to prop myself up. The angles of getting to my feet wrought mayhem on my pounding head. I slinked squinty-eyed to the shower and cranked the hot water. My blood began to thaw. My favorite thing about hotels is that the hot water never runs out. I stood in the same position with the water splashing against my shoulder blades for fifteen minutes. Being hungover in the shower is the closest I ever get to meditation. It’s the perfect opportunity to investigate life’s most difficult questions, such as: What the fuck is wrong with me?

Walking from the hotel room’s arctic temperatures into Atlanta’s scorching humidity did not help my current predicament. Chugging two large energy drinks did. I spent the day running errand after errand. I took Charlie and Greg back to a camera store where a pretentious, pony-tailed, middle-aged man imparted his many years of camera retail wisdom upon us. I got into an argument in the returns line at Best Buy. I shopped at an Apple store for the first time in my life which creeped me out with its homogenous product display and over-enthusiastic staff. The store had all the ambiance of a sterilized hospital room run staffed by Jack Nicholson’s character from The Shining. I bought a pair of shiny new white running shoes with the money Tucker gave me. They didn’t have any other colors available. I even got rang up by a large, obviously gay black man at a health food store. Yet another example of a hybrid accent atrocity. Flamboyant gay man and deep southern drawl. I didn’t have the credit card in the morning, so I used my per diem for some purchases. Jeff told me to come by his hotel room that night where he’d show me how to properly fill out a reimbursement form.

In the early evening Jeff sent a text asking if anybody wanted to go watch Inglorious Basterds which was premiering that night at the same theater we did our show. I told Jeff I’d go as long as I didn’t have to drive the van. Everybody ended up going except Tucker. There was a cool moment when the ten of us exited the van. It felt very Tarantino-esque as this haphazard band of misfits walked towards the theater. Everybody was on this tour via completely separate paths, yet here we were brought together on this strange mission. I was hesitant going into the movie because Tarantino’s latest couple of movies were so self-indulgent they’d moved beyond enjoyable (most notably, Death Proof) but the movie ended up being excellent, and a welcome return to his old form.

Later that night I sat in Jeff’s room filling out forms with Jaimee. Despite the fact I lost one of the nine receipts I needed to submit, Jeff was relaxed and in good spirits as the Killers pounded from his i-pod speakers. When I’d completed all the documentation to his satisfaction, I cracked a beer on the couch.

“I know it’s a pain in the ass,” Jeff said looking over the paperwork, “but there’s a reason I can get thousands of dollars transferred where I need it. I keep meticulous records; every dollar is accounted for.”

I nodded.

“And, Canadian, I know I’m hard on you guys and I ride your asses but I hope y’all don’t think I’m just being a dick for the sake of it.”

“No, definitely not.” It was the truth.

“Alright, good. You guys are busting your asses, and I am actually shocked at how well you’re pulling together. Even when I’m giving you shit, don’t think for a second I don’t recognize the work you’re putting in.”

“Thanks Jeff. I don’t know how you manage to keep the wheels on this whole show and I don’t envy your position, but I can assure you nobody has any hard feelings about how you get the job done.”

“Glad to hear it. And don’t lose any more goddamn receipts, got it?”

“Got it.”

My cell phone beeped with a text from Corman. He was heading back to the bar from the previous night with Bill Dawes. Jeff didn’t want to come, so I joined Ben and once again watched him dominate the beer pong tables. When we got back we stayed up drinking on the bus for a bit. I decided to try sleeping in my bunk for the first time. Every crew member had a bunk on the bus. There were four sets stacked three high. We referred to them as the catacombs. I had one of the top ones. It was a bit of a chore climbing up (especially after many drinks) but once inside there was roughly three feet of space to the ceiling and a fold down TV/DVD player. There were also adjustable A/C vents, headphones, and a curtain that slid across for privacy. As long as you didn’t jolt up from a nightmare and crack your head on the roof, the bunk was pretty sweet living. I was asleep in seconds.

The next day there was an all hands meeting at 1pm. I rolled out of bed at 9am to hit the stores but first I walked to the gas station for some energy drinks to get me in working order.

I remember the first time I ever tried a red bull. I had a twenty-four page political science research paper on Ukraine’s Orange Revolution. Our cruel professor required a minimum of twelve unique academic journal sources. Like the rest of my university career, I left the paper until the last day. It was due at 4:30pm; I started the night before at 6:00pm. Beforehand I picked up two small cans of red bull. I drank one to get started. The second I drank around midnight. I couldn’t fucking believe it. I had never been so alert in my life – it was different from coffee in that it didn’t leave me jittery. The crash never came either. I was so productive that I stayed up all night and finished the paper in time for my 1pm shift at the University’s career service department. The next day at my other day job (I worked three jobs at the time – uphill ALL THREE WAYS), I was telling all my fellow employees about the wonders of Red Bull. One of the older, wiser bosses raised an eyebrow and said, “be careful, it’s a slippery-slope, my friend.”

I was starting to think maybe he had a point.

