DMH, for those of you who haven’t met the other band around this joint, stands for Deadly Metal Hatchet. They’ve had lots of adventures, but this… this is essentially (although no one knows it yet) the origins of the Deadly Metal Hatchet.

Sheila paced circles in the vast waiting room. Really, a person could get lost in here. A smart person wanted to get lost in here. There were nooks, there were crannies, there were areas with TVs and areas without. Through it all, Sheila clasped her hands together and tried not to think. Only to keep moving, as if keeping moving would affect the outcome.

In her wake, a trail of tissue crumbs landed, barely visible even against the dark carpet. The tissue was in her knotted-together hands; she’d forgotten it was there.

The accident was the day’s worst so far. The boy was lucky to have his leg still attached and maybe he’d have been luckier if it had just ripped free.

That thought alone made Sheila gag. But there was more.

Broken ribs, collarbone. A dislocated shoulder. Road rash galore. Definitely a concussion, hopefully no brain bleeding, hopefully no internal bleeding or organ damage.

Scans, surgery – and no real way to pay for it.

When she next passed the volunteer desk on her endless rounds, the brunette waved her over. “This is Mr. Bergen, from billing. He needs to speak to you.”

The brunette volunteer showed them to another cranny, one Sheila hadn’t noticed yet. It was actually a room, but it was dark. Or it felt dark. It didn’t matter. Sheila knew what was coming. Knew she didn’t have insurance. Knew that asshole deadbeat who’d done this to her didn’t have any business being on a motorcycle in the first place, let alone would take even the slightest little bit of responsibility or involvement after this.

Sheila wanted to grab those paramedics, the ones who’d saved her oldest boy’s life, and shake them until they explained why the hell they hadn’t let that asshole bleed to death right there, on the spot where he’d tried to kill his kid.

She was afraid the answer would be that the asshole had gotten up and walked away. Just that easy. Just like that wasn’t his flesh and blood there on the pavement, his son’s blood spurting everywhere, his son’s leg… oh, Fozzy’s leg…

As the billing man droned on, Sheila hugged herself around the middle and bent in half, fighting that sudden wooziness that smacked her in the face the way the road had smacked her son. The way it had reached for Fozzy’s leg, trying to claim it like an unpaid bill.

The hospital’s finance man — what had the brunette said his name was? Mr. Bill or something? — touched her back. He looked concerned, but Sheila straightened her shoulders and unballed the tissue from her hand.

There was nothing left. Nothing to wipe her watering eyes with, nothing to dab at the wet corner of her mouth with.

“Mr…” she started.

“Bergen,” he said. “And if you can’t pay it all at once, I understand. Healing your boy takes precedence over payment. We can work something out.”

Sheila put her hand on his arm. “I’ll find a way. I’ll come work here and empty trash cans if I have to, but if you people save my son, I’ll pay every last penny back.”

Mr. Bergen cleared his throat.

Sheila removed her hand. Little white crumbs clung to his arm hair, remnants of Sheila’s tissue.

He pretended to ignore the crumbs, rolled his shirtsleeve down. As he fumbled with the buttons at the wrists, Sheila licked her lips and knotted her hands together again. She tried to remain sitting, but couldn’t.

“We’ll be in touch,” Mr. Bergen said.

Sheila licked her lips again and nodded. “I’ll make good on this. I will,” she said. Add the hospital and the cost of it to the list of things she’d have to face. She’d have to call her lawyer and see if he could help. Last time she’d had money problems, he’d told her to call. Maybe he knew of a way to lean on the asshole, too. Maybe he’d be able to shut off these stupid visits. Maybe he’d be able to squeeze blood from a stone and pay off the hospital fast. No matter how reasonable they said they’d be, they never were. They didn’t care if a family ate or not. They just wanted their money.

Sheila was already working two jobs. She didn’t know where more money could possibly come from. Fozzy couldn’t work, not for awhile. Not after this. And Curt wasn’t old enough yet.

All that had to wait. First, she needed to know Fozzy was okay.

Sheila left the little cranny of a room and resumed pacing the vast waiting room. When she passed the front desk, the brunette offered her a new tissue.

This was inspired, if that’s the right word, by this week’s Sunday Scribblings prompt, Healing.

Last week, for whatever reason, I thought it would be fun to write about Trevor’s favorite foods. You guys seemed to have fun with it, too, so when my good friend Wylie asked me to list Mitchell’s favorite foods this week, it seemed like a great idea.

1. Potato chips. Notice how often he’s eating them? Sheesh. The man loves his chips. Don’t try to steal them, though.

2. Tomatoes, charred on his grill.

3. Pan-seared fish, such as snapper or swordfish (thanks, Ann!). Best when prepared with a fruit salsa of some sort, heavy on the lime juice.

4. Anything grilled. Anything. Even things you thought couldn’t be grilled. He’ll try it.

5. Fruits and vegetables. Yep, Mitchell loves ’em. He’ll gladly sit down to a meal and find it’s a heaping salad. (Meat optional.)

6. He’s always the first to devour the backstage veggie tray, especially when it’s got cauliflower and red pepper on it. He’ll munch the pepper slices like they’re potato chips.

7. From the healthy to the barbecue… Big Buck’s Best Barbecue and Big Buck’s Bodacious Sauce hold a special place for him. He’s been all over the world, eaten all sorts of barbecue, and still says Big Buck’s is the best. And yes, he’s a suck-the-rib-clean kinda guy.

8. Ice Cream, of course. While he’s not as avidly sexual about it as Trevor is, there’s something about a good vanilla cone — despite the old taunts from big sister Amy about how, with his silvery-blonde hair, he looked like a vanilla ice cream cone when he wore khaki pants as a kid. (And now you know why he never wears white. ANYWHERE.)

9. Pizza. In moderation.

10. Veal. Who cares if the cow’s raised in a box, it tastes good when it’s dead and sitting on his plate, cooked to perfection.

11. French fries, especially when they’re shoestring cut. Thin and crispy, they accompany a heaping salad well. (this outtake is still in the half-finished stage. Stay tuned!)

12. Whipped cream. That’s all I’m saying.

13. Orange juice. Mitchell’s drink of choice.

Mitchell didn’t bother opening his eyes when he staggered out of bed. He’d had no intentions of getting up yet, but Kerri wasn’t in bed anymore and since she’d ridden her bike over, it was possible she’d taken off already — without saying goodbye.

Possible, but not probable. More likely, she was as hungover as he was. Maybe worse. He wasn’t looking forward to seeing their trail of empties.

He paused when he stepped on something on the carpet just inside his bedroom. Cracking one eye open as little as possible, he looked down at it. Kerri’s bra.

He tried to grin, but settled for letting the action happen in his head; moving his face hurt too much. She hadn’t left if that was still there. So what the fuck was she doing?

