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...
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Green shag carpet peeks between her toes, her tired eyes struggle to focus on her surroundings as she remembers the performance the night before. The show was magical, just as she expected. Imaginary fireworks shot off the stage in the form of The Orphans. All-consuming tunes spilled out of their individual instruments, engulfing her ears and spirit, bringing her into a warm embrace of comfort and pandemonium. Strangers swayed to the beat beside her, knocking her from side to side. But she was oblivious to the disarray. She felt as though she was zoned out in her bedroom in Venice Beach — headphones on and lost in craze as she hums along to the songs she's become so accustomed to.
Red tank top. Light-wash jeans. Thin black cardigan. Worn out Queen shirt. Each piece of clothing tucks snugly in the corners of her bag as she pushes the puzzle pieces in to fit perfectly. The phone rings on the nightstand where all the band members have congregated in her's and Mitch's hotel room. She sits on her bag to squish the contents down and help it zip.
"You rang?" Harry picks up the receiver and yells into the mouthpiece.
"Is Goldie there?" The guy's voice, unfamiliar to Harry, says on the other end of the line.
"Who's speaking?" Harry asks, his voice dropping down two octaves in attempt to subdue the outsider. The blonde bounces up and down on her luggage, placed on the bed, struggling to close it shut. "She's a little busy on the bed right now. Shall I take a message?" His British gentlemanly side, combined with his desire to get a rise out of the male creates an intimidating reaction.
"Just tell her Andrew called to wish her 'happy birthday.'" The phone's audio clicks, the connection coming to an abrupt halt.
* * *
The curtain of her bunk is slightly parted. She jots down notes on the loose pieces of binder paper she found in her backpack of supplies when footsteps stir outside. Peeking her head through the flannel, she sees Matt and Mitch shuffle to the back of the bus toward Harry's room.
Mitch's hands open her curtain wider and snatches a paper from her thin stack. "I'm sorry but we need this," he scoffs.
"What are you two doing?" she whispers, like a mom busting her troublemaker children. She hangs over the edge of her hard mattress, the seams of the side digging into her soft elbows. "Where's Harry?"
"He said he needed to go the store, so we're taking this opportunity to take down the big white whale," Matt proudly comments while nodding and pulling a lotion bottle from beside Harry's bed. A bright blood orange-colored vile pokes out of the breast pocket of his holey Fruit of the Loom shirt. He unscrews the top of the lotion bottle, securing it between his knees. Mitch forms a funnel with the paper he stole from Goldie and places it in the opening of the lotion.
"You're messing with his lotion, aren't you?" Goldie prys for more details.
