My Life as a Roadie

we road trip

Virginia to North Carolina to Massachusetts to Pennsylvania

to Oklahoma to Nebraska to Georgia to Alabama to Tennessee

to Kentucky to Texas to Colorado to Wyoming to California

to Nevada to Arizona to New Mexico to South Carolina to Georgia

to Virginia to Florida and back over to Georgia and onward

to Maine, and back once more to Massachusetts - to Boston

we road trip

anywhere

everywhere

we could land a gig

*

sometimes we even get paid

*

two gear-crammed vans

and the seven of us

laughing hysterically, spraying food

and overtired

and wired on no name coffee and overtired

wincing in daylight

easily hitting 90 mph most of the way

wolfing down hot Krispy Kremes with cold PBRs

so damned tired

we tell the same old dumb-ass war stories

again and again

in that way we have of telling them

for the ways they have of

wrapping round us

warm as Turkish towels

*

only thing missing is Tim

*

we switch drivers on piss breaks

call home

checking in

*

we play hacky sack

at noon

in empty parking lots

snuffing butts

and talking trash

*

grab showers

where we can

hotels

motels

a friend's place

the ocean

Walmart parking lots

with a bucket and a gold bar

of Dial soap

*

nocturnal creatures

we navigate

dimly lit back alleys

unloading cables, amps, guitars, and drums

duct tape, more drums, sharpies, set lists,

backup mics, more drums, and boxes of merch:

t-shirts, sweatshirts, bumper stickers, CDs and cassette tapes

and autographed headshots of the band

*

we cut across the wildest swaths

and lamest small towns,

on our way through

sweeping expanses:

mountains, rivers, oceans, highways

byways

making our way

to the glare of hot white lights

and new crowds who don't know

anything

but that one song

*

we spend our

youthful exuberance

counting cars

playing cards

and dreaming

of what might find us

if we find ourselves

out there

trying,

putting fliers on cars

*

Boston means Fenway Park,

Berklee

and Bernie,

who used to sell stilettos to transvestites

out of the back

only

for the love of it

*

of all the people

in all the world

to make a killing

Bernie, on a hunch,

went and bought an entire city block

with its crumbling brick facade

that no one ever cared much for

or ever went inside

*

hit the jackpot, too:

floor after floor

of vintage clothing,

dressed in fifties price tags

and garment protectors

*

topped $17M profit

selling the lot to Hollywood

agreed to fly us

all

to his place in the Hills

sometime this summer

knowing,

as we all knew,

summer would not be soon enough

*

but for now

Bernie is back in Bean Town

to catch the final set

and to remember

who he was

before

making it big

nearly killed him

with fabulous new friends

who never

would have talked to him

when he was just an avid Trekkie on a hot streak

*

Bernie says

California's got the weather

and the women

and the dope--

even though he cleaned up

stone cold sober

after he quit

road tripping

*

he’s lying through his teeth,

just as we are,

saying we’ll be on the road again

soon

and back to normal

*

nothing’s been the same

since cancer showed its face

in Tim’s pancreas

*

so it’s one final gig

and we’re homeward bound

and

although he doesn’t say so

Bernie’s coming

with us

taking the long road back

to what really matters

***

Copyright © 09/24/1993 by Christy Munson. All rights reserved.