Overnight Sensations 12/28/00

The rest of the guys are already in the van. I can see them twisting around and fogging the windows with laughter. They'll be asleep soon, lucky bastards, but I'm in here pricing over-the-counter speed. I choose a packet with a picture of a truck on it. You're supposed to take one capsule now and another in six hours, but I chase both of them down with some Mountain Dew. That's the best drink for late night driving, doesn't gum up your insides like the dark colas.

I'm the only one in the store and the elderly clerk doesn't want me to leave. "Shore is lookin' mean out there tonight, ha?"

"Yeah man," I reply, gazing into the drizzle. "You ain't lyin'."

"Where you headed?"

"Oh, I'm goin' to Athens."

He mulls this over. 'If I was you I'd stay offa 129, it'd be like drivin' through the woods. Rain like this and you'll wind up hittin' a deer."

"You're starting to scare me."

He raises his eyebrows. "Yep, you best run up through Atlanta and keep to the straightaways."

"Well, I just might do that."

When I open the door of the van I smell peanut butter and sweat. After consulting a map I decide to take my chances on the back roads instead of going long up the interstate, since it's already four o'clock when we roll out of the station. Soon the town's behind us and we're alone in the damp night until we meet a car coming up the far side of a ridge. At first it's only a luminous smudge above the hilltop, but then those awful highbeams rear up so bright that it's hard to keep from steering headlong into them out of spite. I hold my breath until the lights hiss by with vapor roiling in their wake.

The rest of the band has gone to sleep except for Jimi, who's riding shotgun. He's chewing over strategies, fine-tuning his plans for world domination. His voice comes out of the darkness.

"You doin' all right there, boss?"

"Yeah, I'm good. I was thinking about the show tonight. It seemed like the crowd was into it and all, but I didn't really have that feeling. I was just sorta standing there playing licks."

Jimi exhales softly. "Naw man, don't even sweat it. It was a good show; you fuckin' rocked it. I mean, you might not have felt all inspired but those kids didn't know the difference, they've never seen you guys before. You completely slayed 'em."

"Right on."

"Just wait 'til we get out to San Diego, brother. I've got my tickets to fly out there next month and do the groundwork, you know, meet some of the players and put the rubber gloves on 'em. I'm gonna see what they're about and try to figure out how we can use them and believe me, if I can get you guys in front of some industry people they're absolutely gonna shit their pants."

"Hell yeah," I mumble. His confidence astounds me. "You make it sound like…what was that thing in history class, it had to do with the pioneers or something…wait, oh yeah. You make it sound like Manifest Destiny."

Jimi laughs his tycoon laugh haaagghh!, a virile, cigar-clamping sound. Then he gets all serious. "I totally believe in this band. There's no reason you can't make it. You've got what it takes. You guys have the look, the energy, and the fuckin' talent to get on top and be able to stay on top once you're there. I'm just trying to hold the reins, you know, steer us to the right people who'll recognize your potential. We've got so many opportunities in front of us for the next three months, with the new record and the showcases, all that shit. Now's the time for us to really buckle down and push and make it happen. I'm planning on taking this thing as far as I can fuckin' take it. You know?"

"Yeah man, I hear ya. I guess I'm just not sure how to go about wanting it."

He smiles over at me. "You remember that night in Panama City when me and you got all shitty and I asked if you were gonna be in this thing for the long haul?"

"Of course I remember that. We barely made it back to the hotel."

"I was being for real, brother. All of us need to be on the same page, pushing as hard as we can fuckin' push. You guys have gotten so godamn tight and there's so much chemistry between you, all it's gonna take is that extra bit of effort and the right circumstance and we're gonna be huge. I think it's just a matter of time."

Our conversation goes on for a spell until Jimi passes out, leaving me to blink away the after-images that float in the fog beyond the windshield. The pills I took earlier are kicking in. Kicking in hard. I'd almost forgotten about them, but now I feel valves dialing open inside me while this insistent voice repeats, "on your mark…get set…on your mark…get set" but it never says go. Even if it did, I'm stuck in this van, and I'm all dressed in gooseflesh with my nostrils bored out big as railroad tunnels. Curious ideas tickle my mind and I'm giggling at absurdities that no one else would find funny. I can laugh alone for only so long, though, and then I begin to analyze my life, checking tallies and percentages and asking myself questions.

How long should I keep driving all over hell for no money or recognition? It's been three relentless years now, and I'm afraid I might be wasting time and talent by aiming my music at youngsters and large-scale success. Will the kids really make us part of their formulated diets? Even if they do, won't we get scrapped when their tastes change? Perhaps I'd be better off performing poetic, wide-screen material. You don't see much of that on MTV, but at least I could try for critical acclaim. Maybe I was born too late. I was meant to be on the scene during the 60's, when the frontiers stood open and the clubs were full.

