The van speeds past a large blue road sign, which reads:
THEODORE
Population 1370
The Buttermilk Capital of Canada!
“Hello, Theodore!” Tristan hollers, “Are you ready to rock ‘n’ roll?”
Akim imitates a frenzied crowd, shouting, “YAAAAAAAAUU UUGGHHHH!”
Tristan extends his arm through the open window and flashes the Universal Rock ‘n’ Roll Sign (thumb, index finger and little finger extended, the two middle fingers folded over) to Jimmy T and Lola, who are speeding along behind the van in Jimmy’s Mercedes convertible. Lola and Jimmy T thrust their arms through open windows and return the salute.
“Did you know that in International Sign Language, that’s the sign for ‘I love you’?” Akim mentions.
Like a junior high school girl seeing The Beatles in 1965, Tristan screeches, “Oh! Jimmy T LOVES me!”
Jimmy T stomps the accelerator, and blasts his horn several times as he roars past the van, cackling.
“Well,” Akim says, “since Jimmy booked the gig, I guess we should be following him. I have no idea where this place is supposed to be.”
Akim, who never drives faster than the speed limit, steps on the gas pedal to keep up with Jimmy T, who seems to be trying for a new land speed record. Scenery blurs past the van windows.
“Ya-HOOOOO!” Tristan hoots.
Everybody is excited, ready to rock like we’ve never rocked before. Billy VandenHammer, head producer at Big Plastic Records, the one they call The Purple Messiah, left a message on Akim’s answering machine that he is going to come out to our next gig after this one. If he likes what he hears, he’s going to talk to us about signing a recording contract. So, this gig is being treated as the dress rehearsal for The Featherless Bipeds’ leap into musical fame and fortune. Everyone in the band is charged full of hope, their nerves crackling with anticipation. Everyone but me, that is.
I haven’t really felt like playing the drums, or singing, or writing songs since Zoe walked away from me after my fight with Jerry at the Triple R. I’ve been showing up at rehearsals and all of that, but my heart hasn’t been in the music, or in anything else. Of course there’s the physical pain from the beating Jerry laid on me, but it’s nothing compared to how it feels inside.
Tristan turns around, and peers over his seat.
“Hey, Dak, why the long face back there, buddy?” he says. “We’re gonna be rock stars soon!”
“Great.” I try to smile.
Supercharged Tristan spins around to face Akim.
“Akim! We need something to get Dak revved up for the show. Pass Jimmy T, then pull into the nearest coffee shop.”
He spins back around, his wide eyes peering over the seat again.
“All you need is some caffeine and sugar! That’ll perk you up!”“
“I don’t need any caffeine. Or sugar. I’m not hungry. Or thirsty.”
“Well, I need some caffeine and sugar!” Tristan says.
In unison, Akim and I say, “No you don’t.”
Nevertheless, Akim stomps on the accelerator, passes Jimmy T, then squeals the tires turning into a Tim Horton’s. Jimmy T almost loses control of his car making the turn into the driveway at such a speed. Akim wheels the van into the drive-through lane.
When our turn at the order window comes, I order an extra-large large double-double coffee, and three raisin bagels (toasted, with double cream cheese).
“God,” yelps Akim, “I thought you weren’t hungry.”
“I’m not. Just a little snack.”
“Geesh. Heartbreak hasn’t hurt your appetite. How can you eat so much and stay so thin!”
“He’s a drummer,” Tristan says. Then he shouts at the drive-through speaker. “A twenty-pack of Timbits, and one extra large French Vanilla cappuccino, please. With extra sugar. I wanna sugar up my cappuccino!”
“Yech!” says Akim, “I take my coffee black.”
And then I feel that weird tingle in the middle of my brain, or maybe it’s more like an itch. Sugar up my cappuccino. Those words have such a nice ring to them.
I reach into my back pocket for the pencil stub I always keep there for such emergencies, and scan the floor of the van for something to write on. Practically every cubic inch of space around me is filled with amplifiers, drums, guitar cases and stands, but there isn’t a scrap of paper anywhere. Desperately, as the girl at the Tim Horton’s drive-through window is handing the goods through to Akim, I reach out and snatch the bag with my three bagels from her hand.
