blind eyes

14 Sunday

In honor of Rick's birthday . . . . . . . .

It was going to be one of those days. Starting at 10 AM, Ricky had woken the entire bus to the sounds of his yodeling the soundtrack of "The Sound of Music." After many objects were thrown and the pesky little raccoon managed to dodge them all, some of the bus inhabitants had managed to go back to sleep and some, like Sunday, were lying atop an empty mattress trying to deduce what the racket in the back lounge might possibly be.

When she'd reached her limit, she rolled out of the bunk gracelessly, stretched, and then decided to investigate the commotion. The second the door opened, she was met with a jungle canopy of sheets and blankets hanging from every available surface. Somewhere out of sight, she heard her Tasmanian devil of a friend. "I'm trying to make a swing."

As Sunday gazed at the linen nightmare in wonderment, Bryce leaned around her, snapped a quick shot, and snorted. "He's an idiot!"

"I HEARD THAT!" Rick called from the center of the kerfuffle. "And I'm a fucking genius! I can't sleep in the bunk, so I'm building myself a hammock that will lull me to sleep with the rhythm of the road."

Crossing her arms over her chest and continuing to try to wrap her mind around the goings-on for the morning, Sunday sighed. "What if it doesn't hold your weight and you break your neck?"

"Good thing he weighs less than a pregnant gerbil," Ryan smirked as he glanced over her shoulder. "It's moments like these that I really worry about you, Olson. You offer sage wisdom one day like a Jedi master, and the next day you are building a pillow fort in the back lounge. What are you on and can I have some?"

"Tell him what you told me that guy said," Rick called out to his friends.

"The acid guy?" Sunday raised an eyebrow.

Finally, his head appeared above the mayhem and he grinned. "Yeah. See, you get me, Day!"

Sunday shook her head. "I was supposed to interview someone about a year ago, and he just never picked up the phone and his publicist was evasive about the whole thing. Low and behold, we hooked up for an interview eventually, months later, and he confessed that he quote-unquote," she paused to make the mandatory finger quotations, "dropped too much acid and forgot who he was."

Ryan bent at the waist as he exploded into laughter. "Seriously? What a turkey!"

Sunday shrugged. "I think maybe he shared a few tabs with our friend in there."

Standing on a table and peering out over his handiwork, Rick continued trying to tie the corner of a sheet around a large pole sticking out of the ceiling. "Look, the difference between failure and genius is failure. Oh wait." He shook his head but didn't glance away from his work. "I think I fucked that up. It should be the difference between genius and insanity is success."

"Thank you, Henry David Thoreau," Ryan snorted as he pointed a finger at his bandmate's odd work. "That's going to come crashing down and, as Sunday warned you, you're going to break your ass."

"It was Bruce Feirstein that said that," the other guitarist scoffed. "Whoever the fuck that is."

"You and Harvey Fierstein are going to break your asses!" Ryan smirked. "But carry on if that's your goal."

Following him out to the front lounge, Sunday fell onto the leather sofa beside her boyfriend who was yawning profusely. She curled up into his warmth and stole a sip from his coffee, then cringed. "Oh my god, too much sugar!"