When I Should've Stayed Home (Track Twelve: III) 3, chapter 3
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*Tré*
"Okay, we've got the official set up going on now. So, we can do the introductions. Men, ladies, you're the American Idiot tour crew." Doug, the current tour manager--or "leash" as Tré deemed holders of that particular position--cleared his throat and stuck his hands into his pockets. "These are Green Day." No cheers or murmurs were forthcoming; the motley collection of people assembled before the band waited in silence.
Billie Joe adjusted his beret humbly. "Well, I'm Billie."
"Mike." The bassist grinned cheerfully.
"Jason, uh, White," Jason jerked a thumb to the man on his side. "He's Jason too. Mr. Freese."
"Ronnie."
"And I'm Tré."
The crew nodded and mumbled acknowledgement. So far, they exhibited temperament no different than any roadies Tré had ever met. Just like every big time show, roadies were expected to be unseen and definitely unheard. Older, more experienced roadies were even more subdued than usual when faced with "the talent". Tré had seen the old ones pounce on the younglings for simply looking at a band member for a second too long. While it was nice not to be pestered by roadies, a little varied conversation was nice from time to time. Roadies were a colorful people with all sorts of crazy stories. Tré, maybe more so than any other band member, loved to hang out and chat with the roadies. Regardless of any rules Doug tried to impose, Tré would begin to make acquaintances at the first opportunity that presented itself.
Temperament aside, this crew definitely contained some of the oddest looking assortment of roadies Tré had ever seen. One burly man, who had limped up for the introductions, sported only the lightest fuzz of pink hair on his head. Both his eyebrows and goatee were dyed a matching shade. An electric green tie was wrapped around his thigh. A multitude of rings, all with pink stones, festooned his thick fingers.
Beside him, stood a tall woman, with a bandana around her head and another around her face. Only her bright yellow eyes were visible. Their gaze was sharp and alert. Her hands, covered by black bondage gloves, were crossed limply in front of her. Tré made a mental note to avoid her. She looked like she would brutally beat up anyone, regardless of size or status, with little or no provocation.
A likely candidate for provoker of a beating, and the youngest roadie Tré had ever seen, slouched at the extreme left of the crowd. No more than twenty at the most, she seemed caught between a simmering rage and a sulk. A slightly sour expression pursed her thin lips. She was obviously annoyed, and with whom, Tré could not be certain. The girl's hazel stare seemed to bore right through the band to oblivion. Long hair, with alternating strands of brown and ivory bleach, hung over half of her face. A faded bruise ringed her one eye with shades of blue and green.
At the far side of the group, lounged a fellow who looked more suited to a high school chemistry club than a rock show. Long blonde hair was slicked back and plastered to his head. Glasses with lenses that could have stopped machine gun bullets perched on the end of a beaky nose. Moles marred his face and neck. Tré managed to stop himself from staring appreciatively as he realized, upon further inspection, that the moles were actually studs embedded in the young man's skin.
With a pale, slender arm thrown around Stud-Boy's shoulders, another woman stood amongst the crowd. An unidentifiable feeling, as powerful as someone whispering in his ear, fixated Tré's attention upon her. A suggestive, familiar, smile lifted the corners of her full mouth as she met Tré's gaze. She winked and roughly ruffled her companion's hair. He immediately shrunk down and tried to playfully shove her away. The woman rolled her eyes and put the young man in a head-lock. Still managing to subdue Stud-Boy she sassily waggled her fingers at Tré.
Not every roadie was odd. In fact, the majority was similar to the young man standing about three people back from the pink-haired wonder. Steel glinted in the man's nose and eyebrow, and a few traces of ink showed on his left arm. His hair was a patchwork of grown-out, faded dyes. He regarded everything with the bored air of a veteran.
Doug pointed at the more muscular faction of the roadies. "Them's the dogs and riggers. Landon," the pink haired man inclined his head, "is the head. Backs the one truck too." Landon put a finger to his head in salute and limped off. Over fifty men and women, all trained to do the harder physical jobs, followed him. The group was now decimated by more than half.
"Keely, front house sound engineer." At the sound of her name, the flirtatious woman released her prey and stood rigidly at attention. Her stern posture was belied by the slight, humorous, twitching of her lips. "And assistants." She made a mocking bow, and then jogged away. Tré continued to watch as she strolled towards a rack of amplifiers with Stud-Boy and another man in tow.
A slight pressure on Tré's foot caused him to look down and see Mike's shoe pressing down on his own. Confused, Tré raised his eyes to Mike's. The bassist's level blue gaze warned, Don't fuck around with the roadies. You know better. Mike lifted his foot off of Tré's sneaker.
Tré rolled his eyes and resumed paying attention to Doug. "That's Knight." He gestured to the eerie, yellow-eyed woman. "Backline chief."