“He’s pretty hungry,” Akim says to the girl.
I toss the bagels on the seat beside me, and begin smoothing the bag across my knee. I scribble:
Sugar up a cappuccino
I take my coffee black
Whew. Those words were nanoseconds away from escaping.
I read the words over a few times. Something is coming. A verse is emerging, like a baby bird pecking through its shell. Yes! I scribble the original two lines out of existence, and replace them with:
You sugar up your cappuccino
While I take my coffee black
You like to sit here by the window
I prefer a table in the back
Now I’ve got a metal picture of a man and woman in a small café . . . they are similar enough to be attracted to each other, but different enough to need some space, too. Something bigger is on its way. More words are going to follow these ones.
“What are you writing?” Tristan asks.
“Nothing.” I say.
Not yet. Not until it’s finished. I pause to devour the bagels and gulp down the coffee.
“Akim!” Tristan says. “I think he’s gonna live!”
Maybe I will.
The sounds of the road rumbling beneath us, the wind rushing through the open windows, the swoosh of cars passing, Akim and Tristan’s conversations, they all fade away into nothing. Now it’s only me and the words, which I coax and coerce until I’ve got this:
You sugar up your cappuccino
While I take my coffee black
You like to sit here by the window
I prefer a table in the back
I like the roar of the fire
You like the flicker of the candle flame
Lucky for us this place has got them both
Plus shelter from the rain
And in these little spaces
Lies the gravity
Keeps us from colliding
Keeps us from spinning apart
And in these little spaces
There’s time to be
Time for you to be you
Time for me to be me
Sometimes I bug you
Sometimes you get in my way
Sometimes I hesitate before I call
But I could never throw your number away
’Cause you know the name of every daytime cloud
And I can name every constellation
I’m a nighthawk, you’re an early bird
When we’re together the sky is never a stranger
And in these little spaces
There’s time to be
Time for you to be you
Time for me to be me
But then these little spaces
Between the two of us
Leave me wanting less of you and me
And a little more of us
Satisfied, I fold the scribble-covered bag into neat quarters, and slide it into the front pocket of my jeans. There’s some kind of truth in there somewhere.
I’ve already got a name for this newborn song. “Little Spaces”. When we get back home again, I’m going to get together with Akim and Tristan to record a quick version on our 8-track recorder, and then I’m going to slide it under Zoe’s door. She told me to never talk to her again, or call, or write. She didn’t say I couldn’t slide a song into her life.
There is the sound of gravel crunching under the tires of the van. I look up through the windshield, and in big, flickering pink neon letters is the single word “BAR”. This must be our destination. I throw open the sliding door of the van and step onto the gravel, feeling like Clint Eastwood as he throws open the swinging saloon doors to begin the climactic gunfight. This feeling quickly dissolves, though, when it occurs to me that the building before me is not a whole lot larger than the van from which I’ve just emerged. Another hole-in-the-wall. How does Jimmy get us booked into dumps like this?
There is one of those light-up mobile signs perched beside on the roadside, which reads:
SAT RDAY
2 BUCK DRAFT
ALL NITE
MEAT RAFFLE
Nothing on the sign about us playing here tonight. Great.
The Mercedes slides into the driveway, and Lola and Jimmy T climb out. It looks like Lola has forgiven him for his flirtations at the last gig, because they’re groping at each other again. After enjoying a couple of handfuls of Lola’s breasts, Jimmy rams his hands in the pockets of his three-hundred-dollar jeans and strides over to where Akim, Tristan and I are standing.
“Nice place, Jimmy T,” Akim says.
“Well, it looks smaller than they made it out to be,” he admits, “but they told me the stage is pretty big. And Ray, the guy I talked to on the phone the other day, says they can pack in a few hundred on a good night.”
The rest of us look incredulously at the tiny building.
“A few hundred molecules?” Tristan grumbles, kicking at the parking lot gravel. Tristan doesn’t even bother removing his video camera from its case. He figures nobody will want to remember this place.
“But wait! Here’s some good news, guys,” Jimmy says, pointing at the mobile sign by the road, “Beer is only two bucks on Saturdays!”
