Chapter 19b

The tour went on. After the third show in Long Beach, the band went to their own homes for the last time. The next morning, limousines took them to a truck stop on Interstate 5 just outside the Los Angeles city limits. Here, the tour caravan had formed up and they climbed onto the dreaded tour bus for the first time in almost two years. The first trip was relatively short. They went to San Diego and did two shows there. The following trip was considerably longer — from San Diego to San Jose, where they were doing another two shows. From San Jose they went to Oakland. From Oakland, they went to Sacramento. From there, they went to Heritage to do their obligatory two shows for their hometown.

By the time they left Heritage, heading for the next date in Portland (and their first extended travel day off), a routine had been established. It was a routine much different from that of previous tours, but a routine nonetheless.

There was not much talking on the tour bus. When they left their respective hotels in the morning, everyone found their own little portion of the bus, usually near their assigned bunk, and they stayed there for the entire trip. Jake and Nerdly sometimes talked to each other, and all of them sometimes had necessary conversations with Greg or one of the bus drivers, but apart from that, it was mostly silence as they rolled down the highways and byways to their next show.

Nothing that could be described as partying occurred on the bus. There was lots of drinking, particularly with Jake, Coop, and Matt, but they drank alone, timing their trips to the bar or the refrigerator so they wouldn't run into each other there. Nerdly and Charlie didn't drink much, although Nerdly liked to smoke marijuana on the bus and whine to Jake about how he didn't think Sharon should have to ride on the roadie bus with the other female technicians (Sharon was officially on the payroll for this tour as the head of concert sound). Charlie generally didn't do anything at all. He laid in his bunk and slept as much as he could.

Once in the city they were playing at, the band would filter off the bus and check into their hotel rooms. Except on the extended travel days, they would usually go immediately to the various radio stations and record stores in order to give interviews, record sound clips, and sign autographs. When at these events, the band looked at it the same way as if they were on stage and pretended to like each other, to be a team. They would lightly josh each other and proclaim that the rumors about their infighting were being wildly exaggerated. They would stand next to each other and pose for pictures, smiling all the while. And then, once they climbed back on the bus, they would resume their normal stances.

When they got to the evening's venue, they would perform the sound check under the direction of Nerdly and Sharon without complaining and without any unnecessary conversation. The only exception to this was when either Jake or Matt (by unspoken rule, they tended to rotate this duty) were forced to tell Mr. and Mrs. Nerdly that the sound was as good as it was going to get and it was time to mark the dials and knobs and call it good.

After the sound check, the band would go to their dressing room and lounge around in their separate corners until it was time to get dressed for the show. The four-hour moratorium on intoxicant use was still in effect but Matt did not need to rigorously enforce it or even mention it. Everyone drank water or tea or Gatorade instead of booze and Jake stopped smoking cigarettes two hours prior to each show to save his voice. When it was time to go backstage and meet the radio contest winners, the radio station personnel, the local media, and all the other people who had, by hook or crook, managed to get their greasy little hands on backstage passes, the band put back on their public faces and pretended to be happy and full of teamwork once again. When that was done, they came back to the dressing room and waited until their opening band — a thrash-metal group National had just signed eight months ago called The Goobers — finished their set.

At 8:30 each night, the band went onstage and did their hour and a half set. They did it well and they left each crowd wanting more when each show was over. They then left the stage and retreated back to the dressing room for more apathy and animosity.

The groupies were still brought back after the band had eaten and showered, but Matt and Coop were the only two who engaged in their services on a nightly basis. They would accept blowjobs in the dressing room and then pick out one or two apiece to accompany them back to their hotel suite. Charlie would usually let one blow him every night (always with two rubbers on his unit and latex gloves on his hands) and, maybe once a week would take one back to the hotel with him. Jake would politely decline any sexual attention from the groupies for two or three days in a row and then, when he started to really crave sex, he would pick one out early and keep her with him for the night, talking to her, asking her about her life, even asking her what her name was. He would then take her back to his hotel and spend the night with her. Try as he might, however, he could never remember their names the next day when he climbed on the bus. Only Nerdly shunned the groupies entirely. He had his wife out on the tour with him and she would always meet him back at his hotel room where they would sleep together and take care of each other's sexual urges. Nerdly was propositioned by the best of them, but he never even came close to giving into the temptation.

