The Heart Rate of a Mouse (Larry)

Chapter 2: A Machine for the Music Industry

Brianna is sitting on my bed in my boxers and t-shirt. She hasn't brushed her hair, and it falls in a tangled, blonde mess around her face. Her eyes are bigger than they usually are, her lower lip jutted out in a pout. A man weaker than I would have melted already.

"I'll be so bored," she exclaims.

"I'll be bored too," I tell her and throw my last pair of socks in the suitcase.

"You'll be on tour. I've been on tour, I know what it's like," she insists. But this won't be one of those tours I used to enjoy, hang out at the bar, jump on stage from the midst of the crowd. And it won't be the ones she has made cameos on, living on the bus for three or four days and hanging out with the bands she is friends with. This is venue security, classified schedules and impersonality taken to new extremes. They all want a piece of us. Now, we're famous.

"Get dressed," I tell her, going to the kitchen to empty the fridge of anything that is likely to go off while I'm away. I stop at the bedroom doorway after I'm done, and I watch her put on a bright green dress that stops above her knees. No bra, of course; she has burnt all of hers.

Brianna grudgingly helps me carry one of my two suitcases. The taxi is waiting for me downstairs, ready to take me to the airport where I will be reunited with the band. The crew is already in Minnesota where we kick off, getting everything ready for tomorrow night. Brianna sighs and chews on her bottom lip. I open my arms. She presses her head against my neck and wraps her tiny arms around my chest. Will she really miss me? Would I really want her to? My cheek leans on the side of her head, and I look down my street blindly as my better half says something.

"Huh?"

"Who's Bri?" she repeats. "Ed said that you named the tour, so who is she?"

"Ed said?" I repeat sceptically. "When did you hang out with him?" She shrugs in response, and I shrug back, both of our answers locked away in our brains where we don't share. The taxi driver gets out of the car and points at his wristwatch. I sigh. "Gotta go, babe."

Brianna lets go of me. "I love you."

"You too," I say easily. Too easily.

She smiles brightly, and I give her a soft kiss. Then we are separated by the window of the car, and she waves me off before turning around. Her step isn't any heavier than it normally is. The taxi gains speed and the driver asks, "Was that your wife?"

I suppress a spontaneous laugh. "No."

"Fiancée?"

"My girlfriend. Occasionally."

"Oh." The man sounds disapproving, but he's an old guy, almost fifty. God forbid us young people, kissing in the streets, fucking in the bushes, growing long hair, wearing tight clothes and listening to that goddamned rock and roll. God forbid us.

After two blocks, it gets harder for me to remember the details of Brianna's face. She is most likely realising the same about me.

* * *

We get to our hotel in St. Paul late afternoon. The venue is on the other side of town, but our tour bus is parked two blocks from the hotel. Cal is organising a huge pre-tour party in his hotel room, starting now, but I decide to skip it. Why be hung-over tomorrow? I definitely do not want to be in even worse shape than I will be.

Instead, I decide to acquaint myself with my home for the next three months. Bigger label means more money, and more money means a better bus. It's not hard to top the piece of shit we used to tour with, but my expectations are exceeded when I round the corner and spot our bus. It's brand new and looks like a metal box with a smooth, blue panel on both sides. Small windows decorate the sides of the bus from the front to the middle where they suddenly stop. I figure it's where the sleeping area must start. To my surprise, Ben is standing by the bus door, rubbing the metal surface with his sleeve. His bell bottom jeans are flipping in the wind as I make my way over.