Then Jimmy’s life-is-great grin goes flat.
“Hey,” he says, as he continues to look at the sign, “That sign is supposed to say ‘Featherless Bipeds — Live Rock ‘n’ Roll — One Night Only’. I told ’em that was what we wanted the sign to say.”
“Maybe they didn’t have enough letters for that,” offers Akim.
“Well, no point standing around,” says Lola, in a matter-of-fact way. “Let’s get going, boys. A gig is a gig.” She heaves the bass amplifier out of the van and carries it through the dilapidated back door hand-painted with the words “Deliverys and Stage Enterance”.
Grudgingly, I grab a PA speaker from inside the van, and lug it up the warped, spongy stairs into the bar. As I heft a second speaker inside, it occurs to me that this is what bar bands really get paid for: driving long distances to gigs, eating crappy bar food, staying in gross hotel rooms, lugging enormous chunks of sound equipment up and down rickety back-entrance stairs. Playing the music is the fun part. I’d do that part for free.
The interior of the bar is cramped, brown, virtually lightless, and smells like a two-dollar cigar floating in a plugged urinal. Jimmy wasn’t lying, though — the stage is a comfortable size. It’s covered in broken chairs and old casino gaming equipment, and looks as if it hasn’t been touched by a live band (or a broom) since Elvis ate his last hot dog, but it is big enough for all four of us to set up on. The whole bar itself, however, is not much larger than the garage we rehearse in.
“Guess we won’t be needing the extra amp after all,” says Akim.
“Or t he subwoofers,” adds Tristan, under his breath, carrying chunks of debris from the stage to make room for our sound equipment. “This old joint might collapse if we start pumping out too much volume.”
“The management definitely misrepresented things to me over the phone,” says Jimmy T. “Perhaps I should have a word with them.”
“Be nice!” says Lola, patting his ass. “We still want to get paid.”
“Never worry,” grins Jimmy T.
We all worry when he says that. Jimmy T is now the proud owner of two false front teeth, acquired after the owner of a roughneck tavern tried to feed Jimmy the headstock of his guitar after a difference of opinion over the band’s beer tab.
From their perches beside the bar, a half dozen grey-haired, overall-clad regulars watch us silently with bloodshot Basset Hound eyes. Behind the bar, seeming oblivious to just about everything, is a rumpled-looking, shadow-eyed waitress. She chews on a cheek full of gum. Jimmy T approaches her.
“Good afternoon, madam,” he says, with his a smooth, deep deal-making voice. “Would you be so kind as to tell me where I might find either Ray or Jay?”
“Who?” she says between chews.
“The owners of the establishment. Are they around?”
“Oh” she snorts, looking up at the cobwebbed ceiling. “Nope. He ain’t around.”
“Okay, thanks,” chirps Jimmy. “Could you let me know when one of them arrives?”
The barmaid just shrugs.
Seated behind Jimmy, around one of the few tables, are six older ladies, wearing large frilly hats and dressed in what they would probably call their “Sunday Best”. They are downing straight shots of rye whisky like they are trying to set some kind of record. Jimmy T sits down at their table and strikes up a conversation. In Jimmy’s eyes, talking to young good-looking women is better than talking to old, hardened ones, but talking to old women is still better than carrying heavy sound equipment.
Lola waves to Jimmy T from the stage, then begins assembling the microphone stands. I begin putting my drums together. Akim hooks up the PA, then flips the switch that starts the speakers humming. Tristan, who has the best ear for sound balance, gets behind the mixing board, and Akim steps up to the first microphone, chanting, “Mike one, mike one, mike one . . . ”
“Is that my mike, Tristan?” Jimmy calls out from the table where he’s been chatting with the older ladies and sucking back two-dollar drafts.
“Yup. Mike one is always yours.”
“More reverb,” says Jimmy.
Tristan rolls his eyes and walks over to the mixing board, only pretending to adjust the knob that will add more reverb to Jimmy’s mike mix.
Akim also rolls his eyes, and continues, “Mike one, mike one, mike one . . . ”
“Is this better, Jimmy?” Tristan hollers over his shoulder.
