Hopeless Haze - Volume I: Hot Fuss (Remastered)

10: Taking Its Toll

JUNE 21, 2004

"We gotta unload, Brando," Jeremy says with a squeeze on Brandon's shoulder then stands back up as much as he can in the small van. "We're making good time but you never know with security."

Brandon finally pulls his gaze away from the window and nods, but Jeremy's already getting out of the van along with the rest of the band. Dave knocks on Brandon's window from his place outside, further egging Brandon on.

When he stands up, Brandon immediately feels the uneasiness in his legs. He slides his carry-on bag up to his shoulder and exhales, steadying himself on the seats in front of him before he finally begins to walk forward. At the front of the van, Brandon mutters a 'thank you' to the driver and steps out onto the asphalt. The white letters above the entrance continue to taunt him-DEPARTURES.

A whistle comes from the back of the van, and Dave's head pokes out from behind the open trunk door, "Come get your shit, birthday boy."

Brandon frowns and walks over. Grabbing his duffle bag leaves the trunk empty, so Jeremy yells a final acknowledgment to the driver before slamming the door shut. Jeremy turns back to the band, "Let's roll."

The band follows Jeremy toward the main doors and Brandon can't help but think they look like cattle-like lambs. Brandon plays the caboose, trailing behind the others. Maybe if he slipped away for long enough they would miss their flight trying to look for him. Glastonbury isn't worth any of their lives.

While Brandon is plotting the possibility of escape, he realizes they are already approaching the check-in counter. Jeremy greets the woman behind the counter and explains the troupe of men following him. Brandon tunes out of the conversation when he starts talking about... well, he can't be bothered to know. His gaze is fixed on the big digital clock above the employees' station. In just over an hour, he'll be trapped.

"Come on up, guys," Jeremy beckons to the cattle of sleep-deprived men and they walk to meet their manager at the desk.

The usual drudge through the airport continues after check-in and Brandon feels his dread sink lower and deeper into himself. More accurately, he feels himself sinking lower and deeper into his dread. It's all-encompassing and unending, yet no one knows or understands it like he does.

Brandon hadn't noticed that he's started walking a bit slower than everyone else until Ronnie hangs back for a moment to be at Brandon's side.

"You feeling alright, man?" Ronnie asks low enough not to draw attention from the other guys and Brandon is grateful.

"Uh," he has to clear his throat since he hasn't really spoken yet today, "yeah. Just tired, I guess."

"For sure. Whoever made flights happen before 5 A.M. should be castrated." Ronnie puts an arm around Brandon's shoulders, "Happy birthday, freckle."

Brandon wishes this reminder could excite him, or even just mean something other than doom. He tries to feign sincerity when he mutters, "Thanks, Ron."

"We should figure out something to do over there," Ronnie pats Brandon on the back before dropping his hand. He puts on a bad cockney accent, "A real trip to remembah!" Brandon knows he should laugh, Ronnie always makes him laugh; the most he can muster is a smirk.

They reach the security checkpoint and the motions become a blur from there. Put bag down, shoes off, belt off, arms up, don't think about it. Turn around, walk forward, grab bag, grab shoes, don't think about it. Belt on, shoes on, follow Jeremy, he's still thinking about it.

Brandon looks for Ronnie next to him and sees only Dave, with Mark on the other side of him. Brandon whips his head back toward the security station behind them. Ronnie is standing off to the side of the metal detector, being patted down by one of the TSA agents. Ronnie's annoyance softens when he locks eyes with Brandon.