Going Solo

The stadium had finally quieted down, the majority of the fans out in the parking lot, trying to navigate post concert gridlock. The smells of beer and pot from the crowd, though, lingered on. 

All the bright stage lights, essentially large, fancy looking heat lamps, had been darkened, making things a little more comfortable. Little known fact: There are practical reasons why rockers wear tank tops and bare their chests on stage. They're not just trying to be sexy, it's damn hot, and we work up a sweat.

The big side monitors still cycled through psychedelic animations, but now the large Jumbotron was off, and all I heard were the murmurs of people leaving, the muted hum of the amplifiers that hadn't been unplugged, random conversations from the concert staff. 

It would be awhile before we could escape the parking lot ourselves. To kill time, I idly plucked on my Les Paul. Our lead singer signed autographs for groupies. Roadies packed up the drums and microphones.

My fellow bass guitarist, Syd Smitty, stood smoking as he watched people clear up the folding chairs. His old timey ruffled men's blouse hung open, exposing a rather unimpressive bare chest. His cheetah print tights had a hole in one knee. Stylish.

I didn't know he'd been listening to me riff until he sat down on an amp and asked, "That's a catchy little number. What's it called?"

I shrugged. It had a title, I was just embarrassed to say it. "You're Special Just the Way You Are."

He puffed on his cigarette. "That's great, but this is a rock band."

"I know," I sighed. "I'm just messing around. It takes something from left field to get my creative juices flowing."

"Where does that expression even come from? `Left field!'"

I told him the story of the Chicago Cubs and the mental asylum.

"Damn, I didn't think there was an answer to to that!"

A distant clicking sound prompted me to snatch the cigarette from his mouth and rub it out with my sneaker.

"John, what the fu...dge."

A little blonde girl hobbled her way onto the stage with a pair of crutches. Stacy, my girlfriend's daughter. She had MS. She wore rainbow striped unicorn leggings and one of our promotional tees.

I whipped out my special guitar case, bringing Albert the psycho chicken to life, strumming on his puppet sized Stratocaster. The child's face lit up at such cornball antics. Vastly more satisfying than a dozen crazed groupies flashing their tits.

I brought out Fluffy Squirrelshorts, putting on a little impromptu show. It was a little hobby of mine, doing puppet shows for kids at cancer wards and churches and stuff. No connection to the band, I just slip off and give a few anonymous performances when there's some down time, like mornings when everyone else is hung over. 

The girl giggled at how I made the monsters interact, but Syd kept rolling his eyes because I based one of them on him, and our lead singer. "You owe me a cigarette, dickhead," he muttered in my ear before walking off the stage.

"You're really a natural at that." The girl's dark haired mother, Danielle, appeared behind the girl. 

Best thing that happened to me since Demon Head made it big. Not full figured enough to be a swimsuit model, but she had heart, and didn't love me for my money. In fact, I tried to get her something a little classier than Old Navy and she just returned it and told me to spend it on her kid. Children's hospital t-shirt, stonewashed jeans she probably got a garage sale.

I grinned. "I'm just fooling around, but thank you." I then made Fluffy say, "He told me you're smokin' hot and really wants to kiss you."

"No no! Shut up!" I told the puppet.

Danielle's ex husband...the abuse and so forth, left her with some awkward boundary issues. Couldn't even approach first base. Her facial expression seemed to say yes, but when she came closer, she only showed me a piece of paper. "Someone seems to think what you do is more than just fooling around. You know how you gave that puppet show at the hospital a couple weeks ago? Someone recorded it and sent it to a network director."

My eyes bugged out when I read what the paper said. I read it again just to be certain. 

I'd just been given a blank check to produce my own children's program.

"He wants you to put together a full season."

"I see that." I frowned when I read the filming dates, the lines about when they wanted me to come in and start working. "I...can't. We're on a tour. The band needs me."

"You said you were getting tired of the concerts, and all the drugs and partying that goes on every night. Here's your chance at something better."

I could only sigh at this. I was the band's main songwriter. They relied on me for a lot of things, and not just backup guitar. Our road manager said I was the only one who could keep a deadline, hence why I got shouldered with the most responsibilities. The band would probably collapse without me, despite what Roddy said to the contrary.