Jimmy T flashes him a thumbs-up sign.
Both Akim and Tristan roll their eyes again.
On his way to mike two, Akim whispers to me, “What a wanker. What do the women see in him?”
Three-hundred-dollar pants is my guess.
Now I am seated behind my drums, my mike positioned in front of my mouth. To my left is Tristan, with his bass strapped on and tuned up. To my right is Akim, whose Stratocaster is plugged in and ready to scream. Lola stands just to the right of centre stage, gripping her microphone and ready to give it.
“Hey, Jimmy,” says Akim, more than mildly annoyed by now, “you wanna get up here and help us get this sound check over with?”
Jimmy downs the last of another two-dollar draft, nods at the rye-drinking ladies, and says, “Well, duty calls.” He swaggers up to the stage and tosses his guitar strap over his shoulder.
“This is a true story about a waitress,” I croon into the mike, “for the lovely lady behind the bar.” I am hoping that this one will thaw our icy barmaid somewhat — it’s always good to have the staff on the band’s side.
We play a spirited rendition of Even the Waitress, the rhythm of the bass and drums rattling the rickety stage and filling the air with dust.
Silence follows.
“Howd’ja like that!” demands Jimmy T, into his mike.
The three old ladies who still remain say nothing. They don’t even move.
“Can yuh play any quieter than that?” the barmaid screeches. So much for charming her.
“Good enough,” Akim says. “Let’s go find somewhere to eat. Unless you want to eat here . . . ”
Lola in particular looks horrified by that idea — I guess she’s become accustomed to a lot of fancy restaurant food now that she’s cohabitating with Jimmy T.
The five of us head for the empty van.
Our stomachs are now full with the surprisingly good fare served at a diner called “EAT” just outside the little town, and our spirits are brighter.
“Y’know, boys,” Akim says, “maybe this show will be okay. We’ve played other small places that have really filled up with people by the second or third set.”
“Remember that place on our Northern Ontario tour? So packed with people you could hardly move,” Tristan says. “What was it called? The Blackfly Tavern?”
“Ah, the Blackfly Tavern,” Jimmy T says dreamily, probably remembering the pleasant journey his hands made up the back of some local cheerleader’s skirt. “What a fun night that was.”
Lola, who did not participate in that gig, squints at Jimmy T. “It better not have been too much fun,” she says.
So, everyone is guardedly optimistic as we leave the restaurant to head back to the bar on the edge of town. After we pay our bills, I am the first one through the door, and I notice a handbill taped to the glass. It reads:
Y’all come out to the
THEODORE
BUTTERMILK FESTIVAL!
August 28, 29, 30
Displays!
Beer Tent!
Games!
Great Food!
Beer Tent!
Live Entertainment Nightly!
Beer Tent!
Everyone will be there!
The Theodore Buttermilk Festival? This weekend? Live Entertainment Nightly? Everyone will be there? Great. We’re doomed. We are going to be playing to the cockroaches all night.
No wonder the barmaid was so grumpy — she has to work in an empty bar on the evening of the hometown social event of the season.
I hold the door open as Tristan, Akim, Lola and Jimmy T file out of the diner, smiling and chattering. I position myself in front of the news-of-doom poster — there’s no sense in ruining their collective good mood. That will happen soon enough.
As we make the short drive toward the single stoplight intersection of Theodore, Akim is struck by the lack of cars parked along the street and people on the sidewalks.
“Jeeze! It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday night . . . where the hell is everybody?”
“They’re probably all up at Ray ‘n’ Jay’s Superstar Bar, waiting for the Featherless Bipeds to hit the stage!” says Jimmy T, cheerfully.
Tristan, who rarely ever swears, suddenly blurts, “Holy shit!”
He is looking through the passenger-side window at the facade of a huge old building that appears to have once been a movie theatre. His eyes are locked onto the large marquee, surrounded by blinking lights, which reads:
SATURDAY — ONE NITE ONLY
JIMMY T
AND
THE FEATHERLESS BIPEDS
Above the marquee, on the wall, in glowing, rainbow-coloured letters two feet tall:
RAY ‘N’ JAY’S SUPERSTAR BAR
“Shit!” yelps Akim.
