Day 9
Magic Bag, Detroit, 5 May 2005
It had been a bluff. They had never had Roberto, they'd just left him in Chicago. We learned this while we were being forced to hog-tie him with gaffer tape and stow him on the bathroom floor, which was by now queasily dark and slick with unspeakable fluids. We'd had to make a special stop at a Home Depot to get more gaffer tape, they had been so profilgate with it. Our skin is webbed with gaffer residue. Our hands stick together on their own.
Roberto explained how he had discovered the bus had gone and, not wanting to involve the authorities because of certain unresolved legal issues, he had begun to hitch after us. He'd made it to Milwaukee and decided to take action. Unfortunately, the first person he'd run into was Claire, who had feigned terror and told him that Cary and Jason had gone crazy, so he felt doubly betrayed by the throat-chopping.
"I can't believe it," he said. "She's Canadian."
We sympathised, but we had our own problems. Cary was in the venue parading up and down the stage.
"Today I will give you the honour of performing with me," he declaimed. "You would be wise not to disappoint me."
The rest of the day we laboured over 'Blue Eyes' until the song shone like a a river in the sun. Cary was happy. It was the first time I'd seen him smile without the malice burning in his black eyes. As a reward he gave us each an item from the rider. I have never tasted a sweeter jar of mustard.
My triumph was short-lived. When I got on stage during the gig, he counted us in and I hit an F sharp instead of an E. Cary's face iced over with rage, and it was another night in the bay for me.