Oh fan-fucking-tastic, Tré thought to himself, Why couldn't she be the sound broad and that Keely be backline? Damn Karma.
"Kevin and Woofer are your guitar techs. Felix does bass. Tiny is drum and everything else." The words were barely out of Doug's mouth and Knight was already leaving. The four instrument techs tailed her, two on either side, like some sort of mafia.
"Wilf does lights and a bit of rigging." Elderly Wilf, tipped his ball cap and shuffled off. The waspish girl was already striding back to the stage.
"And," Doug drawled, "last but not least, Smokes does your pyros." A rather thin man, about Tré's age, saluted and walked away.
"There you guys have it. They know you, you know them. No need to chat up. If there's a problem, come to me. Not them. You don't--" Everyone flinched as a horrific boom shook the theater.
Doug whirled around and roared, "What the hell was that?"
"Fuckin' truss just snapped in half as we're standin' it up! Like the damn thing got rusty or something! It's all fucked." Someone barked back from behind the red curtains.
Another voice, this one female, hollered, "We gotta bigger damn problem than that. Tiny! Get your ass over here."
Tiny, a short, buff man, went hustling behind the curtains. The band and manager waited as silent minutes dragged by. Regardless of whatever had happened, the other roadies continued to set up.
"Doug! Get down here." A woman called sharply.
"You guys, don't move. Go back to the bus if you want." Doug ordered sharply. As he turned his back, Jason White rolled his eyes at the other band members. "I saw that," Doug snapped. "Just--"
The woman's voice interrupted him. "Bring the lead guitar and the bass player."
Domineering, peremptory Doug frowned to himself and opened his mouth to yell back. Instead of questioning, as Tré had fully expected, Doug suddenly clamped his jaws shut. He looked moderately annoyed, as if someone had stolen his thunder. In much more subdued tones than his usual brashness, Doug muttered, "Mike, Billie Joe."
The drummer looked over uneasily at Billie Joe. Why the hell can she make Doug put his tail between his legs? He's a fucking Lord of the Pricks. And if it's that freaky broad, she might be hiding around the corner waiting to kill them or torture them or something fucked up like that. Tré raised an eyebrow in suspicion. The guitarist shrugged; he seemed no more enlightened than Tré.
Doug, Billie Joe, and Mike headed for the stage but were forced to halt again. This time a man's voice, most likely Tiny's, cut the air. "Bring the drummer. He needs a say on this."
"Okay, we've got the official set up going on now. So, we can do the introductions. Men, ladies, you're the American Idiot tour crew." Doug, the current tour manager--or "leash" as Tré deemed holders of that particular position--cleared his throat and stuck his hands into his pockets. "These are Green Day." No cheers or murmurs were forthcoming; the motley collection of people assembled before the band waited in silence.
Billie Joe adjusted his beret humbly. "Well, I'm Billie."
"Mike." The bassist grinned cheerfully.
"Jason, uh, White," Jason jerked a thumb to the man on his side. "He's Jason too. Mr. Freese."
"Ronnie."
"And I'm Tré."
The crew nodded and mumbled acknowledgement. So far, they exhibited temperament no different than any roadies Tré had ever met. Just like every big time show, roadies were expected to be unseen and definitely unheard. Older, more experienced roadies were even more subdued than usual when faced with "the talent". Tré had seen the old ones pounce on the younglings for simply looking at a band member for a second too long. While it was nice not to be pestered by roadies, a little varied conversation was nice from time to time. Roadies were a colorful people with all sorts of crazy stories. Tré, maybe more so than any other band member, loved to hang out and chat with the roadies. Regardless of any rules Doug tried to impose, Tré would begin to make acquaintances at the first opportunity that presented itself.
Temperament aside, this crew definitely contained some of the oddest looking assortment of roadies Tré had ever seen. One burly man, who had limped up for the introductions, sported only the lightest fuzz of pink hair on his head. Both his eyebrows and goatee were dyed a matching shade. An electric green tie was wrapped around his thigh. A multitude of rings, all with pink stones, festooned his thick fingers.
Beside him, stood a tall woman, with a bandana around her head and another around her face. Only her bright yellow eyes were visible. Their gaze was sharp and alert. Her hands, covered by black bondage gloves, were crossed limply in front of her. Tré made a mental note to avoid her. She looked like she would brutally beat up anyone, regardless of size or status, with little or no provocation.
A likely candidate for provoker of a beating, and the youngest roadie Tré had ever seen, slouched at the extreme left of the crowd. No more than twenty at the most, she seemed caught between a simmering rage and a sulk. A slightly sour expression pursed her thin lips. She was obviously annoyed, and with whom, Tré could not be certain. The girl's hazel stare seemed to bore right through the band to oblivion. Long hair, with alternating strands of brown and ivory bleach, hung over half of her face. A faded bruise ringed her one eye with shades of blue and green.
