The shower is hot. Standing in the hot rain is melting stress and monkey parts off my body in a way I had completely forgotten that I needed. Gosh. It's been three weeks since the world changed. Shit! I missed band practice. I wonder if the guys are okay. I let myself drift in the heat.
Spazz is the guy I’m most worried about. Lead guitar. A bit taller than average: six-six. Looks like a lumberjack, but not the sharpest axe in the shred. The man can play though; his fingers move like lightning. But the rest of him isn't all that coordinated. I swear he tripped over every prop, instrument and cord in the studio. The whole reason we went wireless was to make Spazz trip less. His situational awareness was epic too; almost as bad as his coordination. I remember that one time when he spent 2 minutes going off about the unprofessionalism of the venue. After 30 seconds we were trying to get him to stop, and he eventually did. Then he noticed the stadium manager standing in front of us.
It’s kinda weird to have your echolocation gear underwater. Kinda like when your ears get wet, and your hearing is all messed up. Feels like that. At least, when I lean away from the showerhead, it drains really fast. Not like your ears, where it sticks for a while and takes 3 hours to finish draining. Thirty seconds later I can echo again. At least, it works at close range, cuz that’s all I can tell in the shower.
JaMarcus is probably gonna be fine. Six-five and looks like he walked straight off the set of Zoolander 4. He has a deep resonant baritone that goes on for miles and he's a complete asshole. He’s all about taking care of himself. If he wasn’t responsible for two thirds of our fans, we woulda kicked his ass outta the band years ago. But the man can sing. He did church choir since he was three or some such shit. We were pretty sure he was only with us because it meant he didn’t really have to work--and he got a babe or two in every city we toured. I even saw him heading into his room with three once. Whatever. His face got us gigs we wouldn’t get just for the music. Hell, our take went up 50% after he did the underwear ads. But if someone gets in his way, and there’s no government, he’d probably just kill ‘em. Monkeys don't stand a chance.
Let’s find out what happens if I shampoo the ‘hawk.
Gaaah!
It’s like distortion. Funhouse mirrors. Close my eyes, and the shower is eight inches square, or six feet. Or both at the same time. I’m getting a headache. Rinse that shit out. I gotta remember to use my mental engineer-pad to shut down the echolocation when I’m shampooing. Showering is livable, but shampoo is a sonavabitch.
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I shake my head.
Our keyboardist made us into a band. He came from the marines, yelled at us like a drill sergeant, and taught us how to work together. Phuc Tran. We used to give him shit about his name. He taught us all how to pronounce it by the end of day two. Even though he was a shortie at like five-ten or something, he was more buffed and more dangerous than any two of us. Even JaM was careful with Tran. I never saw him hit anyone except us bandies, and even then only on the shoulders, and when we were slackin or called him Fuck. Good good guy. Asshole of a drill instructor but he made us a team. Best coach I ever saw. Pretended to be a Filipino supremacist half the time. Even tried to get me to try Filipino martial arts. He's the only reason I even know what escrima is. I owe him a lot. ‘S why my Escrima coach is named after him. He’s fine. He probably strangled the first monkey tried to fuck with him using its own intestines. Wouldn’t be surprised if the rest of them all either ran away or lined up and saluted.
Soap. I ain’t much of a smeller. Hell, I’m sweaty every night in a post-punk band, far far away from my audience. Only people who can bitch at me are my homies, and they’re not even close enough to smell. And sweatier than me. But it makes your body kinda sticky. And I’d kinda forgotten how nice it is to actually clean off.
Last guy was bass, backup vocals, and responsible for both our band name and most of the lyrics. Five Guys and Their Shticks. Normal sized guy like me, but not so thin. Maybe 200 pounds? He tried to keep up with me on rhythm, but what can you do when you only have one beat to give. Strings are not drums. We called him Fonzie ‘cuz he looked a lot like that TV guy from 100 years ago. Sometimes we called him Fozzie too for his shape. He prefered both to his real name. I would’ve too. Shmuel Schleppenbach. Great guy. Funny. Always had a joke. Witty and fast with words. Again, not that athletic or good at anything but words and music. Hope he’s okay. I worry about him too. I’d never have read Peart’s books, or ZAMM, or gotten a chopper if it weren’t for Fonzie. Wouldn’t ’a crashed twice either, but them’s the brakes.
Gosh, I’ve been in the shower 23 minutes, just soaking and reminiscing. Promised the plant I’d play with magic.
My range isn’t great, but Phuc used to make us all practice singing too. I can carry a tune in a bucket. And it’s really easy to remember some bands’ stuff. Using the shower walls as drums, I lead in
Pa-tah ta-ta-ta ta-ka-ta-ka …
I hear the guitar come in in my head, and then I finish the intro on drums.
“If the rain comes … ”
Ringo was highly underappreciated as a drummer and musician.
I start cycling through my other favorite Beatles tunes. Tell Me Why. Hello, Goodbye. Something. I Feel Fine. I try to stick with singing, and messing with the acoustic magic, but I can’t resist some of Ringo’s riffs, and I end up tappin' the walls. “Yesterday” makes me think of the band again, and I wonder how they’re doing.
My hour comes to an end faster than you can say Scrumdiddlyumptious, and the water goes off.