The van: silent. The band: not.
David slammed the hood shut with a metallic clang that echoed into the pitiless sky.
“It’s dead,” he muttered. “It’s not even broken, it’s spiteful. This thing dies out of principle.”
Nickie, perched on the curb next to a precarious stack of drum bags, clicked her tongue.
“Well. On the bright side, public transport builds character.”
“Public transport builds resentment and lower back problems,” David snapped, already pulling out his phone to Google why the fuck a brand new starter might still fail.
Adam leaned against his bass case. “I knew she sounded off yesterday,” he said dramatically.
“The engine turned over like it was trying to forget something.”
Nickie snorted, scrolling through her phone.
“Good news,” she announced. “There’s a bus to the venue. Bad news: it leaves in seventeen minutes. From the station. Eight blocks away.”
David looked up like she’d just personally insulted his mother.
“We’re not taking the bus again.”
“David,” Adam said gently, “We are standing in a driveway. Surrounded by gear. Next to a very emotionally unavailable van. We are, in fact, taking the bus.”
Nickie grinned. “Relax. It’s like tour, but punker. And more pensioners judging us like we just spray-painted their dogs.”
David ran a hand through his hair, pacing once in a slow circle like he was trying to summon divine intervention.
“I hate this timeline. I want a refund. I want to speak to the manager of fate.”
“You are the manager,” Adam pointed out. “You’re our legal emergency contact.”
David shot him a look. “Then I’m putting y’all up for adoption.”
Nickie stood and slung her cymbal bag across her shoulder like a war drum. “Alright, soldiers. If we hustle, we can make it. I’ll carry snare and cymbal bags. Adam, you take your bass and the pedalboard. David, you get to carry your rage and a very large amp.”
David stared at her, deadpan. “I’m leaving you on the bus.”
“I’ll make friends with the driver,” she chirped. “Maybe even unionize.”
***
At the bus stop
They arrived panting and bruised from several stairwell battles, the snare case nearly lost to a rogue tree branch.
Adam had a black streak of something across his cheek. David was muttering to himself like a man on the brink.
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
“Great,” he spat, checking the timetable. “Only twenty minutes until the bus. At this rate we’ll make soundcheck by the time Fonfobia gets offstage.”
“Relax, Dave, it’s the Cage. They won’t start until the bartender finishes summoning the house demon with a bass drop.” Adam said.
“Besides, Fonfobia’s concept of ‘on time’ exists in a separate dimension. We could die, reincarnate as sea foam, wash up at soundcheck, and they’d still be arguing over pedal settings.”
“I’m just glad there’s a night bus back,” Nickie said, flopping onto a bench.
“Imagine if we had to sleep at the venue. I’m not emotionally prepared to wake up next to that urinal.”
Adam sat cross-legged on the ground. “New side project: Bus to the Gig. Every track’s about poor planning, heartbreak, and municipal betrayal.”
Then his phone buzzed. He checked it.
“Alonzo just asked when we’re getting to soundcheck,” he muttered, thumbs already moving.
There was a beat of silence. Then his phone buzzed once.
Then again.
And again.
And again.
It didn’t stop.
“…Oh no,” Adam said. “He’s texting in bursts. That’s never good.”
Nickie leaned over. “Read it.”
David sighed. “Don’t.”
Adam cleared his throat and began, dramatically:
Alonzo [7:14 PM]: LMAOOOOOOOOOO
Alonzo [7:14 PM]: Y’all on a bus?? Bro. I hope you brought holy water for the back row.
Alonzo [7:15 PM]: Tell David his van died doing what it loved: gaslighting him.
Alonzo [7:15 PM]: Did it leave a note? Like. “Sorry I sucked. Tell David I loved him. Not enough to start, though.”
Alonzo [7:16 PM]: Honestly, I respect the van. It took one look at tonight’s setlist and said “Nah.”
Alonzo [7:17 PM]: Tell David he should’ve named it Disappointment Express. Or just tattoo “Try walking” on the steering wheel.
Alonzo [7:18 PM]: If a pensioner glares at your piercings, just say you’re in a Christian punk ministry called Holy Riffs.
Adam's phone buzzed again. He checked it.
Paused.
Stared.
Then snorted once, trying to swallow the sound.
David looked over. “What.”
Adam kept staring. “Alonzo sent a pic.”
Nickie perked up. “Oh no.”
Adam turned the screen toward them like he was revealing a crime scene.
He’s in the green room.
Built a throne out of folding chairs.
Topped it with a traffic cone.
Taped a crooked sign to the back that reads: Throne of Broken Dreams.
He’s sitting next to it like it’s a holy relic.
David groaned. “Jesus Christ.”
Another buzz. This time he sent a photo of an empty pizza box. They wrote ‘No pizza for bus people.’ on it.
Nickie was full-body shaking with laughter now.
David looked at the sky like he was begging for divine intervention.
“I’m going to strangle him with a patch cable.”
“Hey, man, he got us the gig.” Adam reminded.
“Great. I’ll thank him in my acceptance speech for ‘Most Likely to Die Lugging Gear on Public Transit.’”