Chapter 17
I can't remember how old I was when I started to play the drums. I got
my first set with money that I made on my paper route. I just mumble
"thank you" to the fans as I walk off the stage. It's just emotion I
feel, just a notion. I think I was about nine years old. We never play
the songs the same way everytime. The same songs are played a different
way in the next club in the next town but it is the same band
everytime, sometimes. It's the club that is the same everytime. My
"you" packs my kit while I get high. One more gig and no worse for the
wear, methinks, just further down the lifeline toward the next
spaceplane. I mumble "thank you" again to the fans gathered backstage
but really I just want to hurry up and get the f*ck out of there, go
home, and go to bed. I walk outside to the cool twilight and look down
from the fire escape stairs to the grassy area below. There sits Johnny
playing the blues.
Another
night picking the blues ends. The bikers say, "Good show, man." "Thank
you." I mumble wanting to hurry up and get my sh*t torn down and loaded
into the van. A few fans still hang out even thought it's 3:00 AM. I am
hungry but too stoned to eat. The mist hovers over the black stillness
of the ship channel whispering a secret message to me that only I
clearly understand. "Death... death."