Dashboard Elvis is Dead, page 8
‘Madonna. Seymour reckons she’s gonna be absolutely massive.’
‘Ye should’ve shagged her then. Phoned the Sun. Get rich an’ famous the easy way.’
‘How dae ye know ah didnae?’ Reef smiles.
‘Intuition.’ Jamie winks. He pulls the singer’s hand towards his mouth and takes a tiny bite of the bagel.
‘The Danceteria shut at 4.00am, but we grabbed a cab an’ went tae this mental place in Brooklyn that stayed open right through.’ Between bites, Reef mumbles the names of the fantastic new songs he heard. The creative ideas they prompted in him. ‘Ye’d have fucken loved it, J.’ He is reaching out. Trying to re-establish a connection. The Jamie Hewitt who formed the Hyptones with him would’ve loved last night’s experiences. The mercurial guitarist who wrote the words and music for ‘Independent State of Mind’ would’ve soaked up the sweltering ambience, wringing every ounce of inspiration from the sounds he’d heard. This Jamie Hewitt, though … this miserable bastard sat next to him? Reef often feels Jamie is two separate people rolled into one.
‘What’s happenin’, Jamie?’
Jamie rubs his face. Thinks about the words. Reconsiders them. Runs nicotine-stained fingers through bedraggled hair. Blows out air like a beach ball that has been stabbed.
‘Ah don’t know, mate,’ says Jamie. He doesn’t have the energy to front it out. He looks fragile to Reef. Smaller, somehow, like he has shrunk since arriving on American soil.
‘Ah’m absolutely shattered aw the time. Can’t remember the last time ah was able tae sleep for longer than an hour or so. Ah just feel completely done in.’ Reef hooks an arm around his friend’s shoulder. ‘Fucken hallucinatin’ last night.’
‘It’ll be fine, mate. We just need a bit ae time tae absorb the attention. A lot’s happened since the single went intae the charts. It’s only natural that we’re aw a bit frayed at the edges.’
‘You’re no’, though,’ says Jamie. Reef fears that his friend is on the verge of tears. ‘You seem tae be takin’ it aw in yer stride.’
‘Aye, well, six months ago, ah wis fucken labourin’, man. Wheelin’ bricks in a rusty barrow across narrow planks, three storeys up. Ye think ah want tae go back tae that mental high-wire act?’
‘That’s no’ what ah meant,’ says Jamie. ‘It’s too much pressure, at times. The tourin’, the writin’. Ah never wanted aw this, man. Ah was happy just makin’ music wi’ ma mates. Ah’m no’ like you, Reef. Ah dinnae have the same confidence. An’ as for havin’ Anna at my side every fucken minute ae the day.’
‘Christ, Jamie, fucken man up an’ dump her then. We’ll no’ need her da’s money soon. After San Francisco, an’ we get the deal signed up wi’ Sire, we can fire her. And Kenny. Even “Bruce an’ Rick”, if ye want? Remember, Jamie, you an’ me are The Hyptones. We’re the only ones that matter.’
‘That’s my point. It aw comes down tae you an’ me. Writin’ the songs. Dealin’ wi’ the record company. Makin’ aw the decisions. Checkin’ everythin’s bein’ done right. Ah never wanted the business side ae it, an’ Kenny’s fucken useless. We’re totally out ae our depth here, Reef.’
‘We’ll sort it aw when we get back hame. Until then, let’s just enjoy the fucken ride, man.’
A silence descends. Reef uses it to finish his breakfast.
‘Come on then, tell me what Seymour Stein’s like. Chic said he thought he was a bit queer.’
‘On the basis ae what?’ asks Reef.
‘Said he kept leaning in an’ whisperin’ stuff in his ear, an’ that,’ says Jamie.
‘What kinda stuff?’
‘He wasn’t sure. He still cannae hear right,’ says Jamie.
‘Daft bastard,’ says Reef. ‘Did ye see him jammin’ the end ae that drumstick right intae his lug? Bingo told him tae keep pushin’ until he hit somethin’. Ah’m surprised it didnae come right out the other side.’
They both laugh.
‘He’s definitely no’ gay, though,’ says Reef. ‘The big man.’
‘Voice ae experience?’ Jamie mumbles.
‘Whit?’
‘C’mon,’ says Jamie. He stands and stretches on the steps. ‘We better get back. The next leg ae the Wacky Races is about tae start.’
