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chapter seven

Toronto to Detroit

I woke up, disorientated from my dream, with a song from Heaven 17 running through
my head. I looked over at Tristan. His chest was rising and falling gently, his dark
hair a mess on the pillow. The duvet covered part of his hip, but had slid off slightly,
leaving the hollow of his stomach and what lay beneath in darkness. I sat there, in
the dim light, watching him. His beauty, so casual and careless in sleep, was extraordinary.
I wanted to trace the lines of his face, kiss his full mouth, soothe away the dark
circles under his eyes that were the only sign now of the stress he was under. But
most of all, I wanted him to sleep. I knew he’d start to be aware of me sitting there
soon enough. I crept out of bed slowly, and tried to cover him without waking him
up. He shifted slightly, and sleepily pulled up the duvet. When his breathing returned
to a steady rise and fall, I threw on my jeans and tiptoed out to go sit at the front
of the bus.

The driver gave me his usual dismissive glance when I quietly said good morning to
him. I stuck in my headphones, and started playing the song that had been running
through my head when I woke up, “Crushed by the Wheels of Industry,” keeping it low
enough that I could still hear the steady thrum and rhythm of the tires of the bus
going over the metal seams in the highway. It was just before 5. It was still dark,
and there was a slow yellow pink glow in the distance which wasn’t the sunrise, but
today’s destination. We were driving straight to Detroit from Toronto—Cleveland came
next. Everything was strange—already. And it was only the beginning. We all had piled
in the bus and the band had finally gone to sleep. Tristan and I had retired to the
back bedroom, his face pale with exhaustion. We went to sleep, but something had woken
me up and I found I couldn’t sleep. And after trying for an hour, I’d given up. Now
I was up here looking at the lights on the road.

Here we were, the tour bus, running through what was left of the night, us and the
trucks, and the highway, straight here, Highway 401—the Macdonald–Cartier Freeway—which,
if the guidebook I’d bought was to be believed, was the busiest highway in North America,
with over half a million vehicles a day. And I’d never heard of it before. This road,
which for some people was their livelihood, their daily routine, was a giant 10-lane
slice separating the interior from the lakes, the last vestiges of the industrial
dream. It was so flat and wide here. And the only lights seemed to be the high yellow
lights adorning the cabs of some of the trucks, the regular service stations, filled
with neat geometric lines of tractor trailers, parked at an angle, towering over the
cars that were parked in front, the bright lights of the service forecourt serving
as a neon invitation to leave the endless ribbon of highway, a plastic and bright
civilization beckoning, a refuge from the sense that you could keep driving, forever.
An endless giant road, glimpses of factories and houses, turning on their lights for
another morning.

I was shocked out of these thoughts by the growly voice of the driver. He really was
something out of central casting, his cowboy hat carefully placed in his locker behind
the seat, a big silver bracelet on one wrist, an even bigger watch on the other, his
huge scarred hands settled on the wheel comfortably. It was hard to imagine him even
driving a car—his hands took over half the wheel. But he seemed to own what he was
doing. He’d made it very clear this was his bus. His life. We were being tolerated.
Barely. So to hear him asking a question seemed as unreal as the distant lights on
the plain we were bumpily gliding through, at 70 miles per hour, maybe a little faster.

“Why can’t you sleep?”

I didn’t think he would want the long answer to that one. Truthfully, I wasn’t sure,
and I wasn’t sure what he was asking for. “Always an early riser, I guess. Once I
wake up, I can’t really get back to sleep.”

“That’ll work when you’ve got a house of kids to make pancakes for. Kids never sleep
either.” He said it calmly, as he switched lanes to go around a line of trucks and
cars that were slowing for the exit.

I thought about it for a minute. It was what he knew. That’s what people did. Sometimes
things just were what they were. “No kids planned just yet. Not sure they’d like the
touring life.” I wondered if he’d answer a question. “Did your mom make pancakes?”

He honked at a truck that was drifting into our lane. “No, my dad did. She was always
working. Her pancakes were better though.”

Without thinking, I said, “What were wrong with his?”

“Too thin. He was always in a rush. Said they cooked faster that way. Made more. I
think he just had a heavy hand with the milk.”

