My Life as a Roadie
for Tim
we road trip
Virginia to North Carolina to Massachusetts to Pennsylvania
to Oklahoma to Nebraska to Georgia to Alabama to Tennessee
to Kentucky to Texas to Colorado to Wyoming to California
to Nevada to Arizona to New Mexico to South Carolina to Georgia
to Virginia to Florida and back over to Georgia and onward
to Maine, and back once more to Massachusetts - to Boston
we road trip
anywhere
everywhere
we could land a gig
*
sometimes we even get paid
*
two gear-crammed vans
and the seven of us
laughing hysterically, spraying food
and overtired
and wired on no name coffee and overtired
wincing in daylight
easily hitting 90 mph most of the way
wolfing down hot Krispy Kremes with cold PBRs
so damned tired
we tell the same old dumb-ass war stories
again and again
in that way we have of telling them
for the ways they have of
wrapping round us
warm as Turkish towels
*
only thing missing is Tim
*
we switch drivers on piss breaks
call home
checking in
*
we play hacky sack
at noon
in empty parking lots
snuffing butts
and talking trash
*
grab showers
where we can
hotels
motels
a friend's place
the ocean
Walmart parking lots
with a bucket and a gold bar
of Dial soap
*
nocturnal creatures
we navigate
dimly lit back alleys
unloading cables, amps, guitars, and drums
duct tape, more drums, sharpies, set lists,
backup mics, more drums, and boxes of merch:
t-shirts, sweatshirts, bumper stickers, CDs and cassette tapes
and autographed headshots of the band
*
we cut across the wildest swaths
and lamest small towns,
on our way through
sweeping expanses:
mountains, rivers, oceans, highways
byways
making our way
to the glare of hot white lights
and new crowds who don't know
anything
but that one song
*
we spend our
youthful exuberance
counting cars
playing cards
and dreaming
of what might find us
if we find ourselves
out there
trying,
putting fliers on cars
*
Boston means Fenway Park,
Berklee
and Bernie,
who used to sell stilettos to transvestites
out of the back
only
for the love of it
*
of all the people
in all the world
to make a killing
Bernie, on a hunch,
went and bought an entire city block
with its crumbling brick facade
that no one ever cared much for
or ever went inside
*
hit the jackpot, too:
floor after floor
of vintage clothing,
dressed in fifties price tags
and garment protectors
*
topped $17M profit
selling the lot to Hollywood
agreed to fly us
all
to his place in the Hills
sometime this summer
knowing,
as we all knew,
summer would not be soon enough
*
but for now
Bernie is back in Bean Town
to catch the final set
and to remember
who he was
before
making it big
nearly killed him
with fabulous new friends
who never
would have talked to him
when he was just an avid Trekkie on a hot streak
*
Bernie says
California's got the weather
and the women
and the dope--
even though he cleaned up
stone cold sober
after he quit
road tripping
*
he’s lying through his teeth,
just as we are,
saying we’ll be on the road again
soon
and back to normal
*
nothing’s been the same
since cancer showed its face
in Tim’s pancreas
*
so it’s one final gig
and we’re homeward bound
and
although he doesn’t say so
Bernie’s coming
with us
taking the long road back
to what really matters
***
Copyright © 09/24/1993 by Christy Munson. All rights reserved.
About the Creator
Christy Munson
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Comments (1)
Very powerful beautiful poem!