For Jake, the only thing that didn't change about the after-show festivities was his drinking. He still made a point of getting hammered every night after every show. It would start in the dressing room as soon as they left the stage. He would drink enough Gatorade to rehydrate himself from the hour and a half of performing under the hot lights and then he would crack open that first beer. Generally it took two or three beers to carry him through his after-show meal and then another five or six while the groupies circulated after the band showered. Once back at the hotel room, whether he had a groupie with him or not, he would hit the mini-bar and drink rum and cokes until one or two in the morning, at which point he would fall drunkenly into bed. On most days, he would be awakened at six-thirty to start the next day. He would order his breakfast with two bloody Marys and would climb onto the bus by eight o'clock, buzzed and tired. He would sleep for two or three more hours on the bus and then start the whole routine over.

On the extended travel days, when they would wake up later and leave later, but had the night off, Jake would climb onto the bus, sleep his two or three hours, and then start hitting the hard stuff while the bus rolled down the road. Usually he was smashed by the time they reached their destination city. A few times, he had to be physically helped off the bus and into his hotel room by Nerdly or one of the bus drivers.

Such was life on the road for the Intemperance tour of 1990.

A break in the routine occurred on February 21, just after the second of two shows in Dallas, Texas. The band ignored each other as usual in the dressing room after the show. Coop and Matt both had their blowjobs and picked out their groupies for the night, as usual. Nerdly went back to his own hotel room without engaging in any sort of flirtation, as usual. Charlie let a skanky redheaded groupie give him a blowjob, as usual, and then, deciding it was one of those nights, he took her back to his room and engaged in a lengthy session of anal sex with her. And Jake, deciding it was not one of those nights, turned down all requests for "getting to know him better" by the groupies. He had his seven or eight beers and then climbed on the bus. That was usual as well. What was unusual was that once at his hotel room, Jake only had two rum and cokes before retiring. He dropped into bed in a condition that could almost be called sobriety for him. The reason for this was that he had to get up at six o'clock the next morning in order to catch a 7:45 AM flight out of DFW going to Los Angeles. Tomorrow was the 32^nd Annual Grammy Awards and, once more, Intemperance was in the running and needed a representative at the ceremony.

Intemperance was only up for one award this time around and it was not for anything off their latest album, Lines On The Map. Since Lines had not been released until late December, nothing on it qualified for this year's Grammy Awards. Instead, the award Intemperance had been nominated for was Best Rock Song By A Duet Or Group for This Life We Live, the ballad about the life of a celebrity that had been one of the hits from their live album of the previous year. Ordinarily, songs from live albums did not qualify for nomination since they were generally re-recorded tunes from previous albums. In the case of This Life, however, it was an original tune that appeared nowhere else and, though never released as a single, it was still receiving extensive airplay from coast to coast.

Of course, the tune didn't have a chance in hell of actually winning the award, not against the likes of The Traveling Wilburys, U2, and, most formidable, the mighty Rolling Stones, but someone had to be there just in case, and, since it was Jake's tune, that someone was Jake — again.

At 7:20 AM, Jake was sitting in the first class departure lounge at DFW. He was dressed in his standard traveling outfit of jeans, baseball cap, and dark sunglasses, and smoking a cigarette. He was debating whether or not to have a bloody Mary before boarding or to wait until he actually got on the plane. He finally decided to go for broke and have the first one now. He could drink all the way home and then catch a nap in his own house before getting up to dress for the ceremony. Sure, he might be a little tired and hung over, but what the hell? You only lived once, right? And this was a mini-vacation away from the tour, wasn't it? Why not enjoy it to the fullest?

Jake walked up to the bar and sat at one of the stools. The bartender was busy mixing up a Bombay martini for a middle-aged businessman in a three-piece suit, so Jake looked up at the television mounted above his head. It was tuned to CNN and the newscaster was giving an update on Manuel Noriega's upcoming preliminary hearing on drug trafficking charges.

"I think you're well and truly fucked, Manny," Jake said to the image of the former Panamanian dictator when it appeared on the screen. "You shouldn't have messed around with the Bush-man."

