Contents of the Aluminum Beast

A 2005 Chevrolet Express with 345,000 miles on it sporting its last set of wheels is not the ideal choice of a ride for anyone. Let alone when it's hot pink with a sexy fire stripe going down the side and meant to carry you and your bandmates around the country. But, hey, it works. Ninety five degrees outside on the Fourth of July and the inside of the Aluminum Beast is as cold as the beer cave Harold stole a 30 pack from last night. He’s faster than he looks to be sure, it's his short stature and beady four eyes give away the more deviant and atypical disposition of Harold Lloyd. He’s not allowed to drive anymore. A simple tail light out resulted in Harold spending the afternoon at a police station after the officer that pulled him over in Harold’s opinion, “started asking too many questions.” Since then it’s been front man and lead singer Chris behind the wheel.

Chris Bird is everything Harold is not. Smooth, handsome, personable, the kind of guy you wish you had as a friend, however when you really think about it you're actually surrounded by a bunch of Harold's. 

“I don’t remember,” Chris feigned, trying his best to hide the smile breaking across his face. They’d had this conversation a dozen times, hell, five dozen.

“It was me, you, and Thomas. All alone. Just us and we had barely finished writing our first song. Tom, help me out here.”

Thomas Hatch rode shotgun and almost never had anything to say. He could slay a guitar like nobody’s business and invent riffs that sounded as if they had been written by Eddie Van Halen. The truly astonishing part of that riff though would be if he told anybody about it.

Thomas chimed in without ever removing his eyes from his phone. “With this, as with most things you talk about, Harold, I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

“And you know what, Thomas? I believe you. I really do because you have a problem. You’re stuck on that phone and before you know it life just happens and boom, you had no idea.”

“Actually Hare, I think I’m starting to remember,” Chris chimed in, “my sister came out, asked for her keys and left after I gave ‘em to her.”

“Yes!” Harold snapped both literally and figuratively, “and it was in that crucial life changing moment that your sister truly saw me for the first time. Sweaty, ripped, just finishing up a mind melting drum solo. She was swooned, Chris, swooned! It is for that reason that I believe you should give me her number!”

This was enough. The joke had run its course. “Fine, you make a good point. Jerry, give him her number.”

The fourth and final member of the band calling themselves, Hill Blocks View, sat in the back with Harold. Jerry Stills. Jerry was the most conspicuous member of the band. Round stomach, inviting plump eyes and a winning smile to light up anyone's day. Unfortunately, Jerry was not the, oh how should we say it? Jerry’s elevator didn’t go to the top floor. Yeah, that works. Jerry was the one responsible for naming their van, The Aluminum Beast. What Jerry lacked in the sense division he more than made up for in ways incredibly beneficial to his bandmates. He was low maintenance and could learn a bass pattern almost immediately. It was quite remarkable and allowed for the band to write and cover several songs on the fly.

“Jerry! Jerry’s had her number this whole time?!” Exclaimed the suddenly angry and exuberant drummer.

“Sure,” Jerry nonchalantly answered, “had it a long time actually.”

“How!”

“Chris gave it to me.”

Harold sat back and pondered for a long moment about his next move. It needed to be well thought out, smart, unpredictable and most importantly, an action that would be sure to make Chris remember that crossing him was in no one’s best interest. Boom, he knew exactly what to do. “That’s it, I’m pulling the steering wheel!” As we have discussed, Harold is much faster than he looks and in a matter of milliseconds, he had launched himself headfirst from the back of the van to the front. Arms extended, his fingers had just touched the wheel when he felt the large grubby hands of one Mr. Jerry Stills grasp his pencil shaped calves.

“Get ‘em, Jerr!” Chris shouted, doing his best to keep the car in its lane.

“I’m trying!”

Deciding this was out of hand, Thomas stepped in and sent down the butt of a drum stick onto the offender's knuckles. Easy. Harold fell back slowly, pulling his wounded hand into his chest as Jerry continued to pull.

“Ow! God!” Harold cried, “you assaulted me!”

“So I did.” Had Thomas’ eyes even left his phone during the incident? I don’t believe we’ll ever know.

“And you did it with my own stick. That’s the part that hurts the most.”

“Pray forgive me.”

“Alright,” Chris interjected, “Thomas enough of the smart ass comments. Harold, you're in time out.

“You can’t put me in time out, I’m an adult,” a subdued Harold responded, rubbing his injured hand.

