Chapter 10

I guess it should be obvious to just about everyone simply by having a look at an atlas, but it came as something of a surprise to me, to realise how big America actually is, and we were only travelling from North to South down the Eastern United States. Almost every single one of America's states is bigger than England, and some are bigger than France or Germany, but when you travel across Europe you know for sure when you've left one country and entered another. In America the differences are more like those between English counties. To an American one state doesn't much resemble another at all, but it seemed like a whole lot of pretty much the same thing to me. Diners. Motels. Malls. Gas stations. And countless Stars and Stripes.

The drive from New York State to South Carolina was too much for us to do it all in just one day and yet on the map it seemed like we'd hardly travelled any distance at all. The real American South of New Orleans, the Mississippi, the Florida Everglades and Texan cowboys was still way out of reach. And there was a whole lot of America to the West—the Rocky Mountains, the Nevada Desert and the West Coast—that was even more distant. I've travelled many times to California since Crystal Passion's fateful American Tour and visited places like Monterey, the Big Sur, Tijuana and the East Ocean Boulevard that I'd always dreamed of visiting when I was listening to Brian Wilson, Dick Dale and Eden Ahbez as a teenager in my London Suburban family home. But nothing we'd seen on our tour of the United States could seem more remote from the beaches, the sunshine and the surf of the America that I'd imagined.

"So, another shitty motel," moaned Jacquie at a band conference in a diner somewhere vaguely in the vicinity of the States of Maryland, Virginia and West Virginia.

"Any better ideas?" asked the Harlot, who was one of today's designated drivers, fingering the point on the fold-up freeway map where the motel was positioned. "This one's just about the right distance for today. If we drive into one of these other towns marked on the map, like Roanoke and Barren Springs, it'll be a long detour and there mightn't be anywhere better to stay."

The Crystal Passion band was split between the two vehicles we were hiring—the Chevrolet and the VW Camper van—and for reasons of fairness we equally divided the time each of us spent in one or other vehicle. So, five of us would travel a leg of the journey in the relevant comfort of the Chevrolet and the remaining eight in the Camper Van. I'd earlier been enjoying the Chevy's front seat on the journey from a diner just outside Winchester, Virginia, (which couldn't have been more different from the original Winchester in Hampshire, England) during which Jenny Alpha was driving and Philippa was squeezed between Jane and Jacquie on the back seats. And now we all bundled into the Camper Van while another five could at last enjoy the car's relative luxury: this time driven by Judy Dildo who, along with her other talents, was one of the few of us who could drive and willing to do so on the right hand side of the road. And according to the complex formula that we'd agreed on earlier, Judy would this time be accompanied by Andrea, Jenny, Olivia and Tomiko.

So, for this leg at least, I'd be reunited with Crystal and not need to worry about Judy monopolising her attention.

However, once we set off along Interstate 81 away from the Burgers and Fries of the Myrrh Cross Diner towards the Burgers, Fries and double bedrooms of the King's Cavalry Motel, Crystal was uncharacteristically reticent and any conversation with her was terse and to the point. She was obviously distressed by how much attitudes towards her had changed over the few days of the Sisterhood Women's Music Festival. Although Ariel Golgotha paid us in full for the two gigs, she was noticeably less talkative while she counted out the dollar bills than she'd been on the first day of the festival. And we were taunted in a most unsisterly manner by a small group of women as our Camper Van trundled over the grass, out of the field and onto the main road. Indeed, as we weaved along Interstate 81 from New York State through Pennsylvania towards Maryland and beyond, Crystal didn't cheer up at all. I guess this was the first time she'd had to confront the kind of hostility we were now experiencing in America.

It was several hours later that we arrived at the King's Cavalry Motel which was pretty much identical to all the others we'd already passed. But then what were we expecting? A motel is what it is: a budget roadside hotel with a whole load of rooms and lots of parking spaces. And the King's Cavalry Motel was designed the same as every other motel, with each room facing towards its own parking space and each room faithfully providing what was advertised at exactly the stated price.

Normally there was plenty of space whenever we pulled into a motel but when Bertha steered the VW Camper Van into the car park, it was obvious that there weren't many spare rooms available. In fact, almost every motel room had a car parked in front of it. And when we bundled out of the van, eager to stretch our legs and have a smoke, we were met by Judy Dildo and Andrea who'd been sitting on a bench and waiting for us just by a soda vending machine.

