keep it professional - r. taylor

19

~August 1976~

I was slowly beginning to realize that the music/after party lifestyle was not made for me. My sleep schedule was all distorted, from my getting home late at night to having to wake up early the next morning for work. It didn't help that it felt like either my head was being stabbed with a knife, or my stomach was doing somersaults. I'm sure that my liver was yelling at me every time I took another sip of alcohol, but till this point, I wasn't listening.

The band was doing great. Their records were still selling, and their concerts were still selling out. Normally, since this would mean more work for me, I would be upset by their success. But by this point, I was proud of them and excited for their success.

Whitney was correct in her guess that she would be staying around for a bit longer. It seemed that she was attached to Roger's hip before and after each show. Not only were their hips attached, but their lips were as well. Every time I looked over, it was as if they forgot they were in public filled with other people. I know he's got a bit of a reputation, but seriously, could Roger be that good at snogging constantly?

Speaking of Roger, his mood wasn't any better. I was hoping that having Whitney around would bring up his mood, but it failed to do so. We barely said any words to each other anymore, only conversing if he or I needed something from each other. I didn't mind it. Sure, I missed making witty banter with him, but not talking at all is better than wanting to punch him every time he opened his mouth.

Tonight was their last installment for the small UK "tour" we had set up. I don't know if you could even refer to this as a tour, it was only a few performances in the relative same place. There were only a few minutes left until the boys needed to be on stage, so I began to make my rounds throughout backstage.

Knocking on the green room door, I popped my head in to see most of the band making last-minute preparations. Freddie was warming up his voice, Brian was tuning up his guitar to perfection, and John was checking out his outfit in the mirror. "Boys, you've got a few minutes left. Let's get moving."

I started to head back out to the hallway, but realized that I was only speaking to three-quarters of the band. I didn't see the blonde sulking in the corner like he usually was. "Hey, where's Roger?" I asked them, hoping that they could relay the message to him.

"He's in the room next door. Had too much of an attitude so we kind of kicked him out," Brian told me.

"Great."

Before I left, Freddie warned me, "Try not to poke the bear too much. We do want to have a good show, and we can't really do that if our drummer is throwing drumsticks left and right."

"I'll try." And with that, I shut their green room door and headed to the room next door. On my way inside, Whitney nearly ran into me on her way out. I presumed she was heading to her usual spot, next to me in the wings. When she first took her spot, I was shocked. Normally, Roger's hook-ups stay near the back of the wings, or stay in the crowd and make their way backstage after the show. But not Whitney. She pushed her way to the front, thinking that he needed to see her to give an amazing performance, to which I laughed to myself.

I stepped inside Roger's make-shift green room, which was just a larger looking bathroom. There were a few mirrors and sinks, with the door to the toilet in the back. Even though he had been there for an hour or two, the room was already a mess. Clothes were sprawled across chairs, or formed in clumps on the floor. Water bottles and cans of some rink were crushed and placed in the corner, directly across from the empty wastebasket. It looked like Roger was trying to do his own makeup but gave up in the middle considering the various different products laying around the sink.