Buzzy found herself ahead of the pack, her tennis shoes squeeking as she ran towards what was obviously the main dressing room — obvious because a female space alien, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, held the door open as if she were the elevator operator at the Waldorf Astoria Towers.
Buzzy ducked inside and flattened herself against the far wall. She was not alone. Several other females, some garish, others naturally attractive, all older than she, leaned their partially bare backs and denimed derriers against the same rampart. Buzzy felt as if she were in a police line-up. She had valid reference points, having been in line-ups before.
Spread before them as the stark room’s culinary centerpiece were coldcuts, a veggi plate, a variety of iced juice drinks, and a simmering pot of hot herbal tea. Two men in Emerald City Catering uniforms placed garni on the carrots.
“No beer, huh?” Asked Buzzy of her fellow female wall hanging, a bleached blond with impressive coal-black roots. Her outfit was New York’s idea of Native American beadwork via a Malaysian factory.
“These guys? No way,” deadpanned bleach-woman, “it’s nothing but healthy living for the boys nowdays. They even make the road crew stay clean and sober.”
Bleachy looked Buzzy up and down as if appraising her for retail.
“You related? A cousin or something, or do you work for the concert company?”
“Why?”
“I’m the bass player’s wife,” she answered proudly as the band poured through the door, “and our daughter there is the space alien.”
“Oh. I’m a relative, too. Sort of a space alien myself — or space cadet, anyway,” muttered Buzzy, looking at her laces. Bleach-woman-in-beads cocked her head maternalisticaly, her grin widening to full-scale smile as she watched her scraggly hubby splash cold water on his face, wave to her, and toddle off to change into his next set of encore clothing.
Joe Fiala attempted shielding the dressing room complex from further invasion. A mounting number of men and women managed, by right, art, or artifice, to have backstage passes pinned to their outfits.
“C’mon, give em a break,” pleaded the professionally exasperated Fiala. “stand back, they got another encore. Be patient.”
Buzzy, silent against the wall and situated at least on the periphery of Grand Theft’s family circle, felt both safe and invisible. Fiala’s attention and protection was focused on those attempting to follow the band into the room, not those already ensconced with the cold-cuts.
Crowbar and his band re-emerged from the back room almost as quickly as they entered it, their perspiration soaked stage clothes replaced by fresh denim pants, shirts, and fringed leather vests — exact replicas of the oufits worn on the cover of their first album from two decades ago. A gimmick, to be sure, but a crowd pleaser guaranteed to turn fashion nostalgia into a screaming fit of cultural affirmation.
Grand Theft’s lead guitarist stopped to pour himself a short shot of hot tea, his eyes following his refreshed bass player’s comical walk to the open arms of an adoring bleach-blond spouse. When Crowbar saw the outlandish haircut of the young girl standing next to her, he almost dropped his cup.
“That’s it,” shouted Fiala, tapping his watch, “never-ending encore time! Let’s go, guys, your fans have either run out of lighter fluid by now or they’ve all set fire to themselves.”
The bass player loosed himself from his beloved, the drummer stuffed another carrot into his bearded mouth while winking at chintz adorned leggy beauty batting her store-bought lashes in well-rehearsed pseudo-abandon, and the lead guitarist couldn’t take his eyes off the pretty young woman with the chop-shop coif. He backed away from the condiment tray, reluctant to release her gaze from his, and allowed himself to be ushered out the door, down the hall, and up the short fight of makeshift stairs leading to the custom crafted multi-million dollar stage.
A new, freshly tuned Fender Stratocaster stood at the ready, a single red spotlight shone down from a heavenward scaffold, and before him surged an enthusiastic mass of humanity radiating near idolatrous adoration. The roar and rush swirling round his mind was nothing compared to the retained image of the waif-like youngster in the dressing room who’s eyes revealed a long-ago loss of innocence, more the a modicum of hopelessness, and a pleading portion of personal desperation.
The drummer started the downbeat, the final encore began with all the refined subtlety of a rocket launch, and far, far behind the stage, Little Buzzy thoughfully dipped a piece of cauliflower into a tangy, white dip. She had never tasted raw cauliflower before. It crunched. She liked it. A warm hand squeezed her small shoulder, and she turned to smile at Blond Bead Lady. It was not Blond Bead Lady to whom she turned.
“Hi, sweetheart. Remember me?”
She did, but not with warmth. There was a moment of brain-numbing cognitive dissonence caused by seeing someone from one aspect of her life in a completely different dimension of her existance. She had imagined that somehow being in the Coliseum’s secured area would protect her from her own recent past and excessive moral lapses. No such luck. The uniform said Emerald City Catering, but the predator grin and sticky hand belonged to Major League.
He leaned down to her multi-pierced ear, bit the lobe lewdly, and intoned offers of high-quality crank and all the amusement she associated with its effects.
“Really, kid. This is the best stuff yet.”
Her tender heart pounded recklessly in her chest, her mixed emotions stretched between established physical cravings and deeper childlike longings. Despite every degrading and self-destructive act commited over her past few months on the street, the higher level of life achieved ascendency — Little Buzzy felt honestly innocent, hunted, and trapped. She instinctively jumped back from the sound of his voice, her left hand knocking over the dip dish and sending it crashing to the concrete floor.
“Hey!” It was Bead Lady, her maternal instincts summoned by Buzzy’s unspoken distress. “What are you doing to that kid?”
“Shaddup!” Major League was not known for his refined manners. Recalling Alisdare’s instruction to not make a scene, even he was caught short by his rudeness. Buzzy bolted for the door.
“Stop!”
She was already running.
Major League lunged for her, but was grabbed harshly from behind by Bead Lady. He spun, slamming his palm into her chest and propelling her backwards as if she were shot from a circus cannon. Her unintentional target for touchdown — the entire refreshment table — collapsed under her impact with noisome racket. Cold cuts, vegetables, tea, and one would-be Native American princess splashed and spilled messily across the floor. A teen-age space alien screeched in dismay at the sight of her mother so forlorn, but the balance of the backstage gaggle seemed more concerned with the loss of free food than any outcries of human distress.
Buzzy was out the door, Major League was right behind her, and Nondescript tossed aside his cap as he dashed in hot pursuit. The backstage girls later agreed that the second caterer was exceptionally difficult to describe. They were eventually even more nonplussed when the Coliseum’s contracted custodian opened the utility closet in search of a mop and discovered two authentic and docile Emerald City Catering employees, sans uniforms, bound and gagged along side the bucket. The first one said his name was Dave and expressed concern over missing the encore.
The single red spotlight was now joined by sweeping arcs of multi-hued illumination punctuated by flashpots, flashbulbs, laser beams and obligatory dry-ice fog. The enormous stage and its electronic environs looked and sounded like a futuristic frontier’s battle zone. Amid the mayhem, Crowbar swung his axe with the intensity of a rampaging Viking while the rhythm section pounded out a visceral tattoo calculated to arouse primal instincts worthy of any senseless bloodletting splashed across history’s stained pages.