“That’s right, you’re an eighteen year old man like the rest of us, yet I have to put you in time out for attempted murder. Again.”

“Can I speak while I’m in time out?”

“Jerry?” Chris questioned.

“I’ll allow it.”

“Thank you Mr. Jerry,” Harold mocked, “how much longer do we have?”

Thomas answered without missing a beat. “We have exactly two hours and thirteen minutes until we make it to Houston.”

“Two hours, not bad.”

“That’s right, not bad. What we should be doing instead of arguing is preparing--”Chris was saying before being interrupted by Harold.

“I’m afraid I may be out of commission, cap.”

“Oh stop, I barely touched you,” Thomas defended.

“It isn’t about the slap, it's about the sentiment of the slap. On the day of our biggest show, with my own stick. I can hardly believe it.”

Chris rubbed his nose as he let Harold finish up before responding. “Things have been said and done in this car that are… regrettable. There’s no denying that. But, it has been a long and hard summer for all of us. For the past two months we have been cooped up in this 2005 P.O.S. and it has at times been quite horrible. Can anyone deny that?” They sat in silence. “Good, neither can I. Our suffering though has all led up to this day. To the finals for The National Amateur Band Competition.”

“What a horrible name they gave it,” Harold added.

“The worst,” Jerry agreed.

“Pathetic,” Thomas finished.

“I agree, the name is awful but that’s not what's important here. What's important is that we have a real opportunity in front of us. A shot at actually winning an award and going on to record our own music, under our name and own direction,” Chris inspired, “in six hours, we’re gonna take the stage.”

“Possibly for the last time,” Thomas almost whispered. That stopped the other three dead in their tracks. Shock painted the picture of the inside of the hot pink van.

“What was that, Tom?” Harold asked

An uncomfortable Thomas put down his phone and gazed out the window at the passing nothingness that are the roads of rural Texas. “I just,” he started, “I just don’t think that the music path is the one for me.” He turned to face his friends and saw they were not satisfied with the answer. Their countenance showed a revelation of horror. 

“Look, it’s not you guys,” he continued, “it’s just that I’ve been wanting more for a long time. Being on the road this summer was fun and all but I can’t do it much longer. Even if we won I don’t think I’d want to go ahead and record an album.”

“Why not?” Harold mumbled

“I don’t know. Not really. I wanna go to school I think. I wanna get away from home, from my parents, from everything I’ve ever known. Start a new life. I wanna learn, grow.”

“You can learn on the road when we’re traveling the world playing our music,” Jerry said.

“And that’s great for you guys, it really is. I’m not trying to be an asshole here, I just can’t do it anymore. I’ll play today, no doubt, but this is it. I’m out.”

They sat in silence for a long time. An hour, maybe more. Nobody did much of anything. The flat, red dust passed by without much other sound than the occasional sneeze or cough. Harold put on his headphones and Jerry pulled out his tablet. Chris’ eyes didn’t leave the road ahead of him. Of all them, Chris was the most invested. The front man and motivator. Their leader.

The gas gauge fell lower and lower until finally Chris had to pull over and fill up. Closer to the city now, the amount of cars began to out pace the number of cacti at least 3:1. With Chris out of the car, Harold followed and leaned up against the beast beside him. 

Chris started, “how ya doin?”

“Honestly, I’m pretty sad. A little pissed, mostly sad though.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“You really think he means it?”

“Means what? About school and stuff?”

“Yeah.”

“Probably,” Chris allowed, “Thomas is known for a lot of different things, but lying isn’t one of them.”

“Yeah, I guess. What are we gonna do about it?”

“Now? Nothing. We’re gonna go to Houston and win that prize. After that we can deal with Thomas.” The gas muzzle snapped and Chris placed it in the slot as Harold jumped back in the car. It wasn’t long before Harold started speaking again.

“Tom, you answer me one thing and I swear I’ll drop it.”

Thomas put his phone in his pocket and turned to Harold as Chris opened his door and got back in. “What’s up?” Thomas asked.

“Well, you say you’re done with music and while I think that’s a terrible decision, I want to know why. Really. Is it actually because you wanna go to school and all that crap, or are you just tired of being with us? I can understand you being tired of traveling around the country in this stank piece of junk van. What I can’t understand though is it killing your passion for music. So do you actually want to study or do you just want to get away from us for a while?”