A State of Independence (4)
A Greyhound official confirms the departure time of the bus to San Francisco. It will take forty-one hours and almost all my money. To pass the time until departure I’m drawn, like a tourist, to Dealey Plaza. I hadn’t appreciated how central it is – to the city, and, well, to this country’s recent history. It’s an eerily quiet place, as you might expect. People flank the Grassy Knoll. People wander, gazing here and there. Looking dazed. Searching for something. As if their understanding of this pivotal point in our history might somehow become clearer. A car backfires in the distance, shocking all around me. Heads noticeably dip, including mine. Even those – like me – born in the downdraught seem hypnotized by the weighty symbolism. A generation on, and this oddly shaped mound holds so much power.
I leave the place understanding that the prevalent sound of this country is gunfire. The smell of it, nitroglycerin.
As if I need reminding.
I board the night bus to San Francisco. I sit in a similar seat as on the previous journey – in the centre on the left-hand side. A middle-aged white man makes to sit next to me. I lift my head and although not yet dark, the reading light above catches my face. He seems to reconsider and slumps into the seat in front, tutting as he does so. There will be a lot of this ahead.
When I arrive in San Francisco, I will have two options. Mary-Lou Wagner – my fellow Humble High scholarship recipient – now lives in the Bay area. While not exactly close, we’ve kept in touch regarding our track achievements – of which she has many, while mine are few. Her invite was of the open kind that people often recklessly offer, hoping it will never be acted on. I have her address, and on the same piece of paper, the words, ‘and if you’re ever passing through Daly City…’ Well, Mary-Lou, I reason, we can finally retire that ellipsis.
The other option is far less simple, and probably the real reason I chose San Francisco as my destination. In a recent moment of unguarded weakness, Larry let slip that a woman he believed to be Delphine’s older sister was living in San Francisco. He didn’t divulge how he had come to this understanding. I immediately pressed him on it. Naturally, he clammed up.
Don’t tell your momma, he said.
Tell her what? I asked him. You’ve told me nothin’.
She’s the singer, he said, that’s it. And then, as he left for the safety of the interior, he said: and her name is Happyness.
I smile at the thought of finding Happyness in San Francisco, acknowledging that it’s been my goal all along. Larry’s truncated tale of a mysterious aunt escaping the poverty of her small-town existence and living the glamorous life in a big city demonstrated that there was a route out for me too.
7.15pm. The Greyhound pulls out of Commerce Street. The bus takes a left and then another, and we are on Elm. Following the route of the motorcade. Moving past the location where, twenty years earlier, gunshots changed the direction of an entire country. We pull away past it slowly. Almost respectfully.
Then up right and onto the Stemmons Freeway. Over the Trinity River and west on I-30 towards Fort Worth. The hours in Dallas, though brief, are sobering. The impact of the decision I have made begins to hit home. Whether I have registered how America’s loss of something here matches my own loss of innocence, or whether I’m just daunted, I feel suddenly small. I curl up on the seat and, fighting back tears, stare out at the anonymous scrub until the darkness comes.
‘Abilene. Next stop, Abilene.’
The announcement wakes me. I glance at my watch. Press the button. 11.10pm. The Greyhound veers off the interstate. It drops sharply down into a small terminus. The single-story block is surrounded by take-out food outlets. Oscar’s Mexican, Raising Cane’s Chicken Fingers, Cracker Barrel’s Old Country Store, and a Wendy’s. All open. All empty. No-one gets off. No-one gets on. We wait for fifteen minutes before departing.
Interstate 20 is one of the longest in the country. It runs east-west through four states. Near its western source, it trickles around and through a list of destitute, one-horse towns, each indistinguishable from the last: Sweetwater. Roscoe. Loraine. Colorado City. Westbrook. Big Spring. Odessa Midland. When the I-20 touches any built-up communities, the Greyhound route skirts the peripheries, bypassing any areas of variety or interest. These towns are the forgotten backwaters that elected Ronald Reagan two years earlier, only to experience the worst of his brutal taxation policies as his priorities shifted.
I have dozed some, on and off, so I’d be hard-pressed to say how many on the coach began the journey with me. But if the passenger cohort leaving Houston was overwhelmingly white, our progress west gradually sees the ethnicities become more diverse.
