70
If you’d like to start from Chapter 1, you can find it here.
We were supposed to have the day off after the Winnipeg gig so we could do laundry in Thunder Bay, but Spencer changed the plan. We stayed overnight instead of leaving right after the show like we usually did.
“No way am I driving from here to Thunder Bay at night,” he said. “Lots of semis, single lane, twisty turny uppy downy. It reminds me of the road to Fort McMurray.”
“I’m with Spencer,” I said, recalling the whole Dirty Halo fiasco.
“We leave tomorrow morning at ten and arrive around dinner time. We get hotel rooms, have a proper sit-down meal with each other, and relax. You guys can go un-jizz Nigel’s clothes when you wake up, then show up for soundcheck at 5-ish like usual,” Spencer said. “It’s going to be like this for the next couple of dates. The stretch between Thunder Bay to Sault St. Marie is a motherfucker. The Gauntlet.”
“Will we get to meet Gandalf?” asked Itch.
“Everybody keep your normal sleep schedule. We get back to normal after Toronto.”
“Will we get jet lag?” Dean asked.
“Deano, you’re travelling in a fucking van,” I said.
“We’re changing time zones, though.”
Spencer never once made us feel like beginners, even when we were basically beginners on the club scene. He never lorded his knowledge over us. He simply dropped whatever wisdom on us that he thought we needed to hear at the moment, and left it at that. Every time something changed for us—like going out on this tour—he’d already been there, done that, got the T-shirt, and doggy-styled the mayor’s wife.
It’s about 700 km from Winterpeg to Thunder Bay. The route runs east on Highway 1, then continues on Highway 17 through northwestern Ontario. Road conditions in summer are generally pretty good, but there’s an unreasonable number of construction zones. What should be about an eight-hour drive can easily turn into nine or more.
We got to Thunder Bay at about 7 p.m. and checked into a motel. There was a Greek restaurant across the street that the very cute redhead at reception recommended. They made the best pizza I’ve ever eaten. I was full after three slices, but I forced down another two with a plunger and a funnel.
Back at the motel, we were edgy because it was 8:30, the time we usually went on. Energy needed to be bled off. Itch went for a run. Nigel and Dean went looking for strip clubs.
“We’re walking to them. That’s exercise,” Dean said.
“It’ll get the blood pumping,” Nigel said, grabbing his crotch like Michael Jackson.
“If you plan on fucking dancers, do it at their place or the park or something. Everyone wants to enjoy a real mattress tonight. I don’t want to get woken up by some chick screaming ‘is it in yet?’” said Anton.
“Not gonna happen. My dink isn’t long, but it’s girthy. Like a cheese wheel.”
Spencer, Sanchez, and I went for a walk by the lake and talked about what was coming up for the next couple of weeks. They’d already played all of the cities we were headed for. I couldn’t contribute anything, so I listened and asked questions.
We found a chunk of the Canadian Shield jutting out into Lake Superior and stopped to admire the view. This was the kind of stuff I’d hoped for when I found out we were going across the country.
“Wow. It looks too big to be a lake. It looks like an ocean,” I said.
“That’s why they call them the Great Lakes, young fella,” Sanchez replied, “they’re huge.”
“It kinda reminds me of home.”
There was no sign of our guitar player or singer the next morning. The crew had work to do, so Itch and I headed for the laundromat. We discussed not washing Nigel’s cum-splattered wardrobe, but we were looking to get some revenge for treating us like their servants. We were going to punish him and Dean.
We threw their stuff in a washer with some dog shit we’d scooped up along the way. Itch threw in some bleach too.
“I don’t want the guys to get a dog turd infection. I just want to make them mad,” Itch said.
“Oh, I think we can call that mission accomplished already. Putting bleach in was genius,” I replied.
Next, we threw all their clothes in the dryer and set it on high to disinfect it. When everything was dry, we sprinkled all the underwear with chili powder and cinnamon, folded it neatly, and left it on one of the beds in their room. Dickheads.
When they finally got back to the motel, we held glasses up to the wall so we could hear better.
“Oh hey! Itch and Weave did our laundry. That was cool of them,” Dean said.
Itch and I grinned at each other, and left early to go to Thunder Bay Community Auditorium and hang out until soundcheck. Nige and Dean showed up about a half hour later. They were not smiling.
“WHAT DID YOU DO?” Nigel yelled. “My clothes are all fucked up and my dick hole is on fire!”
“Did you know the anatomical name for that is ‘meatus’? You wish you had a foreskin now, I bet,” said Itch.
“Fuck you Itch. What did you guys do? My asshole feels like someone sandpapered it,” barked Dean.
“We didn’t mean any harm. We put cinnamon in your gonch so you’d smell exotic for whoever blows you tonight,” I said.
“Holy shit. Cinnamon fucking BURNS,” Nigel whined.
“No. Cinnamon smells good. It’s the chili powder that’s burning,” Itch pointed out.
“WHAT. THE. FUCK?!”
“There’s no more splooge on your clothes, though,” I offered as an apology.
Neither one of them said a word to us for the rest of the night. The spice effects had worn off by the time we took the stage but the guys were still pissed off. When he wasn’t singing, Nigel kept glaring at me and Itch, dragging his index finger across his throat. We laughed at him, which made him even angrier.
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