Tour Bus Chronicles
Carlo just tucked me into my bunk. It’s 1:00 in the morning. The crew’s still loading guitar cases into the trailer, so it will be another hour or two before we take off for Hamburg.
“Oh no, I forgot to ask…..” Panicking, I rip open the velcro of the black-out curtain, but Carlo’s already stood up. I can only see the laces of his black high-top Vans. He won’t hear me over the roar of the diesel engine and I can’t roll out of my bunk fast enough to catch him on his way downstairs. So I lurch my arm, grip the leg of his black jeans, and hold on tight like when I clung to my mother on the first day of Kindergarten.
Carlo immediately turns around when he realizes it’s me, but not before I’m yanked out of the bunk. My newly manicured fingernails break and I land on the filthy, wet carpet.
Face down.
It smells like leather boots and dirty feet.
Ten men have been living on this double-decker bus for the last three weeks. They sleep up here. Four rows stacked with three bunks each. Like a mausoleum. Except with lights and air vents. Sopping-wet stage clothes hang over road cases in the back lounge. Everything is black: the color of Thrash Metal.
It’s my first night on Overkill’s tour bus. But this is not my first tour. Far from it. Overkill’s been a working band for over 35 years.
“What’s happening, Lisa?”
My devoted husband crouches to help ease me back into my bunk, but my feet are tangled in the sheets. He tries to sort me out.
“Wait Carlo… I need my hand sanitizer. That floor is disgusting!”
Huffing and sighing, I rummage through the stuffed bag I stow beside my pillow. It’s akin to a security blanket. I always carry a travel size sanitizer and hand crème in a gallon zip lock bag. But I can’t see, because I’ve already put my glasses away and my body is blocking the bunk light. The last time I saw the bag was on the conveyor belt at airport security. Did I leave it there? It’s got my medicine and Miralax in it, too. Oh no!
I shift my position only to slam my head on the ceiling of my bunk. Damn it! I forgot I can’t sit up. There’s only about 2 ½ feet of clearance. If Gary isn’t downstairs drinking, we’ve probably woken him up. He sleeps above me.
This is not going well at all. The slightest frustration triggers the PTSD I have from all of this. The familiar agitation tightens my fascia tissue. I have fibromyalgia: a chronic pain condition. This is the worst place for me to be. Familiar depression seeps into my spirit. I can almost hear my deluxe sleep-number bed back home mocking me with its massage feature; its vibrations purring “I told you so” over and over again.
What’s the definition of insanity??
Carlo knows it. I can see it in his face. We’ve been together 40 years. Before he founded the band. This is not our first rodeo. We’ve always made it work, but it’s taken its toll. On Carlo, too.
“Here, I have some,” he offers.
Carlo hands me the bottle he keeps in his leather vest, which is kind of like his pocketbook. I wouldn’t say they’re germ phobes, but the guys became hypervigilant in 2013, after severe flu swept through their petri-dish of a bus and forced the band off a very lucrative tour with Testament. After that, I suggested they go for a sponsorship or an endorsement of Purel. I was in marketing before I became a psychotherapist.
Finally, I get myself together and settle back under my covers. Carlo scrunches my pillow around my head. This is actually Carlo’s bunk. He forfeits it to me when I come on the road because it’s on the bottom and furthest away from the noise. It’s also the cleanest. When the tour started, he squirreled away new sheets and an extra pillow. He so looks forward to my arrival. Because it’s February, he even had Dolores, their tour manager, buy an electric blanket for me. The cold makes my body hurt even more. Sweet Man even plugged in the blanket before we boarded the bus tonight.
I’m just about to put the orange foam plugs in my ears and take my sleep medicine when I realize I almost forgot...again!
“Carlo, what if I have to poop in the middle of the night?”
The bus toilet is only for urinating. Can’t flush toilet paper, either. Have to throw it in the tiny plastic garbage can. None of this used to bother me when I was young and partying. Or maybe I just don’t remember.
When I became a social worker, my senior clients would complain it was all doom and gloom in their retirement community. All anyone talked about were bowel movements and sleep issues. They wanted to go back and live in vibrant, forever-young Manhattan. As if that would’ve made them “regular”.
I never had to worry about my own shit before, and I never minded the bus bathroom. It was surprisingly clean, or maybe the boys shaped up when I came on the bus. After all, I am a trophy wife. At least my husband tells me so.
Nowadays, I consider it a triumph if I can board the bus at the very last minute before departure, go right to bed, wake up in the morning, and head straight into the venue’s catering room for a mug or three of good German coffee.
And when I’m done, I find the completely empty and wonderfully clean women’s bathroom, and do my business in the privacy of my own floor-to-ceiling water closet.
But what if I’m not so triumphant?
“Carlo, what should I do?” I’m no trophy wife. A high- maintenance pest is more like it.
Carlo reaches over me. “Use these plastic bags your water bottles are in.”
“And then what?” I ask.
Ever my loyal protector, he tells me, “Wake me up and I’ll take it up to the bus driver.”
“But I’ll be so embarrassed.” Did I agree to this in our wedding vows? Did he?
“Don’t’ worry. I’ll say it’s mine.”
“You’re a good husband.”
“You’re a good wife. Now put your ear plugs in.”
He kisses my lips, tucks me tight, and carefully backs out of the bunk. I notice the light reflecting off the skull ring he’s worn for years. It matches his platinum and black wedding ring.
Before he seals the velcro, he moves his fingers in a tiny wave goodnight. No wonder our kids always love coming on tour with their Daddy.