The I-20 narrows and becomes the I-10. An hour later, we reach Van Horn, where we stop. It is 5.30am. The sun is still partially concealed behind the serrated outline of the Guadalupe Mountains. It’s to be a hot one, I’ve been cheerfully informed by an old couple sat across from me. Mid-thirties in the shade, they’d said. A new driver takes over. A muscular, sallow-skinned man with oily black hair held in place by a hairnet. His shirt sleeves are rolled past huge biceps, each of which is inked with a beautiful collage of tattoos illustrating his love for ‘Rosalita’. He turns and the back seam of his uniform looks sure to split under the stress of containing the terrain within. He says hello to us, his passengers, with a deep, rumbling voice. Only I reply, and then feel silly for having done so. Five new travelers join us. All alone, it appears from their seat selections, although choices are now limited as the bus nears capacity.
The last of the five approaches me. A Black man, handsome in a Lionel Richie way. He is perspiring and breathing as if he’s just been running. He wears expensive-looking, too-tight clothes ill-suited for the heat. He moves up the aisle. His eyes flit between me and the empty seat next to me.
Sit down here next to ya, sweet cheeks? he says.
His voice is coarse. Rinsed over decades by smoke and liquor and sounding like it has talked its way out of and into many dangerous situations. I visualize Auguste Toussaint, and it shivers me. He lifts my bag from the seat before I can. He puts it in the aisle by his side. Where I can’t see it.
My bag, please? I say to him.
Bet you didn’t buy a ticket for the bag though, did ya? he responds.
I don’t know what to say. I say nothing.
Nah … didn’t think so, he says.
He takes a flannel from an inside pocket and dabs his brow with it.
No matter, though. No harm done, sweet, he says.
He reaches down. He lifts my bag up. I reach for it. He suddenly pulls it away again. Taunting me, like he was a bully at the school I’ve left behind. He laughs.
No harm done, he repeats.
No harm. When he finally returns it, I keep the bag on my lap, covering my bare legs. I look away, out to the far distance as the bus heads west. Towards the last remnants of my home state. And the US-Mexican border in front of us. Time passes, but not quickly enough.
You one of the sisters? he asks.
It’s the Black equivalent of ‘what are you’? He moves his head forwards and looks me up and down. Examining my origins.
Black momma, white daddy, I’m guessing, he says.
I say nothing. He takes this as confirmation.
I knew it, he says. If your daddy was a brother … well, hmm. No confusion then, lil’ sis.
The older couple across the passageway look over.
Mind your business, he tells them quietly. And they do.
So, where ya headed, darlin’?
I continue to ignore the man. I wish I’d remembered my Walkman. Easier to avoid unwanted conversations with headphones on. I avoided many when I was on the track team. People perhaps assuming I was in the zone, preparing for a race. Focused on the starter’s gun. Blocking out all unwanted interruptions.
Block out all unwanted interruptions. I mouth these words, eyes shut. Dorothy, imagining she was somewhere else. But not home. Not back in Humble. I keep my eyes closed. I hear his newspaper rustle. I feel it touching my bare legs as he occupies more than his own seat. The stench of a cheap cologne hits my nostrils. I didn’t notice it before he took his leather jacket off.
You travellin’ alone, girl? he asks.
I detect the changing tone. Again, his question goes unanswered. This raises an irritation in him, and he asks it again. More forcefully this time.
Look it, I’m jus’ tryin’ to be nice, here … to pass time, he says.
There’s an undercurrent of anger. Slight, but unmistakable. Eyes still closed. I hear him sigh. I feel him touch my knee.
Folks need a bit of company … long journey like this.
I’m shaking.
Please don’t touch my leg, mister, I say under my breath.
Ain’t nothin’, he says.
He is leaning in, voice low and threatening now. Too close to me. I look away again. Out the window, willing it to stop.
What’s your probl— AARGHH! Muthafucker!
I get a fright. He leaps out of his seat. I see steam rising from a deep-brown stain that is spreading across the crotch of his grey pants.
The middle-aged man in front has emptied a cup.
Nigga, you gonna fucking die!
Other passengers turn, staring. A few of them rise. No more than this, just enough to satisfy themselves that they would’ve acted. Enough to garnish their account when retelling it. The bus driver hits the brakes. My forehead crashes against the seat in front. The Black man in the too-tight clothes falls forwards, sliding in the aisle. The middle-aged white man lands on top of him. The bus driver advances towards us. I notice a small club in his left hand.
Fuck you! says the Black man in the too-tight clothes.