Thomas sat on that. He turned back toward the front before answering. “Ya know, I think it’s a little of both, Harold. You’re right that I’m sick of this van. I’m sick of the hotels, the smells, the constant driving. I mean yeah, it's not been the greatest senior year summer road trip ever, not one the historians will write about. Considering that though, one thing that’s become obvious to me during these last couple months is that I’m ready to be on my own. Ya know before this trip the farthest I’d been from home was our Washington D.C. trip in eighth grade? Two and a half hours away. Yeah, that’s it. Now? I haven’t been home in two months and I have no desire to get back. I know what band life is like. I know what I can expect from a career of touring around the world and it’s not for me. Playing the guitar is something I will forever do and improve on but I won’t make it my career. I wanna live on the west coast and study something fun like theater or biology. I can’t tell you what I want except for it's not this.”

Harold watched Thomas as he gave his monologue and put his hand on his shoulder as he finished. “Good. You should do that. Go out west. Why not? You’re single and not horribly ugly. Maybe you’ll become an actor or something.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Thomas laughed.

  “You’ll let us visit won’t you,” Jerry asked.

“Of course I will, Jerr. Thanks guys.”

Chris smiled and slapped Thomas on the shoulder and gave it a squeeze before throwing the car into drive and pulling off.

The silence from before came back as they closed in on their destination. This time however, the quiet was one that reeked of happiness and sweet bitterness. This was it, the last time these four would be together for a long long time. All the times they shared, memories they made and mistakes they laughed about. It came down to this, one final show with the result possibly securing them a summer they’d never forget.

The stillness was abruptly interrupted by Jerry slapping his bass in the backseat. Harold took off his headphones and popped his eyes over to Jerry while Chris made eye contact through the rearview mirror. Thomas turned around with a smile that was returned by Jerry. The riff for, Another Bites the Dust, bumped through the Aluminum Beast, vibrating its wheels and shaking the windows.

“Steve walks warily down the street with the brim pulled way down low. Ain't no sound but the sound of his feet, machine guns ready to go,” Thomas began with Harold covering the next verse.

“Are you ready, hey Are you ready for this? Are you hanging on the edge of your seat? Out of the doorway the bullets rip to the sound of the beat, yeah.”

“Another one bites the dust,” they all sang, “Another one bites the dust! And another one gone, and another one gone, another one bites the dust! Hey, I'm gonna get you too, another one bites the dust!”

The gang rocked on, taking turns for each verse as Jerry got more and more into the music and Harold banged away on the back of Chris’ headrest. The van ripped into the stadium parking lot, slamming at full force and coming to a hasty stop at the nearest parking spot, bringing their jam to an end. Jubilation and swagger filled the air as the four jumped out and started hauling out their gear. As they shut the doors, Chris stopped them and huddled his friends together.

“Alright, this is it, the big one, the granddaddy of them all you might say. Let’s go kick some ass!”

“Yeah!” Jerry yelled.

“Come on!” Harold joined.

The group turned to Thomas. He beamed, “Let’s go win a competition!” They broke and picked up their gear, heading for the entrance. The four men, a whole summer leading up to this moment, their last show as a group and they couldn’t be any more excited. Any more primed.

Chris Bird finished making his bed and was filling up his suitcase when Harold broke into his room unannounced. “Chris! What are you doing? We gotta go! Come on, come on, fill this up, let's go lets go!” 

Harold pile drove the remaining items on Chris’ floor into his bag before dragging it out. “Tell ya what, I’ll go haul this out to the car but hurry up, we don’t wanna leave Jerry waiting much longer. He’s liable to leave us.”

“Yeah, yeah, cool. I’ll be out in a sec,” Chris told him. Harold left the room, leaving only Chris and a few select items remaining. Chris pulled his phone out of his pocket and typed away for a few seconds before putting it back. He considered his room one last time and strode out, quietly closing the door.

Thomas’ phone beeped and he took it off the charger. A grin broke across his face and he slowly put his phone back down. He finished packing his backpack with the final book he put in titled, “Intro to Biology.” He, as Chris, strode across the room and quietly closed the door, though for Thomas it was his dorm room, and he shut the door so as to not wake up his sleeping roommate. 

The powerful sunlight poured in through the massive window beside Thomas’ bed and reflected beautifully off the massive trophy displayed on his desk. National Amatuer Band Competition : 1st Place.