Part IV.
It became apparent that Tom’s new muscular build had made him more tolerant to binge-drinking than me. Another friend of ours, Carlton, a local Jersey boy who Tom once served with in the Marines, showed up to join our party and I could barely stand after trying to maintain pace.
Carlton held me up when I followed them outside to smoke. A short Latin hombre (who we were reasonably certain was a member of MS-13 because of his tattoos and random references to drug dealing) began mingling with us. Tom bought him a shot. It was better to have him as good-time friend than a criminal enemy.
Alcohol overuse and the fact that I had also been partying for several days already shut my body down. Carlton helped me to his open-top Jeep Wrangler parked right outside. I passed out for a couple hours in the backseat, clutching a crowbar that he placed in my palm. “Hey, no bullshit,” he warned, “If someone comes here – anyone – you use this, okay?” I guess we weren’t appreciating how tough of a town Trenton could be.
When I woke up, feeling rebooted, Tom and Carlton were on the street with the male band members of The Agonist, still smoking and still laughing. Tom had them all convinced that he worked for the CIA – as he did indeed look like Special Forces warrior – and Carlton was enjoying helping reinforce the lie. As citizens of Canada, only here for their tour, they found Tom and his experiences – both real and fictive – amazing. It was his chance to feel cooler than the rockers he idolized.
The bar had closed and we sat cross-legged on the asphalt parking lot across the street, outside of their tour bus, sharing our cultures and politics. They all wanted to know what it was like to be in the American military and about the wars. As a recent college graduate with a degree in political science and a veteran, they seemed very curious and stimulated by all my opinions and empiricism. Feeling unusually jovial, we lead the conversations and were becoming good friends with them all. We never imagined our military service would be something that genuine rockers would perceive as metal.
The warm sun peaked over the horizon eventually, and they politely informed us that they had to go to the next show. The driver turned on the bus; it roared like angry metal grinding as it came awake. We all hugged and shook hands and exchanged contact information. A local drunk had passed out right under their tour vehicle. Tom grabbed his legs and I grabbed his hands; the man swung like a hammock while we moved him out of the way and then set him back down on the lot.
“What do we do with that guy?” the bass player asked, while holding his stomach with laughter.
Everyone couldn’t believe what we had just done.
“Let him sleep,” I replied deadpan. “He’ll be fine.”
“Later, Canucks,” Tom jeered.
“Later, Marines,” one of the guys responded.
We returned to the hotel at 9 am, and one of the other patrons we had talked to the night before was headed to some sort of business enterprise. “You guys are just getting back?” he asked incredulously.
We poured ourselves some cereal and orange juice, splashing drink around and making a mess, and Tom purchased us another day in our room so we could sleep past noon.
“I had an awesome time,” I said after we fell against our beds. In all likelihood, we were still legally intoxicated.
“Yeah, man,” Tom slurred. “Rock on!”
We didn’t perform that night. We didn’t have a band. But there was no denying that night was ours.
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