On the Road with Sectarian Violence: Part Three
[here's part one. and part two.]
At first I was daunted by the task of tracking down the band as they made their way towards Utah. But I realized they were leaving me a trail of breadcrumbs -- in the form of hubcaps.
The Sectarian Violence Corolla, it seems, had had about enough of this nonsense, and was shedding its hubcaps in protest. I ran across the first one lying by the pavement on the highway just outside Vegas: it was dented, scarred, Toyota standard-issue, and something about it just screamed rock ‘n’ roll. I got back behind the wheel, pulled into traffic, and kept my eyes peeled for the next sign.
In about 100 miles, I spotted another of the poor car’s offerings nested in the gravel by the side of a freeway exit. The ramp headed straight to a greasy-looking outpost of a name-brand gasoline company: one of those franchises with a 30 minute-wait for an ill-smelling ladies room and only one brand of Baked Lays in stock. A little bell rang from above the door as I walked inside the station’s convenience store.
“Help you?” asked the oily-haired matron manning the register. She had company on this late shift. A teenage girl in a gas station smock was leaning over the counter by the cigarettes, her face only five inches from a copy of Teen People. The girl looked up, snapped her gum, and looked back down at Ashlee Simpson.
It was a long shot, but it was the best I had. “I’m looking for a band,” I said. “Four of them, three guys and a girl. Probably would have been jamming or grooving? Seen anybody like that around here?”
The matron sighed and shifted her weight. Her eyeliner looked like she had applied it with a ballpoint pen. “Coulda been. A guy in here earlier had a guitar with him, and a fedora. He was walking back and forth by the soda cases, strumming and singing some creepy song about ‘the more you ignore me,’ something like that. Just about gave Sheila here a good case of the jitters.” Sheila looked up again, shrugged, and refocused on the picture of Ashlee, who appeared in the photo to be wearing six multi-colored tank tops at the same time. “I like Morrissey,” Sheila muttered. “The Mozzer.”
“That sounds right,” I said. “Did this crooner mention his name?”
“Had some friends with him,” the matron said. “One with a shaved head? There was something in the eyes of that boy…something just plain wrong.” The matron lowered her sparse eyebrows. Her whole body quivered ever so slightly. “Didn’t you think so, Sheila? Did you see it in him?”
Sheila shrugged again and flipped a page.
“That look in his eyes -- was it rock ‘n’ roll?” I asked.
The matron glared. “If that’s what you call it.”
“So where were they going, did they say?”
“The shaved head one was talking about Supras. We figured he was probably headed for the little convention they’re having outside Salt Lake tomorrow morning.”
I knew I should ask her what the hell a Supra was and why it deserved a convention, but all of a sudden I was tired. Even the most dogged Rolling Marble reporters occasionally turn around and realize they’ve been awake -- and God forbid, sober -- for 36 hours and still haven’t met the band they’re supposed to be writing about. “So where’s this thing at, exactly?” I asked, hardly daring to hope for a response.
Sheila looked up. “It’s on the Bonneville Salt Flats, right off the freeway. My boyfriend said he was going to take me.” Sheila locked eyes with me and began to slowly blow an enormous bubble with her wad of grayish-purple gum.
“Thanks very much,” I said, and headed back for the Chevy.
I plopped behind the wheel and reached into my jacket pocket to turn on my cell phone, which chimed merrily and began to glow green. It showed 23 messages in my voicemail. Editrix must have been on the hunt. I deleted the contents of my inbox and dialed her direct line at the Rolling Marble headquarters. It was approaching 2 in the morning. She’d be there.
I heard a ring. And then a click. And then rage.
“Where the fuck have you been?” she snapped. “I’ve tried to reassign this story three times in the past 12 hours. Lucky for you no respectable reporter will take it.”
“Don’t take it away,” I said. “I’m on this thing. I am. This band is… they’re like no other band I’ve seen.” Primarily because I hadn’t yet seen them.
“What’s the lede so far?”
Ahhh. Truth would hurt here. “Rock ‘n’ roll pioneers travel the backroads, visiting the corners and eddies of America as yet untouched by the true spirit of rock ‘n’ roll.”
“Jesus, really? Are they that boring? Or are you that boring? Listen, if you can’t improve on that by the time you file I’m bumping you off the cover. See if you can get one of the band to kill a man. Or some fucking thing. Because James is working on a nice little piece about Nickelback and I'd have no qualms putting it out front. None.”
I heard a click, and she was gone. Leaving me to contemplate the bone-chilling prospect of writing this story for the inside pages. Of becoming the first rock ‘n’ roll reporter to dare to set foot in fucking Utah, all for the sake of a story that runs on page 12.
Not a chance. I climbed into my backseat for a quick nap before heading for the Supra convention.