“Shit!” Lola screeches.
“Shit!” hollers Jimmy T, “We set up at The wrong friggin’ bar!”
Akim slams on the brakes.
Jimmy T, who never wears a seatbelt, peels his face from the windshield, then barks, “What the hell are you stopping for? We’ve gotta go get our stuff and get back here right away! Shit Shit Shit!”
“Um,” Akim growls, “Since we’re right in front of the place and all, shouldn’t we maybe stop and tell them what’s happened?”
“No!” hollers Jimmy, “They’ll think we’re a bunch of idiots! What kind of losers set up at the wrong bar?
“ Akim shrugs and steps on the accelerator, launching Jimmy firmly into the back seat.
“Besides,” says Jimmy, “my stage clothes are back in the Mercedes, and my Mercedes is at the other bar.”
Akim speaks through clenched teeth.
“Maybe you should have been paying more attention to where the actual bar was instead of worrying about your damned stage clothes, Jimmy T!”
Jimmy T, sensing that he is in danger of getting his lights turned out by Akim, lowers his voice somewhat.
“Now, let’s not get irrational, Akim. Everything is under control.”
This makes Akim even angrier.
“We’ve got less than half an hour to tear down at the place we’re currently set up at, then set up again at the place we’re supposed to be set up at, then do a sound check . . . and you think that everything is under control?”
“It’ll be tight, but we’ll pull it off.”
“No wasting time with your fairy-costume changes, then; you’ll be helping carry the equipment in with everybody else!”
“Of course I will, Akim.”
“Damn right you will!”
Now Tristan speaks up.
“And what the hell is the deal with the ‘Jimmy T and the Featherless Bipeds’ back on that marquee?”
Jimmy T’s face flushes deep red.
“The bar must have made some kind of mistake! Honest!”
We race into the bar where we accidentally set up, and the shadow-eyed waitress remains as indifferent to us as she had been earlier. Under normal circumstances, Jimmy doesn’t carry much equipment other than his own guitar and amp, but this time he struggles with the big bass amp, as well as both of the PA speakers. Poor Jimmy T! All sweaty before a performance!
As we approach Ray ‘n’ Jay’s Superstar Bar from the opposite direction, we can all see that the other side of the marquee reads:
SATURDAY
JIMMY “T” BAND
SUNDAY
MALE STRIPPER
Jimmy T sinks even lower in his seat.
“I suppose that’s a mistake, too, eh Jimmy T?” Akim says. “Maybe later I should climb up there and take the words ‘band’ and ‘Sunday’ off the sign, mail a picture of it to your bigwig father. Jimmy T — Male Stripper! Wouldn’t he be proud?”
“Please don’t do that,” Jimmy T says. “Just beat me up later.”
Akim wheels the van up to the curb in front of the bar, and we all rush into the building, each carrying some equipment. There is no time to lose. We run through the old movie theatre foyer into the main part of the building. The place is huge. There must be close to thirty big round tables, with a swarm of wobbly chairs around each, a dozen pool tables and as many air hockey games, and an array of bleeping, pinging, blinking video games and pinball machines.
“Wow,” Jimmy T says to me, quietly enough to avoid being overheard by Lola, “I bet it’ll be Babe City in here tonight.”
The glassy look in his eyes reminds me of one of those starry-eyed, airbrushed children who appear on Christmas cards, except instead of sugarplums, it’s visions of squirming nineteen-year-old girls in tight T-shirts dancing in Jimmy’s head. He’ll have to be careful, though. Since Lola is at this gig, he won’t be able to ogle the chicks without facing major repercussions.
“Can I get you fellas something to drink?” comes a John Wayne voice from behind the long bar. The stocky bartender wears a red and white checkered Western-style shirt with the sleeves rolled up above his elbows, a string tie, and a brown cowboy hat.
“Hi, there,” grins Jimmy. “We’re the Featherless Bipeds — the band for tonight.”
“Thought you guys were gonna be no-shows,” the bartender says. “So you guys are a rock band, eh?”
“Um, yeah,” I respond, “Isn’t that what you usually get?”
