Monday, November 01, 2004
3.
3. Doug - 2004
He rolled over towards the left side of the bed and bumped something soft and warm. He rolled back the other way and opened his eyes. The clock on the bedside table read 5:15 A.M. The lump on the left side of the bead shifted slightly, said something unintelligible, and then rolled towards him. He looked at her face in the half-light of the room. She looked even younger in this light. What am I doing in bed with this girl? He thought about it for a minute, and then decided he would get up. As Doug swung his legs onto the floor of the hotel room, his right knee greeted him with an unpleasant twinge.
He ignored the cane despite the throb in his leg, and walked into the bathroom. He did his morning duty, then walked back out through the room, grabbing his smokes and cell as he went. He suddenly thought he should grab the cane. He turned back to the bed, where he regarded the sleeping form for a moment. Grabbing the cane from the bedside, he brushed aside the curtain and stepped out into the cool morning air. The balcony had a chair and a small table, and Doug sat down and lit a cigarette. As he looked out towards the first light of morning, he was reminded of a favorite song lyric.
“It is five A.M. and the sun has charred the other side of the world and come back to us,” he said to no one as he did some deep knee bends in order to try and work out the kinks in his leg, “and painted the smoke above our heads an imperial violet.” After 15 minutes his knee felt better, and he sat back down in the chair and lit another Camel. The Doug Harris and The Aardvarks 2004 summer tour had grinded to a finish last night, and Doug was tired. What had started out as a 10-date spring club tour had become a full 60-date summer tour after the accidental success of the Aardvarks’ most recent CD, but Doug hadn’t been ready for the rigors of a full tour. Not since Cleveland, anyway.
His cell phone rang, startling him awake. He looked at his watch, and realized that he’d been dozing in the chair for close to two hours.
“Your dime.”
“Doug? Hey, it’s Gary.” Gary Ablett was an old high school classmate, and Doug’s lifeline to his former life.
“Dude, what’s up? How’s things in the 203? Darrell still getting hitched?”
“Yeah, I’m not calling about that, though.”
Doug lit another smoke. “What’s up? Bill talking shit about me again?”
“No, it’s not that either. Listen. Jack’s mom got killed in a car accident yesterday. Have you talked to him recently?”
Doug grimaced and lit up another cigarette. “No, man, not since last year. He doesn’t really talk to me anyway. Not like Charlie. You probably should call him.” He regarded the view. “Listen, I’m right across the Sound anyway. I.’ll be in New Haven by the end of the day anyway. I was coming home for the wedding. Let me know if you need to get a hold of Jack, and I’ll see what I can do.” He hung up the cell phone and sat back in the chair again. He looked at his watch, and figured he would call Jack. No one picked up, and he listened to a message in Japanese which he assumed to be the equivalent of “Leave a message and I’ll call you back.” He hung up and then stood up.
The knee bends appeared to have been undone by dozing off in the chair, so he picked up his cane and walked back into the hotel room. The bed was empty, but the shower was running, so he sat down in the chair next to the bed and turned on SportsCenter. A few minutes later, the girl emerged from the bathroom with a towel on her head and nothing else. He looked away from the TV.
“Hi there,” she said, “I woke up and thought maybe you’d taken off on me.”
“Of course not,” he said, “I wouldn’t dream of leaving a girl in the lurch.” He frantically searched his scrambled brain for her name. Had he even learned it? “I’m a gentleman.”
“Truer words were never spoken. We came back up here last night and you immediately passed out on me.” She kneeled down next to him and took one of his hands and placed it on her breast. “Why don’t you turn off that TV and we’ll make up for lost time?”
Half an hour later, the girl slipped out of his hotel room and headed for the elevator. Doug watched her until she disappeared from sight, then headed back into the bathroom. As he turned on the shower, he looked at himself in the mirror. At 32, Douglas Harrison O’Donnell easily looked ten years older. The accident two years before had left a permanent scar on his face, a thin line running from his right eye almost to his ear. He had been cut open by the microphone stand which had preceded him to the turf at Jacob Field. Now it was a pink line on his face, noticeable to about ten feet away. He wore fake glasses made of window glass in order to cover up the scar in interviews, but soon he’d probably need real glasses.
