After the show that night, the audience had almost finished clearing the arena, which meant that the technicians were twenty minutes into their tear-down after the concert. The Miami venue had proper backstage facilities, so the musos didn’t have to pull a runner after the show, so they were all happy.
Elfie kind of felt bad about counting Tryp among “the musos.”
Kind of.
She was unpacking the spent gerb casings from the tubes bolted into the stage, gray ash dusting her fingertips, when she heard them arguing in the wings.
Tryp shouted, “It’s my fucking life, and I’m glad I married her! She’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of. She’s kind, and she’s smart, and she’s funny, and if you say a fucking word to her, I will punch your fucking lights out and hold you down so she can cram one of her bombs down your shorts.”
She couldn’t hear Xan’s response, but his stiff body language suggested that it was biting.
Elfie edged closer, cleaning the tubes with a bundle of soft red rags.
Jonas hurried over. “Guys, guys. Xan, you need to finish cooling down. Tryp, what did you do?”
“We got married,” Tryp said.
Jonas turned to Xan. “Look, she’s been a good influence on him—”
“This fucking band is falling apart,” Xan said, his tone rising. “First you, Jonas, taking up with Rhiannon, and now this. We’re on the cusp. We can change the fucking world, but you people are only interested in your damn personal lives. You won’t sacrifice anything for your art. I’m the only one out there, punching and fighting, every fucking night.”
“The work isn’t the only thing, Xan,” Tryp said. “If you sacrifice yourself on the altar of art, you’ll be dead.”
“Sounds like a song. Write it down so that we have something to fucking record.” Xan stormed off.
“Ah, fuck,” Jonas said. “I suppose now isn’t the time to tell him that Rhiannon and I got engaged in New York this weekend.”
“You did?” Tryp asked.
“Yeah.” Jonas looked a little sheepish.
“Congratulations, man!”
“Yeah, thanks. I’ll go after him. Congratulations to you, too. Seriously, though. Elfie, the roadie?”
“They don’t like that term,” he said. “She’s a pyrotechnics technician.”
Elfie looked down at her feet. Yeah, she was going to have stop calling Tryp a muso.
“And I didn’t get an invite?” Jonas asked.
“We eloped,” Tryp said.
“Probably better that way.” Jonas stared after Xan. “Otherwise, you would have heard about it the whole engagement. I’m bracing myself for that.”