blind eyes

03: Ryan

Separating the blinds with two fingers, I stealthily glance out into the street and it appears that the mob of girls is gone. Thank fuck. Not that I don't want to meet fans, but I can't do huge groups. Everyone talks to me at once and it's like, fuck it, I don't know what any one person is saying or asking. Then I get awkward and quiet, then they think I'm an asshole and I don't care or, worse yet, that I'm not listening to what they're saying to me. Fuck. Give me thirty people on Twitch and I can do it with ease, but put them right up in my face and I just can't. I don't want to start out the first day of tour feeling like a gigantic dick.

Seeing that the coast is clear, I race from the bus into the venue and text Brendan as I jog. "Omw."

"Coo," he texts back within a second. He's a good, stand-up dude: I like Brendan.

I burst into the dressing room and glance around at my bandmates. Vin looks like he's about to fall asleep with a donut resting on his left thigh, and Rick is nursing a steaming hot cup of what must be coffee. He waves. "Nice of you to join us, Sitkowski."

I gesture over my shoulder and crinkle my nose. "Girls."

"Chicks dig a man in uniform," Vin yawns incoherently.

I just nod. Chewing on my bottom lip, I turn in a slow circle and take in the surroundings. There's enough room for two of us to change our clothing in here, possibly enough space for three of us to hang out, but there's no way that we can fit the band and crew into this space all together. No fucking way. Whatever. I toss myself onto the sofa and groan. Space limitations are hardly a new problem for this band. Can you imagine what it's like to tour in a van with six, sometimes seven dudes?

Rick hands me a coffee and smirks. "Your girlfriend just left with her boyfriend, but she left this for you to remember her by."

Shit, here we go. It's only day one of a long-ass run and he's already fucking with me. I'm not going to be able to stomach three months of this shit if this is how it's going to be. The irony here is that Sunday — Sunday Sawyer, our lovely Social Media Coordinator — had the audacity to ask our permission to join the tour with Chris. As in, she phoned us each up individually — Rick, Vin and I — to personally inquire as to how we would feel if she did the three-month run with the band, on the bus. She said that she didn't want it to be Chris' decision, because of course he wanted her there; it should be up to us, because we would have to live with her. Who the fuck does that?

I've had my fair share of girlfriends. Hell, I even have an ex-wife. None of them have ever asked the guys' permission to join me on a tour, and you know what? That's Sunday. That girl is nothing less than a-fucking-mazing. Born in Hershey, Pennsylvania and as delicious as chocolate itself, this girl is like the godsend that none of us knew we needed in our band. 

Over the past few years, she's been making a name for herself in the region with her coverage of nearly every band on the fucking scene. She's intelligent, kind-hearted, and genuine - qualities that are so often lacking. While I know she loves photography and does it, to an extent, when Chris tried to make her our Tour Photographer, she balked. She literally told him, and I do quote: "Bryce is leagues more talented than I am behind a camera, and he shouldn't lose his gig because you're fucking me."

I repeat: who does that? The girl is blunt, straightforward, no fucking games. She's beautiful, that's for damn sure, but it's her personality that guarantees that everyone who meets her adores her. I am no different. I met Sunday right around the time of the release of "Graveyard Shift," she came to a show to interview Chris and Rick and ended up side stage. Afterward, she was introduced to each of us and she was a nice girl, a pretty girl, but I meet a lot of those.

What struck me was a conversation that I had with her after the gig. Apparently, she had met Brendan earlier in the day thanks to her interview, and, seeing that he looked stressed, offered a helping hand. That night, the venue's runner disappeared into the ether and Sunday was asked if she could help out. Vin and I needed a ride back to the hotel to get our shit together and make it back for bus call. She obliged with a smile on her face: never once questioning, complaining, or asking for a single dollar for gas.

As she chauffered Vin and I around, even stopping at a Chick fil A for the kid, she never once bitched and, even more rarely, never seemed to make googly-eyes at us. When Vin invited her up to the room, she declined immediately and told him that a hotel room was "no place for a serious journalist." But that wasn't what hooked me: it was the conversation we had in the lobby, while waiting for Vin's perpetually slow ass, that really shook me. Every band I tossed at her, she knew, no matter how pissant. She kept up with the conversation without missing a beat, even going so far as to note that she had interviewed several of the no-name bands that I mentioned.

"No offense, but why?" I remember prodding her. "There's no way that someone like Lorna Shore is bringing in the big hits to your site or your socials. Don't you have to cover bigger and bigger names to build a name for yourself and, ultimately, make more money at what you do?"

"I don't care," Sunday didn't flinch. "I want to shine a light on bands and artists that I adore, and I don't care if that gets 20,000 likes or 0 likes at all. I mean, yeah, I do care," she laughed softly. "I want people to read what I write and I want those bands to get the rightful attention that they deserve, but I'm not going to cover a big name band that I don't personally enjoy when I can give those 15 minutes to someone who makes music that touches me. Every other website will cover Bullet For My Valentine, they don't need my coverage. Whereas, a band like Lorna Shore could use a boost, right? If I can use my name to boost someone deserving, then that's what I want to do. For me, it's about always staying true to myself and what I love, and never selling out by fawning over a band simply because they are 'hot' at that moment. If I don't like you, I'm not covering you. It's that simple!"

Shit, I wish there were people like Sunday Sawyer when I joined Motionless a decade ago. We could have really used a Sunday Sawyer. Not to say that there aren't other Sunday Sawyers, because there are and they are out there, but they are few and extremely far between. Most of the media that we meet are friendly people and it's not hard to spend fifteen minutes chatting with them about our music, but very few of them leave me wanting to interact beyond those fifteen minutes. Sometimes I think it's a slight social phobia, and other times I think I'm just not intrigued enough. Maybe I'm bored? This life can certainly get boring.

As if on cue, Pablo from Chelsea Grin peeks around the door, steps into our dressing room and rolls his eyes at me. "Dude, the fuck are you doing sitting here alone?"

Alright, he has a point and where the fuck did Rick and Vin go? 

"Come the fuck on," Pablo waves his hand and gestures me to follow him. "You know this is our stomping grounds, so I've got the hook up. Come join the party! I hate seeing you staring at the ceiling and pining over that chick."

As I follow him towards their dressing room, my head snaps upward. "What chick?"

"Uh," he stammers and laughs. "Is it Alexandra? Your ex? You miss her, right?"

Thank fuck. I chuckle openly at this because, little does he know, he is so far off the mark.