“Hi,” she said when he made it to the couch and flopped down. “Ooh,” she added; he guessed she’d come near enough to get a good look at him. “You’re hurting.”

He grunted.

“I can at least open my eyes,” she said, as if he’d actually spoken.

He smirked but didn’t take the bait. His eyes were staying closed, and that was all there was to that.

“Hungry?” she asked. “Or just thirsty?”

Both, he realized, which was a surprise. Usually, when he felt like this, all he wanted was sleep.

“Here,” she said.

Eyes still shut, he reached up.

And jumped when he realized he wasn’t closing his hand around one of his many plastic convenience store cups, but was grasping the handle of a glass beer mug instead. That got his eyes open. “Where the fuck’d you find this?”

“In the cabinet,” Kerri said, gesturing over her shoulder at his small galley kitchen. “I think Hell froze over and all the plastic’s dirty.”

He took a long drink, ignoring the uncertain look she was giving him. If he hadn’t wanted her to find the collection, he’d have thrown it away. Probably should have, but it was too late now.

“Am I a spectator sport?” he asked when he’d drained the mug. Damn, it tasted better out of a glass mug instead of a plastic cup.

“Why does that look like one of the mugs that All Access uses?”

“A bunch of places use these,” he said, staring wistfully at the now-empty mug.

She held out her hand for it. “Doesn’t matter how hard you wish, it won’t refill itself.”

Sheepishly, he handed it over. She’d make him pay up later for all this waiting on him, but it’d be worth it. She was a creative debt collector, which made him a willing debtor. Even when he was hungover.

Kerri brought two mugs back with her, handing his over and folding hers in two hands like it was coffee.

“So tell me,” she said, sitting down, that leg tucked under her again. “How is it that you’ve got thirteen more of these, eight of another kind, and an odd assortment of others?”

He tried to shrug.

“They just followed you home?” She raised both eyebrows; her sign that she knew the truth. As always. He bought time with another mouthful of juice, but she kept waiting.

“Sometimes,” he said, “you’re talking, you drift out from the bar to the bus and you don’t realize it’s in your hand until you’re a hundred miles down the road.”

“Security doesn’t stop you?”

“I think they’re supposed to, when we go through the stage doors, but some of those guys they hire, they’re too afraid to say hello to the band. Girls, yeah. But not the band.”

Kerri nodded thoughtfully. “And the plates? You can’t tell me those just find their way into your hands.”

“Trev,” he said. Like she’d needed to ask?

“And you’re totally innocent in this thievery?”

“About the dirty plates that show up in my bag and ruin my stuff? Yeah. I wouldn’t put dirty plates in my own bag.”

“Do dirty plates ever show up in his bag?” The corners of her mouth were twitching. He wanted to tell her she was a bitch for making him come clean like this. Really, it was no big deal.

“Course.” Big deal or no, he could feel his own mouth twitching along with hers. He smiled, pleased it wasn’t so painful this time. “The best was the fork down his boot. Took him two days to step on it. Or maybe the spoon in the inside pocket of his leather jacket, although the day he woke up and we’d shoved two mugs on his feet while he slept was pretty good. Almost had to break them to get them off, which sort of defeated the purpose.”

“Why is this suddenly about the things Trevor’s discovered?”

“Believe me, it’s a lot more fun to give than to receive.”

She cocked her head and thought. Mitchell held his breath, waiting for her to hand down judgment.

All she did was lick her lips. “Can’t wait until you teach me the tricks.”

If he hadn’t been so hungover, Mitchell would have thrown his head back and laughed. He’d found himself one hell of a woman, all right. She’d do just fine when the band hit the road.

While this was picked to fulfill this week’s Sunday Scribblings prompt, if you’d like to learn more about why I thought this fit the subject at hand, you might want to head over to my RedRoom blog, where I wax poetic about things.

I honestly can’t say what inspired me to think of Trevor’s favorite foods, but here you go… In no order, until the last one, which truly is Trevor’s #1.

13. bacon (see Trev wax vaguely poetic about bacon here)

12. Pickles, the sour kind that make your mouth pucker. Best when given to Mitchell right before he takes the stage. Or maybe in the middle of the set, but you’d better be ready to run really fast afterward.

11. M&Ms. Fun to pop in your mouth. Gives an idea of what it might be like to be a stereotypic rock star who pops drugs like they’re candy.

10. Pot roast. Whenever Mitchell’s mom says she’s making this for dinner, Trevor shows up. He even showers first.

9. cookies. Sonya sends the guys care packages from time to time, but every now and then, a store-bought cookie hits the spot.

8. Bananas. This is Trevor we’re talking about, after all. Same thing with uncut cucumbers and zucchini. Hey, no one ever said the boy WAS original. Just that he IS an original.

7. Which explains why he’ll occasionally suck a lemon. Trevor likes the lemony fresh smell (so much better than the fake smell in all those cleaners promoters like to use in their dressing rooms) and besides, the rest of the guys shudder when he does it. He’s been known to chase it with a spoonful of sugar and a big drink of water. Dissected Lemonade, he calls it.

6. Corn on the cob. Unless some idiot promoter has hired a caterer who’s turned it into mush. Corn on the cob should be firm. You should be able to sink your teeth into it, slobber all over it, lick the salt and butter off your hands, and wind up with a naked cob at the end.

The sexual innuendo you’re seeing in all that is entirely your own. This is about food, people. Not rock stars and their sex and drugs. (Well, except for the M&Ms)

5. Pancakes. A favored breakfast of the entire band. Trevor used to thoroughly douse them in store-bought syrup until Eric one day made him try the real stuff. For once, Eric was right.

4. Pizza’s always good, but free pizza? Even better. (Beware if you use this link; it’ll put you smack in the middle of Green Hair Week. You may feel lost. If so, read the entire sequence.)

3. Ice Cream — before the band gets too big (and even a little bit after), before the fans find out (and even sometimes after), Trevor likes to talk the tour bus driver into stopping at an ice cream store for a cone before they hit the road. He waxes poetic about it here. One day, I’ll write the scene where he and Mitchell dress up in trench coats and convince Kerri to be their Bond girl…

2. Root beer. Way better than the stuff the rest of the band drinks. AND it doesn’t make Trevor turn into Hank.

And the granddaddy of Trevor’s diet:
1. Meatball subs from Harry’s Hoagies. ‘Nuff said.

Now, you all just follow along with old Chelle here and no one’s gonna get hurt. Hear me on this?

‘Cause, in case you’re livin’ under a rock or some such, followin’s the big trend these days. Follow me here, there, everywhere. You be a good person and you follow along. You’re even better a person if you got lots of followers.

Follow, follow, follow.

Where are the freaky-cool trend-setters? What happened to the people who’re worthy of being followed because there’s something there that pulled you to them? Why do we gotta follow someone simply ’cause it’s cool to do so? Is this now a world where we’re all valuable just ’cause we get people followin’ us? Where we’re better people ’cause we got lots of followers?