He lifted his right leg onto the vanity and examined his knee. The doctors had said it probably would have healed perfectly if he hadn’t landed directly on it. Instead, he’d done a massive amount of damage to the ligaments in his knee as well as tearing up the muscles in his calf. Six months in a wheelchair and another three in therapy later, he could walk a decent distance without the cane, but he had to have a cortisone shot in the knee before show. Afterwards, it was two hours off his feet and a large ice pack on the knee. He stripped off his boxers and stepped into the shower. He directed the stream at his knee and sighed. Twenty minutes later, he turned off the water and stepped out.
He dressed and picked up the pack of Camels, but then thought better of it and tossed them into his backpack. He took a deep breath, and noticed the scent of her perfume in the air. He hadn’t intended to bring her back to his room. She was very pretty though, and very persistent. She’d also been the exception to the rule, as he’d been trying to stay away from the groupies on this tour. Being a pop star had both advantages and disadvantages, he mused as he cleaned up his junk in the room. He was, after all, able to travel first class, stay in excellent hotels, and take limos to exclusive restaurants. Of course, he also was recognized everywhere he went, rarely had a moment of peace, and generally spent six to eight months a year on the road. Most of his downtime on tour was spent rambling around hotels and green rooms in arenas.
Waaaah, his old high school band mate Bill would have said. You’ve still got more then most pop stars of your type should have. Bill would be right, of course. After ten years in the business, Doug Harris still meant something. You couldn’t say that about some of the bands who shared chart space over the years with him. As he tossed the last of his stuff into the backpack, there was a knock at his door.
“Hey, Phil says get your ass in gear. The bus is leaving.” Doug’s guitarist, Kevin Maurer, stood outside the door. Doug took one last look around, and then left the room. He and Kevin walked down the hall to the elevator.
“Did we have a good time last night, boss?” Kevin smiled. He and Bernadette, Doug’s backup singer, had watched as the groupie worked her magic on the half-drunk Doug.
“I passed out.” Doug leaned on the cane as they waited for the elevator. “And my knee’s killing me this morning.”
“That’s my boy.” They rode the elevator to the lobby. As they crossed the lobby, a few girls whispered and pointed, but no one actually came up to them as they headed out to the bus. Calling it a bus wasn’t really correct, as it was more of a giant RV. Standing out by the bus was a stocky gray-haired man with a bushy mustache.
“Glad you could join us, your eminence.” Phil Kaufman, Doug’s road manager took his suitcase and tossed it into the storage compartment. They boarded the bus, and left the parking lot, headed for New Haven.
He rolled over towards the left side of the bed and bumped something soft and warm. He rolled back the other way and opened his eyes. The clock on the bedside table read 5:15 A.M. The lump on the left side of the bead shifted slightly, said something unintelligible, and then rolled towards him. He looked at her face in the half-light of the room. She looked even younger in this light. What am I doing in bed with this girl? He thought about it for a minute, and then decided he would get up. As Doug swung his legs onto the floor of the hotel room, his right knee greeted him with an unpleasant twinge.
He ignored the cane despite the throb in his leg, and walked into the bathroom. He did his morning duty, then walked back out through the room, grabbing his smokes and cell as he went. He suddenly thought he should grab the cane. He turned back to the bed, where he regarded the sleeping form for a moment. Grabbing the cane from the bedside, he brushed aside the curtain and stepped out into the cool morning air. The balcony had a chair and a small table, and Doug sat down and lit a cigarette. As he looked out towards the first light of morning, he was reminded of a favorite song lyric.
“It is five A.M. and the sun has charred the other side of the world and come back to us,” he said to no one as he did some deep knee bends in order to try and work out the kinks in his leg, “and painted the smoke above our heads an imperial violet.” After 15 minutes his knee felt better, and he sat back down in the chair and lit another Camel. The Doug Harris and The Aardvarks 2004 summer tour had grinded to a finish last night, and Doug was tired. What had started out as a 10-date spring club tour had become a full 60-date summer tour after the accidental success of the Aardvarks’ most recent CD, but Doug hadn’t been ready for the rigors of a full tour. Not since Cleveland, anyway.
His cell phone rang, startling him awake. He looked at his watch, and realized that he’d been dozing in the chair for close to two hours.
“Your dime.”
“Doug? Hey, it’s Gary.” Gary Ablett was an old high school classmate, and Doug’s lifeline to his former life.
“Dude, what’s up? How’s things in the 203? Darrell still getting hitched?”
“Yeah, I’m not calling about that, though.”
Doug lit another smoke. “What’s up? Bill talking shit about me again?”
“No, it’s not that either. Listen. Jack’s mom got killed in a car accident yesterday. Have you talked to him recently?”