At first I was daunted by the task of tracking down the band as they made their way towards Utah. But I realized they were leaving me a trail of breadcrumbs -- in the form of hubcaps.
The Sectarian Violence Corolla, it seems, had had about enough of this nonsense, and was shedding its hubcaps in protest. I ran across the first one lying by the pavement on the highway just outside Vegas: it was dented, scarred, Toyota standard-issue, and something about it just screamed rock ‘n’ roll. I got back behind the wheel, pulled into traffic, and kept my eyes peeled for the next sign.
In about 100 miles, I spotted another of the poor car’s offerings nested in the gravel by the side of a freeway exit. The ramp headed straight to a greasy-looking outpost of a name-brand gasoline company: one of those franchises with a 30 minute-wait for an ill-smelling ladies room and only one brand of Baked Lays in stock. A little bell rang from above the door as I walked inside the station’s convenience store.
“Help you?” asked the oily-haired matron manning the register. She had company on this late shift. A teenage girl in a gas station smock was leaning over the counter by the cigarettes, her face only five inches from a copy of Teen People. The girl looked up, snapped her gum, and looked back down at Ashlee Simpson.
It was a long shot, but it was the best I had. “I’m looking for a band,” I said. “Four of them, three guys and a girl. Probably would have been jamming or grooving? Seen anybody like that around here?”
The matron sighed and shifted her weight. Her eyeliner looked like she had applied it with a ballpoint pen. “Coulda been. A guy in here earlier had a guitar with him, and a fedora. He was walking back and forth by the soda cases, strumming and singing some creepy song about ‘the more you ignore me,’ something like that. Just about gave Sheila here a good case of the jitters.” Sheila looked up again, shrugged, and refocused on the picture of Ashlee, who appeared in the photo to be wearing six multi-colored tank tops at the same time. “I like Morrissey,” Sheila muttered. “The Mozzer.”
“That sounds right,” I said. “Did this crooner mention his name?”
“Had some friends with him,” the matron said. “One with a shaved head? There was something in the eyes of that boy…something just plain wrong.” The matron lowered her sparse eyebrows. Her whole body quivered ever so slightly. “Didn’t you think so, Sheila? Did you see it in him?”
Sheila shrugged again and flipped a page.
“That look in his eyes -- was it rock ‘n’ roll?” I asked.
The matron glared. “If that’s what you call it.”
“So where were they going, did they say?”
“The shaved head one was talking about Supras. We figured he was probably headed for the little convention they’re having outside Salt Lake tomorrow morning.”
I knew I should ask her what the hell a Supra was and why it deserved a convention, but all of a sudden I was tired. Even the most dogged Rolling Marble reporters occasionally turn around and realize they’ve been awake -- and God forbid, sober -- for 36 hours and still haven’t met the band they’re supposed to be writing about. “So where’s this thing at, exactly?” I asked, hardly daring to hope for a response.
Sheila looked up. “It’s on the Bonneville Salt Flats, right off the freeway. My boyfriend said he was going to take me.” Sheila locked eyes with me and began to slowly blow an enormous bubble with her wad of grayish-purple gum.
“Thanks very much,” I said, and headed back for the Chevy.
I plopped behind the wheel and reached into my jacket pocket to turn on my cell phone, which chimed merrily and began to glow green. It showed 23 messages in my voicemail. Editrix must have been on the hunt. I deleted the contents of my inbox and dialed her direct line at the Rolling Marble headquarters. It was approaching 2 in the morning. She’d be there.
I heard a ring. And then a click. And then rage.
“Where the fuck have you been?” she snapped. “I’ve tried to reassign this story three times in the past 12 hours. Lucky for you no respectable reporter will take it.”
“Don’t take it away,” I said. “I’m on this thing. I am. This band is… they’re like no other band I’ve seen.” Primarily because I hadn’t yet seen them.
“What’s the lede so far?”
Ahhh. Truth would hurt here. “Rock ‘n’ roll pioneers travel the backroads, visiting the corners and eddies of America as yet untouched by the true spirit of rock ‘n’ roll.”
“Jesus, really? Are they that boring? Or are you that boring? Listen, if you can’t improve on that by the time you file I’m bumping you off the cover. See if you can get one of the band to kill a man. Or some fucking thing. Because James is working on a nice little piece about Nickelback and I'd have no qualms putting it out front. None.”
I heard a click, and she was gone. Leaving me to contemplate the bone-chilling prospect of writing this story for the inside pages. Of becoming the first rock ‘n’ roll reporter to dare to set foot in fucking Utah, all for the sake of a story that runs on page 12.
Not a chance. I climbed into my backseat for a quick nap before heading for the Supra convention.
posted by Ian at 4:21 PM
1 Comments:
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