Mr. Rogers would be so proud of us.

You gotta stop and think, boys and girls, about what all this followin’ means. Does it mean steppin’ away from your precious computer for a few hours and goin’ to see that band who’s in town special, just to play for all their local followers, the people declarin’ eternal love and devotion in a sentence or less? Does it mean downloadin’ that new song, buyin’ that new t-shirt, and braggin’ about your love for those music-makers on your chest?

It sure used to.

And because of that, bands, they did well. They made a buck or two, could afford their practice spaces and gas for tourin’ and maybe if they’d made it to a major record label, there’d be videos and other goodies like that.

But now, an indie band plays their music for free over a website or two that ain’t even theirs; it belongs to some big corporation that takes all the money while the band gets squat. Fans follow what the dudes and chicks who make the music gotta say, but they ain’t ponying up for tickets so fast. Not unless that band we be talkin’ about is a big band. Been around for years band. One-a them bands that’ll do okay just ’cause of who they are. Heck, even Deadly Metal Hatchet t-shirts are still sellin’ like hotcakes. Chelle knows. She bought two last week, all by her lonesome.

It’s the new guys, bands like Temple of the Book (read more about them here), who need yourself, in person, in front of their stage. Buy their EP. Wear their shirts. Talk about ’em to your followers. Spread the gospel; I know the readers of this here Trumpet newspaper are smart enough to know what to do.

You heard it first, and you heard it here: If you gonna follow, do it right. Do it so it makes a difference. ‘Cause if we don’t change, all we gonna get to hear is Golden Oldies. And it scares Chelle to think of ShapeShifter as a Golden Oldie. Not in this lifetime.

A Sunday Scribblings for you, more directly related to the prompt than usual for me.

Last week, Janet and Megan took the suggestion of blogger Chanda and asked if we’d like to make a Thirteen about weddings.

My thirteen was already done, so I decided to hold off on the prompt until this week. I figured it’d be a good one to ask the ShapeShifter boys about, since it’s been awhile since we last heard from them and I know you’ve missed them as much as I have.

So…

Thirteen things about Weddings, ShapeShifter Style

1. Trevor’s opposed to weddings and anything related to them. After all, weddings are the gateway to monogamy — according to him.

2. Daniel, on the other hand, dreams of marrying Val. Properly — in a church, even though he’s never set foot in one. And her in a long white gown with a train and veil that trail halfway up the aisle. The problem is, Val doesn’t share this dream. Never has.

3. Eric creates a third factor in this equation. The son of a Presbyterian minister, he grew up believing in marriage, life-long marriage. He’s watched his parents weather some tough spots and is committed to finding the woman who can do the same with him.

4. Add in Mitchell, who never thought one way or another about marriage. Yeah, both his older sisters were married by the time he met Kerri. Yeah, his parents have a great marriage. But for him? He’d thought it would never happen, so why dwell on it?

5. Back to Trevor, who also thinks marriage is a way to hold yourself down. When there’s someone else to consider, life isn’t as much fun.

6. Look at Daniel, Trevor will say. He missed how many nights with the rest of the band, hanging at Roach’s, because Val was *insert whine here* tired and wanted to go home?

7. And then there’s the arrangement Daniel and Val have. Since Val doesn’t like being on tour with the band, she gives Daniel some freedom. So long as he doesn’t get their names, or see them again.

8. Eric takes a different approach to the women he meets on the road: they become friends, for as long as the relationship can be sustained.

9. Trevor can’t stand this, of course. Girls aren’t to be friends with. They’re to love and leave.

10. Val’s opposition to marrying Daniel means that Mitchell is the first band member to get married. He does that during Trevor’s Song.

11. Needless to say, Trevor’s not happy about this. About the marriage. About the choice of women. About losing his best friend and partner in crime.

12. Eric and Daniel think it’s great that Mitchell found Kerri. Eric’s dad performed the ceremony, which was held in Daniel and Val’s back yard. The reception was a lot of fun, too.

13. Don’t even bring up the idea of kids around Trevor. Just … don’t… go … there.

New guy came on last night.
Must be someone’s boy toy
Or something.

Ironed t-shirts.
Not a pair of work gloves in sight.
Over-eager.
Desperate to be one of the gang.

And like all newbies,
Doesn’t get the language,
The code
The speak.

The road’s its own beast
You gotta learn it from the ground up
This kid,
He’s got a long way to go
Just to get started.

Everyone laughs,
Snickers
Sneers

Don’t know why I do it,
There ain’t glory in it for me,
Just a lot of ribbing for being a softie.
But

I take the new kid under my wing.
Hand over a spare pair of gloves;
I’ve got three more.

Start with a shadow.
Hand him a broom.
Point.
Use the right language.

He may not make it
But it’s not him people are watching.

It’s me.

Ahh, it’s nice when both the Sunday Scribblings and the Monday Poetry Train overlap. I’d like to do some commentary about this over at my Red Room page, but don’t know if I’ll get the time. We shall see… and of course, if I make the time, you’ll hear about it.

… and that was fast! Go read it…

I was surprised at the number of you last week who commented that you didn’t know what taboule is. You poor, sheltered people! This mixture of parsley, bulgur wheat, onions and/or scallions, and tomatoes, all tossed in a light, lovely lemony, garlicky, olive oil dressing… Oh, it’s to die for. The combination of flavors makes your tastebuds come alive.

So as I was thinking of a way to incorporate taboule into my second Thirteen in a row, I decided to create a new restaurant in my fictional town of Riverview. Why not? After all, I love Middle Eastern food. And since Mitchell likes his food on the healthy side (as opposed to Trevor, who thinks grease ought to be a food group), Mona’s Middle Eastern Eats came to mind.

On the menu at Mona’s…
1. Taboule, of course!

2. And hummus and baba ganoush. These purees (of chick peas and smoked eggplant, respectively) define Middle Eastern food for many. Mona’s makes both in-house and often hopes they don’t run out by the end of the day.

3. Falaffel is a classic. Chick pea patties are deep-fried and served with a yogurt sauce. At Mona’s, you can have them as a sandwich, wrapped in a freshly-baked pita, if you’d like. Or you can have the appetizer style: little balls of flavored goodness.

4. Most people know about grape leaves. Stuffed with either ground lamb and rice or other goodies like chick peas, these can be served either cold or hot, depending on your filling preference. Mitchell likes them cold ’cause they’re easier to pick up to eat. They are also fun to play with; they make great pretend cigars.

5. And then there’s Kibbee. You can usually get this lamb and wheat delicacy raw or cooked. With raw meat, there’s always a chance it can make you sick. (Sort of like oysters) Mona’s does its best to make sure the raw version won’t make you swear to never return, but it’s hard to find locally-grown, grass-fed lamb that’s processed in a clean enough plant. They are considering removing the raw option from the menu.