"Hey guys!" said Judy. "It's not good news. There's a business convention or something near here, so almost all the rooms are taken already. In fact, there are only four rooms left and they're all double beds."

"So that's enough for just eight of us," said Crystal.

"Yeah, you're right," said Judy. "You eight. We've already booked the rooms for you: we didn't want to risk losing them. Then me and the rest of us will drive on. There's another motel about fifty miles ahead. The Silver Noose Motel it's called..."

"So we'll have to stay the night in two different motels," said Crystal betraying more than just polite regret in her voice. "The Crystal Passion band will be split up for the first time on the tour."

"Well, since we arrived at JFK," remarked Tomiko.

"Don't worry about it, Crystal," said Judy. "It's only fair. You need the rest more than we do. I'm sure the Silver Noose will be more than good enough for us."

Crystal could see the sense in this arrangement, so she and I walked with Judy to the motel's check-in desk where Olivia was waiting for us while she sipped from a can of fizzy soda. The middle-aged and overweight motel receptionist was squeezed behind the desk and busy handling the concerns of an equally obese guest.

"Phew! You guys are really hot and sweaty!" Olivia said pointing at the vending machine in the motel foyer. "You better have a can of something."

We agreed and slotted in our quarters for ice-cold cans of carbonated drinks with exotic names that none of us had ever come across before. I selected a can of Myrtle's Malt and Crystal chose Top Gaul.

"God! It tastes foul!" I exclaimed.

"Yeah, it's really vinegary," said Olivia. "It's cold though."

"It might be cold," said Crystal after a sip of Top Gaul, "but it's not exactly refreshing. Can we swap drinks, Pebbles? I don't think I can drink any more of this."

We swapped drinks and I could identify no discernible difference between Myrtle's Malt and Top Gaul. They were both sugary and both disgusting.

"Does anyone else want to drink this stuff?" Crystal asked. "I don't think I've ever drunk anything so horrible in my life!"

"Yes ma'am!" said the receptionist as the hotel guest she'd been dealing with waddled off. "I'd be thrilled to drink a can of Myrtle's. It's locally brewed and I for one am proud of our local beverages."

"You're welcome to it," said Crystal with a winning smile as she handed it over to the receptionist who greedily guzzled down three long draughts.

The receptionist regarded all four of us—and especially me—with a hostile expression she didn't bother to disguise. She didn't like the fact that my head was shaven any more than she liked Judy Dildo's rock chick uniform of denim, leather, jangling jewellery and tattoos.

"Ain't you that lezbo punk rock group from England I've heard tell about on the radio?" she asked. "Bristol Fashion or summat?"

"Crystal Passion," I automatically corrected her. "And we're not a punk rock group."

"You ain't?" she said sceptically. "Well, all that din all sounds the same to me. I'm a Country Music gal and you freaky druggies are all punks as far as I'm concerned. And I'll tell you this now so's there's no misunderstanding, here at King's Cavalry we have a 100% anti-drugs policy and we don't listen to no excuses."

I was so stunned to hear someone pronounce 'anti' as 'ant eye' that I wasn't sure how to respond, but as always Crystal was diplomatic and non-confrontational.

"I can assure you that not one of us will consume illegal drugs while we're here," she said. "But I'm sure we might be tempted by the beer you sell in the bar."

"I don't think Jake'd take kindly to young gals entering his bar unaccompanied," the receptionist said. "He runs a civilised business as we all do here. And no decent Christian gal would be drinking liquor by herself, would she now?"

"Of course not," said Crystal. "I imagine you'd like to see our passports before you give us our room keys."

She handed over a set of eight British passports in which Her Britannic Majesty's Secretary of State requested and required all those whom it may concern to allow the bearer to pass freely without let or hindrance.

"So you're this Christine Fashion?" the receptionist said when she looked at Crystal's photographs. "Least it ain't the mouthful of your real name. Eye-talian ain't it? And I'll remind you again. This is a Christian establishment. No drug-taking. No loud parties. And no bugging our paying guests with your Rock & Roll tomfoolery."

