"No shit," Matt groaned.
"You know something?" Jake said. "You really need to learn to control your mouth a little."
Matt shrugged. "You can't change who you are, you know?"
"Yeah, I know."
They sat in there for another hour, watching flies eat their breakfast and listening to the catcalls, hoots, and yells of other prisoners. Finally the same deputy came back, his face red, his fists clenched. He seemed even more upset than he'd been when Matt had been talking about his daughter. He spoke into his radio and the cell door slid open on its track.
"Git your stinkin' asses outta there," he told them.
"Are we going for another elevator ride?" Matt asked, making no move to stand. "If so, you'd better get those other five guys in here to help, because I ain't going quietly."
"Shut your ass, rock star, and git the hell out of there," he said. "Your rich, faggot Hollywood friends bought your asses free."
Matt and Jake looked at each other carefully.
"Really?" Matt said.
It was true. A couple of high priced lawyers from Dallas had shown up and re-interviewed the "victims" in the case - the group of truckers who Jake and Matt had allegedly assaulted - and the witnesses to the fracas - Flo the waitress and the other non-involved patrons. All of them - the truckers included - had changed their stories around so that Jake and Matt were now portrayed as the victims and the truckers as the aggressors. Since they no longer had a case that the district attorney would be able to win a preliminary hearing on, much less successfully prosecute, the Texarkana Police Department was withdrawing all charges.
"Does it feel good?" the deputy asked them as he led them through the halls. "Does it feel good knowin' that your rich friends passed out a couple a envelopes full a money and got a whole group of honest men and women to lie before God just so you can make your next concert?"
"Yeah," Matt said. "It does, actually."
Jake had to agree with this sentiment as well. "Fuckin' A."
They were led into a changing room where they were given back their clothes and the few belongings they'd had on them when they were arrested. The clothes were tattered and bloody of course, but someone had arranged for them to have fresh clothing instead. They took off the orange jumpsuits, tossed them into a laundry hamper, and got dressed. They signed the forms that were put in front of them and were then taken to the discharge area.
"Ya'll are free to go now," the deputy told them sourly.
Greg - dressed in his customary suit and wearing his customary grin - was waiting for them. "Thank you, officer," he said politely before turning to his musicians. "Boys. How are you doing? Did they treat you well?"
"Oh they treated us real well," Matt said, casting an eye at the deputy. "In fact, this officer was telling me that his daughter is an Intemperance fan, can you believe that?"
"Oh really?" Greg said.
"Any chance you could set her up with a couple of tickets for the Little Rock show?" Matt asked. "And maybe some backstage passes for after the show?"
"Well sure," Greg replied, turning to the deputy. "Just tell me where I should send them and I'll..."
"Get out," the deputy said through clenched teeth. "All of you, get the hell out of this jail and God help you if I ever see you out on the streets of this or any other town again!"
Greg's grin faded. "Well..." he started.
"Uh... I think we should go now," Jake said. "Right now."
They went. There was a limousine waiting for them in front of the jail. It took them to the Texarkana airport where a rented helicopter was standing by, its rotors turning at idle. Forty-five minutes after lifting off, they landed at the Little Rock airport where another limo took them to their hotel, reuniting them with the rest of the band. Doreen fussed over them for the better part of two hours, covering all of their visible bruises with thick make-up. Not only did they make it to the show on time, they made their radio station interviews and their record store signings as well.
It didn't happen very often, but the day following the Little Rock show was another extended travel period day off. They slept in until 10:30 - which was good since they'd partied at the hotel room until almost four the previous morning - and were on the road by eleven, headed for Baton Rouge. They arrived at their hotel - yet another cheap, non-descript lodging facility - just after seven that evening. Jake and Matt were paired together on this night and by 8:30 both of them were lying in their respective beds, shirtless and wearing sweatpants, watching Simon and Simon on the television.
"How's your ribs?" Jake asked, taking a final drag from his cigarette and then snubbing it out in the ashtray. He picked up a glass of soda - no booze in it tonight - and took a drink.
"Down to a mild throb," Matt told him. "Those codeine pills Greg gave me take the edge off." He yawned. "Make me tired too."
"I don't need codeine to make me tired. I'm wasted pretty much constantly."
"Yeah," Matt said, lighting a fresh cigarette of his own. "Life on the road."
"Yep."
They sat in silence for awhile, Matt smoking, Jake staring at the television without really seeing anything.
"Still haven't called her?" Matt finally asked.
He was talking about Angie of course. "No," Jake said. "Not yet."
He had had no communication with Angie at all since leaving Los Angeles. Not a letter or a phone call. God only knew what she thought about him now. He thought about how he'd promised to call her every day, twice if he could, how flippantly he'd made that promise, how naïve he'd been when it had passed his lips.
The first two weeks of their tour had passed in an unbelievable blur, a harsh and unforgiving routine of sound checks, bus rides, autograph sessions, radio station interviews, eating, drinking, getting wasted, and, briefly, for one hour every day, performing. The cities they visited passed one by one, some of them the most famous and historical cities in American history, and they saw nothing of them but hotel rooms, auditoriums, record stores, and freeway systems. From the bus windows they saw high rises, factories, parking lots, and fuel stations. Jake screamed out the names of these cities to their inhabitants, yelling them with enthusiasm, as if he were proud to be there, honored to be there, and with none of the residents realizing that he had to be reminded just what city he was currently in before he stepped out onto the stage each night. He fucked beautiful women in each city, sometimes two at a time, occasionally three at a time, and he never learned their names at all, never knew anything about them, never cared to know anything about them. And with each of these encounters he felt less and less guilt about his lack of fidelity, less and less guilt that he had not managed to call Angie yet.
Not that he hadn't tried, or at least made the effort. Their first extended travel break - after the Boston show but before the Buffalo show - he had actually picked up the hotel phone, his apology speech and excuses rehearsed and waiting on his lips. But the moment he began to dial, the busy signal started to sound in his ears. A retry produced the same result. A call to the hotel switchboard for assistance informed him that long distance calls were no authorized from his room.
"Who the hell asked for that?" Jake had asked.
"The person who made the reservations and paid for the rooms," he was told.
"Greg," he said, seething. He hung up and called Greg's room, demanding an explanation.
"We're on a strict budget for the hotel rooms," Greg told him. "They're paid in advance and we have no accommodation for extras like long distance calls."
"Are you kidding?" Jake asked. "What about all the room service we order? Isn't that an extra?"
"No, we pay a flat fee in advance for food service. It doesn't matter what you eat, it's all covered under a negotiated flat rate."