Oh, says the middle-aged white man. As he raises himself, his knee goes down heavily on the stain between the Black man’s legs.
Ah’m so, so sorry … brother.
You, Pissed Pants. Get up, says the driver. Now, go sit your fat ass down … way down there, at th’ front where ah can keep a close eye.
The Black man in the too-tight pants hesitates.
It’s that or you’re gettin’ off right here, says the driver.
We’re in the middle of nowhere.
MOVE … FUCKO! Said as velvet-voiced as Barry White but laced with the rich possibility of ruthless violence. The Black man weighs up his options. The driver is bigger, and he is holding a club. The Black man retreats, for now, forgetting his jacket.
This Greyhound bus, unlike some of its predecessors, doesn’t judge race. Doesn’t prioritize privilege. Doesn’t respect class. Its driver has spoken. His bus. His rules. The Black man in the too-tight pants glares at the middle-aged white man and then at me. He reluctantly moves to the front. I mouth ‘thank you’ to the middle-aged white man, who responds with an accusatory frown.
A sign reads EL PASO 10 MILES. My fingers probe inside the jacket belonging to the Black man with the stained pants. The older couple across the passageway who informed me of the hot day ahead are deep in conversation. They don’t notice me removing the wallet. They may not have objected even if they had.
The Ballad of the Band (4)
The band walk seven blocks in the blistering July heat of a Manhattan morning. Stanley – who wasn’t the Chelsea Hotel’s busboy, but its versatile owner – has provided directions. Kenny attempts to convert them into a map but has inadvertently drawn a symbol that resembles a Swastika. After heading east on 25th Street when they should’ve been heading west on 19th, he throws it away. Supplementary directions solicited from locals finally get the entourage to their destination: a used-car lot on a vacant corner block.
A large, battered silver transit van parked on its own waits at the rear of the lot. Jamie sighs. There are side doors but no windows in the rear. The faded words PRIVATE AMBULANCE can be seen on its side despite at least one attempt to have scraped them off.
‘Jesus Christ.’ Resigned and forlorn, an earlier appeal from Reef for Jamie to conceal his despair dilutes the aggression.
A small, fat Hispanic man emerges from the rear of the van. He is holding a card with HIPTEENS BAND written on it.
‘Ye’ve got tae be kiddin’, Kenny,’ says Reef.
‘Rock an’ fucken roll, eh Kenny?’ says Jamie.
Kenny’s heart sinks. ‘Norm, ya fucken bastard,’ he mutters.
‘Senor?’
‘Eh, aye. That’s me. Ah’m the senor … Kenny. Kenny McFadden.’
‘Jesus,’ says Jesus Castro, the driver. He rubs his hand under an armpit before extending it towards Kenny.
‘Are you takin’ us, then?’ Kenny asks.
‘Perdon, no hablo ingles,’ said Jesus, apologetically.
‘Fucken cosmic,’ says Jamie.
Given that all planned engagements are on the West Coast, it now seems ridiculous that The Hyptones’ management didn’t organise an internal flight. Kenny has delegated all transport decisions to Norm, a man whose surname he doesn’t even know – he told the band it was Epstein, in the hope that it would sound convincing – and who he’s never met in person, despite his claims. He’s only ever spoken to him on the telephone, after Max Mojo, the Miraculous Vespas’ manager, had recommended the American. But Norm came good with the Seymour Stein introduction. And Seymour had done his homework. He knew all about The Hyptones. He loved the first three singles. He saw them as a mix of The Undertones, whom he’d signed, and Orange Juice, whom he hopes to.
Norm is also Jesus Castro’s agent. Jesus is an out-of-work, out-of-condition, bit-part actor. Norm’s plan is for Jesus to transport them due west across ten states, reaching Phoenix, Arizona, and the band’s first proper American gig. Jesus will then head home to Tijuana. The Phoenix date is a warm-up for the real tester: the showcase event at the I-Beam in Haight-Ashbury, in front of Seymour and his A&R colleagues from Sire. The journey will take three days. It will mean Jesus driving for approximately twelve hours for each of them. The band will spend their $5-a-day allowance on Chicken McNuggets and share three to a room in cheap flophouses. An in-store record signing in Missouri and a planned college-radio interview when they reach Albuquerque are the only punctation marks. It is going to be a very long week. Curiously, the absurdity of driving across a continent in a converted hearse, chauffeured by an extra from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly named Jesus Castro lifts their spirits.