After this chastisement, we carried our bags to the rooms we were allocated, after first seeing Judy set off with Jenny Alpha, Olivia, Tomiko and my sister.

"Fuck knows what that cow in reception would've made of Tomiko's passport," Judy snarled as she gripped the steering wheel in anticipation of the drive ahead. "A Japanese girl with an Irish passport and the poshest accent this side of Windsor Castle. She'd really be freaked out."

Crystal restrained herself from her usual conciliatory remarks as she knew this would only encourage Judy to be further outspoken. "Drive safely," she said after kissing Judy tenderly on her lips.

This show of affection inevitably attracted the unwelcome attention of some of the denim-clad men hanging around outside the bar, clutching bottles of beer and puffing on cigarettes.

"Dykes!" yelled one of them as we strolled back to the motel room where I'd be sharing a double bed with Thelma that night. "Lezzie Carpet Munchers!"

"Suck my dick, girls!" chimed in his friend. "You don't know ... You might actually like it!"

"Whyn'tcha screw a real man, ladies?" yelled another. "Or ain'tcha got the balls?"

"They ain't got no balls," taunted the first man. "And they ain't got no tits neither!"

"I don't think I'll be going to the bar after all," Crystal commented as she pushed open the door to the motel room she was sharing with Philippa.

Despite what these men expected, I don't think any of us were in the mood at that time for lesbian sex. Or for any drug-related activity. I'd exhausted my personal stash supply at the Sisterhood Women's Music Festival and I hadn't yet found a reliable source on our time on tour. In fact, the only thing I was in the mood to do was slump on the bed, dog-tired in the unaccustomed heat, holding the television remote while skipping through the dozens of television channels in the hope of finding one that wasn't showing a commercial. It seemed that as soon as I found a channel that was showing anything halfway decent—perhaps an episode of Friends or Star Trek: The Next Generation—then without warning the drama would be interrupted by the naffest TV ad imaginable. I even had to sit through a 30 second ad extolling the virtues of Top Gaul, the memory of which was still rumbling uncomfortably inside my guts.

However, when Thelma and I nestled against each other and tried to fall asleep we were kept awake by the constant commotion from the bar where the jukebox was playing unnecessarily loud Country & Western and from the incessant shouting and loud conversation of other guests obscured by the evening shadows. A handful of men congregated outside our bedroom door for some ten or fifteen minutes during which time they constantly hollered and swore at each other. There was also the echo of yelling in the near distance from an American woman in which I couldn't tell apart a single individual word but I'm sure several were neither decent nor Christian.

"Fuck knows what convention those guys are going to," Thelma commented. "But it sure isn't to sell Bibles."

"Or maybe it is," I said ruefully, recalling the ecstatic bawling I'd briefly witnessed on one of the Christian TV channels I'd skimmed through earlier that evening. Americans didn't worship God in the same restrained manner as the Church of England does. Rather, it was conducted at a loud volume with high theatre and buckets of perspiration dripping from the preacher's brow and nose.

After more than an hour of this commotion and some disconcerting screams, thumps and bangs, a general atmosphere of night-time silence finally descended on the motel. And now we could hear more clearly the roar of traffic on Interstate 81. Thelma and I wrapped ourselves in each other's arms under the poly cotton sheet and rested our heads on the hard pillows.

I was hopeful that the blessed relief of a welcome night's sleep would soon be upon me.

But as it happened, this wasn't to be.

All of a sudden my near slumbers were rudely interrupted by a violent and insistent banging on the bedroom door.

"What the fuck?" Thelma exclaimed.

The bangs on the door were repeated and this time I could hear words: "Po-lice! Open up, ladies!"

"Fuck!" I exclaimed, as I hastily jumped out of bed and pulled on a baggy shirt and some jeans.

Thelma was up on her feet well before me, dressed in a simple dress she'd squeezed into far more rapidly than I ever could. She opened the door and addressed the two police officers who were standing on the other side with an accent almost as posh as Tomiko's and totally devoid of her habitual glottal stops.

"How can we help you, officer?" she asked.

"We've heard reports of illegal activity, ma'am," said one of the policemen. "Drug-taking and other misdemeanours. We'll have to ask you and the rest of your pop group to accompany us to the Sheriff's Department for questioning."