6. Shish Kebab! This can be chicken, beef, or even lamb. Chunks of meat slow-roasted on a skewer with lots of vegetables, served over rice… oh, the heaven. There’s a variation of this that Mona’s is famous for. It’s called kefta, and Mona’s makes it with ground beef and lots of cinnamon and other spices. It’s not the most appetizing to look at, but consider where it’s headed once you put it in your mouth. That’s what matters.

7. Greek salad. C’mon, does this need a lot of explanation? Iceberg lettuce, kalamata olives, rings of red onion, feta cheese, cucumber, all liberally doused in a light lemon-garlic-olive oil dressing. Very similar to the dressing for taboule. Only different.

8. Fatoosh. Take the flavors of taboule, add lettuce, baked pita chips, mint, cucumber, and chicken, and you’ve got yourself a main course. If you want to take your leftovers home, Mona’s will give you fresh pita chips, as they will get soggy if not separated out.

9. Spinach pie. dough baked with a spinach-and-onion mixture inside. Big enough for dinner and surprisingly heavy, thanks to the dough.

10. Stuffed cabbage. What, you thought the Eastern Europeans had the market on this stand-by? Not even close. Mona’s will stuff the cabbage leaves with a lamb-and-tomato mixture, and serve it in a homemade tomato sauce that is light and tasty.

11. Moussaka. Layers of eggplant, tomatoes, potatoes, and ground lamb smothered in cheese and accompanied by a light sauce. Mona’s brags that this is their signature dish, but they actually sell more of the kefta.

And for dessert:
12. Halva. Mona imports this sesame-seed candy from Turkey. It arrives wrapped in its own package, like a candy bar. And yes, there are some chocolate-coated varieties available. This is Eric’s not-so-secret indulgence. He never leaves Mona’s without buying a half-dozen — without the chocolate.

13. Baklava. This classic honey-and-nuts dessert in its light phyllo dough really needs no explanation. Unlike most else at Mona’s, this is not baked in-house. Rather, Mona employs an off-site baker whose job is to do nothing but bake trays of baklava, one at a time, with love and care. And lots and lots of honey.

While Mona’s is entirely fictional, this sort of Middle-Eastern menu isn’t. For help and inspiration, I used the guidelines of my own knowledge of these foods (especially as the Tour Manager makes them), as well as the menu from local favorite ali baba. What their website lacks, their food more than makes up for.

Happy eating this week! If I’ve inspired you to try something, be sure to come back and let me know — unless you didn’t like it. No need to make me feel bad!

The first thing Trevor saw when he and Mitchell walked into the shop was Melody, of course. She had that stupid chair of hers positioned perfectly, so that when you walked into Lyrical Pleasures, the first thing you saw wasn’t Lyric. It was Mama Melody, holding court on that stupid velvet lounge chair.

Mitchell, of course, bent over and gave her a kiss.

“Trevor,” Melody purred, raising an eyebrow, clearly waiting for him to follow the big idiot and pay proper homage.

Trevor bent down and, instead of kissing her, touched the spot beside her eye as gently as he could. “You should tell Lyric to start carrying skin shit. Your wrinkles are showing.”

Mitchell grabbed his upper arm and dragged him out into the street as Melody gasped in outrage, but Trevor didn’t care. He couldn’t stand Melody. Didn’t much like Lyric, but at least she didn’t expect groveling from him because he’d decided to spend money in her store.

“The fuck!” Mitchell was too pissed to bother growling. It just came out as a roar, and an ugly one at that. It didn’t help that they’d just been at Harry’s Hoagies and the guy had the breath of the dragon he was fast turning into.

Trevor shrugged and turned his back on Mitchell, bracing his hands against the storefront’s outside wall. Mitchell would beat him into a pulp for what he’d said and frankly, he deserved it. Right here, in full view of everyone.

“You just fucking wait here, all right?” Mitchell said. “And next time, if you don’t want to come with, just fucking say so.”

Trevor took a deep breath. Mitchell wasn’t going to hit him? Why the fuck not?

He glanced around. Nope, no cops in sight. So what was Mitchell’s problem? Maybe he needed to be pushed farther. “Not my fault you give all your rubbers away so you’re out when you actually need one.”

“That’s not what I’m doing here, dickhead. Now don’t fucking move.”

Trevor turned his head. “You mean you want me to stand here like this?” He jerked his head at the building, his hands still planted on its side. He looked like he was waiting to be frisked by that cop. The one not around.

Mitchell narrowed his eyes. “No. On second thought, go close that dumpster and sit on it.”

That, Trevor was all too happy to do.

Maybe he’d come back in a day or two and beg Melody’s forgiveness. She didn’t look that old. Hell, she didn’t even look washed up. In fact, she looked pretty damn good for a woman who had a set of adult twins. She wasn’t just any woman with twins, either; she was still the reigning porn queen, even if she’d retired after she’d had daughter number three. No one had shocked people the way Melody had. No one had made the point about sex being good any better than Melody Maker. Oh, there were new stars, of course, nubile young things who explained the meaning of words like nubile with just one glance. But no one had made other women actually like having sex. Not the way Melody had.

Maybe, Trevor thought as he closed the dumpster and jumped up, letting his legs swing over the metal lip, she did deserve some respect.

But he still wasn’t bending over her like she was some queen. Or if he did, it’d be because they were both naked and willing.

This week’s Sunday Scribblings prompt was aging. I was going to focus on Melody originally, but when I sat down to write, Trevor seized control. Go figure.

If you need a timeline placement for this, it happens before Mitchell meets Kerri (that’s the Trevor’s Song era), but after they’ve established themselves pretty well. Probably right before the Massive album; that’s the album that established them as bona-fide stars.

Trevor stood in front of the machines, a cigarette dangling off his lip. If he’d ever needed to look cool, right now was it. Adults weren’t supposed to chew gum, let alone buy it out of gumball machines. And that was assuming there were gumballs in all these machines. There wasn’t.

If anyone had been handed adult status and tried harder than Trevor Wolff to give it back, Trevor would like to meet that person and shake their hand.

He rubbed the quarter in his hand. Only one, and four things to choose from. Gum, one of those sticky hands that they loved to smack each other with, a rubber ball, and some unknown, unidentified other sort of toy.

There was no sense taking the chance on the unknown thing. Not with only one quarter. Maybe he’d be able to plant it in Daniel or Eric’s bunk, but sooner or later they’d remember they hadn’t bought it.

Mitchell had torn the fingers off the last sticky hand. He’d plastered them to the front of the microwave, trying to make the thing give them the bird, although he was the only one who’d been able to see it. Four of the fingers were still there, looking like … sticky little lines.