‘Ye should’ve shagged her then. Phoned the Sun. Get rich an’ famous the easy way.’
‘How dae ye know ah didnae?’ Reef smiles.
‘Intuition.’ Jamie winks. He pulls the singer’s hand towards his mouth and takes a tiny bite of the bagel.
‘The Danceteria shut at 4.00am, but we grabbed a cab an’ went tae this mental place in Brooklyn that stayed open right through.’ Between bites, Reef mumbles the names of the fantastic new songs he heard. The creative ideas they prompted in him. ‘Ye’d have fucken loved it, J.’ He is reaching out. Trying to re-establish a connection. The Jamie Hewitt who formed the Hyptones with him would’ve loved last night’s experiences. The mercurial guitarist who wrote the words and music for ‘Independent State of Mind’ would’ve soaked up the sweltering ambience, wringing every ounce of inspiration from the sounds he’d heard. This Jamie Hewitt, though … this miserable bastard sat next to him? Reef often feels Jamie is two separate people rolled into one.
‘What’s happenin’, Jamie?’
Jamie rubs his face. Thinks about the words. Reconsiders them. Runs nicotine-stained fingers through bedraggled hair. Blows out air like a beach ball that has been stabbed.
‘Ah don’t know, mate,’ says Jamie. He doesn’t have the energy to front it out. He looks fragile to Reef. Smaller, somehow, like he has shrunk since arriving on American soil.
‘Ah’m absolutely shattered aw the time. Can’t remember the last time ah was able tae sleep for longer than an hour or so. Ah just feel completely done in.’ Reef hooks an arm around his friend’s shoulder. ‘Fucken hallucinatin’ last night.’
‘It’ll be fine, mate. We just need a bit ae time tae absorb the attention. A lot’s happened since the single went intae the charts. It’s only natural that we’re aw a bit frayed at the edges.’
‘You’re no’, though,’ says Jamie. Reef fears that his friend is on the verge of tears. ‘You seem tae be takin’ it aw in yer stride.’
‘Aye, well, six months ago, ah wis fucken labourin’, man. Wheelin’ bricks in a rusty barrow across narrow planks, three storeys up. Ye think ah want tae go back tae that mental high-wire act?’
‘That’s no’ what ah meant,’ says Jamie. ‘It’s too much pressure, at times. The tourin’, the writin’. Ah never wanted aw this, man. Ah was happy just makin’ music wi’ ma mates. Ah’m no’ like you, Reef. Ah dinnae have the same confidence. An’ as for havin’ Anna at my side every fucken minute ae the day.’
‘Christ, Jamie, fucken man up an’ dump her then. We’ll no’ need her da’s money soon. After San Francisco, an’ we get the deal signed up wi’ Sire, we can fire her. And Kenny. Even “Bruce an’ Rick”, if ye want? Remember, Jamie, you an’ me are The Hyptones. We’re the only ones that matter.’
‘That’s my point. It aw comes down tae you an’ me. Writin’ the songs. Dealin’ wi’ the record company. Makin’ aw the decisions. Checkin’ everythin’s bein’ done right. Ah never wanted the business side ae it, an’ Kenny’s fucken useless. We’re totally out ae our depth here, Reef.’
‘We’ll sort it aw when we get back hame. Until then, let’s just enjoy the fucken ride, man.’
A silence descends. Reef uses it to finish his breakfast.
‘Come on then, tell me what Seymour Stein’s like. Chic said he thought he was a bit queer.’
‘On the basis ae what?’ asks Reef.
‘Said he kept leaning in an’ whisperin’ stuff in his ear, an’ that,’ says Jamie.
‘What kinda stuff?’
‘He wasn’t sure. He still cannae hear right,’ says Jamie.
‘Daft bastard,’ says Reef. ‘Did ye see him jammin’ the end ae that drumstick right intae his lug? Bingo told him tae keep pushin’ until he hit somethin’. Ah’m surprised it didnae come right out the other side.’
They both laugh.
‘He’s definitely no’ gay, though,’ says Reef. ‘The big man.’
‘Voice ae experience?’ Jamie mumbles.
‘Whit?’
‘C’mon,’ says Jamie. He stands and stretches on the steps. ‘We better get back. The next leg ae the Wacky Races is about tae start.’