I had six stops to make before the meeting. That gave me about twenty minutes a stop. I drove like a madman around Atlanta. After five of the six stops, I had twenty minutes left to get back in time for the meeting. I decided to risk being late. I sprinted through the Lowes store grabbing duct tape and a few other supplies. I found the cashier with the smallest line up. When the lady in front of me got up to the till, her item didn’t scan. Southerners are some of the nicest people on the planet, but god help them if they ever need to be in a rush.

“Well golly, I don’t know why this item ain’t scanning.” The plump cashier shook her double chin.

The customer, also plump, scratched her blond fried big 80’s hair. “Did you try scanning it through slower?”

“Nope. But I can sure give it a shot.” She moved it through. “No luck.”

“Gosh, how about you try scanning it even slower.”

Holy fuck. On the verge of committing double homicide, I saw a self-checkout. It didn’t take long before I was back in the van. I started it up but the clock read 12:58pm. Motherfucker. Two minutes until the meeting starts and I was fifteen minutes away. I called Dave since he was an expert at delivering bad news. I figured he’d find a way to gently pass on the information to Tucker, Nils and Jeff. Dave told me to take my time. Arriving safely was better than saving a couple of minutes.

Of course, traffic had to be a total prick. I ended up screeching up to the hotel doors at quarter after. I parked right in front of the no parking sign. I grabbed all the merchandise. What I couldn’t carry I stuffed in my pockets. I kicked the door open and jumped out of the van. The valet met me at the hotel door.

“Excuse me sir, you can’t park there.”

“DELIVVVEERRRYYY,” I shouted shaking the bags as I bolted passed him to the stairs.

The meeting was on the second floor. I ran around the maze of hallways until I found the correct room. Things were already underway. I took a seat between Jeff and Nils.  Nobody said anything but there were some disappointed looks tossed my way. I had walked in as they were going around the table, evaluating everybody’s performance so far and asking if they had any questions. I was the last to go.

Jeff looked over with a you’re-in-shit smile. “Griffin, how you making out?”

“I think I’m starting to get on a roll. I know I was late today, but these initial days have been an endless run for odds and ends as we adjust to life on the road. Once we got these little things out of the way, I’ll find a rhythm.”

Jeff knocked his pen against his notebook. “There are always going to be odds and ends you need to pick up.” I nodded, and then Jeff said something that really marked a turning point for me on the tour. “You’re out there driving and busting your ass. It’s a thankless job, and everybody wants you to pick up this or that. And you’re trying to please them all, which isn’t necessarily wrong, BUT when you say yes to everyone then you get stretched too thin and end up late to meetings like today. You can help us more by being on time, and doing that means you tell people what you’re capable of doing and what will have to wait. Then we can prioritize for you if necessary. Right now you’re over-promising and under-delivering and it’ll make you look bad every time. It’s okay to tell people you’ll get their stuff later if it’s not urgent. And if you happen to have extra time and you get it for them early, you’ll look like a hero instead of a dumbass slow Canadian jogging in fifteen minutes late for the meeting.”

“Makes perfect sense,” I said. Up until then I’d been all action and no forethought. Back in high school football my coach always told us it was better to make a mistake at full speed, which is a principle I try to live by. Still, in every situation it’s always smarter to avoid making the mistakes in the first place. A little planning can go a long way.

With that, Tucker stood up from his chair. His demeanor changed from casual to intensely focused. “Alright,” he rolled up his sleeves, “you guys are all doing an excellent job. Seriously, I’m impressed with each and every one of you. Now we’re getting into the thick of things, and we need to improve every day. We have an opportunity to do some special with this movie. All of you have the chance to be a part of something that may only happen once in a lifetime. The odds are stacked against us, but if all the stars align, we just might pull this off. None of you need to be heroes. You only need to do your job and keep the machine running smoothly. The major weight is carried by Nils, Jeff, Dave and myself. We are the leaders here. And when it really comes down to it, the success of this thing will depend on me. I’m ready for that challenge. I’ve been preparing for it over the last two, if not seven years. So keep up the great work, and let’s give this an honest run.”

It was an inspirational speech. You could see that Tucker meant and believed every word of it. His energy infected everybody around that table. There were a few other analogies in the speech including a 90’s Chicago Bulls analogy that allowed Nils to compare me to former center Luc Longley. I’m not sure if that was better or worse than Waldman getting compared to Dennis Rodman.

The meeting was adjourned. I dished out all the various supplies to everyone before heading down to move the van.  At the bus, Bill Dawes invited us to a comedy show the Marijuana Logs playing that evening. He had two extra comp tickets. So Ben, Jaimee, Jace and myself paid for half a ticket each. The show was reasonably funny except ten minutes in a group of two guys and two girls walked in and sat right behind us. It was distracting enough that there was an Eddie Murphy Laugh guy in the back corner but he was nothing compared to the piercing shriek that emerged from one of the girls sitting behind us every time she laughed. The four of them had been doing some heavy pre-gaming; their late entrance was far from eloquent. Regardless, this girl’s brain rattling banshee scream took the cake. It wasn’t even a laugh. Just a half second yelp that made my fillings ache and my eyeballs vibrate. Seriously, whenever she laughed people’s body language reacted as if somebody was firing stray bullets into the crowd. AND WORSE STILL, she wasn’t even laughing at the comedians’ jokes most times. Her retard friends were whispering stupid shit to make her squeal. The comedians tried to joke about it, but they obviously weren’t equipped to deal with this sort of thing.

