“Hey, Mitch, I need to stop for gas,” Carlisle called over his shoulder.
Mitch Hedrum was the lead singer for Carnal Cavity, if you could call it singing. He’d heard the boy sing a few times and when he wasn’t busy trying to impress his hardcore fans, he actually had a nice set of pipes on him. Only yesterday he’d heard him singing Journey’s ‘Faithfully’ almost as perfect as Steve Perry. That was when nobody else was around, of course, and Carlisle would tell no one about it.
Like the 80s bands these guys based themselves on, Mitch had long, messy black hair that hung down past his shoulders. He wore makeup on stage. Carlisle didn’t understand that, but he didn’t challenge it. He wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing makeup back when he played guitar for Herbal Hiatus. None of the guys would have. They sent messages through their music back then, and the message wasn’t that it was ok to glamour up. No, they were badasses back then. They worked construction sites and patrolled the mean streets of Pittsburgh during the day, took to the stage at night, and fucked groupies in the early morning hours. That was how he met Angela.
Angela. My queen.
“Mitch,” he said again, “I need to stop for gas.”
Mitch finally lifted his heavy eyes from the notepad he was scribbling in. Carlisle imagined it was either song lyrics or he was doodling ideas for the band’s new logo.
“Okay, mate,” Mitch said.
He threw the word “mate” around like he was from England or Australia. He was from Houston.
“Where are we anyway?” Mitch asked.
“Fifteen… twenty miles from Clydesville I suppose,” Carlisle replied. That was what the last sign he passed said anyway. Wherever the hell Clydesville was. Somewhere in West Virginia.
The bands had a party they were going to in Myrtle Beach, then they were headed down to Georgia for the Battle of the Broke Bands. It was a small band, indie rock, competition that from what Carlisle witnessed last year, was less about the music and more about the dope. It was the Woodstock of his day only with lesser known bands. Naked people sliding through mud, people fucking all over the place, and clouds of smoke that threatened to rain bongwater.
“Good,” Mitch said, “I need to stretch my legs anyway.”
Carlisle pulled the big bus into a gas station parking lot. It was the only place in sight. One of those quick stop joints. Get in, fill up, take a piss, grab a snack, and get the hell out of our state kind of places.
“If anybody wants to step off the bus for a few minutes, now’s your chance,” Mitch said. “I know some of y’all wanna fill your lungs with cancer.”
For all the marijuana Mitch smoked, he wouldn’t let anyone light up a cigarette on the bus. Not even those vape things everyone was smoking.
“Yeah, I need a smoke,” lead guitarist for Carnal Cavity, Vick Timms, announced.
“Me too,” went up around the bus.
The rest of the band: Charlie Morris, Jordan Long, and Opie Sanders stepped out followed by all the members of Cyanide Super Soaker: Cliff Downs, Roger Rickshaw, Leanne Main, Cynthia Kitt, and Harry St. James.
Pete Barrett was the manager of both bands. He and Carlisle got along fairly well. They were both outsiders as far as the bands were concerned. They often shared conversation over whiskey and cigars.
“I’m starved,” Pete said as he brought up the rear. “I’m gonna go inside and see if they have any chips or donuts. Maybe a honeybun or something.”
“If you find any kind of pastry, buy me one, would ya?” Carlisle asked. “I need to fill this sucker up with fuel.”
“Sure thing.”
By the time Carlisle made it off the bus, all the metal heads were already crowded out by the highway with a cloud of smoke around them. Mitch was inside the gas station with Pete.
Removing the nozzle from the gas tank, Carlisle started filling up the big beast of a bus. It took forever and this was clearly going to be one of those tanks that pumped fuel at a snail’s pace. He had his head down and was close to nodding off when he heard the rumble of engines and the band members excited about something.
“Holy shit, man,” Leanne Main called out, her pink pigtails blowing in the wind.
“The fuckin’ Army’s here, bro,” Jordan added.
He had his arm around Leanne. The two had been having sex since the start of the tour. They were the glue holding these two bands together. With all the bands’ bickering and arguing, they were close to traveling in separate buses.
Carlisle looked past the band mates and toward the highway they’d exited to get to the gas station. From where he now stood, he could see the overpass where forest green, armored vehicle after armored vehicle sped by.
“Go get ‘em, boys!” Roger Rickshaw, the class clown of the bunch who was always drunk, yelled.
“It’s not like they’re driving to war,” Carlisle said under his breath, “you stupid son of a bitch.”
“Where do you think they’re going?” Mitch asked, causing Carlisle to flinch.
He hadn’t heard the man approaching.
“Got you some of those pecan swirl cinnamon roll things,” Pete said as he held up a small paper bag. “I’ll put it in your seat.” He noticed the line of army trucks flying by and said, “Must be a base in Clydesville.”
That was probably it. That made the most sense.
“Yeah,” Carlisle agreed. “Maybe they’re headed back from a training exercise.”
“Plenty of wooded areas around here for that kind of thing,” Mitch said. “We used to do our training exercises at Camp Bullis.”
“I didn’t know you were in the army,” Carlisle said, suddenly having a whole new respect for the boy.
“Air Force,” Mitch informed him, “was only in for about a year though before they found…” he shrugged his shoulders for the next part as if to say you should know this part already, “…weed in my system.”
“Of course,” Carlisle replied.
Mitch laughed. “Hmm. Guess we’re not the only ones up this hour.”
Carlisle followed Mitch’s nod and saw a man walking out of the tree line about thirty yards or so away from where the band members were gathered. He had short blond hair, raggedy clothes, and walked with a limp. Carlisle couldn’t be sure, but it looked like he had a long scar on his face. He was definitely a local boy who’d seen a brawl or two.
“Probably on his way to work,” Pete said.
The interesting thing about the man was it didn’t seem like he was headed toward the gas station at all. In fact, it seemed like he was interested in the band members themselves. Carlisle wondered if he was a fan. Did he see the names on the side of the bus and get excited? He sure looked enthusiastic about reaching them.
“Looks like he’s headed our way,” Mitch said, “I better get over there and make sure Roger doesn’t say anything to piss off a local.”
“Good idea,” Pete said.
They both walked over to the other band members. Carlisle was stuck to this damn gas pump while it slowly did its job. He might be here all damn day trying to fill up this bus. The cost of gas had risen, and it seemed each time they filled up was more expensive than the last.
“Whoa,” Carlisle heard Roger say.
Leave it to Roger to be the first to say something.
That guy was going to be the reason they all ended up in jail someday. He was always pissing somebody off. This time, it seemed he’d set his sights on the local boy limping toward him. Now that he was closer, Carlisle could definitely see he had a scar and his eyes were wide open, crazed looking.