When I Should've Stayed Home (Track Twelve: III) 3, chapter 9

Trista sighed to herself and tugged her shirt sleeves over her wrists. Couldn't we have just talked without doing this? This is exactly why we can't get along.

A long silence stretched out.

"Nick," Trista's chest twinged at the speed at which he lifted his head, "why don't you just tell me what went on last night and then we can split. I've got some bulbs I need to check."

"Nothing." He reached forward and plucked an invisible piece of dirt from his pants.

"Nothing. You heard nothing, saw nothing?"

"Just nothing." A slight sneer crossed his face, but his words were flat. "I tricked you into sitting down and getting a bite to eat for nothing. Makes you feel kind of ripped off?"

His eyes remained staring calmly ahead. He appeared not care about getting a reaction from her. Snarling in relief, Trista flicked her middle finger at him before storming back towards the truck.

No good, rotten little prat. Trista thought to herself with little enthusiasm. God. Just as annoying as hell.

She sighed half-heartedly as she slid onto her bunk, ducking her head beneath the bunk above. Her fingers began drawing invisible symbols and doodles on the wall beside her bed. Old habits died hard. Briefly, Trista wished for a drawing pad and a decent pencil. It wasn't that she was any good at drawing, she was terrible, but seeing the abstract forms flow over the paper always helped her organize her thoughts.

I'm not ready for any of this. There's no way. Both of us are just too much the same. A wry grin lifted the corner of her mouth as she realized the twist to her thoughts. From what Nick had just revealed, his home life seemed to be as different from Trista's as black was from white. She sensed that she had barely scratched his surface. There was something more that lay in wait, something that she was sure she did not want to learn.

Chilled by the ominous ring in mind, Trista clambered off of her bunk and back into the dullness of the parking lot. Keely's bubbly nature would surely chase away Trista's shadows.

As she sauntered down the crew truck's ramp, a deep roar signalled the arrival of the talent's buses. Though she knew she was not supposed to, Trista darted back to peek out from the side of the crew truck. With a hiss of air breaks, the gigantic buses rolled to a stop on the other side of the truck.

Irrationally, Trista's heart began galloping at a thousand miles a minute. The bus door was on the side facing the truck. Consequently, at least one band member would walk within mere feet of her. Clenching her sweating fists, Trista leaned back around the corner of the truck.

Please don't let them see me. They'll think I'm a groupie, and I'm not.

A door unlatched with a click and groaned open. Immediately, sounds came flowing to Trista's ears.

"--End is near," a pause, "Something, something, something. I did it my waaaaaaaay!" The singer, easily identified by Tré's characteristic warble, hit an affected tremolo and stretched out the final note until his vocal chords sounded in danger of fraying.

"And that's, the end," Mike's voice chimed in with a decent harmony. "Free! Off the bus! Cool."

"Stretch out the old legs--hey easy there man." A chuckle. "Fuckin' sloshed ain't cha?"

"No. Not at all."

Trista tensed as the two men walked past the end of the truck. If they turned around, they would spot her. She dared not move, lest she draw their attention. Tré slung an arm over Mike's shoulder. Instantly, the bassist stumbled under the new challenge to his balance.

"Watch it. Don't need to be slappin' me around."

"I'm not slapping you around. You're so wasted you can't stand straight. Watch."

Tré used his free hand to jab Mike in the ribs. Mike tried to both flinch away and take a shove at Tré. Somewhere between the two actions, he became confused and simply wound up clumsily throwing himself at Tré. The drummer, stocky as he was, had difficulty holding himself and his friend upright. In a desperate attempt, he pushed Mike off. Like crazy toys, they went stumbling in opposite directions. Tré, if he was drunk at all, had better balance and managed to come to a halt within two steps. Mike half-tripped, nearly fell on his face, and wandered in a large semi-circle before standing still.

Trista was so enthralled with this odd behaviour that she failed to realize that the bass player was facing her until they made eye contact. A slow grin crossed Mike's face and he waved. Tré turned to see to whom Mike was waving and a wicked expression followed his recognition of Trista. Grabbing Mike by the arm, Tré wandered over to the shocked roadie.