The Noriega story wrapped up and the newscaster moved onto something else. To Jake's surprise, Mindy Snow's face suddenly appeared on the graphic over her left shoulder.

"In other news today," the newscaster said. "Actress Mindy Snow has filed for divorce from her husband of two years, world renowned movie director Scott Adams Winslow. The papers were filed in Los Angeles late yesterday and cited irreconcilable differences as the grounds. The news of this filing took many Hollywood insiders by surprise as the marriage of these two celebrities always seemed to be one of the more rock-solid pairings in the industry."

"Holy shit," Jake said, his mouth dropping open, his drink forgotten. Mindy had filed for divorce? What did that mean? Did he have anything to do with it?

"Mindy Snow's long-time manager and publicist, Georgette Minden, told CNN that Mindy and Winslow's parting is amicable and mutually agreed-to and that the two will remain friends. Joseph Campbell, Winslow's spokesperson, said very much the same thing, telling CNN that Winslow will always hold a fond place in his heart for Mindy, but that they just can't go on living as man and wife.

"Meanwhile, speculation runs rampant about the possible involvement of Jake Kingsley, lead singer for the death-metal band, Intemperance, in the equation. Jake and Mindy once carried on a turbulent six-month affair that ended among accusations of violence and abuse. Mindy has admitted meeting up with Kingsley in Fiji last year and told the Los Angeles Times that she invited Jake to a New Year's Eve party at the couple's mansion. Just a few weeks ago Mindy attended the opening night of Intemperance's latest concert tour where she was seen cheering him on and locking eyes with him up on the stage while Winslow sat quietly in his seat. When asked about Jake Kingsley's involvement in the divorce filing, both Mindy and Winslow's publicists proclaimed the very idea ridiculous speculation."

"Can I help you, sir?" the bartender asked, distracting Jake from further perusal of the news report.

"Yes," he said. "A bloody Mary. Make it a pale one, my friend."

"You got it," the bartender said. He looked at Jake carefully for a moment, his eyes slowly showing recognition. "Hey," he said. "You're Jake Kingsley, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Jake said, resigned. "I guess I am."

"Son of a bitch," the bartender said. "I'm one of your biggest fans! I was at the show last night! I'm still hungover from it."

"Sorry to hear that," Jake told him.

"No problem, dude. It was a great show. One of your best. Tell me something..."

The bartender asked his requisite questions and Jake gave him the requisite answers. He then signed a piece of paper for the bartender and endured a few more inane questions. By the time the bartender left to go make his drink, the CNN newscaster had moved onto something else — just some little story about Chinese denials of the casualty count in last year's Tiananmen Square massacre.

Fifteen minutes later, Jake boarded his plane, already feeling a decent buzz from the two bloody Marys. The entire flight he wondered about just why Mindy Snow had filed for divorce and whether or not it had anything to do with him.

The awards ceremony actually turned out to be something of a good time. Though Intemperance did not win — the Traveling Wilburys took the category they were nominated for — Jake did have a chance to visit with some of his heroes and major influences in music. Tom Petty, George Harrison, Jeff Lynne, and Bob Dylan were all there as part of the Wilburys. Mick Jagger and Keith Richardson were there as part of the Stones. They all greeted and conversed with Jake as an equal among them, sharing anecdotes.

Jake — along with most of the other musicians in his category — consumed a pretty good amount of alcohol during the long, boring, drawn-out ceremony. After saying goodbye to those he'd met in the limo staging area, he headed home, planning on having a few more drinks and then passing out. His flight to San Antonio left at noon the next day and he had a show to do in that city the day after.

Tommy Stoner — the driver of his limo — dropped him off in front of his house at 11:30 that night.

"Have a good night, Jake," he said as Jake climbed out of the door Tommy held open for him. "Sorry you didn't win."

"I'm used to it, Tommy," Jake said, shaking his hand and slipping a fifty dollar bill into his palm. "At least it got me home for the day."

"There is that," Tommy agreed. "Can I help you into your house?" He had picked up that Jake was half a dozen sheets to the wind.

"Naw," Jake said dismissively. "I'm cool."