As the show progressed, the group got increasingly disruptive. Bill told them to shut the fuck up. He was more aggravated than anyone because if he was on stage he would have tore into them until they left. Dawes twice asked management to have them removed, but to no avail. Jaimee told them to shut the fuck up too. Throughout the show random crowd members would yell at them, but these morons were resilient. After thirty minutes of this crap the girl reached down to get something from her purse. I know this because she said she was doing so to her boyfriend rather loudly. As she bent down, she lost her balance, and plowed into Corman’s chair. We both snapped around, said variations of “what the fuck” and stared. Corman looked the girl right in the eye. He later said he probably would have punched her if she said anything. I was prepared to fight her boyfriend. Half the crowd would have jumped in for a shot.

They sensed the pent up frustration because the girl apologized, and told her friends she wanted to leave. When they got up and walked out the whole place erupted into spontaneous applause and cheering. One of the douchebag boyfriends shouted “Fuck You” from well beyond the curtain. Congratulations Mr. Tough Guy.

As mind-numbingly irritating and awful as that whole experience was, here’s what I don’t get. I presume douchebag #1 either was fucking or was hoping to fuck the hot shrieking girl. WHY IN THE FUCK would you bring her to a comedy club if you knew she laughed like that? If I was him, I would become the most mopey, unfunny emo in the history of earth just to make her not laugh. If I was her, I would rip my voice box out as a service to humanity.

Back at the bus, Jaimee told us that she’d seen Girls Gone Wild was at a bar around the corner from the hotel while walking Murph-pup. Jace’s hormones raged like a humping chihuahua’s at the mention.  “Dude, we totally have to check it out.”

“Why?” I asked, mostly just to see what he’d say.

“Because it’s Girls Gone Wild retard. Hello. Stripping girls.”

“First off, isn’t Joe Francis a rapist/pedophile or something? Second of all, do you really think the girls are going to be stripping right in the bar?”

Jace’s face beamed. “I don’t give a shit about Joe Francis, and yes there’s probably girls walking around naked right now.”

“Alright young one,” I said downing a beer and getting to my feet. “let’s go check out your little party.”

We grabbed fresh beers and headed around the corner. There was a homeless man on the corner eating the last slice of pizza from a large pizza box. He asked for change. “I don’t know, man,” I said, “two nights ago some asshole bum started throwing pennies at me. It kind of soured me on the Atlanta homeless population.”

The bum smiled his toothless grim. “Ah no sir. I wont be throwing any pennies. Some nice boys already gave me the rest of their pizza so now I just need some money for beer.”

I reached into my pocket and fished out whatever change I had. There was probably two bucks in quarters. “Because I’m kind of drunk and you seem like a reasonable guy, I’ll give you all this.” I handed it over.

“God bless you. And also, you shouldn’t be drinking those beers out in public. Them police officers across the street will write you a ticket on the spot.”

“Ah, good thinking.” I casually hid our beers behind a cement ledge before walking across the street to check out the club with Jace. “Keep an eye on those beers and don’t drink them.” I called back to the homeless man.

Jace hit me on the arm, “Why the fuck would you give away your change?”

I hit Jace back harder, “Oh Jace, you’re such a jew.”

“I know,” he smiled proudly.

In front of the club there were only dudes in line. I asked the bouncer if there was a dress code. He said there wasn’t but it was twenty dollars cover.

“Fuck that. I’m not paying twenty bucks,” I muttered to Jace.

He was still undecided.  “It could be awesome inside, though.”

Just then I noticed a female employee in front of the bar with a clipboard. “Excuse me,” I said to the girl, “what’s it like in there? Is it a dude-fest?”

“No. There are girls in there.”

“Like, Girls Gone Wild Girls?” Jace said eagerly.

“Yeah, that’s going on tonight.” The girl said, acting bored.

I narrowed my eyes. “I don’t believe you. I bet there are like ten girls paid to be there, and a thousand dudes walking around high-fiving each other and doing jager bombs.”

The girl smiled a bit before checking herself. I knew I’d hit the nail on the head. I elbowed Jace and told him to leave. He looked up at me dejected, “are you sure?”

“Look. It’s twenty bucks. If you really want to go in, we’ll go. It’s not the end of the world if it sucks.”

“Nah, fuck it,” Jace’s jew sense kicked back in. “Hey, the homeless guy is gone.”

I snapped my head around. “That bastard better not have drank our beers.” I ran across the street. Sure enough there were two empty bottles in the spot we’d left them. “Goddammit! What is this world coming to when you can’t even trust a bum? I gave him money.”

Jace burst out laughing. “Dude, this is America. You never trust homeless people. You shouldn’t even trust normal people.  I swear, if you don’t stop being so nice, you’re not going to make it through this tour.”

“Yeah. You might have a point there.”