Wait, I shouldn't think like that. I love my band and our songs rock, damn it. We're one of the baddest groups on the circuit and we've earned people's respect. We're more than partners now; we're brothers. It's just that it's tough enough to reconcile my own aspirations, let alone to factor in four other guys. Visions of limelit escapades don't jibe with plans for crafting concept albums, where brilliantly concise arrangements hamper the guitar hero. Sometimes I worry that our fantasies will grind together until nothing's left but a pile of glitter. I wonder if I should go back to school or pursue a career like writing, where I'd have more say as to what gets produced and where it goes. Then I'd also have time to ramble life's scenic byways, the friendships and hobbies, instead of constantly blasting down the interstate toward the next destination. I think of Danielle, lying awake in our bed and yearning for a life outside the confines of a college town, where she can't afford to follow her bliss and her man is never home on the weekends. All this stuff gnaws at me.

I've had some vivid dreams lately about climbing. Most of them were calm and coherent but one was terrifying. I found myself in a vacant chamber with bare white walls stretching up into grayness. I was in the center of the room and holding a wooden ladder vertical, just standing there looking up at it, when I heard a strange purring sound. A lion padded into the room. It blinked and started stealing toward me, all low to the ground. The purring became the sound of someone yanking the starter cord on a chainsaw. I was locked up with panic until the big cat's haunches began to quiver. Move! Move! Move! I realized I was holding a ladder so I scrambled upward, but as it stood propped against empty space I had to shift my weight and walk the ladder side to side to stay upright. I was halfway up when the lion started climbing after me. Incredibly, I was able to keep the ladder erect while the wood twisted and creaked and splinters stabbed my hands. I went higher but the beast was gaining and its claws gouged the rung beneath my feet. I gaped down into a face so ferocious it was beautiful. I could go no higher when a paw tore off my shoe, but then my perspective shifted and I was standing on the ground, watching as the lion swatted at another person high above me. The other cried out as he lost his balance and fell thrashing to the floor, and then the dream contracted to a pinhole and was gone.

Jesus, I nearly misjudged that curve. This mist is so creamy I can hardly make out the reflector knobs on the road's backbone. I'd better slow down a bit. I wish I could put the brakes on my mind because I wanted to try and work out my problems, but their gravity can no longer hold me at this velocity. I flip on the radio and find this after-hours jazz program. The host sounds laughably smooth. I picture him in a robe, fussing with a pipe while he chats up breathy women. A song starts out and God, it's some sassy shit. The drums patter and sizzle and the bass comes on with the lusty groans of a guy plucking his um, instrument. A piano clinks and the saxophone pours in around it all until I have to lean forward and bite the steering wheel. It tastes salty.

The station holds for a golden half-hour, but bits of static abruptly invade and multiply and that suave host succumbs. Once he and the music are gone I notice that my bandmates are whimpering in their sleep. That's a little freaky. There's also something eerie, something alien about the trees knotted at the roadside. They're the regular pines and oaks but they're somehow different, like species from another hemisphere. I feel silly for getting spooked, but something's wrong. I don't remember this road being so ominous. I grope around for the map but it's hiding from me, so I reach over to tap Jimi and bonk! my hand knocks against metal. What the fuck? There's a big steel cylinder over there, it must be six feet long and two feet wide, and the seat is leaned back to accommodate it. I brake hard and pull to the shoulder of the road and flip the hazards on. My heart's beating too fast. I examine the tube more closely and find a little door in the side with some writing stamped above it. CryoTech, it reads, and in smaller letters: Personal Suspension Module. I slide the door open and there's a control panel there with some buttons and readouts. I see three sets of numbers. Two of them seem to be dates. There's one from about 2 years ago and another that's 59 years in the future. The third display says -217F, but then it changes to -219F. I lean down close to the cylinder and hear a hum. What the hell is this thing?

My palms are sweating and it's hard to get a purchase on the smooth metal, so I pull my shirt cuffs over my hands and then I'm able to rotate the thing around. On the other side I find a round glass-covered window. The outer layer is covered in condensation that I wipe away and oh Jesus, I really wish I hadn't… Jimi is inside that thing! His face looks like it's sculpted from blue cheese, all pallid and veined, but I don't think the flesh is pliable at all. I think he's frozen so hard that if I tapped his head it would shatter!

