Taking place in the summer of 1978, the story follows 18-year-old aspiring music journalist, nicknamed Goldie, tasked with following up-and-coming UK rock band - The Orphans - while they do their first tour of the U.S. New to life on the road, Goldi...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Vibrant reds. Dark greens. Muddied browns. Striking blues. Having never been high or drunk before, the dramatic combination of the two makes her surroundings a lot to take in. The colors are beautiful and overwhelming.
She rubs her lips. They're numb. Why are they numb? She runs her fingers across the top of her face. Her eyelids are heavy. They must be closed. Everyone is looking at her. Judging her for being unable to keep her eyes open and alert. Coldness has taken over her body, yet she's sweating what feels like profusely. It's a strange feeling to be relaxed and tense all at once.
"You okay, Goldie?" A muffled voice says from beside her. But she doesn't answer.
"Ground yourself. Be at peace," she unwillingly says aloud while unlacing her black Converse. The intimate moment brings the rest of the room on the edge of worry. All the while her skin is crawling. The only sensation she wants to feel is coarseness of the Venice Beach sand against the arch of her feet and between her toes. That's the ticket. That's what will save her from this discomfort.
"I don't think Goldie is feelin' too hot," Matt notes, running a towel under the faucet. He walks over to the damsel in distress and places the cold cloth on her. First on her forehead. And then on her clavicle. She fights it at first, swatting his caring hands. Then she accepts it. She lets him cool her brow. Let's the cool water drip down her chest.
"Queen of Light.... Took her bow... And then she turned to go..." she mumbles like a rabid dog foaming at the mouth.
"What the fuck is she saying?" Mitch hunches on the other side of her, cupping his ear and turned to her mouth to hopefully translate her words.
"The Prince of Peace embraced the gloom.. And walked the night alone," she continues.
"FUCK YEAH! Zeppelin, man. She's radical. Fuckin' Zeppelin, man. This chick's singing 'The Battle of fuckin' Evermore.'" Jonesy, with his burnt out voice and bloodshot eyes, squats down in front of her. All three guys huddle around. They look like three young boys who've just discovered the corpse of a small animal while on a camping trip. Exploring. Learning. They might as well have poked her with a found stick to see if she'll move. "This broad is trippin', dude. He shouldn't have shotgunned Birdie. She's a nice girl. This isn't good, guys."
"Jonesy, her name is Goldie. And you know Harry's hard to convince. Alright, cutie pie. On three we're gonna lift you. One, two, THREE!" Mitch locks his right arm around her left while Matt locks his left around her right. They help her to her feet, intent on getting her to her room.
"Don't hit her head, man. You might give her a concussion. I read about that in biology class. That shit's no joke," Jonesy commentates while needlessly carrying her feet.
Her limp limbs make it near impossible for them to lift her, let alone escort her hundred-plus-pound body to her room down the hallway. The boys joke the entire journey. How could someone so petite be so hard to manage?
