Her father left.
The perfect house in the perfect neighborhood.
Claire needed her father.
Her mother works hard, but hard to keep the neighbors impressed.
Then, her dad runs away to be a rock band roadie.
Her 4.5 AP Nerdfest brother is accus...
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Like a little boy who runs away to join the circus, Steve tries to be a roadie. Knowing his family is facing a total financial melt down, he tries to become someone else entirely. Like the line in Langston Hughe's poem "What happens to a Dream Deferred?"
"This ain't ass work," Vance said.
"Ass work?" Steve replied.
Vance barely looked up from his position on all fours, as he ran a thick strip of black tape across stage cords. "Where you sit on your ass and think you're working."
"I'll do anything," Steve replied. "Don't even pay me. Just let me...let me..."
Vance stood up and arched his back. His pitted Van Halen T-shirt stuck in disrespect to his jellied middle. "Pay you?" He laughed and threw the roll of tape to Steve. "You can pay me."
Rubbing the smooth sides of the tape and flipping it between his hands, Steve gazed into the shiny black surface. "Just give me a chance."
"Sure, F.N.G." Vance said. "Take the gaff and tape the snake."
Steve looked up to see the back of Vance fade into the ant-trail of roadies. Bursts of crackled sound checks and strings of roadie expletives swirled around Steve. Still, he held his precious tape like a crystal goblet. "Okay," he whispered to himself, "gaff the snake with the tape."
He looked up again and searched for Vance. Nothing. He looked around for anyone else who seemed to be gaffing a snake or tapping a gaff or snaking a tape.
"Excuse me," Steve said to one of the guys he recognized from the bus. "I'm sorry to bother you. I'm sure you're busy with your own assignment, but I've been asked to snake the gaff and I'd appreciate if you could—"
"Fuck you."
"Well," Steve said. "I'm pretty sure you're one of the guys who ate a hearty breakfast on my card and I don't think it's too much to ask for a little direction."
"Move, or I'll tear your fucking heart out through your whistle tight asshole."
Taking a step back, he said, "No need for violence. It's my first day on the job and I'm not so naïve to ask for a training manual, but I would appreciate a little assistance."
The roadie spit on the stage and rubbed his hardened hands across the flat hair pulled into a rubberband. He grabbed the tape. "Who gave this to you?"
"Vance did."
"Vance!" The roadie yelled.
A few pocket-marked faces looked in their direction, but most of the men scurried along—focused on their various tasks. Vance was nowhere to be seen.