It would be easy to give in and claw at myself, but I find the sanity to turn the van around and start speeding back the way I'd come. It's all in your mind. I knew I shouldn't have let Rusty adjust my back. It's true about how that stuff stores up in your spinal fluid. Finally I come to a blessed gas station and jerk to a halt. There's something wrong here as well, though. The lighted green and yellow sign says GP. German Petroleum? I check beside me and yep, that metal thing's still over there and there's three more of them in the back seats. I bolt into the store, taking little notice of the dog in the next car. It's barking and throwing itself against the glass hard enough to leave smears of bloody slobber.

The place is too bright and I can't find the fucking bathroom. Two Mexicans are playing video poker, and one of them looks at me with awe and says something to his buddy that he doesn't think I'll understand. "Mira al hombre lobo." Look at the werewolf. Am I in that bad of shape? The cashier is fumbling beneath the counter for his sawed-off, but I locate the toilet and pull the door closed. It smells like a dirty old man in here. I splash water around and avoid looking in the mirror. I feel like hell, so weak and trembling I can hardly unbuckle my belt. Those pep pills were too damn strong. I have the body of a Yugo that some fool outfitted with a dragster engine, and when he gunned it all that torque snapped the drive shaft before the tires turned an inch. I wanted to stay awake and all, but this is a bit much. I'm not getting any calmer so I swing the door open, braced for a blow, but no one's there. I decide to call Danielle on the payphone outside. I dial the number and stand there shivering, please let her answer and not some twilight-zone stranger. There's a click and then her groggy voice in my ear. Should I tell her? What, exactly, am I going to tell her? That I'm afraid I may have driven into another dimension and the rest of the boys are popsicles and on top of that I'm a werewolf?

"How's my honey sleepin' tonight?" I ask, trying to sound normal.

"Fine. I wish you were here. You need to come home to me."

"I am, baby. I'll be there in about two hours, okay?"

"Mmmmm. Sneetches and I miss you. We need your hugs."

"Well, I can't wait to give them to you. I really wish I was with you guys right now."

"That would be nice."

"Listen, uh, the guys…the guys are frozen."

"What's that sweetie?"

"I said my thighs are frozen."

"You poor man. You better get home so I can warm you up."

"All right, I'll see you in a little while. I love you Danyelly."

My throat's tight as I wonder if I'll see her again. What if I'm able to call but I can't ever get home, because I've been sucked into another world, like Dorothy? And what about those tubes holding my friends in freeze-dried silence? Hopefully there's someplace I can take them to, like the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta, someplace state-of-the-art, but I have to consider the possibility that there is no Atlanta. What if I drive until I'm toothless without finding a familiar landmark? Then one day after I'm gone those metal cocoons will open and the guys will clamber out as if awakening from a catnap. All I can do is start the van up and just go, while these morbid thoughts worm into me.

After an unspeakable hour the drizzle stops and jolts me from my reverie. Something else has changed. The bowl of the night sky has turned to pewter. Could it be? Here comes the sun, little darlin'! Twenty minutes later I can see the forest giving way to ghostly pastures and orchards and I lower the window and breathe in the burrowing rain. Someplace that smells like this can't be all bad, can it? I try the radio again and classical music is on. I'm conducting like mad when a voice tears through everything and scares the dog shit out of me.

"Where are we, Jay?"

What tha-who said that? By God I think it's Jerm. He's alive! I look in the mirror and see him sitting up in the backseat and putting on his glasses.

"What's up man?" I nearly scream.

"I was hoping you could tell me. How much do we lack on the ol' drive?"

I'm attempting to frame an answer, trying to absorb this wonderful news that someone else is with me, when a road sign materializes on cue. Athens, 35 miles.

"Sweet," says Jeremy, and he plops back down.

I look over at Jimi and he's all thawed out. Yes!

"Hey Jerm," I call, "how'd you sleep?"

"Not too well. You kept it a little cool in here, didn't ya?"

"Yeah, I guess so. Just trying to stay awake."

"Right on."

The rest of the crew is stirring. Soon everyone is muttering and then chuckling and then full-out laughing at whatever it is that friends laugh about early in the morning. My boys are back! Hell yeah. We're gliding past farms and feedstores now, and there's this big sign that says, "Happy Days Beefmasters." We get a massive kick out of this.

"That says it all," Jeremiah declares.

"How exactly does one go about mastering beef?" I ask.

Jeremy considers this. "I think it involves sapping the will of the cows."

It sure is good to laugh again. I'm downright giddy. This must be like what's known as a runner's high. I've driven until my endorphins kicked in and now I'm ripped. You don't need illegal drugs, kids. Just down some truckstop speed and slip behind the wheel and drive into the sunrise--into life. I'm babbling now. I'll tell you the rest after I get some sleep, all right? Be good,

JC