"Give it some thought. I really think you need something like this." Danielle put a hand on her daughter's shoulder. "I think she does too."

The hopeful look on Stacy's face kind of decided it for me.

To be honest, I'd always wanted to do something like this, I just hadn't thought about it seriously before. The real problem would be explaining my decision to the band.

Rod Rampley threw up on the tour bus floor. "I definitely shouldn't have eaten that for dinner."

I supposed having no shirt and leather pants would make it easy to tidy himself up, not so sure about the upholstery, or his jacket. He'd swished his mouth out with a leftover bit of bourbon that morning, but now the bottle he clutched spilled out on the carpeting.

I remember when we first started. The guy got so wasted that he drank milk from a pregnant dog.

The bus looked like a house on the inside. Would have been great to live in, had it not reeked of alcohol, pot, old cheese, nor had drug paraphernalia scattered everywhere. Also, Lars, our drummer, after one too many shots, had urinated in the closet, and nobody could seem to get rid of the lingering smell.

"You got any food around here ?" Rod had another bimbo sprawled out on the fuzzy honeymoon bed, blue silk teddy, garter stockings, heels, the breasts were better covered up - she had nipples a mile wide.

After touring with Demon Head as long as I have, you get desensitized to the sight of exposed jugs. I could have gotten in on some of the action myself, but I have standards.

The mere mention of food caused Rod to toss his cookies again. 

"There should be some pizza in the fridge," I said to the woman. "Rosa might be by with some donuts or something if you want to wait.

"Thanks, Johnny."

Rod wiped his mouth. "When's that recording session with A&M?"

I checked my watch. "You're ten minutes late. Hank's chomping at the bit. I think you ought to clean that vomit out of your hair and hurry out to the limo."

I would have suggested a shower, but he bathed like a girl, and studio time (and money) was going to waste. I'd have to Febreeze him or something...If I actually decided to stay for the limousine ride.

You know what? I thought to myself. Screw this. "Rod, I'm quitting the band." 

Rod only furrowed his brow. "It's too early for jokes, John. My head is pounding."

So much for that.

Hank, our fat, muskrat faced road manager, stood waiting for us at the foot of the stairs, clad in a sharp blazer and slacks. His eyes rolled as he watched Rod down a handful of aspirin and amphetamines with a swig of V8, staggering out to the limo a few feet away.

Rod's bleach blonde floozy, wrapped in a whore jacket and tiny sequined skirt, trailed behind him. "The shower isn't working in there. Can you get the guy to take me to the hotel on the way over?"

Rod nonverbally relayed the question to Hank.

Our road manager's face flushed a bright red. "I'll drive her to freaking Mars if you get in the damn car! Do you know how expensive it is to keep that studio slot open!"

"Relax, man! We're stars!"

"Without that album, you won't be for very long!"

Lars poked his chunky head out the limousine's open door, one meaty hand waving a cherry turnover. "Dude, you've to try these pastries! This stuff the shit!"

Rod dry heaved. "Better hide the donuts," I suggested.

Lars could tell what was up. "Oh. We got some Alka Seltzer in back, brother."

Rod swallowed bile, climbing inside with his bony hipped tramp in tow.

I didn't get in.

Now hank's anger flared at me. "Is there a problem, John?"

"I quit." I finally got up enough nerve to say it.

His eyes bulged, his face flushed. "What! Dammit, aren't we paying you enough?"

"It's not about the money, Hank. It's the whole atmosphere. The drugs, the all night benders, the loose women...I want something better. Something that makes me feel like more of a role model." I showed him the paper.

Hank's eyes practically popped out like a cartoon character. "I can buy you a TV show! Just get in the limousine! We'll talk!"

I swallowed. "Sorry, Hank. No. Like I said, it's the lifestyle."

"I can make them change."

That earned an eyeroll from me. "No you can't. They're kids with guitars. The difference is, these kids will leave less vomit on my clothes, they won't reek of pot, and they're too young to become jaded and cynical. Goodbye."

As I walked away, I heard hank yelling, "I can buy you two TV shows!"

Then: "John! The band needs you!"

When I didn't come back, he swore at me.