I laughed. “It’s funny how breakfast means more than just food. Always linked to something.”

He was quiet for a moment, focused on the road. “So, what did you eat for breakfast?
When you were a kid, I mean. Not this crap you inhale in between drinks.”

I looked out the window. One of the lanes seemed to be a steady stream of trucks,
one grey rectangle after another, like toys. “I don’t know. A lot of different things
I guess. It depended on how things were going.” I was quiet again. But he seemed to
be waiting for more of an answer. “I guess I always think of it in phases. There was
the cinnamon toast phase. There was a poached egg phase, but my mother hated doing
it, so that didn’t last long. Weekends were bacon. Slightly burnt.” I laughed. “They
used to take away my food if they didn’t think it was cooked enough when we went out
to breakfast, but that was on holiday. I used to try and hide the bacon or sausage
under the pancakes. It’s still a guilty pleasure. Diner food. I can never decide if
I’m risking death, or being a rebel.”

He sat there, silently, for a few minutes, but he didn’t seem thrown by what I’d said.
“Bacon’s good. You really need a griddle with a flattener—a press. I used to do short
order cooking when I got out of the army.”

“Where were you stationed?”

“Missouri. They trained me in communications. Then Vietnam. Signed up right out of
high school. They got me at the end. I was just a kid. Jesus. I was there at the Fall
of Saigon.”

I started to speak.

“No, don’t ask. You’ve seen the pictures. It was worse. No room for compassion, they
said.” He paused to switch lanes again. “I like driving. It’s like short order cooking.
No time for thinking.”

He turned off the signal. “I’ve got a few pins in my leg. They hurt when it rains.
That’s nothing, when you’ve seen people holding their arm, pleading with you for help.
The look on someone’s face when that’s happened…” He trailed off.

“Could you get anyone out?” It was all I could think of to ask. It sounded wrong the
minute I said it.

“No.” He coughed. “No. Hard to forget.” He fell silent again.

I wanted to ask more questions, but everything I thought of seemed invasive or superficial.
“Impossible.” He didn’t reply.

So I looked out the window, both of us watching the road. Finally I pulled out my
notebook, and started to work. I making notes, and keeping Heaven 17 on repeat. It
just seemed to fit. “(We Don’t Need This) Fascist Groove Thang” came up, the song
that got them banned from Radio One and insured enough publicity came their way to
keep going. It had a cold feeling, the sweet vocals with hints of the New Romantics,
over what was at the time, state of the art electronica. In some ways, I thought,
with fewer bells and whistles at their fingertips, it actually had more of the hollow
spaciousness that made electronic music. That emptiness. I was writing all this down,
and thinking about the lead-on band for tonight’s show, and if they’d be any good,
when the driver called out.

“There she is. Detroit.”

I looked up. It was light enough now to see the distant skyline. There were skyscrapers,
an up and down line, like the heartbeat on an oscilloscope, the lines an etch-a-sketch
of vertical and horizontal. I was surprised—I’d always thought that Detroit would
be like Baltimore—endless streets of half-boarded houses and warehouses. It looked
almost thriving. I made a note to myself to never believe anything I read, and sat
watching it approach, almost as if we were descending off some highway in the sky,
the exits coming closer together now, houses becoming buildings and strip malls and
streets. We were still in Canada. I laughed as we went through Tilbury—industrial
names imported from England along with the people. We were heading for an exit that
led to the Detroit–Windsor Tunnel. It all looked very normal. I don’t know why I was
expecting a post-apocalyptic wasteland.

The voice of the driver cut through my observations of the approach road. “Here, I’m
glad you’re up. The manager—what’s his name? James? Handed me their passport details
and the manifest. Can you make sure they haven’t left anything too obvious around?
And stay up here when it gets handed over? Thanks. Otherwise we have to stop first.
And we’ve got to wake them all up.”

“I’ll do it.” I nodded to him. Now I was the tour manager. Shit. I looked at my phone,
and checked what number speed dial Dave was on. Then I went to the back. How to do
this. Loudly, I supposed. I tapped on the door to the bedroom, and went in. Tristan
was twisted in the sheets, a fallen god. I kissed his shoulder. “Darling. We’ve got
to get up. Border. They’ll want us all up.”