A State of Independence (4)
A Greyhound official confirms the departure time of the bus to San Francisco. It will take forty-one hours and almost all my money. To pass the time until departure I’m drawn, like a tourist, to Dealey Plaza. I hadn’t appreciated how central it is – to the city, and, well, to this country’s recent history. It’s an eerily quiet place, as you might expect. People flank the Grassy Knoll. People wander, gazing here and there. Looking dazed. Searching for something. As if their understanding of this pivotal point in our history might somehow become clearer. A car backfires in the distance, shocking all around me. Heads noticeably dip, including mine. Even those – like me – born in the downdraught seem hypnotized by the weighty symbolism. A generation on, and this oddly shaped mound holds so much power.
I leave the place understanding that the prevalent sound of this country is gunfire. The smell of it, nitroglycerin.
As if I need reminding.
I board the night bus to San Francisco. I sit in a similar seat as on the previous journey – in the centre on the left-hand side. A middle-aged white man makes to sit next to me. I lift my head and although not yet dark, the reading light above catches my face. He seems to reconsider and slumps into the seat in front, tutting as he does so. There will be a lot of this ahead.
When I arrive in San Francisco, I will have two options. Mary-Lou Wagner – my fellow Humble High scholarship recipient – now lives in the Bay area. While not exactly close, we’ve kept in touch regarding our track achievements – of which she has many, while mine are few. Her invite was of the open kind that people often recklessly offer, hoping it will never be acted on. I have her address, and on the same piece of paper, the words, ‘and if you’re ever passing through Daly City…’ Well, Mary-Lou, I reason, we can finally retire that ellipsis.
The other option is far less simple, and probably the real reason I chose San Francisco as my destination. In a recent moment of unguarded weakness, Larry let slip that a woman he believed to be Delphine’s older sister was living in San Francisco. He didn’t divulge how he had come to this understanding. I immediately pressed him on it. Naturally, he clammed up.
Don’t tell your momma, he said.
Tell her what? I asked him. You’ve told me nothin’.
She’s the singer, he said, that’s it. And then, as he left for the safety of the interior, he said: and her name is Happyness.
I smile at the thought of finding Happyness in San Francisco, acknowledging that it’s been my goal all along. Larry’s truncated tale of a mysterious aunt escaping the poverty of her small-town existence and living the glamorous life in a big city demonstrated that there was a route out for me too.
7.15pm. The Greyhound pulls out of Commerce Street. The bus takes a left and then another, and we are on Elm. Following the route of the motorcade. Moving past the location where, twenty years earlier, gunshots changed the direction of an entire country. We pull away past it slowly. Almost respectfully.
Then up right and onto the Stemmons Freeway. Over the Trinity River and west on I-30 towards Fort Worth. The hours in Dallas, though brief, are sobering. The impact of the decision I have made begins to hit home. Whether I have registered how America’s loss of something here matches my own loss of innocence, or whether I’m just daunted, I feel suddenly small. I curl up on the seat and, fighting back tears, stare out at the anonymous scrub until the darkness comes.
‘Abilene. Next stop, Abilene.’
The announcement wakes me. I glance at my watch. Press the button. 11.10pm. The Greyhound veers off the interstate. It drops sharply down into a small terminus. The single-story block is surrounded by take-out food outlets. Oscar’s Mexican, Raising Cane’s Chicken Fingers, Cracker Barrel’s Old Country Store, and a Wendy’s. All open. All empty. No-one gets off. No-one gets on. We wait for fifteen minutes before departing.
Interstate 20 is one of the longest in the country. It runs east-west through four states. Near its western source, it trickles around and through a list of destitute, one-horse towns, each indistinguishable from the last: Sweetwater. Roscoe. Loraine. Colorado City. Westbrook. Big Spring. Odessa Midland. When the I-20 touches any built-up communities, the Greyhound route skirts the peripheries, bypassing any areas of variety or interest. These towns are the forgotten backwaters that elected Ronald Reagan two years earlier, only to experience the worst of his brutal taxation policies as his priorities shifted.
I have dozed some, on and off, so I’d be hard-pressed to say how many on the coach began the journey with me. But if the passenger cohort leaving Houston was overwhelmingly white, our progress west gradually sees the ethnicities become more diverse.
