ask.
“I gave it to Sonia. She’s your manager, right?”
“Yeah, well, I’m sure she’ll be in touch.”
“You know, she’s awesome,” he says, and I feel my jaw go even more stiff and my eyes start to get mean and I have to check myself. “She came upstairs before your set and rallied everybody who was there for the Chimp to come downstairs to watch you. She and Jeremy were like cattle herders, it was great. Really glad I didn’t miss your set.”
“Thanks.”
Sonia turns to me and there’s that look again.
What now?
she seems to be asking, but I don’t fucking know
what now
with her. All I know is that this skin of hers feels like flower petals under my hand and I’d sure like to feel more of it. I know she’s not other girls, she’s not the girl who works at Monticello, and she’s not the girl with the gap in her teeth. Those girls might smell good and look good and feel good under my touch, but they’ll never be Sunshine. What the fuck am I going to do? I honestly don’t know. Do I play out the fantasy with her now and then deal with the fallout when we get home and she learns I’m quitting the band and moving back to Lodi to be a plumber?
What now,
I guess she wants to know. I look back at her, cock an eyebrow, and smile.
Your move, Sunshine.
Chapter Five
Sonia
Time isn’t what it used to be, that’s one thing I’m learning about the road. For example, at home three a.m. is diner time—the last stop before fall-drunk-into-bed time. But on the road, three a.m. is when the real party starts. It’s Sunday night and nobody here has to worry about getting up for class, for work. Nobody has a paper due or an exam to stress out over. All we have to worry about is making it over to Lexington tomorrow night to play with Crown the Robin, our friends from Jersey City, who we’ll be sharing a leg of this tour with.
The night is ours.
We turn down a long, moonlit, gravel lane behind Chimp Cringle’s and the Crypt Whores’ Econolines, where we find an old Virginia farm. Back behind the house, a number of people from the club are already hanging out around an in-ground swimming pool. Some of them are actually
in
the pool, which looks really inviting after a long, hot night in a bar, but I didn’t think to bring a bathing suit on this trip. Then I realize none of the swimmers brought suits, either.
“Whoa, naked people!” Emmy says. “Awesome!”
“Awww, yeah, tonight’s my night,” Joey insists. He’s still hanging on to Debbie and Jenny, and Jenny is half on my lap because blow-up dolls take up a lot more space when the drummer refuses to deflate them. (As soon as Joey falls asleep I think Jenny is going to meet her untimely end on a piece of farm equipment, because I have no intention of spending the next two and a half weeks with this oversized, oversexed Barbie on my lap.)
“Mark my words,” he goes on, staring at the naked swimmers with a gleam in his eye, “that girl in the pool with the nice . . . personality and the gap in her teeth? Little Lauren Hutton? Mine. Back at the club she said she appreciated my stature.”
“Your stature?” I say. “Like, your Paul Bunyanesque physique?”
“Just wait until she gets her hands on his trunk,” Travis says.
“God, let’s hope so,” Emmy chimes in. “Because if you even consider sticking your dick in one of these dolls, I swear to you I’ll set it on fire.”
“Hey, don’t talk like that!” Joey protectively covers Debbie’s ears. “She’ll hear you.”
And he’s not even drunk.
The thing about post-show musicians is that they don’t need to be drunk to be insane. The show itself is the drug, and the more shows they do, the more they crave. You’d think that might be a bad thing, and I know to my parents, who can’t understand why I’d take three weeks of my summer to sleep on people’s floors, it can seem like a life-ruining path to pursue. But this high is the good kind—the kind that makes you feel
“I gave it to Sonia. She’s your manager, right?”
“Yeah, well, I’m sure she’ll be in touch.”
“You know, she’s awesome,” he says, and I feel my jaw go even more stiff and my eyes start to get mean and I have to check myself. “She came upstairs before your set and rallied everybody who was there for the Chimp to come downstairs to watch you. She and Jeremy were like cattle herders, it was great. Really glad I didn’t miss your set.”
“Thanks.”
Sonia turns to me and there’s that look again.
What now?
she seems to be asking, but I don’t fucking know
what now
with her. All I know is that this skin of hers feels like flower petals under my hand and I’d sure like to feel more of it. I know she’s not other girls, she’s not the girl who works at Monticello, and she’s not the girl with the gap in her teeth. Those girls might smell good and look good and feel good under my touch, but they’ll never be Sunshine. What the fuck am I going to do? I honestly don’t know. Do I play out the fantasy with her now and then deal with the fallout when we get home and she learns I’m quitting the band and moving back to Lodi to be a plumber?
What now,
I guess she wants to know. I look back at her, cock an eyebrow, and smile.
Your move, Sunshine.
Chapter Five
Sonia
Time isn’t what it used to be, that’s one thing I’m learning about the road. For example, at home three a.m. is diner time—the last stop before fall-drunk-into-bed time. But on the road, three a.m. is when the real party starts. It’s Sunday night and nobody here has to worry about getting up for class, for work. Nobody has a paper due or an exam to stress out over. All we have to worry about is making it over to Lexington tomorrow night to play with Crown the Robin, our friends from Jersey City, who we’ll be sharing a leg of this tour with.
The night is ours.
We turn down a long, moonlit, gravel lane behind Chimp Cringle’s and the Crypt Whores’ Econolines, where we find an old Virginia farm. Back behind the house, a number of people from the club are already hanging out around an in-ground swimming pool. Some of them are actually
in
the pool, which looks really inviting after a long, hot night in a bar, but I didn’t think to bring a bathing suit on this trip. Then I realize none of the swimmers brought suits, either.
“Whoa, naked people!” Emmy says. “Awesome!”
“Awww, yeah, tonight’s my night,” Joey insists. He’s still hanging on to Debbie and Jenny, and Jenny is half on my lap because blow-up dolls take up a lot more space when the drummer refuses to deflate them. (As soon as Joey falls asleep I think Jenny is going to meet her untimely end on a piece of farm equipment, because I have no intention of spending the next two and a half weeks with this oversized, oversexed Barbie on my lap.)
“Mark my words,” he goes on, staring at the naked swimmers with a gleam in his eye, “that girl in the pool with the nice . . . personality and the gap in her teeth? Little Lauren Hutton? Mine. Back at the club she said she appreciated my stature.”
“Your stature?” I say. “Like, your Paul Bunyanesque physique?”
“Just wait until she gets her hands on his trunk,” Travis says.
“God, let’s hope so,” Emmy chimes in. “Because if you even consider sticking your dick in one of these dolls, I swear to you I’ll set it on fire.”
“Hey, don’t talk like that!” Joey protectively covers Debbie’s ears. “She’ll hear you.”
And he’s not even drunk.
The thing about post-show musicians is that they don’t need to be drunk to be insane. The show itself is the drug, and the more shows they do, the more they crave. You’d think that might be a bad thing, and I know to my parents, who can’t understand why I’d take three weeks of my summer to sleep on people’s floors, it can seem like a life-ruining path to pursue. But this high is the good kind—the kind that makes you feel
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