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Continuing down the narrow hallway is a small bathroom with just a toilet, a tiny sink, and a mirror with a light above it. The sign on the door, which is meant for Hendrix, reads: Don’t shit here.
At the end of the hall, there’s a narrow, winding staircase leading to the second level known as bunk alley. There are two rows of coffin-sized beds, stacked three high, running the length of the corridor. Each bunk is marked with our names and has a privacy curtain, which surprisingly keeps the sound muffled. In each space, we have USB ports, a reading light, and a small screen to watch TV on. The last bus we had, the mattresses were soft, and I realize as I look at my bed that I’m going to miss sleeping this tightly with Nola.
At the very end of the row is another lounge. This one is more stylish and accommodating, with a wraparound couch, another TV, and a place to set up our gear. We can jam here without bothering the driver. This is where we’ll play video games, write music and get loud, and watch the scenery pass by without cars and trucks being in our line of sight.
The bus shifts and begins rolling. I don’t bother to look out the window of my bunk or open it to wave goodbye to anyone. The only person I want to see already left.
As I unpack and put my clothes in the shared closet and drawer with my name on it, I try to pinpoint where everything went wrong. One minute we’re golden, heading toward a future, and then we’re not. I wish she’d tell me what I did wrong so I could fix it. I know I asked, but maybe I didn’t push, and I should’ve.
One by one, my bandmates and the ladies from Plum come upstairs. Everyone’s chatting away, happy and excited.
Dana, Justine, Priscilla, Wynonna, and Chandler are in the first section of bunks, with the guys occupying the back half, with the bathroom, complete with a stand-up shower, separating us.
“Who created the sleeping chart?” Hendrix asks as he looks at Dana. I wish they’d figure things out. More so, I wish Hendrix would take a damn hint.
“I did,” Dana says. “Girls here, boys there.”
“Works for me,” Keane adds, knowing full well Chandler will be at the other end of the bus.
“And me,” Ajay adds.
“Doesn’t work for me,” Hendrix says.
“Why not?” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them.
“What if I want to be at the back of the bus?” Hendrix says.
“Then we’ll swap,” Dana says. “All of us.”
“That’s stupid. We’re adults. We can mix together.”
“Leave it be,” I say, wanting them to shut the fuck up already. “Who gives a shit where you fucking sleep?”
“I fucking do, and it’s not your band,” Hendrix says as he steps up to me.
I scoff. “Right. I’ll walk if that’s what you want.”
Keane steps in between us. “Come on, man,” he says to Hendrix. “It’s just a sleeping arrangement. I’m sure in a week we’ll all be moving around, switching buses, and all that. Let’s just be cool. We have a long tour ahead of us, and we need this to go well.”
I don’t say anything or even look at Hendrix. I’m not about to play his dumb game. I do look at Dana and give her a pointed look. She needs to tell this guy how she feels, once and for all, so we can have some damn peace. I’m not about to spend months on the road with these two pussyfooting around their feelings. I have those problems on my own.
Excusing myself, I brush past everyone who is standing around, afraid to say or do anything because of Hendrix’s attitude. Right now, I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt, but I won’t put up with it.
Downstairs, I make myself a cup of espresso and go sit by the driver. I’d rather talk to him, since the guy probably doesn’t know shit about my life, than deal with my bandmates right now.
EIGHT
The tour feels longer this time. It’s as if the road continues to stretch out in front of us, with no end in sight. I’ve lost count of how many days I’ve sat at the front of the bus, getting to know Canson, the bus driver, listening to him tell me about his life while the air shimmers in front of us, making it look like the road has disappeared. I know it’s all an optical illusion because the shimmer moves, keeping the same distance no matter how many miles we travel.
So many miles. Each one passing in a blur and keeping time from moving faster than at a snail’s pace. I feel like I’m stuck in a loop: wake up, play my guitar, take a nap, play my guitar, drink coffee and more coffee, play my guitar, take another nap, perform.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
The days drag with no end in sight. We’re in the desert, where it’s hotter than anything I’ve ever experienced. The sign for Phoenix brings back a flush of memories.