"Hey," Tré spoke as if he was experiencing no trouble keeping a death grip on a wobbling bassist. "Morning."

"Mornin'," Trista replied automatically. She did not know whom to stare at first.

"So, how was your ride?" Mike asked. "I mean, it musta ssssucked compared t' ours. We've got a living room thing. I bet you roadiesss don't have that. A living room. No, you'll just have beds. Then, it's not like you can afford to buy a bus, since Doug treats you like the dirt on his shoes--no, that was rude. But, I still meant it. Right? It's only the truth," he confided to her, teetering well within Trista's personal space.

Tré patted the bassist on the head. "Michael here has had one too many, and he hasn't had enough sleep either. So, I kinda enjoy getting him to do dumb shit that he won't really say no to."

"You're a good friend," Trista murmured.

"Oh, he is. Him and Billie, aaaare my buddies. I, got their backssss, and they got mine. Well, technically, only he's," Mike jerked his head in Tré's direction, "got my back, 'cause he playza drums and drums aaaare behind, the guitars and bass. Right?"

"Yeah." Trista began to wonder how on earth she could get away from them; her skin was prickling with unease.

"Enough of this philosophical shit," Tre commanded, putting a tight arm back around Mike's shoulders, "we shouldn't keep Trista--Trista right?--from doing her job. C'mon. Let's go bug Billie."

"No, 'cause he's with Adie. I don't wan' 'er to see me like thiz," Mike mumbled.

"And it's okay to be out here looking like you do? What's the difference? D'you wanna go back on the bus?"

"In a bit. Did I ever tell you I love you?" Mike asked with as much seriousness as he could muster.

Tré snorted. "Many times, during our throes of passionate love-making last night." He winked to show Trista he was joking.

"Fuckin'. I--we didn't fuck. Nah. We didn't. Not last night. Cause where did I get aaaaaall this time to get a few drinks? Did I ever tell you that I think you're beautiful?"

Trista blinked and stared incredulously at the bassist. Did he....Did he just hit on me? He's drunk! Still wondering if she heard right, she looked to Tré.

Tré winked and shrugged. "He's a friendly fuck when he's wasted."

"Friendly all th' time. Thaz me. Friendly fucker. Friendly." Mike smiled dopily.

"Okay, well, I-I-uh-I gotta go change some bulbs," Trista blurted nervously. "I'll um, go do that now. And you guys should probably just not talk to me. Or anyone, we're all kinda busy."

"Sure." Tré did not seem to be listening. He was trying to keep Mike standing still. "C'mon. Let's go back in the bus. I don't think you should be on the loose and I don't wanna baby-sit you."

"No. I'm not."

"Mike, you need to relax or you'll be fucked 'till tomorrow. Go drink some water. Take a nap or something."

"I'm not napping," Mike stated as he headed back for the bus. "Not a baby. I can't sleep no more anyways. And if I drink, I'll piss my damn pants."

"Mike Dirnt, the world's most polite drunk," Tré announced sarcastically as Mike disappeared from view. "Don't listen to what he was saying. He'll probably come find you and apologize once he's sober, the dumbfuck."

"Well, it's not like I was offended. Uh, it'd probably be better if he just stayed away. I'll take your word for his apology. That'll keep everyone out of trouble." Out of habit, Trista looked over to the arena. None of the roadies were watching her conversation with Tré.

"Damn, you guys really do have your tail between your legs. C'mon, this is rock an' roll! Y'know?"

Trista shook her head and edged sideways. "Your job is all that 'stickin' it to the man'. You get paid to do that. I get fired. My job is making sure you can do all the rock an' roll shenanigans."

"I'm not sayin' you should go out and torch something. Just try to make a little change. Looks like you're all living in fear of your crew chief. Ditch her, and things'll lighten right up."

"Knight's not the problem. Who says there is one? This is how it's done. You've been on so many tours, you know how it works. We don't need saving."