It was kinda cool and definitely something that got people talking, but it made the rest of the hand hard to drag across a guy’s beard when he fell asleep in the front lounge. What made it fun — and why Mitchell had done it — was the way the fingers would suddenly pull off a whisker or three. Not even the big idiot could sleep through that.

Trevor drew on the cigarette. Gumballs were fun, but it was hard to chew and smoke at the same time. Now that the band got a per diem that could stretch to cover cigarettes, chewing gum instead of smoking wasn’t as necessary as it used to be.

As for the rubber balls, the bus driver had banned them, at least on the bus. Which was where they were headed as soon as everyone finished whizzing and Trevor decided what to do with his quarter. Saving the ball for later was stupid, too. Mitchell and Daniel would grab it and play some form of tackle handball until either the ball got lost or Charlie pulled them off each other and sent them to opposite corners — and took the ball for himself.

There was no way Trevor was wasting this quarter on those two. Or the stupid-assed tour manager.

Eric came out of the rest stop and stood beside Trevor, looking at the choices. “Slim pickings,” the guitarist said, his hands jammed in the back pockets of his jeans so his elbows stuck out.

“Tell me about it.” Trevor moved slightly so he wouldn’t get touched by one of the elbows.

Eric bobbed his head and for a second there, Trevor was afraid the guy would tell him all about it. He’d done that sort of shit before.

“Maybe we should wait for the another one,” Eric said. “There’s bound to be something better out there.”

“What’s better than Mitchell’s face when he sticks his foot in a shoe and finds a sticky hand waiting for him?”

“Mitchell’s face when he’s gone a week without finding a sticky hand,” Eric said. “We’ve done that one so much, we’re all checking our shoes before we put them on.”

Trevor couldn’t argue with that. He exhaled hard, watching the smoke float past Eric’s face. It was sort of fun to see how relieved everyone looked when they didn’t see anything waiting for them. “I’m bored,” Trevor said.

“Me, too,” Eric said. He pulled his hands out of his pockets. “We need to come up with something different.”

Trevor nodded his agreement, the end of his cigarette flapping along.

“When the time is right, we’ll know what to do,” Eric said.

Trevor closed his eyes, willing Eric’s spirituality lecture to stop right there. He wanted to have fun, not listen to a bunch of bullshit.

“No,” Mitchell said.

Trevor didn’t open his eyes yet. Clearly, the big idiot thought he was raiding the sticky hands.

Eric coughed. A fake, hollow cough. The kind that said someone had detected the sort of fun that was needed.

Trevor opened his eyes and used his tongue to flick his cigarette off his lip and onto the ground. “Too late,” he told Mitchell in a sing-song.

“Trevor–” Mitchell growled.

Daniel came out and looked at Mitchell, then at Trevor. And finally at the gumball machines. He groaned. “You didn’t.”

Trevor slid the quarter into his back pocket, trying to be casual about it. “I did,” he said and shrugged.

“Me, too,” Eric said. He was smiling, like this was great fun. For him, who never did this sort of shit, it probably was.

Mitchell opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Not even hot air. He turned and walked off to the bus. Daniel did the same thing: opened his mouth. No sound, no hot air.

The drummer turned away and jogged to catch up to Mitchell.

Eric and Trevor looked at each other. “This could be fun,” Soul-boy said.

“Could be,” Trevor agreed. “At least until they dump all the shit out of our bunks, looking for whatever they think we just bought.”

“It’ll break up the boredom,” Eric said.

Again, Trevor couldn’t argue. He felt the quarter in his back pocket. The guy was right. Sometimes, it was best to wait, even a little bit. There would be better gumball machines up ahead. Better pranks.

Although, this one was off to a good start.

This bit of fun was inspired by another Easystreet Prompt. You can read a bit of the thoughts that went into this outtake at my RedRoom.com blog. If I can get it to post correctly.

Usually, when I write Roadie Poet, I try to keep his adventures as true-to-life as possible, given my experiences (or that of my sources). But every now and then, an idea like this one strikes and you’ve got to run with it.

This was written for this week’s Sunday Scribblings prompt, Listen up because this is important!

They needed someone to do it.
Four cars in the parking lot.
Eight headlights.
Glowing.
Breaking up the dark.

Make an announcement, they said.
Make people listen up.
It’s important.

Not to a guy who got here on a bus.
A bus he didn’t drive.
A bus he don’t care about.
Much.

Hambone volunteered me.
So did More.
Four sound guys.
The entire pyro team.

Lucky me.

They handed me the mic.
Let me stand off stage
In the shadows.
Gave me the sign.

And my throat
Closed
Up.

It was the sound of Mitchell walking back and forth that alerted Sonya. Either the boy was sick, which she doubted, or he was up to something — probably with Trevor.

He’d left his bedroom door open slightly, so before announcing herself, she peeked inside.

“Ow! You fuckhead, let me do it myself!” Trevor’s anger was familiar, but his voice was funny. Off, somehow.

“So here,” Mitchell said. “Do it yourself and then don’t let the door hit you on the way out. Fuckhead.”

Sonya took a step closer to the door before announcing herself. She could see the edge of Trevor in Mitchell’s mirror, and what she saw made her choke on her breath.

“Who’s that?” Mitchell asked as she coughed.

“It’s your mother, Mitchell. May I come in?”

“Uhh…”

“I think she knows,” Trevor said. He sounded stuffed up, nasal, and definitely defensive, yet at the same time, resigned. “Better let her in.”

“C’mon in, Ma,” Mitchell sighed.

Trevor didn’t move from in front of the mirror. He dabbed at a cut on the corner of his eye with a washcloth. A matching cut stretched from the corner of his mouth, heading back toward his cheek. His face was badly swollen, his eyes already blackening.

Sonya wished Patterson were home to help with this. They’d known this moment was coming when they’d have to confront Trevor about the constant bruises the boy sported, the frequent cuts, the perpetual black eyes. They’d agreed on how to handle things, but that didn’t mean Sonya wanted to do it herself. This was Patterson’s strength.

She sat down on the edge of Mitchell’s bed and folded her hands in her lap.

“What?” Mitchell muttered at her, sullen again.

Sonya shook her head and waited.

“Ma…”

“Relax, M. She’s waiting for the right time,” Trevor said. It sounded like it was supposed to be a sneer, but it also sounded like Trevor had a few teeth knocked loose. Not to mention that stuffed-up nose aspect; between that and the eyes, Sonya was willing to bet that nose was out-and-out broken.

“I’m evaluating how you are. Is there more?”

Trevor glared at her but didn’t say anything. He turned like he was going to walk out of the room, maybe to hang the washcloth up in the bathroom, but he didn’t leave. “How long before you call the cops?”

“Did Mitchell do this to you?”

The cut side of Trevor’s mouth curled up in a pained smile as Mitchell began to protest. “Chill,” Trevor told him. “Your mom’s actually got a sense of humor.”