At the far side of the group, lounged a fellow who looked more suited to a high school chemistry club than a rock show. Long blonde hair was slicked back and plastered to his head. Glasses with lenses that could have stopped machine gun bullets perched on the end of a beaky nose. Moles marred his face and neck. Tré managed to stop himself from staring appreciatively as he realized, upon further inspection, that the moles were actually studs embedded in the young man's skin.
With a pale, slender arm thrown around Stud-Boy's shoulders, another woman stood amongst the crowd. An unidentifiable feeling, as powerful as someone whispering in his ear, fixated Tré's attention upon her. A suggestive, familiar, smile lifted the corners of her full mouth as she met Tré's gaze. She winked and roughly ruffled her companion's hair. He immediately shrunk down and tried to playfully shove her away. The woman rolled her eyes and put the young man in a head-lock. Still managing to subdue Stud-Boy she sassily waggled her fingers at Tré.
Not every roadie was odd. In fact, the majority was similar to the young man standing about three people back from the pink-haired wonder. Steel glinted in the man's nose and eyebrow, and a few traces of ink showed on his left arm. His hair was a patchwork of grown-out, faded dyes. He regarded everything with the bored air of a veteran.
Doug pointed at the more muscular faction of the roadies. "Them's the dogs and riggers. Landon," the pink haired man inclined his head, "is the head. Backs the one truck too." Landon put a finger to his head in salute and limped off. Over fifty men and women, all trained to do the harder physical jobs, followed him. The group was now decimated by more than half.
"Keely, front house sound engineer." At the sound of her name, the flirtatious woman released her prey and stood rigidly at attention. Her stern posture was belied by the slight, humorous, twitching of her lips. "And assistants." She made a mocking bow, and then jogged away. Tré continued to watch as she strolled towards a rack of amplifiers with Stud-Boy and another man in tow.
A slight pressure on Tré's foot caused him to look down and see Mike's shoe pressing down on his own. Confused, Tré raised his eyes to Mike's. The bassist's level blue gaze warned, Don't fuck around with the roadies. You know better. Mike lifted his foot off of Tré's sneaker.
Tré rolled his eyes and resumed paying attention to Doug. "That's Knight." He gestured to the eerie, yellow-eyed woman. "Backline chief."
Oh fan-fucking-tastic, Tré thought to himself, Why couldn't she be the sound broad and that Keely be backline? Damn Karma.
"Kevin and Woofer are your guitar techs. Felix does bass. Tiny is drum and everything else." The words were barely out of Doug's mouth and Knight was already leaving. The four instrument techs tailed her, two on either side, like some sort of mafia.
"Wilf does lights and a bit of rigging." Elderly Wilf, tipped his ball cap and shuffled off. The waspish girl was already striding back to the stage.
"And," Doug drawled, "last but not least, Smokes does your pyros." A rather thin man, about Tré's age, saluted and walked away.
"There you guys have it. They know you, you know them. No need to chat up. If there's a problem, come to me. Not them. You don't--" Everyone flinched as a horrific boom shook the theater.
Doug whirled around and roared, "What the hell was that?"
"Fuckin' truss just snapped in half as we're standin' it up! Like the damn thing got rusty or something! It's all fucked." Someone barked back from behind the red curtains.
Another voice, this one female, hollered, "We gotta bigger damn problem than that. Tiny! Get your ass over here."
Tiny, a short, buff man, went hustling behind the curtains. The band and manager waited as silent minutes dragged by. Regardless of whatever had happened, the other roadies continued to set up.
"Doug! Get down here." A woman called sharply.
"You guys, don't move. Go back to the bus if you want." Doug ordered sharply. As he turned his back, Jason White rolled his eyes at the other band members. "I saw that," Doug snapped. "Just--"
The woman's voice interrupted him. "Bring the lead guitar and the bass player."
Domineering, peremptory Doug frowned to himself and opened his mouth to yell back. Instead of questioning, as Tré had fully expected, Doug suddenly clamped his jaws shut. He looked moderately annoyed, as if someone had stolen his thunder. In much more subdued tones than his usual brashness, Doug muttered, "Mike, Billie Joe."
The drummer looked over uneasily at Billie Joe. Why the hell can she make Doug put his tail between his legs? He's a fucking Lord of the Pricks. And if it's that freaky broad, she might be hiding around the corner waiting to kill them or torture them or something fucked up like that. Tré raised an eyebrow in suspicion. The guitarist shrugged; he seemed no more enlightened than Tré.
Doug, Billie Joe, and Mike headed for the stage but were forced to halt again. This time a man's voice, most likely Tiny's, cut the air. "Bring the drummer. He needs a say on this."