"I'm not trying to. Just, sometimes you gotta stir up a little shit. Keep things interesting." He grinned, wide blue eyes twinkling. "You might wanna talk to your chief about that one."

Trista frowned and asked, "What do you--"

"Fuck. Here she comes. You better get looking busy. Or, you could be completely outrageous and stand here and keep talking to me."

Trista knew a dare when she heard one, but Tré's goading was not enough to break years of obedience. Feeling a bit shamed, she hastily scurried towards the arena. Knight, heading in the opposite direction, gave no indication that she had seen Trista and Tré.

Just as she entered the building, Trista stopped and looked back. Tré stood side by side with Billie Joe and Ronnie. Billie Joe had his head cocked to listen to Tré, who was speaking, but the guitarist's eyes were drilling into Trista. A spike of fear rammed into Trista's chest as their eyes met. Her gaze instinctively and nervously skittered away from his powerful green scrutiny. Having had her fill of human attention for the day, Trista slunk into the sheltering corridors of the arena.

*Knight*

Life was stressful. It was a given for anyone with any responsibility, but today was looking like it would be a hundred more times stressful than the usual. They were missing an equipment truck. It was a massive beast of a vehicle, but it was nowhere to be found. Even stranger, was the fact that the missing truck was the one Landon drove. Landon was always on time, never late. In fact, he was probably the best man in the business for his job.

Where the fucking hell is he?

For the third time that morning, Knight speed-dialled Landon's cell phone. Pacing back and forth, she listened impatiently as the phone rang.

"We're sorry, the number you are seeking is currently out of service. Please--"

"Damn it," Knight muttered under her breath as she punched the end button of her cell. "Where is he? His cell shouldn't be off, 'cause I'll crucify 'im. And he can't've had the cell and the pager die." She snarled at the phone, "Why won't you pick up?"

After angrily and deliberately tapping her knuckles against her forehead, Knight sighed and put the phone back into her pocket. Landon would show up; sooner or later, he would. Until then, Knight would have to manage as best she could.

As best I can. Alone. Nobody understands how to do that better than me.

Smirking bitterly, Knight looked over the roadies lingering in the parking lot. Most were standing around, chatting. Though the concert was not until the next day, Knight knew that extra time simply meant more time for things to go awry.

"Let's go people!" she barked. "Take whatever you can off of these other two trucks. Set up what you can. I don't want to see anyone pissin' around until those trucks are empty. Alright?"

Instantly, the roadies apart broke their groups and poured towards the two trucks. Knight kept her distance, surveying the action. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Doug had come to stand at her side. As a pair of riggers tried to haul one of the four-foot-tall bass amps out of the truck, Knight was instantly at their side, helping to lift and angle the massive piece of equipment onto a hand truck. She and a roadie exchanged a disgusted look as Doug simply stood around, not offering to help.

*Mike*

His head hurt. He was drunk and his head was already hurting. Dragging his hand down his cheek, he stumbled over to the bus's small fridge. Blood rushed into his throbbing head as he bent over to dig out a water bottle. Mike groaned and wandered back to his bunk. Sitting down, he cautiously wrapped his long fingers around the cap and twisted it off.

Why do I do this to myself? he wondered.

Slowly, he sipped the water and continued to muse.

Because I need something to fix the time between the end of the show and apprehension of the next. Because I only want to focus on this.

He had made his choice. There was no going back, no rewind and tape over. The music, the show, normal, everyday, nothings were nearly non-existent. He had thought he could have the normalcy on his own.

He was wrong. All there was now, was the music. It had taken everything, demanded the sacrifice of a relationship and he had paid. Mike could not stop himself from wondering if those two hours of adrenaline-driven ecstasy was worth the price.

I was so sure. I asked her to share a life with me. I proposed to her. And in the end, she didn't understand. Her or the music. All or nothing, one way or the other. A sad smile tugged the corner of his thin lips. I guess I really didn't understand either. Ain't that the way the world works? Everyone fights, and everyone hates, because no one's there to understand.