“That’s what Jay usually gets.”
“Oh, I see, and, um, what sort of band does, uh, Ray usually book, then?”
“Well, I’m Ray,” says the bartender, “and I don’t like rock ‘n’ roll.”
With that, he steps back from the bar and hooks his thumbs into the enormous embossed silver buckle of the leather belt that holds up his loose-fitting jeans. He crosses one of his road-apple-stabbin’ boots over the other, and says, “I’m a country music fan, myself.”
Suddenly, an old hippie-type comes rushing toward us from the other end of the room. His braided ponytail and long, haphazardly maintained beard bounce as he runs. His Birkenstock sandals skid to a stop in front of us. He runs his hands over the front of his Hawaiian-print shirt and cut-off jean shorts. “Don’t listen to him,” he says, “we love rock ‘n’ roll here at the Superstar Bar.”
He’s got the same bulbous nose and squinty eyes as the guy behind the bar, and it occurs to me that this must be Jay, Ray’s brother.
“Hi! I’m Jay,” the hippie guy says, extending his hand. “Welcome to my bar!”
“Our bar,” the Roy Rogers clone behind the bar grunts.
“So,” says Jay, vigorously shaking each of our hands “do you folks play any Grateful Dead?”
Ray leans forward against the bar, turns his cowboy hat from side to side.
“Rock music is crap,” he says.
Jay, the Jerry Garcia clone, gets right in his cowboy brother’s face.
“The only people who want to listen to that hurtin’ cryin’ country crap-ola you listen to are those cheap-ass buddies of yours, who never pay their freakin’ tabs! This bar makes its money from the rock ‘n’ roll crowd!”
Ray shakes his head again, and his voice deepens.
“Rock bands bring in young hooligans who fight and smash things and throw up all over everything. They ain’t worth the powder to blow ’em all up.”
Jimmy T interrupts.
“So, Ray, Jay . . . should we set up our stuff, or not?”
“No,” says Ray.
“YES!” says Jay. Then he turns to his brother. “Look, the only people in town who will want to roam around in the muck at the fairgrounds for the Buttermilk Festival are all the country music losers. The rock ‘n’ roll crowd will be into something better
. . . this here rock band!”
Jay crosses his arms and smiles with saccharine sweetness at his brother.
Ray crosses his arms. “They better know some country songs.”
“We know an Eagles tune.” Jimmy T says.
Ray stomps away.
Jay turns to us. “Well, get your asses in gear, you’re on in half an hour. Oh, and when you’re onstage tonight, could you mention tomorrow night’s male stripper? The women go nuts for that stuff, drink like sailors all night.”
“Uh, sure,” says Jimmy T. “No problem.”
“Maybe I’ll stick around for that,” Lola says.
Jimmy T looks hurt. “I need a smoke,” he says, sulking towards the back door.
“Oh no you don’t!” Akim barks. “You get your ass to the van and help carry the gear in!”
While lugging equipment in through the back door, Tristan sighs, “Look how big this place is. I’ll bet the acoustics suck.”
“Not after we get the place filled up with bodies!” Jimmy T says.
“Whatever, Jimmy,” Akim says. “You heard the guy. There’s some big fair or something going on. We’ll be playing to an empty house. Again.”
Despite the bar itself being the size of a commercial aircraft hangar, the stage is deceivingly small. The drum riser is not nearly large enough to hold my drum set, and cannot be removed from the stage.
“Excuse me, sir,” I call out to Cowboy Ray, “Have you got an extension or anything for this drum riser? It’s not quite big enough for my drum set.”
“It’s big enough for a country drum set,” he grumbles.
I scrounge around in the storeroom behind the stage, and manage to find a bunch of two-by-fours, which I stack up in front of the drum riser to precariously perch the front legs of my bass drum on. I leave half of my kit lying lifeless in the van, and set up only the bare essentials — bass drum, snare, two toms, high hats, a ride and a crash cymbal. Even with this skeleton kit, I’ll have to get behind the kit first and then move the floor tom into position — it’s that tight, and still I’m hitting my elbows on the wall behind me.
Great. This is going to be so much fun.