Doug grimaced and lit up another cigarette. “No, man, not since last year. He doesn’t really talk to me anyway. Not like Charlie. You probably should call him.” He regarded the view. “Listen, I’m right across the Sound anyway. I.’ll be in New Haven by the end of the day anyway. I was coming home for the wedding. Let me know if you need to get a hold of Jack, and I’ll see what I can do.” He hung up the cell phone and sat back in the chair again. He looked at his watch, and figured he would call Jack. No one picked up, and he listened to a message in Japanese which he assumed to be the equivalent of “Leave a message and I’ll call you back.” He hung up and then stood up.
The knee bends appeared to have been undone by dozing off in the chair, so he picked up his cane and walked back into the hotel room. The bed was empty, but the shower was running, so he sat down in the chair next to the bed and turned on SportsCenter. A few minutes later, the girl emerged from the bathroom with a towel on her head and nothing else. He looked away from the TV.
“Hi there,” she said, “I woke up and thought maybe you’d taken off on me.”
“Of course not,” he said, “I wouldn’t dream of leaving a girl in the lurch.” He frantically searched his scrambled brain for her name. Had he even learned it? “I’m a gentleman.”
“Truer words were never spoken. We came back up here last night and you immediately passed out on me.” She kneeled down next to him and took one of his hands and placed it on her breast. “Why don’t you turn off that TV and we’ll make up for lost time?”
Half an hour later, the girl slipped out of his hotel room and headed for the elevator. Doug watched her until she disappeared from sight, then headed back into the bathroom. As he turned on the shower, he looked at himself in the mirror. At 32, Douglas Harrison O’Donnell easily looked ten years older. The accident two years before had left a permanent scar on his face, a thin line running from his right eye almost to his ear. He had been cut open by the microphone stand which had preceded him to the turf at Jacob Field. Now it was a pink line on his face, noticeable to about ten feet away. He wore fake glasses made of window glass in order to cover up the scar in interviews, but soon he’d probably need real glasses.
He lifted his right leg onto the vanity and examined his knee. The doctors had said it probably would have healed perfectly if he hadn’t landed directly on it. Instead, he’d done a massive amount of damage to the ligaments in his knee as well as tearing up the muscles in his calf. Six months in a wheelchair and another three in therapy later, he could walk a decent distance without the cane, but he had to have a cortisone shot in the knee before show. Afterwards, it was two hours off his feet and a large ice pack on the knee. He stripped off his boxers and stepped into the shower. He directed the stream at his knee and sighed. Twenty minutes later, he turned off the water and stepped out.
He dressed and picked up the pack of Camels, but then thought better of it and tossed them into his backpack. He took a deep breath, and noticed the scent of her perfume in the air. He hadn’t intended to bring her back to his room. She was very pretty though, and very persistent. She’d also been the exception to the rule, as he’d been trying to stay away from the groupies on this tour. Being a pop star had both advantages and disadvantages, he mused as he cleaned up his junk in the room. He was, after all, able to travel first class, stay in excellent hotels, and take limos to exclusive restaurants. Of course, he also was recognized everywhere he went, rarely had a moment of peace, and generally spent six to eight months a year on the road. Most of his downtime on tour was spent rambling around hotels and green rooms in arenas.
Waaaah, his old high school band mate Bill would have said. You’ve still got more then most pop stars of your type should have. Bill would be right, of course. After ten years in the business, Doug Harris still meant something. You couldn’t say that about some of the bands who shared chart space over the years with him. As he tossed the last of his stuff into the backpack, there was a knock at his door.
“Hey, Phil says get your ass in gear. The bus is leaving.” Doug’s guitarist, Kevin Maurer, stood outside the door. Doug took one last look around, and then left the room. He and Kevin walked down the hall to the elevator.
“Did we have a good time last night, boss?” Kevin smiled. He and Bernadette, Doug’s backup singer, had watched as the groupie worked her magic on the half-drunk Doug.
“I passed out.” Doug leaned on the cane as they waited for the elevator. “And my knee’s killing me this morning.”
“That’s my boy.” They rode the elevator to the lobby. As they crossed the lobby, a few girls whispered and pointed, but no one actually came up to them as they headed out to the bus. Calling it a bus wasn’t really correct, as it was more of a giant RV. Standing out by the bus was a stocky gray-haired man with a bushy mustache.
“Glad you could join us, your eminence.” Phil Kaufman, Doug’s road manager took his suitcase and tossed it into the storage compartment. They boarded the bus, and left the parking lot, headed for New Haven.