“Well?” Sonya asked. “Did he?”

“Ma!”

“No,” Trevor said.

“Then there’s no need for me to call the police, is there?”

“You’d turn your own kid in?” Mitchell’s yelp conveyed his sense of betrayal, but Sonya ignored him. He should have known better than to believe she’d turn something like that over to the police. Patterson would never stand for it.

“Good,” Trevor said and gave a satisfied nod. “Cops’re a waste of time.”

“Sometimes,” Sonya said.

Trevor eyed her, expecting more, but she continued waiting.

“Protective services, then? You know, someone tried that once already. They came out, talked to Jenny, and decided to leave as soon as Hank came home. Left us four there, but Jeremy snuck out somehow and got away, the loser.”

“What made him such a loser?” Sonya asked.

“He should have stuck up for us. He’s the oldest. Instead, it was all on me. Eliza said it was okay, but HJ let me know it wasn’t.” He looked out the window for a long minute. “I suck as bad as Jeremy. I should be there now, cleaning up.”

“At least you’re trying,” Sonya said. “You don’t suck for trying.”

“No? I only suck for letting it happen? For not being able to protect them? Why the fuck is it my job anyway? I thought I was just a kid. I thought I was supposed to ride the bus to school and eat cafeteria lunches and do my fucking homework. Why the fuck am I the bad guy because I can’t stand being there? Because I don’t fucking want to be part of it anymore? I’ve had enough. Why can’t someone make it stop already?”

Sonya closed her eyes. Patterson had been right; the boy’s behavior and attitudes were all tied into a need to escape. To be part of a family.

She opened her eyes and tried to sort through what to say, but Trevor was giving her that uneasy look again. “So what’re you going to do?” he asked. “You can’t keep quiet about something like this. Fine, upstanding people like you–” his sneer returned — “you’ve got to get involved, don’tcha? Can’t sleep at night with that bleeding heart of yours, but your idea of getting involved means meddling, not fixing shit. So let’s hear it. Who you gonna go squeal to?”

Mitchell shifted his weight.

“No one,” Sonya said gently. “You forget who this bleeding heart is married to. You’ve got a safe haven here — a very safe haven — as long as you need it. Perhaps a measure of protection, too, but that is between you and Patterson. I suggest you don’t insult him — or me again.”

Trevor kept watching Sonya as he began to fidget, picking at folds of the washcloth as it sat on Mitchell’s dresser. “This smells,” he said at last.

“Trev…” Mitchell said.

“At some point in your life, Trevor, you will have to trust someone who wants to help you. I know you’re only fifteen, but Patterson and I believe you’re capable of making that sort of choice now if you’d like.”

Sonya didn’t expect Trevor to do much more than nod, but instead, he caught and held her eye, then slowly lifted his t-shirt and turned around so she could see the bruises there, too.

Melody had taught her girls that limitless choices weren’t overwhelming choices. They were golden opportunities, times to think carefully and try to imagine what life would be like if they chose this one, that one, or refused to consider those over there.

She’d been talking about things more vitally important than a rainbow selection of cowboy boots.

Footwear was image every bit as much as hair color or style. Melody knew that. Melody swore by it.

She’d never expected one of her girls to be standing in front of a selection of cowboy boots, rooted to the spot as though she couldn’t move until one of those leather soles slid between her foot and the floor. “Mom, I need the red ones,” Lyric said.

“Need?” Melody arched an eyebrow and cocked her head, pin-up fashion. She could all but hear the instant erection of the salesman who hovered, ready to do the bidding of these two beauties.

“Need,” Lyric said.

Melody cocked her head to the other side.

“Honey, a look like that…”

“…defines a woman.”

Lyric was smiling. Melody knew that smile, recognized it from her own youth. Lyric was coming into her own womanly power.

Red cowboy boots for Melody’s first-born, it would be.

So I found this writing prompt site, easystreet prompts. They post a picture or a group of words every day, but it’s cooler than that. Most of the pictures are vintage and whether or not the time frame’s right, they make me think of the Great Depression. Except for this one, obviously. It’s been awhile since we spent some time with our favorite porn queen and her offspring, and with Lyric’s red cowboy boots so integral to who she is…

“Here,” Mitchell said, handing her the package. “I bought you something.”

“What is it?”

“Look.” When Kerri squinted at the mailing label, he said, “Inside.”

“It’s not an envelope?”

“Not even close.” He nodded at it.

She turned it on its end and found the pull tab on the padded envelope. “You’re sure?” she asked him, raising her eyebrows. She looked so alive right then, so vibrant, he thought about swooping her up and throwing her in their bed.

“Go on,” he made himself say. “Look inside.”

She gasped when she saw it. With reverence, she pulled it out of the envelope, letting the mailer fall on the floor while she put it carefully down on her lap and stroked it. “How did you know?”

He shrugged. “I saw you looking at it one night. In that catalog you like.”

“I thought you were sleeping.”

He shrugged again. “Guess it’s a good thing you thought so.”

She stroked the book cover, then lifted it slowly, listening to the cover groan. He smiled. He hadn’t believed it was merely a stupid book on art technique when he’d seen the glow in her eyes every time she’d looked at the catalog, and he didn’t believe that it was merely a stupid book now, either.

The scene had played itself out the same way so many times, Walter knew it by heart. As soon as it started, he’d close his eyes and be transported back to that first time, when the twenty-year-old kid had stood there, splay-legged, one hand wrapped around the neck of a bottle of Wild Turkey, swaying.

“You’re gonna regret this, you old fuck!”

“Old?” He would kick himself later for not being able to come up with anything better than that, but at the moment, all he could do was wonder how on Earth someone who was thirty could be accused of being old.

“Yeah, old! Too fucking old to know what I’m worth! Either pay me more or I walk!”

Walter waved his hand in circles in the general direction of the door. “Walk on, brother. We had a good time together. I hope you learned things from me.”

The kid had thrown the bottle of Wild Turkey at the wall. The added defiance of the sound of the breaking glass and the sight of the amber liquid on the wall made him grow three inches. “I’ll show you, you stupid-assed motherfucker!”

“I hope you will,” Walter said placidly, pressing his fingertips together and touching his lips with them.

Lacking anything else to make a show with, the kid lost those new inches and stomped out of the room.

“Walter?” Rich, his bass player had said. His eyes had been big, terrified, his voice low and scared. “What do we do now? We’re on in an hour.”

“Didn’t you tell me that kid was hanging around again? The one we jammed with last week?”

Rich’s eyes widened. “But…”

“Trust in providence,” Walter said. “Or that I knew this was coming.”

“How?”

Walter smiled. “The dummy left the offer to join a new band someplace where Lila happened to see it.”

“Where was that?”

“His guitar case, in that hidden compartment we all deny having. Go get that kid. We have to go over the setlist with him.”