"All right then," Tommy said. He went back around to the driver's seat and stepped inside. A moment later, he was gone.

Jake tossed the cigarette he was smoking into the row of bushes against his driveway and then headed for the front door. The porch light was on but the rest of the house was dark. Elsa had undoubtedly gone to bed by now. He stumbled a few times as he went up the marble steps and was fumbling with his keys when he suddenly had the overwhelming sense that someone was coming up on him fast from behind.

Adrenaline flooded through his body and he spun around, dropping his keys to the ground and bringing his fists up. The alcohol had dulled his senses just enough that he was too late on the turn. He caught a brief glimpse of a familiar looking person rapidly closing on him, a fist cocked back for action.

"You motherfucker!" he heard the person bark, and then that fist connected with his face, just below his left eye.

Stars exploded before Jake's vision and he staggered backwards, slamming into his front door. Before he could recover, the man's other fist swung from the other direction, catching him in the side of the head. The blow hurt Jake, but apparently not as bad as it hurt his assailant.

"Owww! Goddammit!" the man whined, shaking his fist in pain.

Jake shook his head to clear the fuzziness and then instinctively counter-attacked. He didn't know who this person was or why he was attacking, but he wasn't going to go down without a fight. He stepped forward and jabbed three times with his left, hitting the man in the nose, the cheek, and the eye. He then swung a roundhouse with his right, connecting solidly with the man's chin.

The last punch did the trick. His assailant dropped like a bag of bricks, thumping to the concrete of Jake's porch, where he lay there, moaning in pain and... was that crying? Yes, to Jake, it sounded like the man was actually crying!

Jake kneeled down and grabbed the man by the back of his hair. He lifted up on his head and stared at his face. He found himself looking at a bleary-eyed Scott Adams Winslow, who was now blubbering in pain and fear. The odor of alcohol was radiating off of him in reeking waves.

"I'm sorry!" Winslow whined. "I don't now what I was doing! Please don't hurt me anymore!"

"Winslow?" Jake asked, his dazed mind still trying to come to some sort of comprehension about what had just happened. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"I'm sorry," Winslow whimpered. He was now trembling all over. "I shouldn't have tried this. I'm not a fighter. Please don't hit me anymore, Jake."

Jake let go of the man's hair and stood up. "I'm not gonna hit you anymore," he said. "At least not if you don't try to hit me."

Winslow looked up slowly, large tears running down his cheeks. "Really?" he said.

"Really," Jake said. "Why don't you stand up?"

Winslow hesitated, as if he thought Jake was going to attack him when he stood. Finally, after a few more reassurances, he put his feet beneath him and rose up. He swayed a few times and looked like he was going to fall, but somehow managed to keep his equilibrium.

"You okay?" Jake asked, seeing a trickle of blood coming from Winslow's left nostril and the beginnings of swelling under his left eye.

Winslow sniffed a few times. "Not really," he said. "But I'll live."

Jake nodded, touching the swelling under his own eye. He was going to have a shiner tomorrow. He could already tell. "What's going on here, Winslow?" Jake asked. "Why are you attacking me on my front porch? How did you even get here?"

"I followed you from the Grammy Awards," Winslow said. "I've been drinking all night and when I saw your face on TV on a newscast... well... I guess I acted kind of impulsively. Before I knew what was happening, I was parked down the street with a pair of binoculars and a bottle of scotch. When I saw you come out after the ceremony I just followed your limo home."

"You drove like this?" Jake asked, astounded. The man was obviously smashed to the gills. Even Matt didn't drive this drunk.

Winslow nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Not a good idea, I know. But then this whole stupid thing was a bad idea. Jesus, I can't believe I thought I could take you in a fight."

"Well... I'm glad you didn't bring a gun," Jake said. "You caught me by surprise."

"I don't own a gun," Winslow said, "or I might've."

Jake felt a chill go down his spine. "What's this all about?" he asked, although he already had a pretty good idea. Somehow, Winslow had found out that Jake had been fucking Mindy. Was that why they were getting divorced? But it was Mindy who had filed the papers, wasn't it?

"It's a long story," Winslow said. "One I don't really care to share with anyone. I think I'll just go home."