He was alert in a second. “Where’s James?”

“Left the papers with the driver. I said I’d help.”

“Fuck.” He stood up, shockingly tall and naked. He put his arms over his head, and
stretched, then reached out for his jeans. “Better wake them all up. Tell them to
take what they have.” He choked out a hollow laugh. “Not kidding. Tell the driver
we need to stop first.”

“We’re already here.”

“Oh fuck. Ok then. Showtime. Go. Go.”

I went up to each bunk and shook the curtain. “Wake up, get up. Border. If you have
anything with you, you’d better swallow it all or flush it.” There was a collective
groan. “Look motherfuckers, just do it! Get the fuck up. Thank you. Help me out with
this.” I had an idea. “Bottle of vodka for the first one dressed. Cases of beer for
2nd and 3rd place. Bottle of champagne if you tell me what you had to get rid of.
Let’s do this! They have guns!”

AC stuck his head out. “This prize is so mine.” He winked at me. “But I sleep naked.
Want to watch me get dressed?”

“Love to, but I seem to be in charge of not getting us arrested.” I smiled. “Besides,
I forgot my glasses. Need them for the small print.”

He smirked. “Bitch. Go on. Save us.”

I went back up to the front of the bus. I noticed that the road leading up to the
Border Control and the tunnel was named “Freedom Way.” As I flipped through the packet
of materials to be handed over, it all seemed a bit Orwellian. The information we
had to hand over looked complete, at least as far as I could tell. And it gave useful
details like where we were staying, times for the soundcheck, contact details. It
occurred to me that I should always have a copy of all this. Perhaps the boys were
happy being carted around, half-conscious, propped up on the stage and coming awake
and alive when they needed to, but I wanted to know where the hell we were going.
I wondered if Tristan had all this information. I had a feeling that nothing had been
chosen without his tacit approval, if nothing else. I’d already seen him flare up
at James in Toronto, asking him what he was actually doing for the money he was extracting
from the tour, and it was not a pretty sight. It probably explained why James wasn’t
here. I thought back to what Dave had once said—“He’s a hard-ass, your musical hero.”
Yes, he was. And fairly unafraid of storming into the midst of trouble. The thought
made me worry for him. I just hoped we could get through all this quickly and get
some rest, and that James had not fucked up the paperwork in any way. Or tonight’s
gig and hotel.

The bus stopped, and the driver opened the door. The border police for America, in
their uniforms with the Homeland Security logo emblazoned prominently, and the double
hand guns stationed at each hip made it feel more like we were entering a military
camp. I swallowed. Police made me feel guilty, and big men with big guns made me feel
anxious. I took the packet, and went over to the man waiting. I tried to be friendly.
“Good morning.”

“Papers, manifest, passports please. Can you have all the passengers on the bus disembark
for identification please?”

“Sure. I’ll get them.” I handed him the packet. “This should be everything.” I tried
to smile. He turned away, and went into the portacabin that was the office. Another
policeman, soldier, guard came over and stood by the bus. What the hell were they
anyhow? Maybe he thought we’d do a runner like in some Grand Theft Auto game. My stomach
lurched. I didn’t even like passport control at airports, and they weren’t armed.
I hopped back into the bus. “Guys. Please. Come. Act normal.” The drummer was in his
underwear. “Fucking get dressed please. Thank you.” And I stood there, feeling a bit
like the headmistress at some school for delinquents. Tristan emerged from the bedroom,
looking better than he had a right to.

“You heard the lady. Let’s do this.” And he came up to me, and put his arm around
me. “Come on, Lily. I’ve done this before. Don’t worry.”

“They look incredibly pissed off.”

“We probably should have come through Port Huron. Never mind, too late now.” He turned
around. “If any of you have anything illegal you better swallow it now, I don’t care
how much of it there is. Or put it down the drain of the shower. Don’t flush anything,
they’ll be in here searching in a heartbeat. And don’t tuck it under your pillow,
for fuck’s sake.”

We went down the stairs, the bus driver behind us, then AC. The bassist and the drummer
followed after another minute. “I’m going to kill them,” Tristan murmured. “Slowly.”
We all finally stood there, in a line. I felt like I was waiting for detention.