“Do you go through my shit like that?”

“I don’t go through anyone’s shit,” Walter said. “And you’re not using me as a stepping stone for glory, so there’s no need for Lila to.”

The bass player stopped and considered that. “No,” he said at last. “I’m not. How do we know the new kid won’t be?”

“Oh, he will be. It’s the nature of the guitar player. They want the glory, all of it, and for themselves. You watch. He was only the first. Every single one of my guitarists will follow this path.”

And they had, down to the same scene. Oh, the bottles of liquor changed. Some of them didn’t make that dramatic arc through the air. The guitar players weren’t all blonde and green-eyed like that first kid had been. And Lila hadn’t had to dig up anything; Walter had learned to read the signs, to know when it was time for them to move on.

Through all the transitions, there was always someone immediately there, ready to step in. Ready to be the next apprentice and to help Walter maintain his own glory as the guy who helped develop some of the best guitarists to ever play rock and roll.

No, he thought as the latest new guy was escorted in, there’s nothing here to regret at all.

Ahh, Walter. We don’t see him around here nearly enough, don’t you think? Use the Cast tab up top to see more of him.

She’d only cancelled her trip home because Trevor had taunted her into staying on the road with them. So far, it had been okay. The city had lost its magical hold on her; she felt like a stranger and the city felt like any other they’d been to. Nothing special anymore. Even the memories were getting foggy, drowned out by the vividness that was life in Riverview.

Only as she’d stood in Primanti’s and watched them make sandwiches for Mitchell and Trevor had she felt like she’d never left. It had been a temporary feeling; as she’d reached out to pay the woman in the greasy white apron and gotten a glimpse of her black leather tour jacket, she’d remembered why she was here, and, more importantly, who she’d become.

That didn’t mean that standing in the bowels of the Igloo, watching from the fringes as the band met with their fans, was a comfortable thing. Any one of those people could be someone Kerri knew, someone she’d grown up with. Someone like Emily van … van… van Something. Who was shimmying in front of Mitchell as she eyed his crotch between head tosses, still the School’s Top Slut eight years later.

It was all Kerri could do to stand there, watching Emily draw an index finger down the middle of her bottom lip while giving Mitchell a come-hither look. Drawing attention to herself would cause more problems than it could solve, and Mitchell was doing fine on his own. But that didn’t mean it was easy to stay in the shadows, a faceless member of the band’s crew.

Kerri watched as Emily drew the strap of her tank top aside, pumping her shoulder a few times like a model in front of the camera. It was probably habit, Kerri thought. She’d seen pictures of Emily back in high school, the illicit ones the guys had taken during drunken and drug-fueled nights, with Emily as the belle of the ball. Hell, Kerri had seen more of Emily than Mitchell ever would; what was she getting upset about?

Mitchell moved on, to a kid who looked to be about eighteen. A guy whose eyes had boggled at each of Emily’s antics and who now wasn’t sure who he should be talking to, Emily or Mitchell.

Kerri watched Emily as Mitchell dismissed her entirely. She pouted and leaned back against the wall, throwing the occasional dirty look at Mitchell. Kerri wondered what the woman would say if she knew just who it was who Mitchell had married. They hadn’t been friends in high school; they’d had to tolerate each other due to the fact of simple proximity. Kerri had been the cool chick, the one who’d fit in. Emily had fucked her way to acceptance.

As she watched Daniel come near enough to make Emily perk back up, Kerri decided that it was probably a good thing those ties she’d felt to the city were gone. While she doubted she’d have wound up like Emily if she’d stayed, the simple fact was that some ties were harder to break. She and Emily would have seen each other around town, would have still shared some friends, spent some Sunday afternoons at the same house, rooting on the Steelers. Their orbits would have overlapped and Kerri would never had escaped. She’d have turned into those people she’d hated most.

Leaving had been the right thing, even if the way she’d done it maybe hadn’t been. Letting the lies spread about what had happened the night before she’d married Mitchell had been a blessing in disguise.

Standing in the shadows, being a nameless, faceless member of the ShapeShifter crew was a hell of a lot better than anything she would have become if she’d stayed in town.

She hoped Trevor would teach Emily van Whatever a thing or two. And that Emily wouldn’t teach him about something he’d need antibiotics to cure.

This week’s Sunday Scribblings inspired this, as did the woman on the spin bike beside me last Friday. She’d toss her hair and pose for the mirror; it was an experience, watching her.

If you weren’t here over the weekend, you’ll want to scroll down or click through; you missed some Roadie Poet!

Been home longer than a month.
Promised job never came through.

Happens sometimes.

Antonio’s moved in, too.
I’ve never known Mom to be so
Happy.
She sings in the kitchen while she makes dinner.
Feasts.
We eat leftovers for weeks.

I pick up some local stage work.
The crew there,
They never been on the road.
Most of ’em won’t get there.

But they dream anyway.

Dad wants me to move my stuff
Come stay with him.
But I’m happy here.
Getting fat.
Loving Mom like this.

When I leave,
It’ll be for a tour.
But right now, it’s fun to be home.

Trevor Wolff doesn’t do reruns. And this Thursday Thirteen thing, all this dying and resurrection drama, it smells of reruns.

But Susan’s insisting. All ’cause of Robin. And Robin… Now there is a woman for you. Strong. Devoted. I bet she could teach Rusty a few things about being cool, too. Even though it was Susan who she said was cool, not me. I’ll have you know, Robin, I’m cooler than Susan can ever hope to be. Got that?

Robin got handed some blog award where she was supposed to tell ten things about herself. She wanted Susan or me to do it.  Susan thought that it’d be fun to get to know this new Thirteen crowd. Maybe remind the old crowd what they’ve been missing.

That means old Trevor gets to do the honors. Ten things about himself, not about Susan. Only, since I’m Trevor Fucking Wolff, I get to forget how to count again and turn ten into thirteen. Which is still better than Mitchell, who’d turn ten into twelve. Idiot’s got his head so far into his music, everything with him’s all about fours.

1. My name’s Trevor Fucking Wolff. Yeah, it’ll be on the quiz. Take notes.

2. I play bass in this band I founded. ShapeShifter. You shoulda heard of us; we fucking thunder. Not rock. Rocking’s for sissies. We thunder. Get the dif?

3. That dork I mentioned, Mitchell. He’s my best friend. Like a brother to me. I lived with his family for two years until I quit high school two days before graduation and Mitchell’s parents told me it was time to move out on my own.

4. I got this rinky-dink apartment over Decade. Still live there.

5.  I have a Vincent. That’s a motorcyle, for you who don’t know better. I rebuilt it mostly by myself. Hammer, Wrench, and Torque helped.

6. I star in Susan’s first book, The Demo Tapes.  You need a copy, if you don’t already have one.

7. It’s chock full of 20 of my favorite adventures. Well, favorite until Susan puts out The Demo Tapes: Year 2.  She’s working on it.