The I-20 narrows and becomes the I-10. An hour later, we reach Van Horn, where we stop. It is 5.30am. The sun is still partially concealed behind the serrated outline of the Guadalupe Mountains. It’s to be a hot one, I’ve been cheerfully informed by an old couple sat across from me. Mid-thirties in the shade, they’d said. A new driver takes over. A muscular, sallow-skinned man with oily black hair held in place by a hairnet. His shirt sleeves are rolled past huge biceps, each of which is inked with a beautiful collage of tattoos illustrating his love for ‘Rosalita’. He turns and the back seam of his uniform looks sure to split under the stress of containing the terrain within. He says hello to us, his passengers, with a deep, rumbling voice. Only I reply, and then feel silly for having done so. Five new travelers join us. All alone, it appears from their seat selections, although choices are now limited as the bus nears capacity.
The last of the five approaches me. A Black man, handsome in a Lionel Richie way. He is perspiring and breathing as if he’s just been running. He wears expensive-looking, too-tight clothes ill-suited for the heat. He moves up the aisle. His eyes flit between me and the empty seat next to me.
Sit down here next to ya, sweet cheeks? he says.
His voice is coarse. Rinsed over decades by smoke and liquor and sounding like it has talked its way out of and into many dangerous situations. I visualize Auguste Toussaint, and it shivers me. He lifts my bag from the seat before I can. He puts it in the aisle by his side. Where I can’t see it.
My bag, please? I say to him.
Bet you didn’t buy a ticket for the bag though, did ya? he responds.
I don’t know what to say. I say nothing.
Nah … didn’t think so, he says.
He takes a flannel from an inside pocket and dabs his brow with it.
No matter, though. No harm done, sweet, he says.
He reaches down. He lifts my bag up. I reach for it. He suddenly pulls it away again. Taunting me, like he was a bully at the school I’ve left behind. He laughs.
No harm done, he repeats.
No harm. When he finally returns it, I keep the bag on my lap, covering my bare legs. I look away, out to the far distance as the bus heads west. Towards the last remnants of my home state. And the US-Mexican border in front of us. Time passes, but not quickly enough.
You one of the sisters? he asks.
It’s the Black equivalent of ‘what are you’? He moves his head forwards and looks me up and down. Examining my origins.
Black momma, white daddy, I’m guessing, he says.
I say nothing. He takes this as confirmation.
I knew it, he says. If your daddy was a brother … well, hmm. No confusion then, lil’ sis.
The older couple across the passageway look over.
Mind your business, he tells them quietly. And they do.
So, where ya headed, darlin’?
I continue to ignore the man. I wish I’d remembered my Walkman. Easier to avoid unwanted conversations with headphones on. I avoided many when I was on the track team. People perhaps assuming I was in the zone, preparing for a race. Focused on the starter’s gun. Blocking out all unwanted interruptions.
Block out all unwanted interruptions. I mouth these words, eyes shut. Dorothy, imagining she was somewhere else. But not home. Not back in Humble. I keep my eyes closed. I hear his newspaper rustle. I feel it touching my bare legs as he occupies more than his own seat. The stench of a cheap cologne hits my nostrils. I didn’t notice it before he took his leather jacket off.
You travellin’ alone, girl? he asks.
I detect the changing tone. Again, his question goes unanswered. This raises an irritation in him, and he asks it again. More forcefully this time.
Look it, I’m jus’ tryin’ to be nice, here … to pass time, he says.
There’s an undercurrent of anger. Slight, but unmistakable. Eyes still closed. I hear him sigh. I feel him touch my knee.
Folks need a bit of company … long journey like this.
I’m shaking.
Please don’t touch my leg, mister, I say under my breath.
Ain’t nothin’, he says.
He is leaning in, voice low and threatening now. Too close to me. I look away again. Out the window, willing it to stop.
What’s your probl— AARGHH! Muthafucker!
I get a fright. He leaps out of his seat. I see steam rising from a deep-brown stain that is spreading across the crotch of his grey pants.
The middle-aged man in front has emptied a cup.
Nigga, you gonna fucking die!
Other passengers turn, staring. A few of them rise. No more than this, just enough to satisfy themselves that they would’ve acted. Enough to garnish their account when retelling it. The bus driver hits the brakes. My forehead crashes against the seat in front. The Black man in the too-tight clothes falls forwards, sliding in the aisle. The middle-aged white man lands on top of him. The bus driver advances towards us. I notice a small club in his left hand.
Fuck you! says the Black man in the too-tight clothes.
