When I look at my bedroom, it no longer appears that his posters are gradually shifting over to my side, so that’s something to celebrate, I guess.
For the record, his snoring doesn’t get any quieter. And I really miss Audrey.
Hey, it’s Friday afternoon already! Clarissa and Mel are at my house, and we keep making comments about how great these three shows are going to be. I have to admit that even though I’m leery of Blake’s motives, I can’t help but get excited. Fanged Grapefruit is more important to me than anything except Mom, food, and oxygen, so how can I not feel a little twitter in my tummy when the tour bus pulls up alongside my house?
Correction: the minivan.
“I thought it was going to be a bus,” says Mel.
“It’s like a bus,” I say sarcastically. “Just a little smaller and not bus-shaped, and…y’know, a minivan.”
Blake gets out of the passenger side. “Sorry it doesn’t have your logo on the doors. They would’ve charged extra for the painting and repainting. What do you think?”
Remember how Blake was making snide remarks about my car after I picked him up at the airport? This minivan doesn’t quite make him a hypocrite. (It’s a perfectly fine vehicle, rust-free, a pleasant green color, and there’s no evidence that any tires might pop off while we’re driving.) But it’s no tour bus.
“What happened to the bus?” I asked.
“I didn’t say bus. I said van.”
“Nope, you said tour bus. That’s fine. I mean, it doesn’t bother me. It looks like a nice sturdy soccer mom van. It’s just not what our manager promised us.”
“I’m pretty sure I said van.”
I shake my head. “Again, nobody here is going to complain. We’re a pretty easygoing group of people. It seemed worth mentioning that our mode of transportation has changed, but it’s certainly not something that anybody is going to make a big deal about. You’re not going to make a big deal about it, are you, Mel? Clarissa? We’re all cool with a green van instead of a legit tour bus, right?”
“I thought he said bus too, but maybe I heard wrong,” says Clarissa.
“Nah, you didn’t hear wrong,” I assure her. “I bet Fist Knuckles tours in a minivan too.”
The driver of the minivan steps out of the vehicle.
If you were wandering along a desolate road after dark and this guy pulled up next to you, there’s no way you’d get in his minivan. In fact, if he showed up in broad daylight and your car had broken down and you were on a busy street with dozens of witnesses, you’d still decline his offer for a ride. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say that if you were at the grocery store and you saw this gentleman in one of the aisles, you’d decide to shop someplace else. Which is all to say, he’s rather intimidating.
“Is there a problem?” the driver asks.
“No,” I say.
“Good.” The driver gets back in the minivan.
“I actually wasn’t answering his question,” I say. “That no was aimed at the idea of riding with him.”
“What do you mean?” asks Blake.
“It’s pretty simple, really. We’re not getting in that minivan.”
“For real? You guys are in a punk rock band, and you’re scared of the guy’s tattoos and scars and multicolored hair and metal teeth?”
“Those were all fine,” I say. “It was his dead eyes.”
“Sorry. I guess I forgot to request a driver that didn’t have dead eyes.”
“You’re trying to be sarcastic, but I’m serious. I refuse to get murdered on our first out-of-town gig.”
“I’m not sure I can get a refund,” says Blake.
“Poor planning,” I say.
“So you’re canceling the tour?”
“Of course not. We’ll take my car and have a cramped, miserable ride, thanks to our manager.”
“If that’s the way you want it.”
“It’s not. But for our safety, that’s the way it has to be apparently.”
Blake walks over to the minivan. Despite whatever impression you may have gotten, I don’t wish for him to perish, so I carefully watch for signs that the driver may attempt to abduct or kill him. I’m not saying that I’ll rush over there if I hear the roar of a chainsaw, but I’ll shout a warning.
“You both agree with this, right?” I ask Clarissa and Mel.
“Oh, yeah,” says Mel. “I wasn’t going anywhere with the dead-eyed dude. I’m glad you said something.”
The minivan drives off, leaving my cousin behind and alive.
“I tried to get us there in comfort,” says Blake, shaking his head.
“And you failed,” I say. “Everybody has to suck at something. Let’s pack up my car.”
One point for Team Rod. Heh, heh.
As we walk toward my car, I notice Blake grinning.
Why is he grinning?
Did I prematurely assign the point? Was this part of his plan too?
22.
Though I'd been happy that Blake messed up, I have to admit that I’m less merry about it now that we have a two-hour drive ahead of us. I was looking forward to letting somebody else worry about steering and accelerating and braking and stuff. I will still defend my car’s honor, but it’s not such a great mode of transportation when you’ve got four people and musical equipment packed in there. (Reminder: Clarissa is very tall.)
I was in favor of leaving Blake at home to think about what he’d done, but since he’s the guy who set everything up, we pretty much had to bring him. But if he becomes too annoying, I won’t hesitate to make him run alongside the vehicle.
There are a lot of madcap antics that can happen when a punk rock band drives an old car one hundred thirty-eight miles across Florida; however, the trip is not particularly wacky enough to detail for you, and we arrive at the venue