8. Before Mitchell fell in love with this redheaded artist type, he and I tore up the city of Riverview, where we live. Now that he was dumb enough to commit an act of monogamy with Rusty, I rule the city myself. It’s not as much fun as watching Mitchell be a dork.

9. If there’s a willing girl, I’m there. A woman’s body is best appreciated up close. All those curves and soft places; it’s a guy’s fantasy come true. Every single time.

10. One thing no one told us was that the groupies you meet on the way up are the ones you’ll remember the longest. That’s ’cause they do more than spend ten minutes making you happy, ifyouknowwhatTrevormeans. They give you a place to crash when you’re on tour and too broke for a hotel. They feed you after-show dinners and keep the beer flowing and give you Advil in the morning when you had too many beers.

11. Not me, though. My idea of beer’s root beer. I get to laugh at the hungover asses of those three.

12. Susan wrote a book. A novel. When you read it, you’ll get the root beer. And meatball subs. The more copies of The Demo Tapes that you buy, the sooner you’ll get to read the novel. She’s not the only one who promises. I do, too. There’s shit in that book that I’m sick of not being able to tell you about.

13.  How many of you Thirteeners missed old Trevor? ‘Cause Trevor sure missed a lot of you…

Pop quiz: What’s Trevor’s name again?

In the past, when we’ve seen Kermit Ladd on these pages, he’s been run in circles by the boys in the band. That ShapeShifter band, that is (for you who don’t know just who rules the roost around here). Kermit, however, isn’t the amateur you may think he is. Nope. The man’s won awards for his journalism, and is generally well-regarded in the field. Here’s why, in a piece inspired by both this week’s Sunday Scribblings prompt and a comment made at a new blog I’ve recently found, Metalblog.

No matter how loathesome everything else around this strip mall where the end of the line trickles into place, its beige façade faded by the blazing Arizona sun, trash bleaching in the fire lane like a dead fish washed up by a red tide, there is always something worthy of one’s attention. In this case, it is three young men, maybe as young as eighteen, maybe as old as twenty-six, who crawl out from behind the artificially green bushes near building’s side.

They are dirty. Their black hair wears a layer of brown dust, as do their tattered-in-places clothing. Their shoes haven’t escaped; rather, they bear the brunt of the damage. Holes in the soles and at the toes haven’t seen attempts at repair. Nor have the revealed nails seen a clipper, much as they need to.

Foot sore, weary, and hungry, they ask where they might refill their water bottles. They lick their lips as they eye the snacks others munch, oblivious to the new arrivals who need their money for the precious few tickets that remain.

No one jumps to help them, offer advice, or point them to a spicket. In fact, the thick crowd assembled to see Sammy Spencer perform across the street pretends these three simply don’t exist. The three are, to an extent, relieved. To be seen, noticed, acknowledged by the wrong people will mean that instead of the inside of a theater, they will be treated to the inside of a police car. Instead of the music they came so far to hear, they will hear a judge issuing the order that they be deported back home.

A reasonable person would bemoan the other side of what attention can bring: the helping hand that can shelter them, help them, provide them with what they need. Not these three.

“We used to it, man,” one of them tells this intrepid journalist once contact is made and safe identity established. “No one want help the Spics. Let these Spics tell you sumpin’, man. When Sammy Spencer get done and walk off that stage, we start our own walk back home. We don’t want to be part of no society that so mean to us.”

“We work hard at home,” the second one says. “But Sammy, he cancelled show in Mexico. This his farewell tour. We can’t miss the farewell tour.”

It is pointed out that Sammy’s already held two farewell tours, and no one has been fool enough to label this one the same. It seems that Sammy Spencer’s latest idea of retirement means three months on tour and one off, summers spent with the reunited and reconfigured Scarred Heart, and grandiose statements about unplugging the microphone that keep the fans pouring through the doors the moment they open. He now limits the countries he visits, and no longer seeks to gain visas for the many he’s been banned from. Perhaps there is even some taming of the famed Sammy Spencer, the man who once gave an interview while dining upon what he still, to this day, maintains was a dog, a delicacy in some of those countries in which the man is no longer welcome — and a few in which he never was.

These three Mexican men, who snuck across the border between our countries simply to say farewell to their musical hero, are the epitome of Sammy Spencer and the rebellious ways he seems to have, finally, thirty years later, matured beyond.

Yet it is clear to this journalist, at least, that he continues to inspire a flaunting disregard of the law, of simple things like visas and passports and lawful entry into another country.

These three young men, covered in dirt, stomachs audibly growling, are the essence of rock and roll.

Mitchell rested his hands behind his head, cradling it over the flat pillow Eric had given him. The cool night air felt good on his arms and the exposed part of his chest that stuck out of the sleeping bag. Maybe there was hope for this camping idea yet.

He hadn’t wanted to come. Hell, he’d laughed when Eric had suggested it; he liked to be outside, sure, but to find a spot in the middle of the woods and spend the night? Doing what?

The lead guitarist hadn’t backed down, no matter how grumpy Mitchell got. Camping, it seemed, was going to happen. Just the two of them, a couple of sleeping bags, a tent that Eric damn well better know how to pitch, some food in a bear-proof container, and two acoustic guitars.

It had been obvious that Eric knew what he was doing. “It’s how Dad escapes from the congregation,” Eric had said as he’d slid the poles in place. “Everywhere else he goes — even if he’s in another city — he runs into people who know him. So he comes up here instead. Jared used to come with him until he got a life, then it was my turn.” Eric had shrugged. “I may have a life, but it includes this now.”

Mitchell thought he was nuts. Once the tent was up, he got bored. Picking up firewood wasn’t exactly stimulating, although actually getting the thing started had some fun points. Like when Eric had pulled a stick out of the fire, its end glowing orange, and challenged him to a swordfight.

That hadn’t lasted long, so they’d roasted their weenies, toasted the buns, and threw a few ears of corn on the edges. Somehow, it all tasted better out there. Mitchell didn’t want to admit it, but he sort of was digging this. Being able to take a piss wherever he felt like it wasn’t a bad thing, either.

Going to bed before sunrise had sucked, but he’d actually been too tired to care. And now here he was, awake at the crack of dawn, listening to the birds start singing.

Part of why Eric had dragged him out here was because lately, the songs weren’t there. The band had a new album due, but whenever they sat down to write songs, they all sounded like shit. Flat. Or fake. Forced. Definitely not the Fuck You, World that ShapeShifter was known for. Worst of all, the music that was always playing in Mitchell’s head had stopped.

This solution of Eric’s had seemed stupid at first — songs about birds chirping weren’t exactly Fuck You, World. But now, as the world woke up and dragged Eric along with it, the birds weren’t the only music Mitchell was hearing.