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Chapter 5 - The Big Apple, Part One3/5/10 - Written By Rossfort Crossbow
"Matt!" ... "Mayayayayayayayayaaaat!!"
Ross and Mike looked shyly, simultaneously in Susan's direction. Mike gripped his jar-o-coffee as Ross politely elaborated. They didn't want their host uninformed.
"That's how his mom says his name-"
"Maybe not with that many syllables, of course!" Mike corrected, very nearly interrupting.
Their efforts were in vein. Matt would not soon be budging from his carefully chosen patch of floor. His thoughtful pairing of fleece blanket and insulated sleeping bag were working wonders after a seemingly unending night of good beer--flying dog in fact. Normally he couldn't stand sunlight pouring into a room while he was sleeping, but he was either apathetic or oblivious.
Mike turned to Ross. "Have you tried this? The heat is rather delayed."
Ross grabbed the bottle of orangish liquid and rotated it 360 degrees in his hand, noting the overall pattern of the bottle, but not paying any attention to the specifics. The name was not significant to him.
"It's got carrots in it," Susan complemented, "I love it."
Ross let a couple drops drip carefully onto his index finger and gave it a kiss. Tasted like hot sauce.
An abrupt alarm sounded to their left. Matt, who was face down in his bedding managed to extend his neck about an inch and a half off the ground without actually opening his eyes. He rolled over, yanking his blankets--violently fluffing his pillow in protest of the foreign sound invasion. The ringing soon stopped and he fell asleep as if he had never been disturbed. With a firm clunk, Susan set a jar of red, finely diced substance on the table.
"This is my version."
Mike acted first by wedging a tiny bit of solidified, crumbly salsa between a knife and the inside of the jar. He placed the morsel between his index and thumb before tilting his head back and letting the sauce land on his tongue. Ross mimicked his exact motions.
"Sorry, it's kind of chunky. I haven't strained it." she warned.
The alarm rang once again. This time, Matt understood. He rose to his feet and grunted, sounding part old man, part gorilla. Was it a ritual for his own good, or some sort of signal to those around him?
"There he is. There he is!" Mike joked. Hoots, hollers and uh-ohs came from the table of salsa tasters. Stephen poked his head through the kitchen door to partake in the rousing of the legendary Golden Weevil. Hank emerged from the bathroom to issue a beauly "Good morning."
Matt had no response but to begin the ceremonial folding of his beddings.
---
The band often found themselves waking to surprising surroundings. Playing in new areas meant staying with new friends. Navigating to their homes in the dead of night of course meant that what they saw in the morning would be a completely new perspective. This time they were on a farm, somewhere in Maryland. A fresh blanket of snow had covered the hills, stretching not quite as far as you could see, but at least as far as you cared to that early in the morning. Their white van was sporting a matching snow white coat on top to complete its ensemble. Exhaust was slowly escaping from its tail. They loaded their belongings into the back. They felt the heat from the hot sauces fading from their sinuses, and the sleep from their eyes. They knew these fleeting feelings would be temporary; there was always a bottle of Tobasco sitting in the center console, and with an exciting week still ahead of them, plenty of opportunities to be tired once again. The drive to New York was a snowy one. They figured that would be a pretty consistant theme.
A few hours later, they found themselves in the big city, and it too had been covered in snow. It was a beautiful contrast to that morning's scene--a juxtaposition they had wished they weren't quite so used to. It was their first time seeing New York city blanketed in white. Of course not all the snow was white; piles of brown mush lined all the streets and store fronts. This particular winter wonderland was filled with frustrated shop owners, slippery sidewalks and poor GPS reception.
They finally found The Mercury Lounge, unloaded their equipment and tried to keep warm for a while. Things were behind schedule there, and so they wouldn't be running a sound check. What's more, is that just a couple days prior, they had landed an early evening acoustic set, and at six o' clock, a black limo-van came to pick them up. They grabbed as little gear as they could, (A banjo, two guitars, a bass and a tiny amp to go with it, a trombone, a snare drum) and packed it and themselves to be whisked away in their shuttle.
When they arrived, they were greeted warmly--but hurredly. They were sent up to the fifth floor, and when the elevator doors opened the "are we in a movie?" syndrome started to set in. They found themselves in Limewire's fancy office/party loft. Yes, Limewire, the Napster-like music downloading program from the 90s.
The party was as high-class as it could get. Ordourves like tiny pulled pork sandwhiches, grapes and cheese were everywhere. There were coolers full of beer, trays piled high with musically pre-loaded USB devices, and an open bar with who knows what else. The DJ looked strangely familiar. Actually--it was Andrew W.K. No wonder. A couple hundred well-dressed, profesionally excited people came in, and just as soon as the band had arrived, it was time to play.
"WHO HERE IS READY FOR HOLY GHOST TENT REVIVAL?!" "YEEEEAAAAWWWWWW!!"
Andrew W.K. screamed... several times. The band trudged through a fifteen minute set that, to them, was fairly frustrating, but to the audience, very well received. Their was a brief surge of business types with business cards to match, who approached the band as they packed up their few things. They had only thirty minutes until they were to play at The Mercury Lounge, so they said their thank you's, pocketed the business cards, and made their way back down the elevator, into the black van, and through the increasingly blustery snow back to the venue. They walked in and the opening band was on the final chorus of their last song. Holy Ghost didn't even bother to set their instruments down. The opener played their final chord and our heroes took the stage. They were starting to feel a bit like rock stars--a rare occurrence in a lifestyle that, while fun, was awfully real-worldish sometimes.
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