Oh, says the middle-aged white man. As he raises himself, his knee goes down heavily on the stain between the Black man’s legs.
Ah’m so, so sorry … brother.
You, Pissed Pants. Get up, says the driver. Now, go sit your fat ass down … way down there, at th’ front where ah can keep a close eye.
The Black man in the too-tight pants hesitates.
It’s that or you’re gettin’ off right here, says the driver.
We’re in the middle of nowhere.
MOVE … FUCKO! Said as velvet-voiced as Barry White but laced with the rich possibility of ruthless violence. The Black man weighs up his options. The driver is bigger, and he is holding a club. The Black man retreats, for now, forgetting his jacket.
This Greyhound bus, unlike some of its predecessors, doesn’t judge race. Doesn’t prioritize privilege. Doesn’t respect class. Its driver has spoken. His bus. His rules. The Black man in the too-tight pants glares at the middle-aged white man and then at me. He reluctantly moves to the front. I mouth ‘thank you’ to the middle-aged white man, who responds with an accusatory frown.
A sign reads EL PASO 10 MILES. My fingers probe inside the jacket belonging to the Black man with the stained pants. The older couple across the passageway who informed me of the hot day ahead are deep in conversation. They don’t notice me removing the wallet. They may not have objected even if they had.
The Ballad of the Band (4)
The band walk seven blocks in the blistering July heat of a Manhattan morning. Stanley – who wasn’t the Chelsea Hotel’s busboy, but its versatile owner – has provided directions. Kenny attempts to convert them into a map but has inadvertently drawn a symbol that resembles a Swastika. After heading east on 25th Street when they should’ve been heading west on 19th, he throws it away. Supplementary directions solicited from locals finally get the entourage to their destination: a used-car lot on a vacant corner block.
A large, battered silver transit van parked on its own waits at the rear of the lot. Jamie sighs. There are side doors but no windows in the rear. The faded words PRIVATE AMBULANCE can be seen on its side despite at least one attempt to have scraped them off.
‘Jesus Christ.’ Resigned and forlorn, an earlier appeal from Reef for Jamie to conceal his despair dilutes the aggression.
A small, fat Hispanic man emerges from the rear of the van. He is holding a card with HIPTEENS BAND written on it.
‘Ye’ve got tae be kiddin’, Kenny,’ says Reef.
‘Rock an’ fucken roll, eh Kenny?’ says Jamie.
Kenny’s heart sinks. ‘Norm, ya fucken bastard,’ he mutters.
‘Senor?’
‘Eh, aye. That’s me. Ah’m the senor … Kenny. Kenny McFadden.’
‘Jesus,’ says Jesus Castro, the driver. He rubs his hand under an armpit before extending it towards Kenny.
‘Are you takin’ us, then?’ Kenny asks.
‘Perdon, no hablo ingles,’ said Jesus, apologetically.
‘Fucken cosmic,’ says Jamie.
Given that all planned engagements are on the West Coast, it now seems ridiculous that The Hyptones’ management didn’t organise an internal flight. Kenny has delegated all transport decisions to Norm, a man whose surname he doesn’t even know – he told the band it was Epstein, in the hope that it would sound convincing – and who he’s never met in person, despite his claims. He’s only ever spoken to him on the telephone, after Max Mojo, the Miraculous Vespas’ manager, had recommended the American. But Norm came good with the Seymour Stein introduction. And Seymour had done his homework. He knew all about The Hyptones. He loved the first three singles. He saw them as a mix of The Undertones, whom he’d signed, and Orange Juice, whom he hopes to.
Norm is also Jesus Castro’s agent. Jesus is an out-of-work, out-of-condition, bit-part actor. Norm’s plan is for Jesus to transport them due west across ten states, reaching Phoenix, Arizona, and the band’s first proper American gig. Jesus will then head home to Tijuana. The Phoenix date is a warm-up for the real tester: the showcase event at the I-Beam in Haight-Ashbury, in front of Seymour and his A&R colleagues from Sire. The journey will take three days. It will mean Jesus driving for approximately twelve hours for each of them. The band will spend their $5-a-day allowance on Chicken McNuggets and share three to a room in cheap flophouses. An in-store record signing in Missouri and a planned college-radio interview when they reach Albuquerque are the only punctation marks. It is going to be a very long week. Curiously, the absurdity of driving across a continent in a converted hearse, chauffeured by an extra from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly named Jesus Castro lifts their spirits.
